going to school after arguing with your boyfriend heeseung. afab reader x senior boyfriend!heeseung
song recommended : love me harder
No amount of makeup could hide the dark circles and swollen redness around your eyes as you cursed your best friend Sunoo for recommending a cheap-ass concealer from Olive Young that was supposedly meant to hide every discoloration on your skin which at this moment was doing nothing but making your skin look even more cakey and miserable. Fucking scammers.
You muttered some godforsaken gibberish at your brother Jungwon, who was now full blown pounding on the bathroom door.
“Hello???? Are you wiping your shit on the walls?” His annoying voice at seven in the morning pissed you off even more. “you’ve been in there for forty minutes!”
He flinched a little when you violently kicked the door open, your wobbly lips meeting his squinted eyes.
“Are…you wearing makeup?”
You ignored your brother and walked past him to grab your backpack, leaving him fighting invisible comments inside his head ranging from insults to curiosity. But as much of an asshole as Jungwon was, he knew everything had a place and time, and currently your situation came before everything else. Most importantly, chasing after someone just to prove you didn’t care about standing your ground when something was wrong was pathetic. But unfortunately, this time you were wrong.
Small arguments and bickering between you and the senior you had started seeing almost six months ago were very normal, something Jungwon had always witnessed. As skeptical as he was about Lee Heeseung—the very person he looked up to, whether as the head boy of school, captain of the baseball club, or just the dreamiest senior as titled by almost every girl—actually liking you and ending up as your boyfriend, he realized at the end of the day it wasn’t his business. He knew you were fake as hell when it came to your feelings.
Even before dating Heeseung, you used to boast about how you never understood what was so special about him anyway, but the sight of you practically melting whenever he came to your class for choosing club volunteers or catching up with his brother Jeno, who was your classmate, was noticeable to literally everyone. The truth was, even you didn’t know how or why Lee Heeseung had started liking you. And you weren’t even interested in knowing. I mean, let’s just have some fun before both of us graduate, right?
But oh boy, you soon realized it was a lot more than just fun.
As much as you hated it, Heeseung loved riling you up just to get those little reactions out of you, which he thought were cute for some reason. Cute?! How dare he? You were almost the same height as him ( after tiptoeing a little, but that still counted! ) and you swore you weren’t any less hotter than all those badass female characters from movies Karina rented during sleepovers at your house. How dare he call you, the brother beater, cute? And you were so damn adamant about making Heeseung believe you weren’t just some cute girl he was dating. If he really wanted a cute girl, he could go date the pretty captain of the cheerleading team, Risa, who was practically waiting for you to slip up.
The one sided argument went on until you overdid it last weekend, right after heeseung lost an important match. He had just been trying to rest his head on your shoulder, teasing about how it was easy because of your “model like height,” but your already wounded heart took it as an insult and started arguing out of thin air. Heeseung expected you to understand he was only teasing, but you were also expecting him to realize you were tired of being insecure and wanted him to just pull you close already like he always did. But pushing the baseball team captain’s buttons was something only his girlfriend was capable of.
So you and Heeseung went practically no contact. And even when you expected him to text first like he always did, there was nothing. The next update you got was from Jeno’s Instagram story, a picture of Heeseung and Risa posted together, holding the new trophy Heeseung had won during Sunday’s match. There was a match on Sunday, and you weren’t even aware of it.
Karina scooted a little away from you, followed by a glance at Sunoo, who looked equally terrified noticing the metaphorical black smoke coming out of your ears.
“hey so… about the movie—”
“Go to hell,” you whispered, and that was enough to shut both of them up.
In the middle of classes, Heeseung came into your classroom exactly five times for five different reasons, which eventually annoyed even your homeroom teacher, who was usually a fan of the older boy. But everyone knew those were all pathetic excuses because whether he was asking Jeno for an extra pen, checking Riki, Jake, and Jungwon’s free schedules for baseball practice, complimenting Karina’s shit handwriting, or asking Sunoo if the movie plans were still on, everyone noticed how his eyes always glanced toward you just to see your reaction. The actual reaction came from Karina and Sunoo when you showed up in front of the movie plaza wearing a sleeveless dress that reached your mid-thigh.
“Girl, you look bomb but look at the weather,” Karina shivered while checking you out up and down. You ignored the goosebumps on your skin while kicking her leg lightly and turned to Sunoo.
“When is the movie starting?”
“We still have time, but Heeseu—oh, here he is!” Sunoo cut himself off and waved at the taller boy crossing the road. You gulped the moment you dared to look at Heeseung and immediately felt your throat drying up. How does he make casual clothes look so good on him? He took long strides toward your group, and then your heart dropped when you realized the figure behind him. Fucking Risa.
“Sorry, guys! Hope we’re not late! I’m kind of crashing y’all’s date!” she chirped, rubbing her palms together as a blush spread across her cheeks. Soon her eyes fell on you. “Oh my god, Y/n, aren’t you cold?”
You ignored her and grabbed Sunoo’s hand “let’s go.”
From the corner of your eye, you saw Heeseung open his mouth, but you ignored him completely. He could shove his questions up his ass. The movie was infuriatingly slow, and you cursed both Karina and Sunoo for choosing a romance genre knowing damn well you hated revealing your obsession with cute stuff and pda—especially when Lee Heeseung was sitting right next to you. You noticed Risa glancing his way, and you couldn’t help but feel weird.
Did he and Risa really grow close during these few days? Was your absence exactly what Heeseung needed to realize who his true love was?
There you went again with your overactive imagination. Your eyes welled up despite hating the fact everyone could hear you sniffle.“bitch why are you crying? This isn’t even a sad scene,” Sunoo whispered behind you.You replied by letting out an even louder sob. Karina looked around worriedly to see if people were getting annoyed, but she stopped soon after noticing Heeseung forcefully or maybe not so forcefully pulling you against him, your face pressed into his arm while your shoulders shook slightly. She smiled to herself, and her eyes met a very wide eyed Risa staring directly at her.
The movie ended with you missing more than half the plot and crying on Heeseung’s arm.
Burning with embarrassment, guilt, and ego, you stood up as soon as the credits rolled and started walking toward the exit with Risa trailing behind you.
“Y/n, wait!!”
You stopped in your tracks hearing her voice as she stood in front of you, panting a little from running.
“Oh my god you walk so fast!” You rolled your eyes “no shit, Sherlock. I’m tall.”
She flinched slightly at your aggressive tone but quickly broke into a shy smile again “I—hey, so I actually needed some advice from you…”
Your breathing sharpened as you tried calming your racing heart. What was it? Was she going to ask if you and Heeseung were still together? Or tell you to leave him because you clearly weren’t suited for him at all? Or worse…What if she asked how to impress Heeseung? Oh no no no no. Lord, this can’t happen.
“Is Karina single?”
“No, I can’t tell you! He’s mine!!”
Both of you stared at each other in shock as you recollected what you just muttered and what your ears picked up.
Risa was the first to break the silence with a gasp “oh no–no! You got the wrong idea! I—I…” she stammered while you mentally facepalmed. Oh my god. How stupid could you be??? Suddenly, you heard faint laughter of Karina and Sunoo behind you. Risa grabbed your hand desperately. “Text me once you reach home safely! I’ll be waiting for your answer!” You barely managed to give her a slow nod and watched her disappear into the crossing.
“Where did Risa go?” Karina asked, whipping her head left and right. As much as you were bubbling inside, you cleared your throat and sighed “her mom called her for some emergency. Speaking of which, I need to return home too…”
Karina and Sunoo exchanged knowing smiles immediately. “Aye aye captain,” Sunoo nodded. “We’ll leave you and your personal home walker alone.” he winked at you ignoring your fake ass scoff. As they walked away, Heeseung’s figure became visible again. He started walking toward you, making you take a deep breath, ready to settle whatever unfinished business you still had with him.
Once he stopped in front of you, you crossed your arms.
“Take off your jacket. I’ll give it back after washing it tomorrow.”
He immediately started taking off his jacket, making you irrationally irritated. You were just trying to act cute! How were you even supposed to wash that heavy ass leather jacket? Whatever. You were down to do anything for your stupid boyfriend anyway—You let out a shriek when Heeseung suddenly wrapped the jacket around your shoulders, warmth immediately engulfing your shaking figure “tomorrow’s a holiday baby.”
“Don’t call me that! I know!” you squeaked despite feeling your heartbeat thunder inside your chest. Heeseung giggled. Oh now he's giggling after stressing you out for days.
“You’re so cute when you do that by the way…” he whispered, instantly earning a smack on the arm from you. “Again? I told you not to call me tha—”
You got cut off when he grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer, noses bumping effortlessly “—and so hot when you keep riling me up like this.”
Blood rushed to your face so quickly and you felt your ears turning hot.“W-whatever…” you muttered before lightly kicking the pavement. “You’ve lost all your boyfriend privileges to call me any of those after choosing not to tell me about your baseball match last Sunday.”
“But I’m blocked on every platform” he buried his face into your neck, and squeezed you tight. You prayed he stay like that until the abnormal smile on your face was completely gone. Ugh he smelled so obnoxiously good too.
“yes and it’s going to stay like that”
Heeseung pulled away with wide eyes “the postal system is fucked up here, and I don’t own any pigeons. My baby please have some mercy,” he pleaded, his round eyes meeting yours and leaving your stomach in complete chaos.
“Fine…” you mumbled “not until you act cute in front of me.”
“Y/N.”
“I don’t wanna hear anyyyy excuzezzzz,” you sang while turning away and felt Heeseung’s arms wrap around you from behind.
“Seriously? You’re making me do this in the middle of the road?”
You burst into laughter when he awkwardly made a pathetic kitty ear pose. Then you tiptoed slightly and pressed a soft kiss against his lips.“Try harder,” you whispered against his mouth. “You’re almost there.”
Summary: A drunken one night stand went wrong when news of the darling socialite was seen leaving the penthouse of CEO Park Jongseong, one of the most sought bachelors in Korea. In order to save face and reputation, a fake dating contract of six months was proposed.
The problem? Turns out you and Jay were ex-lovers — a secret relationship that ended up in a bad light and three years after not seeing each other, you two ended up in the headline of the tabloids and gossip articles. Fake it 'til you make it, they say, and it doesn't help that your ex-boyfriend is great with the act, blurring the lines between repressed feelings and acting like everything's fine between the two of you.
Third installment of Big reputations series.
✰ Song inspirations: Call it what you want by Taylor swift, Radio by Lana del rey, Love me like you do by Ellie goulding
✰ Word count: 25k
✰ Tags: CEO au, ex-lovers, fake dating, aged-up characters (both of them are 28), miscommunication? No, the other party doesn’t want to communicate, repressed feelings, both of them are bad with their feelings, not-so-slow burn!!! yearning!!! They’re kinda toxic ngl, rich people activities lmaooo, fluff and angst!!! smut, reader is kinda a spoiled brat (and is actually just a heartbroken girl, let her live), jay is a mix of green and red flag, heeseung is a menace, kys jokes, mentions of kpop idols (ft. jangkku as a couple.) NOT PROOFREAD.
✰ CW: plot with porn ofc. Soft vanilla sex that’s mwa, p in v sex, unprotected sex (pls don’t), makeup sex, cumming inside, they’re just very tender and in love. I am not sorry at all, oral (f receiving), body worship, praise, soft aftercare, crying after sex.
✰ Asul's note: this was so harddddddd, why is fake dating so harddddd!!! Anyways, I wrote this at 2 am so sue me if its messy. But think of this as an advance christmas gift ig?? Also, I only have a little knowledge about formula one, sue jay for influencing me in this one. I also eyeballed the places mentioned, sorry once again. I think this is the most romantic smut I have ever wrote lmaoo, i live for makeup sex.
Enjoy this fic! sending loves and an advance merry christmas to everyone! <3
Sunlight peeked through the black curtains of the bedroom, giving light through the dimmed, masculine room. It landed on your face directly, earning a groan from you as you turned your body away from the light. The silence was relaxing, save it for the soft and comfortable bed that you’re on —
That’s when it sank into you. Opening your eyes slowly, you come face to face to the sturdy back beside you. Your eyes widened and you freezed on your position, slowly, you looked into your body and that’s when you realized that you’re left with nothing but your panties.
Embarrassment washed over you. You couldn’t believe that you just had a one-night stand — a drunken one to be exact! You’re not even the type to do casual sex! You groaned internally before you felt him moved beside you, completely startling you.
But he didn’t wake up, he just fixed his position. So you quietly moved your way out of the bed, careful not to wake him up, and you were thanking the gods that he’s a heavy sleeper.
Your hangover’s still had your head throbbing, last night’s drinks hitting you like a baseball bat which made you wince at every movement. You managed to find your clothes scattered around the place and shame was all you felt as you picked it one by one.
You found your phone inside your sling bag on the floor, picking it up to see the missed calls and texts from your brother. You cursed internally, preparing from his lecture as you called him back.
“Where the fuck are you!?” Heeseung’s angry tone welcomed you, making you wince as you brushed your messy, bed hair.
“I don’t know but can you pick me up please please,” you plead, whispering as you tiptoe your way out of the bedroom.
“Mama’s worried sick! What the fuck y/n —”
“Can you save all your naggings when you see me, I’ll send my location and fucking pick me up!” you whisper-shouted, cutting off the call and sending your location to your brother.
Heeseung 😛: Fifteen minutes. Stay put and I’ll call you if I’m outside.
8:43 AM
You let out a deep sigh before you started walking away from the long hallway. As you reached the living room of his place, your eyes went wide at the sight of the living room. It was huge and luxurious, with designer furniture and rare figurines on display. You also noticed a few formula one merchandise which made you curious about the guy you slept with.
Unfortunately, there’s not a single picture of him on display inside the area, so you quickly brushed it off, since it was just a drunken one night stand, he’d forget about it just like what you’re planning to do.
You found the exit of the place, the hallways were exquisite and clean, and it just sinked into you that you ended up in someone’s penthouse. Oh well. You thought. At least he’s some snobbish rich guy. Your drunk self still has taste.
As you rode the elevator down, that’s when questions started running through your head, adding more headache for you.
Where are you? Who’s the guy sleeping on the bed? How did this happen? It’s pretty obvious that you were black-out dead last night and was convinced that something happened but what led you to sleeping with him?
You tried to recall last night’s events but the only thing you remembered was you buying another bottle of tequila and after that, everything was a blur. You don’t even know where he popped into the night.
Was the sex even good!? You mentally groaned when you felt your phone vibrate. Picking it up to see that your brother’s almost near.
The lobby of the building had a few people on it when you arrived. Observing their proud faces and designer clothes, it is safe to assume that you ended up at a high-end sky building somewhere in the city. The front-desk agent gave you a small smile and nod which you reciprocated awkwardly before you exit the lobby.
You waited for a few minutes before you noticed the white ford mustang and familiar car plate of your brother’s, making you sigh in relief.
You smiled as you opened the door of the passenger seat, ignoring your brother’s stabbing glare as you put on the seatbelt.
“Go on, nag all you want but a little disclaimer, I have a hangover so all your words will just fly away from my mind,” you stated as you rested your head by the window.
“You’re so reckless y/n,” Heeseung started as he drove away from the building.
“I am careful,” you replied, knowing that you’re also wrong.
Heeseung chuckled sarcastically, “careful? Right, because if you’re being careful you would’ve ended up going home last night and not to some random stranger’s place.”
“Hey! At least you found me at some high-end building and not some cheap motel, alive and breathing if I may add.” you justified.
“Not my point but whatever,” Heeseung sighed, accepting defeat. “Just stay out of trouble, I know that you love to party but tone it down please, you still have a reputation to hold.”
“Yeah, gonna keep the family name clean,” you mocked.
“I’m serious.” he warned and that made you shut up.
You’re one of the most-loved socialites in your country. The darling of the crowd, a head-turner at every formal event or dinner you attend. The sweet, youngest daughter of the Lee family — one of the well-known names in South Korea.
You’re the life of the party. Always present at every party, fashion weeks, and formal events with confidence. Free days come in the form of luxury shopping and traveling around the world. Everyone may look at you as the young and spoiled, socialite of your family, but you didn’t care about it because honestly? It’s true though.
Your family lets you do whatever you want. Whether it involves your family’s business or just spending their money on luxurious items, you’re living the life. You don’t have a permanent job but because of your name and influence, you were able to earn money independently by collaborating with brands and luxurious houses.
Your parents didn’t force you to work for the family business since your older brother had already taken over the company. They told you that you’re free to do what you want as long as you don’t ruin the family’s name.
You’re careful. You were always careful about your image. It leaves you anxious even though you’re used to the spotlight. As much as you had the freedom, there are still consequences whenever you made irrational decisions, hence why despite shrugging casually to your brother’s lecture, you were nervous deep inside.
You’re not the type to do one night stands and all that casual sex and situationships. You hated those kinds of things. Love is a sentimental thing for you. That’s why you were nervous deep inside. You ended up at a stranger’s house, and based from his fucking huge penthouse, he’s not just any rich man — he probably had a reputable name in your country.
You’re curious about him. It left you pondering about his identity, but at the same time, you were silently praying that last night wouldn't blow up in a huge portion.
-
You don’t know why your brother was eager for you to go to his office on a Tuesday afternoon.
You almost ignored his chat, but when it ended with a note of cutting off your credit card, you had no choice but to visit him.
As you entered the office, you weren’t even able to greet him because he looked at you mad, like you did something unforgivable
“Look at what you have done,” he said with an angry tone. Heeseung took heavy strides before he flashed his phone screen in front of you.
Lee Y/n and Park Jongseong caught leaving Royalty together — is it a new romance brewing? Or just a night of happiness?
You freezed.
No way. You thought. No fucking way, there’s no fucking way —
You grabbed his phone and scrolled through the article. Pictures of you being carried outside the club, by the lobby of the building, and when you were leaving the building. Your eyes widened. You couldn’t believe that they followed you and even waited for you outside the building. It was obvious that it’s you. They didn’t even attempt to hide your face! God, you couldn’t believe that you were smiling ear to ear in the first photo — like you were madly, deeply with the man who was carrying you.
Park Jongseong.
His name still gives chills to your body, and just seeing his face, which was smiling too, had your heart beating. You don’t know why your heart started acting like that. Was it out of nervousness? Pain? Anxiety? You were confused and stunned at the same time.
Out of all the men in this world, it has to be Park fucking Jongseong. Your secret ex-boyfriend. Your whirlwind semester romance. Your best and worst mistake. The guy that you gave your everything that the moment he left, you were completely nothing.
You wanted to curse him. Three years have passed and he’s still handsome as ever — more handsome than ever. He got rid of his rebellious silver-like blonde hair and ear piercings, and grungy, rockstar outfits and had it replaced with the more sophisticated and clean get-up, living up to the reputation of the old money Parks.
Three years passed and he’s now back in South Korea. He’s here and that thought made you anxious.
He’s here. In South Korea. Breathing the same air as you — you just felt your world ended.
“I told you to be careful,” Heeseung warned, snapping you away from your thoughts.
“I was being careful! I didn’t know that there were paparazzis there! Why would they be invested to get a scoop from me!?” you questioned.
“You were out partying with other socialites. Royalty is a high-end club — damn it y/n! It’s not only you who they wanted a scoop from, it’s also them and Jongseong — do you even know him?”
Of course. Of course you do. You know him damn well. You know what his cologne combination was and every name of his guitar collection. You know that he’s allergic to flowers, that's why not once did you receive a bouquet from him when the two of you were together. You knew Park Jongseong too well, but unfortunately, you couldn’t say it out loud to your strict brother.
“What’s with him anyway,” you crossed your arms instead. The last time you’ve heard from Jay was three years ago, when the two of you had a fight because he’s leaving for America.
You wanted him to stay, he wanted to go to America. He called you selfish and spoiled, you called him heartless, and perhaps, both of it were true because you two called it off that same night. Jay moved to America while you returned to South Korea, spending more than you used to in hopes that it’ll ease your broken heart.
“His name is currently on-trend along with his twin brother, Park Sunghoon, formula one driver for Ferrari. Both of them are promising bachelors here. Charismatic and old money rich, Jongseong’s currently the CEO of Park Land and Leisures. And you? The sweet and darling socialite of Northern Stars Inc., just happened to have slept with him. You two are a fucking scandal at the moment,” Heeseung explained and you only rolled your eyes.
“It’s not like he’s married, oh my god Heeseung, he’s single! And so am I! What’s wrong with what we did?” you pointed out.
“People are still conservative y/n, one night stands and things like that are still scandalous, mom and dad are fucking furious at the moment,” he rebutted and your eyes widened.
“They knew!?”
“Of course y/n, they knew, your name’s all over the headlines and newspapers!” Heeseung argued before heaving out a sigh, eyes still leaving heavy glares on you. “That’s why I am proposing something.”
Your forehead creased, “what do you mean?”
A knock on the door interrupted your conversation, you turned around and from the glass door, you froze when you saw who it was.
It felt like a movie — a horror movie to be exact. It was like seeing a ghost, the ghost of your past to be exact. You became quiet, heart beating rapidly that it’ll burst out of your chest any moment now. With your throat turned dry and cold sweat forming on your skin, you were nailed from where you were standing as you watched Jay walk into the office.
He still looks as good as ever. Much sophisticated and clean, far from his rebellious and roughed image back then. You watched as he passed by you — completely ignoring you as he approached Heeseung with a smile and firm handshake while your eyes remained at him.
“Thanks for coming,” Heeseung greeted, making you snap out of your daze.
Jay chuckled, “no worries, we need to clean some rumors right?”
His eyes landed on you. A frown on your face as you crossed your arms.
“Nice meeting you again y/n,” Jay greeted and you scoffed at his words.
Heeseung’s forehead creased, “you guys know each other?”
“No!?” you shouted defensively, panic starting to get into you. Heeseung raised an eyebrow before shaking his head out of disappointment.
“I guess you were really too drunk to remember that night,” Jay taunted and you scoffed at his words. You swear to God, he was testing you.
“Whatever, why are you even here?”
“Because of the rumor, of course,” Jay explained casually. “It’s going to be hard to convince the public that what happened that night was nothing, especially when they captured us in different locations. They even followed us in our building.”
“There’s nothing to worry about that, my family knows how to handle bad pr,” you rebutted.
“Good for you, but I also have a reputation to hold on,” he stated.
You raised an eyebrow, “Why? Afraid to lose your hottest bachelor image, Mr. Park?”
“You’re right, Ms. Lee, I don’t want the public to see me as someone who’s a playboy of sort, casual shits like this aren’t my things.” Jay smirked casually.
You only rolled your eyes at his answer. He even had the audacity to taunt you? You swear if only Heeseung wasn’t present in this room, you would’ve kicked his balls out of rage.
“That’s why I’m here to resolve your problem,” Heeseung butted in. “Think of it as a punishment for your recklessness too y/n.”
You chuckled in disbelief, “a fucking punishment? What am I, sixteen?”
“The proposal is simple. We convince the public that you two are currently seeing each other on good terms, date publicly and act the deal, then break up due to busy schedules.” Heeseung explained, ignoring your words and how your face distorted into confusion.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” You cursed.
“When do I joke about this kind of thing y/n? I told you to be careful, and these are the consequences of your reckless actions, so owe up to it,” Heeseung authoritatively stated, making you flinch at his tone.
It really was a fucking punishment for you. What do you mean you’re going to fake date your ex-boyfriend for the sake of the publicity? It was like the devil had possessed your brother that he resorted to that idea.
“How long?” Jay asked.
“Six months.” Heeseung answered quickly.
Six months? What a fucking joke — it’s the same length you and Jay dated. You don’t know if they’re playing tricks with you but one thing is that you aren’t pleased with the situation.
“What if I don’t want to?” you asked.
Heeseung glared, “and why the fuck not?”
“I don’t like him.” you pointed out Jay who only smirked at your comment.
“Why? You basically met him last Saturday, you two are barely strangers,” Heeseung pointed out. “Unless you two met prior to this one.”
You became quiet. You only looked away as you heard Jay’s soft chuckle was all you heard — making you even more irritated.
“It’s just six months,” Jay casually commented. “It’s not like we’re going to see each other everyday, Ms. Lee, we can set dates and public events where we’ll go together. We can also set boundaries too, since we’re just faking it after all.”
His words hurt you. You don’t know if the two of them were setting you up or everything about this was just a mere coincidence. But knowing Heeseung, if he knew your past with Jay, he would’ve confronted him about it. And yet, the two of them were seemingly civil, which leaves you completely hopeless knowing that as much as you oppose the idea, your brother doesn’t change his mind that easily.
One thing for sure was that you had pushed your brother’s patience this time. He could’ve brushed it off. Casually deny the rumor or let it die down but he chose this weird publicity stunt just to tame your attitude. You groaned internally. In the end, you’re still at fault too.
“I don’t have a choice in this one, right?” you crossed your arms, as a defeated look formed on your face.
“Mom and dad already approved this proposal,” Heeseung shared. “For once they hope that you’d tame your lifestyle now that you’re linked to Jongseong.”
“Just like how they threw me in Barcelona for that fucking fall semester,” you muttered under your breath, yet loud enough for your brother to hear.
“Just read the damn contract y/n, and hurry up, I have a meeting in an hour,” Heeseung grabbed the envelope from his desk and handed you a copy which you accepted in defeat.
You began reading the contract. It has a lot of terms and conditions that you skimmed through but basically, you and Jay are going to pretend to be dating for six months. Attending events together are a must unless the other party’s on an important schedule. There were no rules of skinships between the two of you, hugs and kisses are a must since it convinces the public that you two are real. Dates aren’t required but it’ll be good publicity for your relationship.
This also meant that you’re not allowed to date anyone and so does Jay. You don’t know why but reading it assured you somehow. It meant that for the next six months, the only girl Jay will be seeing is you and no one else. That’s a small win for you for sure.
Jay said earlier that you two didn’t need to meet everyday. Which is good for you. You just have to keep yourself busy for the next six months — maybe travel around the world or join a cruise ship, if it means avoiding Jay at all cost.
The idea was bright in your mind. You nodded at yourself before you placed down the contract at the coffee table.
“Fine, give me a pen, I’ll sign it,” you announced, making the two men look at you.
“That was fast,” Heeseung comments before going to his desk to grab a pen.
“It’s just six months, I think I can manage,” you shrugged, completely signing the contract. You placed down the pen and glanced at Jay with a taunting smirk. “Let’s just say that we keep our relationship private, so that means we don’t need to meet in public and date outside. Let’s just wait for six months to pass by and then call it off, sounds good right?”
“Y/n, wait —”
“Now, if you excuse me, I have a spa treatment with my girls, so goodbye to the two of you,” you gave them a teasing flying kiss before you walked out of Heeseung’s office, completely ignoring him calling you out.
You could only laugh mischievously as you skipped your way towards the elevator. As you reached the area, you pressed down the button and while waiting, a hand grabbed your arms suddenly, completely startling you.
“What the fuck — let me go!” you snapped your arms away from Jay who only looked at you angrily.
“We’re not done yet y/n,” he stated, making you raise an eyebrow.
“That’s not what you said to me three years ago,” you smiled.
But instead of getting irritated, Jay chuckled in disbelief, “oh my god, you’re still not over that, am I right?”
Your forehead creased, “dream on Jay, why are you even here? I thought you’re living your life in America.”
“I have a company to take over with, which from what I recall, I informed you about that one, but someone thinks that I am staying in America for good.”
“Because you were.” you sassed.
“Oh my god, are we really going to dump our issues here? We could settle this down —”
“No Jay, I am not going to settle this down. We’re done and we’re through, we made that very fucking clear that night.” You breathed out, feeling your heart getting heavy as you said those words. “And don’t you think just because I signed the contract doesn’t mean I wanted to act according to it. I am not going to show up to you Jay. Just being near you makes me sick.”
The elevator door rang. You didn’t wait for his answer. You went your way inside the elevator, pushing the close button in hurry as the last thing you saw was Jay’s disappointed face.
-
When did your love story with Jay even start?
Fall in Barcelona. One semester at a prestigious international school that specializes in business and economics. It sounds so preppy and nice to hear but you attended it by force.
You were young. Living on your daddy’s credit card and older brother’s headache. Your mother enabled you and your grandparents loved their beautiful and only granddaughter. You get away with everything, well, almost.
It wasn’t a huge scandal that involved your name getting tainted and your company’s stocks going down. Your father was just sick of you partying and traveling around the world with no clear goal about your future. Sure, you have a degree in fashion merchandising, but the moment you got your diploma, you threw everything you’ve learned and just spent your life spoiled and loved.
Hence, your cards got declined and you were forced to pack your bags and move to a foreign country just to study again. It was a punishment, you insisted, but your parents justified that in case you’re needed in the company, you have the basic skills about how business works. What a lame excuse, you think.
Of course, you’re not going to waste your parent’s money by not attending the semester. You’re actually fine with it. At least it’s in a foreign country. You’re living alone in a decent-size dorm room inside the university, and somehow, taking a crash course about something you’re quite interested in would be preferable than living the routine of your wild, youthful life. You still benefited from it since it was something productive and you also wanted to prove to your parents that you still have directions in your life.
Jay was a classmate of yours. He sticks out like a sore thumb from the whole section. He looked like he’s the one whose parents forced him to attend the semester rather than you.
Jay looked like a mixture of a rebel emo and a rockstar. Wearing nothing but rugged and baggy streetwear clothes in the shades of black and gray, and nothing else. Even his accessories were silver along with his almost silver-like blonde hair that looked like it’s been bleached a hundred times to achieve the shade.
It was easy to say that he did catch your attention. But you’re not the type to make the first move, and particularly, he wasn’t your type at first. Perhaps it was just a small crush, a fleeting feeling inside your stomach because despite his intimidating image, Jay was one of the impressive students in your section.
It happened a month later. At a small gathering with your other classmates after class, you accepted it shyly, and unbeknownst to you, Jay was also there. The gathering was nice. At a restaurant nearby the school that’s known for its paella and wine. You conversed happily with some of them, and as an hour passed by, Jay had joined in naturally.
The conversation started small. You didn’t even notice that it was just the two of you talking to each other later on. The wine had hit off, and the two of you were laughing your hearts off. He felt familiar — Jay reminded you of home given that both of you are from South Korea. You didn’t even realise that you were homesick until you had a talk with Jay.
He walked you home, the conversation and laughter never stopped and somehow, fall felt warm compared to its weather. He bid you goodbye with a smile which you reciprocated.
As you reached your dorm room, the smile on your face never left. Your heart was beating rapidly and you felt like a teenage girl experiencing her first love.
Jay entered your life naturally. The two of you became friends after that night. The sense of having someone you could relate to was the comfort that you needed in Barcelona. You’ve learned so much about Jay — his passion for music, love for cooking, and traveling. He was also a family man, the oldest among the two sons of the Park family.
He has a twin brother. A total opposite of him who chose his dream of becoming a racer. Jay was left to take over the business even though he had a liking for producing music. You also learned that he took the semester program so that he doesn’t have to do an internship under his uncle in America. His parents agreed with his deal and as soon as the semester ends, just like you, he’ll go home to South Korea.
You don’t know when it started. That crush of yours became deeper and soon, you could hear your heart beating rapidly than it should. Your cheeks warming just being near Jay, and the slightest actions that he does — placing you on the safer side of the road, carrying your bag, and dropping you off to your dorm building after class, makes you wonder if there’s a deeper meaning to it. You couldn’t even look into his eyes anymore.
You tried to conceal your feelings. Afraid to ruin the friendship — only for Jay to ruin it first.
The confession came unexpectedly. Really unexpectedly. At his apartment room after dinner. The leftovers of takeouts were still on his dining table. You were laying on his bed while he’s seated on the huge bean bag that he insisted was his couch, strumming his guitar named Tongtongie as he hummed an unfamiliar song by Bon Jovi.
Then he stopped, stared at you for a while. The phrase, “I like you,” slipped out of his lips suddenly, your eyes widened and you almost fell off his bed out of shock. You hated him for catching you off-guard that night but you were happy because he has feelings for you — it was the easiest acceptance you ever did and the last thing you remembered was Jay’s blissful smile before he pulled you for a kiss.
That night ended passionately. Tangled in the sheets and warmth shared with each other. You two weren’t each other’s first, but it felt so special than your past experiences. When you woke up next to him, looking at him who’s still in his slumber, the only thing you could think of was how lucky you were — and perhaps, it was fate that brought you to Barcelona so that you could meet Jay.
Your whirlwind relationship with Jay started. Suddenly, everything felt so right and there’s nothing in this world that matters except you and Jay. You two were on your honeymoon phase during the duration of the semester. Always together, crashing into each other’s place, and traveling to other cities as dates. Fights rarely happened and you two felt like you two understood each other the most.
The two of you didn’t hide your relationship from your family not because they won’t accept it, but it just so happens that you two are in Barcelona, you didn’t feel the need to tell your family about it and so did Jay. You were focused on your relationship with Jay. The codependency was there and it may seem sickening for others to always see you together everyday, but for the two of you, the world would probably end if one of you aren’t with the other.
Months passed and your relationship with Jay became deeper. More stronger and intimate. Promises were made and the future seems to be bright for the two of you. There are talks of ‘what-ifs’ and future plans, and one of them was that when two of you returned to South Korea, you’d tell everyone your relationship with Jay, and so will he.
Soon, the fall semester ended. You stayed for another month just to travel around Europe with Jay. Enjoying your time together before you two return home. Everything felt so right for you. It was perfect — way too perfect that the news that came after hit you harder than a bullet straight to your heart.
Jay wasn’t going to return to South Korea. He’s going to America to work for his uncle. To work. Not just a temporary internship but work. A stable job with stable income. Something that he needs to do before taking over his parent’s company.
You were betrayed. Tears started to blur your sight as Jay casually told you the news. Destroying every plan and promises you two had. Your luggage was packed. Everything was settled. You were just about to wait for tomorrow to come for you to take your flight home, all excited and happy but Jay had to ruin it.
He insisted that your relationship could still work and his promises weren’t broken — just halted. You asked him when he will return to his home country. He couldn’t give you a definite answer and that was your cue.
You exploded and he was irritated. You two had a shouting contest, not one wanted to lower each other’s pride. It was messy, arguments became less logical and flaws started to be brought. In the end, you were a desperate mess as you begged him to stay with you. You were crying as you fell onto your knees and asked to stay with you.
Jay didn’t budge. He was mad at you. He couldn’t understand why you couldn’t understand that he was needed by his family? He’s doing this not only for his future, but your future together. He’s just going on a detour with his future — and you couldn’t understand that. He told you that not everything would go in your way just because you were spoiled growing up.
You slapped him right there. His left cheek burned and turned bright red, you called him every name you could think of like you didn’t love him for the past few months. Despite that, he didn’t say another thing about you. Jay just looked you dead in the eye and broke up with you. You didn’t fight for it, too tired and heartbroken that him calling it off didn’t hurt you anymore.
That was the last time you saw him. No goodbyes or closure. Jay left you there alone and devastated. The next day, you went home to your home country. Pale, depressed, and heartbroken. You acted like you were fine, but every time your family or relatives asked you about Barcelona, there was still a stinging pain in your heart. All you could think of was him.
You blocked him on every social media platform. Deleted every picture you had with him. Threw and burned every gift he has given to you, whether expensive or not — even the Cartier ring he brought you as a promise ring. You burned everything that’ll remind you of him — even the clothes you wore when you were in Barcelona. You did it in hopes that you’d get over him and heal your broken heart.
Three years had passed. You thought that you’ve moved on. You’re living your life now! You have a good reputation. Not a stable job but hey, at least your name has a price tag on it. You’re still a headache to your older brother but less tamer now. You didn’t date anyone around because of the trauma you had with Jay, you thought that it was better to keep yourself single for now.
Now, fate seems to have other plans. Three years of moving on and suddenly you’re now going to be stuck with him for the following six months. Life could be cruel sometimes.
A week has passed and you’re in your bedroom. After last week’s fiasco at Heeseung’s office. You shut yourself in your room. Ignoring all the invitations your friends invited you, cancelling your treatment appointments, and just spending in bed rotting as you scroll through your social media.
The dating article of you and Jay had been confirmed by both sides. It was said that the two of you were seeing each other for almost a month. You two met in Italy wherein you attended the Milan fashion week while Jay was at the F1 grand prix to support his brother. An acquaintance set you two up and you two hit off right away. Yeah right.
The two of you agreed to keep your relationship a secret at the moment since you two are at the courting stage. It was also said in the article that Jay picked you up at the club wherein the paparazzis had taken photos of you and let you stay at his place which shouldn’t be anything malicious given that the two of you are seeing each other. You wanted to laugh at their lame excuses, and yet, it was still believable since the public believed it anyway.
They also stated to give respect to your relationship and the two of you would prefer for it to be private, which made you smile. That’s right. You thought. Keep it private, so you won’t have to act along with Jay in public.
You closed your phone and went out of your room to have your first meal of the day. It was ten in the morning. The whole house was empty except for the house helpers and the head butler. You gave them a simple greeting and smile before you proceeded to the kitchen to find something to eat.
“Ms. Lee,” you turned around to see a maid holding a huge box which stopped you.
“Another pr package? Could you place it inside my room? I’ll open it there, thank you,” you ordered with a smile.
“Of course Miss, it also came with a flower bouquet. Would you want to place it in a vase? It was quite big too.” she explained.
Having used these kinds of packages, you only nodded to her question. “Who sent them anyway?”
“It’s from Park Jongseong Miss.”
You stopped. Almost dropping the tupperware of your overnight oats as you heard his name.
“Throw it, I don’t care if it’s big — just throw it okay?” you ordered before eyeing at the box. “Leave that here. Next time, when you receive a package from Park Jongseong, just throw it okay? If it benefits you, you can keep it, just don’t give it to me nor inform me about things like that okay?”
Shaking in fear, the maid nodded, “yes miss.”
She placed the box in front of the kitchen island while you closed the fridge. Having no appetite anymore, you decided to open the sturdy box and to your surprise a dress was neatly folded inside.
But it wasn’t just any dress. It was a vintage Prada dress. You quickly placed the cover on the side and grabbed the dress. Placing it in front of you, your forehead creased as your hands trailed at the delicate piece. Clothes like these don't surprise you, but you were shocked that Jay had sent you this one.
Was it an invitation? I might be. You thought. There’s no way that Jay would send you a dress out of blue especially when you walked out of him last week.
“Miss, this came along with the bouquet,” your attention shifted to the maid who handed you over a small envelope.
You mumbled your thanks before eyeing at the envelope. It was small with a wax seal in the middle. You opened it quietly as your hunches were right — Jay has given you an invitation.
Save the date. — like it was a wedding or something. You couldn’t help but to roll your eyes as you eyed at the invitation once again. The logo of their company stood out on the corner while Jay’s signature was on the bottom right corner of the paper. You wondered what it was about but you guessed that it involved their company.
You decided to bring everything back to your room. Closing the door, that’s when you noticed the numerous missed calls from an unknown number.
Please don’t tell me this is Jay. You thought before pressing the number and letting it ring.
“Good, you picked up, I’ve been calling you for minutes now,” you closed your eyes out of frustration. You were right. It was Jay who called you.
“How did you get my number?” you asked.
“Heeseung gave it to me, since you walked out last week when we have a lot of things to talk about —”
“Wow, “a lot of things to talk about?” good call Mr. Park,” you sarcastically remarked. “When clearly, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Ms. Lee, I wanted to inform you that whatever we had in the past is in the past, there’s no need to bring it up. I am talking about our publicity stunt that involves our image and reputation.” Jay spoke with a formal tone and you are fighting the urge to curse him on the phone.
“Clearly, I don’t give a fuck about the publicity stunt,” you answered, smiling sweetly as you spoke. “And I made myself clear last week, we can just convince the public that we like to keep our relationship secret and there’s no need for public exposure and stuff.”
“This involves my family Ms. Lee, clearly they don’t know that we’re dating for the sake of publicity.”
“Then that’s a you-problem Jongseong, not mine.”
“Have you even read the damn contract or just skimmed it and called it a day?” Jay asked with an irritated tone. “It is implied there that if one of the parties doesn't comply with the contract’s conditions, they have to pay five billion won as a fine?”
Your eyes widened, “what kind of damn contract is that!? Five billion won!? Are fucking kidding me!?”
“Heeseung made the contract, he made sure that you’re going to comply with it, whether you like it or not. Your signed contract was notarized now by your family’s lawyer by the way,” Jay explained, and you swear to God that you could see his teasing smile over the phone.
“I’m gonna kill him and then I’m gonna kill you after.”
“That’s really nice babe but I still need to show up at my company’s housing project’s grand launching on Saturday — oh by the way, I hope you received the dress, the jewelry set should arrive this afternoon, wear it okay?”
“I guessed I’d just kill myself instead,” you answered instead. “And don’t ever call me that.”
Jay chuckled from the phone, “what? Do you want me to call you ‘wifey’ instead? I don’t mind though. We can settle with the endearments on Saturday, all right? I’ll pick you up at six this Saturday. Goodbye wifey.”
The call ended. You stood there frozen as your phone’s still on your ears. The silence deafened you as Jay’s words kept on ringing in your ears for a minute.
It’s been so long since you heard him call you that. That endearment that used to be so meaningful for you, now became something traumatizing to hear. You could have your heart tearing up once again as you bite your lips to conceal yourself from crying once again.
You don’t understand why Jay was acting like what you had in the past was just something light and casual — like you two didn’t end in a bad light and had many issues to talk about. You couldn’t comprehend in your mind how Jay talked to you like you were his business partner — as if he didn’t make you the happiest girl back in Barcelona.
But then again, this is Jay that we’re talking about. The same guy who left you for his career. He’s just doing this for the sake of his image and reputation. He’s not doing it for you, you convinced. You’re just a stain that almost ruined his image — nothing more and nothing less.
-
A black sleek Mercedes-Benz arrived at the doorsteps of your house by six in the evening.
Upon the announcement of his arrival, that was cue. You grabbed your purse that matched the dress’ color, and with a few touches and perfume spray, you left your room.
Jay was waiting by the living room, perfect in his three-piece suit as he checked his cufflinks last minute. Only did you get his attention when your Louboutin's clinked against the marbled tiles of your house’s staircase. Jay’s head turned quickly, eyes locked on you who’s walking downstairs.
His hand reached for you instinctively, and you quickly rolled your eyes as you ignored his hands, going downstairs on your own — it didn’t take too long for him to grab you by your arms.
“Oh my god, are you going to keep on grabbing my arms!?” you shrieked, tugging your arms away but his hold tightens. “Jay, you’re hurting me —”
“Could you please be professional for once and just go along with the contract?” he asked with a serious tone, making you raise an eyebrow.
“Unlike you Jay, I could never act professional when you’re around,” you stated. “Call me immature or whatever but do you think it’s easy for me to forget everything about us?”
“I am not asking you to forget about it,” he replied sharply. “Just for six months. Six damn months just go along with it. Just for the sake of our reputation, just do it. After six months, you can hate me all you want — loathe me, I don’t care! Just play pretend for once.”
Perhaps it was his tone that settled your anger down. The mixture of frustration and desperation. You hated that you quickly understood Jay despite all the hatred you had for him — just like you, he doesn’t like the situation too, but for reputation’s sake, he had no choice.
You wanted to lash out, to push him away, and tell him to fuck off, you don’t want to see his face ever again — but you signed the contract. You have to comply with every condition written there.
For your family’s name and for your reputation. That’s all you had to look after, not your past with Jay or whatever lingering feelings you have with him.
Six months. Just six months. You could pretend that you two are okay, and he’s the love of your life — what a damn joke.
It’s a sickening play to act, but you had no choice. Everything was your fault after all. That’s why you lowered your pride this time, face softening as you look at him.
“Fine.” you said in defeat.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me Jay, don’t you ever thank me,” you dictated. “I’m doing this for myself.”
The drive on the way to the convention hall was idly quiet. It was a silent truce for the two of you. The act had just begun and you’re internally praying for your frail heart to not be weakened by whatever scheme Jay will pull up from his sleeves.
Once you two reached the entrance, Jay had left his seat, giving the keys to the valet before opening your car’s door. You only gave him a glance before accepting his hand, his hold firm on yours, giving you the warmth that you’re in denial to accept.
“Ready?” he asked.
You looked at him before giving him a short nod. He removed his hand and placed it with his arms, you wrapped yours around it and with one last glance, the two of you went inside the convention hall.
The hall was bustling with people. Known names and wealthy businessmen gathered together for the grand launch of another housing project of the Park’s company. Press and reporters were also present, that’s why it didn’t surprise you when flashes of cameras welcomed you the moment you two entered the hall.
Whispers became louder and the camera’s flashes became blinding, and yet, you kept your smile as your hold on Jay’s arm tightened. You could feel your heart bursting out anytime, your nerve coming all over you now that the attention’s on you and Jay.
Unlike you, Jay was calm and collected, wearing his usual formal smile as he looked at the cameras one-by-one before he tugged you towards the direction of his parents.
“So this is the girl who swept your feet Jongseongie?” his mother started, eyeing at you with a smile. You felt intimidated as it felt like she was dissecting you.
"It's a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Park,” you greeted with a soft tone. “I do apologize because of the trouble I caused —”
“Nonsense! Young love, and rumors, articles tend to be overexaggerated. I’m sure that what you and Jongseong had is real." she quickly brushed it off before giving you a genuine smile, making you chuckle out of nervousness.
“Nonetheless ma’am, I wish you could’ve known my relationship with Jongseong in a better manner,” you insisted.
The old woman chuckled once again at your words and instead of saying anything, she just pats your shoulder, “it’s not your fault sweetie don’t worry, I just wished Jongseong had introduced you earlier.”
“Mom, we’re taking things slow, it’s been just a month for us,” Jay justified. “Could you please excuse us now? I think y/n needs a drink.”
His mother eyed her son for a second before nodding. “Alright son, seems like you just want some alone time with her.”
Jay ignored his mother’s teasing tone before pulling you away from her — almost dragging you towards the wine section.
“She seems nice,” you commented.
“And interrogative,” Jay objected. “She’s just playing along, my mother almost fainted because of our scandal. She doesn’t believe that what we’re doing right now is real.”
You raised an eyebrow, “well, she has a good sense then, why not just tell her the truth?”
“Because she’s conservative, she believes in the sanctity of marriage and seeing me having a one-night stand scandal outraged her — why would I even have sex with someone I don’t even want to marry?”
“Right, why would you Jay? To someone you don’t want to marry?” you asked with a teasing tone.
He glanced at you, eyes glaring as he passed you the glass of wine which you accepted, electrified by the small touch of his skin, “you don’t even remember that night y/n.”
“And I could see that you were sober enough to know what happened,” you pointed out. “So why? Why would you sleep with me, knowing well of our past?”
“Have you ever thought that maybe it was you who threw herself to me that night?” he rebutted and you merely hummed.
“And you took advantage of it, right? I was drunk Jay, I was not in the right mind — while you? I supposed you’re sober that night since you keep on insisting that I barely remember anything.”
Jay didn’t say a word, he only stared at you as he took a sip on his wine. You chuckled in disbelief as you took a sip of yours.
“So why?” you asked once again.
“We’re not having that conversation here.” Jay stated.
You smirked, “right, gonna play lovers first, alright hubby, what’s the next agenda?”
“Y/n.”
“What? You asked for this didn’t you?” you smiled.
He wasn’t able to rebut your words because someone had approached him regarding the formal opening of the event. He glared at you one last time, and you offered him a sweet smile before he decided to just follow the organizer of the event instead. A sigh of relief escaping you since you had won this time.
You were left to entertain your own. Some were friendly enough to approach and strike a conversation with you, knowing that your family’s a prominent name in the country. You’re used to these scenarios, so with a fake smile and sweet tone, you played nice in front of the public — just like what your family wishes you to do.
Conversations were mostly about you and Jay. Same questions; when did you guys meet, what did you like about him, and apologies for getting caught with the scandal. It annoyed you for a moment, but you just decided to brush it off and gave them the information that they wanted.
Another hour had passed before the event had formally started. Jay was in front, a glass of champagne on his hand as he recited his speech about their company’s new housing project somewhere in Seoul.
Everyone applauded, while you stood there, eyes never leaving him. He looked so mature — so clear of his future. Far from the Jay you met in Barcelona. He knew the words that he needed to say and the words were eloquent and appropriate — far from your reckless and spoiled self, and that stung you for a bit.
It felt bitter. Seeing your ex-boyfriend achieving everything that he wanted. He’s the CEO of their company now. He has a bright goal for his company while you’re still hung up with your freedom — still hung up with your past relationship with him.
Now, watching him from a distance, you wondered what would’ve been if you weren’t that drunk that night. Maybe, you could’ve saved you and Jay’s reputation. In that way, you could’ve saved your heart from its incoming pain too.
“So, you’re my twin brother’s girlfriend,” you flinched when you heard a voice from your left side.
There stood a man who’s pale as a ghost. Hair cleaned and bangs down along with his glasses, he was wearing a more leaned smart casual compared to Jay’s expensive suits. He was smiling at you, and you raised an eyebrow.
“Jay’s twin brother?” you asked.
“Park Sunghoon,” he introduced as he stretched out his hand.
“Oh, the racer,” you remembered before accepting his hands. “You’re quite handsome.”
“Thanks, I get that a lot,” he spoke and you smiled at his words.
“More handsome than Jay though.” you clarified and he chuckled at your compliment.
“I have a girlfriend, for your information.”
You smiled became sweeter, more flirtier as you removed your hands from his. “Can I compliment you without thinking that I am hitting on you?”
“You said I’m more handsome than your boyfriend.”
“Why? It’s a subjective preference,” you insisted, casually shrugging. “Despite being more handsome than him, Jay’s still my type though. Hope that eases you that I am clearly not interested in you.”
“You’re weird, I wonder why Jay talks about you like you’re a goddess or something.”
“Now you’re exaggerating.”
“I know,” he smirked. “I hope you'll take good care of Jay.”
“What am I? His caretaker?” you raised an eyebrow.
“Just looking after him. Do you know that he used to work in America?” Sunghoon asked and you shook your head as answer.
“Why? What’s up with America?” you asked.
Sunghoon leans close to you, your breath halting as you feel him too close to you.
“Why don’t you go and ask him about what happened to him in America?” he whispered in your right ear before giving you a meaningful stare, making you confused as to what he meant.
“What do you mean?”
But Sunghoon only smirked as he glanced at your back, making you turn around only to see Jay walking towards the two of you.
“Well, I guess our conversation had been cut short, I hope I’ll see you around y/n,” Sunghoon raised his wine glass before walking away from you — just in time for Jay to arrive at your place.
“People are looking y/n,” he warned and you raised an eyebrow.
“I am just talking to your brother, if you see it with any malicious intent, that’s your problem,” you stated. “Unless you’re jealous.”
He scoffed, “I am not jealous. I am just making sure —”
“That my image is good? I care for it too Jay. There's nothing wrong with talking to Sunghoon. Was I the one who leaned close to him? No right? So don’t you think that I was doing something bad here, ” you refuted.
“Just be careful,” he advised once again.
“I am careful,” you smiled at him sweetly. “It’s you who should be careful. Now, if you want to convince people that we’re a couple, give me a smile and kiss rather than throwing daggers at me with your stare.”
Jay’s serious expression softened for a moment. He heaved out a sigh before wrapping his arms around your shoulder, before you knew, his lips landed on the temple of your face. Murmurs began to fill the venue but you chose to ignore it as you stare at Jay with a devilish smirk on your face.
“See? It’s not that bad right?” you taunted.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered to you.
“Not if you killed me first,” you whispered back. “But then again, you agreed to this idea, so you better suck it up, Park.”
Jay didn’t say another word — not when his father tapped his shoulder, requesting his presence to talk to some business partner. Jay nodded at his father’s request and you’re sure that he was about to leave you alone, but Jay had pulled you along with him. His right hand snaked around your waist, holding you tightly as he leaned to your ears.
“Better put on a great show wifey,” his words sent chills down your spine. You only stared at him and the next thing was he had stolen a kiss from you. With a smirk on his face and the shocked expression of yours, it was easy to say who had won the argument that moment.
You weren’t able to refute his words. You stuck beside him as your persona changed into that sweet and darling socialite of your family, now in a more upgraded version of being Jay’s significant other.
The whole night, you stood beside Jay, like a trophy wife of his. Smiling and charming every businessman he talked to which left them impressed by your presence.
Jay easily went along with it. He felt natural with the way he held your waist dearly, the subtle kisses on your temple and forehead, and even leaning down when you wanted to say something — you two could pass as actors just for the show.
Never did he think that your insides were churning, every smile and gestures he made you want to throw up.
If this is what you’ll be doing for the next six months, you’d soon feel yourself slowly being killed inside — and yet, you suck it up. It was out of sheer spite. You wanted to prove him wrong that you could be professional and set aside everything you two had, just to prove to him — to everyone, especially your family that you could comply with the stunt.
The event ended before the clock struck twelve.
Jay dropped you off at your place. The whole ride was nothing but mere silence. Something about tonight felt so draining compared to the past events you’ve attended. You assumed it was because pretending was way harder than you thought, especially when you have to deal with your ex-boyfriend who seemed to be casual with the idea.
Thankfully, Jay didn’t bother you throughout the ride. He could’ve sensed that you had no energy to talk to him and he let it be. Drowning the silence of the ride with the music humming on the radio.
“Thank you,” Jay blurted out before you could even get out of the vehicle. “For playing along.”
You blinked, sinking in what just happened that night. You looked at him dead in the eye. “I told you to not thank me Jay. I am doing this for my own good.”
“You’re quick to dissolve the act,” he commented.
“It’s just the two of us here, there’s no need to pretend,” you mumbled before opening the door. “I hope tonight was enough for you, don’t call me or text me anymore, I don’t want to see you ever again.”
“You know you have to put up with me for the next six months right?”
“Why?” you glanced back at him. “Why Jay? Why do we have to suffer in this pretend relationship when both of us are too angry at each other?”
“Who says I am angry at you?”
You looked at him for a minute. His expression was serious yet soft, and you almost fell for it.
A scoff of disbelief escaped your lips instead, stepping out of the car before leaning down to look at him. “Jay, I hate you enough that I don’t want to see your face, and I am saying this again, I am doing this for my reputation, not yours, and I am not going to be at every event and public appearance you have. I hope this will be the last time we see each other.”
Jay didn’t say a word. The door slammed so hard that he had gritted his teeth at the sound. He watched as you entered your house and did not even bother looking back at him — leaving him there looking like a fool, as he brushed his hair out of frustration before deciding to drive away.
-
If only the contract had a one month validation then you would have peace.
Surely, it’s been a month since that Saturday event occurred. You were thankful that Jay was still a CEO nevertheless — which means he’s a busy man, and that also means he’s too busy to spare time for you.
Jay didn’t text nor call you for a month, and you could feel relieved at the idea that your past isn’t haunting you — and hopefully, for the next few months, he won’t either.
You kept yourself busy. You attended events, went to brand launches, and spent your free time with just you and only you alone, like you used to do. Acting like you don’t have a boyfriend who is supposed to be there to carry your bag, to shower you with love in public, but whatever, you’re good on your own.
Perhaps a month was too long because it caught you off-guard that Jay showed up at one of the charity events you launched along with your friends, wearing smart-casuals and holding a huge bouquet of lilies on his hands.
“What are you doing here?” you asked the moment you’re in front of him, glaring at him whose nose was runny and red, a funny sight for you.
“Congratulations on the event, I didn’t know you’re the type to throw events like this,” he said before handing you the bouquet, way too harsher than he supposed but you know that he couldn’t breathe properly at that moment, so you accepted.
“You’re so performative,” you commented, eyeing at the gorgeous flower arrangement which should’ve flattered your heart but Jay’s continuous sniffing wasn’t helping. “Stop giving me flowers if it’s going to be the death of you, showing up would be fine — how did you even know about this?”
“A friend of a friend informed me that you’re one of the main organizers, which saddens me that you didn’t inform me about this.” Jay explained, making you roll your eyes.
“It’s a charity event Jay, you think that it’s necessary for us to show PDA when there are children dying?” you raised an eyebrow.
“Touchè.” he commented and you only groaned at his comment.
“Are you done? You could leave now, I am busy here and if you’re going to disturb me then —”
“Pack your bags,” Jay told you, halting your words.
“Excuse me what?”
“Pack something worth a week, it’s f1’s grand prix in Singapore this week, we’re going to watch it.” he explained.
“Jay, I have plans this week.”
“Already asked Heeseung to clear them,” Jay replied. “We’re going to support Sunghoon. Singapore is his lucky country.”
“Is this necessary? Would it be bothersome that your twin’s race would be overshadowed by us?”
Jay chuckled at your words, “the Park twins in one event? It’s a blast, with their girlfriends? That’s another headline to watch out for.”
“Is that really necessary?” you asked once again, groaning against his words.
“Just supporting my brother wifey,” he answered.
“You’re going to be the death of me Jongseong,” you mumbled back, and yet, you were left with no choice, knowing if you didn’t comply, you had to pay the fine. “Alright, this event will end around three, I don’t know what you want to do, maybe stick around and donate a huge amount — just don’t disturb me at the moment, I am busy.”
“I already did donate earlier, I’m just passing by,” he didn’t let you say another word when he placed a quick peck on your cheeks, completely catching you off-guard. You watched as the smirk on his lips became evident as he stared at you. “I’ll pick you up later at eight wifey, don’t worry about the expenses too, I had it covered.”
He left you there with jaw-dropped and a blushing mess. You badly wanted to throw the lilies back to him but you concealed it, changing your demeanor and pretending that what he did just made your heart skip a beat.
-
Singapore was heated — both from the weather and the grand prix.
You and Jay arrived at the day of the race, gathering attention from the media and crowd. You wore a muted red dress that’s thin enough for the hot weather, while Jay was wearing a red polo shirt with Ferrari's logo embroidered on the right chest area — a perfectly curated choice of outfit for the race and the stunt. You were holding hands with Jay as you plastered your smile as the media continued taking photos of the two of you.
After a short interview about how you two feel about the race, you two moved towards the Ferrari team’s pit garage. Jay seemed to be used to the place, greeting the staff and team there with a smile and firm handshake, along with introducing you to them. You gave them your bright smile as they guided you to an area where you could monitor the race.
“Wonyoung!” Jay shouted, calling the attention of the girl who was monitoring the screen. She glanced at the two of you before giving them a smile and wave.
“Y/n this is Wonyoung, Sunghoon’s girlfriend,” Jay introduced as she waved once again.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she greeted with a smile which you reciprocated immediately.
“It was nice meeting you two — wow, you’re so beautiful,” you complimented, making her smile wider. “What do you do for a living? You could be a model, you know?”
“Thank you, I’m taking law at the moment, but I’m also a professional ballerina,” she shared and that amazed you further.
“How long have you and Sunghoon been together?” you asked.
“About four years. We met in New York,” Wonyoung shared, before eyeing you and Jay. “You two are fairly new right? Sorry, Sunghoon talked about you two that’s why I knew.”
“It’s okay, I’m used to it.” you assured before continuing your conversation with her.
The race started a few minutes later. With the countdown going down to zero, all you could hear was the loud sprint of race cars towards the route for the following moment.
Unfortunate to you, you have zero knowledge about formula one and racing. Wearing earmuffs, you stared at the screen with your mind blank, only eyeing Sunghoon’s car that had an 8 placed on it, not knowing what’s happening as the announcer continued to ramble about the race.
You aren’t used to this kind of event. It’s too noisy, too masculine, but Wonyoung, who was standing next to you, seemed to be used to it. Eyeing carefully at the monitor screen as her hands clasped like she’s praying for her boyfriend’s safety.
Your eyes would shift to her from time to time, feeling a small envy at how she’s maintained her long relationship with Sunghoon. Even after your short conversation with her earlier, you’ve felt that their relationship was a fairytale-like dream especially with how they met.
While you? Here you are playing pretend with your ex-boyfriend. Jay was too focused on the race, too distracted that he’s being too loud and noisy — and it irritated you.
“Jay, could you please calm down? You’re like a kid who ate a whole jar of sugar,” you nagged and Jay only eyed you.
“You don’t understand, Sunghoon’s on fifth — that’s his highest place in his career, if he could pass the others, he might have a chance of getting a podium.” he explained and yet, everything he said just flew past your head.
“Frankly, I really don’t understand Jay, you literally dragged me here just to watch Sunghoon’s race.” You reiterated.
“Could you at least act like you’re enjoying the race?”
“Jay, you know me, these kinds of things aren’t exactly my type of hobbies.” you pointed out. “What kind of boyfriend are you if you’re going to bring your girlfriend to places that she clearly doesn’t give a fuck about?”
“What kind of girlfriend are you if you couldn’t support your boyfriend’s brother’s career?” he spatted. “And stop frowning, cameras are everywhere.”
“Funny that you warned me about that when you’re the one who looks like an angry bird here.”
“Just shut the fuck up.” he commanded and you smiled at him.
“Or what?” you taunted, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you guys fighting?” you two stopped when Wonyoung’s voice hovered in the area. The two of you turned your heads towards her, who had a worried expression on her face.
“Just a small misunderstanding, y/n was just asking some questions,” Jay immediately reasoned out. “What happened?”
The girl seemed to be convinced, nodding as she shifted her eyes back to the screen. “Still halfway through the race, Sunghoon’s place is still fifth — just praying everything’s going well.”
Jay nodded at her words, focusing his attention towards the screen while you grumbled something under your breath as you tried to watch the race once again.
“Behave.” Jay spoke with an authoritative tone.
“You’re not the boss of me Park,” you sassed.
He stared at you for a second, ice cold that you flinched.
But you were startled when his lips landed on yours perfectly. Loud and soft that it didn’t process in your mind what just happened.
“That’ll shut you up,” he smirked before shifting back towards the race leaving you alone.
You became quiet for the remaining moments — the only thing you were thinking of was how warm Jay’s lips were on yours. Kisses were still part of the contract, but you didn’t expect him to kiss you on the lips — in front of the public, if you may add.
It didn’t even process in your mind that the pit garage started to become more noisy and rougher as an announcement that felt deaf to your ears boomed through the whole place.
“What happened?” you asked.
“Sunghoon just secured a podium after taking over Mercedes,” Jay explained, excitement written all over his place. “If he remains in his position until the final lap, it’ll be his first podium since he started his career.”
“Oh, is that great?” you asked, internally wincing at how dumb you feel right now.
“Of course, it means that his career won’t go to waste,” Jay shared. “It’s also a big slap to our parents that he’s on the right path.”
You nodded, eyes darting back on the screen. You don’t know how many laps are left in the race but Jay became louder, shouting encouraging words and curses as he watched his twin brother’s race against the other sports car. You only stood there watching as your eyes remained on the screen, still processing everything that’s happening.
Then it came. A shout. A string of curses as Jay and Wonyoung started screaming. The whole pit garage started to celebrate. Everyone was crying and shouting in happiness while you only looked at them confused.
“Oh my god!” Wonyoung shouted, eyes almost like a saucer and mouth opened wide. “Oh my god Jay!”
“Holy shit!” Jay shouted as he roughly brushed his hair, a deep exhale escaped his lips. “P1! He got a fucking p1!”
“Sunghoon won! He won — oh my goodness!” Wonyoung shouted, tears started to drip from her eyes as her knees weakened at the news.
“What —” you weren’t able to process everything when Jay hugged you all of the sudden. Your eyes widened at his action but you weren’t able to do anything but to let his whole body swallow you whole.
“Sunghoon won! He won this race y/n!” Jay announced. Lifting you up and spinning you around like a doll. That’s when it sinked into you why the team became more loud, more rougher as their cheer boomed inside the pit garage.
You eyed the monitor. Seeing Sunghoon’s car drawing circles inside the track before getting out of the car. His voice was loud enough as he screamed for his victory. He removed his helmet out of excitement, running towards his team where he was welcomed with scream and cheers.
Then Wonyoung went out of the garage, jumping in joy as Sunghoon ran towards her. Lifting her up as he gave her the most bone-crushing hug you have ever witnessed. You watched as Wonyoung kissed Sunghoon who reciprocated it more aggressively. Cameras started to swarm them — it looked like something straight out of a romance movie. Your eyes were on them that it hadn’t sinked into you that Jay was still hugging you, his hug becoming tighter as his head rested on top of yours.
“Fuck — holy shit —” you could hear his muffled sobs, which surprised you, that’s why you became concerned as Jay’s body started to shake.
“There, there,” you hushed as you rubbed circles on his back. “Sunghoon did great, he won.”
“I’m so proud of him,” Jay shared before lifting his head. You looked at him as his eyes were watery and red. Quipping a smile, you only cupped his cheeks, brushing it tenderly as you felt a sigh of relief escaping his lips which settled you down.
“I’m sure you are,” you only told him with a smile.
“Thank you, thank gods — I,” you nodded at his stutters. Knowing it was hard to process his twin brother’s win, you let him crash down on you as you pulled him on a hug once again even though your heart was panicking deep inside.
-
Sunghoon’s win was historic.
His name was all over the news and everything varied; his win, his victory kiss with his girlfriend, and of course, Jay’s presence in the pit garage along with you. Every article was filled with positive feedback from the public, and even your moment with Jay at the pit garage trended because of the sweet moment.
After the race day, Sunghoon stayed in Singapore for another day. The twins had surprised you and Wonyoung with a double date, and you weren’t able to reject it since it’s a celebration of Sunghoon’s win too.
The Marina Bay Sands looked breathtaking by evening. You arrived at the dock around seven in the evening. The waters were calm as the night was filled with a chill breeze. You were wearing something casual for the night, not knowing what the Park twin’s plans were as the four of you arrived by the dock.
“What do you mean this isn’t a double date?” you whispered to Jay as the two of you were being separated from the couple, going to another yacht parked nearby.
“Sunghoon has plans,” Jay shrugged. “Just enjoy the night, think of it as a celebration of his win.”
“Right, but he’s not my boyfriend.” you objected.
“Of course, he’s your boyfriend’s twin brother.”
You scoffed, “you’re enjoying this too much hubby.”
“I like teasing you wifey,” he smirked before he leaned closer to you. “And don’t forget to smile, photographers are everywhere. You don’t want to make a scene right?”
You only stared at him before rolling your eyes. Jay chuckled at his win, grabbing your hands as the two of you were guided towards the yacht’s entrance.
The yacht sailed off. You enjoyed the breeze of the night as it flew past the waters and stopped somewhere in the middle wherein it’s far enough from the land yet still near to see a portion of Singapore. The night fell into a cool breeze, and thankful enough, you were wearing a long-sleeved blouse for tonight.
Jay led you outside wherein a table for two was set along with the candle lights and fancy wine. You stared at it for a second before Jay guided you towards your seat. He was chivalrous enough to push the seat for you before going to his seat.
“So, Sunghoon and Wonyoung are having the same thing?” you asked, eyeing at the yacht a few meters apart from the two of you.
“Of course,” Jay said. “We planned this after all.”
“Planned?” you raised an eyebrow.
“For publicity of course,” he reminded, making you quiet before a bitter smile formed on your lips.
“Right, of course,” you mumbled. “Then don’t forget your sweetest smile then Jay — like you’re hopelessly in love with me.”
“Do you really want it? You might fall in love with me again.” he tested.
“I’d rather fall out of this yacht than let it happen.” you told him with a smile.
“Then I’d dive in to save you.”
You scoffed at his words, “can we start eating now?”
Dinner was served a few minutes later. Despite the tension you two had earlier, you ate with ease. The food was great, a bit cold but you understand that it’s been sitting inside the yacht for hours, and since you were hungry, you ate without any complaints.
The two of you ate in silence — in an awkward, quiet silence since this has been the first time you two had gone out for a “date.” you ignore the way Jay kept looking at you from every minute. It had you wondering if he wanted to strike a conversation or maybe, he just wanted to check on you.
As the night became deeper, the tension started to dissolve as the plates became clean and the bottle of wine had been half-emptied.
“Did you enjoy Singapore?” Jay asked out of nowhere.
“It was okay,” you answered bluntly, since for the past few days, you were just at the grand prix with Jay. “I’ve been here a hundred times, so this is nothing new for me.”
“Even the grand prix?”
“I was totally clueless about it,” you stated. “I think I’m going to trend for looking bored inside the pit garage.”
Jay looks at his phone, smiling as he shows you the screen, “I think we’re trending for a different reason.”
You knew what he meant. You nodded at his words, “You were crying.”
“I was just overjoyed. Sunghoon’s been pushing himself hard just to get a podium — but a win? It was more than we wished for.”
“You’re proud of him.”
“I am, of course I am,” he only smiled and that made your heart skip a beat. “Thank you for comforting me too. That’s the reason why we’re trending too.”
“Good job to us then,” you only said, hoping that your words didn’t feel bitter. “So what’s Sunghoon’s plan?”
“You’ll see.” Jay shortly replied.
“Does that mean we have to wait til it happens? I’m getting sleepy now.” you complained and Jay only chuckled.
He then glanced at his watch, smiling as the time ticked before looking up to the sky. “Just wait, it’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Just in time he had finished his words. A loud explosion of fireworks lit up the sky, surprising you. Colorful lights and fire hovered over Singapore's sky. A gasp escaped your lips as you stood up from your seat. Head staring at the sky as you watch the continuous fireworks show.
“Oh my god!” you shouted the moment your eyes landed on the other yacht.
“He’s proposing! Sunghoon’s proposing!” you shouted in excitement as you looked at Jay who only had a small smile.
“I told you he has plans,” Jay stated, eyes on you who was watching the scene unfold.
Your heart glistened in bliss as despite not hearing their conversation, you knew that Wonyoung said yes. The way she jumped in joy, hands covering her opened mouth before placing her right hand in front of Sunghoon.
They hugged and Sunghoon pulled her to a loving kiss — and you became quiet yet filled with joy for Wonyoung.
“Wow,” it was the only thing you could say before sitting back on your seat. “It was so beautiful.”
“Really?” Jay amusingly asked.
You nodded. Smile still wide at the thought. “They’re made for each other too — I just, gosh, being in love is such a beautiful thing right?”
Jay’s stare on you never left, his gaze softening as he replied, “of course.”
The atmosphere changed. Throughout the remainder of the night, the two of you talked like a couple who’s out on a date. None of your minds ever crossed what you two used to be. No one dared to ruin the atmosphere of the night. Perhaps just for once — the two of you wanted to set it aside, confined with the pretend relationship you two had — that is, if you two are even pretending at that moment.
Because you didn’t notice how Jay’s eyes glistened as he stared at you, or how you talked nonstop to him, sharing gossip and laughter as if you weren’t rolling your eyes at him earlier. The night shifted into this atmosphere that somehow felt peaceful for the two of you.
Even when you two had arrived back at the dock, the smile on your face never left. It even became wider when you approached Wonyoung who gave you a tight hug.
“It’s so gorgeous!” you complimented as you looked at the silver band with a huge deep peridot as the stone.
“It’s my birthstone,” Wonyoung smiled.
“It’s a Park tradition,” Sunghoon explained, his smile proud. “The ring she’s wearing is a family heirloom. It means that she’s part of the family now.”
“Congratulations,” you bid to Wonyoung again.
“I’m expecting you at my wedding,” she stated.
You only nodded at her words before you two looked at the ring once again, ignoring the twins who looked at the two of you with much fondness.
“Someday, you’d be in my place too,” Sunghoon whispered to his twin.
Jay bitterly laughed, “you think so?”
“Just hold on there man,” he stated before shifting his gaze back at you. “It takes time after all.”
-
Perhaps it’s the way he holds you — or the way Jay looks at you. Your heart doesn’t skip a beat anymore and all your anxiety starts to wash off.
Slowly, you’re convinced that you’ve grown adjusted to it.
Got used to his hands wrapped around your waist, his hand holding yours — even brushing your hair. Got used to his hands, the kisses — cheeks, temples, and hands. It feels natural every time he does it that your heart doesn’t betray you anymore. It got so used to all of it that you’ve become numb at it.
You also got used to his dates and invitations. The big public appearance on important events or just a stroll by the park. You had the choice to refuse, make up a lie and convince him that you’re not feeling well. But you always say yes because in the back of your mind, if you don’t comply, you have to pay a hefty amount of money — as if it was even a problem in the first place.
“You okay?” your thoughts snapped out when you heard Jay’s voice.
“I’m okay,” you immediately replied. “What are we doing again?”
“We’re going to our family seamstress, we need to get your own dress for Sunghoon’s wedding,” Jay explained.
“Is this why you invited me over lunch?” you asked as you took a sip on your juice.
“You don’t turn down my invites though,” he rebutted.
“Well I don’t want to pay five billion won,” you said. “Why is it necessary for us to go and shop for clothes together when you could just have it delivered to me like the previous dresses.”
“Because I want us to match,” he suggested, and you raised an eyebrow at him. “And just think of it as a last gift for you.”
“So romantic,” you sarcastically replied and yet you let him be, because you’re used to this scenario. The dates that were always filled with bitterness and remarks. The way he smirks and you scoff at his words as the tension between you continues to leak and yet — from an outsider’s perspective, you two are just a couple who’s in love with each other.
You two didn’t end up at the shopping district — Jay drove towards a farther shop outskirts. You raised an eyebrow as you ended up somewhere less crowded and in a more quiet street in the area.
“We have a custom tailor for weddings and important family events,” Jay shared as he opened the car’s door for you. “They’ve been making our suits and gowns for generations, that’s why I brought you here.”
“I’m not even going to be part of your family,” you stated and Jay bitterly smiled.
“I just want to give it to you as a gift.” he reasoned out. “Come on.”
The store was huge nonetheless. The first thing you saw were the hundreds of ready-to-wear gowns and suits on display. It was quiet, faintly smelled like fabrics and peppermint tea. You wandered at the photos displayed on the walls, seeing their creations and designs that left you in awe.
The two of you were greeted by an elderly couple who seemed to have known Jay since he was baby. With a couple of instructions and suggestions, Jay was being led by the old man while your eyes were still on the photo wall.
“Why don’t you try some first?” Jay suggested. “I needed to get my measurements done, you can go check out some of the gowns.”
“Alright,” you proceeded to skimmed at the rack, choosing some different gowns before proceeding towards the fitting room.
Every gown was perfect for you. The material, the design, and even the color. You badly wanted to take them all but you knew it’ll be too much to ask — you just needed the perfect gown for the wedding.
You returned to the rack a few minutes later before proceeding to grab a few more to try. You were so busy looking at the displays that you didn’t notice that the old lady had approached you.
“Try this one,” the old lady said, handing you a white one, making your eyes wide.
“Oh, I shouldn’t wear that, it’ll be disrespectful for the bride,” you said.
“Of course dear, but would you like to try?” she asked. “You’re here nonetheless, might as well try on the gowns you’ve never seen before.”
You stared at her before she insisted on the gown. Hence, you grabbed it without any complaints and returned to the fitting room.
The gown doesn’t even suit your taste. A huge ballgown that has an off-shoulder and long-sleeves, it felt too old and traditional for your taste and yet you were surprised how it fit you like a glove — that old lady picked the right one for you.
“You look gorgeous dear,” the owner spoke. “Oh, Jongseongie chose the right girl for him.”
You laughed at her words, “thank you ma’am.”
“Should we show it to Jongseong?” she asked. You stood there for a second before you nodded to her request.
Jay was too busy with getting his measurements checked, not even noticing your presence as the seamstress helped you with carrying the train of the gown.
You didn’t even need to call him out, the tailor who’s measuring him tapped him and pointed at you, and the moment he turned around, you held down your breath.
Jay — in a slow motion, walked towards you. Eyes wide and breath stolen by your mere presence in the white wedding dress.
“Woah,” he breathes out. “You…you look like a bride.”
“Thanks,” you shortly replied with a smile.
“No seriously,” Jay stated, eyes still on yours. “It suits you, you look ethereal.”
You laughed at his words, “using deep words now Jongseong?”
“You know that I like using deep words to compliment someone that I really like.”
“I know, it makes you more smart than you look.”
He smiled and before you knew it, he held your hand and kissed it gently — too gentle for the act as he stared at you like you’re on your wedding day and he’s your groom.
“You’d be the most beautiful bride the world will see,” he stated and your heart stopped.
Not because his words flustered you nor did you blush by his act, but because you found it ironic that he’s the one who’s telling you that compliment.
And yet, you didn’t have the guts to ruin the moment, so you gave him a smile and nod, “thank you Jay.”
The conversation was cut short. You found a cute powder pink gown for the wedding and not long after, they took your measurements for the alterations before you and Jay left the shop for some coffee and pastries back in the shopping district.
“You should buy the wedding gown,” Jay suggested making you glance at him.
“Where would I even use it?” you asked, laughing.
“For your wedding.”
“Really? You think I’ll still get married?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Someday,” he spoke, eyes gleaming softly. “It’s your only dream right? To have your own happy ending?”
“You’re making it sound like it’s a childish thing to dream for.”
“No, I always admired that for you,” he said. “You have everything already, it’s the only thing you wanted the most.”
“I could’ve had it,” years ago. If only you two worked out. But you only stared at Jay and he knew immediately what you meant.
He took a sip on his drink, and you followed him shortly. Letting the silence pour between the two of you — a sudden halt in the conversation as you two telepathically decided that it was best to keep that afternoon quiet instead of letting the atmosphere turn sour by bringing up the past.
And yet, it left a bitter impression on you. At how Jay could be so casual about inviting you on dates and events. How he doesn’t seem to be bothered by your past and everything he does were strictly in compliance with the contract, meanwhile your heart’s burning in ache just by being a few meters near him.
Still, you’ve adjusted to him — and you hated that he had swooned you in just a short span of time, internally cursing your poor heart for being too weak for Park Jongseong.
-
It didn’t help that a few weeks later, Jay showed up at your house for a family dinner — making you raise an eyebrow.
“Your parents invited me,” Jay shared.
“Why?” you asked.
“Why not?” it wasn’t him who answered but instead, your older brother. “They’re curious about Jay, they haven’t formally met him after all. Both of you are still the talk of the town at the moment.”
“Why? They both know that we’re pretending,” you justified.
“Yet, Jay managed to tame you for a bit,” Heeseung smirked and you rolled your eyes.
“That means I don’t have to act sweet towards you,” you snarled at Jay. “good, I’m getting tired of it.”
“You seem used to it,” Jay commented with a devilish smirk.
“Don’t push my buttons Jongseong,” you barked before going towards the dining room.
“Sorry about her,” Heeseung apologized to the younger male, while Jay only laughed.
“It’s okay, I’m used to it,” Jay assured and Heeseung raised an eyebrow knowingly, clicking his tongue as he pats the former’s shoulder.
“Used to it huh?” He spoke with a meaningful smile. “I guess you two got to know each other in just that short span of time.”
Dinner happened around seven in the evening. Complete course meals with rare delicacies and your favorite salad. The first few minutes were just for small talks, but when the wine started to be poured and desserts had sweetened everyone on their seats, conversations became endless, coursing through your pretend relationship and business-related topics.
“You’re a very fine man Jongseong,” your mother spoke with a smile. “Very charming right y/n?”
You chose to ignore her words, focused on your cake which earned a dead air in the table.
“y/n, mom’s talking to you,” Heeseung called out, making you glance at them.
“Yes, Jay’s charming — deadly charming I must say,” you said in a venomous tone.
“Do you have any problems with Jongseong, y/n?” your father asked, raising a suspicious glance at the man.
“She’s just being stubborn again,” your brother justified.
“Wow, it feels like he’s your pretend boyfriend with the way you defend him,” you commented at your brother.
“Because you’re acting like Jay killed you or something — why do you even hate him?” he asked you back, and you suddenly became quiet.
Would it be a perfect way to ruin the dinner by confessing to them that Jay used to be part of your past? Perhaps, if you were feeling irrational tonight, you would’ve let that secret pass your lips, and hopefully, your parents would’ve understood why you had an attitude with the man sitting next to you.
But before you could even speak, Jay’s hands grabbed yours underneath the table. You looked at him who had a genuine smile on his face as he looked at your brother.
“Heeseung, it’s okay,” Jay interjected. “I know it’s not really ideal, our relationship you must say, I understand where y/n’s coming from and don’t worry, there are no hard feelings for both of us.”
“If Jay has no problems, then you shouldn’t be too stubborn y/n,” your father commented. “It’s embarrassing for Jongseong if you keep that attitude.”
“Clearly, he’s used to my attitude,” you spoke before standing up. “And clearly, I am not going to let myself be tamed by some guy just because of one mistake.”
“Your mistake I may add,” Heeseung butted in and you groaned heavily.
“One mistake doesn’t define me,” you gritted before glancing at Jay. “and one mistake is enough for me to learn my lesson. I have enough of this.”
You left the dining room. Your slippers striking against the marbled floor before Jay moved, standing up and excusing himself to follow you eventually.
“That’s quite a show,” Heeseung commented before taking a sip on his wine.
“Heeseung,” his father called out and he only hummed.
“Just trust me with this one dad,” he smiled meaningly. “Just be patient, Jay knows what to do with her.”
You don’t know how Jay somehow found you in your mother’s garden, by the bench nearby the orchid walls. Sitting with your arms wrapped around your knees, a thing you do when you’re worried.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, tone cold and angry that Jay was taken back.
“What the hell is your problem?” Jay asked as he approached you with his expression turned into confusion. “I thought we’re okay? We were fine weeks ago.”
“That’s the problem,” you pointed out. “We’re okay when we’re not supposed to! I should be loathing you Jongseong! Cursing you for breaking my heart and leaving me devastated.”
“You’re still hung up with that!? It’s been three years, you have to move on.”
“Don’t fucking tell me to move on, you don’t dictate that to me when for the past three years that’s what I’ve been trying to do!” you shouted at him, standing up just to face him with nothing but hatred. “Then suddenly, you’re here with this fake relationship stunt, and you’re acting like we’re okay and I hate you for thinking that you could casually enter my life again!”
“We’re in a damn contract y/n, I told you for six months just set everything aside. Just for six months.” he reminded.
“You think I could handle that? Do you think I can handle everything you do to me? Touching me, kissing me, and smiling at me like you’re still in love with me!? You’re so damn good in this pretend act Jay that I don’t even know if what you’re doing is real or not.” you rebutted.
Jay became quiet. He looked at you with a meaningful stare — and that immediately hit you.
“No fucking way.” you breathed out.
“I am not faking it,” Jay confessed. “Everything I do, it’s real.”
“Fuck you.” you sneered.
“y/n, I still love you —”
“No! Don’t finish that sentence, don’t ever say those words when three years ago you broke my heart.”
“What do you want me to do then? Beg for your forgiveness? Say sorry for what happened that night? It’s not my fault that you couldn’t understand that I’m doing it for our future —”
“Because you knew! You knew that you were going to America and yet you made those promises! You acted like everything’s fine and then you fucking dropped the bomb the night before our flight! Why did you have to hide it from me?” you shouted at him.
“Because I was scared of hurting you!” Jay immediately interjected.
A chuckle of disbelief escaped your lips, “I can handle it, you hurted me more than you were scared of!”
“I didn’t mean to.”
You shook your head. “You promised me that once we settle here we’ll announce our relationship then we’ll get married after two years, but it didn’t happen Jay. You just made empty promises.”
Jay looked at you, his eyes softened, a much calmer demeanor than your angry ones. He looked at you with pleading eyes as he spoke, “those aren’t empty promises y/n. I am still planning to fulfill my promise.”
“Liar.” you dictated.
“I am here y/n, why can’t you see that!?”
“Because I don’t want to see you anymore Jongseong,” you shook your head once again. “You can’t just — can’t just enter my life again, swoon me with gifts and grant gestures. You can’t. It’s unfair.”
“Could you please understand me? Have you ever thought of hearing my side? Do you even know what I went through in America for the past three years?” he pleaded as he tried to get close to you but you immediately took a step back.
“No. I don’t want to. One was enough for us.” you dictated.
“See? You don’t even want to hear my side, now tell me, who’s the selfish one here?” he accused and your forehead creased.
“Is it bad that I want peace? That I want to save myself from hurting again? Call me selfish Jay but I don’t want any of us, not now, not even in the future. I am done with you.” you reasoned out.
“You know we can still make this work right?” Jay spoke. “I can see it y/n, don’t deny it. I know you. I know that your heart still beats for me.”
“I know! And I hate that you still managed to capture my heart even after breaking it.” you confessed. “I hated everything about us because it feels so terribly wrong to still be in love with the man who ruined me that I became nothing. Do you think it’s easy Jay? No, it’s never going to be easy for the two of us.”
“Then we’ll get through it, through hardships, we can make it work this time, alright?” he convinced once again, hands finally getting a hold on you as he pulled you close to him.
“I love you Jay,” you confessed, tugging yourself away from you. “But I love myself more, and I don’t want to be hurt again, and not from the same person all over again.”
Jay was left in daze the moment you confessed those words. He stood frozen as you gave him a soft yet pitiful look, a desperate plea to let you go. He didn’t say another word but instead, let you walk away from him.
-
A knock on the door interrupted Heeseung’s focus on his switch yet he didn’t bother raising his head.
“Heeseung?” you peeked from the small gap of the door, eyeing your brother who’s in his house clothes, playing his switch like a kid — a usual scenario when he’s on his free day.
“Can I come in?” you asked and without sparing a glance, your older brother nodded.
You closed the door of his room and lay beside him, staring at the ceiling of his childhood room which still has glowing stars stuck on it — the same glowing stars that comforted you whenever you had nightmares back when you were just a kid.
Somehow, it gave you a sense of relief. It’s been two weeks since you walked out of Jay. Two weeks of silence and it is eating you alive.
You knew it was Heeseung who started the commotion. It was your brother who started the idea of a pretend relationship in order to save image. Somehow, you wanted to blame your older brother for everything, and yet, you still found yourself running towards him when things became too overwhelming for you.
After all, he doesn’t know about you and Jay.
You have a few months left. You convinced yourself that you can do it and you’d do it out of spite to prove everyone wrong. But fuck it, you don’t need everyone’s validation. The only thing you wanted now was peace in your mind and heart, and continuing your fake relationship with Jay would just tear you furthermore. You couldn’t find the courage to face Jay anymore. Your insides couldn’t handle the feeling of just being near Jay.
Two weeks and you’ve been locking yourself inside your house. Sleeping, eating, and doing nothing — just like what you did when you returned to Barcelona. What a funny deja vu. You thought. What’s more ironic was that it’s because of the same person again.
“Are you here to bother me or do you want to talk about it?” your thoughts snapped away when you heard Heeseung’s tone. Not angry nor annoyed, somehow authoritative and brotherly that your heart frailed for a second.
You gulped at his words, tears started to flow from your eyes as a small sob escaped your lips. “Heeseung — Jay —”
“What about him?” he asked, still playing his game.
“I used to date Jay,” you confessed. “And — and remember Barcelona? I met him there and we dated for months and he broke up with me and it was a really bad breakup. Now the fake dating isn’t helping me at all because I feel like I love him again when I’m supposed to hate him and now I’m scared because I don’t want to get hurt anymore.”
Your cries echoed inside the room. Your older brother was still in his game, still focused for another minute, letting you cry on his bed before he let out a deep sigh. His game was finished, he closed his switch and placed it on the table before shifting to you.
“I know.” Heeseung simply said.
Your crying stopped. Looking at him before sitting up from your position, “wha — what? What do you mean?”
“y/n, I know you and Jay are exes, but not before the scandal,” Heeseung shared, quipping a small smile. “I knew it the day you signed the contract. I followed you two by the elevator and I saw you two fighting.”
Your eyes widened. “You were there?”
Heeseung nodded, “yeah, I was curious why Jay followed you and I witnessed the scene. Right after that, I kinda snooped into Jay’s profile and information and later on, I discovered that he also entered that same fall semester in Barcelona, and I just kinda connected the dots after.”
You stared at him with your eyes still wide before you cried loudly once again. Your brother merely chuckled as he rubbed circles on your back.
“You looked like you went through hell when you returned,” your older brother added. “You barely go out, eat, and you even burned some of your stuff. I didn’t ask you about it because it looked like you were traumatized during your stay there.”
You didn’t say a word but instead you cried once again while your brother chuckled at your childish behavior. He continued to rub your back softly while you let the tears fall from your eyes.
“I’m sorry for causing trouble during our dinner, I was hoping you’d tell the truth to us — but I shouldn’t have pressured you to do so.” he immediately spoke and you only shook your head.
“No, it’s my fault too, I should’ve told you about Jay — even when I was in Barcelona,” you explained.
“Do you want me to pull the ‘older brother’ act and scare him? I haven’t brought it to him that I know about your relationship, I supposed that you two will eventually fix it,” he asked.
“No, I — I don’t know, Heeseung, I just hate him,” you told him. “I hate how he casually entered my life again when the only thing that I’ve been trying to do was forget him.”
“So your feelings came back?”
You nodded as an answer. “And I hated it. I hated that I had fallen for him once again,” you confessed before sniffling your tears. “How can I not? Everything felt real. Us, our pretend relationship, it felt so real and nostalgic for me Heeseung. It’s like Barcelona all over again.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you two used to date, I should’ve prevented it but the contract was already sealed,” Heeseung softly apologized and you shook your head as an objection.
“It’s not your fault Heeseung, things just didn’t go our way. We were planning to tell everyone once we return here but…he left me for America.” you deeply exhaled as you sniffed your tears in. “Now, he’s here, asking for another chance and — and I’m scared that he might hurt me again.”
“It sounds like you wanted to give him a chance, you’re just scared of falling apart again,” Heeseung pointed out. “You know love isn’t always going to be perfect right?”
“I know, I know there will be hardships and challenges,” you mumbled. “But there’s still a part of me who’s afraid.”
“Of getting hurt? It’s pretty normal.”
“Yet I don’t want it to happen again. Once is enough, you know? Why would I give the guy who broke my heart another chance?”
“Because you love him,” Heeseung stated, making you face him. “And even if he had ruined you, if you love him enough that you could forgive him and give him another chance. You’ll live y/n. I know you, you’re stronger than you think.”
With your brother’s words, your heart eased for a bit. You nodded to his words, “can I think about it?”
“You don’t need to rush your feelings, you’re still hurting after all.” Your older brother spoke before giving you a hug. “If it helps, you could lay low — which reminds me, how many months left in the contract?”
“I don’t know, I don’t care about it anymore Heeseung, I don’t want to be near him anymore.” you answered.
“Alright, don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” your older brother assured. “For now, rest, all right? I’ll take care of your contract with Jongseong.”
“You’re not going to punch him aren’t you?”
Heeseung merely chuckled. “Nah, just a few kicks and maybe threats —”
“Heeseung!”
-
The past months moved in a blur. It became an unsteady series for you — filled with fear and anxiety as the time ticks you still couldn’t process everything that just happened to you.
It didn’t help that now, you’re on your way toward Sunghoon’s wedding. Wearing the powder pink gown Jay had delivered at your footsteps a few weeks earlier.
It was his only request — to be his date at his twin brother’s wedding. After that, you two will call it quits and after a month of silence, the two of you will officially call it off to the public. He won’t bother you anymore and your heart, like you wished to be, would be at peace now.
“You’ll be okay,” your older brother comforted the moment he parked the car in front of the entrance. It wasn’t crowded. Only closest friends and relatives were invited to the wedding. It eases you a bit that there’s less people to put on a show to.
“Thank you.” you mumbled to him.
“Just enjoy the rest of the day, alright?” you nodded to his words. “Jay will be driving you home later, would that be okay?”
“Okay, thank you Hee,” were your last words to your brother before you stepped out of the car. You watched as he drove away from the place, leaving you alone with your anxious mind and cold, sweaty hands.
But becoming too anxious wouldn’t help you at all. You decided to enter the venue, informing Jay that you have arrived. He had reserved a seat for you but for now, he couldn’t be with you since he’s helping with Sunghoon’s preparation. Good. That thought relaxed you for a moment.
You kept yourself entertained while waiting for the ceremony. Looking around the ceremony hall wherein photos of the couple were on display in the hallway, filled with arrangements of white baby breaths and powder pink roses. Your smile becomes wider as you look at every photo — love has always been a beautiful thing for you, and attending Wonyoung’s wedding was still something you look forward to.
A few minutes later, you were guided to Wonyoung’s room to give your congratulations. The bride was glowing in her immaculate white gown, smiling as she accepted your gifts before taking a smile.
“You’re nervous?” you asked as you sat beside her.
She merely shakes her head, “not really, I am confident that he’s the one that I wanted to marry after all — I hope you have that same confidence with Jay.”
You meekly smiled, “thank you.”
“Someday, it’ll be your turn,” she whispered to you. “And I hope that I'll be invited.”
“Of course you will,” you lied, smiling at her genuinely before giving her one last hug.
You returned to your seat when the event planner announced that the ceremony will be held in a few minutes later. Soon, the hall was filled with people — friends, families, and people who had witnessed the couple’s love grow.
Sunghoon and Jay entered the venue first. Sunghoon stood in front of the altar with Jay beside him. Immediately, it was noticeable that the groom was nervous, but your eyes were on Jay, and in that minute, your heart skipped a beat.
In contrast to Sunghoon’s white suit, Jay was wearing a black suit, with a pink rose pinned on his side. He was calm and relaxed as he stood beside his twin, easing his nerves as any moment now, the bride will be entering the hall.
A familiar love song from the 80s started to be played by a violinist. The crowd stood up in sync as the door opened, revealing Wonyoung in her wedding dress. Smiling ear-to-ear as she slowly walked in the aisle.
Everyone was in awe. Wonyoung was glowing like a goddess, eyes locked on her future husband who’s waiting at the end of the aisle. But you couldn’t even stay your gaze at the bride. Every second your eyes would shift to Jay — hoping that your eyes would meet. Wondering if he had seen you or was he keeping his distance like you asked him to.
The ceremony started. The vows were simple and the kiss was breathtaking. The newlyweds were smiling ear to ear as everyone stood up to applause and congratulated the couple. You shed a few tears at the love you just witnessed.
You clapped your hands as the couple kissed once again in front of you, your eyes shifted to Jay once again and just like you wished for — your eyes met.
Jay looked at you softly. With a nod, he mouthed, “thank you.” and you knew what he meant, so you just gave him a small smile as you returned your gaze to the newlyweds who cheered at the celebration of a new chapter in their life.
The reception was more glamorous — loud, and fun. The couple had changed into more comfortable reception outfits as they did wedding traditions like their first dance and of course — throwing off the wedding bouquet, which Wonyoung insisted that you should join.
In your relief, someone else had got it. You watched the fun fold further as the night deepened. A few minutes later, you decided to grab a glass of wine since you were feeling parched.
“Enjoying the party?” you turned around to see Sunghoon standing in front of you.
You smiled at him. “Of course, congratulations Sunghoon.”
“Soon it’ll be your turn, you know?” Sunghoon smiled, and your smile turned bitter.
“That’s too good to be true,” you answered, knowing that after tonight, you and Jay will part ways.
“Why? Can’t forgive him after what he did to you at Barcelona?”
You flinched at the mention of the place. Your eyes wide at Sunghoon who flashes a smile. “What? You think I don’t know you two are just pretending? He’s my twin brother, he tells me everything.”
“And here you are telling me that it’ll be my turn.” you commented with an eye roll.
“You know he was planning to propose to you back then?” Sunghoon shared. “He always rambles about you, how you’re the love of his life and all that romantic shits, telling me that he can’t wait to go home and introduce you to the family — he’s so hopelessly in love with you, you know?
“I know because I’ve witnessed it, Sunghoon. But shit happens” you stated. “Telling me this wouldn’t convince me Sunghoon, this is the last time we’ll be seeing each other.”
“You’re the only one who makes him happy,” Sunghoon added, tone softer than usual. “And I am saying this as his twin brother, you’re the only one he truly loved. You don’t know how depressed he was when he was in America. I couldn’t even meet him because he’s just working his ass off —”
“Just to forget about me? I did the same thing here in Seoul. If that’s what really happened, then our breakup was hell and we’re just not meant to be.” you insisted.
“I didn’t mean to disregard your pain,” he acknowledged. “But things like that always happen in relationships. Wonyoung and I? We had a bad breakup two years ago. We didn’t talk to each other for months and it was the worst season in my career. But we made it work, because we love each other.”
“How?” you asked, words almost whispered. “How did you make it work, knowing that you have hurt each other?”
“It came naturally, we’ve talked, we settled down, love works like a miracle, you know?” he spoke with a smile before glancing at his wife who’s dancing with her father.
“I wish it was that easy for us.”
“It’ll be easy for both of you, love is still there after all.” Sunghoon assured.
“Even if the love we had is killing us slowly?” you asked.
“It’s not love if it kills you,” he pointed out. “Maybe what you two had back in Barcelona was just a mere infatuation. Now, three years have passed and maybe, what you two have right now is the love you two deserve.”
“Now you’re confusing me,” you chuckled. “If that wasn’t love, then why now?”
“Time heals everything. You two settled down, set aside feelings for this pretend relationship — does it ever cross your mind? Despite hating him and everything, you still went here? Because deep inside you still care for him.”
You only stared at him, and Sunghoon smiled at you softly. “He deserves a chance y/n — so do you. It’s never too late to fix everything.”
You watched as Sunghoon turned his heel away from you. You stood there frozen as his words lingered in your mind. You mindlessly took a sip on your wine before turning around — only to bump into Jay.
“You okay?” he asked as he held your arms. You stared at him before nodding. This has been the first time you two have been together since you’ve arrived.
“I didn’t stain your suit, didn’t I?” you asked worriedly as the glass of wine remained in your hands.
“You didn’t, don’t worry.” Jay assured. “Were you talking to Sunghoon earlier?”
You nodded, “he knows about us.”
“Yeah, I told him. I told him way back in Barcelona.”
“Oh.” you breathed. “Why?”
“I just couldn’t help it,” Jay confessed. “Not when you’re something that I am proud of.”
You remained quiet to his words. The two of you stood there as the tension between the two of you arose. Quiet and suffocating before Jay cleared his throat.
“Do you want to dance?” Jay asked out of nowhere, making you look at him.
Then your eyes shifted at the couples on the dance floor, dancing in their own world. Feeling the romantic atmosphere of the event.
“Of course,” you took his hand, you let it be — you knew that this will be the last time for you two after all.
Jay held you close — too close for your preference, too close for your poor heart because if only, you weren’t so angry and hateful towards him, and all of this was just for a show, then maybe you would’ve been savoring the moment.
Both of his hands were wrapped around your waist, while yours were resting on his shoulders only, but you let yourself fall for his warmth, hence, you rested your head on his chest. Hearing the soft faint of his heartbeat as well yours.
The two of you danced around in circles, it would’ve looked stupid on the outside but for you — maybe for Jay too, this was the only way you two could be this close without the past lingering on your mind. Without any hindrance of each other’s feeling because the second Jay released his hold on you, you sighed in relief, looking at him with eyes almost glassy which made him give you an assuring smile.
“Thank you,” he said with much gratitude that your heart shrivelled in pain. To add to that, he kisses the top of your forehead leaving you speechless.
You wanted to ask him why he had to do that? But you had no energy to confront him anymore, too tired to deal with everything you and Jay had. That’s why the only thing you did was smile bitterly at him.
The night ended with a glamorous firework display. Sparklers were given to each guest as they waved for the couple’s exit. With one last kiss for the night, the newlywed had driven off from the villa using Sunghoon’s Ferrari.
“Let’s go?” Jay asked, making you glance at him. His right hand opened with a soft smile on his face.
“Okay,” you muttered before accepting his hand. The newlywed had left. Everyone was either leaving or going back to their room. It’s time to go home.
It meant that the night had ended — you and Jay had officially ended.
Jay’s hold tightened onto you. The whole villa was still a beau for you as you wandered around. Eyes looking around as the two of you seemed to be darting further from the open field.
“Is this where your car’s parked?” you asked, and Jay chuckled at your question.
“No, we’re going somewhere.”
“Somewhere?”
Jay stopped, “think of this as our last goodbye.”
His words stung, and yet, you faintly nodded to his words. This is the last time you two are going to be together, might as well endure everything he had prepared for you.
You let Jay lead the way, walking further and further until you two stopped.
“Jay? What is this?” you asked, eyeing at the small helicopter parked downstairs on a wider cemented lot.
Jay only smiled and tugged you downstairs. You were appalled, speechless as the two walked towards the vehicle. You watched as Jay talked to some men with a smile and nods, a few handshakes before they handed something to him.
“Let’s go?” Jay asked, and you weren’t able to do anything when he helped you enter the helicopter.
“Wait — you can drive?” you asked, noticing that it was Jay who sat on the driver’s seat. He casually closed the door. Putting your seatbelt and ear muffs on you before putting on his.
“Yeah, I got my license in America,” he proudly said.
“What? Why?”
“I told you, I’ll fulfill your promise,” Jay said and you weren’t able to say another word.
You watched as Jay turned on the engine with much skill. Pressing unknown buttons and keys in front of you before you heard the noisy turn of the helicopter’s rotor blade. Slowly, the vehicle was being lifted in the air while you held onto your seat tightly.
“Can you really drive?” you asked once again, too nervous for the sudden ride.
“Of course, just trust me,” he smiled at you. “I’m not going to put you in danger after all.”
Your tensed body relaxed for a moment. You sat there as the helicopter slowly rose from the ground until you could see the villa becoming small from your vision.
“Hold on tight,” Jay whispered to you and you let out a small yelp when the vehicle moved faster yet smoothly glided through the sky. The moon beamed in the peak of the night along with the stars that scattered throughout the horizon.
You kept on glancing at Jay who’s relaxed as he controlled the helicopter, driving farther and farther from the land until you could only see nothing but the deep blue sea that’s pitch black in the night yet you were appalled at the view.
You two were up in the air for half an hour before Jay landed at a small island, completely surprising you. A villa that has the same exterior as their country villa welcomed you, the lights were on but the whole place was surprisingly quiet.
“Where are we?” you asked, eyeing at the area.
“Our private villa,” Jay shared as he helped you get down from the helicopter. “This is supposed to be for Sunghoon’s honeymoon but Wonyoung has a schedule in Paris, so they decided to just go there for their honeymoon.”
“Then why —”
“I asked Sunghoon if we could go on behalf of them.” Jay spoke. “You told me one time that you wanted to go here, remember? When I show you some photos from when I was a kid. Well, we’re here now. It’s very beautiful here during the daytime.”
You became quiet as your heart started to race again, betraying you as Jay guided you inside their villa. It was huge and spacious. Its interior was a vintage coastal complementing the cool waves outside. You wander around the space as Jay watched you from a far, a smile on his face beamed.
“It’s beautiful here,” you whispered, looking at Jay.
“We always make sure it’s well-maintained and clean, every summer, we’d have a family reunion here for a week, everyone in the Park lineage would be here to enjoy a week of vacation.”
“Sounds like a dream.” you whispered. Settling down on the couch as Jay remained on where he was standing, eyes on you as the silence deafened the two of you.
“Can we talk about it?” Jay opened up. “Please?”
You knew what he meant. You don’t want to talk about it anymore but perhaps, it is for the betterment of your peace. A closure you could say, since when tomorrow arrives, the two of you would go separate ways.
“Okay, I’ll listen.” you said in defeat.
“Thank you,” Jay merely nodded, hands clasped as he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m deeply sorry for hurting you. I know I shouldn’t compete but I was hurt too. I was devastated when I went to America. Drown everything by working, day and night, I didn’t stop — it was unhealthy for me, but I did it just to forget about you too.”
“I’m sorry for lying to you and hiding it from you, I was scared that I might ruin our moment. I don’t want our happy days to feel like it should be something that we should cherish because it’ll come to an end — you were so happy, and I was happy that you were. I don’t want to ruin it.” he explained and you only stared at him who held a bitter smile on his face.
“It’s my fault, mostly it’s mine. I’m sorry and I know that I’ve hurt you enough but please, you’re all I want,” Jay whispered, begging as he looked at you with tears in his reddening eyes. “I still love you y/n, there’s not a day where I think of you and if you’re doing fine.”
He then approached you, propping on his knees that it caught you off-guard. “You don’t know how much it kills me whenever you looked at me with nothing but hatred and coldness in your eyes — it fucking kills me that it’s my fault that you couldn't look at me the same way anymore, but please — I still want that future with you.”
A tear dropped from your eyes as you stared at him. You couldn’t bear to see Jay crying. You were hurt by him, and he was hurt by his actions too. Maybe Sunghoon was right. Maybe what you two had was just a mere infatuation. You two were immature back then, too stuck in the honeymoon phase that when the real challenge came, it ended badly.
And it’s not too late for the two of you. Not when everything that happened for the past few months were clear signs that both of your hearts still yearn for each other.
You’re just too scared. Too afraid to be hurt by Jay again.
And yet here you are, heart weakening at the sight of Jay who was crying his soul out in front of you. You didn’t say anything but instead you pulled him out from his place and wrapped your arms around him, head buried on his chest as you started to cry in his arms. Jay’s arms tightened his hold on you. His body twitched at every sob he emitted, holding it back as he kissed the top of your head.
“I’m sorry, I was selfish too,” you apologized. “But it really, really hurt me, Jay.”
“I know, I know, and I’m sorry, okay? I’m going to make things right, for us,” Jay promised. “I’m here now, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here for good — for you. No more lies, no more acting, I want us to be real this time. I want you to give your full trust to me.”
“Prove it to me Jay,” you asked him. Looking up to meet his eyes, both yours were puffy and red as your lips shook from crying too much. “I want you to prove to me that this is going to be real. We’re going to be real and there’s a future that awaits us.”
Jay didn’t say a word but instead, leaned close to you. His lips landed on yours so perfectly that it felt heaven was placed down on you.
He moved his lips to get a better taste of you. Deeper, hungrier — yet, there’s no rush. You two have the whole night — the whole future to make the moment last.
From there, you kissed him back, with the sense of longing craving for him, you reciprocated his kisses as you snaked your arms around his neck. You tugged him closer to you, feeling his body against you — you could only moan softly, it’s been so long since you two were this close.
Both your worlds fell apart. Jay didn’t want to miss any chance anymore. He grabbed you by the waist and carried you bridal style, earning a yelp from you as he ran his way towards the nearest bedroom.
He placed you down on the bed gently before hovering over you for another heated kiss. Soon, the temperature became hotter. Sweat started to bead as the soft hum of the ocean waves served as a background for the two of you.
Jay’s lips never left yours as he took off every piece of clothing he wore, mindlessly threw it away before he separated and pulled you to stand up and turn around.
His breath was fanning down on your neck, sending you goosebumps as his hands trailed on the zipper of the dress that you were wearing. Gently, he pulled it down as you shrugged off the strap of the dress until you were left with nothing but your undergarments.
“You’re so beautiful,” Jay admired, kissing your nape then towards your shoulder as his hands trailed on your arms before wrapping it around waist. His hands pressed on your stomach, caressing every skin his hands could reach. You could only throw your head back to his touch as his lips continued to leave kisses on your neck while his hands reached your breast, cupping it gently, he playfully teased your perked nipples which made you moan softly.
“All mine, all of these — are going to be mine,” Jay possessively said before he lay you down to the bed once again. Your back hitting softly against the mattress, you watch as Jay crawls over you, eyes locked on yours as a soft smile formed on his lips.
“And I’m going to be yours, wifey, you like that right? Make me yours?” he teased and you weren’t able to say another word when he kissed you once again. Soft and steady before he separates and kisses you on your cheeks, down to your jawline — until it goes slowly down your neck and shoulder.
“I can’t believe I lost you,” he whispered against your skin. He looked at you whose eyes were red and stained with mascara, yet you still the most beautiful girl in his eyes. “I’m gonna make it up to you — even if it’ll take years or decades — just let me prove to you that you’re the only one I love.”
“Jay —” a whimper escaped on your lips as his lips travelled on your breast. His teeth grazing on your nipples before biting and sucking it making you moan louder than you should’ve. Jay hummed at the sound as his tongue swirled around it playfully before giving attention to your other breast, repeating the same action that had you whining heavenly at the pleasure.
Before you knew it, Jay's lips travelled down to your stomach, soft and careful as he looked up to you who’s holding her breath. His hands hold the panty’s waistband and you only nod as a signal, with that, he tugs it down with his gentle hands leaving you bare in front of him.
He kneeled in front of you, hands on your thighs as he stared at you lovingly, “always so beautiful for me. My prettiest girl,” he kisses your inner thighs, soft, peppered kisses as an act of devotion to you. His hold became firm as Jay spread your thighs wider, giving him a clearer view of your cunt.
The kiss was slow — too slow for your own good. You whined at his actions, wanting more than he could give, but Jay was savoring his time. The kiss was then replaced by his tongue. Giving your cunt a huge stripe before giving full attention to your throbbing clit.
“God, you always taste heavenly, so sweet for me,” Jay swore before he latched into your pussy once again. This time, his tongue did the wonders of teasing your core, lapping onto it messily as he pushed his head deeper. His mouth and chin smeared with your slick and his saliva as he became hungrier than before while you writhe against his mouth.
Jay devoured you for minutes. He didn’t stop, not even when you were crying your hearts out as the stimulation had become overwhelming to you. He wanted to see you writhing in pleasure, it turns him on to see you being pleasured by him. Jay’s grip on your thighs tightened, ignoring your heel that sinked deep on his back as his mouth continued to invade your cunt that’s been sensitive for the past few minutes.
He felt your hands on his hair, tugging a handful making him look up to you. Your breathing’s unstable, sweat beads on your body, glistening against the moon’s reflection. He could only smile at the view before he kissed your throbbing clit.
“You’re going to cum aren’t you?” he asked and you barely nodded.
“I want you inside me,” you breathed, almost a mumble. “I want to cum with you inside me.”
“You’d have that later wifey,” Jay smiled. “But let me savor my moment of proving you my love.”
Another cry of pleasure escaped your mouth as Jay lowered himself to your cunt once again. This time, he’s in a rush. A more desired plea to make you cum in no time. He laps in between your labia upwards your clit, sucking that little bud harsher before using his tongue to protrude your entrance.
It was too much for you. Your legs started to shake on his hold as Jay continued eating you out until that coil in your stomach snapped. Your back arched naturally as you writhe out of his hold. Jay didn’t stop, but instead, became more hasty, more sloppy than before, drinking all the juice his tongue could taste. Moaning loudly as he finds himself drunk in your pussy.
“So fucking good for me,” he stated as he removed himself from your cunt. He wiped off the excess using the back of his hand before he crawled over you. You let him kiss you, whining at the taste of your own juice from his lips.
Jay’s kisses became torrid, asserting dominance as he pushed his tongue to enter your mouth. Licking every inch of you as you couldn’t do anything but to let him devour you in the most animalistic manner.
“Jay — I need you, right now,” you whispered the moment the kiss broke off.
“I know love, I know,” he softly hushes you with a kiss, making you whine. “Do you want to be on top? Ride me just like before or —”
“No, I just want you close — this close Jay, please,” you begged and only a gentle kiss was all you received.
Jay pulled down his brief, revealing his hard and girthy length, already red and beading with pre-cum. He kneeled in front of you whose legs already spread, he grabbed the back of your thighs and pulled you close to him. You watched as he spat on his palm before stroking his shaft. Gulping at the sight, your heart started thumping out of nervousness.
“Just relax for me,” he gestured, free hand brushing your hair as his right hand nudged his cock on your entrance. Stroking it up and down, and circling on your clit makes you whimper.
“Good girl, look at me, alright?” Jay ordered and you looked at him. His eyes were calm, lifting your worries before the fat head of his cock started to penetrate your entrance. You could only suck your breath hard as your hold on Jay’s arms tightened.
Jay slides his cock inside with ease. You were so warm and wet for him as he buried it further, ignoring the muted whines escaping your lips. He sheathes in fully, glancing at you whose eyes were searching for his — eyes began to water as your nails dig deep on his skin.
“Comfy?” he asked.
“I’m so full,” you confessed, biting your lips as your warm walls pulled his cock tightly. “So full — Jay, please move.”
Jay complies. He started to thrust in and out of your cunt, finding a pace wherein you could feel him all the way to your cervix. It wasn’t rough that it had you curling your toes — but it was enough for you to feel him take you all over again. It felt euphoric just by the sheer thought that you had Jay this close once again.
All those years and pain started to fade away, tears started to swell as Jay captured your lips again, igniting the heat in between the two of you. It felt surreal. It hasn’t sinked into you that Jay’s within your reach again — proving his love and devotion to you in the most intimate way.
If this was a dream, you don’t want to wake up — but the moment he breaks off the kiss and looks at you, cupping your cheeks so dearly that tears trailed down your eyes that’s when it sinked into you — Jay’s here and he’s not going anywhere.
He smiled softly before wiping off the tears from your eyes, kissing your temple so gently and lightly before resting his forehead on yours, his hips started to move faster and soon the tranquil feeling was replaced with the intense pleasure on your core.
“Jay — ha! Ah!” moans started to break out of your lips. Jay was fucking you good underneath that you couldn’t help but to thrust your hips upwards, meeting his movement in the middle, creating more pleasure and friction on your cunt.
“Fuck, that’s it — fuck, you’re doing good for me, wifey,” Jay assured as his strokes become more rough, more eager to meet your pussy in between, his right hand trailed on your left hand, intertwining with your fingers, assuring you further as you continued your movement.
“So good — hhhh, Jay! Jay!” you shouted as your right hand held onto his shoulder tighter.
“I’m right here — look at me wifey, ‘right here alright,” he ordered as he pushed his cock deeper in you, pushing your hips down the mattress as he continued to rail your pussy with much intensity.
“Gonna cum — want to cum,” you mumbled in between your whimpers.
“Just cum wifey, I got you,” Jay whispered to you, kissing the shell of your ears.
Jay changes his angle, finding your g-spot that had you arching your back instinctively, that’s when he knew. He continued pounding at the spot, right hand squeezing your hand tightly, burying it down on the pillow as his free hand held on the headboard for balance. The bed squeaked due the intensity, banging against the wall as Jay thrusted deeper inside you, hungry to feel you come underneath him.
In a glimpse your orgasm came, along with a broken moan and cry as your pussy clamped around Jay’s cock, squeezing him tight as he groaned against the sensation. He didn’t stop his movement, not when he could feel your warm juices lubricating his length more, the squelching was so obscene inside the room but it only made him go animalistic.
“Gonna cum, ‘m going to,” Jay stated in between his raspy groans, eyes locked onto yours as he removed his hands from the headboard and rested it on the side of your face.
“Inside Jay please,” you ordered. Ignoring how he’s making you oversensitive all over again, you found strength to wrap your legs around his waist, locking his position on you which made him cursed under his breath.
“Don’t — I can’t —”
“Please Jay,” you begged, hands finding their way to cup his face. “Want to feel you again, please?”
He didn’t answer you but instead, placed a long, deep kiss on your lips which you responded immediately.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips before resting his forehead on the crook of your neck, you wrapped your arms around him, coddling him dearly as he repeated the words like a mantra.
“I love you too Jay, so much, so fucking much,” you confessed as you felt his lips biting down on the skin near your collarbones.
Jay comes in no time. His groan muffled against your skin, biting down harsher earning cries from you. Hot cum spilled inside you, painting your walls white, Jay continued pumping inside you, thrust becoming slow as his energy dies down due to the high.
With the last drop of his semen spilling inside your cunt, he kisses the bite on your skin before lifting his head up to look at you.
Then a cry — that ugly cry of yours when things get too overwhelmed started. Jay was surprised at first but he instinctively lay on his back before pulling you to his side.
“It’s okay, I’m here, I’m not going to leave you,” he whispered, hands drawing circles on your back as you cried on his chest.
“You’re not going to leave?” you asked in between your sobs. “This is real right? This isn’t just nothing right Jay? You’re not going to leave me? I don’t want to be hurt again.”
“I’m sorry for hurting, I really am,” Jay apologized once again. “But I’m here now, I am not going to let you go. See? I’m here wifey, just cry it all out. If you’re still mad at me, punch me or slap me, I deserve it.”
“Sorry,” you whispered to him, nuzzling against his skin. “I’m sorry, I’m being spoiled and weak again, I just — this is real right Jay?”
“Of course, this is real wifey,” he assured, planting a kiss on top of your head. “We’re going to be okay alright? Just be with me, okay?”
You hummed, your emotions finally calming down as you felt Jay’s faint heartbeat. “Okay.”
With that one word, Jay’s body felt relieved. He continued rubbing your back before removing himself from you, startling you who looked at him who quickly gave you a comforting smile, “just trust me okay?”
He gets up from the bed, grabbing the black coat he was wearing earlier before scrambling inside its inner pocket.
“Jay…” you were speechless the moment Jay returned to bed holding a small velvet box. You were reluctant to accept it, but with Jay’s patient expression, you grabbed it from his palm, opening it and revealing to you a ring with your birthstone as its centerpiece.
You knew what it was. You looked at him with teary eyes as he smiled at you, hands grabbing the box, taking out the ring and placing it on your ring finger — to your surprise, it fitted perfectly like it was made for you.
“We’re you planning to?” you asked.
“Of course not during Sunghoon’s wedding,” he answered. “I just — I brought it, just in case, you gave me another chance.”
You looked at the ring in front of you, the sheer size of the gemstone was nothing but mesmerizing for you. You always dream of this day. To have your ring finger occupied by the most exquisite engagement ring you could ever have. You’d never thought that that day had finally arrived.
“I am doing this, not because I wanted to fulfill my promise three years ago,” Jay started, hands trailing at your delicate ones. “But I want it to be a new start for us, a stepping stone for our future. I know I can’t just say forget everything about our past, but I hope this is a second chance for us.”
“It is Jay,” you assured, nodding before your eyes started to water again. “It is — thank you, I can’t believe — I love you, I love you so much Jay. I love you enough that I forgive you about everything.”
Jay gave you an assuring kiss on the forehead. Light and gentle before he pulled you to his touch, letting you sob incoherently as his warmth gave nothing but comfort to you.
“Thank you y/n, I love you too — we’d start anew, you don’t have to worry about us anymore.”
-
Morning swept through the thin curtains in the form of salty breeze and ocean waves. It kissed your skin, gently and yet, the warmth of the man beside you was no match for the morning sun.
You opened your eyes slowly and steadily. Hair falling through your shoulders as Jay’s peaceful, sleeping face was the first thing you saw. You were resting on his arms thrown over the pillow. His other arm around your waist like he doesn’t want to let you go.
The wave crashed behind the background. Everything was serene and like a dream — but you knew, everything was real when you felt the cold band of your engagement ring on your ring finger.
Your hands crept onto Jay’s face. Tracing his face gently, afraid of waking him up as you ponder what happened last night — everything felt right suddenly for the two of you.
And it was as if he heard your worries, Jay’s free hand grabbed yours, intertwining his fingers as he placed it on his lips, a smile forming before he hummed.
“Good morning wifey,” he greeted as he opened his eyes. “I could get used to a view like this. Feels like I’m in paradise.”
You chuckled at his words, “well, we’re in paradise hubby.”
“Paradise is anywhere with you,” Jay pointed out, chuckling to his words. “Want to go out and take a dip?”
“That sounds nice — but I don’t think I have proper clothes to wear,” you reminded, remembering that both of you are naked under the sheets.
Jay only hummed, his smile becoming menacing before he grabbed you by your waist, standing up from the bed as you let out a startled yelp.
“Jay — oh my god, Jay! We’re naked!” you shouted as he had tugged the sheets along with you.
“It’s just the two of us here, don’t worry wifey,” he assured, walking towards the exit of the bedroom where the beach was in full view.
“What are you planning — Jay, I swear to God!”
But your words fell deaf when he ran quicker towards the waters — and before you could’ve processed everything, you felt your body splashing into the cold, morning sea.
Your scream echoed in the small island the moment you two rose from the waters. You were gasping for air while Jay laughed beside you, both wet and a mess from his action.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you!” you shouted, splashing water on him who’s still laughing hysterically as his arms wrapped on your waist tighter.
“You were panicking,” he teased.
“Because you suddenly carried me into the sea! You know I don’t know how to swim Jay,” you stated and quickly, you were shut up when his lips landed on yours.
“I’m not going to let you drown of course,” he smiled.
Despite rolling your eyes on him, it wasn’t hard that you were flustered by his actions. The only thing you could do was slap him in the chest as you stare at him.
“You brought our blanket along with us,” you pointed out.
“We have a lot of blankets — and rooms, we could stay here as long as you want.” Jay explained and you became quiet.
“I don’t have any clothes Jay.”
“Already prepared a bag for you, thank your brother wifey,” he said.
That made you raise an eyebrow. “You and Heeseung planned this, didn’t you?”
“I did, I just asked permission from him,” Jay shared. “He has a pretty good kick, you know?”
You hummed, “He used to do Muay Thai, I hope you got what you deserve.”
“It’s worth it, now that I got his approval,” he shared before you a quick kiss. “And I got my second chance from you.”
You only smiled as you looked at him — a better view of his face now that you had held him this closer and longer.
Even after years have passed, he’s still the Jay that you’ve loved. He’s still here, smiling at you, looking at you lovingly as his hold on you tightened. Your right hand caressed his cheeks, he kissed it softly, just right above the ring he gave you last night, and that assured you further as your heart convinced you he’s the right one for you.
“Do you even remember the night that we had a one-night stand?” Jay asked, making you tilt your head confusingly.
“Still a blurry memory to me to be honest.” you answered. “What happened back then?”
“I was invited there by my friend, and then I saw you — dancing and heavily drunk,” he chuckled. “And I don’t know why, but I had the urge to approach you and then, you didn’t even recognize me, but you know what you told me?”
“What?”
“That I look like your first and last love,” he smiled. “And that you’re not going to love anyone anymore if it wasn’t me.”
“Well, you’ve changed drastically, I probably didn't recognize you,” you pointed out.
“And that is because you’re too drunk too.” Jay added.
“What happened then?”
“We danced, and kissed — and you wanted more, almost begging me, and maybe I just missed you so fucking much that I agreed.”
You only stared at him, memories still blurry and hazy, you wanted to remember — wanted to know more of that night.
“I’m sorry if I took advantage of you,” Jay apologized. “I’m sorry for the mess it led to.”
“I don’t care anymore,” you simply said. “Well, it did lead me back into you. It really was a second chance for us.”
“I know, and I’m glad Heeseung decided to pull a publicity stunt for us.” he grinned and just that thought made you smile.
“You enjoyed it too much Jongseong,”
“Well, I wasn’t pretending the whole time after all.”
You blinked for a second before smiling at him, “I know.”
“No more pretending?” he suggested and you only hummed.
“No more — and lying, no more.” you added.
Jay pulled you to kiss once again, you let yourself fall for him as you cupped his face and reciprocated the kiss. As he broke away from the kiss, he stared at you lovingly as he smiled. “Of course.”
when your impossibly good luck vanishes overnight after kissing a stranger at a masquerade ball, a fortune teller confirms what sounds impossible: you transferred it to someone who needed it more. now you have to find jungwon who accidentally stole your fortune, except you start to think that maybe meeting him was the luckiest thing that ever happened to you.
⭑ pairing: jungwon x fem!reader | ⭑ genre: luck swap au, romcom, fluff, crack, strangers to lovers, slowburn, roommates to lovers; smut (mdni) | ⭑ playlist: just my luck - mcfly; no control - one direction; t-shirt weather - circa waves; whisper for the choir - the fratellis; just like a movie - wallows | ⭑ word count: 33k
⭑ warnings: smut (mdni!!!!), unemployment lollll; soft down jungwon, switch jungwon, mutual pining, power play, praise kink, oral m&f receiving, piv, light spanking, protected sex
⭑ ronnie's notes: guys i’ve been keeping this plot hostage for like six months at least i actually started writing it as a smau but then i gave up because i got lazy just like with every smau i’ve ever made (except nicest guy i miss my child then i sat there and thought wait this would work way better as a written fic right??? idk it just made sense in my head!!! so anyway she is finally here 🫶 my second jungwon fic!!! i really hope you guys like it because i’m lowkey attached to this one 🥹 it’s inspired by the movie just my luck btw!! and if you’ve never seen it i SWEAR it’s sooo cute you need to watch it. mcfly was one of my favorite bands growing up so that movie has a special place in my heart and i basically wrote mcfly as enhypen LMAOO anyway that’s it i hope you enjoy the story 💌
YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN LUCKY. Every morning you wake up exactly one minute before your alarm goes off. The coffee shop always has your order ready when you walk in even though you never call ahead. You find money in jacket pockets you forgot about. Traffic lights turn green right as you approach them. When it rains, it starts the moment you step inside. Your friends joke that you were born under a lucky star, but it's more than that. It's like the universe decided you were its favorite, and it's been making sure you know it ever since.
And this morning is no different. You're running late for work — or you would be, if the subway train hadn't been delayed by exactly the amount of time you needed to make it to the platform. You slip through the closing doors with seconds to spare, and someone immediately stands up offering you their seat. At work, your boss announces that the company's landing a huge new client, and they want you on the project. You find a twenty dollar bill on the ground during your lunch break.
It's not magic, it's just how your life works. And across the city, Yang Jungwon is having the worst day of his life.
Actually, that's not quite right. He's having the worst day of his life so far, which is saying something, because yesterday was pretty bad too. And the day before that. And the day before that too.
Jungwon is a band manager, which sounds cooler than it actually is. He represents ENHYPEN: Jay, Sunghoon, Heeseung, and Jake; four guys with genuine talent and absolutely zero luck in the industry. They've been trying to get a record deal for two years now, and every single opportunity has somehow slipped through their fingers at the last possible second. Like today, he was supposed to have a meeting with a major label. Supposed to, because Jungwon woke up to a dead phone battery (he'd definitely plugged it in), missed his alarm, and then got stuck in traffic caused by a water main break that, according to the news, had a "one in a million chance of happening there." By the time he arrived at the venue, drenched from the sudden downpour that started the second he left his apartment, the label executives were already gone. "They waited thirty minutes," the venue manager told him, not unkindly. "I'm sorry, man."
Now Jungwon sits in a coffee shop, dripping rainwater onto the floor and staring at his laptop screen. His email inbox is full of rejections. His coffee tastes burnt, the cafe's wifi keeps cutting out. And when his phone buzzes with a text from Jay: Howd it go? Jungwon doesn't have the heart to respond yet. He runs a hand through his wet hair and closes his eyes. Somewhere out there, he thinks, someone must be using up all the good luck in the world. Somewhere out there, someone has to be.
And as you arrive at the office, the elevator dings right as you approach it and doors slide open like it was waiting just for you. You step inside and you continue up to the fifth floor, where the marketing agency you work for occupies the entire level. The glass doors swing open and you're immediately hit with the chaos that comes with planning high profile events in the city. Your desk is right by the window, which you'd worried about when you first started because of the glare, but somehow the sun never hits your screen and you have a fire view of the city skylines.
You drop your bag on your chair and head to the break room for water. Sunoo is already there, fighting with the coffee machine. "This thing hates me," he says while smacking the side of it. "I swear it only works for you."
"Want me to try?"
"Please." You press the same buttons he was pressing and the machine immediately whirs to life, dispensing espresso into his cup. Sunoo stares at it. "I don't understand your life."
"Maybe you just have to ask nicely."
"I literally said please three times." He takes his coffee anyway shaking his head. "Did you see the email? We have a meeting with Director Kim in twenty minutes."
You hadn't seen it, but when you check your phone the notification is right there, sent ten minutes ago. Back at your desk, you pull up the project files you'd been working on yesterday. Yunjin rolls her chair over from the adjacent desk, holding out a glazed donut. "They were giving these out in the lobby. Grabbed you one."
"Thanks, Yunjin." You take it and it's still warm. "You're the best."
"I know." She grins. "So, any idea what the meeting's about?"
"No clue."
"I heard it's something big," Riki says, appearing behind you both. The intern is holding a stack of folders that looks about two seconds from toppling over. "Like, really big."
"Everything's big to you," Sunoo says. "You've been here for three weeks."
"Three weeks and two days," Riki corrects. "And I'm just saying, Director Kim only calls meetings like this when it's important."
He's not wrong. Director Kim usually communicates through email or quick desk drop bys. Formal meetings mean something significant is happening. So you make your way to the conference room, it has floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. Director Kim is already there, sitting at the head of the table with her tablet and a cup of tea. "Good, you're all here," she says as you file in. "Sit down. We need to talk about HYBE." You exchange glances with Sunoo. HYBE is huge — one of the biggest music labels in the industry. Your agency has worked with them before, but only on smaller projects. Director Kim pulls up something on the screen at the front of the room. It's a preliminary event outline, and the budget number at the bottom makes your eyes widen.
"HYBE is launching a new initiative," she continues. "They're hosting a masquerade ball to introduce upcoming artists, network with industry professionals, and make a statement about their brand direction. They want it elegant, exclusive, and flawless. The event is in six weeks." Six weeks is tight for something this scale, but not impossible. "If we get this, it'll be the biggest project we have handled all year." Director Kim looks directly at you. "I want you to lead this."
The words hang in the air for a moment. "Me?" you ask.
"You." She sets down her tablet. "You've been here for two years, and every event you've touched has gone off without a single issue. I don't know how you do it, but clients love you, vendors love you, and somehow everything just works when you're in charge. Sunoo, you'll be second lead. Yunjin, you're on creative direction and vendor coordination. Riki, you'll support where needed and learn as much as possible. But this is her project. She makes the final calls."
You feel Yunjin nudge your foot under the table, a silent congratulations. "The masquerade theme is non negotiable," Director Kim continues, pulling up mood boards on the screen. "HYBE wants sophisticated, mysterious and high end. Think Venetian carnival meets modern luxury. There will be approximately three hundred guests, including artists, executives, press, and investors. The venue needs to be secured by end of this week," she says. "Catering, entertainment, decor, security, invitations — all of it has to be perfect. HYBE's reputation is on the line, which means ours is too." She looks at each of you in turn. "I'm not going to sugarcoat this. It's going to be intense. But if anyone can pull this off, it's this team." Her eyes land on you again. "Especially you. I've seen you make impossible things happen. So, what do you say?"
What do you say? This is the kind of opportunity people wait years for. The kind that could define your entire career. "I'm in," you say obviously.
Back at your desk, you open your email, and sure enough, there's already a message waiting from Director Kim with all the project files. You start scrolling through, taking in venue options and budget breakdowns. Sunoo grins next to you. "What do you think the odds are that everything goes smoothly?"
You laugh. "Pretty good, probably." And you mean it, because things always do. And that was the exact opposite of how things usually happened to Jungwon.
The cafe kicked him out after the wifi died for the third time — apparently, his presence was "disrupting the router," which doesn't even make sense but also sounds exactly like something that would happen to him. Now he's standing outside the 7 Eleven near his apartment, trying to figure out how to tell the guys that they've officially lost their best shot at a record deal. His phone rings and it's Jay. "Tell me something good," Jay says immediately.
"I'm alive?"
"Jungwon."
"They left before I got there." Jungwon pinches the bridge of his nose. "Water main break, traffic, rain — the use."
There's a long silence on the other end. Then: "The use? I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, and you're going to come to the bowling alley so we can all yell at you."
"I have a shift in an hour anyway."
"Perfect. Bring food. The vending machine ate Heeseung's money again." And the line goes dead.
Jungwon buys four bags of chips and a pack of energy drinks with the last cash in his wallet, and the cashier gives him the wrong change and he doesn't bother correcting her. At this point, it's expected. The bowling alley is not the worst place Jungwon's ever worked but it's close. The carpet is a geometric nightmare from the eighties, half the lanes have technical issues, and the sound system shorts out every other week. But the owner lets them use the back room for band practice as long as Jungwon keeps everything running, so he fixes bowling shoes, unjams pin setters, and pretends he knows what he's doing with electrical wiring. When he arrives, Jake is trying to kick open the storage room door. "It's stuck again," Jake announces, slamming his shoulder against it.
"Stop, you're going to break it." Jungwon drops the snacks on the front counter and heads over. He jiggles the handle, pulls instead of pushes and the door swings open easily.
Jake stares at him. "I tried that."
"Sure you did."
Inside, Sunghoon and Heeseung are setting up their equipment in the cramped space between old bowling balls and stacks of rental shoes. There's barely enough room for the drum kit, two guitars, and the microphone stand, but they make it work. "Oh good, you brought food," Heeseung says, immediately abandoning his guitar to grab a bag of chips. "The vending machine robbed me."
"So I've been told."
"Did he also tell you that Sunghoon broke a drumstick on the second song yesterday?"
"I didn't break it," Sunghoon protests from behind the kit. "It broke itself."
"Sticks don't just break themselves, Sunghoon," Jake says.
"This one did. It was defective."
"You hit the cymbal too hard."
"That's literally my job! I'm the drummer!"
Jungwon collapses into a folding chair that wobbles dangerously under his weight. Jay emerges from the tiny bathroom drying his hands on his jeans. "So," Jay says, sitting on an overturned bucket. "We're back to square one."
"Square zero," Jake corrects. "Square one implies we made progress at some point."
"We've made progress," Heeseung argues. "We're way better than we were a year ago."
"Cool. Still broke and unknown, though."
"Thanks for that, Sunghoon. Really motivating." Jungwon says.
Jake cracks open an energy drink. "What about that other label? The one Jungwon emailed last month?"
"Rejected us two weeks ago," Jungwon says flatly. "I didn't want to bring it up."
"How many is that now?" Sunghoon asks.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Not really, no."
Heeseung tears open his chip bag with too much force and half the contents spill onto the floor. "This is fine. Everything is fine."
"Nothing about this is fine," Jake says, but he's grinning. "We're a struggling band practicing in a bowling alley that smells like feet."
"It's character building," Jay offers.
"I have enough character. I want a record deal."
Jungwon leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. This is his life now. Working a dead end job at a bowling alley, managing a band that can't catch a break and somehow always being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then his phone buzzes. He checks it, hoping for something good, literally anything good. It's an email from his landlord. Rent is going up next month. "You good?" Jay asks.
"Rent increase."
"Of course it is." Jay tosses him an energy drink. "Drink that. You look dead."
"I feel dead."
Sunghoon taps his drumsticks together. "Okay, pity party's over. We practicing or what?"
"What's the point?" Jake asks. "Not like anyone's going to hear us."
"The point," Heeseung says, picking up his guitar, "is that we're good, and eventually someone's going to notice. Right, Jungwon?"
Jungwon opens his eyes. All four of them are looking at him like he has answers. He doesn't. He really, really doesn't. "Right," he says anyway, because that's what managers do. "Someone's going to notice."
"There we go. Inspirational leadership." Jay picks up his bass. "Let's run through the new song. The one Heeseung wrote."
"It's not done yet," Heeseung protests.
"Then we'll workshop it."
They launch into the song, and it actually sounds good. For a few minutes, Jungwon lets himself believe that maybe, possibly, things could work out. Then the power cuts out. The music dies instantly. The lights flicker and stay off. "Are you kidding me right now?" Sunghoon's voice comes from the darkness.
Jungwon pulls out his phone flashlight and sighs. "I'll check the breaker."
"This place is cursed," Jake says.
"No," Jungwon mutters, heading toward the electrical panel in the hallway. "I'm cursed. The place is just old."
He finds the breaker box and flips the switches. Nothing happens. He tries again. Still nothing. From inside the storage room, he hears Heeseung say, "How much do you want to bet that Jungwon's phone dies right now?" On cue, Jungwon's phone screen goes black. He stands in the dark hallway of a broken down bowling alley, his phone dead in his hand, his band waiting for him to fix something he has no idea how to fix, and he thinks, not for the first time today, that whoever's hoarding all the good luck in the world needs to share. Just a little bit.
The cafe is packed on some Thursday afternoon which makes sense because it's the only decent coffee place within walking distance of your office. You and Sunoo have been coming here at least twice a week for the past six months. "I'm getting the lavender latte," Sunoo announces, studying the menu board like he doesn't get the same thing every time. "What about you?"
"Regular iced coffee. I need to be functional for the rest of the day."
"Boring." He steps aside to let you order first. You shake your head and approach the counter.
The barista smiles at you. "Hi, what can I get you?"
"Just an iced coffee, please. Medium."
She rings it up, and then her eyes widen slightly as she looks at the computer screen. "Oh, wait. Hold on." She turns to call over her shoulder. "Manager? Can you come here for a second?" A guy with a name tag reading "Mark" appears from the back. "What's up?"
"She's the one thousandth customer this month."
Mark breaks into a grin and looks at you. "Congratulations! You get your order for free today, plus a gift card for next time."
You blink. "Really?"
"Really. It's this thing corporate makes us do for customer appreciation." He's already pulling out a gift card from behind the register. "Here you go. Twenty dollars."
"Thank you," you say, taking it. This is objectively ridiculous, but you've learned to just accept these things when they happen. Sunoo appears at your elbow, looking betrayed. "Are you serious right now?"
"What?"
"Didn't you win this same thing last month?"
"That was two months ago."
"That doesn't make it better!" Sunoo turns to the barista. "She's literally the luckiest person alive. It's unfair."
The barista laughs. "Lucky day, I guess."
"Lucky life," Sunoo mutters, but he's smiling. "Okay, I'll have the lavender latte. Medium. Which I will be paying for, apparently."
You step to the side to wait for your drink and Sunoo moves up to the counter. Behind him, the line has grown longer. There's a guy standing there now, hands shoved in his jacket pockets and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. He's cute, you notice. Dark hair, big cat looking but tired eyes, nice face, a really nice face. He's staring at the menu board with intensity.
The door to the cafe swings open, and a woman with a huge purse barrels in, not looking where she's going. Her bag clips the side of a display stand near the entrance, and everything happens in slow motion. The stand wobbles. Jungwon is standing right next to it, completely unaware. The stand tips forward, and bags of coffee beans slide off the shelves, tumbling directly toward him. He turns just in time to see them coming. "Oh, come on—"
Three bags hit the floor around his feet, one of them splitting open on impact. Coffee beans scatter everywhere, rolling across the tile like marbles. "I'm so sorry!" the woman with the purse says, horrified.
"It's fine," Jungwon says, but his voice suggests it is very much not fine. He crouches down and starts trying to gather the beans, but they keep rolling away from him. One escapes under a table and another somehow rolls behind the counter. Mark rushes over with a broom. "Don't worry about it, man. We've got it."
"I can help —"
"Seriously, it's okay. Happens all the time." Jungwon knows it doesn't.
He stands up, and there are coffee beans stuck to his jeans. He brushes them off, looking exhausted in a way that seems deeper than just this one incident. Your eyes meet for a second. He's definitely cute. Even covered in coffee beans and looking like the universe personally inconvenienced him, there's something about him. He looks at you for just a moment longer, and you think maybe he's about to smile, or say something, but then the barista calls out, "Iced coffee for Y/N?"
"That's me," you say, breaking eye contact. You grab your drink from the counter and Sunoo gets his latte a moment later, and you both move toward the table. Jungwon is still standing near the wreckage of the coffee bean display waiting for the line to move forward.
"So," Sunoo says as you find a small table near the window, "did you secure the venue for the HYBE event?"
"Yeah, that gallery space in Midtown."
"Oh, the fancy one. Very masquerade ball-ish."
"Exactly. And we finalized the catering this morning. The guest list is almost done. HYBE's sending over the final names tomorrow."
"How many people?"
"Three hundred and twelve, last count."
Sunoo whistles. "That's huge. When's the event again?"
"Two weeks from Saturday. It's tight, but everything's been going smoothly so far."
"Of course it has. Because you're involved."
You laugh. "I don't think it works like that."
Behind you, you hear the cute guy finally reach the counter. His voice carries slightly. "Just a black coffee. Small."
"That'll be three fifty."
There's a pause. Then: "Uh, the reader's not working."
"Oh, sorry, yeah — it does this sometimes. Try again?"
Another pause. "Still nothing."
"Hmm. Let me reboot it real quick."
You glance over your shoulder without meaning to. Jungwon is standing there, card in hand, looking like he expected this exact scenario. "Give it a sec. It should work now."
After a while, Jungwon takes his coffee, looking stunned, and heads toward the door. As he passes your table, you catch a fragment of his muttered words: "...fuck my stupid baka life..."
"Okay, that guy had the worst luck I've ever seen," Sunoo says, watching him go. "Like, the exact opposite of you."
"Maybe he's just having a bad day."
You smile and finish your coffee. Outside, Jungwon has finally walked away, disappearing around the corner. You wonder, briefly, if you'll ever see him again. And Jungwon walks six blocks before he realizes he's going the wrong direction. He turns around, coffee in hand and tries to retrace his steps. His shoe squelches with every step. The puddle outside the cafe had been deeper than it looked. But he's not thinking about his wet shoe, or the card reader, or the coffee beans. He's thinking about the conversation he overheard.
His brain is already working through possibilities. If HYBE is hosting an event to showcase new artists, that means they're looking. That means there's an opportunity. He just has to figure out how to get ENHYPEN in front of them. You had said something about a meeting with HYBE's events team, which means you're involved somehow, probably with the event planning company. Jungwon pulls out his phone and types out a text to the group chat.
[jungwon:] emergency practice tonight smth came up and i have an idea
[jay:] Is it a good idea or a Jungwon idea?
[jungwon:] does it matter baka
[heeseung:] kinda but yeah
[jake:] i'm in but if i lose 20 bucks again ur dead
[jungwon:] dude i already told u ill pay u back damn
[sunghoon:] Do I have a choice?
[jungwon:] no
[sunghoon:] Then I'm in I guess
He'd gone home that day and done what he does best: research. He found out everything he could about HYBE's event. The date, two weeks away now. The location — some gallery in Midtown with a name he couldn't pronounce. The purpose — networking and showcasing new talent. And most importantly, the person in charge of casting decisions: Yoon Jeonghan, HYBE's A&R director. So the plan is: Get a demo to Jeonghan, get ENHYPEN noticed. Simple. Except nothing in Jungwon's life is ever simple.
The band spent the last two weeks practicing like their lives depended on it because maybe they did. They ran through their setlist so many times that the bowling alley's owner asked if they were training for Coachella. Jungwon recorded sample tracks; three of their best songs, mixed and mastered as well as he could manage with the equipment they had. He burned them onto a CD, wrote "ENHYPEN" in his neatest handwriting on the disc, and put it in a case that didn't look too cheap.
Now he just needed to get it into Jeonghan's hands. The masquerade ball was invitation only. Black tie. Three hundred of the most important people in the music industry. Security would be tight and Jungwon needed a way in. His first thought was to show up in a suit and try to blend in with the guests, but that plan died when he pulled his only decent suit out of the closet and found a cigarette burn hole right on the lapel. He still doesn't know how that happened, he doesn't even smoke. So the suit was out.
Plan B: get in as staff. Catering companies always needed extra help for big events, and Jungwon had waited tables before. He found the company handling the HYBE event; some place called Élite Affairs and called asking about a day of work. They were desperate and they hired him over the phone. The mask was easier. He found a plain black one at a costume shop for fifteen dollars, it wasn't fancy but it would do. The catering uniform would cover most of him anyway. Everything was set: three days from now he'd walk into that gallery as a waiter, find Yoon Jeonghan, and hand him the CD. Maybe strike up a conversation, maybe get the guy to actually listen to ENHYPEN's music. It wasn't a great plan, but it was a plan. And right now, that was more than Jungwon usually had.
And for you, the last two weeks have been perfect. The invitations went out on time, HYBE's events team approved the design immediately with no revisions needed. The decor came together exactly as you had envisioned. The gallery place looked like something out of a drama, and Yunjin locked down the entertainment, a string quartet for the beginning of the night, a DJ for later and live performances from three of HYBE's upcoming artists. Riki organized the seating chart without a single complaint from any of the guests, which might be the the most impressive accomplishment of all. Sunoo coordinated with the catering company, and you did a tasting last week, needless to say everything was perfect. Director Kim stopped by your desk yesterday and said, "I don't know how you do it, but keep doing it." And you'd just smiled, because this was what you do. Things work out, they always have.
Saturday arrives with not a single cloud in the sky, which surprises absolutely no one who knows you. You were up at seven, even though the event doesn't start until seven pm. You make coffee, go over the timeline one more time and confirm with the team via group text that everyone's on schedule.
Your dress had been a last minute find, you'd gone shopping three days ago, fully expecting to spend hours searching and found it in the first store. Black, floor length with delicate beading along the neckline that catches the light when you move. It fits perfectly with no alterations needed. And the mask was even easier, you'd walked past a boutique on your way home from work yesterday and saw it in the window: black lace with gold accents and which matched your dress perfectly.
Meanwhile, Jungwon wakes up at noon in a cold sweat from a nightmare where he tripped and spilled an entire tray of champagne on Yoon Jeonghan. He lies there for a moment, staring at the water stain on his ceiling and thinks: Don't. Mess. This. Up. Please, for once in your life.
The catering uniform is hanging on the back of his door, they'd given it to him yesterday during the brief orientation, and it's slightly too big but he'd expected that. He tried on last night to make sure nothing was egregiously wrong. The shirt had a small stain on the cuff but he could scrub it out, probably. The mask sits on his dresser plain black and simple and forgettable, perfect for blending in. He showers and shaves and tries to make himself look presentable. His hair won't cooperate though, which is standard. He gives up after ten minutes and just runs his hands through it.
The CD is in a thin envelope on his desk. He'd checked it approximately fifty times to make sure it actually works and it does; all three tracks, clear audio, no skips. He slips it into the inside pocket of his vest. And by three pm, he's dressed and standing in front of his bathroom mirror, giving himself a pep talk. "You're going to walk in, do your job, find Jeonghan and give him the CD. Have a normal, pleasant and professional conversation with him. Don't spill anything, don't break anything. Don't. Mess. This. Up."
You arrive at four for the final walkthrough, and even though you've seen the space decorated before, it still takes your breath away. Sunoo walks over, adjusting his tie. "Catering's almost done setting up. They brought extra staff, so we're covered if it gets busy."
"Guest check in?"
"Ready. Riki's handling the mask distribution for anyone who forgets theirs."
You exhale. "Okay. Okay, we're ready."
Director Kim — Chaewon, she'd insisted last week ("We're friends, please, call me Chaewon") appears in a stunning black gown with her mask already in place. "This is beautiful," she says, surveying the room. "You've outdone yourself. Enjoy tonight. You've earned it."
Jungwon arrives at the gallery at 4:50 PM, which he considers a miracle. The catering manager briefs the staff in the gallery's kitchen. "This is a high profile event," she says, pacing in front of them. "HYBE's reputation is on the line, which means ours is too. You will be polite, efficient and invisible. If a guest needs something, you get it. If something goes wrong you find me. Do not — I repeat, do not — draw attention to yourselves." Jungwon nods along with everyone else. "Masks stay on at all times while you're in the event space. You'll be serving passed appetizers during the cocktail hour, then transitioning to table service for dinner. Questions?" No one has questions. "Good, masks on. Let's go."
They assign him to pass champagne during cocktail hour. Jungwon adjusts his mask and follows the group into the main gallery. And okay, he has to admit it looks incredible. By seven PM, the gallery is already full. You're standing near the entrance with Chaewon, greeting guests as they arrive. HYBE's executives arrived twenty minutes ago, you recognize a few faces from meetings, though the masks make it harder. Sunoo appears, grinning. "Okay, I have to show you something, come on." He leads you toward the back corner of the gallery, where a small booth has been set up. There's a sign: Madame Clarrisse - Fortune Teller. "HYBE requested this last minute," Sunoo explains. "Apparently one of their executives is really into this stuff. She's been reading palms for the last half hour."
You peer into the booth. A woman in an eleborate purple gown and a jeweled mask sits at a small table, holding a guest's hand. "You want to get your fortune read?"Sunoo asks.
"Why not? Could be fun."
"You already know your fortune, bitch. You're lucky as fuck." Sunoo says with a grin, teasing you, and you laugh along with him.
You wait until the current guest finishes, then slip into the chair across from Madame Clarisse. She's older, maybe sixties. "Give me your hand, dear," she says. You extend your right hand, and she takes it, turning it over, tracing the lines on your palm with one finger and her expression shift. "Interesting," she murmurs. "Your luck line is very strong, remarkably so." She pauses, studying it closer. "But there's a break here, right at the end."
"Right. Thanks." You pull your hand back, still smiling.
You and Sunoo walk away, and he is still laughing. "That was the worst fortune telling I've ever seen. 'Your luck is ending.' What kind of scam is that? The fuck does she want you to do?"
"At least she committed to the bit."
"She's probably telling everyone the same thing, so you can come back or whatever and give her more money." You sip your champagne and scan the room. Everything is perfect — guests are mingling, the music is beautiful and the food is being served. Your luck isn't going anywhere.
Jungwon has been circling the gallery for forty minutes and he still hasn't found Jeonghan. He's served champagne to at least sixty people. He's narrowly avoided colliding with another waiter twice. He's successfully kept his tray balanced despite someone bumping into him. So far, nothing terrible has happened, which is almost suspicious.
He's starting to think Jeonghan isn't there when he finally spots him near the bar, talking to a girl in a black dress and lace mask and Jungwon's heart jumps. That's him, that's definitely him. Jungwon's seen enough photos to recognize him even with the mask. So he moves closer, trying to look casual, waiting for an opening. You laugh at something Jeonghan says, you're gesturing animatedly, clearly comfortable. Jungwon wonders if you're someone important or just a guest. After a few minutes, Jeonghan excuses himself and walks toward the restrooms. This is Jungwon's chance. But he needs a better approach than just ambushing the guy in a hallway. He needs context and information.
You're still standing by the bar, alone now, watching the room with the satisfied feeling of seeing everything go exactly according to plan. Then, Jungwon makes a decision. He walks over, tray balanced in one hand, and stops just close enough that you notice him. "Champagne?"
You turn, and there's something about the way he's looking at you, even through the mask. You can see his smiling, but not the polite server smile, almost a grin, more genuine, maybe. "Sure, thank you."
You take the glass and your fingers brush his for a second, and he should walk away now. That's what waiters do, right? Serve and move on. Instead, he stays. "You seem like you're having a good time."
There's a lightness to his voice, almost playful, and you find yourself smiling back. "I am. It's a beautiful event."
"Yeah, it really is." He glances around the room and then back at you. "Someone clearly knows what they're doing."
You smile at that. "Thank you," you say, taking a sip.
His eyebrows raise slightly behind the mask. "So you're the one running this whole thing?"
"Not alone, obviously. But I'm helping, yeah."
"That's impressive." He leans in just a little, enough that you catch a hint of cologne. "Must've been a lot of work."
"It was. But it's worth it when everything comes together like this." You tilt your head studying him. "What about you? You're not supposed to be chatting with guests, are you?"
He grins, and it's disarming. "Probably not. But you looked interesting."
"Interesting?"
"Friendly," he corrects quickly. "You looked friendly."
"Friendly. Right." You take a sip of champagne, hiding your smile. "That's one way to put it."
There's something easy about him. The way he stands there, relaxed but also attentive, like he's got nowhere else to be even though you both know he does. You're not sure why you're still talking to him, but you don't exactly want to stop. "So do you work for HYBE?" he asks, like he's genuinely curious.
"No. I'm with the event company. We're the ones who put all this together."
"Ah." He nods and you swear you see something shift in his expression — relief, maybe? Interest? "That explains the whole 'owning the place' vibe."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Definitely a compliment."
You laugh again, and he seems pleased by that. "What about you? Do you usually work at events like this or is this a one time thing?"
"Sometimes," he says a little too casually. "It's good money. Plus, you know, I get to see how the other half lives." He glances down at his tray and then back at you. "Though I have to say, this is probably the nicest one I've ever worked."
"Well, we tried."
"You succeeded."
There's a beat of silence, and you realize you've been looking at him for longer than it's probably normal. Even with the mask covering half of his face, there's something about him. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the easy confidence in the way he talks. He seems to realize it too because he straightens up slightly. "Well, I should probably get back to work before my boss notices I've been standing here flirting with a guest."
The word hangs in the air. Flirting. "Is that what you're doing?" you ask, smirking, and your voice comes out more playful than you intended.
He doesn't miss a beat. "Maybe. Was it working?"
You bite back a smile. "I don't know, were you trying?"
"Not at first," he admits. "But now I kind of am."
You heart does something stupid in your chest, and you take another nervous sip of champagne to cover it. "Well, you should probably go before you get in trouble."
"Probably." But he doesn't move. "Thanks for letting me talk your ear off."
"Anytime."
He takes a step back and then pauses. "What's your name?"
You hesitate. There's something fun about the anonymity of the masks, the idea that you're both strangers at a party. "Does it matter? We're all wearing masks."
He considers this and then grins. "Fair point — mystery makes it more interesting anyway."
"Exactly."
"So what do I call you then?"
"Hot and mysterious event planner?" you offer, smirking.
"I like it." He smirks back. "What about me?"
"Hmm…" You pretend to think about it. "Hot and mysterious waiter who's definitely breaking the rules right now?"
He laughs and it's genuine, the kind of laugh that makes you want to hear again. "That's a mouthful."
"You asked, though."
"I did." He's still smiling as he starts to back away. "Guess I'll see you around, hot and mysterious event planner."
"Maybe," you say. "If you're lucky."
Jungwon laughs at that. Well, he's never lucky, but maybe tonight's different. And then he's gone, slipping back into the crowd and you're left standing there with an empty champagne glass and the strangest feeling that you just met someone you weren't really supposed to. You don't even know his name, but you're smiling anyway.
An hour later, you've had three glasses of champagne, and the room has taken on a pleasantly soft glow. Everything is still going perfectly, the guests are happy, nobody's complained about anything. Chaewon even pulled you aside twenty minutes ago to tell you that HYBE's CEO personally complimented the event. You're riding high on success and champagne when Sunoo finds you near the dessert table. "Okay, so I've been thinking about that fortune teller," he says, already giggling. "What if your luck does run out tonight?"
"Then I guess I'll have to live like a normal person," you say, popping a chocolate covered strawberry into your mouth.
"Terrifying. Truly." He leans against the table, scanning the room. "Although, the way you're going, you'll probably find a sugar daddy at this party and never have to work again."
You snort. "Please. I want to be my own sugar daddy."
"Okay, boss. Independent woman. I respect it." He takes a sip of his drink. "But seriously, with your luck, you could probably kiss someone random tonight and they'd turn out to be the love of your life or something."
"Sunoo."
"I'm just saying! It's how your life works."
You roll your eyes. "You know me. I don't just go around kissing people."
"Maybe you should start. Live a little." He gestures broadly at the masked crowd. "Everyone's anonymous anyway. It's very romantic."
You're about to respond when you catch sight of Jungwon across the room. He's standing near one of the tall windows but he's not really working. He's just there, and the mask obscures most of his face but you'd recognize the way he stands anywhere. "Oh my god," you say. "You've seen that waiter? The one by the window."
Sunoo follows your gaze and nearly chokes on his drink. "Are you serious right now?"
"What?"
"You — of all the people at this party, all the rich executives and hot industry people — you're looking at a waiter?"
"He's cute!"
"He's working!"
"So? What's your point?" Sunoo stares at you like you've lost your mind. "My point is there are literal celebrities here, and you want to flirt with the helper," he says.
"Don't be snobby, Sunoo. It doesn't suit you."
"I'm not being snobby, I'm being logical." But he's grinning now. "Oh god. You have that look."
"What look?"
"The I'm about to do something impulsive look." Sunoo sets his glass down on the table. "Okay, this I have to see."
"See what?"
"You, flirting with a waiter at the most important event of your career."
You cross your arms. "I can flirt with whoever I want."
"I'm not saying you can't. I'm just saying it's very on brand for you to ignore everyone in favor of—"
"He seems nice and he's very charming."
"And you've talked to him for like, what? Five minutes?!"
"And?! So what! You've dated people you talked for less."
Sunoo gasps, hand over his chest. "Rude. But fair." He looks at the waiter again then back at you. " But you did say you don't just kiss random people."
"Maybe I'm feeling spontaneous tonight."
"Because of the fortune teller?"
"Because of the champagne."
Sunoo laughs. "Okay. Okay, I dare you to go over there and shoot your shot with the cute waiter, since you're so confident."
You look at him, then at the waiter, then back at Sunoo. "Fine."
"Wait, seriously?"
"You literally just dared me."
"I didn't think you'd actually—" But you're already walking away, and Sunoo's laughter follows you across the room. Meanwhile, Jungwon has given up on finding Yoon Jeonghan. Not permanently but just for the next ten minutes, because he's been nursing a cocktail he swiped from a tray, and the room is spinning just slightly, and honestly? He's tired of stressing. He's leaning against the window just watching the party, and somehow thinking about the girl in the black dress, you. He hasn't seen you in a while, which was probably for the best because he was supposed to be working and not flirting with guests who are way out of his league. And then, as if summoned by his thoughts, you appear in front of him. "Hi again."
Jungwon straightens up immediately. "Oh. Hey."
"You looked lonely over here."
"Did I?"
"A little." You're smiling, and there's something loser about you now, more relaxed. "What happened to working?"
"Taking a break," he says, and you notice the way his mouth curves, not quite a smirk but close.
"Good. Breaks are important."
You lean against the window next to him, close enough that your bare arm almost brushes his sleeve. Close enough to notice things you didn't before, like the way his dark hair falls just slightly into his eyes or the way his mask doesn't quite hide the sharp line of his jaw. "So. Hot and mysterious waiter."
"Hot and mysterious event planner," he counters, and now he's definitely smirking.
"Are you having fun?"
"More fun than I expected," he admits, and his eyes — god, his eyes are so focused on you it makes your stomach flip. "You?"
"It's been a good night." You tilt your head studying him openly now. "You know, I never got to ask — do you always flirt with guests, or am I special?"
He laughs, and it's lower than you expected. "Definitely not always. You're a special case."
"Special how?"
"I don't know yet." He shifts his weight, angling toward you. "Still figuring it out."
You bite your lip without thinking and you watch his gaze drop to your mouth for just a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. "Well, let me know when you do."
"I will."
The air between you feels different now, more charged. The masks aren't even hiding you from each other anymore, it's more like they're giving you permission. "Can I ask you something?" You ask.
"Sure."
"Why did you come over to talk to me earlier? Really."
He considers for a moment and you notice the way he runs his tongue briefly over his bottom lip, a tell that he's thinking. "Because you looked interesting. And I wanted an excuse to talk to you."
"That's it?"
"That's it." He shifts closer. "Is that okay?"
"It's more than okay." You're looking at him, really looking, trying to memorize the details the mask doesn't hide.
"You know what," his voice drops a little lower. "You don't seem like someone who spends all their time planning fancy parties."
"What do I seem like, then?"
He takes his time answering, and his eyes moving over your face like he's reading you. You notice things about him too like the way he's tall enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to hold his gaze or the way his shoulders are broader than you initially thought. "Like someone I'd want to know," he says finally. "If we weren't both wearing masks at a party where we were both supposed to be working."
Your smile widens, and your heart is doing something stupid in your chest. "That's a good answer."
"Thanks. I try."
"Do you, though?"
"Not usually, no." He grins and it's devastating. "Tonight's an exception."
You laugh, because there's something about him that makes you want to be bold, want to push boundaries you normally wouldn't. "Okay, you're trouble," you say, but it comes out almost affectionate.
"Me?" He raises an eyebrow. "You're the one who came over here, love."
The petname makes you shiver. "Fair point."
You're standing even closer now. You're not sure when that happened but there's barely any space left between you. You can feel your pulse in your throat and you're aware of everything — the warmth of his body, the way he's looking at you. You should step back, you should remember that you're at the most important event of your career, that he's working, and that you don't even know his name. But you don't want to. Instead, you say, "What if I told you," and you take a step closer, "that I'm not very good at making decisions?"
His lips curve into a smile. "Then I'd say that's hard to believe."
"Why?"
"Because you seem like someone who knows exactly what she wants."
Your heart skips. "Do I?"
"Yeah." He reaches up, and his fingers brush a strand of hair away from your face. "You do."
The contact sends a shiver through you. His hand lingers near your cheek and you can't tell if he's being deliberate or if he's just as caught up in this as you are. "And what if," you breathe, "what I want is a bad idea?"
"Then maybe," he says and his thumb grazing your jaw now, "you should stop thinking so much."
"Is that your professional advice?"
"Definitely not professional." His eyes are locked on yours. "Nothing about this is professional."
"No," you agree. "It's really not."
The space between you has narrowed to almost nothing. You can feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his chest rises and falls just a little faster than normal. His hand is still at your face, and yours has somehow found its way to his chest, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his vest. His eyes search yours for a long moment, and then, "Come here," he murmurs.
You close the distance. The kiss starts soft, like he's giving you a chance to change your mind. His lips are warm and gentle against yours, his hand cradling your face. But then you press closer, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and something shifts. He makes a sound low in his throat and the gentleness evaporates. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and his mouth moves against yours with an urgency that steals your breath.
And oh god, he can kiss. It's all consuming, like the way his tongue traces the seam of your mouth before slipping inside. He tastes like champagne, even though he probably shouldn't be drinking during work hours and that somehow makes him even hotter. His hand tightens at your waist while the other cups your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss even further. You press closer, and he responds immediately, his fingers sliding into your hair, careful not to dislodge your mask but possessive. You feel something shift inside you — something fundamental and terrifying and exhilarating, like a lock clicking into place. It feels like the ground beneath your feet just tilted, and it feels significant in a way you can't explain. Like the before and after of your life just split into two distinct halves, and this moment, this kiss, this person is the dividing line.
When you finally break apart it's only because you need air. His forehead rests against yours, and you're both breathing hard, your fingers still tangled in his hair, his hands still holding tight. "Jesus," he breathes.
You laugh, breathless. "Yeah."
"That was—"
"I know."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and even through the mask you can see the way his pupils are blown wide and his lips are slightly swollen from kissing you. He looks wrecked in the best way. His thumb traces your bottom lip. "We should probably—" You don't finish the sentence because you don't actually know what you should do. Stop? Keep going? Pretend this didn't feel like it just shifted something fundamental in your universe?
"Yeah," he agrees, even though neither of you moves.
You're still pressed against each other, his hand still in your hair, yours still on his chest. "This is crazy," you say. "I just kissed a waiter at my own event."
"I just kissed a guest when I'm supposed to be working." He grins. "Should we stop?"
You consider this for approximately half a second. "No."
"Good answer, love." He's leaning in again, his hand coming back up to cup your face, and you're already closing your eyes when you hear a loud crash. The kind of sound that makes an entire party go silent, and you both freeze. "What was that?" he asks.
You turn toward the main floor and your stomach drops. Director Kim, Chaewon, is standing in the middle of the dance floor, her mask askew, pointing an accusatory finger at a woman in a red dress. The woman is pointing right back and even from here you can tell they're both several drinks past professional. "Oh no," you breathe. "My boss. Oh my god."
Chaewon's voice carries across the gallery. "You have some NERVE showing up here!"
The woman in red gets right in her face. "I was INVITED!"
"By WHO?" Security is already moving toward them, and you're moving too, I mean you're already running or trying to, in heels and a floor length dress. You reach the stairs leading down to the main floor and you're halfway down when your heel catches on the hem of your dress. The snap is audible. Your shoe — your perfect, expensive, matched to the dress shoe — breaks clean off. You stumble, barely catching yourself on the railing, and hobble the rest of the way down with one heel and one bare foot.
By the time you reach the dance floor, Chaewon has grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing tray and looks like she's considering throwing it. "Chaewon," you say, breathless, trying to step between them. "Hey. Let's just—"
"She's sleeping with my husband!" the woman in red shrieks.
The entire gallery is watching now. All three hundred guests. HYBE executives. Press. Everyone. "I am NOT —" Chaewon starts.
"You absolutely ARE—"
A security guard finally reaches them, gently but firmly taking Chaewon by the arm. "Don't touch me!" She yanks her arm away and nearly loses her balance. Her mask falls off completely, and you try again. "Chaewon, please, let's just go outside and—"
"Where were you?" Chaewon whirls on you and her eyes are unfocused. "You're supposed to be MANAGING this event!"
"I was — I am—"
"Mrs. Choi was NOT supposed to be on the guest list!" She gestures wildly at the woman in red. "I specifically told you to make sure her name wasn't on there!"
Your blood runs cold. "What?"
"I sent you an email! Two weeks ago!"
You remember it now, an email buried in your inbox, unread, flagged as low priority by your email filter: Please remove Mrs. Choi from the final guest list. Personal reasons. "I didn't see it," you whisper.
"You DIDN'T SEE IT?" Chaewon's voice echoes. "This is YOUR job! This whole night was YOUR responsibility, and you —" Mrs. Choi interrupts, her voice icy. "My husband is Director Choi from HYBE. And I will be making sure he knows exactly how this event was run."
Your stomach plummets to your feet. The head of security appears. "I'm going to have to ask both of you to leave."
"This is ridiculous," Chaewon slurs but she's already being guided toward the door. You follow with one shoe on, one shoe off, your dress torn at the hem, your mask crooked, and your entire career presumably in ruins. He escorts you and Chaewon out through the main entrance and the cool night air hits you. "This is your fault," Chaewon says. "This whole thing is your fault."
"I didn't see the email —"
"That's not an excuse! You were supposed to be on top of everything!" She laughs bitterly. "God, I actually thought you were good at this. Director Han kept saying you were so lucky, so perfect, nothing ever goes wrong for you —"
"Chaewon—"
"Director Kim. Well, congratulations. Something finally went wrong." She flags down a taxi and stumbles into it, and disappears into the night without another word. You stand there on the sidewalk, your dress ruined, your career probably over, and you think about the fortune teller: Your luck is about to run out. Maybe she wasn't kidding after all.
Inside, Jungwon watches the whole thing unfold with a mixture of horror and disbelief. He should find you and make sure you're okay, do something. But then he sees Yoon Jeonghan, walking toward the exit with his phone pressed to his ear, looking slightly irritated. This is it. This is Jungwon's chance. He hesitates for only a second — thinking about you, about the kiss, about how wrong it feels to just let you leave like that — but then reality crashes back in. He came here for a reason. He has a band counting on him, he has a CD in his pocket that represents two years of work. He can find you later, maybe, somehow.
Jungwon follows Jeonghan, keeping enough distance to not look suspicious. Jeonghan stops at the curb still on his phone, waiting for his car. Jungwon's hand goes to his pocket, feeling for the CD. He takes a step forward and a car comes around the corner fast and Jeonghan, distracted by his phone call, steps off the curb without looking. Jungwon doesn't think, he just lunges forward, grabbing Jeonghan's arm and yanking him back onto the sidewalk. The car blares past, missing them by inches. Jeonghan drops his phone. "What the—"
"You almost got hit," Jungwon says, breathing hard.
Jeonghan stares at him, then at the street, then back at him. "I — you just—"
"You weren't looking."
"I wasn't—" Jeonghan runs a hand through his hair, visibly shaken. "Jesus. Thank you. That car would've—" They stand there for a moment, both processing what almost happened. Jeonghan bends down to pick up his phone, miraculously uncracked, and looks at Jungwon properly for the first time. "You work for the catering company?"
"Uh, yeah. Tonight, anyway."
"Well, you just saved my life, so." Jeonghan laughs shaky. "Thank you. Seriously."
"No problem."
Jeonghan's car pulls up and he opens the door, then pauses. "What's your name?"
"Jungwon. Yang Jungwon."
"Well, Jungwon. I owe you one." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a business card. "If you ever need anything, just call me."
Jungwon takes the card and his heart is pounding. "Actually," he says, pulling the CD from his pocket before he can lose his nerve, "I have something. If you have a second."
Jeonghan looks at the CD then at Jungwon, curious. "What is it?"
"A demo. For my band. It's called ENHYPEN. I'm their manager, and they're — they're really good, and I know everyone says that, but they are. They've been trying to get signed for two years, and I just —" He takes a breath. "I just want someone to listen. That's all."
Jeonghan studies him for a long moment and then takes the CD. "You just saved my life," he says. "The least I can do is listen to your band."
"Really?"
"Really." Jeonghan slides into his car. "I'll call you next week. We'll talk." Jungwon stands on the sidewalk watching him leave, his business card in one hand, the ghost of the CD in the other, and he can't quite believe what just happened. He almost got Yoon Jeonghan killed. Then he saved Yoon Jeonghan's life. And now Yoon Jeonghan has his demo. He looks up at the night sky and thinks, for the first time in his entire life — maybe his luck is finally changing.
The week after the masquerade ball is, without exaggeration, the worst week of your life.
Monday morning, you're fired. Director Han doesn't even look at you when she says it. Just slides a severance packet across her desk and tells you that "given the circumstances," it's best if you "pursue other opportunities." The circumstances being: HYBE terminated their contract with the company. Effective immediately, no future projects, no referrals, nothing. All because Mrs. Choi told her husband what happened, and Director Choi told HYBE's CEO, and suddenly the company that organized the event where the director got publicly accused of having an affair is no longer a company HYBE wants to be associated with. Chaewon hasn't responded to any of your texts. You're pretty sure she's blocked your number.
Tuesday, you spill coffee all over yourself on the subway. Your white shirt is completely ruined, and you have a job interview in twenty minutes. You show up looking like a disaster. You don't get the job. Your landlord calls on wednesday. "I'm so sorry," He says, and he actually sounds sorry. "But the building's been sold. New owners want everyone out by the end of the week for renovations."
"End of the week? That's in two days!"
"I know. I'm really sorry. It's out of my hands."
You spend wednesday night frantically searching for apartments you can afford, which turns out to be zero apartments, because you no longer have a job and your savings are pathetic. Friday, you move into Sunoo's apartment with two suitcases and a dying plant you've somehow managed to keep alive for three years. "It's temporary," you tell him, setting your stuff down in his tiny living room.
"Stay as long as you need," Sunoo says. He's being incredibly nice about this, considering his apartment is barely big enough for one person. "The couch pulls out into a bed. Kind of."
You test it. It does not pull out into a bed, it pulls out into a medieval torture device. "It's perfect," you lie. Saturday, you go to three more job interviews and none of them go well. One of them ends with the interviewer asking if you're feeling okay because you "seem stressed." You are stressed. You're very stressed. Sunday, you're sitting on Sunoo's couch (your new bed) eating cereal and staring at nothing, when Sunoo comes out of his room. "Okay," he says. "I've been thinking. Remember the fortune teller? At the party?"
You look at him. "How could I forget."
"Yeah." Sunoo sits down next to you. "I think she was right."
"Yeah, I noticed."
"Like, everything went wrong in your life. Literally everything all at once in one week."
"I got it Sunoo. What's your point?"
"My point is what if she actually did something? Like what if it wasn't just a prediction? What if she cursed you or something?"
You stare at him. "Sunoo. She's a party entertainer, not a witch."
"You don't know that!"
"I'm pretty sure—"
"All I'm saying is, your entire life fell apart the night she touched your hand. That's suspicious."
You want to argue, but honestly? You're desperate enough to consider it. "Fine," you say. "I'll go find her and ask her to uncurse me. Happy?"
"Very." Sunoo grins. "See? This is why we're friends. You're willing to entertain my insane theories."
"I don't have a choice. My life is already upside down."
And across town, Jungwon is having the best week of his life. He finds twenty dollars in the pocket of a jacket on monday, a jacket he hasn't worn in months. Not life changing, but nice. Tuesday, he buys a lottery scratch off ticket on a whim and wins fifty bucks. The subway is delayed on wednesday, and he's annoyed until he realizes the delay meant he avoided a massive service outage on the line he would've transferred to. He would've been stuck underground for two hours but instead, he gets home early. Thursday, his landlord calls to say they're lowering rent for all tenants because of some tax credit thing Jungwon doesn't understand. Friday, his phone rings, an unknown number. "Hello?"
"Hi, is this Yang Jungwon?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Yoon Jeonghan. From HYBE. We met last weekend."
Jungwon's heart stops. "Oh. Yeah, Jeonghan! Hi."
"Listen, I listened to your demo. And I have to say — I'm impressed. Your band is really good."
Jungwon sits down before his knees give out. "Thank you. That — thank you."
"I'd like to bring you and the guys in for a studio session. See how you sound live, meet the team. Would next week work?"
"Yes. Absolutely, yes."
"Great. I'll have my assistant send over the details. Looking forward to it, Jungwon."
The studio session is scheduled for the following Thursday. Jungwon spends the days leading up to it in a state of controlled panic and the guys practice until the bowling alley owner threatens to charge them extra. But Thursday arrives and nothing goes wrong. Actually, everything goes perfectly. They arrive at HYBE's building with twenty minutes to spare and the studio is incredible, huge, with equipment that probably costs more than Jungwon's entire life.
They play three songs, their best three songs and they're perfect. Heeseung's vocals are flawless, Jake's guitar work is clean and emotional, Jay's bass anchors everything, Sunghoon's drumming is powerful. When they finish, there's a moment of silence and then Jeonghan starts actually clapping. "That is exactly what we've been looking for." The other executives are nodding, talking amongst themselves. Jeonghan turns to Jungwon. "Can we talk in my office?" Jungwon follows him down a hallway. Jeonghan's office is sleek with a view of the city. He gestures for Jungwon to sit. "I'm going to be direct," Jeonghan says. "We want to sign ENHYPEN. Full contract. Album deal, marketing budget, tour support. Everything."
Jungwon's brain short circuits. "You — what?"
"We think you guys have something special. You guys have potential, it's all there. We want to invest in it."
"How much are we talking?"
Jeonghan slides a paper across the desk. Jungwon looks at the number and nearly passes out. "That's just the signing bonus," Jeonghan says. "The full contract is much more comprehensive. But I think this is a partnership that could really work."
Jungwon stares at the number. It's more money than he's ever seen in his life. More money than he thought was possible. They say yes, obviously they say yes. The contract is signed the following week and the signing bonus hits their accounts two days later. Suddenly, Jungwon can pay rent for a year in advance. Suddenly, the guys can quit their day jobs. Suddenly, they're not a struggling band anymore. They're HYBE artists.
On Saturday night, they celebrate at the bowling alley, the place where it all started. They're loud and drunk and happy in a way Jungwon hasn't felt in years. "I can't believe this is real," Jake says, staring at his phone like he's checking his bank account for the hundredth time. Jungwon leans back in his chair, looking at his best friends, his band, and thinks about how one decision — one stupid, desperate decision to sneak into a party — changed everything.
On next Monday, you and Sunoo stand outside a shop in a part of town you've never been to before. The sign above the door says Madame Clarisse - Spiritual Advisor in peeling gold letters. There's a neon palm reader sign in the window that flickers every few seconds. The whole place looks like it hasn't been updated since the 90s. "This is humiliating," you say.
Sunoo pushes the door open and a bell chimes overhead. The interior smells like incense and there are crystals everywhere and velvet tablecloths. It's definitely mystical. Madame Clarisse emerges from behind a curtain. She's not wearing her party costume anymore — just regular clothes, jeans and a sweater, but she's still got the jewelry. Rings on every finger, about six necklaces. She takes one look at you and smiles. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
"You were?" You ask, surprised.
"Of course. You're the girl from the party. The one whose luck ran out." She gestures to a chair. "Sit." You do and Sunoo hovers behind you like moral support. "So," She says, settling into the chair across from you. "What can I do for you?"
"You can uncurse me."
"Un— I'm sorry, uncurse you?"
"Yes. Whatever you did to me at that party, I need you to undo it."
She laughs. It's not a polite laugh, it's the kind of laugh that says she thinks you're an idiot. "Sweetheart, I didn't curse you."
"Then why did you say my luck was running out?"
"Because it was. I read palms. I see things." She leans back, arms crossed. "You think I have the power to just take away someone's luck? That's not how it works."
"Then how does it work?"
She tilts her head, studying you. "You kissed someone that night, didn't you?"
Your face goes hot. "That's none of your—"
"You did. I can tell." She's smiling now. "That's what did it. You transferred your luck to the person you kissed."
Sunoo leans forward. "She what?"
"It's rare, but it happens. When someone with an extraordinary amount of luck kisses someone with an extraordinary amount of bad luck —" She makes a gesture like she's balancing scales. "The universe likes balance."
You stare at her. "You're telling me I kissed someone and gave them my luck and they gave me bad luck?"
"More or less. The person you kissed needed it more than you did. The universe decided to redistribute."
"The universe can't just —"
"The universe does what it wants. You had more than your fair share of good luck for your entire life. Someone else was drowning in bad luck. You kissed them, and it balanced out. Simple. But this is just temporary."
"Temporary?"
"Well. Probably." She waves a hand. "Unless you want your luck back. Then you'd have to kiss them again."
You stand there, staring at this woman in her crystal covered shop, and your brain is trying to process what she just told you. That you kissed someone and that the kiss stole your luck. That the universe decided you'd had enough good fortune for one lifetime and redistributed it to some random person at a party. Your eye twitches. "So let me get this straight," you say slowly. "I have to find someone I kissed at a masquerade ball — where everyone was masked — and kiss them again."
"If you want your luck back."
"And if I don't find them?"
Madame Clarisse shrugs. "Then you live like a normal person. It's not the end of the world."
"My landlord kicked me out. I got fired. I—"
"Yes, yes, very tragic." She's still smiling. "But you're young, healthy, and you have a friend who clearly cares about you." She nods at Sunoo. "You'll survive."
You want to argue, but the words get stuck somewhere in your throat. Instead, you just stand there making a noise that's half laugh, half scream. Sunoo puts a hand on your shoulder. "Okay. We're leaving now. Thank you for your time."
"Anytime," Madame Clarisse calls after you as Sunoo guides you toward the door. "And really — good luck!"
The door slams behind you. Outside, rain is coming down in sheets, soaking through your clothes in seconds. You and Sunoo are standing under a tiny awning that's doing absolutely nothing to keep you dry. "I'm going to kill her," you say.
"She's a fortune teller. She probably saw that coming."
"Sunoo."
"Sorry." He's already scrolling through his phone, squinting at the screen. "Okay. Okay, I'm texting Riki right now. He can get us the staff list from the catering company."
You turn to look at him. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious."
"Sunoo, I am not — I'm not going to just —" You gesture wildly, and a car drives by too close to the curb, sending up a spray of water that drenches your legs. "Oh, come ON!" Sunoo jumps back just in time, completely dry. You stare down at your jeans, now soaked and clinging to your shins and something inside you snaps. "This is what I'm talking about!" you shout, throwing your hands up. "This is my life now! I get hit by puddles! My phone is in a storm drain! I'm living on a couch!"
"I know—"
"No, you don't know! You still have your job! Your apartment! Your normal, boring, non cursed life!"
"You're not cursed —"
"I kissed someone and lost my luck, Sunoo! That's a curse!"
He's quiet for a second, and then he says, very calmly, "So let's find him."
"Find him?"
"Yeah. The guy you kissed. We find him, you kiss him again, problem solved."
You laugh and it comes out a little unhinged. "Oh, sure. Let me just — let me just go through the entire city kissing every man who worked that event until one of them magically gives me my luck back. Great plan."
"Do you have a better one?"
"I—" You stop, open your mouth then close it because he's right and you hate it. Your life is a disaster, everything you touch breaks. You have no job, no apartment, no luck. And somewhere out there, some guy you kissed at a party is probably living his best life with your good fortune. "Fine," you say through gritted teeth. "Get the list."
He's already typing on his phone, texting Riki, pulling up something that looks like an event database. You stand there in the pouring rain soaked to the bone, watching him work, and you think about that guy. Like the way he smiled and the way he kissed you. You don't even know his name, but apparently, he has everything you used to have. And you're going to get it back.
And Jungwon was living like a king with the amount of luck you gave him. He moved out of his cramped studio apartment into a real place with two bedrooms and actual sunlight, a kitchen where he could fit more than one person at a time. The landlord had called him personally to offer a unit that just became available, said something about how Jungwon seemed like "good energy." He signed the lease the same day.
And now he has a driver, an actual driver who picks him up every morning and takes him to HYBE. Jungwon still isn't used to it, he sits in the back of the car and feels like he's playing pretend. The guys are living their dream, though. They're in a real studio now, not the bowling alley storage room, but an actual professional space with soundproofing and expensive equipment. Jake bought new guitars, plural. Heeseung got vocal coaching from someone who's worked with actual famous people. Sunghoon upgraded his drum kit and nearly cried when it was delivered. Jay keeps texting photos of expensive bass pedals to the group chat like a kid in a candy store. Everything is working out.
Jungwon knows it's the luck, he's not stupid. Things don't just fall into place like this. Not for him, not naturally. But he doesn't take it for granted. He remembers what it was like before, when every single thing was going wrong at the worst possible moment. He remembers being tired all the time, not from work, but from fighting against the universe. So yeah, he's grateful. He tips the driver well, he brings coffee for the studio staff. He says thank you for things people don't usually say thank you for. And he actually thinks about you sometimes. He wonders if you're okay. And, well, you are not okay.
The list Riki got from the catering company has forty three names on it. Forty three men who worked the HYBE event that night. You've been through twelve of them so far. The first guy you eliminated immediately because his Instagram showed he was engaged. The second one was eliminated because he posted a photo from that night and you could see his hands and they were different. You don't know how you remember his hands, but you do. The third guy you actually went on a date with. He seemed nice enough over text, and when you met him at a cafe, he was polite, average looking, completely fine. You kissed him in the parking lot after. Just went for it, quick and experimental. But, nothing. You pulled the scratch off lottery ticket from your purse — one of ten you bought specifically for this purpose — and scratched it right there under a streetlight while he watched confused. You obviously lost. "Thanks," you'd said, already walking away. "This was great."
"Wait, are we—"
"Nope!"
The eighth guy was easier to eliminate. He posted a photo of himself and the mask he wore that night was completely different. The eleventh guy also agreed to meet you for drinks. You kissed him outside the bar and then scratched a ticket, nothing again. By guy number twenty, Sunoo started coming with you for moral support. "This is the saddest thing I've ever witnessed," he said, watching you scratch another losing ticket outside a restaurant.
Forty three names. You went through all forty three names on that list. Not all of them required dates — some you could eliminate from their social media alone, others from a quick coffee meetup where you could tell within five minutes it wasn't him. But you were thorough. Methodical, even. You checked every single person who worked that event and cross referenced their schedules and their photos or the way they carried themselves. You kissed enough of them to feel ridiculous, scratched enough lottery tickets to fund someone's gambling addiction, and came up with absolutely nothing. None of them were him.
By the time you crossed off the last name, you were sitting on Sunoo's couch at two in the morning and staring at the list. Your phone was on three percent battery — you'd forgotten to charge it, naturally — and your back hurt from the terrible angle of the pull out bed that wasn't actually a bed. You'd checked everyone, like literally every single person who worked that party and the waiter you kissed wasn't on the list. Which meant either the catering company's records were incomplete, or he wasn't actually staff, or the universe was playing some kind of cosmic joke on you that you didn't have the energy to appreciate. Which, to be fair, it kind of was.
The next day, you end up at the cafe near your old office without really planning to. It's a Wednesday afternoon, and you're unemployed so technically you could go anywhere, but your feet just carried you here out of habit. The place where you used to grab coffee every morning before work, back when your life made sense. And well, getting there is its own disaster because the subway stopped between stations for fifteen minutes because of "signal problems," and when you finally got off, it started drizzling, not enough to justify an umbrella, just enough to make your hair frizz and your shirt stick to your skin. You stepped in a puddle that was deeper than it looked. A cyclist nearly hit you and yelled at you like it was your fault. By the time you push open the cafe door, you're already exhausted and it's only two PM. The place is busy and there's a line at the counter, and you join it, and you pull out your card and tap it against the reader. Declined. You stare at the screen. "That's weird. Can I try again?"
"Of course."
You try again. Declined again and your stomach sinks. You know you have money in your account, not a lot, but enough for a coffee. You checked this morning. "Um, hold on." You pull out your phone to check your bank app, but the wifi isn't connecting and your data is throttled because you haven't paid this month's phone bill yet. The barista is still smiling, but it's getting strained. There are people behind you in line. You can feel them staring.
"Do you have another card?" The barista asks gently.
"I — yeah, let me just—"
You're digging through your wallet which is a mess of receipts and lottery tickets just in case and old gift cards that probably don't have anything on them, when a voice behind you says, "I've got it."
You turn around. Jungwon is standing there, tall, dark hair pushed back from his face, wearing a nice jacket that looks expensive and he's smiling at you like this is the most normal thing in the world. "You don't have to—" you say.
"It's fine. Really." He's already holding out his card to the barista. "Just the coffee, right?"
"Yeah, but —"
"Consider it a good deed for the day." He taps his card and it goes through immediately, because of course it does.
The barista looks relieved. "Thanks. I'll have that right out."
You step aside to let him order and your face is burning. This is humiliating, because you used to be the person who got free coffee for being the thousandth customer. Now you're the person who can't afford a four dollar drink and needs a stranger to bail you out. He orders something and then moves to stand next to you while you both wait. "Thank you," you say, because you have to say something. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know. But you looked like you were having a rough day."
"Is it that obvious?" You smile, kind of embarrassed.
"Little bit." He's still smiling and it's such a cute apologetic smile. "I'm Jungwon, by the way."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Y/N."
There's a pause, and you should probably just take your coffee and leave when it's ready, but something about him makes you stay. Maybe it's the way he's looking at you — not like he's hitting on you but like he's actually seeing you. Or maybe it's just that he bought you coffee and it feels rude to run. "Do you come here a lot?" he asks.
"Yeah, erm — I used to. I worked nearby."
"Worked?"
"Past tense."
"Ah." He doesn't pry, which you appreciate. "Well, it's a good cafe. Best coffee in the area."
"Yeah, it is."
The barista calls out your order and you grab it, and this is the part where you should say thanks again and leave. But he's still standing there and there's something about the energy between you that feels familiar in a way you can't place. Like you've met before, but you know you haven't because you would remember. "Can I ask you something?" he says.
"Sure."
"Do I know you from somewhere?"
Your heart does a weird little skip. "I don't think so. Why?"
"I don't know. You just seem familiar." You study his face trying to figure out if this is a line or if he actually means it. His eyes are dark and focused, and there's a small mole on his neck that you notice because you're staring now, which is weird. The barista calls his order, and he grabs his latte, and you both stand there for another second, neither of you moving. "Well," he says finally. "I hope your day gets better."
"Thanks. And thanks for the coffee."
"Anytime." He heads toward the door and you watch him go, and there's something tugging at the back of your mind, something you can't quite name. You pull out your phone and check your bank account — finally connected to the cafe wifi — and you see the Spotify fee. Because apparently your card declined not because you didn't have money, but because the bank decided to process a charge from three days ago that you'd forgotten about, and it pushed you into the negative. You close your eyes and take a long sip of your coffee. Of course. Of course that's what happened.
That night, lying on Sunoo's terrible excuse for a pull out couch, you stare at the ceiling and think about him. There was something about him that felt familiar, like you'd seen him before or heard his voice somewhere, and your brain keeps trying to make connections that don't quite fit. For a second you wonder if he could've been the waiter from the party, but that doesn't make sense. The guy who bought you coffee today was wearing a jacket that probably cost more than your rent used to cost, and he had this air about him like someone who's doing well, someone whose credit card doesn't get declined at cafes. The waiter from the party was working a catering gig and picking up shifts for extra cash, they can't be the same person. It's just your brain trying to find patterns where there aren't any because you're desperate and tired and running out of options.
The next week is a special kind of terrible. You go to four job interviews, and each one is worse than the last. The first company looks at your resume amd sees that you were fired and the interview is over before it really starts. The second place seems promising until the hiring manager asks why you left your last position, and you have to lie and you watch their face change in real time from interested to we'll-call-you-but-we-won't. The third interview goes fine until you spill coffee on yourself in the waiting room and walk into the meeting with a massive brown stain on your white shirt. The fourth place doesn't even bother to reject you in person, just sends an automated email two hours later.
By Friday, you're done. You've applied to thirty two jobs in the past weeks and heard back from eleven and been interviewed by seven, received absolute zero offers. Your savings account is running on fumes and even though Sunoo has been amazing, but you can tell he's getting tired of you sleeping on his couch even if he won't say it. You leave another failed interview on friday afternoon — they said they would keep your resume on file which is corporate speak for never contact us again — and you're walking down the street trying to decide what to do next when the sky opens up. A full downpour drenches you in seconds, you pull out the umbrella you bought at a dollar store last week and pop it open, and immediately one of the spokes snaps and the whole thing inverts itself. You stand there holding your broke umbrella with the rain pouring down on you and you legitimately cannot remember the last time something went right in your life.
That's when a car pulls up next to the curb, a black expensive looking car, and the window rolls down. "Hey!" You look over, and it's him — Jungwon. "You need a ride?" he asks, and he's leaning over from the driver's seat, looking at you with a look that might be concern or amusement but you can't tell.
You should say no and tell him you're fine, that you don't need hhelp from a stranger, but you're really soaking wet and your umbrella is destroyed, you have absolutely nowhere else to go. So you don't even hesitate, you yank open the passenger door and collapse into the seat, pulling the door shut behind you. The interior of the car is warm and dry, unlike you. Jungwon is staring at you. "You just got in my car."
"You told me to get in your car."
"I know, but—" He laughs surprised. "You didn't even think about it. What if I was going to kidnap you or something?"
"Are you going to kidnap me?"
"No, but —" He's still staring at you like he can't quite figure you out, and then he shakes his head smiling. "You're either very trusting or having a really bad day."
"Definitely the second one."
"That bad, huh?"
"You have no idea." You wipe rain off your face with your sleeve which doesn't help because your sleeve is soaked too. "I got kicked out of my apartment — well, it's not my apartment, it's my friend's apartment, but he's out of town and I lost the spare key he gave me, so now I'm locked out. I tried calling him but he's not answering, probably because he's on a plane or something. I tried calling my mom but she's not picking up either. I had a job interview earlier that went terribly, and before that I applied to like six places and haven't heard back from any of them, and I'm starting to think I'm unemployable. And now it's pouring rain and my umbrella broke, obviously, because why wouldn't it, and I was just walking around trying to find a hotel that doesn't cost a hundred bucks a night because that's literally all I have left in my bank account." You take a breath. "So yeah. Bad day." Jungwon is quiet for a moment. His hand are still on the steering wheel and you realize you just unloaded your entire life story on a gay you've met once. "Sorry," you say. "That was a lot."
"No, it's—" He glances at you. "That's really rough. I'm sorry."
"It's fine. It's not your problem."
"Where were you headed?"
"I don't know. Nowhere. Anywhere. I was just walking."
He's quiet again and you can see him thinking, weighing something. "Okay, this is going to sound weird," he says finally. "But I have a guest room in my apartment. It's just sitting there, and you clearly need a place to stay, and —" He stops and runs a hand through his hair. "No pressure. Seriously. I know I'm basically a stranger. But the offer's there if you want it."
You turn to look at him properly. You can tell he is nervous because his grip on the steering wheel is a little too tight, and he's not quite meeting your eyes. "You're offering to let me stay at your apartment," you say slowly.
"Just for the night. Or however long you need. I don't know. I'm not trying to be creepy, I swear. It's just — you seem like you're having the worst day ever, and I have space, so." He shrugs. "If you want to find a hotel instead, that's totally fine. I can drop you off wherever."
You should say no. Every true crime documentary you've ever watched is screaming at you to say no. But there's something about the way he's looking at you, like a little genuine and a little awkward like if he is not sure he's overstepping it, and that makes you think he's not a serial killer at all. Or at least probably not. Either way, you don't have a better option. "Okay," you finally say.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay. Thank you very much, I hope you really don’t mind."
He blinks surprised. "You're sure?"
"Well I don't have anything to lose at this point. My life is already a disaster so… if you murder me at least I won't have to deal with being unemployed anymore."
He laughs, startled. "Okay, that's dark." He puts the car in drive and pulls away from the curb. "For the record, I'm not going to murder you."
"Good to know."
"I'm a musician, by the way. I manage a band. And we just signed with a label so I've been real busy with that, and the apartment I'm in now is way too big for just me, so the guest room is just sitting there empty." He's talking fast now like he's trying to justify the offer to himself as much as to you. "It has its own bathroom and everything so you'd have privacy."
"Oh, you manage a band?"
"Yeah, they're called ENHYPEN and we just signed with HYBE actually, you know? The label?"
Your stomach drops. "HYBE?"
"Yeah. You know them?"
"I — yeah, kinda." You don't know what to say. I mean, what were you supposed to say? Yes I've worked for them before and I got fired and now I'm banned from HYBE events for life?
"Oh, that's cool. Small world." He says.
"Yeah," you say faintly. "Small world." You're staring at the windshield now and watching the rain while your brain is trying to process this. Okay, so he works with HYBE, which means he wasn't working at the party as a waiter — he would've been there as industry or maybe not there at all. So Jungwon is definitely not the guy you kissed, which is good. That would've been too complicated. But there's still that nagging feeling of familiarity, sort of, like you've seen him before. Like there's something you're missing.
He pulls into an underground parking garage and parks in a spot marked with his unit number, and you follow him to the elevator and up to his floor, and the whole time you're expecting this to be a terrible decision. But when he unlocks the door and lets you in, his apartment is just normal. Obviously very nice, but normal, it looks like someone actually lives here. There are shoes by the door and a jacket thrown over the back of a chair, and a coffee mug on the counter. "Guest room is this way," he says as he leads you down a short hallway. Jungwon opens a door to reveal a small bedroom with a double bed, a dresser and window overlooking the street. "Bathroom's through there, there should be towels and stuff. Help yourself to whatever you need."
"Thank you," you say and you mean it. "Seriously, this is — thank you."
"It's no problem, really." He lingers in the doorway for a second. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything, okay? And, uh, just so you know — I'm not going to like, bother you or anything. You can lock the door if you want."
"Okay."
"Okay." He smiles, a little awkward. "Well. Goodnight, I guess."
"Goodnight, Jungwon." You smile, fondly and grateful. He closes the door then, and you can hear his footsteps retreating down the hall. You stand there in the middle of the room, basically dripping water onto the floor, thinking about how bizarre your life has become. A month ago you were at the top of your game and running a high profile event and everything was going perfectly. Now? Now you're staying in a stranger's apartment because you literally have nowhere else to go. So you peel off your wet clothes, find a towel in the bathroom and take the hottest shower you've had in weeks. When you get out, wrapped in a towel, you realize you don't have any clothes to change into — everything you own is locked in Sunoo's apartment.
You hear a knock on the door. "I left some clothes outside the door," Jungwon's voice comes through. "In case you need them. They'll probably be big but I swear they're clean."
So you open the door a crack, and there's a folded t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants sitting on the floor. "Thank you!" you call out.
"No problem." He calls back.
You change into his clothes — he's right, they're huge on you — and you climb into the bed, which is the most comfortable thing you've laid on in a month. You just lie there for minutes staring at the ceiling and trying to sleep. But your stomach is growling because you haven't eaten since this morning, and that was just a granola bar. You can smell something cooking from the living room. You could just stay there and avoid being awkward and try to sleep on an empty stomach — or, you could actually go out there and face the guy who's letting you stay in his apartment for free. So you get up and go out there. Jungwon is standing at the stove stirring something in a pan. He's changed out of his nice jacket into a hoodie and sweatpants. He looks comfortable, at ease. He glances over when he hears you come in. "Hey. Can't sleep?"
"Yeah, not really."
"Come in, I'm making fried rice. There's plenty if you need some."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, of course. Sit." He gestures to the small table near the kitchen. "It'll be ready in like two minutes."
So you sit and watch him cook. He moves around the kitchen with the kind of ease that suggests he does this a lot. He is tossing vegetables and rice in the pan, and adding sauce, adjusting the heat, and it smells incredible. "You cook a lot?" you ask.
"When I have time, yeah. It's cheaper than ordering out and I got used to it when I was broke." He grins over his shoulder. "You know, old habits."
"You were broke? Really?"
"Very broke actually. Like living off instant ramen and hoping the subway fare didn't go up kind of broke."
"What changed?"
"Well, lots of things, honestly." He plates the food and brings two bowls over to the table, sitting across from you. "And a lot of work, but mostly — luck, I think."
The word hangs in the air. Luck. You stare at your bowl of rice, your fork halfway to your moth and something twists in your chest. He said his life turned around recently because of luck — good luck that came out of nowhere. And yours fell apart at the exact same way. It's a coincidence, it has to be. You take a bite of rice and try to focus on the fact that it's delicious and not on the strange timing of everything.
When you look up, he's watching you with this easy smile and his chin was resting of his hand. You notice details you didn't catch before: like how his eyes are bigger than you realized, round and expressive in a way that makes him look younger than he probably is, and they have this slight upward tilt at the corned that reminds of you a cat. When he smiles, dimples appear, and there's something about the combination of his sharp jawline and soft features that's unfairly attractive. And well, you can't stop staring. Maybe being homeless and unemployed has made you forget how to act normal around people.
"So," he says breaking the silence. "What's your deal? Like before everything went wrong, what were you doing?"
"Uh — I was doing event stuff, you know? Planning and coordinating events, managing logistics. It was good, I mean I was good at it." You don't elaborate because you don't wanna talk about HYBE or the masquerade ball or how spectacularly everything fell apart. "What about you? How'd you get into managing a band?"
"I've known the guys for years. We all went to the same college and they were just messing around at first like playing at parties and open mics. But they were really good, and no one was taking them seriously so I just figured I'd help them out, you know? Book some shows and handle the boring stuff so they could focus on the music." He shrugs but there's pride in his voice. "And then it turned into a real thing, and we've been grinding for two years, like terrible — real terrible gigs and empty venues and labels telling me they're not marketable enough. It was rough."
"Well, but it seems that it worked out, right?"
"Eventually, yeah." He leans back in his chair and there's something vulnerable in the way he's looking at you now. "For a long time though I thought maybe we were just unlucky. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. Like — I'd book a showcase and the venue would double book us. Or we'd record a demo and the file would corrupt. One time Sunghoon, our drummer, broke his wrist the day before a big audition because he went night rafting. Can you believe this guy? Yeah, anyways, it was like the universe didn't want us to succeed."
"That sounds awful, I'm sorry," you said even though you were smiling at how resilient he was.
"It was, but it also made us tougher, I think. Made us appreciate it more when things finally started working, you know?" He grins and there's that cute dimple again. "Although I'm not gonna lie it's nice not having to worry about whether my card's gonna decline every time I buy coffee." You laugh, but it's hollow because that's your life right now. He must notice because his expression softens. "Sorry, huh, that was — insensitive."
"No, really, it's fine. I'm glad things are working our for you." You smile at him because you mean it.
"They will for you too. I mean it." He says it with so much conviction that you almost believe him. "You seem like someone who's got their shit together, you know? Or had it together — you'll figure it out. I know it."
"You don't know that." You laugh small through your nose.
"Well, I have a good feeling." There's a pause and he's looking at you with this intensity that makes your stomach so something weird. You're very aware of the fact that you're sitting in his apartment and wearing his clothes and eating his food — and he's being so nice about all of it that it feels almost suspicious. Except it doesn't feel suspicious at all, it just feels genuine instead. "Why'd you get in my car though? Like you didn't even hesitate." He was being serious but he was also smiling, playfully even.
You think about it. "Honestly? I don't even know, I'm not usually like that, like I don't trust people that easily, is what I'm saying. But you seemed —" You pause, trying to find the right word. "Safe? I don't know. You just did."
"Safe," he repeats, something amused in his tone. "Well that's not usually the vibe I fo for but I'll take it."
"Really? What vibe do you usually go for?"
"Mhm, I don't know. Cool and mysterious?" Jungwon's grinning now, clearly joking. "Dangerously charming?"
"Dangerously charming?" You grin back.
"Too much?" You nod, but still smiling. "Okay, okay. I'll dial it back." But he doesn't, not really. There's this playful energy to him that feels effortless, like he's not trying to impress you but somehow he is anyway. "So," he says leaning forward slightly. "Since you're staying here, we should probably establish some ground rules."
"Oh! Ground rules?"
"Yeah, like, you can use the kitchen whenever. Help yourself to anything in the fridge — the wifi password is on a sticky note there, by the way. And if you need space, just let me know, okay? I won't be weird about it."
"Yeah, okay." You smile and nod.
"And —" He pauses, his smile turning a little softer. "If you need to talk or vent or whatever, I'm around. No judgment."
You laugh at that, but it's fondly. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
He doesn't answer right away. He just looks at you and there's something in his expression you can't quite read. "Because I've been where you are right now and I remember how much it sucked. And I wish someone had helped me out back then. So…" He shrugs. "Now I'm helping you."
You don't know what to say to that, because you're not used to people being king without expecting something in return and it's throwing you off balance. "Thank you, Jungwon. Really. I don't know what I would've done tonight if you hadn't shown up."
"Probably found a terrible hotel." You smile and he smiles back, and for a moment you just sit there, and it feels like the first good thing that's happened to you in weeks.
After dinner, Jungwon suggests watching TV and you both end up on the couch with a random cooking competition show playing in the background. He's leaning into the corner of the couch with one leg tucket under him, while you're on the other side holding a bowl of ice cream he gave you, and it's ridiculously domestic in a way that makes you feel both comfortable and slightly off kilter. He makes commentary about the contestant like "there's no way that souffle is going to hold, look at it," and you find yourself laughing more than you have in weeks.
The exhaustion hits you slowly though, and before you realize it, your head is tilting sideways and your eyes are getting heavier with each blink. The last thing you're aware of is the warmth of his shoulder under your cheek and the sound of his voice, but quieter now, saying something you don't quite catch.
The next morning you wake up in the guest bed. For a second you're disoriented, staring at the ceiling and trying to piece together how you got here. You sit up and realize you're tucked under the blanket, your phone plugged in on the nightstand, the screen showing it's fully charged. He must have carried you in here or woken you up and guided you, and either way he covered you with the blanket and made sure your phone was charging. The thoughtfulness of it makes you chest feel tight.
The smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen so you get up, still waring his oversized shirt and sweatpants, and pad down the hallway. Jungwon's at the stove, flipping pancakes, and he's already dressed for the day with dark jeans and a sweater that looks soft but expensive, his hair styled in a way that suggests he actually tried this morning. He glances over when he hears you. "Morning. Sleep okay?"
"Yeah, really well actually." You lean against the doorway. "Did you carry me to bed?"
He stiffens. "You fell asleep on the couch and I didn't want to wake you up. I hope that's not weird." He says while he flips another pancake onto a plate.
"No, it's not — thank you."
"No problem." He sets the plate on the table along with a mug of coffee that's already poured. "I made pancakes. Wasn't sure if you were a breakfast person but I figured it was better safe than sorry."
You sat down, and the coffee is perfect and the pancakes are fluffy and golden. "You didn't have to do all this, Jungwon."
"I know but I wanted to." He leans against the counter with his own mug in hand, and he's watching you with that easy smile again. "I have to head out in a bit but make yourself at home, seriously. There's food in the fridge and the Tv remote is on the coffee table. And maybe text your friends? Let them know where you are. I don't want anyone thinking I kidnapped you."
You laugh. "Okay, yeah, I'll do that."
He finishes his coffee and sets the mug in the sink, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. As he passes behind you on his way to the door, he pauses, and you feel his hand on your shoulder — just a brief respectful squeeze, reassuring. "Good luck today, okay?" He says, his voice soft. "I mean it." And then he's gone and you're left sitting at his kitchen table with a plate of pancakes me made and the lingering warmth of his hand on your shoulder.
You wander around the apartment eventually. It's not spooning exactly, but more like observing. There are photos on the shelves in the living room, candid shots of Jungwon with four other guys who you assume are the band. They're laughing in most of them, arms slung around each other, and they're clearly close. You study Jungwon's face in the photos and he looks genuinely happy, in a way that makes you smile without meaning to.
Your phone buzzes and it's Sunoo. "Hey!" you answer.
"Oh my god you're alive. I tried calling you last night and you didn't answer and I thought you died in a ditch somewhere."
"I'm fine, I just — It's a long story." So you tell him everything about the rain, the broken umbrella and Jungwon pulling up in his car and offering you to stay at his apartment and everything you talked about. Sunoo is silent for most of it, which is unusual for him, and when you finish, there's a long pause. "So let me get this straight," he starts slowly. "A hot stranger offered you a place to stay, made you dinner, let you sleep in his room and then made you pancakes this morning?"
"Yes."
"And you're sure he's not a serial killer?"
"Pretty sure."
"Okay. Okay, this is insane. But also — wait. What's his name again?"
"Jungwon."
"And he works with HYBE?"
"Yeah. He manages a band."
There's another pause, and then Sunoo says very carefully, "Do you think he could be the guy you kissed?"
Your stomach flips. "What? No. He's a band manager. He wasn't working the party as a waiter."
"Because think about it — he said his luck changed recently, right? Around the same time yours went to shit. And he's being weirdly nice to you. And you said there was something familiar about him."
"Sunoo, that's insane."
"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, the timing is very suspicious."
"No, he's not the waiter dude, he can't be. He has money and a nice apartment, he's managing a signed band. The waiter was working a catering gig, it doesn't even make any sense."
"Well, people can have two jobs."
You're quiet staring at the photos on the shelf. Jungwon smiling at the camera. Jungwon with his arm around one of his friends. Jungwon looking genuinely and effortlessly happy. "He's not the waiter," you say finally.
"Okay. If you say so."
"I do say so."
"Cool. But like —"
"Drop it Sunoo."
"Dropped." A pause. "Okay. But just so you know—" You hang up.
You meant to leave Jungwon's place that same day, you really did. The plan was simple: thank Jungwon for his hospitality and grab your things which was basically nothing, since everything you owned was locked in Sunoo's apartment, and find a hotel or a shelter, a bench, whatever. But then Jungwon came home that evening with takeout for two, and said "I figured you'd like it," in that casual way of his like it was obvious. So you stayed.
The next morning, he made coffee again and placed two cups without asking. You sat at his kitchen table in his clothes and it felt so easy that you almost forgot you were supposed to be leaving. Sunoo dropped your stuff on wednesday, what was left of it, anyway. And then you and Jungwon already had a routine by then. You'd wake up to the smell of coffee — he was always up before you and already dressed. You'd sit at the table scrolling through your phone while he ate standing up by the counter, checking messages, answering emails, muttering things like "Jake, please don't do that" into his phone without any context.
You felt guilty the first few days. You were literally a stranger living in his space and eating his food and taking up his bathroom. I mean, his guest bathroom, but still. But Jungwon didn't seem to mind at all, or if he did he just didn't care to say it. He just adjusted around you, making room for you, even. On Thursday, you tried bringing it up. "I should probably go back to Sunoo's," you said over dinner, he'd made pasta and it was somehow better than any pasta you'd ever had. "I don't want to impose."
He looked at you like you'd just said something genuinely confusing. "Why?"
"Because I'm living in your apartment? For free?"
"Yeah, and?"
"And that's weird and you don't really know me."
"Is it?" He twirled his fork. "I have an extra room. You needed a place, it's not that complicated."
"Jungwon —"
"Look, I get it. I'm saying I don't mind having a roommate. Specifically you." He pointed his fork at you. "You're quiet, you don't make a mess, and you actually watch good shows on TV. Those are the only three things I care about."
"Those are your criteria?"
"Yeah. High standards."
You laughed, he grinned, and that was the end of the conversation. So you stayed. But the bad luck didn't stop, obviously. Monday of the second week, you tried to cook breakfast while Jungwon was still in the shower. You burned the toast so badly that the smoke alarm went off, and it took you a few minutes trying to figure out how to turn it off, and by the time Jungwon came out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel and dripping water down his chest. You were standing on a chair waving a fish towel at the ceiling, and nothing happened.
"What happened?" he asked, his hair sticking up, and droplet sliding from his collarbone straight over the defined lines of his abdomen — eight perfect ridges, still glistening from the shower. Not that you were staring, anyway. (You were definitely staring.)
"I'm having toast problems." And that was all you managed to say.
He stared at the blackened bread on the counter, lips curving. "That's… a way to say it."
"Please don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing." Jungwon was absolutely laughing, low. He stepped closer and took the dish towel from your hand and reached up from the floor — didn't even need the chair, he was tall enough — fanning the alarm until it stopped. The movement made the towel slip just a dangerous inch lower on his hips and your eyes betrayed you again, dropping straight to the deep V line that disappeared beneath the fabric before you snapped them back up to his face.
But it was too late, because he noticed. "There you go," he murmured, his voice softer now like almost a tease, his eyes locked on yours for a beat too long.
Your face was burning, and you couldn't decide if you wanted to jump off the chair or melt into the floor. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He tilted his head. "I'll make breakfast, okay?" He made breakfast every morning after that. You didn't ask him to, he just did it.
Wednesday night, you were on the couch with your laptop pretending to look at job listings but actually watching Jungwon play guitar in the corner of the living room. He didn't know you were watching — he had his eyes closed and his head tilted back slightly, fingers sliding over the strings with this slow precision that made your throat go dry. The soft melody he was picking out wasn't anything you recognized; it was just intimate and unfiltered.
His shirt was loose, the collar slipping just enough to show the sharp line of his collarbone and the faint shadow of definition along his chest every time he shifted. His long fingers moved with precision in a way that had your mind wandering to places it had no business going. You watched him for a while longer than you should have. Way longer, actually. Long enough that your pulse was thudding in your ears and you had to actually press your thighs together under the blanket, for some reason. When he opened his eyes, he caught you staring, but he didn't flinch or look away. He just held your gaze, and the corner of his mouth lifted in the tiniest knowing smile. He tilted his head a little, his hair falling into his eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." Your voice came out quieter than you meant, almost breathless. "That was nice." He smiled at that with the deep dimples, and went back to playing, but slower now, like he was performing just for you.
And oh boy — you were so screwed. Down bad and didn't even cover it. You were lying there pretending to scroll when you really were memorizing the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed of the soft exhale he let out between notes, or even the way his fingers looked wrapped around the neck of the guitar like they could wrap around anything else just as easily— Idiot. Absolute idiot.
The thing is: you knew you should leave. You knew it every single morning when you woke up in his guest bed. The luck wasn't coming back — you'd checked obsessively scratching lottery tickets and checking your horoscope and watching any sign that the universe was done punishing you. But nothing — you were still broke and still unlucky, but you stayed anyway. And it took you an embarrassingly amount of time to figure out why.
It wasn't the apartment, comfortable as it was, and it wasn't the food either, or the stability. It was actually Jungwon. It was the way he made you laugh without trying, or the way he remembered small things like that you didn't like your coffee too hot, or that you got cold at night, that you got anxious when you had too much free time. It was the shoulder squeeze and the good luck whishes every morning. It was the way he looked at you sometimes like you were the most interesting person in the room, even when the room was just the two of you eating takeout on his couch.
So yeah, you'd developed a crush on him. A bad one, really, the kind that made you hyper aware of every little interaction or the kind that made you smile at your phone for no reason after he texted you something stupid. The kind that kept you up at night staring at the ceiling replaying conversations in your head and analyzing his tone. It was pathetic, yeah, and you knew it. And you did absolutely nothing about it.
And it was a Thursday night when everything shifted. You were on the couch watching something neither of you was really paying attention to. Jungwon was on the other end scrolling through his phone. "How did you actually get the HYBE deal?" You asked kind out of nowhere, just curious about the situation in general.
He put his phone down and leaned back, thinking about it for a second. "Honestly? It was the most chaotic night of my life." He sat up straight and continued. "So we'd been trying for two years to get in front of anyone at a major label and nothing was working. We'd email or like, show up at showcases, leave demos with anyone who'd take them. And every single time, something would go wrong. Like that one time we got a showcase slot and I literally got hit by a bike on the way there. It was constant." He laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that meant it wasn't exactly that funny. "So I figured, okay, clearly doing things the normal way isn't going to work. So I said: I actually need to get creative."
"Creative how?" you asked.
"Well, I found out that HYBE was hosting this big event — a masquerade ball. And it was very exclusive, like invitation only, and all the big names in the industry were going to be there." He paused and you felt something cold start to settle in your chest. "So I got a job with the catering company."
Your own breathing suddenly felt very loud. You didn't move. "You got a job with the catering company," you repeated and your voice came out steadier than it should have.
"Yeah, a side gig really, I worked the event as a waiter." You couldn't believe his words and he kept going. "The whole time I was trying to find a guy named Yoon Jeonghan — he's HYBE's A&R director — so I could hand him our demo." Jungwon shook his head smiling at the memory.
You couldn't breathe properly. You were pretty sure you'd stopped breathing entirely at one point. "And did you find him?" you asked because you had to say something, and the silence could give you away.
"Not at first, actually. I spent most of the night just walking around trying to spot him, and then—" He stopped and laughed again. "Okay, this is going to sound insane. But I almost got him killed." He held a hand up before you could react. "Not on purpose! He just stepped off the curb without looking and a car was coming, and I just — I grabbed him and pulled him back. And after that, he was so grateful he actually took the CD was listening to it."
"That's—" you swallowed. "That's actually crazy."
"Right? The one night I needed everything to go right and get real lucky — I almost witnessed a hit and run." He laughed. "Yeah, but it worked out, he loved the demo and brought us in for a studio session, and the best is history."
You were staring at him. You knew you were staring at him and you couldn't stop because your brain was running through every single thing at once — the cafe, the way he felt familiar, the way he said I don't know, you just seem familiar — and it all made sense now. All of it. Jungwon was him. He was the waiter from the party. Jungwon was the guy you kissed. Jungwon was the reason your luck was gone. And you had been living with him for two weeks. And, accidentally-not-so-accidentally, falling for the guy. "Hey." Jungwon tilted his head, studying you. "You okay? You look kind of pale."
"Yeah I'm fine," you said too fast. "Just tired, I'm sorry."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I think I'm going to head to bed, actually."
"Okay." He didn't push, which was one of the things you liked about Jungwon, except right now you kind of wished he could because at least then you'd have an excuse to keep talking and to process this out loud, to said, wait, I have something to tell you. But you didn't say anything. You just stood up and walked down the hallway to the guest room, closed the door, leaned against it and immediately called Sunoo.
"I knew it, I knew it I fucking knew it!" He said. “So? What are you going to do? You're going to kiss him?"
You opened your mouth then closed it. Because the thing was — yes. You wanted to kiss Jungwon. You wanted to kiss him so badly it was ridiculous. But the reason you wanted to kiss him had nothing to do with getting your luck back, and that was the part that was making your chest feel like someone was sitting on it. "It's not that simple," you said instead.
"Why not? Kiss him and get your luck back, everybody wins."
"Yeah, everybody wins but Jungwon! I don't want to kiss him for the luck." Silence on the other end. "What do you mean?" Sunoo asked slower.
"I mean—" You slid down until you were sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest. "I mean I want to kiss him because I want to kiss him because I like him, like embarrassingly much." You said that way too fast, and Sunoo kept silent. "Sunoo?"
"So you like him."
"Yes."
"The guy whose apartment you're living in."
"Yes."
"The guy you kissed at that party and took your luck away."
"Yes, Sunoo, that guy."
"Okay. Okay, that's —" He paused. "That's actually really cute."
"Fuck you mean cute?! It's a disaster, Sunoo! Because if I kiss him now, I don't know if it's because I actually want to or because I need my luck back, and he doesn't know any of this — he doesn't know about the fortune teller, he doesn't know I was the girl at the party, he doesn't know I've been living here partly because I'm trying to figure out how to get my luck back—"
"Okay, slow down. When did you start liking him? Like actually liking him?"
"I don't know. Gradually? I think it started when he made me fried rice the first night and then it just—" You made a vague gesture even though he couldn't see you. "Got worse."
"So you have a crush on him."
"I have more than a crush, dude, I think about him all the time and I memorize the way he laughs and I get excited when he comes home. Like yesterday he pushed my hair out of my face and I almost passed out, Sunoo! I almost passed out!"
"Okay so it's beyond a crush — it's a super crush."
"I know."
"Like, really down bad."
"I said I know, Sunoo!"
He was quiet for a moment, and you could practically hear him grinning through the phone. "So what's the problem, exactly? You like him and you need to kiss him. Seems like the universe is literally giving you an excuse to do the thing you already want to do."
"The problem is that it's not honest! I can't kiss him just because I want my luck back, that's using him."
"But you said you want to kiss him anyway."
"I do."
"So then it's not using him. It's just—multitasking."
"That's not —" You took a deep breath and laughed despite yourself. "That's not how that works. Plus, what if he doesn't feel the same way?"
"Well, you said he makes you breakfast, carries you to bed, he gets you groceries. I think he feels the same way." You leaned your head back against the door and stared at the ceiling. From somewhere in the living room, you could hear the faint sound of Jungwon's guitar again. You were quiet for a long time after that just listening to the guitar, thinking about his hands and his smile and the way he said good luck to you every morning like he actually meant it.
So, needless to say, the rest of the week was pure torture. Now that you knew that it was Jungwon who you had kissed at that party, you couldn't stop thinking about it — how his lips felt, and the memory lingered in your mind, and somehow the fact that he was the most charming and gentlest man you've ever met, made everything even more devastating. When he reached past your for the coffee mug in the morning, his arm brushed yours, and your skins burned for ten minutes after as if he'd dragged his fingers down your spine instead. Or when he stretched out on the couch and his shirt rode up just enough to show that tight strip of toned abdomen, the faint happy trail disappearing under his waistband, you had to physically look away before you did something stupid like trace it with your tongue. You tried to act normal you really did. But knowing what you knew now made everything feel different. Every interaction had this layer underneath it, like this secret weight that made your chest tight and your pulse throb whenever he got too close. And he kept getting close.
Like friday morning, he leaned over your shoulder to show you something on his phone, and his chest brushed your back, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, and you almost choked on your coffee. He patted your back laughing, and said "You okay?" and you said "fine, went down the wrong pipe," which was such a lie but he didn't question it, just let the hand rest there a beat too long, his thumb brushing the edge of your shoulder blade like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
He caught you staring at him on sunday, while he was playing the guitar again, and instead of looking away like a normal person, you just said "What?" and he smiled slowly, dimples carving deep, and said "Nothing, just glad you're here." His voice dropped on the last word, his eyes flicking down to your mouth for half a second before meeting yours again, and the air between you felt thick enough to taste.
And you almost said it right then, almost told him everything. But you didn't, because you were a coward, and because some part of you wasn't ready to lose this, whatever this was. On monday, he brought something up. "I have something to ask you. The showcase for ENHYPEN, it's this friday. I want you to come."
You blinked. "To the show?"
"Yeah, backstage, obviously. You'd be there with me the whole time." He said it casually like it was obvious, like there was no reason you wouldn't want to. "I think it'd be good to have you there."
"Me? Why?"
He shrugged but there was something in his eyes that said that he wasn't quite serious but wasn't entirely joking either. "Things have been going really well lately. And a lot of that started happening around the same time you showed up."
You laughed like you couldn't help it. "I'm not bringing you luck, Jungwon."
"Aren't you though?" He tilted his head, half smile pulling at his mouth. "Think about it. Before you, everything was falling apart."
You thought about it. You thought about it a lot, actually, because it wasn't much of a coincidence at all. It was literally your luck, living inside him, because you kissed him at a party and the universe decided to redistribute. "I seriously doubt I'm your good luck charm, Jungwon," you said, keeping your voice light.
"Well, I seriously doubt you're not." He pointed his fork at you. "So come, please? For me?" He was faking a pout now, and he was adorable.
"But what if I make everything worse?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I have a good feeling." He was smiling now, and it was devastating, and you hated how easy it was to say yes to him.
"Okay, fine. I'll come." You finally said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You smiled and took a sip of your coffee and didn't say that's because your good luck is literally my good luck that you stole when we kissed at that masquerade ball and you don't even know it. But you almost, almost did.
The venue was bigger than you expected — it wasn't a stadium or anything like that obviously, but it had real lightning and a real sound equipment and a proper stage. Jungwon walked you through the backstage area, nodding at crew member and checking in with the sound engineer, all while keeping one hand loosely on the small of your back in a way that was probably just him guiding you through the crowd but it felt like way more than that.
The dressing room was small and chaotic. When you walked in, all four of them were there: Jay was passing by the door, Sunghoon was sitting on a bench with his eyes closed, drumsticks tapping against his knee, Jake was lying on the floor, I mean literally on the floor, staring at the ceiling while Heeseung was looking at himself in the mirror, adjusting his jacket for what was clearly not the first time.
"Everyone," Jungwon said, gesturing to you. "This is—"
"Yeah, bro, we all know who she is," Jay interrupted without stopping his pacing. "Nice to meet you by the way, I'm Jay."
"It's not—"Jungwon ran a hand through his hair, while you nodded at Jay, smiling. Jungwon looked at Jake. "Jake? Why are you on the floor?"
"I'm focused," Jake said.
"You're lying down."
"Yeah, I focus better horizontally."
Heeseung turned from the mirror and looked at you properly for the first time, and he studied you for a second, smiling. "So you're the reason Jungwon's been in a good mood lately."
"I— What?" Jungwon says.
"You literally smile now, like, at things. It's weird."
"I smiled before," Jungwon said flatly.
You were grinning and you couldn't stop grinning. Jungwon caught your expression and shot you a look that was half embarrassed and half please help me, and you just shrugged enjoying this way too much. Jake finally got up from the floor and dusted himself off, walking over to you. "Nice to officially meet you. We've heard a lot."
"All good things," Jay added quickly, glancing at Jungwon.
"Mostly good things," Sunghoon corrected.
"Okay, everyone out," Jungwon said herding them toward the door. "Warm up. Sound check is in ten. Move."
They filled out one by one, Heeseung even winked at Jungwon in a way that made Jungwon pinch the bridge of his nose, and then it was just the two of you. The room was quieter than it had any right to be at this point, considering a few minutes ago it was full of chaos. Jungwon was leaning against the vanity counter with his arms crossed, and the tension in his shoulders had shifted from manager mode to something else. "So," he said. "They like you, apparently."
"They were just teasing you." You sat down in one of the chairs, calmly, still looking at him. "You okay? For tonight?"
"Nervous." He said it simply. "This is the biggest thing we've ever done, so if it does well… it could change everything for us. And if it doesn't—"
"It will."
He looked at you. "You don't know that."
"Well, I have a good feeling." You echoed his own words back at him, and he laughed, some of the tension in his jaw loosened. He pushed off the counter and walked toward you. You just stayed there watching him move easily and unhurried. He stopped right in front of your chair, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look up at him.
"Thank you for being here, I mean it." He said, his voice was quieter now and his thighs were bracketing yours.
"Of course. I wouldn't miss it."
He held your gaze for a beat too long, and there was that thing, that charge that had been building between you for weeks. You could feel it in the air and in the way his eyes dropped just for a second to your mouth, lingering on your lips, before coming back up to meet your eyes again. You moved then. Not toward him, no, but away — because you were nervous. And then, of course, a disaster happened.
Your foot caught on the leg on the chair on your way up, the chair rolled backward and you stumbled, your arms pinwheeling, and you were about to hit the floor when his hands caught you; one at your waist, his fingers splaying wide over the curve of your hip, and the other one gripping your arm. Jungwon pulled you forward into him, hard enough that you slammed right into his chest, your breasts pressing flush against the hard planes of him.
Both of you froze. His hands were still on you, one at your waist digging in just enough to feel like a claim, and the other one on your arm was sliding up to your bicep, thumb stroking once and slow. Your palms were flat against his chest and you could feel his heartbeat under your fingers pounding like it wanted out. You looked up and his face was just inches from yours, his eyes were wide and his lips were slightly parted.
Neither of you moved, god, neither of you even breathed. And then, from somewhere outside the dressing room door, Jay's voice cut through the silence. "Jungwon! Sound check, let's go!" Jungwon closed his eyes, and you watched his jaw tighten, and he took a slow breath through his nose, like he was physically forcing himself to come back to reality, but he didn't even move his hands. "Jungwon," Jay called again. "Now man. We're running behind."
"Coming," Jungwon said, but his voice came out rougher than he probably intended, like the sound of a man on the edge, and he didn't take his eyes off you.
You should have stepped back or laughed it off, made some joke and let him do his job. But you kept your hands on his chest, fingers slightly curling into the fabric of his shirt, and his hands were still on you and you couldn't move. You couldn't do anything except stand there and look at him and want him so badly it physically hurt. He must have seen it on your face, the raw need, because something in his expression shifted like the restraint cracked just for a second — that's when he kissed you.
It was the kind of kiss that feels like something breaking open. His hand was sliding from your waist to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair and gripping hard, pulling you in, his mouth hard against yours and certain, like he'd been thinking about doing this for weeks now. Because well, he kind of was. And you were shocked, genuinely shocked, your eyes going wide for a second before your brain caught up with your body, and you kissed him back.
You kissed him back like you'd been starving for it because you have. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt pulling him closer until there was no space left. His other hand came up to your jaw, tilting your head exactly how he wanted, and the kiss deepened in a way that made your knees week. His tongue was sliding against yours slow and deep, claiming every inch, and the sound he made low in his throat was quiet enough that only you could hear it, but it vibrated through your chest and straight between your legs, making you ache for him.
And then when he finally pulled back, not all the way but just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours, his thumb still tracing along your jaw, then slowly dragging down the column of your throat. You could feel him breathing hard, his chest rising and failing against your hands. "Jungwon!" Jay's voice again, closer now, and you could hear the footsteps in the hallway.
Jungwon squeezed his eyes shut for a second like he was in actual pain. Then he let go of you and stepped back. "I have to go now, okay?" he said. His voice was wrecked, hoarse. He looked at you one time time, his eyes ranking over your swollen lips like he was trying to memorize you and burn the image into his brain for later. He turned then and walked toward the door.
"Wait," you said, but he was already gone. The door swung shut behind him and you just stood there with your lips still tingling, your heart hammering so hard you could actually hear it in your ears, and you pressed your fingers to you mouth.
You kissed Jungwon. Jungwon kissed you. And somewhere in the back of your mind, buried under everything in an almost insignificant thought flickered through: Did it work?
You were about to check like pulling out you phone or find a scratch off app, anything, when you heard noise. Commotion behind the door — security guys sprinting down the hallway outside the dressing room, someone yelling something you didn't catch it and the sound of walkie talkies crackling. You then opened the door and stepped out into the corridor and the first person you saw was Jake, running full speed.
"Jake!" He almost ran right past you but you grabbed his arm. "What's going on?"
He stopped out of breath and his eyes were wide. "Sunghoon's gone."
"What do you mean gone? Gone where?"
"Bro, we don't know. He was right there one second and someone said he fell into some kind of pit behind the stage and now nobody can find him and the show starts in ten minutes and we're literally missing our drummer."
You just didn't know how to react. "He fell into a pit?! Like a hole? How?"
"I don't know! He said he was looking for the bathroom!"
A security guard jogged past you both, and the whole backstage area had descended into this not so controlled panic with people moving fast and everyone looking at everyone else. You let go of Jake's arm. "Go, help them look, I'll find Jungwon."
So you turned the corner toward the main backstage corridor, and that's when you spotted Yoon Jeonghan. He was standing near the production booth with his phone pressed to his ear — he did not look happy at all. He hung up and started pacing, muttering something that you were pretty sure included several words you wouldn't repeat in polite company. Then he saw you, blinked and stopped pacing. "Y/N? What are you doing here?"
"I'm — it's complicated. I'm here with Jungwon."
He looked at you then and it looked like something was flickering across his face, maybe amusement, but he probably didn't have the time for it because he was already shaking his head. "Look, I found out what happened at the ball, and what they did to you, kicking you out like that, was completely unfair." He pointed at you. "If you want a job, I can make it happen. We have an events division and frankly you're way more qualified than half the people we have."
Your mouth opened and then closed. "You serious?"
"I'm dead serious, but right now—" he gestured at the chaos around both of you. "Well, right now I have a band that's supposed to go on stage in fifteen minutes and one of their members apparently fell into a hole. And I just signed theses guys last month."
"Okay, I can fix this."
Jeonghan stared at you. "Fix what?"
"This situation. Give me ten minutes."
He looked at you trying to figure it out what you meant. "Ten minutes."
"Yeah. Just — just trust me on this one."
He held up his hands. "I literally have no other option right now, so, cure. Ten minutes. Go."
And finding Jungwon in the chaos of that venue was harder than it should have been. You checked the production booth; not there. The main dressing room, also empty. The corridor near the stage entrance and even security, but no Jungwon. You checked the bathroom, the catering area, even poked your head into a storage closet just in case but nothing.
And then you finally spotted him near the loading dock at the back of the venue, sitting on a concrete step with his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. His hair was a mess, his jacket was halfway off one shoulder, and he looked like someone who had just watched his entire life fall apart in real time. "Hey," you said as you approached him.
He looked up. "Hey." You sat down next to him, and for a second, neither of you said anything. "Everything is falling apart," he said and his voice was flat and tired. "Sunghoon fell into some kind of maintenance shaft and nobody can find him. The lighting rig almost came loose during the pre show check. Jay's mic has been cutting in and out for the last hour. And the sound engineer just told me there's a feedback issue he can't figure out." He laughed, but it was hollow. "It's like it all started again. All at once." He dropped his head into his hands. "I thought it was over, I thought the bad luck was done."
You looked at him and your chest ached. Because you knew, you knew exactly why this was happening. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong, right on schedule because apparently that's how it works when the universe decides to rebalance.
And it was your fault. So you grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him toward you and kissed him again. You grabbed him hard enough that he stumbled forward, one hand instinctively coming up to catch himself against the step, and your other hand was shaking, and your eyes were burning in a way that had nothing to do with the dusty air. His hand came up to the back of your neck pulling you closer, responding almost immediately.
When you pulled back, you were breathing hard, and he was looking at you with this expression that was equal parts confused and completely wrecked. "What was that ab—"
And then the music started. Not the pre show stuff but the opening notes of their first song and the crowd erupted. You both turned toward the stage entrance, and that's when you saw through the side door, visible from where you were sitting and there, climbing up onto the drum platform from a maintenance ladder behind the kit, covered in dust grinning like an idiot, Sunghoon. He'd been in the maintenance shaft the entire time. The shaft that connected directly to the raised platform behind the drum kit.
Jake was already at the mic, laughing. Heeseung was strapping on his guitar, shaking his head. Jay caught Sunghoon's eye from across the stage and just mouthed something that made Sunghoon flip him off. The show was starting, so Jungwon stood up slowly, still staring at the stage and then he turned back to you. "How did—" he started.
"Go," you said. "They need you."
He looked at you, at the stage and then back at you. "But I really want to kiss you again right now," he said.
"Later." You pushed him gently toward the stage door. "Go. Work. Be amazing."
He took a step backward still looking at you and that half smile pulling at his mouth. "You know we're not done talking about this right?"
"I know."
He turned and jogged toward the stage, and you watched him disappear through the side door and then you sat back down on the concrete step, alone, and pressed your hands to your face. And somewhere in your chest, something was cracking open. You stayed there for a minute, maybe two, trying to breathe normally, trying to think. Then you got up, wiped your face with the back of your hand, and walked back inside. You could see the stage from here but not all of it, just a sliver through the gap in the curtain. The crowd was already on their feet, phones up, and Jungwon was standing at the side of the stage with his headset on, watching them.
This was everything they'd been working toward, everything he'd been working toward. And it was happening because you kissed him, because you gave him back his luck. Your vision blurred and you blinked but it didn't help, so you just turned and walked away before anyone could see.
The apartment was too quiet when you got back and you stood in the doorway for a second, staring at the living room. Two coffee mugs sat on the table, one of them yours, the handle chipped from when you'd knocked it against the sink last week. The blanket you used at night was folded on the chair. It looked lived in, it looked like two people lived here. Because it did.
You went to the guest room and started packing and since you didn't have much it took maybe ten minutes. When you were done, you sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the far wall. The apartment was so quiet you could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen, so you thought about Jungwon coming home later, late probably, after one of his best nights ever and finding you gone.
You thought about the look on his face and your throat got tight. You found a notepad and you stared at the blank page for a long time before you picked up the pen.
jungwon,
i'm sorry. i know that's not enough, but i don't know what else to say. i can't stay. i thought i could figure this out, but i can't. every time i'm around you, things get complicated, and i don't know how to fix it without making everything worse. you're going to do incredible things. tonight proved that. you and the guys are going to be huge, and you deserve all of it. you worked so hard for this.
thank you for everything. for letting me stay. for the coffee and the terrible toast that one time. for being kind when i didn't deserve it.
i hope you understand.
You stopped and stared at what you'd written and thought about adding more — something about the masquerade ball, the fortune teller, the kiss — but what would that even do? He'd think you were losing it and honestly maybe you were. You signed it with just your name and left it on the kitchen counter, then you grabbed your bag, took one last look around, and left.
Sunoo opened the door before you could knock. "I saw you coming up the street," then he looked at your bag and at your face. "Oh no."
"Can I come in?"
"Obviously, come in." Sunoo sat down next to you and didn't say anything. "I kissed him, everything fell apart and then I kissed him again at the venue, right before the show. And then everything started going right again. Because I gave him the luck back." You looked up and your eyes were burning. "And if I stay, if I keep doing this, I'm going to ruin his life because every time I kiss him, it switches. I can't do that to him."
"Did you tell him any of this?"
"No."
"So you just left."
"I left a note."
"Are you serious right now?"
"What was I supposed to do Sunoo?!"
"I don't know, maybe talk to him? Like an adult?"
"And say what? Hey, by the way, I'm the reason your life fell apart and then got better and if we keep kissing it's going to keep yo-yoing forever?"
"Yes. Exactly that."
You looked at him. "He'd think I'm insane."
"He probably already thinks you're a little insane. You've been living in his apartment for weeks." Sunoo leaned back, arms crossed. "He's going to come looking for you, you know."
"Then I won't answer."
"You're going to hide in my apartment forever?"
"If I have to," you said. Sunoo made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're the dumbest smart person I know. This is genuinely the worst decision you've ever made." Your phone buzzed then and it was Jungwon, and you and Sunoo looked at it.
jungwon: show was amazing. where are you? want to grab food?
Your chest hurt and flipped the phone face down on your lap. You didn't answer, you just sat there on the world's worst couch and tried not to think about the way Jungwon's hand had felt on the back of your neck. The way he'd looked at you before he ran to the stage. The way he'd said you know we're not done talking about this, right? And then your phone buzzed again.
jungwon: you okay?
You turned it off. And you were absolutely miserable for the next few days. You kept your phone completely off shoved in the bottom of your bag where you wouldn't be tempted to turn it back on just to see if he'd texted again. You barely left Sunoo's apartment, you sat on the couch with the blanket pulled up to your chin and stared at the TV without actually watching anything. Sunoo would leave for work in the morning and come back in the evening with takeout, and you'd eat because he was looking at you like he was worried you'd forget to, and then you'd go back to staring at nothing.
One day you finally turned your phone on just for a minute, just to see. Fifteen missed calls and twenty three texts, most of them from Jungwon. A few from numbers you didn't recognize — probably the guys, or Jeonghan. But you didn't read any of them, you turned the phone off again and handed it to Sunoo and told him to hide it somewhere you wouldn't find it.
Eventually you started to feel like a person again. Not a good person, not a functional person, but a person. You showered and you changed out of the clothes you'd been wearing for days straight. You sat at Sunoo's tiny kitchen table and drank coffee and stared out the window at the street below and thought about what you were going to do next. You couldn't stay here forever, Sunoo's apartment was barely big enough for him, and you were taking up his couch and his space and his emotional energy and it wasn't fair. You needed to figure out a plan so you called your mom and told her you were staying there for a while, and she obviously said yes.
You packed what little you had and tried not to think about the apartment you'd left behind, tried not to think about Jungwon. You tried not to think about the way he'd kissed you in the dressing room, or the way his hand had felt on your neck or the way he'd looked at you like you were something worth keeping. But you thought about it anyway, you thought about it all the time, actually. It sat in your chest like a weight you couldn't shift heavy and constant and aching in a way that made it hard to breathe sometimes.
So when the day came, you sat on a bench in the park across from your old building with your bag at your feet, an hour before your train to your hometown was supposed to leave. Sunoo had offered to come with you to the station but you'd told him no, that you wanted to do this part alone, and he'd hugged you at the door and told you to text him when you got to your mom's and you'd promised you would. Now you were just sitting, watching people walk by — couples holding hands, someone walking a dog. Just people living their normal luck-curse-free lives.
You thought about everything you'd had a month ago. The job, the apartment. the confidence that came from being someone who had their life together, someone people looked at and thought had it figured out. Thought about how you'd lost all of that in one night. But none of it — none of the job or the apartment or your carefully constructed life — hurt as much as this. Losing Jungwon hurt more than all of it combined.
You were standing there staring at the pavement and trying to convince yourself that leaving him was the right then to do, when you heard your name. Quiet and almost hesitant like the person saying it wasn't sure it was really you. You looked up and Jungwon was standing ten feet away and he looked wrecked. His hair was a mess and he had dark circles under his eyes, looking like he hadn't a good night of sleep in days.
He looked at you and his expression did something complicated — relief, anger, hurt, all of it at once. "I've been looking for you everywhere," he said.
You stood up. "Jungwon—"
"You left." His voice cracked a little on the word. "You just — you left a note and disappeared, and I've been calling you for a week, and Sunoo wouldn't tell me where you were, and I thought—" He stopped and took a breath. "I thought something happened to you."
"I'm fine."
"Are you though? Because you're sitting on a bench with a suitcase looking like you're about to get on a train and never come back." You didn't say anything because he was right, so he took a step closer. "Can we talk? Please. Just five minutes, that's all I'm asking."
"Jungwon, I can't—"
"Five minutes."
You looked at him, at the way his jaw was tight and at the way he was looking at you like if you said no he might actually break. "Okay, five minutes."
He sat down on the bench. You sat next to him leaving space between you, and for a long moment neither of you said anything. "Why did you leave?" He asked eventually.
You stared at your hands. "It's complicated."
"So explain it to me." His eyes were pleading.
So you took a breath and let it out slowly. "Do you remember the masquerade ball? The one you worked as a waiter?"
He blinked. "Yeah?"
You turned to look at him. "Do you remember kissing someone that night?"
He went very still. "I—" He stopped. "Yeah. I do."
"That was me."
The silence that followed was so thick. "You," he said slowly. "You were the girl—"
"Yeah."
You watched him try to piece it together, watched his brain work through it. "So that's why you seemed familiar. That's why—" He stopped again. "Wait. If you knew it was me, why didn't you say anything?"
"Because it's not just that." You were talking faster now, in a rush because if you stopped you'd lose your nerve. "There was a fortune teller at the party. She told me my luck was about to run out and I thought she was full of it, but then we kissed, and everything in my life fell apart. I lost my job, my apartment, everything. And at the same time, your life got better. The band got signed, you moved into a nicer place, everything started going right for you."
He was staring at you. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying the kiss transferred my luck to you, Jungwon. I know how that sounds, I know I sound insane and I know you probably think I'm completely insane right now, but I swear I'm telling the truth. The fortune teller said it happens sometimes — when someone with a lot of good luck kisses someone with a lot of bad luck, it balances out apparently. And that's what happened to us I think." Jungwon didn't say anything, looking at you like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. "And then, when I kissed you again at the venue, before the show — I gave you the luck back. That's why everything went right that night. That's why the show was perfect. But it also means I took it away from myself again, and if I stay, if we keep doing this, it's just going to keep switching back and forth, and I can't—" Your voice broke. "I can't keep doing that to you. I can't ruin your life every time I want to be near you."
The silence stretched out. A car drove by. Someone laughed on the other side of the park. The world kept moving and you sat there waiting for him to say something, anything. "So you left because you thought you were protecting me. By disappearing without explaining any of this."
"I didn't think you'd believe me."
"You didn't even give me the chance, Y/N!"
You stood up and you looked down at your hands. "I know."
"Do you?" He stood up with you and his voice was sharper. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you made a decision for both of us without asking what I wanted. You decided I was better off without you and just left."
"You are better off—"
"Don't." He cut you off. "Don't tell me what I want. Don't tell me what's better for me."
"Jungwon—"
"I don't care about the luck." He was looking right at you now and his eyes bright and intense. "I don't care if it switches every time we're together. I don't care if everything falls apart again. I just want you to stay."
Your throat closed up. "You don't know what you're saying—"
"I know exactly what I'm saying." He reached out and took your hand. "I'm saying I don't care about any of it. Not even the band or the contract because it doesn't mean anything if you're not there with me."
You were crying now. You didn't know when it started, but your face was wet and your vision was blurred and you couldn't stop. "I'm going to ruin everything for you," you said.
"Then ruin it," he said simply. "I don't care."
"Jungwon—"
"Stay." His voice broke on the word. "Please. Just stay."
You looked at him, at how you were completely in love with this guy and you thought about the train ticket in your pocket — the plan to start over, the clean break you wanted. And then you thought about his laugh, about the way he looked at you like you were the best part of his day. You were completely in love with Jungwon.
"I'm scared, Won," you whispered.
"I'm scared too, love. But we will make it work. I promise you." His eyes were glassy and he was looking at you with that look — that down bad look he gave you countless times before.
You were so tired of running. "Okay."
He blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay. I'll stay."
For a second he didn't move like he was afraid he'd heard you wrong, like if he reacted too fast you'd take it back. And then his face broke into this smile, the one that made your chest ache because it was so openly, devastatingly happy. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He pulled you toward him and you went, and then his arms were around you and his face was buried in your hair and you could feel him breathing, could feel the way his hands gripped the back of your jacket like he was holding on for dear life. "Don't do that again," he said into your shoulder. "Don't just leave."
"I won't."
"Promise."
"I promise." He pulled back just enough to look at you and his hands came up to your face, thumbs brushing away the tears you hadn't realized were still falling. His eyes were searching yours like he was checking to make sure you meant it. "I'm sorry," you said. "I should've told you. I should've—"
"Stop," he said gently. "Don't apologize."
"But—"
"We'll figure it out. The luck thing, all of it. I don't care how complicated it is. We'll figure it out together."
And then, finally, he kissed you carefully like he was giving you a chance to change your mind, but when you leaned into him he kissed you deeper. His hand slid to the back of your neck and his fingers threading into your hair, and the other stayed on your face. When he pulled back, it was only for a second. "Hi," he said, and there was that smile again.
"Hi," you giggled.
And then he kissed you again, this time with more confidence and more certainty, his mouth moving against yours like he was making up for lost time. You kissed him back just as hard, hands sliding up to his shoulders, then to his neck. He pulled back again with his forehead resting against yours. "One more," he murmured.
"You're keeping count?"
"No. Definitely not keeping count."
He kissed you again, and again, and again, and you didn't care that you were in public, that people were probably staring, that your train was leaving in forty minutes and you weren't going to be on it. When he finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard, and he was grinning like an idiot. "I have no idea who has the luck right now."
You laughed and it felt like something breaking open in your chest, something that had been wound too tight for too long. "Me neither."
"Good. Let's keep it that way." He kissed you one more time and when he pulled away he kept his forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed, just breathing with you. "So," he said after a minute. "What do we do about the train ticket?"
"I don't know. Refund?"
"I vote for that option."
His hand sliding down to lace with yours and he looked at you like he was still trying to convince himself you were real. "Come home," he said. "Please. Come back to the apartment."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I've been sure since the day you showed up soaking wet with a broken umbrella." He squeezed your hand. "I want you there. I want you to stay."
You looked at him and you thought about the place that slowly started feeling like yours too. "Okay, let's go home."
His smile was so bright it could've powered the entire city. He grabbed your bag off the ground and you walked next to him with your hand still in his, and he didn't let go the entire way back. Not when you crossed the street, not when you got to his building, not even when he had to dig his keys out of his pocket with his free hand. When you got to the apartment, he dropped your bag by the door and turned to you. "For the record," he said, "I'm never letting you leave again."
"Is that a threat?"
"Yeah, and I'm definitely kidnapping you this time."
You laughed and then he kissed you again right there in the doorway, and you kissed him back, and he didn't break the kiss right away. Instead he backed you up slowly step by step until your back met the door with a soft thud. His hands slid up to frame your face and he pulled back just enough to look at you. "God, baby," he murmured and he pressed a finger to your lips, then replaced it with his mouth with a quick teasing kiss. "I'm gonna kiss you so many times tonight the universe is gonna run out of bad luck and just start handing us infinite good fortune." He laughed softly against your mouth. "Starting right now."
Before you could answer he kissed you again deeper, his tongue sliding slow against yours. His hands moved, one sliding down to grip your hip and the other tangling in your hair, and he pressed his body flush against yours pinning you gently but firmly to the door. You made a small needy sound into his mouth and he groaned in response, pulling back just enough to whisper against your lips. "You're so perfect, fuck—"
Your knees went weak and he must have felt it because his arm wrapped around your waist steadying you, and then he scooped you up like you weighed nothing. You gasped as your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips and your arms looped around his neck. "Easy," he said grinning as he carried you toward the kitchen. "I've got you."
He set you down on the counter but he didn't step back. Instead he stepped between your legs with his hands sliding up your thighs to rest at your hips. He leaned in close and said "look at me," softly, his voice dipping into that gentle command. You did and his eyes were locked on yours, intense, adoring, a little hungry, and he tilted his head. "You're so fucking gorgeous," he murmured. "My pretty girl." His thumb dragged along your bottom lip parting it slightly. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to have you like this."
He kissed you again while one hand slid up under your shirt, his palm flat against the bare skin of your back pulling you closer. You moaned softly and he rewarded you with a low hum, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth along your jaw down the side of your neck. He nipped lightly at your collarbone then soothed it with his tongue. "Tell me if it's too much," he said.
You nodded breathless. "I want you, Won."
His smile turned downright sinful. Jungwon kissed you again more possessively, his hands roaming freely now, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck and the other slipping under your shirt to trace the curve of your spine. You tugged at his hair pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth, hips rocking forward once, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you. He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. "Fuck," he whispered. "Are you okay? We can slow down. Or stop, whatever you need."
You shook your head quickly and your fingers tightening in his hair. "Don’t stop, please"
His eyes searched yours for a long second. "Okay." He kissed you once more then pulled back just enough to look down between you, at where your thighs were still wrapped loosely around his hips on the counter. His hands settled on the tops of your legs, his thumbs rubbing slow circles over the denim. "Can I touch you?" he asked quietly, voice almost shy despite everything. "Please?"
Your heart stuttered at the way he asked earnest and almost pleading. "Yeah," you whispered. "Yeah, you can."
His smile was instant. "Thank you, baby." He kissed you one more time grateful, then slid his hands down to the button of your jeans. He popped it open slowly and his fingers hooked into the waistband tugging gently. "Lift up for me?" he murmured.
You braced your hands behind you on the counter and lifted your hips just enough. He peeled the jeans down your thighs carefully so as not to rush, then he dropped to his knees between your legs right there on the kitchen floor and your breath caught hard. He looked up at you with eyes wide and reverent, hands resting on the outside of your thighs. "You’re so beautiful," he said simply. "Look at you. All pretty just for me."
He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the inside of your knee, just a brush of lips, and then another a little higher, teasing the sensitive skin with feather light kisses, occasionally letting his tongue flick out just enough to make you shiver. "Jungwon…" Your voice came out small and needy.
"I know baby," he murmured against your thigh. "Just relax for me okay? Let me take care of you." He kissed higher open mouthed now, sucking lightly just below where your thigh met your hip. His hands slid up to hook under your knees spreading your legs wider so he could fit himself closer. You felt exposed and vulnerable, but the way he looked at you made it feel safe instead of scary. He nuzzled the damp cotton of your underwear, nose brushing the most sensitive part of you through the fabric and you gasped. "Already so wet f'me," he said, voice low and awed. "Fuck, that's perfect. You're perfect."
He hooked two fingers into the side of your panties and tugged them down agonizingly slowly until they were off and tossed somewhere behind him. Then he looked up at you again, eyes dark with want but still so gentle. You nodded breathlessly and that seemed to unravel something in him. He leaned in and kissed you there, not diving in, not yet, just a closed mouth press right over your clit. Then another and another tiny reverent kisses. "You taste so good baby," he murmured between kisses. "Just from this. My good girl..." Finally he flattened his tongue and licked one long, slow stripe up your center. You moaned, head falling back, and he groaned in response. "That's it, let me hear you baby."
He did it again slower circling your clit with the softest pressure before pulling back to kiss like it was your mouth, and your hips bucked involuntarily. Jungwon felt the way your hips jerked up and just pressed his palm firmer against your thigh, keeping you right where he wanted you. The sounds were filthy in the quiet kitchen: wet, soft, the occasional quiet suck when he sealed his lips around your clit again. Your fingers tightened in his hair and he let out this low, pleased hum that vibrated straight through you. "Fuck," you breathed, hips twitching.
You were getting louder without meaning to and he didn't shush you or tell you to be quiet. He just groaned against you like the sounds were turning him on more. When your breathing hitched hard and your whole body tensed, he didn't speed up, he just stayed exactly where he was. Your back arched off the counter, a choked "Jungwon—" slipping out as you came, thighs squeezing around his head, fingers yanking his hair hard.
He didn't flinch, he just kept licking you soft and slow through the aftershocks until you were whimpering and pushing weakly at his forehead. "Fuck that was so hot," he murmured, finally pulling back. His lips were shiny and his chin wet, then he stood up slowly leaning over you to kiss you, letting you taste yourself. You were still catching your breath when he broke the kiss. "You good?" he asked.
"Yeah," you managed, voice wrecked. "That was… yeah."
He smirked and kissed the corner of your mouth. "Good." Then he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you off the counter and you wrapped your legs around him in reflex and he carried you down the hallway. He kicked his bedroom door shut with his heel and walked over to the bed, set you down in the middle, then he climbed over you shifting his weight, bracing on his forearms and looked down at your face for a second. "What do you want now, mhm?" he asked, then he leaned down and kissed the corner of your mouth. "I'm down for whatever you want, baby. Just tell me."
You reached up, fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him closer to kiss him. He let you, melting into the kiss, and when you broke apart you were both breathing a little harder. "I want you, so much," you said simply.
He exhaled through his nose a relieved sound, and kissed you again before trailing his lips down your jaw then your neck. He found the spot just under your ear and sucked lightly, humming when you shivered. "Me too, love. You're so fucking pretty, I can't get over it." Another kiss, lower, along your collarbone, then down to the center of your chest, right between your breasts, his lips brushing the fabric of your shirt. "This body… fuck, it's all mine tonight, yeah?"
You laughed softly and a little breathless, and he kept going, pushing your shirt up slowly, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered. Stomach, the dip of your waist, the curve under your ribs. "Gosh look at you," he breathed, lips grazing the underside of your breast. He kissed there, then higher, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he took it into his mouth while his hand cupped the other one. You arched a little, fingers tightening in his hair, and he groaned low against you. "Love the way you sound when I touch you," he said, switching sides, giving the same careful attention. "Makes me crazy."
He spent minutes like that and eventually he kissed his way back up, settling between your legs again, hard and obvious against you through his sweats. He rocked once slowly letting you feel him then dropped his forehead to yours. "Baby," he whispered. "I want to be inside you so bad."
You smiled and before he could say anything else you pushed at his shoulders until he rolled onto his back with a surprised little huff. Now you were the one hovering over him, straddling his hips with your hands braced on his chest. His eyes widened for a second, then softened while his lips curved intoa lazy smile. "Oh?" he said, voice teasing. "You taking over now?"
"Yeah," you murmured, leaning down to kiss him slowly and deep, letting your tongue slide against his until he groaned into your mouth. You pulled back just enough to speak against his lips. "My turn to make you feel good."
You kissed down his jaw, then his neck, mirroring what he'd done to you, smiling when his hips jerked up under you. "Fuck," he breathed, hands settling on your waist. "You're gonna kill me love."
You kept going down his chest, lips brushing over the cotton of his shirt first, and you could tell how much he liked it by the way his stomach flexed under every kiss. You slid your hands under the hem pushing the fabric up and exposing the smooth toned plane of his stomach. He had that subtle definition, just lean and strong, a faint happy trail started just below his navel leading down. You followed it with your tongue with a deliberate stripe right up the center of his abs and Jungwon sucked in a sharp breath, his abs jumping under your mouth. "Fuck…" he exhaled, voice wrecked. His hand found your hair again, fingers threading through gently.
You kissed lower, lips tracing the sharp cut of his hipbone then the other side and every time you got close to the waistband of his sweats you'd pull back just enough to kiss the skin right above it. "Baby," he murmured, half laugh and half plea. "You're killing me here."
You looked up at him through your lashes, smirking. "Good." He was breathing harder now, and you palmed him over the fabric with a slow drag of your hand from base to tip, feeling how thick and hard he already was. The outline was obscene and long enough that the head pushed against the waistband, thick enough that your fingers didn't quite meet when you wrapped around him. "So pretty," you said softly with your eyes locked on his.
He let out a shaky laugh that turned into a groan when you squeezed just a little. "You have no fucking idea what you do to me," he rasped biting his bottom lip hard enough to leave a mark.
You tugged the waistband down finally letting the elastic catch on the head for a second before you pulled it past. He sprang free and heavy against his stomach, flushed dark at the tip, already glistening with precum that beaded at the slit and slid down the underside in a thin line. You wrapped your fingers around him then you stroked once, slow from root to tip, thumb swiping over the head to spread the precum. Jungwon's head fell back against the pillow with a thud. "Shit — fuck, baby…"
You did it again slowly and watched every reaction. "Feels good?" you asked teasingly.
"So fucking good," he groaned and his hips lifting into your hand before he caught himself. "Don't — don't tease too much, please. I'm already losing it." But you did tease just a little more. You leaned down and kissed the inside of his thigh then higher, right at the crease where leg met hip, letting your breath ghost over him without touching. He whined low and needy. "Baby, please…" His voice cracked on the word and his fingers in your hair tightened. "Please put your mouth on me. I need it. Need you." You smiled against his skin, then finally gave in and you licked a slow flat stripe from base to tip and his whole body jerked. "Oh god — fuck yes," he gasped and his voice breaking. "Just like that. Fuck, your tongue…"
You swirled around the head with slow circles, then flicked the underside and he cursed under his breath, hips stuttering up. "Baby — shit, you're so good at this, fuck I love your mouth." You took him in properly then, sucking his length while your tongue pressed flat against the slit. He moaned loud and unrestrained. "Yes — yes, fuck, suck it like that," he babbled, voice wrecked and so, so vocal. "Don't stop, please don't stop."
You bobbed down further until he hit the back of your throat and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder on the pull up, hand stroking what your mouth couldn't reach. His breathing turned ragged, moans spilling out nonstop. "Fuck baby, you're gonna make me come so fast," he groaned, fingers flexing in your hair. You hummed around him and he practically sobbed. "Baby fuck, do that again. Please. I'm —shit, I'm so close already."
You picked up the pace just enough and your hand twisting at the base while your tongue worked the head on every upstroke. His hips were jerking in helpless thrusts and his voice cracking on every word. "Gonna come baby, I'm gonna come," he warned, desperate. "Where — fuck, where do you want it?"
You pulled off just long enough to whisper, "In my mouth." Then you took him deep again sucking hard, and he broke. "Fuck yes— fuck baby—" His whole body locked up and his hips snapped forward once as he came with a loud moan, spilling hot and thick down your throat. You swallowed around him working him through every pulse until he was whimpering from overstimulation, hand gently tugging you off.
He collapsed back and his eyes were glassy as he looked down at you. "Holy shit," he breathed. "Come here." He pulled you up immediately with his strong arms wrapping around you, rolling so you were half on top of him. He kissed you messy and deep, tasting himself on your tongue then softer hands stroking your back like he was grounding himself. "You're insane," he murmured against your lips, still catching his breath. You laughed quietly, pressing your face into his neck. "Still want inside you," he added. "Soon as I can breathe again."
You laughed a breathless giggle and leaned in to kiss his face everywhere. Soft pecks on his forehead and his eyelids then the tip of his nose, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth. He closed his eyes, smiling lazily, letting you do whatever you wanted while his hands rubbed slow circles on your back. "The universe must be confused as hell right now with all the kisses we've been throwing around," he murmured, voice still a little rough, his eyes opening n to meet yours with that playful glint.
You grinned, pressing one more kiss to his jaw. "I have no idea who's got the luck right now."
"Well I don't know," he said, smirking, "but I'm feeling pretty damn lucky."
Before you could respond, he shifted and his arms wrapped around your waist as he rolled you onto your back in one smooth motion, settling over you. He caught your hands and lacing his fingers through yours and pinning them gently above your head. Then he kissed your face just like you'd done to him: forehead, cheeks, nose, eyelids. "I'm so crazy about you," he whispered against your temple. "Like stupid crazy."
He released your hands but kept his fingers tangled with yours on one side, using the free one to slide under your shirt again. He tugged it up slowly and kissing the skin as it appeared until he could pull it over your head and toss it aside. His mouth was everywhere then and he took his time sucking lightly on one nipple while his thumb brushed the other, humming low in his throat when you arched into him. "Fuck you're gorgeous," he murmured between kisses.
He settled between your legs again, hard against you, and rocked slowly with his tip teasing your clit with the blunt pressure then dipping just barely against your entrance. Back and forth, slow drags that made you gasp, hips lifting to chase more. "Feel that? How bad I want you?" But then he paused as a small self deprecating laugh escaping him. "Shit, wait. I don't wanna push my luck here. Need a condom before I... yeah."
You laughed too, nodding. "Yeah, good call."
He kissed you quick then rolled off to grab one from his nightstand drawer. He tore the wrapper with his teeth, rolling it on with quick, his yes flicking back to you the whole time like he couldn't look away. Then he was back over you settling between your thighs, one hand bracing beside your head while the other guided himself. He teased again with just the tip circling your entrance pressing in barely an inch before pulling back, watching your face. "Ready baby?" he asked.
You nodded. "Please, Won."
He pushed in slow stretching you inch by inch, the burn intense as your body adjusted to him. He was thick, filling you up so completely that you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. He groaned low against your neck, "Fuck," he rasped. "You feel... so good. So tight around me. You okay?"
"Yeah," you whispered, rolling your hips experimentally making you both moan. "Move. Please move."
He did, slowly pulled out then deep thrusting back in, building a rhythm that had the bed creaking quietly under you. He kept that slow, deep rhythm at first pulling almost all the way out just to slide back in with a deliberate grind. The stretch was perfect bordering on too much, his thickness filling you so completely that you could feel every ridge. Sweat slicked between your bodies, and you could hear the quiet creak of the bed mixed with the wet obscene sounds of him moving inside you.
"Fuck baby, you feel so good," Jungwon whined, voice high. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut for a second before they fluttered open, locking on you with this desperate look. "So tight... God, I can't— I can't. You're driving me insane."
You whimpered back, hands clawing at his back. "Jungwon — please, harder... need you deeper," you begged, hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. It felt so good it almost hurt, that sweet ache building low in your belly, but you wanted more, wanted him to ruin you.
He groaned loud, a shaky, obsessed sound, and picked up the pace with his thrusts turning sharper, hips snapping forward with a wet slap each time. "Like that? Fuck yes — tell me, baby." His mouth crashed against your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. One hand slid down to grip your thigh, hitching it higher around his waist so he could angle deeper, hitting that spot that made you see white.
"Oh god — right there," you cried out. "You're so big..."
"Fuck I love this pussy..." He was babbling now completely unfiltered, hips stuttering as he chased the feeling, his free hand roaming everywhere, squeezing your breast, thumb flicking your nipple hard. You pulled him down for a messy kiss, both of you whining into each other's mouths. "Want on top, let me ride you — please, Won," you whined.
He let out a broken moan at that. "Yeah? Fuck — yes, baby." He rolled you both over and settled on his back with you straddling his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you and the new angle made you gasp. You braced your hands on his chest and started moving with slow rolls at first, grinding your clit against his pelvis. He looked up at you like you were a goddess, hands gripping your hips hard. "Holy shit — you look so hot like this," he whined with his hips bucking up weakly to meet you. "Bouncing on my cock... fuck, your tits — play with them for me? Please baby, wanna see."
You did, cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples, moaning whiny and loud as you picked up speed, lifting and dropping harder now. "Like this?"
He threw his head back, throat exposed and bobbing with a swallow, a needy whine escaping him. "Yes fuck, just like that." You leaned down sinking your teeth into his shoulder enough to make him hiss and buck wildly under you, his hands sliding to your ass to squeeze and guide your movements. "Fuck yes, like that, gonna come if you keep, shit, baby."
You tightened around him on purpose as you rode him. "Oh god baby, fuck, do it again," so you did and he gasped and his voice was cracking, hips jerking up hard enough to make you bounce. His hands flew to your ass, gripping tight and then on instinct, he lifted one palm and brought it down in a sharp smack right across your cheek. You moaned loud and shameless. Jungwon froze for half a second, eyes widening like he'd just discovered something dangerous, then he saw the way your back arched, the way you clenched even tighter around him, and his expression shifted. "You liked that yeah?" he rasped while his palm was rubbing over the warm spot he'd just hit. "Fuck… you really liked that huh?"
You nodded fast, biting your lip. "Yeah, fuck, do it again. Please."
He groaned like the word alone almost finished him off. Another smack harder this time and you cried out, grinding down harder on his cock. "Goddamn, love, such a good girl for me… taking it so well." He squeezed your ass possessively then delivered one more controlled slap. "Turn around," he said suddenly, voice firm. "On your hands and knees. Now."
You scrambled off him and got into position with your ass up and your back arched. You looked back over your shoulder, while Jungwon sat up behind you, hands roaming over your hips, your waist, your back like he couldn't decide where to touch first. "Fuck princess, you're dripping down your thighs. Fuck, I'm obsessed."
He lined himself up again with his tip nudging your entrance, teasing for just a second then he pushed in slowly at first, and you both moaned at the same time, filthy. "So deep," you whined, pushing back against him. "Jungwon — please… fuck me hard."
His grip tightened on your hips and he started thrusting fast, really fast, slapping against your ass with every stroke, the bedframe rattled against the wall. "Fuck fuck, baby, listen to that," he panted. "You love it rough, don't you? Love when I fuck you like this?"
"Yes yes, oh gosh yes," you cried, pushing back to meet every thrust, hands fisting the sheets. "Harder please, Jungwon, don't stop—"
He leaned over you with his chest pressing to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you in place while the other slid between your legs. His fingers found your clit rubbing fast circles that matched the brutal rhythm of his hips. "Come for me again," he begged, voice whiny and commanding at the same time. "Please, baby milk me, I need it around my cock."
You were already close, the angle hitting that spot over and over and his fingers relentless while your moans turned into broken sobs. "Jungwon, I'm — fuck, I'm gonna—"
"Do it," he growled against your ear. "Be a good girl and come for me, yeah?" You shattered with your back arching hard, walls clamping down around him in fluttering pulses as you came with a wrecked cry of his name. Your whole body shook, vision blurring. He fucked you through it fast and sloppy now, chasing his own high. "Fuck baby, that's it, milk me, shit, I'm so close — gonna come —"
"Come for me, Won, please —" you whined, pushing back weakly.
That sent him over. He slammed in one last time deeply, his hips flush against your ass and came with a long, broken moan that sounded almost pained, his cock pulsing hard inside you as he spilled into the condom. His whole body shuddered, arms wrapping tight around you from behind, holding you close while he rode out the aftershocks.
He stayed buried inside you for a good minute after he came, bath of you breathing hard while his chest was plastered to you back and his arms locked around your middle. His face was tucked into the side of your neck and every few seconds he would press a lazy kiss there. Eventually he pulled out slowly and carefully, hissing a little through his teeth when the cool air hit him. "Fuck that was intense," he muttered as he rolled the condom off and tied it quick, chucking it toward the trash can by the desk.
You laughed, still face down on the mattress. "Yeah, it really was…"
He flopped down beside you, one arm slinging over your waist pulling you sideways so you were kind of snooping, as his fingers started tracing lazy patterns on your hip. "You okay my love? I kinda went feral at the end there."
You turned your head enough to look at him. His hair was a disaster, sticking up everywhere and his cheeks were super flushed, but he was smiling and it was disarming. "More than okay. My legs are jelly, though. And my ass is gonna remind me of you tomorrow."
He grinned with that boyish grin. "That's good, a souvenir." Then he leaned in and kissed your shoulder right over one of the little red marks he'd left earlier. "Sorry if I got too carried away. You just… you really make me lose my mind, you know?"
"Same here," you admitted, reaching back to thread your fingers through his hair.
He hummed pleased and pulled you closer. "So," he said, as his thumb was circling sweet circles on your ribs. "Do you think we switched again?"
You laughed. "Honestly I have no idea. I wasn't exactly keeping track."
"Yeah, me neither." He nuzzled into your neck. "I was a little distracted."
"Just a little?"
"Okay, extremely. You're very distracting, baby."
You smiled, turning in his arms so you were facing him properly. His eyes were half closed and there was this softness to his expression that made your chest feel tight in the best way. "I don't think I care," you said quietly.
"About the luck?"
"Yeah, I mean I thought I did. I thought it was this whole big thing we had to figure out, but now I'm just like..." You trailed off not sure how to explain it.
"You're like what?" He was really looking at you now and his hand came down to reach yours and give a light hearted kiss on your palm.
"I don't know. I think maybe I had it backwards. I thought losing my luck was the worst thing that could happen to me, but then I met you and —" You stopped feeling your face heat up. "That sounds so cheesy."
"No, keep going. I wanna hear this." He was grinning now, that charming asshole grin.
"I'm not gonna keep going if you're gonna be smug about it."
"Smug? I'm not being smug," he smirked, teasing you.
"You're absolutely being smug."
"Okay, maybe a little." He kissed the tip of your nose. "But seriously. Keep going."
You sighed but you were smiling too. "I just mean... meeting you was lucky. Even if everything else fell apart. Meeting you made all of it worth it."
His expression did something vulnerable and a little overwhelmed like he wasn't expecting you to say that. His hand was on your face and his thumb was brushing over your cheek. "Yeah?" he said quietly.
"Yeah."
"You mean that?"
"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."
He was quiet for a second, just looking at you, and then he pulled you closer and kissed you. It was different from before, just sweet and slow. "I'm in love with you," he said when he pulled back. "Just so you know."
Your breath caught. "What?"
"I'm in love with you." He said it again. "I think I have been for a while. Since before the showcase, probably. Maybe since you showed up soaking wet with that broken umbrella and got in my car without even thinking about it. Hell I fell in love with you at that ball even though you were wearing a mask and I didn't know your name."
"Jungwon—"
"I know everything is messy," he continued talking faster now like he was worried you'd interrupt. "And I know everything's been kinda insane with the luck thing and you leaving and me being a mess about it, but I don't care. I'm in love with you. And I just, I wanted you to know that." You stared at him. Your heart was doing something cartwheels and your eyes were getting hot, and you didn't know what to say. "You don't have to say it back by the way," he added quickly. "I'm not — this isn't me trying to pressure you or anything. I just wanted to tell you because it's true."
"You're an idiot," you said and your voice was shaking.
He blinked. "That's not usually the response —"
"I'm in love with you too, you idiot."
His face broke into the biggest smile you'd ever seen. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Obviously. Why do you think I came back?"
"I don't know, I thought maybe you just really liked my pancakes." You laughed, and it came out wet because apparently you were crying now, and he kissed you again, still grinning against your mouth. "God, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he mumbled between kisses. "Luck or no luck, I don't care. You're it for me, you know that?"
"Stop, don't say that..."
"I'm serious, baby. You're it."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, you're it for me too." He made this sound like a laugh but still a sigh and pulled you on top of him so you were straddling his hips, his hands settling on your waist. You could feel him already starting to get hard again beneath you, which was honestly impressive considering you'd literally just finished. "Again?" you said, raising an eyebrow.
"What? You're naked and sitting on me and you just said you're in love with me. What did you expect?"
"Yeah, okay, fair." You giggled.
"Mhm. So what do you say, my love? Round two?"
"You're insatiable."
"Only for you, baby."
And, well, turns out the universe has a sense of humor after all.
The band blew up, like actually blew up. ENHYPEN's live album hit streaming platforms and within a month they were getting requests for festival appearances and opening slots for bigger acts. Jeonghan called it the fastest trajectory I've ever seen for a new signing which Jungwon pretended to be cool about but you caught him grinning at his phone for like twenty minutes after that call. They did a small tour but sold out every show. Sunghoon broke another drumstick on stage and the fan video went viral. Jake started getting recognized at coffee shops. Heeseung got approached about a solo EP. Jay bought a car, which he immediately regretted because parking in the city is a nightmare but he was too proud to admit it.
And Jungwon? Jungwon was in his element. Managing them and keeping them on schedule, negotiating with venues and doing all the behind the scenes stuff that nobody sees but makes everything actually work. He was really good at it and watching him do his thing, watching him be confident and competent and completely in control, was honestly kind of hot. As for you, Jeonghan kept his word. He got you an interview with HYBE's events division and you walked in with a portfolio of every event you'd ever planned, including the disastrous masquerade ball, because fuck it, you organized that thing and it looked incredible even if it ended badly. They hired you on the spot with a decent salary and actual benefits. You were so back.
The apartment became both of yours pretty quickly. You'd officially moved in as a girlfriend about a month after and it was kind of seamless in a way that would've freaked you out before but now just felt right. Your plant claimed the windowsill in the living room and your books took over half the shelf. Your toothbrush lived next to his in the bathroom. He cleared out two drawers for you without asking and you bought matching Pokémon mugs as a joke except now you both used them every morning.
Sunoo came over at least twice a week usually to raid your fridge and complain about his dating life. He and the band got along great, which you should've predicted because Sunoo gets along with everyone. Sometimes you'd come home to find him and Sunghoon arguing about anything on the couch while Jungwon made dinner. It felt like family, the kind of family you choose.
But here's the weird part and you noticed it first, though Jungwon figured it out around the same time — the luck thing evened out completely. You weren't absurdly lucky anymore and he wasn't cosmically cursed. You were both just... average. The kind of normal where sometimes you'd find a twenty in your coat pocket and sometimes your card would decline at the grocery store for no reason. Sometimes Jungwon would hit every green light on the way to the studio and sometimes the subway would break down and make him late. One time you were running to catch the train and you tripped on the platform and Jungwon caught your arm at the exact same second. You both stopped and looked at each other and started laughing because what were the odds? Bad luck canceled out by good luck, or maybe good luck canceled out by bad luck, or maybe it was just two people in the same place at the same time and that was enough.
You were both at the amusement park on the edge of the city one saturday, those amusement parks with rides that were just rickety enough to be fun and overpriced carnival games that nobody ever wins. Jungwon showed up at noon with tickets already purchased and this grin on his face like he was about to surprise you with something amazing. And, well, it was a good day. You went on the ferris wheel first because he insisted, and at the top he kissed you with the whole city spread out below and it was corny as hell but you didn't care. You played one of those rigged basketball games and he missed every single shot and the guy running the booth felt so bad he gave you a stuffed bear anyway. You got soft pretzels that were too salty and lemonade that was too sweet and wandered around just talking about nothing, his hand in yours the whole time.
Later, when the sun was starting to set and the park lights were coming on, you were walking past the games and food stalls when you saw Madame Clarisse. She was set up at a small table near the back of the park with the same jeweled mask, same rings on every finger, same sign that said Palm Reading - $10. There was no line, though. She was just sitting there shuffling a deck of tarot cards and when you walked past she looked up and your eyes met. She smiled like she'd known all along how this would turn out.
You stopped walking and Jungwon noticed after a second and turned back. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you said, still looking at her. "I just — do you remember the fortune teller? From the ball?"
"The one who said your luck was running out?"
"Yeah. That's her."
He followed your gaze and when he saw her his eyebrows went up. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
Madame Clarisse gave a little wave. You couldn't help it so you waved back. "Should we—" Jungwon started.
"No," you said already pulling him away. "I think we're good."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I don't need her to tell me anything. I already know."
"Know what?"
You looked at him, at his ridiculous windswept hair and his easy smile and the way he was looking at you like you were the best part of his entire day. "That I got lucky," you said.
He laughed. "That's terrible."
"I know."
"I love you, you know?"
"Yeah, I know that too."
He kissed you then, right there in the middle of the amusement park. "Come on," he said. "I want to win you something at one of these rigged games."
"You're going to lose all your money."
"Not if I get lucky."
You walked away hand in hand, and behind you Madame Clarisse went back to her cards still smiling. You thought about all of it: the ball, that first kiss, the broken umbrella, the month you spent convinced the universe hated you, the moment you almost got on a train and left everything behind. You thought about luck and cosmic balance and fortune tellers who saw things coming before you did. But mostly you just thought about the way Jungwon's hand felt in yours, the way he looked at you like you were the best thing that ever happened to him. The way you'd kissed a stranger in a mask and somehow ended up here, with him, exactly where you were supposed to be.
Maybe the universe had a sense of humor after all. Or maybe some things were always meant to happen, luck or no luck. Either way, you weren't complaining. Just my luck, you thought. Just my luck.
pairing: enemy! hyuck x ex bff! reader | genre:rom-com | words:29k+
synopsis -> lee haechan, theatre major, absolutely hated your guts. you felt the same exact way. the only girl in this whole university that hasn’t fallen for the most popular fuckboy’s charms. which is why it sucks that you have both landed the main roles in the theater’s upcoming play, romeo and juliet. what was that saying about love and hate being a thin line?
warnings -> i lost count of how many times i used the word hate and all it’s synonyms, pet name unlocked: princess, so much arguing, both of them have major communication issues!, so many side characters i hope you know all of them, too many musical references +18, crude humor, language, mentions of: parties, alcohol, reader gets drugged, drunk calling, so much smut i kinda got carried away! thigh riding, slight exhibitionism, very rough sex, hyuck is a dom bottom who lovesss boobies, dry-humping, use of whore and slut, choking, slapping, oral (m+f), fingering, car sex, dirty dirty dirty talk!
an -> the fourth installment of the loverboy series is yours! i’m gonna be honest, i’ve never gotten through romeo and juliet without falling asleep. i did force myself to watch the movie just for this though! and i took a nap in the middle lol. disclaimer! i know nothing about the theater world, i just like musicals! important things to note: 1) haechan is the most popular fuckboy - everyone loves him, he’s charming and funny and he’s not afraid to hurt anyone’s feelings if he needs to 2) all three couples jaemin x angel; jeno x bunny; and mark x kitten are all happily together! have fun reading! - with love, c.
“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath, the words bitter on your tongue. behind you, the hallway erupts with cheers, laughter, congratulations, celebration of their dream roles. you should be one of them. be as elated, as ecstatic, jump around and cheer for landing the role of one of the two protagonists.
but all you could focus on was the name above yours.
your stomach twists, fists clench at your sides. the letters blur for a second and you blink rapidly, as if reading it again will somehow make it go away. you don’t have to turn around to feel him – that distinct, arrogant presence that always makes your skin crawl. the air arounds you tightens, turns electric, suffocating as he steps up beside you, your shoulders instinctively stiffening like your body was preparing for war.
haechan doesn’t say a word first, just reading the cast list you’ve been cursing at for the past fifteen seconds.
then he scoffs, “what the hell?,” he hissed venomously, before ripping the sheet off the bulletin board, crinkling the edge between his fingers like it personally offended him.
“hey–!,” you snap, breaking from your stunned silence, spinning on your heel to follow him as he storms across the hall like a live grenade looking for somewhere to detonate.
“mr. doyoung!,” his voice cracks through the hallway like a thunderclap, “this has got to be a mistake!”
there it is. that infuriating, entitled tone, like the spoiled, arrogant bastard he’s always been. always louder. always assuming the world should rearrange itself around him. you roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but for the first time in a long time, you actually agree.
“yeah, there’s no way, in hell, you can make me act opposite of him,” you bite out, folding your arms tightly across your chest as you come to a halt beside him. your voice is sharp, clipped, every word aimed to kill as the two of you glare at each other like two predators forced into a cage.
his eyes glint with the same smug cruelty he’s weaponized against you, “then drop the part,” he sneers, that damned smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, “save us all the agony.”
you scoff, “if anyone’s dropping out, it should be you.” you step closer, close enough to feel the anger radiating off of him. your noses are inches apart, breaths sharp, shallow, matching like clashing rhythms.
his eyes narrow, “not in a million years, princess,” he spits. the nickname laced with the kind of condescension that makes your blood boil — the same nickname he gave you when you first met in freshman year of high school. it used to hold playfulness until junior year when he used it to spite you, calling you a spoiled, whiny brat in front of all your classmates.
“i. hate. you.” you hiss, slow and deliberate, as if saying it any softer wouldn’t do your fury justice.
“not as much as i. hate. you,” he fires back instantly as if he’s been waiting to say it.
and you know you both mean it. every syllable.
the silence between you is razor-sharp, about to break into something neither of you will be able to take back until mr. doyoung finally claps his hands together, far too enthusiastically.
“ahhh, exactly the kind of fire i’d expect from my two star crossed lovers,” he beams, though there’s a flicker of panic behind his eyes for the future of his play, “so much...raw emotion, i’m sure you’ll channel it beautifully!,” he smiles that bunny-like smile. you both turn to glare at him.
mr. doyoung’s smile falters, “orrr maybe i’ll add a few extra rehearsals. just in case.”
you want to scream. you want to throw the script in his face. you want the ground to open up and swallow him whole. transport him somewhere far away from you where you would never have to see him again. instead, you glare at him and know this is going to be war.
ཐིཋྀ the first week of rehearsals
the rehearsal room smells like dust and desperation. the air is heavy, slow, stale and every time the fan completes it’s rotation, it just blow more disappointment into your face.
but none of it compares to the static crackling between you and him.
“i’m not doing that,” you snap, backing away from haechan like his presence is physically repulsive, “if he touches me like that again, i swear to god, i’m walking out.” there’s something about the way haechan put his hand on your waist, not even hard, not even long, that makes your whole body go tight, defensive.
“jesus christ,” haechan groans, dramatically running a hand through his already disheveled hair as he paces like a caged animal, like the floor can somehow absorb his frustration, “it’s called blocking and i’m supposed to stand there. it’s the scene. what are you? an amateur.”
the both of you hate each other but you both knew you were far from amateurs. especially in the theatre world. you were always part of the main ensemble, so was he. it’s almost ironic how you never saw it coming…that one day you would land a role opposite his.
you glare daggers, “it’s called basic respect for personal space, not an invitation to grope me,” you shoot back, matching his volume now, hands on your hips, “and you didn’t follow the mark. you were supposed to take one step forward, not three and a half and a hand on my waist.”
“that’s literally where romeo touches juliet. in the script,” he grits out, teeth clenching, “ever heard of it?,” his eyes flash, jaw tight.
“i’ve read it,” you snap, voice rising in heat, “i just don’t think shakespeare imagined romeo groping juliet like a frat boy.”
“groping?,” he repeats, incredulous, “you’re delusional. talk about overreacting, as if i would ever want to grope you.”
you glare, “at least i can act.” it’s petty. it’s low. but it lands. you see the spark behind his eyes flare into flame.
he barks out a laugh that’s so disbelieving it echoes, “that’s rich coming from you. every time i look at you, you look dead, let me remind you juliet is still alive in this scene.”
“maybe because looking at you makes me want to jump off the balcony and actually end it myself!,” you yell, voice going an octave higher with every word.
you hate him so much. hate the way you act when he’s around. you’re not usually like this. you’re calm, sweet, a walking ray of sunshine. but when he’s around. it’s all a mess.
“okay, ENOUGH!”
mr. doyoung’s voice cuts through the room like a whip, his usual patience obliterated, stepping between the two of you like a human peace treaty, “you are juliet,” he says to you, “-and you are romeo,” he turns to haechan, “i don’t plan on changing any of the cast so if you two don’t find a way to sell the illusion that you’re in love, this entire show is going to be a very expensive dumpster fire.”
neither of you speak. too busy glaring at each other, like eye contact alone might ignite spontaneous combustion. mr. doyoung sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “let’s just…try the balcony scene again. from the top. no improvising. no suicide jokes. just the lines. please. for the love of theater.”
you both reluctantly take your marks, haechan looks up at you, a few feet above the stage, perched on a rickety prop balcony that feels two screws away from collapsing, wobbling under your feet.
he takes his place below, casting a look up at you that’s less romantic longing and more barely restrained murder. then he begins, voice flat, eyes dead, “but, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? it is the east, and juliet is the sun.”
you blink slowly, unimpressed, “really?,” you call down, loud enough to make mr. doyoung’s eye twitch. “that’s your romeo? he sounds like he’s reading from the terms and conditions page,” you insult.
“i’m projecting,” he says defensively, like the word justifies everything.
“you’re projecting boredom,” you deadpan, “romeo’s in love, not filing a complaint with customer service”
“oh, i’m sorry,” he stays stepping forward with mock enthusiasm, “it’s hard to sound passionate when i’m looking at someone who constantly has a resting bitch face.”
“you’re such a dick!,” you snap from the balcony.
“and you’re nothing but a spoiled brat!”
you both shout over each other. mr. doyoung lets out an almost feral scream and hurls his clipboard across the stage. it hits a chair and ricochets loudly, silencing the room. the rest of the cast sharing multiple side-eyes.
“end of rehearsals!,” he bellows, voice cracking with pure, unfiltered despair. you don’t need to be told twice. you turn on your heel and storm off the left side of the stage without looking back. you don’t need to. you can feel him heading the other way, like magnets forced apart.
and yet, even as you leave the room, you can still feel him…under your skin, buzzing through your veins.
ཐིཋྀ the second week of rehearsals
mr. doyoung looks like he’s aged ten years over the week. his clipboard is cracked down the spine, his coffee has gone cold, and his voice has taken on the strained edge of a man dangling off the brink of a nervous breakdown — there has been absolutely no progress when it comes to his leading actors.
he watches, again, as the scene falls apart. you stand center stage, shoulders stiff, delivering your lines like someone reading a grocery list and haechan was delivering his like a stand-up comedian doing shakespeare for drunks.
“you know what?,” mr. doyoung finally snaps, his voice cracking under the strain of suppressed rage, “i’m done. i’m tired of the two of you wasting everyone’s time.” you and haechan glance at each other with deadpan synchronicity and immediately roll your eyes in perfect unison. the only thing you can do in sync.
“i’m not going to waste one more minute pretending this is salvageable until you two get your shit together,” he pulls a key from his pocket, walks toward the back rehearsal room and without warning, yanks the door open, “get in.”
you hesitate. so does haechan. but mr. doyoung’s eyes blaze with the quiet fury of a man who has nothing left to lose. before either of you can protest, he herds you both into the cramped rehearsal room, walls lined with mismatched props and discarded costumes. he slams the door shut behind you, the sound of the lock clicking echoing through the space like a death sentence.
“you’re going to spend the next hour locked in this room. read the lines, build chemistry. i don’t care how you do it but make sure it works or i swear to god i will cast freshmen in the lead roles and let the whole show burn,” he instructs from the other side, his footsteps retreating down the hall.
mr. doyoung knew the two of you too well, both too proud, too consumed by your own egos and the thrill of performing. you didn’t just want to act, you wanted to outshine, to dominate every scene. all it needed was a little push, to finally get you where he wants.
“great,” you mutter, crossing your arms as you lean against the wall, “trapped in a room with you, it’s just like high school all over again.”
haechan stares at you like he’s seconds away from choosing violence, “believe me princess, i’d rather be stuck in a room filled with plague-infested rats than be here with you.”
“let’s just get this over with so we can get out of here,” you roll your eyes as you both grab your scripts. tension hanging like a thundercloud.
“deny thy father and refuse thy name–,” you start.
“maybe try not sounding like you’re ai,” haechan cuts in, already annoyed, tone drenched in mockery.
your eyes narrow, “this is ridiculous,” you mutter, slapping the script onto a table, “he really thinks chemistry can be forced?”
haechan scoffs, “it’s not chemistry that’s the problem. it’s you.”
you spin toward him, a furrow on your features, “right, because the way you butcher romantic lines make the audience swoon.”
“i’m sorry, have you ever heard yourself say ‘oh romeo, oh romeo’ without sounding like you’re a fucking gps?”
your voice rises, “god, you’re not even trying to act like you’re in love with me!,”
“maybe because the idea makes me want to rip out my own eyeballs,” he snarls, stepping closer.
“you are the most arrogant!,” you take a step closer, voice rising, veins protruding, “most infuriating–”
you don’t see it coming.
one second you’re shouting at each other, chest heaving, veins on fire and the next, his hands are tangled in your hair, mouth crushing yours like a threat – the kiss is messy. too much teeth. zero warning. absolute chaos.
you shove him off, lips bruised and tingling, breath ragged, eyes blown out, “are you fucking insane?!”
haechan looks like a deer caught in headlights, eyes flickering with something wild, shock and hunger all at once, but before he can register what he just did, you grab his shirt and pull him down into another kiss – twice as hard, all tongue and fury and years of pent-up hatred combusting between your teeth.
it’s not romantic. it’s war.
he stumbles back into the worn chair and you follow, climbing into his lap and straddling his thigh like you’re still trying to win. your skirt rides up as your knees settle on either side of his leg. hot, wet core pressing against the thick line of muscle beneath you, haechan’s own gym shorts bunching up on his thigh and for the first time, you’re both quiet. just the obscene sound of mouths and breath and friction echoing throughout the room.
your hips rock forward, slow at first, then harder. a needy, broken sound slips past your lips, making his cock twitch in his shorts.
“god,” he breathes into your jaw, “i would’ve done this years ago if i knew it’d finally shut you up,” his lips trail down your jaw, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses.
“you’re such a cocky piece of shit,” you hiss, panting against his mouth, hips still rocking into his thigh.
“and you’re still a brat,” he growls, gripping your waist like he might lose his mind otherwise, “but fuck–keep doing that.”
“i hate you,” you growl against his lips as you continue to ride his thigh anyway. like the words would justify any of this.
“you’re grinding on me like you don’t,” he says smugly.
“shut up.”
“make me.”
you do. you pull his hair and kiss him again, tongue in his mouth – filthy, hot, tangled. the pressure builds fast, molten and sharp. your tits brush his chest, perky nipples peeking through the thin fabric of your white shirt, his hands hot and demanding on your ass. he whines into your mouth and it’s almost enough to make you lose yourself entirely. you pick up rhythm, shameless and hungry, the movement hitting that perfect, aching spot.
haechan loathes how hot you look right now. on top of him, leaving a wet trail all over his leg, tits bouncing to the rhythm you’ve set. and he hates how his body is betraying him even more. absolutely despises the way all his blood is surging straight to his cock.
your nails dig into his shoulders, clutching him like an anchor as your rhythm stutters, speeding up then slowing down as pleasure starts to overtake logic.
“fuck,” you pant, lips brushing his, breath hot and ragged, “i’m gonna–”
“keep going,” he groans, voice whiny and hoarse, almost broken, “don’t stop, just—fuck—,” both of you lost in the heat and pleasure taking over.
his fingers dig into your hips with bruising intensity, like he’s holding on to the last thread of control. his eyes clamp shut, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his breath stutters, shallow, ragged, desperate. he’s completely still for half a second…then a full-body shiver runs through him.
you feel it. the tension. the collapse. the sudden hitch in his breath against your neck. the way he curses under it, low and broken, “shit.”
you freeze, then pull back just far enough to see his face. his eyes are blown wide, pupils drowning in dark, cheeks flushed with something that looks a lot like shame.
“did you just—” you whisper, half breathless, half cruel, hips slowing into a lazy roll meant only to taunt. you’re grinning now, wicked and disbelieving.
“shut up,” he mutters against your skin, but his voice is wrecked. gone. the edge of humiliation bleeding through.
your eyes drag over the heat in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way he refuses to meet your gaze and a laugh slips out, breathy, stunned, “oh my god. you did.”
he glares at you, face still flushed, every muscle taut like he’s deciding whether to deny it or destroy you for saying it. his pride was fraying, splintering – and then his hands fists in your hair, yanks your mouth back to his, eyes darker now, sharp with something feral as he regains his voice “i didn’t tell you, you could stop,” he growls, voice a low snarl against your lips.
then he takes over — in a blink, haechan’s hands clamp down on your hips, commanding your every grind, gripping like he’s trying not to completely lose it again. his mouth latches on that exposed skin above your breast, hot and unrelenting, teeth scraping, tongue following like he wants to mark you. wants you to hate yourself at the reminder of his lips on your skin.
his thigh flexes beneath you, on purpose this time, pushing up against you with just enough force to make you gasp, completely wiping away that smug he despises.
he hates you. god, he hates you. hates how every little thing you do sets off something in him, a chain reaction he can’t control. every movement, every breathy sound wrecking him in ways he’ll never admit.
“fuck, haechan,” you whine, shutting your eyes in pleasure, forehead pressed to his, “don’t stop.”
his breath catches, you’ve never said his name like that before, so raw, so needy, so desperate. it short-circuits something in him.
“wasn’t planning on it,” he mutters, voice low. he rolls your hips faster and faster, practically bouncing you on his thigh. the chair below you creaks but you barely hear it over your own wrecked breathing.
“you’re such a fucking slut, princess, hating me and getting off on my thigh like this,” he smirks, completely taking over the situation now. the words shouldn’t turn you on more. but they do. your body responds before your brain can catch up, lighting up like a match thrown onto gasoline. you can’t stop. you don’t stop. your fingers claw into his shoulders for balance as you grind down harder, breathy whines slipping in between your heavy breathing, entire body on fire, like every nerve has been rewired to respond to him and only him.
“go on princess,” he taunts, voice low, filthy, infuriating, “use me. i’ll let you,” he mocks like you should be grateful. like this is a gift. like he isn’t the one who came untouched in his shorts.
you hate it. you love it. you hate him.
“say it,” you pant, lips grazing his, breathless and daring.
his eyes are on fire, “say what?”
“that you hate me.”
his mouth curls into that cocky, devastating grin that you want to slap and kiss at the same time. “i hate you so fucking much,” he groans against your lips, swallowing the noise you make like he’s starving for it.
then his hand dives under your skirt, fingers rough and urgent, dragging your panties to the side. you don’t stop moving, continuing to ride his thigh, chasing that high. the press of skin against skin pushes you over the edge. you cry out, not caring if there was a chance mr. doyoung was listening in. the room’s spinning, heat rising like a fever. the tension in your stomach ready to explode.
“god,” you choke, voice cracking, “i’m gonna come on your fucking leg.”
his eyes darken, hands gripping tighter as he bites your earlobe with just enough force to run shivers down your spine, “do it,” he hisses, words like sin against your ear, “paint it.”
then his thumb finds your clit, circling harsh, precise circles. and it’s over. your whole body tenses, hips grinding down, breath catching, head tossed back, lips parted in a soft, stunned moan as pleasure rolls through you like a slow explosion. it seizes you from the inside out, heat blooming behind your eyes, your limbs trembling where you straddle him.
haechan swears under his breath, jaw tight, eyes darkening and locked on you like he’s watching something unholy and holy all at once. you slump against his chest, breathless, spent, your hands still clutching the collar of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. he doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you there, heartbeat loud and frantic under your palm. his thigh still twitching from the aftermath.
eventually, you pull back enough to look at him. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is swollen. there’s a stunned, reverent look in his eyes that he tries, and fails, to cover with a smirk like he’s not sure what the hell just happened. and you’re sure you look the exact same way.
“well,” you breathe, blinking slowly, “that was…”
“method acting” he says, but his voice is hoarse, “completely professional, shakespeare would be proud.”
you let out a stunned laugh and shove his shoulder, “i still hate you.”
“and i, you” his mouth curves into that smug smile that you swore was glued onto his face.
“this isn’t happening again.” you say it sharp, sure.
“wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he smirks, cocky and vexing.
ཐིཋྀ the third week of rehearsals
the rehearsal space feels different now. it shouldn’t. the floor is the same scuffed black, taped up with the same blocking marks you argued over last time. mr. doyoung is still barking notes from behind his clipboard, a coffee in one hand and a red pen in the other.
everything is the same. except you. except him.
the space between you used to be poison. now it’s something else. it crackles with something hotter, wilder, like dry air before a thunderstorm. charged and dangerous.
neither of you dares to speak of it. admit it.
you haven’t touched since that rehearsal, not so much as a brush of fingers. you haven’t spoken about what happened but your body hasn’t forgotten. neither has his. every glance feels like it could combust on contact. every time your eyes meet across the room, you feel the memory of his mouth. the way he kissed you mid-scream, like anger was just a mask for hunger. the way your hips rocked against his hard thigh. the way you both hated it, and how much worse it was that you enjoyed it, too.
you’re not proud of it. you try to ignore it. try to act normal. professional. just two enemies pretending to be in love. no big deal. you’re adults. adults can handle unresolved sexual tension and violent mutual resentment…right?
“y/n and haechan,” mr. doyoung’s voice cuts through the static in your head. your eyes snap up, heart thudding against your ribs. you grit your teeth.
the “and” makes your skin crawl. you hate how he says it. your name first. then his. like a pair. a duo. like you belong together.
“let’s run the balcony scene again,” mr. doyoung continues, “and this time, try not to fight.”
you let out a slow, measured breath and glance down at your crumpled script. the words blur for a second before snapping back into focus. you know them already. every line, every pause, every look juliet gives romeo – you practiced it all week.
what you don’t know is how to stand next to haechan without remembering what he sounds like with his breath ragged and your name tangled on his tongue. you almost want to start a fight, just to get out of doing this scene.
your pulse stutters before you even lift your head, because you can feel him. the weight of his stare from across the black box stage. for once, he doesn’t open with some smug quip or insult. he just gives a nod. subtle. almost respectful. almost.
you arch a brow, eyes narrowed, finally looking his way. he doesn’t smile. doesn’t smirk. just murmurs under his breath as he steps into place, “don’t look at me like that,” he says under his breath, “i’m trying not to hate you for five minutes.”
“gee, thanks,” you mutter, stepping into position.
you move to the edge of the mock balcony, script still clutched like a shield. but the words feel heavier now. the scene begins. your voice is steady because it has to. because this is theatre.
“o romeo, o romeo…”
you read the lines. and somehow, a true miracle, you don’t argue. not once. he doesn’t interrupt. you don’t roll your eyes. there are no snarky remarks or insults coming from you or him. the tension is still there but it’s different. sharper. controlled. like both of you have locked it in a cage between your ribs and are desperately pretending it isn’t rattling to get out.
when the scene ends, there’s a pause.
then mr. doyoung claps his hands together, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in shock, “holy hell, that was almost convincing! what the hell did you two do, blood sacrifice? therapy? drugs?”
your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
how do you tell your theater director that the only reason you and your sworn enemy can tolerate each other on stage is because you both got so angry you rode his thigh until you both came?
you can’t — neither of you answers. you just look at each other, both of your cheeks pink, heartbeat in your ears. you swallow hard as haechan clears his throat awkwardly before hopping off the platform.
but that strange, dangerous something hangs in the air. the same something you both refuse to acknowledge — you feel it every time he walks behind you and your back stiffens instinctively. you feel it when his shoulder brushes yours just a little too closely and you pretend not to notice. you look at his mouth a second too long when speaks. he looks at your legs when you pace the stage and quickly looks away.
neither of you says anything. you’re fine. it’s just a normal rehearsal. nothing happened. nothing is happening.
except it is.
and it becomes extremely evident when you’re packing up and someone from the ensemble cracks the wrong joke at the wrong time. you bend to shove your script into your bag and that’s when it happens.
“hey, princess,” someone snorts. you’ve hated that nickname since high school but hearing it from someone else makes your entire body go rigid, “you should really wear something under that skirt besides that black underwear, especially when you’re on that balcony.”
the entire room doesn’t go silent, no one else seems to be paying attention. but your blood roars too loud in your ears. slowly you turn, eyes narrowed at one of your castmates, sunwoo.
you were ready to fire back, eyes already in flames, mouth locked and loaded with a kill shot but before you can open your mouth, haechan’s already moving.
he steps in front of you like it’s instinct. shoulders squared. voice cool, but laced with venom, “say that again,” he says.
sunwoo blinks, caught off guard. haechan was always the first to rag on you, the first to poke until you snapped. he wasn’t supposed to be the one stepping in.
“relax, romeo,” the boy scoffs, “it was a joke–”
“no, go ahead,” haechan interrupts, his voice icy and his smile even colder, “say it louder. maybe you’ll get downgraded to the role of annoying extra who gets their teeth kicked in.”
the threat is quiet. clean. almost polite. but it lands like a fist. sunwoo stares for a second too long, then backs off with a bitter chuckle, “whatever you say, romeo,” he retreats towards the exit.
you’re left staring at haechan, confusion flickering all over your features, “what the hell was that?,” you demand.
he shrugs like it was nothing, like it was completely normal to threaten someone on your behalf, “no one gets to talk to you like that.”
your brows furrow, more confused than ever, “you talk to me like that.”
“exactly,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes, “that’s my job.”
there’s a pause. your heartbeat kicks up. you hate him. you want him. you hate that you want him. and he’s looking at you like he knows every thought you’re having—and is thinking the exact same thing.
you scoff and shove past him, muttering, “asshole.”
his voice follows behind you, low and maddening and far too close, “don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”
you whip your head over your shoulder, cheeks burning, “excuse me?”
“you heard me.”
the dressing room hallway is dim and too quiet now, everyone else has already left. you stop just short of the bathroom door, hearing his footsteps closing the space behind like a slow hung. you don’t look at him. you can’t. not when your skin is already betraying you with how hot it feels.
you shove the door open. he’s right behind you.
it shuts behind you with a sharp click. neither of you speaks. not for a beat. not for two. then you both move at the same time. instinct, gravity, need. whatever the hell it is.
it’s not a kiss. not right away. it’s a clash of bodies, of mouths, of breaths and need and denial imploding all at once. your back slams into the wall, his hand protectively behind your head as yours curls around his neck. you’re both too close and not close enough. teeth graze lips. fingers tangled in fabric.
“you’re so fucking annoying,” you whisper, jaw clenched, forehead pressed to his.
“yeah?,” he breathes, voice rough. his grip tightens on your waist, grinding you against the hard line of him through his jeans, “well, you’re cute and it’s pissing me off.”
“tell me you hate me,” you snarl, like saying it might make this feel less like surrender.
“i do,” he growled, voice thick with fury and something worse, something hungrier. his fingers were already sliding beneath your skirt, knuckles brushing your thigh and your body can’t help but react, arching into his touch, “so much, i can’t think straight” he spits, right before he tore your panties clean in half with a sound that echoes in the tiny room.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?!,” you shoved at his chest, just enough to prove you could. just enough to pretend you didn’t want this. enough to pretend your pride was still intact. like the heat slicking between your legs didn’t mean a damn thing. he was so goddamn hot. so infuriatingly, sinfully hot.
“you’re such a fucking whore,” he snapped, eyes burning into yours, “you knew we were rehearsing the balcony scene and you only wore this underneath,” he holds up the torn fabric like evidence, his smirk pure sin, “you did this for me, didn’t you, princess? wanted my attention that badly, huh?” his voice dripped venom, but his pupils were blown wide, starved.
“you wish,” you shot back, lifting your chin, daring him.
he chuckles, low and lethal, before lifting the torn fabric to his nose and breathing you in like he needed to live.
“you’re sick in the head.”
“and you smell so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice dark with need. then, without hesitation, he tucks your panties in his pocket and sinks to his knees like he was praying at an altar, his mouth finding you fast and filthy.
“fuck-” your head tipped back as your fingers clawed for purchase on the edge of the sink next to you, the other tangled tight in his hair, anchoring yourself to the madness he dragged you into.
he groaned into you like he was starved, tongue moving with filthy precision, like he’d mapped you out in a dream and now he was just following directions. you tried to keep quiet, tried to bite your lip, swallow your noises, not wanting to give him any gratification, but when he sucked on your clit like he wanted to ruin you, a sob tore from your throat.
“couldn’t stop thinking about your moans,” he rasps between licks, voice wrecked.
“shut the fuck up,” your hips bucked against his mouth before you could stop yourself.
he laughs into your cunt, the vibration sending lightning up your spine as he licked into you harder, tongue fucking in and out of your entrance. you tug his hair so hard he groans again and you hated how much that sound made you clench.
this is insane. this is toxic. this is absolutely the best head of your life.
“i’m gonna, fuck, if you don’t stop, i’m gonna come,” your panting now, legs shaking. the only thing holding you upright is his grip on your hips.
“good,” he growled, dragging you down further onto his tongue, “fall apart for me, princess.”
the nickname sounded hotter, echoing in your mind, pushing you to your limit as your legs trembled, thighs clamping around his head and then you’re unraveling – moaning, shaking, coming hard on his tongue.
he moaned into your slick, like your orgasm was his reward. like he was addicted to it. your nails scraped down the porcelain sink, the high-pitched whimper that left your throat is so humiliating, so raw, it almost didn’t sound like you.
when you finally loosened your grip on his hair, he pulled back with a wet, obscene sound, mouth glistening.
“still hate me?” he asked, licking your taste off his lips.
you're trembling, panting, mind spinning and completely undone,“more than ever.”
“good,” he said, standing to his full height. his hand curled around your jaw, thumb pressing hard against your bottom lip until it parted, “then you won’t mind if i choke you with my cock.”
you didn’t answer, but your lips stayed open. and that was all the consent he needed. with one hand, he undid his belt, the clink of metal sharp in the silence.
“on your knees,” he ordered, voice dark, deadly. you roll your eyes before you can stop yourself and the defiance crawls under his skin like static. you were so fucking irritating so he grabbed a fistful of your hair and made you, forcing you down until you were kneeling in front of him on the grimy bathroom floor.
face mere inches away from his cock – thick and heavy in his hand, already leaking for you.
“you’re gonna pretend you don’t want this too?” he asked, stroking himself slowly, deliberately, right in front of your mouth.
you hated him. you hated how beautiful his cock was. you hated how your mouth watered.
“fuck you,” you whispered.
“you wish,” he sneered, “now open that pretty, lying mouth, princess,” he slapped his cock lightly against your lips. and you hated how fast you obeyed.
he slid in with a deep groan, slow at first, savoring the heat of your tongue, the way your lips closed tight around him like you were starved for it. his fingers twisted in your hair, guiding your pace, slow, then faster, then rougher, like he was punishing you for every fight you’d ever started.
“look at you,” he snarled, hips snapping forward, “on your knees sucking my cock like it’s all you’ve ever fucking wanted.”
you moaned around him, which only made him twitch harder. he started fucking into your throat with a filthy rhythm, panting, groaning, praising and cursing under his breath.
“take it. come on, princess,” he growled, pushing in impossibly deeper, it felt like you were swallowing him, “-that’s it, fuuuck, just like that.””
your eyes watered, mascara smeared, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth as you gagged and gasped around him. your hands clutched his thighs, not sure anymore if you were pushing him away or pulling him deeper. he looked down at you with a snarl twisted into something almost reverent.
“you’re a fucking dream,” he growled, “wrecked, ruined, all mine to destroy.”
you wanted to slap him. you wanted to make him come so hard he saw stars — so you sucked harder.
his grip tightened in your hair, knuckles white, cock throbbing against your tongue as your head bobbed faster and faster, taking him deeper each time. your jaw ached, throat burned, eyes ruined, spit smeared your chin but you couldn’t stop. not when he was unraveling like that above you. not when his control, his cocky, unbearable composure, was finally cracking.
“fuuuck, y/n,” he groaned, hips stuttering, “y-you’re so fucking good,” he praises, letting out a guttural noise, halfway between a growl and a whimper, and you realized with vicious satisfaction that he was close. desperate. needy. whining like his life depended on it.
you looked up, tongue swirling, and the second your teary, ruined eyes met his, he broke.
“shit, f-fuck,” he slammed deep one last time, cock pulsing against the back of your throat as he came, hard and hot, filling your mouth like he’d been holding it back for days. his whole body shuddered. he cursed again, holding you there, breath ragged, chest heaving like he’d just climbed out of hell.
you swallowed every drop without breaking eye contact. then slowly, so slowly, pulled off him with a slick pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like it was nothing. his eyes were still half-wild when he looked at you, dilated, glassy, like he wasn’t fully back in his body yet.
and yours? flat. cool. detached. or at least trying to be. trying to pick up the pride you let fall. trying to regain the control you easily handed over to him.
you stood, straightened your skirt, ignored the way your knees trembled a little and the way your legs threatened to give out. across from you, he tucked himself back into his pants in silence, hands shaking just slightly as he buckled his belt, your ruined panties peeking from his back pocket.
for a beat, the bathroom was silent, except for your shared breaths and the buzzing of fluorescent lights. then, like flipping a switch, you caught your reflection, instantly reminded of who you were, where you were, who you were with and what you just did. you hate him even more.
you patted your hair back into place, calmly pulling yourself back together and fixing your flushed lips and smeared mascara.
“no one finds out about this,” you said, tone flat, dismissive, like he hadn’t just unraveled inside your mouth.
“please,” he scoffed, lip curling, “i’d rather die than have people know i let your mouth anywhere near my cock.”
your gaze sharpened, but you didn’t flinch, “good,” you muttered, already moving toward the door, head high, ignoring how the air kissed your bare core with every step.
“wait,” his voice halts your movement, before you turn towards him, eyes already sharp, ready to cut.
“what now?,” you snap back. he didn’t answer at first, just shrugged off his jacket. takes three swift steps and he was in front of you, tying it low around your waist with the kind of ease that made your breath hitched.
“your ass bounces with every step, princess,” he said, lips brushing your ear.
you opened your mouth to respond but then he reached into his back pocket, pulled out your torn panties, and with a cocky smirk, stuffed them into his bag, “and this way, we’re even.”
for once, you had no words. you just pushed the door open and walked out. no thanks, no glances back, no trace of the filthy thing you’d just done. you moved through the hallway like your throat hadn’t just been fucked raw. like your pussy wasn’t still throbbing.
and a few seconds later, he followed, jaw tight, eyes dark, body calm, as if nothing had happened. as if he wasn’t still tasting you on the tip of his tongue. as if he wasn’t replaying the sound of your moans in his head.
as if the both of you hadn’t tasted your sworn enemy… and liked it.
ཐིཋྀ the fourth week of rehearsals
the script lay forgotten between you, crumpled in his sheets, its margins scribbled with notes and crossed-out lines. you’d barely made it halfway through act ii before the space on his mattress started feeling too tight. too hot.
you were supposed to be practicing. you were supposed to be fixing what you both ruined in week one. all the wasted rehearsals you spent glaring each other down, aiming snarky remarks instead of script lines.
instead, you were staring at the curve of his throat as he leaned back on his elbows, lips parted, legs spread just wide enough to make you clench. to make you remember how his leg felt between your thighs. and he was staring at you with that same dazed and cocky look. the one full of invitation, almost challenging you to do something about it. the one that says i know you want me too.
“focus,” you snapped, even though your voice sounded thin and you’re not sure whether the word is directed towards him or yourself, your hold tightened around the script like it could stop your traitorous hand from reaching out and doing something that’ll completely crush your ego.
“i am focused,” he murmured, dragging his gaze down over your bare legs, over your thighs, and resting, boldly, in the space between them. you could feel it, the phantom heat of his stare on your skin.
you snapped your fingers, “eyes up here, romeo,” you crossed your arms, “we promised mr. doyoung we’d take this seriously.”
haechan raised a brow, amused, “we’ve been taking it seriously for two weeks, look at us, i literally let you in my room just to rehearse.”
you narrow your eyes at him, “you say that like being in here is a reward.”
he smirks, “c’mon princess, let’s not lie, a million girls would kill to be in your spot right now,” a cocky grin on his face. you wanted to wipe it off. slap it away. kiss it away. you’re not too sure at this point.
“what? sitting on these bed sheets that you haven’t changed in weeks? the smell of axe body spray attacking their nostrils?,” you roll your eyes.
“i change those every week and i don’t even use axe, you must be smelling yourself,” he rolls his eyes.
“please, if i reeked of desperation and cheap cologne, i’d be you,” you shoot back, chin lifted, proud of the way his smirk faltered for half a second. you’ll never admit the way you secretly enjoy the smell of his cologne, the way it intoxicates you like a potion pulling you under a spell.
he sits up a little straighter, elbows propped on his knees now, eyes glinting with an infuriating mix of challenge and amusement. “desperation?,” he echoes, voice low, “princess, if anyone here’s desperate, it’s you. you’ve been eye-fucking me since you got here.”
your breath catches, partly from the audacity, partly because he’s not entirely wrong. but you recover fast, “please,” you scoff, “you’re the one looking at me like i’m your last meal.”
haechan laughs, head tilted back. he taps his fingers against his knee, a thoughtful little rhythm that drives you insane before leaning in again, “okay, fine. you wanna be serious? let’s be serious.”
you raise a brow, “that’d be a first for you.”
“let’s fuck.”
your brain blanks. for a second, it doesn’t even register, “what?!”
“lets just do it. get it out of our systems,” he says casually, like what he suggested wasn’t completely, absolutely, batshit crazy. “all this tension? it’s messing with rehearsals. so let’s just…,” he gestures vaguely between you, “rip the bandaid off. hate-fuck it out.”
you blink, trying to process his words. this had to be a joke. a dare. a trap, “you’re suggesting we sleep together for the sake of the theater department.”
“i’m suggesting we do everyone a favor and stop letting whatever this is,” he gestures again, less vaguely this time, at the very obvious, very mutual heat between you, “sabotage our performances. one time. no repeats. no weirdness.”
“oh there’ll be weirdness,” you mutter, folding your arms, your heart pounding in your throat.
“not if we’re adults about it,” he grins. that infuriating, boyish, charming grin, “can you be an adult, princess?”
you laugh, incredulous, “you? be an adult?, you still giggle when someone says ‘enter from the rear’ in stage directions.”
“okay, first of all, i see you laughing too,” he points a finger at you, that same stupid smirk still glued to his face, “second of all, im serious. we fuck and then we go back to being bitter enemies who can’t stand the sight of each other. clean slate.”
you stare at him, heart thudding, thoughts spiraling. it’s a terrible idea. the worst idea he’s ever had. but what’s even worse is the fact that you’re actually considering it.
“and what if you realize im the best fuck you’ve ever had and start following me around like a lovesick puppy?,” you quip a brow, a teasing smile on your face.
he barks out a laugh, cocky and careless, “never gonna happen, princess,” he says, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his body radiating, “you’re not that good.”
you raise a brow, “that’s rich coming from someone who came untouched.” his expression darkens instantly, smirk faltering, the memory clearly still a bruise to his pride. you take this time to garner control and with no warning, you lunged — kissing him hard, desperate, sharp, messy. your teeth caught on his lip. you kiss him like he’s your last cigarette, like he’s something you have to burn through just to breathe.
he responds immediately, groaning into your mouth, hands flying to your waist, pulling you onto his lap, like he needed to leave fingerprints there.
you straddle him, fumbling with his shirt, dragging it up and over his head and shoving him backward until his back hits the bed with a grunt, “still think this is a good idea?,” you breathe, throwing your shirt over your head, leaving you in a lacy brown bra that makes his cock twitch in his shorts.
he props himself on his elbows, gaze dark and fixed on you as you strip, “no,” he says, eyes raking over your body like a challenge, “i think it’s the best idea i’ve ever had.”
your signature skirt rides up as you grind down against his hard bulge, enough to make him hiss.
“i still hate you,” you murmur, needing to remind yourself every single time.
“good,” he growls, thumbs digging into your waist, “say it again when i’m inside you.”
his voice grates in your ear. so smug. so loud. you slap him before you can think. not too hard, just enough to make his jaw twitch. he stares at you, stunned for half a second and then he smirks again, “god, you’re such a fucking brat.”
you slap him again, slower this time, deliberately, and he groans like everything about this turns him on. “you like that?,” you whisper, grinding harder now, testing him. he doesn’t answer, he refuses to give you any words of satisfaction.
instead his hand slide up your back, unhooking your bra with a practiced flick, the cool air hitting your hardened nipples before his large hands cupped around them, squeezing, mouth immediately latching on one nipple. he’s been wanting to see your tits since you were locked in that tiny room. and now that he has, he sucked like he was in complete bliss, eyes shut, wet and eager, tongue messily painting your breasts. you gasp, hands coming up to grip his hair, pulling him closer as your hips continue its slow grind against his hard, clothed cock.
“fuck,” you moan, every nerve lighting up. you’re soaking through your panties, whole body vibrating. you bounce harder, using him to reach your high as he continues worshipping your breasts with his lips, trails of his saliva littering your chest. his large hands make their way to your ass, cupping and squeezing but not controlling. not yet.
he lets you hump him harder and harder, trying to control the breathy whimpers slipping from him as he busies himself in between your breasts. your breathing was getting heavier, legs starting to give out, the friction was hitting your clit so perfectly and before you knew it, your orgasm washes over you, unexpected and all-consuming.
“look at you,” he murmurs, that damn smirk back again, breath hot against your ear, “already fucked out and we haven’t even started.” before you could reply, before you could argue, he flips you in a blur, pinning you to the mattress. his eyes are dark now, dangerous.
he yanks your skirt and underwear off in one go, leaving you completely bare for him. you looked so small in between his sheets and it drives him madly insane, “i’m only gonna say this once,” he says, eyes raking over your naked body, voice rough, “but fuck, you’re hot,” he compliments, almost.
you sit up, yanking his shorts down, large cock bouncing free from the last barrier between you, “you’re okay to look at,” you smirk. he rolls his eyes and slaps your hands away before you could reach out for him as he fumbles in his nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom, tearing the foil open with his teeth and rolling it on with ease.
he lines himself in your entrance, teasing his tip, that same devilish smirk plastered on his lips.
“admit you want me,” he grunts, hovering over you, a hand placed calculatedly on your neck, enough to choke you but not enough to completely block off your airways.
“no,” you hiss. he pushes in hard. no warning. no mercy. your back arches with a gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, mouth open in a soundless moan, his hand wrapping tighter around your neck, making your eyes roll back. he’s so so thick, you can feel him all around your walls, stretching you open inch by inch. he feels so good. too good.
“hate you,” you manage to whisper in between your breathy moans, even as your legs wrap around his waist.
“yeah?,” he pants, thrusting into you hard enough to make the headboard knock the wall, “say it louder,” he orders, finally releasing the hold he had on your neck and redirecting it to your breast, large hand squeezing tightly around the supple flesh.
“i hate you,” you moan and then you’re kissing him again, biting his bottom lip, swallowing the grunts he gives you. he sets a brutal pace, every thrust punctuated by the sound of skin on skin, by the filthy words he mutters against your neck. you push him in closer, wanting more, needing more.
“you’re so fucking needy,” he pants, voice tight, desperate.
“shut up,” you growl.
“make me,” he snaps back. so you slap him again and his face twitches, a deep, devilish chuckle slipping past his lips before he pulls out, flipping you over like you weighed nothing and pulling you up on your hands and knees before thrusting into you from behind, your face buried in his pillow.
he fucks you harder. the new angle hitting that spot over and over again you swore you could feel him in your stomach.
it was chaos. it was violence in the shape of pleasure.
“fuck,” you cry, “you’re so deep, so-,” his hand lands a slap on your ass, sharp and hot, the noise echoing throughout the room, making you bite down into the sheets.
“how do you like it?,” he grunts, landing another slap, hot and red, leaving tingles all over your skin. you were sure there were bruises in the shape of his fingertips forming all over you. you’re a mess of moans and incoherent words, each thrust wrecking your thoughts, your dignity, your hate.
you should be fighting him but all you can do is beg for more, “please, please, please, haechan, d-don’t stop,” and your cries do nothing but fuel him. the room continues to echo with the slap of skin and filthy words with your name in his voice and his cock in your pussy like he was trying to break you. you lose track of how many times you say i hate you. how many times he says it back. it becomes a chant. a rhythm. a promise.
you ride that line between loathing and lust until your vision whites out, orgasm hitting you like a punch in the gut, “haechan, fuck, i’m coming!,” you scream and he grabs your hair, pulling you back against him.
“go ahead princess,” he growls, “come all over my cock.” you shatter, gasping for air, jaw hanging open, shaking, as your eyes rolled back in complete pleasure, body going limp in his arms.
haechan doesn’t stop, hellbent on proving that he could last longer than you think. he shoves a pillow under you, continuing his relentless thrusts.
“fuuuck, how are you getting tighter?,” he grits out, “your pussy fucking loves me,” he groans, each hard thrust bringing him closer to that high.
you could cry from the overstimulation, “h-haechan–t-too much,” you stutter, gripping his thigh, tears forming in the corner of your eyes.
“you can take it, princess,” he says, voice low and dark. “i know you can. be a good girl and take it,” he grunts, still pushing into you with a force that rolls the tears down your cheeks.
eventually, the pain turns into pleasure again. blurring the line until you’re moving with him, lost in the pace, the heat, the hate. he chases his own high until his rhythm started shattering into jerky, desperate thrusts, “c’mon, princess, give me one more,” he grunts and all your body could do was follow his voice, immediately tightening around him and sending you to your third orgasm of the night.
he finally gives in with a low, wrecked groan of your name, burying his face in your neck as he shudders through it, hips slowing, grounding down into you until there’s nothing left but heat and sweat and the tremble in his arms as he holds himself over you.
when he pulls out, there’s a slick, lewd sound that makes your already flushed skin go warmer, the pillow beneath you, soaking. then he collapses beside you with a sigh, one arm slung over his eyes like the weight of everything that just happened is finally catching up to him.
silence swells between you. sticky and loud and way too fucking real.
your chest is still rising and falling fast, heartbeat trying to find its regular rhythm as you try to fight off the sleep that was wanting to overtake. you were so tired, so fucked out you almost gave in but your hate was still stronger and somehow your voice cuts through the thick silence, “we’re definitely not doing that again.”
he pauses, “...right.”
you roll onto your side, head propped on your hand, glaring at him like you can set him on fire with just your eyes, “that wasn’t hesitation.” you don’t ask him. you tell him.
he peeks at you from under his arm and shrugs, unbothered, “it was dramatic timing. theater major, remember?”
you groan, flopping back on the bed, rubbing your hands over your face, “god, i really fucking hate you.”
he grins, teeth sharp and full of bite, “yeah, well your pussy doesnt.” you grab the nearest thing, his shirt, and toss it straight to his face and he lets it sit there for a moment before peeling it off with an exaggerated sigh.
“asshole,” you mutter, already reaching for your clothes. ignoring the way your body was burning, a reminder of his touch, as you start dressing like you’re gearing up for a fight, like each item is a piece of armor you’re slapping on.
he watches you dress, that grin never really leaving his face but his eyes are softer than they should be. quieter. and he doesn’t say a word as you reassemble yourself.
within minutes, you’re both back in your roles, fully clothed and composed. like the last hour never happened. like he hadn’t just made you scream his name. like you hadn’t clawed his thighs so hard there’ll probably be marks tomorrow. like he hadn’t left bruises in the shape of his lips all over your skin. like the tear stains you were sporting wasn’t evident.
you pick up your script off the edge of the bed. it’s bent now, pages wrinkled. a souvenir from the chaos you two just unleashed. neither of you acknowledge it.
“start from your cue,” you say flatly.
he leans back against the headboard, flipping lazily through the script like nothing about this is new, like his cock wasn’t just inside you, “with love’s light wings did i o’erperch these walls…”
you roll your eyes, glaring “try saying it like you don’t want to fuck me.”
“i dont want to fuck you,” he deadpans, then glances at you with a smirk, “again.”
you shoot him a look so cold it could kill. he delivers it properly this time, and you move through the scene with professional precision except for the way your voices crack at the edges, how the eye contact lingers a beat too long.
the air between you is no less charged. if anything, it’s worse now. every line feels like a double entendre. every accidental brush of fingers feels like it might ignite something again.
you finish the scene without a word about what happened. no apologies. no acknowledgments. no we shouldn’t have done that.
then you shove the script into your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and walk to the door. “you’re leaving without a goodbye?” he calls out, that cocky lilt back in his voice.
you pause. not enough to turn. just enough to make him think you might. then you say, “we’re not friends, haechan. we don’t joke around. we rehearse. that’s it.”
and you leave. down the hall, around the corner, out the front door, your pulse still racing, his scent still clinging to your skin like it’s branding you. your body aching with the memory of his mouth, his hands, his body.
back in his room, haechan stares at the closed door. the tension in the air still hasn’t left. he sighs, eyes trailing back to the script. he lets it drop from his hand, the pages flopping limply to the floor. then he throws himself back against the mattress like he’s trying to forget the way you felt. the way you sounded.
his body still buzzes. his mind’s a goddamn storm. he drags a hand through his hair and covers his eyes with his arm again, “what the fuck did I just do?”
he’d told himself this was about getting you out of his system. that one fuck would fix it. but now? now you’re under his skin in a way he doesn’t know how to undo. every nerve remembers you. every inch of him aches for you. and every second since you walked out that door feels empty.
he groans to the ceiling, voice thick with frustration and something he won’t name. “well,” he mutters, sarcasm soaked in something bitter, “that worked great.”
ཐིཋྀ the fifth week of rehearsals
it’s been a week since the night that didn’t mean anything. you’d both agreed. no repeats. one time. clean slate. but the slate wasn’t clean. it was cracked and humming with everything you weren’t supposed to feel.
you’re on stage now, under the harsh fluorescents of the theater department’s rehearsal room, with your script in one hand and your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.
the scene is simple. romeo flirts. juliet flirts back. they kiss. easy. you’ve done kissing scenes a thousand times in other productions. but now? now your body remembers the exact weight of him. how he sounds when he groans. how he says your name like a sin he’s proud of committing.
mr. doyoung looks up, “let’s take it from romeo’s line, build the moment, don’t rush it.”
haechan nods, exhales, and steps into character, “have not saint lips, and holy palmers too?” his eyes are on you and it's not romeo’s gaze. it’s haechan’s. intense. knowing. annoyingly smug. feeding his line like nothing happened between you.
he leans in, perfectly in character as you follow through, finding juliet’s voice with ease, “ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”
“o, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, gran thou, lest faith turn to despair,” he continues, both of you smoothly moving through the stage, dancing around each other’s bodies.
“saints do not move, though grant for prayer’s sake,” you deliver the line perfectly, professionally.
“then move not, while my prayer’s effect i take,” he murmurs, inching the space closer and closer, twirling you around in his arms, and finally kissing you like his life depended on it . like he couldn’t wait a single second for this moment. completely capturing romeo’s yearning spirit.
and it’s evident as day that your body remembers everything from that night.
the kiss goes on a beat too long and for a second you almost forget you were in the middle of a scene until he’s in character again, “thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”
“then have my lips the sin they have took,” you respond immediately. his eyes flicker to yours and you see it. he remembers too. every second of it.
“sin from my lips? o trespass sweetly urged!,” he continues, leaning in once again, following the script perfectly, “give me my sin again,” he says, placing a sweet kiss on your lips. all too different from the kisses you’ve shared before.
“you kiss by th’ book,” you end the scene as his lips travel down your neck, igniting that heat in your stomach. mr. doyoung was taking his sweet time yelling out cut. you can feel haechan’s smirk against your neck and it’s taking everything in you to not end the scene yourself.
mr. doyoung rises from his chair, clapping slowly, and finally yelling out the one word you needed to breathe. you both jump back immediately like touching each other burned.
“there it is,” he says, “my romeo and juliet,” he dramatically wipes a fake tear from his eyes, “absolutely beautiful. from the top!,” he says excitedly and all you could do was follow his directions. pretending every single touch isn’t affecting you way more than you would ever admit.
you’re not losing this battle. not letting him know that the one time one fuck proposal didn’t work. and haechan, sure as hell, isn't backing down either.
♕
THE BIGGEST, MOST ANTICIPATED PARTY OF THE YEAR: HALLOWEEN NIGHT @ THE DREAM FRATERNITY
haechan scans the room, it was their busiest party of the year. the most chaotic, most fun, most prepared party he and the boys ever have to plan. and now the dream house is packed with costumes, glitter, smoke, chaos. he’s dressed as some version of a vampire, sexy but not too much, his funny, charming side taking over.
he spots mark and kitten across the room, near the couch, in their spiderman and black cat costumes, trying, and failing, to do the spiderman kiss. there was jaemin and angel groping each other on the dance floor wearing matching hermione and ron costumes and in the corner in the back near the kitchen was jeno and bunny caught in a heated makeout session with their ash and pikachu costumes on. and yes, jeno is pikachu.
and then you walked in. he knew you would be here. it was the only dream party you attended because everyone attends it. it was either this or spending the night alone, watching scary movies by yourself.
you were dressed in a lacy red devil’s costume leaving no room for imagination. he shouldn’t even be looking at you. but he is. and his eyes zero in on the faint marks that were blooming on the exposed skin of your breasts. you didn’t even care that people saw them. but he knew you would have if people knew that those marks came from his lips.
he feels his pants tighten in his jeans. he really needed to get a good fuck. maybe it’ll stop you from plaguing his mind.
“can’t believe i’m part of the singles fuck boy club,” renjun says, snapping him out of the trance you trapped him in.
haechan smirks, “take it as a win,” he takes a sip from his drink, “more ladies for us,” he winks, just as jisung and chenle walked up to them.
“so, who do you have your eyes on tonight?,” chenle asks, a smirk on his lips.
haechan chuckles, looking around, his eyes glossing over your figure for a second before they land on the girl he’s been trying to get with since the first party of this year, “ryujin,” he smirks. ryujin – dance major, one of the university’s best.
“how about you, my little protege?,” haechan asks, turning his attention to jisung, the rest of the boys awaiting his answer.
jisung smirks, already knowing the answer, “wonyoung.”
renjun’s jaw drops, “jisung, she might be a freshman but she’s completely out of your league.”
jisung just chuckles, haechan chuckling with him, “hey, don’t doubt my boy,” he says before patting jisung in the back, “just remember everything mark and i taught you,” he winks before jisung took a shot and disappeared into the crowd.
“his head is getting bigger, you know,” renjun rolls his eyes.
“that’s fine, let him have his fun,” chenle says, “now let’s go find you a girl so you’re not so grumpy all the time,” he drags renjun out of there, leaving haechan to fend for himself, a smirk still playing on his lips. and he can’t help it. his eyes dart back to your figure.
across the room, he sees you laughing, too close, too bright, with some guy he doesn’t recognize. the guy’s in some lazy pirate costume, leaning in like he knows you. like he’s already been invited in and something in his stomach turns. something about you looking that comfortable makes him want to throw the nearest pumpkin straight at his head.
he remembers a time when he was privileged enough to hear your laugh. to make you laugh. to laugh together until your ribs were sore.
he absolutely hates it — the way that memory has been popping up in his head like a haunted time loop. he thought he got rid of it, buried it somewhere deep, he wouldn’t have been able to find it. but just a couple weeks with you and all his work for the last five years go down the drain.
he forces himself to look away, making his way over to ryujin, dressed up as bella from twilight. oh, this was going to be too easy.
“hey pretty, you looking for me?,” he interrupts the conversation she was having with another guy, smoothly and all so charming, the way he usually is.
ryujin lets out a giggle, “hmm, i could’ve sworn i was talking to another vampire,” she says, voice sultry and deep with desire.
“none of those vampires can compare to me,” he winks playfully, cocky as ever. and that was all it took before ryujin was pulling him down for a kiss.
he lets his mouth move against hers, hot and fast, but completely hollow. she tastes like candy, vodka and sticky lip gloss, her hands gripping at his arms like she owns him. his mouth is probably smeared with red now, and she moans like it means something.
but to him, it means absolutely nothing.
there’s no fire. no heat. no pulse-racing thrill behind it. no push and pull. no sharp banter humming beneath the surface. he was making out with a girl he’s been trying to get with since the first party of this year and all he could think about was how different it was from kissing you.
god, you were so fucking irritating.
he opens his eyes in the middle of the kiss, and to his unfortunate luck, he makes direct eye contact with you. across the room, half hidden in shadows and flashing lights, your gaze is locked on him but there’s no challenge there. no eye-roll. no smirk. nothing that makes you, you. just eerie blankness, almost like you were looking through him.
something’s wrong.
he pulls back abruptly, ryujin still chasing his lips with a frustrated sound. “give me a second,” he mutters before completely leaving her standing there on her own. an angry scoff follows him as he pushes through the crowd, all of his attention zeroed in on you.
he walks across the room, watching your every move. you’re swaying a little. not like you’re dancing. like your balance is off, disconnected from gravity, from control. the look in your eyes is unresponsive and you’re blinking so incredibly slow. and the pirate is still right next to you, standing way too close.
his hand lands on your waist. then he presses a kiss on the side of your neck and haechan moves through the crowd like a storm, pushing everyone out of his way.
he grips the guy’s shirt and yanks him back, stepping between you and him like a wall of fire. he grabs your wrist, grounding you, voice low but unshakeable, “we’re leaving.”
you blink up at him like you’re seeing the sun for the first time, “donghyuck?,” you smile softly, too sweetly, and it takes everything in him to not kill the guy who did this to you.
“did you drink something?,” he asks, firm but gentle. you nod slowly, lips parted like you’re stuck in a delayed reaction. he brings the cup to his nose – fruity, sticky-sweet but there’s something else. something chemical. and then he sees it, the powdery film at the bottom, confirming his prediction.
his stomach drops. rage coils in his gut. he grabs the drink, tossing the liquid in the nearest plant and fists a hand in the guy’s shirt before shoving him backward, “touch her again and i’ll break your fucking face,” he seethes. the guy stumbles back, arms raised like he’s innocent.
mark notices the commotion before anyone else does, quickly stepping in, kitten by his side with wide, concerned eyes, “dude, what’s happening?,” he speaks low and in control.
“he drugged her,” he growls into his ear. mark’s eyes widen, sharp and alert “i’ll handle him. you take care of her,” he says.
haechan’s attention was back on you in an instant. your balance is off, feet shifting clumsily, eyes blinking slow and unfocused, pupils dilated.
he crouches slightly so he’s at eye level, “hey, come with me, okay?,” he says softly. you lift your head to look at him, your lips parting into a dreamy, dazed smile. you manage to nod once before your body gives out, knees buckling, weight tipping forward. haechan catches you before you can even fall. you land into him like you were meant to be there, cheeks pressed to his chest, body in his arms.
you giggle softly, the sound barely audible over the music. it’s airy. almost innocent. it breaks his heart in two.
“warm,” you mumble into his shirt. “you’re so warm, hyuck.”
his heart squeezes painfully, trying to push away that all too familiar feeling of his nickname on your tongue. the nickname you gave him. the way it sounds so soft as if somewhere in the haze and fog in your brain, some part of you knows you’re safe with him.
without a word, he lifts you into his arms bridal style. your arms immediately wrap around his neck, hands clinging like he’s your lifeline.
“up we go,” he says softly, carrying you through the house, ignoring every curious stare, every muttered comment.
you nuzzle closer, relaxing into his body like it’s familiar, lips brushing his jaw, and he nearly stumbles, “you smell so good…why do you smell so good…?”
he hides his smirk. you told him he smelled like axe just a week ago. “because i shower, dumbass,” he mutters. the insult wasn’t needed but hey, he can’t help it.
in his room, he kicks the door shut with his foot, setting you gently on the bed.
but you don’t let go.
your hands are still on him, clutching his shoulders, his shirt, anything. you whine when he tries to pull back, “nooo, hyuck, don’t go,” you pout like a child.
your breath fans against his neck, lips brushing so close to his skin that he shivers, “need you…” you whisper, almost too faint to catch. it guts him. he carefully pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek and your eyes flutter open, slow and unfocused, but locked on him.
and then you lean in. soft. uncertain. your lips part slightly, tilting toward his like muscle memory.
and his heart lurches. he wants it, god, does he want it. but not like this. not when you’re not fully you. not when you won’t remember. not when it would feel like taking. so he stops you.
he leans back, gently pressing his fingers to your lips, “hey,” he says quietly, “not right now.”
you blink, confused. hurt flickers across your face, “but i want—”
“i know,” he whispers, brushing your hair out of your face with heartbreaking tenderness. “but you’re not… you’re not okay right now. you’re not thinking clearly and you’re gonna hate me even more if i let you do this.”
you stare at him for a long moment, your expression folding into something soft, something fractured. your voice comes out barely audible, “you always ruin everything.”
he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, crouching down to your eye level again, “yeah,” he murmurs, “i’m really good at that.”
you’re trembling now, whether from the drug or emotion he can’t tell. he reaches for the edge of his hoodie draped over his desk chair. then he coaxes you out of your costume.
you let him take care of you.
he slips the oversized hoodie over your head in an instant. it swallows you whole, falling to mid-thigh, sleeves engulfing your hands, covering more than your costume ever did. then he grabs a pair of his clean sweatpants and helps you step into them, rolling the waistband until they don’t fall off.
“there,” he murmurs, tugging the hood up over your head, “much better,” and seeing you in his clothes makes his heart skip a beat.
you blink up at him, dazed and warm, “smells like you.”
he chuckles softly, “well, that’s cause it’s mine, princess” he says, the nickname landing so gently he’s almost glad you won't remember this. he guides you back on the bed, his hands warm and careful on your shoulders, like he’s afraid you’ll break. you lay down like a sleepy cat, limbs loose, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.
he crouches in front of you, steady and patient, watching you with an unreadable expression. the room is dim, hushed, wrapped in the kind of silence that comes right after chaos.
then you say it. quiet. barely there. like a secret.
“i didn’t want to hate you.”
his breath catches. he wanted to ask so why do you?
he’s never figured out. why things between you turned so bitter. why you suddenly started twisting a knife behind his back. and why he grabbed that knife and pointed it at you. but he know it’s wrong to get information out of you in this state. not when your eyes are glassy, your words a half-conscious confession spilling out like a secret you didn’t mean to say. you’re too far gone to argue. too soft to lie.
you’re still looking at him, but your eyelids are heavier now. the words just fall from your lips, unguarded. honest in a way you never let yourself be sober, “you made it so easy sometimes though” you murmur, the corners of your mouth tilting in something that’s not quite a smile, not quite pain, “being loud. being cocky. saying shit you didn’t mean just to piss me off…”
his heart is thudding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. there’s so much he wants to say. apologies, defenses, explanations. but before he can say anything, your body shifts, sinks into the pillow, limbs going limp as your breath evens out and your eyes flutter shut.
you’re asleep. just like that.
haechan stays kneeling beside the bed, frozen in place. his gaze traces the soft furrow of your brow, the way your lips part slightly as you breathe. he wonders if you’ll remember any of this tomorrow. if you’ll pretend it never happened. if you’ll regret letting your walls down for even a second.
“i didn’t want to hate you either,” he whispers, voice barely audible over your breathing.
there’s a pause. a longer silence.
“i don’t even know why i hate you,” he admits, softer still. but you’re already gone.
and yet, he stays beside you a little longer, resting his head on the edge of the mattress, eyes never leaving yours, like if he just watches long enough, maybe he’ll figure out where it all went wrong.
♕
the morning light filters through the curtains. everything is quiet. too quiet.
you stir slowly, the ache in your head blooming behind your eyes like a storm cloud. your limbs are heavy, your mouth dry and your body is wrapped around a warmth that doesn’t belong to your bed.
it takes a second for the fog in your mind to lift, but when it does, your heart skips.
you’re not in your room. you’re in his. and he’s right there – lying beside you, one arm flung over his eyes, hair tousled, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths of someone who stayed up way too late.
you freeze. every part of you tenses as your gaze darts down to your body — hoodie and sweatpants, both way too big, wrapped around you. you exhale in quiet, stunned relief, but your heart is still pounding, “what the hell?” you whisper, rubbing your temples.
at the sound of your voice, he stirs, groaning, blinking against the light like it personally offended him then his eyes land on you.
“you’re up,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. he stretches lazily like he doesn’t feel the full weight of your stare on him. “you okay?”
you blink, “why am i here?”
“you were drugged,” he says plainly. no softening. no sugar-coating. “some guy slipped something in your drink.”
the room tilts. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to recollect memories from last night. the fear of what could’ve happened gnaws at your insides.
“i got you out before anything happened,” he adds quietly, “you were… not yourself. clingy. slurring. said i smelled nice, for some reason,” there’s a light, teasing tone in his voice.
you shoot him a glare, despite the pounding in your head, “you do not smell nice.”
he grins faintly, because of course, even now, all you could do was insult him, and it was all he needed to know that you were safe and back to normal, “okay, sure.”
silence stretches between you as you sit up slowly, piecing together flickers of last night. the music, the lights, that sickly sweet drink. the guy in the pirate costume. then — the warmth. the voice you’d know even half-conscious. you glance down at the hoodie you’re drowning in. his scent is faint but still there.
“you changed me?,” you ask, eyes wide.
he nods, propping himself up on one elbow, “you were half-passed out. you needed to sleep it off. i didn’t look, i swear. i just helped.”
you believe him. strangely, you do, “thank you.”
he raises an eyebrow like he wasn’t expecting that.
“you’re welcome,” he says, softer now, “just… be more careful next time, okay?”
you look away, the words settling heavy between you, “i didn’t think…”
“exactly,” he cuts in, voice gentle but tired, “you didn’t. that’s how shit like that happens.” his tone isn’t cruel. he’s not scolding you. he’s just…tired. and worried. and probably more scared last night than he’d ever admit.
you nod once. that’s all you can manage. you don’t want to admit how safe you felt. how it was his arms you clung to. how your body trusted him even when your brain was compromised.
but none of that changes anything.
you clear your throat, “well, thanks. but… that doesn’t mean anything is different between us.”
the faintest flicker crosses his face, unreadable, before it’s gone.
“didn’t say it did,” he says simply. then, “you hungry?”
you blink, “what?”
“i make a decent hangover ramen,” he says, already swinging his legs out of bed, “and i’ll even throw in some kimchi, if you promise not to puke on my carpet.”
you roll your eyes, “you’re such a dumbass.”
he shoots you a crooked smile. “yeah, but not as dumb as you, princess.”
you don’t respond. you just sit there in his bed, swimming in his clothes and your own confusion, watching him move through his room like this was the most normal morning in the world. you slip your shoes back on without a word, still wearing his hoodie and sweats. your costume’s somewhere in a pile on his desk chair, but there’s no way in hell you’re putting that back on. not after last night.
you follow haechan into the kitchen, as he hums some stupid melody, reaching for the pan and boiling the water. you stand awkwardly in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest like it’ll hide how massive his hoodie is on you.
he glances up, “you gonna sit down?”
you shake your head, “i just…i should go.”
he doesn’t fight you on it. just nods, quietly preparing the packs of instant noodles.
you turn to leave but stop short. three of the dream boys are coming down the stairs. they freeze in the hallway when they see you. so do you. the room goes dead silent and you look like a deer caught in headlights. his hoodie feels ten times heavier now, your legs bare in his sweatpants, and your hair a mess from sleep. you look like everything they think happened.
renjun raises a brow, “morning…”
jisung coughs loudly, trying to hide his grin.
chenle looks at haechan, who appears behind you a second later, “really?” he mouths, and haechan shoots him a deadly glare, the kind that says shut up without a single word.
but it’s too late. they all recognize you. of course they do. you’re not just any girl. you’re the girl — the one who’s made haechan stomp through the front door ranting and raving more times than any of them can count. the one whose name used to spark an automatic groan from someone in the room. the one who once made haechan so mad he slammed a door clean off its hinge, then spent two hours denying it had anything to do with you – you’re a household legend. a walking migraine. the ongoing war he never seemed to win but kept returning to like clockwork.
so to see you, standing in their house, in his clothes, the morning after the biggest party of the year is definitely strange. you look like you spent the night tangled up in something intimate. something that doesn’t match the version of events they’ve heard a hundred times over.
the air goes stiff with curiosity and thinly veiled amusement. you straighten your back, refusing to flinch, “nothing happened.”
“sure,” jisung says, not even trying to hide the smirk.
“seriously,” you snap, “i got drugged and he just…helped me.”
renjun tilts his head, worry flashing over all of their features “you good?”
you pause, then nod, “yeah. i’m good.”
haechan steps beside you, voice casual but firm. “she’s telling the truth.”
his words shock you. you were half expecting him to stay quiet.
then you feel the shift in the room like a breeze that slips through a cracked window. they move on, the scent of the ramen calling out to them like moths drawn to the light. you continue your path toward the front door, haechan follows, footsteps soft behind you like a shadow that doesn’t want to overstep.
you reach for the door then pause, glancing over your shoulder, “thanks,” you say again, quieter this time, it slips out like a confession.
his eyes meet yours, steady and unreadable “anytime.”
and somehow, you know he means it. not in the casual way people toss that word around — you see it in the way his posture doesn’t shift, in the way he doesn’t look away, in the quiet steel under his tone. you knew that if it happened again, god forbid, it would be him again. coming to your rescue. without hesitation. without conditions.
something in your chest cracks. not from last night, not from the near-miss or the weight of fear. but from a memory. a time in the past, years ago, that you shoved deep into the vault of things too painful to touch.
♕
as soon as the front door clicks shut behind you, silence settles over the house for a beat. then it erupts.
jisung is the first to crack, “bro,” he looks up at haechan, gaping, as they all sat in the kitchen, “what happened to i hate her so much i’d rather die than be caught with her?’”
renjun chokes on his coffee, suppressing his amusement, “no, no, i think it was more like, if i ever even breathe the same air as her willingly, just kill me,” he says, mocking his friend.
chenle snorts, a playful smirk on his lips, “do we kill you now or later?”
haechan doesn’t even bother trying to defend himself. he just drops his head back with a groan and laughs, loud and shameless, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls, “you guys are so annoying.”
“not as annoying as the fact that she left wearing your clothes,” chenle says, waggling his eyebrows, “your hoodie, dude. the hoodie. the one you said no one’s allowed to borrow because it’s your emotional support layer.’”
“she needed clothes,” haechan says, rolling his eyes and grabbing bowls from the cabinet, like none of it was a big deal. like you didn’t just crack down all the years of hate with one simple call of his name.
“what, i was supposed to let her wander the streets in a lingerie looking like she escaped from a halloween thirst trap?”
renjun squints at him, mock-serious, “you’re in love.”
this elicits a groan from jisung, “oh god, not another one…the other three literally makes me want to vomit.”
haechan rolls his eyes, “i’m not in love.”
“sure,” chenle and renjun say in unison, like a damn choir.
“okay, first of all,” haechan says, gritting his teeth, holding up a finger, “i don’t even like her.”
“uh-huh,” chenle says, “that’s why you stayed up all night babysitting her and making sure she didn’t die.”
“oh my god, did you tuck her in?,” renjun asks.
“i didn’t tuck her in! she just…passed out, and i put a pillow under her head like a civilized human being!,” he reasons out, “plus it’s our party, she’s our responsibility,” he says seriously.
that silences them for half a second. just long enough for his words to land, “yeah, okay,” jisung says squinting, “but you could’ve just called one of her friends to bring her home, not spend the party of the year taking care of her…i mean ryujin was right there!”
haechan slams the ramen bowls down on the counter, harder than necessary, but not quite angry. just exasperated. like he’s been circling this same conversation in his own head since sunrise.
“fine. okay. whatever. you guys win,” he mutters.
there’s a pause, then jisung leans forward, eyes wide with mock innocence, voice pure mischief, “so you do like her?”
“i loathe her,” haechan says with a perfectly straight face, “can’t stand her. makes my blood boil. hate her so much i—”
“—gave her your bed, made her ramen she didn’t even eat, and threatened chenle with your eyes,” renjun finishes without missing a beat, sipping his coffee like he’s watching the best drama of the year unfold in real time.
chenle throws in a lazy, “don’t forget the hoodie,” for good measure.
haechan snorts, “you guys suck.”
they dissolve into laughter around him, loud and chaotic and full of affection. and haechan doesn’t stop them. because deep down, he knows they’re not wrong.
something is changing. cracking open. he felt it when he heard you say his name, all light and smiles like it was genuinely directed at him. he felt it when he saw you asleep in his bed, curled into his hoodie like it was the only safe place in the world. he felt it when your voice cracked saying thank you.
and now that feeling is lodged somewhere between his ribs, sharp and impossible to ignore. but he’s not ready to name it. not yet. so he grins, serves the ramen, and lets the teasing continue, pretending it’s just another morning with his idiot friends.
ཐིཋྀ the sixth week of rehearsals
rehearsals resume like nothing happened. like there wasn’t a near assault. like you didn’t sleep in his bed. like he didn’t stay up all night watching you breathe just to make sure you were okay — but of course, something has changed.
you still bicker. constantly. relentlessly. but it’s not as sharp now. not as mean. it’s irritation tinged with something unspoken. something softer.
mr. doyoung claps his hands, excited and ready. his vision of romeo and juliet when he casted you both slowly coming to life, “okay, let’s do the balcony scene!” the same scene you two could never get through before.
you climb up the makeshift balcony without any further instructions, the rickety platform still wobbling under your feet like it did during the first week. haechan stands below, glancing up just as you grip the railing and start juliet’s lines again, voice laced with practiced longing, “o romeo, o romeo, wherefore art thou–”
before you could finish your line. a crack echoes throughout the stage. it happens fast. the board beneath you splits, you were falling through, a flash of panic in your eyes as you unsuccessfully tried to grip on to whatever you could find.
haechan lunges forward, catching you mid fall with a grunt as your body collapses into his. you hit the ground hard, him first then you crashing into his chest with a force that knocks the air out of your breaths. chaos erupts. voices shouting. mr. doyoung yelling for someone to call the campus’ nurse. a cast member swearing in the background. but haechan doesn’t hear any of it. all he sees is you. your face twisting in pain as you try to sit up, only to wince and clutch your ankle.
“don’t move,” he says quickly, arms tightening around you, “just, stay still.”
“i’m fine,” you mutter through gritted teeth.
“you’re not fine, you idiot,” his voice cracks at the edges. more panic than anger. he shifts carefully, helping you sit upright before reaching down to gently examine your ankle. you hiss when he touches it. he flinches like it hurts him.
“swollen,” he mutters, “probably a sprain,” he says seriously. the kind of serious you’ve never seen him before.
“oh my god, relax, i’m not dying,” you say, managing a breathless laugh.
he glares at you, “you fell off a stage ten feet high. that’s not nothing.”
“yeah. and you saved me. again,” your eyes narrow playfully, “what are you…my guardian angel now?”
“more like your full-time babysitter,” he snaps, but his voice is too soft to land.
“you care too much,” you tease.
“and you scare me too much,” he says, barely louder than a whisper but your heart still races and you’re not too sure if it’s the adrenaline or if it’s him — the crew surrounds you, someone finally arrives with ice and a first-aid kit. mr. doyoung is talking a mile a minute about liability and structural integrity and someone offers to help carry you to the nurse’s office but you wave them off.
“i’ve got him,” you say, jerking your chin toward haechan who still hasn’t taken his hands off you. he doesn’t even argue. just helps you to your feet, arm around your waist, guiding you slowly off the stage as you limp beside him.
no one says it. not you. not him. not any of the wide-eyed castmates watching the two of you walk away like something’s finally cracked open. but they all feel it. something has changed.
♕
the clinic smells like antiseptic and lemon cleaner. you sit stiffly on the padded bed, ankle propped up with a wrapped ice pack, waiting for the nurse —haechan’s right beside you, knee bouncing restlessly like he can’t stand seeing you in pain, “you need anything?,” he asks, voice gentler than it has any right to be, “water? painkillers? i can steal some candy from the front desk if that helps.”
you glance at him, lips parting, then closing. because that tone. that face. that tenderness you never asked for. it reminds you of before. the haechan who sat side by side with you, eating convenience store snacks, watching clouds drift by, sharing a wired earphone like you had all the time in the world. the haechan who walked you home without ever saying why. who pretended he didn’t like mamma mia! but knew every lyric by heart. the haechan who was loud and stupid and kind and yours. before everything fell apart.
the nurse finally walks in and checks your ankle. haechan stays seated in the plastic chair next to you, leg still bouncing as you listen to her instructions. when she finally leaves with a parting, “just rest it for a few days,” silence rushes in to fill the space.
you exhale slowly, “can you stop bouncing your leg? you heard her, it’s a minor sprain, i’ll live.” you can’t help but roll your eyes. he was being too dramatic. too caring.
“you scared the hell out of me,” he blurts, like the words have been clawing their way up his throat all afternoon.
you look at him, surprised by his bluntness, “i’m fine, haechan.”
“you weren’t fine when the stage gave out under you,” he snaps.
your mouth opens. closes. he keeps stealing the words right out of you. then he shifts, shoulders straighter, spine tighter.
“you said something last week,” he says, voice low, barely above a whisper “when you were half-asleep.”
his fingers tighten in his lap. the campus’ clinic is probably the wrong place for this conversation, but it’s been gnawing at him ever since you walked out of the dream house. and now it’s too big to hold in.
“you said you didn’t want to hate me,” you go incredibly still. so still it’s like your whole body locks up. the air in the room changes. you keep staring at the floor like the white tiles might split open and swallow you whole. of course you remember. curse your memory for never ever letting you forget anything, even when you beg it to. even drugged and half-conscious, everything from that night came back to you throughout moments in the week. like you’d be taking a shower and you’d remember the way you fell into his arms and called out his name or when you were eating lunch and the memory of you reaching out to him, trying to kiss him, hits the back of your head, making you cringe.
“so?,” you forced a breath through your nose. it comes out sharper than you mean it to but you don’t deny it.
“so i want to know,” he swallows, his voice is softer now, “why did you start?”
the silence that follows is thick. suffocating. haechan swears the wall inched closer with every second you don’t answer.
“i’ve been trying to figure it out for years,” he says, voice fraying, “what i did. why you started treating me like i was nothing. why you iced me out like i didn’t matter. like i never did.”
you lift your gaze, slow and deliberate and it hits him. not like a punch, but like a car crash. like every part of him is thrown forward, lungs emptied, heart shattered. there’s a grief in your expression he’s never seen before. not even on stage. this is real. too real.
and he waits. like he always used to. back when the two of you were something – not dating, not together, but something solid. something warm. something unshakeable. the kind of friends who stayed behind after rehearsal just to talk. the kind of friends who knew each other’s favorite snacks, who shared playlists and secrets and inside jokes no one else understood. the kind of friends that felt like home.
“don't you remember?” you finally ask, voice quiet, flat, tired.
haechan frowns, “remember what?”
you laugh bitterly, “of course you don’t.” a pause. a breath. a blade. “it wasn’t your name they were writing on the bathroom stalls.”
he sits up, straighter, alarmed, “what?”
“the closet. junior year of high school. you remember that?”
“of course i do,” he says immediately, “we were locked in there for what? half an hour?”
“forty-three minutes,” you reply, sharp as glass. and suddenly the memory slams into both of you — the closet during the winter play production of beauty and the beast. an accidental lock-in during prop duty, the two of you stuck in the cramped space. too much closeness. too many unspoken things. breath catching in your throat.
nothing happened – but by morning, it didn’t matter.
“you told everyone we hooked up,” you say flatly, “that night in the prop closet. you let them believe it.”
haechan’s whole face shifts, like someone just knocked the air out of his lungs, “y/n, i never said anything, i didn’t even–,”
“you didn’t correct anyone,” you cut him off, the memory still holding as much pain as it did before, “and then the rumors started, people were whispering about me in the hallways. calling me easy. and you just smiled and laughed and acted like it was funny,” your voice cracks and you hate that it does.
“what?,” his voice rises, he looks horrified. shaken. like the floor dropped out beneath him, “no, i didn’t know–”
you turn to him now, eyes blazing, every buried wound rising to the surface, “you let me take the fall. you let them slut-shame me into the ground and when i needed you to shut it down, you disappeared.”
he stares at you like something is shattering behind his eyes. he remembered that moment so differently.
“i thought you hated me because we almost kissed,” he says slowly, as if saying it aloud unearths something, “because i leaned in and i thought i ruined it by misreading everything. so when you started ignoring me, i thought i deserved it.”
you stare at him. your whole chest aches.
“i didn’t know they were calling you names,” he says, “if i had known, i would’ve–,”
“you were laughing with your stupid friends in the hallway,” you snap, tears burning behind your eyes, “smirking when someone made a joke. you didn’t care.”
“i did care!,” he fires back, voice breaking, “i was freaking out! i liked you! okay?,” the confession lingers in the air like smoke and all you could do was stare at him, eyes wide.
“—i liked you. and i didn’t know what to do with it and when people started assuming we were a thing, i….i liked it,” he breathes out.
you blink at him. silent. stunned. speechless.
“i was selfish,” he admits, quieter now, shame flooding his expression, “i got caught up in the idea of you and me and i didn’t realize you were paying the price.”
your expression cracks, disbelief twisting with heartbreak, “but you stopped talking to me,” you whisper, “i thought maybe you just saw me the same way that everyone else did.”
his head shakes desperately, over and over, “no. never.”
the silence afterwards is brutal, wrapping around the two of you like barbed wire. “i didn’t know how to fix it,” he breaks helplessly, each word torn straight from the center of his chest, “you looked at me like i was poison. like just being near you made everything worse. so i stopped trying. i didn’t want to make it harder for you.”
he paused, his voice going quieter, tighter, “you hated me so easily. or at least…that’s what i thought. after a while i convinced myself that maybe that’s what you always wanted and it hurt so i decided to hate you back.”
your jaw clenches. you look away, not because you don’t want to see him but because you can’t. because if you do, you might fall apart completely. haechan leans in. voice shaking. his hand tremble slightly where they rest on the edge of the bed, “but i never stopped thinking about you,” he says like he’s been dying to say it, “not once. and if i could go back, if i could take it all back, i would,” his voice cracks, “i don’t care if we’re supposed to be bitter enemies, if that’s the story everyone loves to believe now. i never wanted to lose you,” his hand twitches in his lap, “and i’m sorry y/n, i am so, so fucking sorry,” he finishes softly, voice filled with raw honesty.
you don’t say anything but your silence isn’t angry now. and the tears slip, silent and slow, dripping down your cheeks like memories you can’t scrub away. those were the words you’ve been aching to hear for years. he brings a hand up your face, slowly, carefully, tentatively like you might flinch. but you don’t. his fingertips graze your skin, carefully brushing away the tear that’s already fallen, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek like it’s sacred.
“please,” he whispers, “let me fix it. let me try. we don’t have to be anything big. just…let me be your friend again. i’ll do anything,” his voice breaks at the end and this time it’s desperation.
you say nothing for a long moment. instead, you look at him, really look. and it’s strange. the way grief can sit beside adoration. the way familiarity can hurt as much as it comforts. because you see the boy who made you laugh until your ribs hurt. the boy who stole your last gummy bear and shared his hoodie. the boy who would watch all your favorite movies with you. the boy who memorized all your favorite songs just so you could sing them together. but you also see the boy who stood by and let the world tear you apart. the boy you’ve spent the last five years resenting.
you see all of him. and for a moment, it makes it hard to breathe.
“i felt so alone,” you say at last, your voice so quiet, “you were my best friend and then overnight, it was like i didn’t exist to you. and every time i looked at you, i just kept thinking, why wasn’t i worth defending?”
he makes a pained sound, like the question cuts deeper than anything else. like he couldn’t forgive his own self for the hurt he put you through.
“i kept waiting,” you go on, quieter now, “for you to say something. to explain. to pull me aside and say hey, i didn’t mean for it to go like that. i didn't mean for it to hurt you. but you never did.”
haechan nods, small and slow, his shoulders hunched in shame. he doesn’t argue. doesn’t defend. he just takes every word like he knows he deserves it. another silence passes but this one feels different. lighter, maybe…sadder, definitely.
his gaze flickers to the pillow behind you as if looking at you now is too much. like if he sees the tears on your cheeks, he might start crying himself and never stop. you wipe at your face with the back of your sleeve, sniffling through a shaky breath “i don't know if i can be your friend again…not like before,” you say honestly and you see how the words break him. his chest rises too fast. his mouth parts like he wants to beg. he nods again, visibly swallowing, like he’s choking on all the apologies he can’t say fast enough.
“but,” you add softly, “i think i’m tired of hating you, too.”
his eyes meet yours, something flickering in them. fragile. hope.
“i think…,” you whisper, “maybe i want to know who you are now,” you add and he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years. like your words cracked a dam and let him come up for air for the first time in forever.
and then you say the words that make something shift in the air, make the angels sing all around him. “we could try,” you murmur, “not going back but maybe starting over?”
his lips part. body stills, afraid he had just imagined it, “you mean it?,” he whispers, voice trembling.
and the sound of his old nickname, your nickname for him, cracks something wide open in his chest. a broken, stunned smile pulls at his lips, trembles with disbelief. like just hearing it makes him feel alive again.
he nods, eyes wet, heart in his hands, “i won’t,” he says, “i swear, i won’t.”
ཐིཋྀ the seventh week of rehearsals
it starts quietly. no grand announcement. no dramatic reconciliation that leaves the audience gasping. just…a shift. a subtle recalibration in the air.
you walk into rehearsal, script tucked under your arm. you aren’t bracing yourself like you usually do. there’s no adrenaline-fueled armor laced tight around your spine. you just simply walk in, the same way you would if haechan wasn’t there.
and when you spot him across the room, lounging in one of the chairs, thumb lazily scrolling through his phone, something inside you clicks into a different gear. you don’t look through him like he’s invisible. you don’t burn holes into him with your glare. you just look and then…you nod. barely anything. but he sees it. his thumb stills. his head lifts. he meets your gaze. there’s no tension in his shoulders, no spark of challenge in his eyes. and then he nods back. just as slight. just as careful.
to the untrained eye, nothing monumental has happened. but to the handful of castmates who have witnessed your years-long cold war with the icy stares, the sarcastic jabs, the tension so thick it warped the air – it’s seismic. everyone curious as to what happened in the nurse’s clinic.
a pause ripples through the room. like someone's holding their breath. and then…he smiles. not the cocky, smug grin he used to toss your way like a dare. not the smirk that usually meant he was about to say something that would make you want to throw your script at his head. no. this one is soft, small, a little uneven. the kind of smile you give a stray cat you’re hoping won’t run away.
you feel the tug of something low in your stomach, not butterflies, not quite. just movement, a flicker. and your lips twitch into an answering curve. not a full smile. but not nothing.
one of your castmates, also one of your best friends, yujin, jolts so hard she drops her script with a thud that echoes louder than it should. no one helps to pick it up, everyone too busy watching the apocalypse unfold in real time. you pretend not to notice the stares. instead, you slide into your usual seat and flip open your script like it’s just another regular day, not the first page of something new. you don’t look at him again. not right away. but you can feel him. the way you always could.
mr. doyoung claps his hands twice, too enthusiastically, as if to break the spell or maybe because even he feels the tension lifting, “alright! today’s rehearsal…the wedding scene!” he announces, his smile extra bright, eyes darting between you and haechan.
you don’t flinch. you don’t groan or make a joke at haechan’s expense like you might’ve a week ago. you just flip to the page. from beside you, yujin leans in slightly, whispering out of the corner of her mouth, “are you two… friends now?” her voice is half hopeful, half afraid the answer might implode the timeline.
you keep your eyes on the script, “maybe” you murmur back, shrugging, voice calm, “but we’re not enemies anymore.”
she stares at you for a second like she’s trying to decode an alien language, then exhales sharply and mutters, “holy shit, i need a drink.”
across the room, haechan shifted forward in his seat now, elbows on his knees, script open, highlighter cap in his mouth. you glance up once, and he’s already looking at you. his mouth quirks. not a smirk. not a dare. just that same soft expression. your fingers tighten slightly around your script before the two of you take your spots on stage.
the rehearsal is going surprisingly smooth. almost like someone replaced the decades-old scripts of your dynamic with a gentler rewrite. one where your lines don’t burn with anger when you speak them, where eye contact doesn’t feel like a threat. you’re standing across from haechan in the middle of the stage, your fingers laced loosely in front of you, your posture careful but relaxed.
“romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both,” jongho says, fully immersed in his friar laurence voice, hands folded solemnly like he’s performing an actual ceremony. you glance at haechan as he steps toward you. he leans in and brushes a kiss to your lips, soft, almost reverent, and you do your best to ignore the tiny spark that settles in your chest and fizzles straight to your toes.
“as much to him, else is his thanks too much,” you say with quiet warmth, smiling through the line. you kiss him again, this one just a touch longer, just a breath closer than necessary.
he pulls back slightly, meeting your eyes, “ah, juliet, if the measure of thy joy be heaped like mine and that thy skill be more. to blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath. this neighbor air and…,” he trails off.
there’s a beat of silence. his eyes flick to the side. nothing comes. you raise an eyebrow, “o romeo, are you lagging?”
a ripple of laughter breaks out across the room. haechan narrows his eyes at you, but he’s grinning, the corners of his mouth twitching, “no my juliet, i’m connecting to the server.”
“oh, sorry, i forgot this version of romeo runs on the internet.” the laughter grows. even mr. doyoung chuckles softly from behind his script.
haechan places a hand dramatically on his chest, staggering back a step, “you wound me, juliet.”
you place a hand on your hip, “you forgot your line in the middle of our wedding. i think i’m the one who should be wounded.”
he opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get a word out, sanha, who’s been watching this unfold with wide eyes, throws in a “i knew it was too good to be true.”
the laughter dies down. there’s a shift, a pause, one of those delicate moments that could tilt either way. everyone glances between the two of you, waiting to see if the air will thicken with old tension again.
but then haechan shrugs, smile still soft, “can’t friends banter?”
the room stills. the word hovers between you like a fragile thing, spoken so casually but carrying so much more weight than anyone expected.
friend wasn’t exactly the word people would describe your relationship to be.
your heart skips, not in a dramatic way, just a quiet flutter, like it’s catching up to something your brain already knew. you look at him and he’s already looking at you. there’s something behind his eyes, a private little spark, a shared joke, like the two of you are in on something no else quite understands.
you smile, slow and real, “exactly,” you say, “friends banter.”
everyone goes quiet again, not with tension but surprise. you can practically hear the mental recalibration of the room. yujin’s mouth is slightly open, xiaojun has an eyebrow raise, jongho is looking back and forth in between you, wondering how he got himself stuck in the middle of all this.
mr. doyoung clears his throat and claps his hands once, “alright, let’s run it again. from romeo’s line.”
haechan pick up his script, quickly reading it over, still grinning. as you take your mark beside him, his shoulder brushes yours, barely noticeable but deliberate. neither of you move away.
♕
the next day, after rehearsal ends and the cast slowly filters out, you find yourself lingering in the black box again, volunteering to put away the chairs. it’s quiet, dimly lit, the echoes of the day still in the air in half-muttered lines, scattered laughter, a crumpled water bottle forgotten in the wings. you’re sitting on the edge of the stage, kicking your heels lightly against the wood. then you hear footsteps, unhurried, familiar. haechan joins you a beat later, collapsing beside you with a dramatic groan.
“remind me why we volunteered for this, again?,” he sighs, eyes closed, head tilted toward the ceiling.
you smirk, “well, i volunteered for this because i haven’t helped out since week one. you just…showed up.”
he cracks one eye open and turns his head toward you, grinning, “right. my hero complex. forgot.”
you nudge him with your shoulder, and for a second it feels like nothing ever changed between you. like the years of eye-rolls and cold shoulders never happened. like you’re just you and he’s just him, and all the old memories you both tried to forget have started quietly knocking again.
“so,” you say playfully, “you do realize you completely blacked out on your monologue yesterday, right?”
he groans again, louder this time, slumping so far sideways he’s almost sliding off the stage, “don’t remind me, i saw my life flash before my eyes, mr. doyoung’s disappointment in 4k.”
you turn toward him, grinning, “my favorite part was when you just stood there, blinking like you got hit with a windows error.”
haechan throws a hand over his eyes, “i was reconnecting!, you caught me mid-update.”
you burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the walls. it makes him look at you again, and not in the usual teasing way. he watches the way your face lights up, the way your shoulders shake with it, and something in his chest aches – warm and familiar.
“i’ll admit,” you say between giggles, “that line delivery of mine? ‘o romeo, are you lagging?’ oscar-worthy.”
“you’re insufferable,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling too.
you both go quiet for a moment, the air between you charged in a way it didn’t used to be — or maybe always was, back before either of you knew what to call it.
“did you see jongho’s face?,” you ask, biting back a grin.
he grins, eyes lighting up, “he looked like he was witnessing a miracle. like we were gonna shake hands and start a foundation for world peace.”
“yujin nearly dropped her phone” you snort, “i think she thought she was hallucinating.”
he chuckles, nudging you slightly, “we should’ve milked it, gone on tour with our peace treaty, sold merch, team haechan and team y/n shirts.”
you roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself, “we’d have sold out shows every night.”
he looks at you for a beat longer than necessary, “you know… it’s weird.”
you glance over, “what is?”
“this,” he says quietly, “us. talking like this again, it feels…,” he pauses, searching for the word, “familiar.”
you don’t say anything right away, because you feel it too. that quiet pull. that ache. the thing that never fully went away. you both know it. you were each other’s person. before the hate took over, before the jabs. before either of you figured out that pushing someone away is sometimes easier than letting them in.
“yeah,” you say softly, “it does.”
then he shifts slightly, glancing sideways, “so…friends banter, huh?”
you raise a brow, “you said it.”
“and you didn’t disagree,” he says softer now. there’s no teasing in his voice, just curiosity.
you nod, “nope, i didn’t.”
he smiles. not that smug, sharp smile you used to hate. this one’s crooked, earnest. and you smile back, the same kind of smile, the kind you don't have to guard. the smile you give to a friend. but something in the way you look at each other says maybe not just that forever. maybe just that for now.
he bumps his shoulder into yours, “so, friend…you buying me lunch tomorrow?”
you scoff, “you forgot your lines. i should be the one charging you.”
he grins, that glint sneaking back into his eyes, “fine, princess. lunch tomorrow. cafeteria. my treat.”
the nickname is gentler now, filled with a sort of affection that makes your heart skip a beat. you tilt your head, pretending to consider, “as long as you don’t freeze mid-sentence again.”
he leans just slightly closer, his voice barely above a murmur, “only if you promise to tease me about it again.”
you pretend to roll your eyes, but you’re smiling…big now. unrestrained. the kind that feels like sunlight in your chest. you think about everything that’s happened. the years of arguing. the pushing and pulling. the kisses that weren’t on the script. the ones that came after, the magnetic pull of him. the electric tension you thought would destroy you both. now somehow reshaped into this — a strange, slow return to something lighter. something that still pulses underneath with heat.
you walk out side by side, the distance between you closer than it was yesterday.
♕
the next day, true to his word, haechan meets you outside the cafeteria, two iced choco’s in hand and a stupidly triumphant grin on his face like he just won a prize.
“you drink this, right?,” he says, handing you one without waiting for an answer, “i know it used to be your favorite, i just don’t know if you still like it now,” he rambles, a little nervous.
you take it, brushing your fingers lightly against his, “of course I still like it now,” you say with a smile that you don’t quite realize is soft enough to knock the wind out of him, “thank you.”
“anything for the princess,” he winks as you roll your eyes playfully. you find a corner table by the windows, where the sun spills across the scratched plastic surface and turns your drinks gold. the campus buzzes around you, students passing by with backpacks slung low, the distant hum of conversations and clinking trays.
haechan orders sandwiches for you both, and without asking, skips the pickles on yours. you notice, and you don’t say anything, but the fact that he remembered that makes something in your chest swell and ache at the same time. there’s something undeniably easy about it all. about him. you fall into a rhythm of banter, half jokes, and snide comments wrapped in smiles that linger just a little too long. it’s almost too easy to forget that the two of you hated each other. almost too easy to remember that once, you didn’t.
you’re in the middle of a joke when a voice interrupts the moment — “hey, haechan,” your eyes turn towards the voice. it’s ryujin. and she’s leaning against the edge of the table, hair in a pretty messy bun in that effortless dancer way, water bottle in hand, wearing one of those crop tops that make everyone in the building do a double take. she flashes him a bright smile.
“you didn’t show up to the party last night,” she says, teasing but with a bite that suggests she noticed and cared.
haechan blinks like he wasn’t expecting her, “oh, yeah, i–uh, fell asleep early,” he shifts in his seat, his legs brushing yours under the table. then he glances at you, a quick flicker of a look, like a reflex. it’s so fast. he probably thinks you missed it. but you didn't.
ryujin giggles lightly and touches his shoulder, a fleeting gesture that might have meant nothing to anyone else, “we’re always missing out on each other,” she pouts.
you glance down at your sandwich. you can’t bring yourself to keep watching. your appetite vanishes somewhere between her hand and his smile.
“yeah,” haechan forced out, then clears his throat, trying to find words.
you miss the awkward way he scratches the back of his neck, the polite distance in his voice that doesn’t quite match ryujin’s energy. he’s not flirting back but he’s not shutting it down either.
ryujin’s gaze finally flickers to you, her smile dimming just slightly, “hey.”
you smile, sharp and polite “hey.”
she lingers. just enough to make it weird. then flicks her hair over her shoulder and turns back to him, “you’re mine at the next party, okay?”
haechan lets out a nervous laugh, “cool. yeah.” it comes out a little too fast, like he’s agreeing just to make the moment end. he wishes the ground could just swallow him whole. he doesn’t even know why the mere action of ryujin flirting with him around you is getting him all flustered.
she finally walks away and you don’t say anything at first. you take a sip from your drink just to have something to do with your hands. haechan exhales like he’s just escaped a fire.
you arch an eyebrow, still not looking at him, “you okay?”
he rubs his hands down his thighs, “yeah. that was…awkward.”
“didn’t look awkward from where i was sitting,” you mutter, voice a little sharper than intended.
he turns to you, caught off guard by your tone, “be serious.”
you poke the lettuce in your sandwich, “haven’t you been flirting with her since forever?,” you comment. it wasn’t exactly a secret to the rest of the university that the two had the hots for each other. just like how it wasn’t a secret that the two of you can’t stand each other.
“yeah, well. that was before,” he says without thinking.
“before what?,” you ask, raising a brow, your eyes finally meeting his.
he goes quiet. you wait. he’s already looking at you, his expression unreadable. there’s a long pause, like he’s debating something. then he looks away, his voice low “nothing. never mind.”
you don’t push. but your stomach twists in a way that’s hard to ignore. you weren’t supposed to care. he’s just a friend. that’s what you agreed on.
then he forces out a laugh, soft and a little shaky, he bumps your foot under the table, voice casual, “so” he murmurs, “you’re totally jealous.”
you nearly choke on your sandwich, “am not.”
“you looked at your sandwich like you wanted it dead,” he points out, teasing.
you narrow your eyes at him, but your lips twitch anyway, “you’re officially delirious.”
he grins, that same crooked, trouble-making grin that used to make your blood boil and now just… makes it rush. you roll your eyes and take another sip of your drink, hiding your smile behind the straw. but your cheeks feel warm. and your heart feels stupid.
because yeah, maybe you were jealous. and maybe that means this thing between you, this not-quite-friends, not-quite-something-else, is barreling toward a truth you’re both trying not to name.
♕
the lights flash neon blue and pink over the velvet booths and sticky tables. it was karaoke night with your castmates. the room filled with laughter, everyone sipping cheap drinks, flipping through the karaoke’s binder, music pulsing through the speakers, everyone pretending they’re not stressed about the upcoming show. haechan leans against the booth, one arm resting over the backrest, drink in hand. usually you sit in the booth farthest away from him, but tonight, tonight you’re sitting right next to him, trying not to notice the way his shoulders brush yours every so often. the way it sparks something irritatingly warm in your chest.
“you do know you’re not getting out of singing, right?” you say, a smirk playing on your lips as you leaned over to talk in his ear, loud enough for him to hear over changbin and wooyoung currently performing hamilton.
he raises an eyebrow, ignoring the way your breath sends goosebumps all over his spine, “who said i was trying to?”
“you haven’t signed up once,” you point out.
“maybe i’m waiting,” he says, turning his head so you're closer than before, so close you catch the faint smell of his cologne, the woody powdery scent that makes your brain fuzzy, “for the right song and the right partner,” he glances at you. there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“are you asking me to duet, lee donghyuck?,” you smirk.
“only if you think you can keep up,” he says, a playful smile on his lips.
minutes later you’re both up front, two microphones in hand. you give him a sideways glance as the intro to what is this feeling starts playing. haechan smirks when he sees the lyrics pop up on the screen.
“what is this feeling, so sudden and new?,” he starts. of course he was galinda, milking the drama, throwing in that little hair flip that makes you giggle. you both slip into character. the room blurs. it’s just you and him.
“loathing. unadulterated loathing,” he levels you with an exaggerated glare.
“for your face — your voice — your clothing!,” you match his energy, pacing in time with him like two cats ready to pounce. the song becomes a battleground, but its play fighting. banter wrapped around melody. and you feel like a child again.
“let’s just say we loathe it all!” you end, breathless and giddy.
the room erupts, howling with laughter and applause. but something about the moment slows. the harmony lingers longer than it should. haechan’s eyes meet yours, you don’t look away.
an hour later the bar started to empty out. castmates peel off into groups, calling rides or walking to the subway in clumps. you’re slipping your jacket on when you feel someone fall into step beside you.
“you’re walking home?” haechan asks casually, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
you nod, “it’s not far.”
“i’ll walk with you,” he says, like it’s not even a question. like it’s a given.
the streets are quieter now, only the hum of traffic and the occasional siren echoing down the avenue. the moon reflecting shimmer in puddles, and there’s a leftover thrill buzzing under your skin from the performance, from him.
he kicks at a pebble, glancing over at you, “so… we make a pretty good team.”
you bump your shoulder into his lightly, “don’t let it get to your head.”
“too late, princess” he says with a grin.
you walk in silence for a beat, the good kind, where it doesn’t feel like something needs to be said. then, softly, “we’re pretty good at being friends,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the sidewalk.
you feel him glance at you before he answers “yeah,” he says, just as quiet, “we are.”
your fingers don’t touch, but they hang close enough that the space between them feels loud. you look up at him then, and he gives you that crooked, genuine smile that always comes out when he thinks no one’s watching.
“thanks for walking me,” you say when you reach your building.
he nods, “always.” there’s a pause. that kind where you could either wave and walk away or not. then haechan opens his arms slightly, like he’s offering, but not assuming. and you don’t even hesitate. you step into him, arms wrapping around his torso. he’s warm and steady around your shoulders. it’s not rushed. not awkward. it’s one of those hugs that feels like it’s saying a lot more than either of you are willing to put into words just yet.
you breathe him in and for a second, it feels like the rest of the world goes quiet. he pulls back first, but slowly, like he’s not quite ready either. his hands brush your arms before he lets go.
“night, princess,” he says, teasing, voice a little huskier than before.
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, “night, hyuck.”
and even though nothing’s said, and nothing happens, it still feels like something changed. like you both felt it, even if you’re pretending not to.
♕
hyuck: wanna come over and watch mamma mia 2 tonight?
princess: the one that came out when we hated each other?
hyuck: yeah, thought it might be poetic or whatever >.<
you almost laugh out loud when you read it. of all the movies. that one. the one released right in the thick of your worst arguments, during the year neither of you could say a full sentence without wanting to kill each other. the one you couldn’t bring yourself to watch in theater because all you could remember was watching the first one with him.
princess: will there be popcorn?
hyuck: of course
princess: see you later ;)
by the time you arrive at the frat house, it’s quiet. most of the guys are out for the night and the place, for once, feels peaceful. lived-in, but cozy. haechan greets you at the door with popcorn in one hand and remote in the other.
“just you, me and ABBA,” he says, a playful smile on his face as you make your way to his living room.
you smirk, stepping inside, “scared i’ll out-sing you?”
his laugh is automatic, “you wish.”
you settle on the couch, blanket tossed between the two of you. you don’t sit close, not at first. but as the movie plays, as waterloo kicks in and the popcorn dwindles and your feet end up tangled somewhere under the blanket, the space between you shrinks. neither of you mentions it. you both sing along, loud and obnoxious, voices overlapping in messy harmonies, especially during why did it have to be me, elbowing each other like teenagers. there’s a softness in it. a safety. like the memories that used to hurt have dulled around the edges and all that’s left now is warmth. you’re both grinning so hard it hurts. the kind of joy you haven’t let yourself feel around him in years. by angel eyes you’re leaning into him more than you mean to. his shoulder’s warm. you let yourself rest there, just for a second. but the second turns into minutes. and by the time my love, my life begins to play, you’ve gone quiet, breaths slow and even, your head tilted gently against him.
he doesn't dare move.
the movie goes on, but he doesn’t register it anymore. not really. he’s too aware of you, curled up beside him, cheek pressed into his hoodie, peacefully asleep. like you completely trust him again. and that’s when it hits him.
it’s not a surprise. not a sudden realization. just something he’s been trying to ignore finally catching up to him — he never stopped liking you.
not when you fought. not when you ignored each other in the hallways and on stage and in classes. not even when he flirted with other girls, trying to replace the hole you burned through him with something lighter, simpler. but no one ever did. no one even came close. because it’s always been you. under his skin. in his lungs. every song he sang louder just so you’d hear it. every stupid joke he cracked just so you would see him.
and now, god, now it’s stronger than ever. because he’s not just thinking about how right this feels. he’s thinking about you. the way you laughed tonight, unguarded. the way you trusted him enough to fall asleep on him like this. the way you’ve been slowly letting him back in.
but underneath that softness, beneath all the fragile peace you’ve built…is something hungrier. something heavier.
because now he knows the way your lips feel on his, hot and frantic, laced with fury and desperation. the weight of your body tangled with his, all tension and sharp edges and need. he remembers the night you both gave in to it. when everything between you collided and combusted and for a few stolen hours, nothing else existed. the sound you made when he was inside you. the way you clung to him like you hated him for how good it felt.
he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about it since. about you. that night. the taste of your skin. the way he wanted more, even then. the way he still wants more now — he wants to feel you again but not like that. not angry. not bitter. not as a mistake to bury. he wants to feel you without the weight of a grudge between you.
that’s what scares him the most. because you’re just starting to rebuild whatever fragile thread of friendship you’ve stitched together. if he leans in again, if he fucks this up, he’s not sure either of you will come back from it.
so he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just lets you rest against him, eyes fixed on the credits. heart beating loud and traitorous in his chest. he tells himself it’s enough but he knows it won't be for long because he never wanted to be just your friend — not really. not ever. not then. and definitely not now.
ཐིཋྀ the eight week of rehearsals
monday comes again you spot him in rehearsals, sitting in his usual chair. and for the first time, you chose to sit on the chair next to him. you wait for his usual greeting, that charming smirk, the lifted eyebrows, the dumb pun about how you finally couldn’t resist sitting next to the greatest.
but none of it comes.
he doesn’t raise his brows and say something stupid just to make you roll your eyes. he just nods. quiet and distant.
“hi,” you offer as you approach, a smile on your face.
“hey,” he replies, without looking at you. it throws you off. not completely. just enough that your smile falters a little.
but it doesn't stop there. during rehearsals, he’s all business. focused. he doesn’t crack jokes during warmups like he usually does. even when you fumble a line and instinctively glance at him for a reaction, he doesn’t meet your eyes. there are no friendly banters. it’s like someone hit the switch on him over the weekend. and sure, he talks to you. he doesn’t ignore you completely. but it’s colder. measured. like he’s rehearsing something behind every word.
at break, you sit on the edge of the stage like always but he doesn’t join you. he stretches with the boys instead, laughing a little too loudly at something that isn’t even funny.
you feel it — the difference. the detachment. like he’s edited you out of a movie scene where you once had top billing.
you watch from across the room, trying not to let it show that you notice. but you do. you notice everything. the way he keeps his distance. the way his gaze skips over you in group conversation. the way he leaves rehearsal without waiting, mumbling something about being late for a meeting you’re not even sure exists.
you tell yourself it’s fine. you’re friends. it’s just a weird day. maybe he’s tired. maybe something’s going on. maybe he did have a meeting. maybe it’s nothing.
but the thing is — it doesn’t feel like nothing. and it stings. because just last week you were creating new inside jokes, sharing lunch, singing duets, watching movies, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. and just two nights ago, you fell asleep on his shoulder and he let you and for one quiet, perfect evening, it felt like maybe, maybe, you were finding your way back to something real. and now? now he won’t even look at you.
later, you replay the night in your mind, trying to pinpoint what went wrong. the way he sang with a fake swedish accent, making you laugh until your ribs hurt. the way you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. like you were something precious. something fragile. nothing about that night felt off. but now he’s acting like you’re glass that cracked when he wasn’t looking, and he doesn’t know how to pick up the pieces without bleeding.
you want to call him out. ask what the hell you did. demand to know why he’s shutting you out when you were finally figuring out how to be in the same room without burning. but you don’t. you don’t say a word. because maybe you were just being dramatic. or maybe because part of you is scared of the answer.
and part of you, the part that still aches for him even now, kind of wishes you could just go back to hating each other. at least then, he looked at you like he meant it.
♕
it’s been a few days since and things have gotten worse. you can’t put your finger on it exactly. nothing obvious. no big blow up. no fight. just the absence of something that was almost there.
he shows up to every rehearsal, still jokes with the cast, still reads his lines. but with you? he’s quieter. not cold, not cruel. just careful. like he’s watching every word, every glance, weighing them all in his head before he lets them go. like he’s trying to keep something from slipping out. something that used to dance at the edge of his smirks and linger in the way he looked at you, that soft, half-daring thing that felt almost too real.
you hate it. so you do something about it. you text him on a thursday evening in a moment of impulsive hope or maybe desperation.
princess: you doing anything tomorrow night? a few of us are going to the A.M. 127 bar, you should come.
you watch the message go through, then you toss your phone aside like it didn’t cost you anything to send. it takes him an hour to respond.
hyuck: ah wish i could but i’m busy. have to finish a write-up for theater theory and help mark with something
you stare at it, a little too long. looking for cracks in the excuse. for anything that might explain why it sounds like a gentle rejection and not just a scheduling conflict. and when you finally type out a reply, something nonchalant, unaffected, you send it before you can overthink.
princess: all good. good luck :)
you toss your phone again, harder this time, like the weight in your chest might go with it. you won’t be bitter. you can’t be bitter. he doesn’t owe you anything. he doesn’t have to show up just because you asked. you’re friends now. just friends. friends have boundaries. friends don’t need each other to say yes.
but the next night while waiting for your drink with yujin at the loud, dimly lit bar, you make the mistake of scrolling through your phone. the story flashes before you even realize what you’re watching. a living room, lights flickering, people playing a game of beer pong.
and there, clear as day – haechan. leaning against the arm of the couch. grinning. and next to him? ryujin. tucked comfortably into his side like she’s always belonged there. laughing at something he says, head tipped toward him, her hand casually resting on his thigh like she doesn’t even have to think about it.
the clip is only ten seconds long. but it affects you more than it should. you click it again. watch it one more time. and another. and another — his head leans toward hers. he’s smiling. he looks easy with her. like nothing’s complicated. like nothing happened. like he didn’t freeze up around you this week. like he didn’t pull away just when things started to feel… possible.
you swallow around the twist in your chest, reaching out for your drink. you laugh too, like you’re fine, like you didn’t just get sucker punched by a few pixels on a screen. but inside, you feel like an absolute joke — a stupid, drunk punchline to a story you thought had changed.
you take a couple more shots before you were staring at your phone again. the last text between you still lit up on the screen.
“all good. good luck :)”
you hate the way it reads. detached. not real. not at all how you feel. and before you can stop yourself, before you can listen to your own logic, you’re tapping his name in your contacts and pressing call — it rings once. twice. you don't think he’ll answer. but by the third ring, his voice hits your ear, “hello?,” low, familiar, a little too steady. he’s not drunk.
you try to swallow around the words clogging your throat, “hey,” you say and you wince at how thin it comes out, “it’s me.”
a beat of silence. “yeah. i know,” he sounds softer, cautious now.
you almost laugh, “sorry,” you mutter, “i shouldn’t have called. just…ignore this, okay? just pretend it didn’t happen.”
“wait,” he says, sharp enough to stop you from ending the call, “are you okay?”
there he goes again. pretending he cares. you want to lie. say yeah, of course i’m great. but you’re tired. a little drunk. a little heartbroken. you laugh. it sounds bitter, “what do you think?”
another pause. you can hear the voices in the background. the loud music. ryujin’s laugh. the exact same sound from the video. and it scrapes at your ribs.
“you said you were busy,” you say and this time you don’t try to hide the shake in your voice, “you said you had to help mark with something.”
“i did,” he replies, and god, he sounds so calm it makes your chest burn, “plans changed.”
“right,” you whisper, “funny how that happens.”
he’s quiet again and maybe that should be your cue to hang up. to end this before it gets pathetic. but you can’t. not when it feels like he’s been slipping further and further away all week.
“i just didn’t expect to see you with her,” you admit, a little too bare, too honest, too messy, “that’s all.”
he exhales slowly. you can hear voices in the background, someone calling his name. he murmurs something away from the phone, you can’t make it out. when he speaks again, he’s quieter, “it’s not what you think.”
you smile without warmth, “okay,” you say because what else can you say? you were in no position to tell him who he can and can’t hang out with. you were in no position to even get jealous. he doesn’t explain further. he doesn’t need to. you were just his friend.
“you’ve been weird all week,” you say suddenly, “and i’ve been trying not to take it personally, but–,” you cut yourself off.
“but what?,” he asks. you swallow hard, “i don’t know. i guess i thought we were friends again.”
“we are,” he says quickly. too quickly.
“then why are you pushing me away?,” you ask, voice soft and quiet.
another breath from him, a pause that stretches, “i’m not.”
“you are. you stopped looking at me. you stopped cracking jokes,” you blink hard, throat thick, “did i do something wrong? is this some kind of elaborate plan to hurt me the way i hurt you?”
“no.” he says quickly, “it’s not like that.” then the line goes silent. the music behind him fades.
“i’m just,” he finally says, the words slow and clipped, “trying to keep things simple right now.”
you nod even though he can’t see you. even though it didn’t make sense. even though nothing about you and him has ever been simple.
“okay,” you say again, “i’ll let you get back to your party.”
“princess–,” he starts.
but you’re already pulling the phone away, muttering out a hollow “bye,” and ending the call before he can stop you.
you hang up, phone trembling in your hand, heart heavier than before. you didn’t get answers. didn’t get clarity. didn’t get the version of him who sang ABBA at the top of his lungs and leaned into you like you were home. you just got silence. distance. a half-hearted promise that meant nothing.
♕
you don’t remember how many drinks it takes to get you there – that hazy, floating kind of drunk. the kind that makes everything feel like it’s underwater and glowing. you’re not sad, not exactly. just…empty. tired in a way that no one can see.
yujin left a while ago, with a boy she’s been making out with the whole night. she kissed your cheek goodbye, making you promise to uber home. you said of course and waved her off with a smile too big for your face. then you stayed and ordered another drink. and another. let the night blur until it felt like you didn’t exist anymore.
the bartender starts to notice around 2:00 a.m. – you’re sitting slouched over the counter. your lips are slightly smeared and your mascara smudged just enough to make you look fragile. breakable. like someone who doesn’t know where she is or why she’s still here. you don’t notice the bartender hovering until he gently taps the bar in front of you, “hey” he says, voice low, kind, “you alright?”
you glance up, slow and reluctant, eyes glassy, unfocused, trying to read his blurry nametag: johnny. you try to smile at him but your mouth doesn’t quite cooperate, “mm fine, johnny,” you mumble, slurring your words.
he gives you a long look, his voice is still gentle but it sharpens a little at the edges, “that’s not true.”
you shake your head, try to sit up straighter, but the motion tilts the room again. you let out a soft, pathetic-sounding laugh, “okay, maybe not, but i’ll be fine.”
johnny sighs, the kind of sigh that says he’s seen this before. too many times. he pulls out a clean glass of water, slides it in front of you, “drink this.”
you do. drunk enough to drink anything a stranger would give. then he looks at you again, soft but steady, “i’m gonna call someone for you, okay? just to make sure you get home safe.”
you blink, the words registering slower than normal, “no–it’s—dont. please. i’m fine, i can–”
“you’re not fine,” he says gently but firm. you don’t argue again. you’re too tired.
“here,” you mumble, unlocking your phone with clumsy fingers, “pick whoever you want, i don’t care,” you say, giving in. he scrolls through your recent calls, lifts the phone to his ear.
“yo…hey…is this hyuck?,” his voice rings in your ear but you were too out of it to care, “yeah, hi i’m a bartender at A.M. 01:27, i’ve got a girl here, this is her phone, she’s pretty out of it. not in danger or anything just too drunk to leave alone. you were the last person she called, so…,” his voice drifts off in the background as your forehead sinks into your arms, head dropped to the counter, letting the drowsiness take over.
time passes. or maybe it doesn’t. you don’t really know.
then you hear your name. you lift your head slowly, the bar has started to spin again or maybe your brain has. same difference. you squint your eyes open and he is there, standing next to you, hoodie pulled over his hair, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“define ‘okay,” you mutter, pushing yourself up. you sway a little and his hand is instantly under your elbow, steadying you.
“got it,” he murmurs, sliding an arm around your waist, “let’s go.”
“wow,” you say under your breath, stumbling slightly as he helps you toward the exit, “my hero, coming to my rescue so fast, didn’t know i still mattered.”
“i got a call from a man who doesn’t even know you,” he mutters, jaw tight, “forgive me if i didn’t love that scenario.”
you glance up at him as he opens the passenger door, “jealous?” he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even look at you. just helps you in, buckles the seatbelt with a sigh and shuts the door.
the drive is quiet. not awkward. not exactly. but there’s a weight between you. thick and humming. some ghost made of the things you never said. haechan’s hands grip the wheel tight, knuckles white, eyes locked on the road. the glow from the dash throws soft light across his face, shadows catching in the curve of his jaw, the dip under his cheekbone. you watch him in sideways glances, arms crossed tight to your chest like you’re holding yourself together. the city fades. buildings blur into darkness. music plays low from the stereo, some playlist he forgot to turn off. you don’t say much. neither does he. but slowly, gradually, the fog in your brain starts to clear. your head feels less floaty. your pulse settles. your tongue feels normal in your mouth again. you blink. you breathe.
you’re starting to sober up. enough to feel the cracks again. enough for the ache to come back clearer than before — and when the gps chimes that you’re ten minutes away from your dorm, something inside you finally breaks.
“i hate you.” you whisper, eyes still on the road ahead.
his brow twitches, and he casts you a quick, startled glance, “what?”
you turn your head now, shoulders squaring toward him, the last drops of alcohol giving you courage, or maybe just stripping your fear down to its bare, shaking bones.
“i said, i hate you.”
maybe you say it because it’s real. maybe you wanted to get a reaction out of him. something. anything.
“okay,” he says, soft and resigned. like he’s letting you go without even trying to hold on. like he knew this was coming, “you’re drunk.
“i’m not that drunk,” you snap.
he continues focusing on the road. jaw tight.
“i hate your stupid face,” you go on, voice low but steady, “i hate your stupid little moles,” you take a breath, “i hate when you laugh without me.”
a pause. he wonders if you could hear the way his heart is thudding in his chest.
“i hate how you asked me to be friends again just to ignore me. i hate the way you act like nothing has happened between us.”
you pause. your chest tight. your throat is burning.
“i hate the way you look at me like you want to say something, but you won’t. i hate the way you leave me guessing, doubting, wondering if any of this is real.”
he doesn’t say a word. just silence so loud it echoes. you stare at him, heart pounding. you don’t cry. you just tell the truth, finally.
“i hate the way you make me feel,” you whisper, “i hate the way it’s so easy for me to fall for you.”
the words hang in the air, awful and honest. you feel them leave your mouth and you can’t take it back. he doesn’t pull over right away. but his jaw locks. his throat bobs with a swallow. and then he takes the next left, turns into a side street, dark and quiet, far from the dorms. no one’s around. just the sound of your breath and his. he parks the car and the silence rushes in. it’s deafening. the kind that drowns out everything else. it’s thick with all the things you’ve never said, with every unfinished sentence and swallowed apology.
then he turns toward you, eyes wide and raw, like he’s been trying to hold something in for so long it’s starting to hurt. like your words have cracked something open in him that he can’t put back.
“don’t.” he says, barely a whisper. “don’t say that. not when you don’t mean it.”
but you don’t look away, “i do mean it.”
and for a second, neither of you speak. neither of you move. it’s all there between you. the longing, the ache, the silence that always meant more — and you’ve filled it up. you’ve cracked the quiet open and poured the truth inside it.
now there’s nothing left to hide behind. you see it. the wreckage in him. the war. the part of him that wants to reach for you. and the part of him terrified that if he does, you’ll disappear.
he exhales, slowly and shaky, like he’s trying to steady himself on the edge of something steep, “i didn’t think you felt it,” he murmurs, voice rough like it’s been scraped raw from the inside, “i kept telling myself you wouldn’t. that you couldn’t.”
you stay quiet, letting him unravel. he laughs then, a broken little sound, hollow and helpless, “i told myself if i just kept my distance, if i just waited long enough… whatever i was feeling would die out. that i’d get over it. that i won’t ruin our friendship again.”
he doesn’t look at you when he says it. he looks straight ahead, like the truth will hurt less if he doesn’t have to see your face when he says it out loud.
“but it didn’t,” he whispered, “it just got worse.”
the confession spills out now, uncontained. he can’t stop it, and he doesn’t try to anymore.
“you were everywhere. in my phone, in my stupid dreams, in every fucking song. and i hated that i couldn’t shake you,” he turns to look at you then, finally. his eyes are glassy, dark and tired. no walls left.
“i tried to be your friend,” he says desperately, “i tried so fucking hard. but every time you smiled at me, it felt like i was falling, every time you laughed, i wanted more and every time i felt you next to me, it’s like i couldn’t control myself.”
your breath hitches, but he doesn’t stop.
“i don’t want to be your friend.”
he looks at you. eyes quickly darting down your lips.
“im in love with you.” he lets the words settle in the air and then he adds, “and i want you in a way that friends shouldn’t. i always have.”
the words fall between you like a match dropped on gasoline. hot and sudden and irreversible.
“i’m tired of pretending this doesn’t wreck me,” he adds, voice low, “that you don’t wreck me.”
you don’t move. you just look at him. and in his eyes, you see it all. the quiet desperation, the resentment at himself for still loving you, the hope he keeps trying to kill. the truth sits heavy in your chest, rising fast, threatening to drown you. but you don't back away from it now. you don’t want to. because you know that you wreck him the same way he wrecks you.
you don’t remember moving. just the heat in your chest, the ache behind your ribs, the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. one second, you’re sitting there, breath shallow, heart torn wide open. the next, your hand is on his jaw, guiding his face toward yours and his mouth is crashing into yours. the rawness in the way he kissed you like he was trying to erase every second of space that has ever existed between you.
it’s not soft. it’s not tentative. it’s months of denial, weeks of tension and years of everything left unsaid, finally snapping all at once. and he kisses you like he’s drowning in it. his hands tangle in your hair, bringing you impossibly closer, “fuck, you’re a dream,” he manages to say in between kisses.
you kiss him harder to prove that you weren’t. that you were here and real and his for the taking. his hands are on your thighs, pushing your dress up roughly, bunching the fabric around your waist like he can’t get it out of the way fast enough. you scramble into his lap, straddling him in the driver's seat, your knees bracketing his hips, your breath already coming in fast.
he groans against your mouth, hot and frantic and trembling slightly. you break the kiss to breathe, but it’s useless, he leans in again, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath ragged.
“tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “just once. say it, and i will.”
your soaked panties brush against the bulge in his jeans and he groans, deep and guttural. you shake your head, lips brushing his “don't tell me you’re gonna go soft on me just because we’re in love now.”
he pulls back slightly, stunned, like he can’t believe what he just heard, “we?”
you give him a soft, unguarded smile, “yes, hyuck. i’m in love with you too.”
that’s all it takes. the look in his eyes changes — burning hotter. darker. his mouth is on your throat, kissing a trail down to your collarbone, hands everywhere, under your dress, against your skin, gripping your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish. the space is cramped, bodies tangled, breath fogging up the windows, but you don’t care about anything except the way his hands feel on your bare skin, the way he groans when your fingers thread into his hair and pull just a little, the way his hips arch up into yours like he’s come undone.
“you think love means soft?” he rasps, voice shredded, “you think i don’t still want to fuck you like i’ve been starving?”
his hands slide up under your dress, dragging your panties down to your thighs. he leans you back, your spine meeting the steering wheel. it’s a little awkward, a little painful, but it vanishes the moment his fingers slip between your folds.
“god, look at you,” he pants against your mouth, dragging two fingers through your folds. “you’re fucking soaked for me, princess”
you moan when he presses in, one finger at first, rough and fast, no buildup, the feel of his cool rings against your cunt making you jerk in his lap, head thrown back against the roof, thighs already quaking.
“not soft,” he growls into your skin, “not even close.”
“shut up and—fuck—fuck me already,” you moan, hips chasing the rhythm of his finger.
“no,” he snaps, a smirk on his lips, “not until i make you come on my fingers,” he groans, and then he starts really working you open. inserting another digit, angling it just right, fucking into you like he knows exactly where to go, exactly how to ruin you. his palm grinds against your clit in tight, mean circles, and it’s so much, so fast, your knees buckle on either side of him, moans of his name filling the night air, and he has to hold you down with one arm wrapped around your waist.
“you can take it, right?” he hisses, fucking you faster, “don’t tell me you’re gonna break on me now.”
“i won’t,” you whine, “i won’t, hyuck, d-don’t stop,” you beg. his cock twitching in his pants at the mere sound of his name on your lips — all needy and desperate and his. he curls his fingers harder, presses deeper, and the filthy sounds of your wetness fill the car like music to his ears. your dress is hitched around your hips, tits threatening to spill out of the neckline, and you’re so far gone you’re grinding down on his hand like you need it to survive.
“you look so fucking pretty like this,” he growls, thumb swiping across your clit like he’s trying to rip the orgasm out of you, “fucking yourself on my hand, begging for it.”
you gasp, legs trembling, feeling yourself start to come apart. and he’s obsessed with how you clench around him, how your moans go sharp and high and desperate.
“that’s it princess,” he pants, watching you with hooded eyes as you get lost in the pleasure, “let go for me.” you do. you come hard, panting, shaking in his lap as his fingers keep coaxing you through it, soaking his palm as you cry out against his shoulder, nails digging into his biceps.
he doesn’t stop right away. only after your legs go limp, after you push his hand away, after you twitch around him too much to handle another second. then, only then does he pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and brings them to his mouth, “tastes like fucking heaven,” he groans, licking them clean like it’s nothing.
“now ride me and take what’s yours, princess,” he grunts in your ear. you’re still panting, legs shaking, but your hands move on instinct, unzipping his jeans, pulling him out. he grabs his wallet, pulling out a small foil wrapper, ripping it open with his teeth and rolling it on with practiced urgency.
the second he’s ready, he drags the blunt head of his cock through your folds, slowly. sending goosebumps throughout your body. you can’t take another second of teasing. you grab the base of his cock, making him grunt in response. then you align him in your entrance and finally sink down, both of you breaking at the feeling.
“ahh, fuck,” he hisses, forehead thudding back against the seat. his hands grip your thighs so tight it borders on bruising, “you’re so fucking tight.”
you don’t give him time to catch his breath. you rise up and drop down again, harder this time. again. and again. the rhythm fast, desperate, almost punishing. the windows fog instantly. your dress is hitched up to your hips, sweat slick on your skin, your shared moans echoing through the small space as you bounce in his lap, riding him hard and reckless, the console digging into your spine with every movement.
“god, you feel so fucking good,” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair. he yanks your neckline lower, finally letting your tits bounce out of your dress and his mouth is on them in an instant licking, biting, sucking like he wants to mark you up just so everyone knows you’re his.
“i never fucking stopped wanting you,” he growls against your sensitive nipple, “couldn’t sleep. couldn’t think. and now, fuck, you’re mine. you hear me?”
you grind harder, drunk on it now, his voice, the feel of him buried deep inside you, stretching you open, ruining you in the best way, “yes,” you moan, head tipped back, “yours hyuck, a-all yours.”
the car rocks. the wheel presses against your back. your thighs burn, vision blurring. his hands slide to your ass, fingers digging in to your thighs as he holds you up before fucking up into you with a speed that steals all the air from your lungs, each thrust ruining you as your legs shake in his grip and you practically scream.
“come for me,” he pants heavily, sweat dripping down his temple, “come on my cock, princess, come and let me feel it.”
you can’t do anything else but respond to him, tightening around him, crying out as your second orgasm hits you like a freight train. he follows right after, hips jerking, his hold on you loosens and you sink completely into his cock, a whiny moan escaping his lips as he empties into the condom, eyes squeezed shut, completely undone.
everything goes still. your breathing. his hands. the spinning inside your chest. you collapse against him, dress still bunched at your waist, tits on his chest, your forehead pressed to his neck, both of you wrecked and panting and clinging to each other.
haechan strokes your spine absently, soft and gentle, “you okay?” he murmurs, voice raw and hoarse, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder. you nod into him. neither of you moves. then he says it, soft and tentative, “come home with me tonight,” he whispers, not ready for the night to end.
♕
his room smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and he’s kissing you again, slower this time, more like he’s savoring it. like he has all night. because he does. he lays you down on his bed, undresses you piece by piece, there’s none of that urgent need from earlier. just worship. mouth littering kisses all over your skin. hands skating over your hips like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you like this.
you feel him all over again like it’s the first time. body moving together like it’s a dance you’ve always known. you let yourself fall under him. let yourself whimper when his hand slips between your thighs, let yourself pull him in close and kiss him breathless until the two of you reach that addicting high that you can’t seem to get enough of.
and later, when he’s spooning you under the sheets, arms tight around your waist and his mouth pressed to your shoulder, he mumbles, “you know i’m crazy about you, right?”
you smile, eyes fluttering shut, “yeah, i know.”
when morning comes — you wake up alone. the warmth on the other side of the bed is gone, the sheets cooling. for a second, the room feels too quiet. your heart stutters, mind already racing with the outcome that he left.
you sit up, breath caught in your throat, but before you could wallow in the pity, the door creaks open, and there he is — tray in hand, hair still messy, sweatpants barely hanging on, wearing the exact kind of cocky grin that would usually drive you insane, except you’re too relieved to feel anything but full.
“breakfast for my one and only princess,” he says, voice obnoxiously proud. you blink at him, and it must be written all over your face, because his grin falters a little.
“hey,” he says, voice softening, as he places the tray carefully on the foot of the bed, taking a seat next to you, “you okay?”
you pull the covers up around you, shrug a little, “i just didn’t like waking up without you,” you admit, soft and quiet, almost afraid to be this honest, “i thought you left.”
a flicker of guilt passes behind his eyes, a tiny “oh,” slipping from his lips. the moment is soft, vulnerable, for two people who always dance around the other. you laugh a little under your breath, trying to shake it off, “stupid, i know, i mean, it’s you. you made it pretty clear you’re into me.”
“princess,” he says gently, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his side, “it’s not stupid, i should’ve left a note or something.”
“what? ‘gone to make eggs, don’t spiral’?,” you say, realizing how dumb it sounded.
“exactly,” he deadpans, and you both laugh.
he brushes a strand of your hair away, more careful now, “we should probably work on being better at communicating, huh?”
“yeah,” you nod, forehead bumping his, “would’ve saved us, like… years of misery.”
he groans, dramatic this time, “don’t remind me, i was so annoying.”
“you’re still annoying,” you say sweetly, and he bites your shoulder in retaliation, making you squeal.
but when the laughter fades, his voice stays low, that quiet sincerity returning “i’m not gonna disappear, okay?”
you nod, “okay.”
“and i love you,” he says, gentler this time, no hesitation. just pure, stupid, real love.
your smile softens, “i love you too,” you say, leaning over to kiss him, not caring about morning breath or bedhead or the toast that’s probably getting cold.
he pulls away, breathless, a grin evident on his face, “the breakfast is gonna have to wait now,” he whispers in your ear.
you raise an eyebrow, “why?”
he leans in, voice low and warm in your ear, “because i’m hard again,” and you burst out laughing, “you’re insane.”
“insanely into my girlfriend,” he smirks, already kissing along your jaw. and you let him. because you’re his and he’s yours and it’s finally, finally, simple.
ཐིཋྀ tech week
it’s disgusting. absolutely, positively disgusting. at least, that’s the general consensus among the rest of the cast. just last month, people couldn’t stand being around the two of you because of how often you fought. every rehearsal a battleground, every interaction laced with venom.
but now? you’ve entered your full blown, pda-plagued, heart-eyes, can’t-stop-touching-each-other in-love era.
now, it’s kisses behind curtains, giggling into each other’s mouths between lighting cues, forehead touches during water breaks, fingers constantly linked even while you’re being given notes. and they don’t know what’s worse.
yeonjun throws a prop sword down dramatically, “i miss when you two hated each other, at least we had peace.”
“you’re just mad no one kisses you in between takes,” haechan fires back, smug, arm slung over your shoulder while you’re giggling into his hoodie.
someone on the crew threatens to hang a “no pda backstage,” sign after catching the two of you in a heated make out session.
but the real problem? the two of you are unstoppable.
even your arguments, and yes, you still argue, don’t last more than five minutes. you’ll bicker about stage directions or costume adjustments or whether haechan needs to dramatically fall to his knees when romeo sees juliet “dead,” and five minutes later he’ll be kissing you against a dressing room door whispering, “you’re hot when you're mad” against your lips.
and while the cast is absolutely suffering through your honeymoon phase – mr. doyoung is thriving. he walked into every rehearsal of this week with stars in his eyes, clapping wildly as you and haechan nail your death scene again. so in sync. so devastating. so tender you can feel every raw emotion behind the lines.
because now when haechan calls you “juliet,” it comes out breathless. now when you say, “my only love sprung from my only hate,” your voice cracks for real.
“do you SEE this chemistry?!,” mr. doyoung once cried, pointing dramatically at the stage, “this! this is art! this is why i casted you two!.” he might have even teared up once during the balcony scene. no one’s confirmed it but no one’s denying it either.
you and haechan just grin like idiots through it all. and when rehearsals wrap for the night, he always kisses you soft and slow and says, “can’t wait to do it all again tomorrow.”
you roll your eyes, pretend it’s annoying, but you never pull away.
ཐིཋྀ opening night
the energy backstage is electric, nerves buzzing like static in the air, costumes perfectly pressed, everyone running through the lines they already know by heart. the theater is full. the lights are hot. mr. doyoung is pacing with a clipboard and thinly veiled tears in his eyes, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.
and you’re doing your opening night ritual – little handwritten letters, folded neatly, handed to each castmate and crew member like clockwork. it’s your thing. everyone knows it. something encouraging, something kind, something just sentimental enough to make people emotional right before they have to go on stage.
you hand one to ningning, who clutches it to her chest and says dramatically, “i’m framing this.” soobin reads his and calls you a menace for making him tear up right before the show. yujin hugs you tightly, muttering something about how she’s so happy she gets to do this with her best friend too.
haechan watches from a distance as you make your rounds. he’s trying to play it cool, arms crossed, leaning against a wall in his stupidly perfect costume, lips pressed together in a barely there smirk. but underneath he’s a little tense. not that he’d ever admit it — it’s been years since he got one of your letters. not since high school. but now, with you officially his girlfriend and practically glowing as you move through the cast, he cant help but wonder, did you write him one?
he doesn’t ask. he doesn’t want to look needy. but his eyes follow you everywhere. and finally, you approach him, holding a single remaining envelope.
you stop in front of him, one brow raised, playing innocent, “oh, looks like i have one more.”
he stares at you, slow and suspicious, “you’re unbelievable.” you just grin, sliding the note into his hand. he opens it. the handwriting is unmistakably yours – familiar and clean, like a secret only he gets to keep:
what do we say when we say juliet? romeo!
every moment with you is like a scene in a movie. going through my head now is the climax. the words i practiced thousands of times as if they were scripted – you are the protagonist of my life. i want to keep you forever. no one can fill your place…you’re irreplaceable.
p.s. you look so hot as romeo, i, too would have left my family just to feel your lips.
p.p.s romeo take me somewhere we can be alone? ;)
for a second, he forgets how to breathe. love coils tightly in his chest, but so does something hotter, something heady and electric. his eyes flick to the last line, and then to you. you’re already walking away, over your shoulder, you toss him a wink. and he nearly chokes on air.
“why would you add that last part?” he hisses, catching up, voice low and wrecked. his eyes are blown wide, desperate, like you’ve lit a fuse inside him, “i just want to fuck you so bad you won’t be able to walk on stage.”
you burst out laughing, smacking his chest, “focus, romeo,” you press a kiss to his cheek and he groans like he’s being tortured, yet his mouth curves upwards into a smile anyway.
and somehow, he makes it through the show — when the lights go up and the crowd goes quiet, you step into juliet’s shoes like you were born to wear them. haechan’s romeo is every bit as dramatic and devastating and alive as he should be. the balcony scene is breathtaking. the fights are insane. the kiss before he dies draws a gasp from the crowd. by the time the final scene ends, with you sobbing over him, your voice cracking on your last words, there’s a pause…then thunderous applause, the crowd roared, standing ovation, flowers tossed on stage, some people are crying. mr. doyoung is definitely part of some people.
but as soon as the curtain closes. haechan is dragging you by the hand through the backstage chaos, ignoring the cheers, the calls, the cast photo attempts.
his grip is firm, focused and needy. you barely have time to ask where you’re going before he yanks open the door to the rehearsal room in the back and pulls you in. the door slams shut. it’s just the two of you. again. in the same, tiny, dusty room where everything shifted.
and his mouth is already on yours, “i can’t believe you wrote that in the letter,” he groans into your mouth, lifting you like it’s muscle memory, “you’re evil. you knew what you were doing.”
you gasp between kisses, clinging to his shoulder, “i don’t know what you mean,” you say innocently.
he rolls his eyes, “i’ve been hard since act i,” he kisses you like he’s starved, like the show was one long tease, every kiss on stage edging him on, every touch of juliet’s hand killing him and now he finally gets to be rewarded.
he spins and sets you down, not on the chair, not on the table — on his thigh. you blink and he grins, cocky and hungry and impossibly hot in the dim light, “you never rode this one,” he murmurs, low and sinful, hands sliding up your thighs under the skirts of juliet’s gown, “thought we’d fix that.”
the breath catches in your throat. his thigh is solid beneath you, strong and flexing, already pressed perfectly against where you need him the most. the second you move, just a little, the pressure makes your whole body jolt. and he feels it.
“fuck,” he hisses, watching you closely, an amused smirk on his lips, hands gripping your hip, “you are so into this.”
you glare at him, but your hips twitch forward again anyway. the friction is delicious. the fabric of your panties drag just right. his thigh tenses beneath you on purpose.
“you gonna come for me like this, princess?,” he whispers, lips brushing your jaw, “gonna mess up your pretty little costume riding my thigh like a desperate girl?,” you gasp, gripping his shoulders for balance, body rocking on instinct now, chasing that pressure, that heat, that release.
“f-feels so good hyuckie,” you moan as he watches, transfixed, pupils blown out, jaw tight, chest rising with every shaky breath you take.
“i could watch you forever,” he groans, “no one else ever gets to see you like this, you know that, right?”
you nod helplessly. completely lost in the pressure that was building in your stomach. and when you finally come, sudden and hot and hard, he groans at the way your whole body tenses, how your thighs shake, how your lips part in a silent moan right against his mouth, your eyes shut.
you collapse against him, but he’s not done, “think you can take me now?”, he asks, voice thick with lust, already untying the back of your costume. you look up at him, dazed, hair a mess, breath shallow and nod like there’s nothing else in the world.
he kisses you again, already sliding the skirt up your hips, making you his all over again.
𓏲 the end.
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18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content
bonus: hyuck x princess coded -> video one, video two, video three, video four
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an: HAPPY DONGHYUCK DAY! 🧸🌻 this is one of my gifts for you all today (you’re still getting a birthday blurb, wink wink) i really wanted to finish this in time for haechan day and i can’t believe i actually did. but holy shit guys! we’re halfway done with this series i did not expect to get this far if im being completely honest. thank you all so much for all the love, you don’t know how happy and excited you all make me. i hope you loved haechan and princess too! i think this couple was the most fun to write and i also think they finally beat jaemin x angel as my favorite confession scene so far hehe (don’t tell jaemin!)… as always, thank you for reading! <3
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synopsis -> zhong chenle, the lowkey fuckboy, captain of the basketball team, doesn’t believe in romance. flowers? chocolates? handwritten letters? ew. too cheesy. but he can’t seem to shake this crazy girl off of him so he goes to you, his best friend, cheerleading captain, for help. will you be his fake girlfriend? sure. the catch? it has to be believable so for the first time in his life he buys the flowers and the chocolate and writes the handwritten letters.
warnings -> the definition of a rom-com, pet name unlocked: baby, yappers, breaking the fourth wall, too many y/n’s in one room, chenle is kinda possessive (not in a toxic way), two scared little cowards, stalker, ovulation, +18, crude humor, language, bathroom sex, drunk sex, mutual masturbation, dildo, dry humping, 69, chenle fucking between your thighs, fingering, he’s a pussy eater!, squirting, accidental penetration, unprotected sex, reader is a very horny girl who knows what she wants!, pussy drunk, overstimulation, slight nipple play, exhibitionism, mentions of: sex in the kitchen, alcohol, frat parties, ropes, breeding kink if you squint
an -> the fifth installment of the loverboy series is happily yours! disclaimer! i don’t know anything about basketball! i just dated a player once. now playing: taylor swift’s down bad, the alchemy and so high school; important things to note -> 1) chenle is the lowkey fuckboy — he doesn’t get around as much but he’ll have one night stands 2) quinn is an OC!, i didnt want to make her any idol…sorry if thats your name! 3) all couples are happily together EXCEPT hyuck x princess. their story is happening simultaneously. 4) jisung and renjun are single. have fun reading! - with love, c.
౨ৎ OCTOBER 31 ౨ৎ
chenle is in trouble and it all started here:
THE BIGGEST, MOST ANTICIPATED PARTY OF THE YEAR: HALLOWEEN NIGHT @ THE DREAM FRATERNITY
“ahhhh chenle, harder!,” the unnamed girl moaned loudly in his ear, her voice shrill, overly dramatic and frankly annoying.
“yeah, you like that?,” he grunted through clenched teeth, asking for the sake of asking, hips snapping forward, harder, rougher with absolutely no ounce of care. her body jolted with every thrust, her back slammed against the bathroom door like a ragdoll. he didn’t even bother angling correctly or checking if she was comfortable. didn’t even look her in the eyes. why would he? this wasn’t love. this wasn’t even attraction. for gods sake, he’s in his last minute chucky costume. none of it is serious. this was friction and sweat, the fuck he needed for the night.
and she wasn’t complaining. of course she wasn’t. why would she? she was fucking one of the dream boys, basketball captain, campus royalty. anyone would kill for her position right now.
“ahh yeah! yeah! YEAHH!,” she’s screamed, and it was so loud, so obnoxious. chenle winced mid-thrust. his head pounded, not from the alcohol but from her. she sounded like a banshee and he swore every shriek made him a little less hard. but he kept going. he wasn’t here for fun. he wasn’t here for her. he’s here for one thing and one thing only — to be relieved.
“cum inside me!, cum inside me!,” she begged, which was ridiculous since he was wearing a condom. he slapped a hand over her mouth, not out of passion, but out of desperation for silence. it worked. her moans went muffled, her body hot and slick against his, her legs trembling as he got closer. he doesn’t bother helping her stand. a few more hard thrusts and he spilled into the rubber with a strangled moan, his jaw clenched tightly, head rolling back as he caught his breath. it should’ve ended there. but then, in the middle of his hazy post-nut fog, she did the one thing everyone knew not to do — she kissed him.
a sloppy, wet kiss on the mouth, tongue and all. he kissed her back for half a second, pure instinct, reflex, before shoving her off like she was fire, eyes wide, “what the fuck?!”
everyone knew the rule — chenle doesn’t kiss. not on the mouth. not when he’s fucking. it’s too intimate. too romantic. too real. and he does not do romance. he’s too busy with basketball. too busy with classes. too career oriented. he doesn’t need distractions.
the girl latched onto him, arms around his waist, voice sickeningly sweet, “i knew you felt the same way!,” she squealed, nuzzling her face in his chest like they were something. her grip was tight. he was still half drunk, still recovering, still very much not on the same page.
“no uhm – j–,” he can’t even remember her name. was it jessica? jennie? did it start with an a? fuck. he didn’t know. he shakes his head, voice hardening, “that’s not what this is.”
“but you kissed me back,” she whined, bottom lip poked out. she was cute. but he wasn’t interested in anything real. wasn’t interested in relationships. and definitely wasn’t interested in her.
“i just came,” he said flatly, tone completely dry, “i wasn’t exactly in the right mind,” he explains. but she kept holding on, like she was trying to trap him in some kind of delusion where they were more than strangers in a locked bathroom.
chenle grabbed her wrists, gently but firmly, and stepped back, clipping his overalls back on in one smooth motion, “listen, i’ve got a beer pong game to win,” he said, offering her a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “you good here?”
“wait, you’re leaving?,” she asked, like she couldn’t believe it.
“yeah,” he reached for the bathroom door, not looking back, “you can stay in there if you want.” and just like that, he was gone. back into the chaos. the bass dropped the second he stepped out. someone handed him a drink. he took it without asking what it was. renjun, who was in his men in black costume, shouted his name from across the room and chenle smirked as he raised his cup. the night rolled on. more shots. more games. more bodies pressed too close on the dance floor. that girl from the bathroom? already forgotten. her name never even made it to memory. he was laughing again within minutes, arms slung around jisung in his alien costume, sweat glistening on his neck as the crowd roared when he sank three cups in a row.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 1 - HE’S MINE. ౨ৎ
he woke up to a series of texts:
unknown number: hey boyfriend! 💋 last night was amazing, i miss you already.
unknown number: thinking about ur kisses, they were so soft 😘
chenle squinted at the screen, still half asleep, head pounding from tequila and regret. he didn’t answer. he tossed his phone under the pillow and made his way out of his room. he spent the rest of the day teasing haechan about the girl he supposedly hates, forcing down hangover noodles and completely forgetting about the texts until that same evening — that’s when it got worse. an unknown profile had liked every single one of his photos on instagram, even the ones dating all the way back from 2020. and then she reposted his selfie from halloween night to her story with a heart sticker and the caption: “last night ❤️ can’t believe he’s mine.”
chenle nearly dropped his phone, “oh, HELL NO.”
the next five days were chaos. he did everything he could to avoid her, dodging her outside the library, ducking behind a trash can with his hoodie up like he was being hunted by the CIA, using mark as a human shield whenever he spotted her and even going as far as locking himself in his room just so he wouldn’t run into her — it was getting ridiculous. the championship game was a month away. he didn’t have time for this. he didn’t have time for her. he needed her to back off.
which led to now.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 6 - THE HOTTEST GIRL ON CAMPUS ౨ৎ
you had just wrapped up evening cheer practice, hair still damp from a cold shower, hoodie tugged over your uniform and duffel bag slung across your shoulder. and then – a hand grabbed your wrist. before you could scream or yank away, you were pulled straight into the girls’ locker room by none other than zhong chenle, your best friend.
“what the fuck chenle?!, have you lost your mind?! this is the girl’s locker room!”
“i need your help,” he said, voice deadly serious, eyes wild like he was on the run from the FBI.
“bro, you couldn’t text me like a normal person?,” you snapped, pulling your arm away.
“she’s gonna kill me,” he whispered, wide-eyed, “or marry me, honestly i don’t know which is worse,” he says dramatically.
“...who?,” you ask, an eyebrow raised.
“the bathroom girl,” he said darkly, like she was voldemort. partly because she’s starting to scare him. partly because he still didn’t know her name and just refers to her as the bathroom girl. he didn’t bother trying to learn it. he didn’t want to.
your expression flattened, “oh my god, you’re still dealing with her?” he told you about her through a facetime call some nights ago, since you’ve been away on a family trip and he couldn’t tell you in person.
“she’s obsessed,” he hissed, “she’s calling me boyfriend, she sent me her class schedule, she wrote me a poem!”
you blinked, “damn.”
“i’ve had to cancel practice, skip meals, duck behind recycling bins. i’m not even a person anymore! i’m just a moving target…i can’t live like this,” he groans, collapsing onto the bench like a man defeated.
you crossed your arms, “so what does this have to do with me?”
“i want you to fake date me.”
you blinked, “fake what now?”
“i want you to fake date me–no, i need you to fake date me,” he said, gesturing wildly, “just for a couple weeks, just until she finally gets the hint and leaves me alone.”
you eye him suspiciously, “and why does it have to be me?”
“you’re the cheer captain. you’re untouchable. the hottest girl on the campus. she’ll take one look at you and she’ll know she has no chance,” he explains.
you narrowed your eyes at him, “flattery will get you nowhere, chenle.”
“i’m serious!,” he whined like a spoiled child, “you’re my best shot,” he groaned, “pleasee, i’m desperate. i haven’t slept in days. i saw her outside my house!”
you snorted, “it’s not my fault you were too horny to notice she was insane?!”
chenle groaned, head falling into his hands, “i was drunk! i was thinking with my dick!, how was i supposed to know she’d turn into the female version of joe goldberg?”
you paused. he had a point. the locker room was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights. your body ached from practice, your hair was still dripping at the ends and your brain was barely holding on after a day packed with catching up with your classes and cheering.
“you’re asking a lot, you know i’m not a good liar,” you said finally.
chenle clasped his hands together like he was praying, “i’ll owe you for life.”
you roll your eyes, “i don’t want a lifelong debt. i want the gym.”
he blinked, “what?”
“i’m sick of cheerleading getting shoved into the late night slots just so the guys can play pickup games in the morning,” you said, arms crossed, “if i fake date you, you’re getting me full access to the gym for morning practices. no more evening drills.”
“that’s impossible–”
“i guess you’ll see her on your front porch again,” you cut in sweetly.
chenle stared at you, visibly calculating, panicking, then groaned, “fine. deal. i’ll talk to coach jaehyun.”
“you’ll bribe coach jaehyun,” you corrected.
“whatever it takes,” he muttered. you give him a long, lingering stare. then finally you extended your hand, “only until she gets off your back.”
he grabbed it, sealing the deal.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 7 - ARE YOU BRITISH? ౨ৎ
“we need to establish a few things,” you say, sitting on the bleachers of the basketball court, your cheerleading uniform clinging to your skin as the late afternoon sun bounces off the polished wood floors.
chenle is casually dribbling a basketball in front of you, sweat glistening along his hairline, his tank top darkened at the chest and collar, “like what?,” he sighs, bouncing the ball between his legs before shooting it lazily at the hoop. it sinks in with a soft swish.
“like,” you tap your fingers up to your lips, dramatically pondering, “what are you gonna call me?”
he turns with a faint frown, “uhh…your name?”
you raise your brows, “seriously? you’re the one who asked me to fake date you. if we’re going to sell this then you need to call me something other than my name,” you say.
he drags a hand down his face dramatically, “is that really necessary? this is supposed to be simple.”
“well, tough luck,” you reply, popping a piece of gum into your mouth, “no one’s gonna believe we’re dating if you keep calling me by my government name like we’re classmates doing a group project. give them a nickname to swoon over.”
chenle pauses, the basketball resting on his hip. his mind flashes to his friends and their girlfriends – angel, bunny, kitten – every single one more ridiculous than the last. he swears he’s in a zoo when they’re all at the house at the same time.
“okay,” he says, taking a seat beside you with a huff, brushing his sweat soaked bangs away from his forehead, “how about…love?”
you scrunch your nose up in sync, it felt wrong even when it left his tongue, “too romantic,” you comment.
“honey?”
“what are we? an old married couple?,” you fake gag, making him snort.
“darling?”
“are you british?”
he gives you a long suffering look, somewhere between exasperated and amused. then he leans back on his elbows, eyes glinting as he watches you, “okay then, what do you want me to call you?”
you pretend to think really hard, even tapping your chin for dramatic flair, “hmm…how about, baby?”
he shoots you a deadpan look, “seriously? you made me jump through hoops just to land on the most generic one?”
you grin, smug and unbothered, “what? it’s sweet, simple, not too romantic. it’s perfect!,”
he muttered something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like you’re so annoying but he sighs and give in, “fine. baby it is.”
you smirk, enjoying every second of how much it clearly pains him to play along, “say it again.”
he narrows his eyes, “no.”
“c,mon,” you nudge his knee with yours, “ for practice.”
he groans like you just asked him to sell his soul, then grumbles, “okay, fine. i’ll call you baby…baby.”
you burst out laughing at how stiff and awkward he sounds, “god, you sound like siri trying to flirt.” he smiles in spite of himself, eyes lingering on you a second longer than necessary. your laughter fades into a comfortable silence.
then, casually, you say, “how about kissing?”
his head snaps toward you, “what about kissing?”
the question hangs in the air. you don’t look at him right away but you can feel him freeze beside you. you shrug, like it’s no big deal, “well…if we’re dating, people are gonna expect it. you know that, right?,” you tilt your head at him, the air suddenly a little warmer than it was before. he stays quiet, tongue running along the inside of his cheek like he’s buying time.
“you haven’t thought that far ahead, have you?,” you ask, almost amused.
he shrugs, “i mean, i didn’t think people would care that much.”
you raise a brow, “chenle, you’re the captain of the basketball team, i’m the captain of the cheerleading team, we’re like if a rom-com poster came to life and we’re about to hard launch a fake relationship in a school that lives off gossip. people are going to obsess. they’re gonna look for signs. holding hands, inside jokes and yes…kissing.”
he frowns, looking genuinely torn, “do you…want me to kiss you?”
the question catches you off guard, landing softer than you expect. you blink, “it’s not about wanting to…but if it makes this more believable, then yeah. we might have to.”
chenle runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, “okay fine but only when we need to.”
you nod, voice gentler now, “okay.”
he groans, “this is gonna backfire isn’t?”
“probably,” you say brightly, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder. you glance down at him with a smug grin, “but hey… at least it’ll be entertaining.” and with that, you walk off the bleachers, the slap of your sneakers echoing behind you. chenle stays there, watching you go, one word looping in his mind like a curse and a prophecy at once: baby — it makes him shiver. god help him.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 10 - GIRLS TALK ABOUT EVERYTHING ౨ৎ
your fingers are laced with chenle’s as you walk into the gym together. he was able to convince coach jaehyun to let you share the gym in the mornings.
as soon as you walk in, the effect is instant. the basketballs stop mid-bounce. conversations dull into hushed murmurs. heads start to turn one bye one like dominoes. some curious, some amused, some downright nosy. but you don’t flinch. you keep your chin up, posture poised like you own the place like it was just a regular day. chenle’s hand is warm in yours, steady, grounding, even as your heart pounds a little faster than usual. this is it – the hard launch of your very fake, very strategic relationship.
“you good?,” you murmured out of the corner of your mouth without looking at him.
“i’ve played in front of five thousand people,” chenle mutters, voice low, “this is somehow worse.
you snort, “you’re holding hands with the hottest girl on campus, your words not mine,” you grin, “it can’t be that bad.” he almost smiles. almost. but then, a few steps in, you feel him suddenly tense. his hands twitch in yours, his steps slowing just enough for you to notice.
“what?,” you ask under your breath. he doesn’t respond, just slightly flicks his chin toward the girl near the wall. your eyes follow his and you see her. there, on the other side of the gym, leaning casually against the wall with a water bottle in hand, is — quinn. pretty. polished. perfectly unbothered. except you can tell by the way her gaze narrows on your joined hands that she absolutely is.
chenle leans in, voice tight, “that’s her. my stalker.”
your eyes widen and you suck in a quiet breath, “quinn?!,” you half whisper, half gasp.
he nods once, eyes locked on you, “sure.”
you blink, your fake smile faltering for half a second, “chenle,” you grit through clenched teeth, “you couldn’t have told me that she’s on my team?,” you bite, trying to make it look like you’re not seconds away from blowing him up.
“i didn’t know her name!,” he says quickly, trying to keep the easy expression on his face.
“she. braided. my. hair. last. week,” you say through clenched teeth, lips still curved into a terrifyingly sweet smile, even as you internally curse him in six different ways.
“i’m sorry!,” he hisses, eyes darting between you and the squads, still watching. he smiles wider, trying to match yours, but it’s all teeth and tension. you tug him sharply by the wrist and drag him toward the bleachers, out of the direct line of sight, but not far enough to go unnoticed. you know quinn’s watching. hell, everyone is watching. and the second you’re semi-out of earshot, but not out of sight, you whirl on him, still smiling, still looking like this is all so very sweet and couple-y but your eyes are screaming murder.
“you seriously thought this was going to work?” you hiss, “fake dating me in front of someone who knows me? who literally has pictures of us eating sushi on her instagram highlights?”
he winces, hands coming up to your arms like he’s trying to soothe you, voice low and pleading, “can you please not yell at me in front of the entire gym?”
you step into his space, “seriously, what was your endgame here? that she’d see us holding hands and just move on? that she’d back off because you got a girlfriend? you literally chose the worst liar and created the most suspicious looking fake couple in history!,” you say harshly but quiet enough so that only he would hear.
chenle opens his mouth, but then he sees it – how many people are staring. not glancing. staring. a few phones are already out. quinn’s water bottle is lowered, her expression unreadable but her eyes locked on you both with razor-sharp intensity. you’re still scolding him, your hands moving, your voice low but insistent when he makes a snap decision. no time to think. he grabs you by the waist…pulls you in — and kisses you. hard, fast, unexpected.
you freeze mid-sentence, mouth still parted in shock, your entire body stiff for one long second before your muscle memory kicks in and, god help you, you kiss him back. his hand cups your cheek. his lips move against yours with something close to desperation — it’s stupid, messy and feels way too good for something that’s supposed to be fake. for five dizzying seconds, the entire gym disappears. no cheerleaders. no teammates. no quinn. just you and him.
then you hear it — gasps echo from both the cheer and the basketball side. you can feel the shift in the air, the rumors writing themselves in real time. and when you finally pull away, breathless and stunned, you glare at him.
“that had better have been absolutely necessary,” you whisper, voice trembling just slightly. your lips are still parted, heart pounding like a damn drum.
“she was looking,” chenle whispers, flushed and panting slightly, like he can’t believe what he just did. like he just discovered something new. around you, the gym is still watching. a few people start whispering. quinn’s lips are pressed into a thin line. she’s not looking at you. she’s staring at chenle like he just ruined her life.
“congratulations,” you mutter, “there’s no turning back now.” he gives you a sheepish, almost apologetic look. you roll your eyes, toss your ponytail over your shoulder and plaster on the fakest smile you’ve ever worn. then, still buzzing from the kiss you’re definitely not going to think about later, you grab his hand again like it all meant nothing. like your pulse isn’t betraying you right now.
“come on, lele,” you say sweetly, loud enough for half the gym to hear, “help me stretch?”
you don’t look back. but you can feel her eyes on you. and she’s not just suspicious now. she’s out for blood.
౨ৎ
it starts during water break. you’re wiping sweat from your brow, stretching out your calves against the wall, trying to keep your breathing even. you’d been doing well – keeping your head down, counting the minutes until practice ended, avoiding quinn’s gaze like your life depended on it. which it might, honestly. but you should’ve known it wouldn’t last. because suddenly, you’re surrounded. four girls from the squad – mina, chungha, doyeon and of course, quinn, form a loose circle around you, casual, innocent-looking, like they just happened to migrate your way.
“so…,” mina starts, eyes wide and sweet, “you and chenle?”
doyeon grins, “when did that happen?”
somi pipes in with a laugh, “was it after the last game? or have you been sneaking around this whole time?”
you force a tight smile, adjusting your ponytail to stall for time, “it’s uh…new.”
quinn raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over her chest, “define new.” the way she says it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. her voice is calm, playful even. but her eyes are sharp. cold. and if looks could kill you’d be six feet below.
“like…really new,” you say, trying not to sound like you’re lying even though you are, “we didn’t want to make it a thing until we were sure.”
“aw,” mina coos, “that’s kinda cute! i always knew you guys liked each other,” you had no idea what she meant by that. the mere insinuation that the two of you had any sort of romantic feelings before this is completely crazy. chenle was the only guy in this university who hasn’t flirted with you. there’s absolutely no sexual tension there.
“was it romantic?,” she continues, “did he ask you out properly or was it like…spur of the moment?”
you blink, “umm…”
doyeon giggles, “omg, don’t tell us it was a drunk confession? that’s so high school.”
“it wasn’t drunk,” you say quickly, “it just…kind of happened.”
quinn tilts her head, watching you like she’s got front row seats to a show you didn’t audition for, “where’d it happen? his place? yours? locker room?…you two looked very comfortable yesterday.”
it reminds you that she was always watching him.
somi gasps, “wait, have you slept with him yet? is he big? is he good?” mina gasps louder, fanning herself, clearly intrigued. doyeon just cackles, enjoying the chaos. your mouth opens but nothing comes out. quinn has a small smile on her face but the fire in her eyes burns holes through you. because no, obviously not. but you can’t say that. not out loud. not without making everything worse. and quinn sees it – the hesitation, the silence. she smirks. victory glinting in her eyes, “hmm,” she hums, loud enough for the rest of the squad to hear, “i bet you don’t even know how he sounds when he cums.”
the words hit like a slap. your ears burn. your spine goes rigid. your throat suddenly feels dry. the other girls freeze for a half second, mina’s mouth falling open, somi’s eyes widening, doyeon choking back a shocked laugh but no one stops her. they just wait to see how you’ll react. you blink slowly, refusing to give her the satisfaction of looking rattled, even when your heart is pounding like a drum. you tilt your head, channeling every ounce of venom you’ve ever stored, “no,” you say smoothly, “not yet…but i know how his lips feels like on mine and what his hand feels like on my ass.”
somi lets out a scandalized gasp. mina actually drops her water bottle. even doyeons jaw hits the floor. and for the first time since she cornered you, quinn looks defeated. you take one slow step forward, your voice sugar-sweet and dripping poison, “so maybe next time, instead of talking about my boyfriend’s moans, you should ask yourself why he doesn’t want you to hear it.”
quinn’s face twitches. just slightly. just enough for you to know you’ve hit a nerve. you smile. innocent. unbothered. and totally victorious. then you turn on your heel and walk back to your spot on the mat like nothing happened, like your heart isn’t about to explode out of your chest. you don’t look back. but you can feel it. quinn’s not just watching anymore. she’s plotting.
౨ৎ
baby 😎🎀: we have a problem. come to my dorm. now.
he sends back a thumbs up emoji, and fifteen minutes later he’s at your door in a hoodie and track pants, hair still damp from a shower. you open the door, expression grim, “you good?” he asks, stepping inside.
you shut the door, “no. we have a problem.”
he freezes halfway into your room, “yeah, you made that clear in your text.”
you cross your arms, “your stalker and the rest of the girls cornered me after practice.”
he immediately looks like he wants to jump out your dorm window, “what did they say?”
“oh, just the basics,” you say sarcastically, “when did we start dating? how it happened? where it happened?” you fold your arms tighter, “then they started asking about sex.”
chenle slowly turns his head toward you, “what?”
you nod, “they asked if you were big, if you’re good in bed and—,” you pause for effect, “quinn wanted to know if i even know what you sound like when you cum.”
his entire face blanks out, blush creeping up his cheeks and unto his ears, “WHY do you talk about that stuff?”
“girls talk about everything!” you say, like it should be common knowledge.
“i didn’t know ‘everything’ included my moans!” he practically shrieks.
you ignore him, “so i panicked and i told her—” you pause again, a little too embarrassed, “—i know what your hand feels like on my ass.”
chenle chokes on air, the image affecting him more than it should’ve, “YOU SAID WHAT—?!”
you shrug like it’s no big deal, “it worked. they left me alone after that.”
he’s blinking at you like you just admitted to committing arson, “why are you like this?”
“i told you i'm not a good liar!”
chenle groans and puts his face in his hands, “it’s literally day one of being public and people are already starting to question it.”
“they’re not just questioning,” you say, pacing now, “they’re analyzing. calculating. investigating. and quinn?” you point toward the wall like she’s somehow eavesdropping through it, “she smells our lies.”
he lets out a helpless noise, “so what now? we can’t have sex. we’re best friends. that’d be too weird.”
you pause, “would it be weirder than me pretending to be your girlfriend when i’ve never heard you moan?”
he looks at you like you just grew two heads. “i’m serious,” you say, “it’s not just the kiss. eventually, i’m supposed to act like i’ve done everything with you and i don’t even know what your sex face looks like.”
“WHY would you need to—”
“chenle.”
“…okay. fine. what’s your solution?”
you sit down on your bed, “well, we don’t have to have sex but,” you trail off, he nods his head waiting for you to continue.
“we can masturbate in front of each other,” you say, voice quiet. but chenle hears every word.
he jerks like he’s been electrocuted, “i’m sorry, what?”
you don’t blink, “no touching each other. just… enough information so we can sell the fantasy, help us be more convincing with our lies.”
he’s completely unresponsive and you fear you might have broken him, “this is what you get for recruiting me into your drama,” you add.
“mistakes were made,” he mutters.
“correct,” you say brightly, “now take your hoodie off. it’s getting hot in here.”
“STOP SAYING THINGS LIKE THAT,” he says flustered. you throw another pillow at his head. he doesn’t throw it back. then, slowly, hesitantly he moves — sitting on your desk chair, on the foot of your bed, fingers gripping the armrests. you’re seated across from him, a couple feet of space between you, against your headboard, legs crossed, trying not to make it weird. it’s already weird.
“i can’t believe we’re gonna do this,” he says under his breath, still not looking at you.
you chew your bottom lip, heartbeat way too loud, “you want this to be convincing, right?”
he glances up. the second your eyes meet, you both look away again. you inhale slowly, “okay, just…you start.”
“jesus,” he mumbles, “can you not say it like that?”
“sorry,” you say, voice airy, teasing, a defense mechanism at this point, “would you prefer ‘show me what you sound like when you cum?’”
he glares, “you’re enjoying this.”
“only a little,” but your breath catches when he slowly leans back, hoodie sliding up enough to expose a sliver of skin. and then his hand slips beneath his pants.
you go still. the room is absolutely quiet. your thighs press together. he glances at you, jaw tight, “you’re… gonna watch the whole time?” he asks quietly. you nod once, wordless. he looks everywhere but you before he finally starts. he wraps his hand around his cock, still hidden under his pants and he lets out a shaky breath. a little too loud in the quiet room. he leans his head back against the chair, lashes fluttering close, choosing to forget the fact that you, his best friend, was in the same room. and then his lips part with the softest little exhale, not quite a moan, not yet, but it hits you like a punch to the chest — your fingers finally move, hand slipping under your panties and rubbing slow but precise circles on your clit then through your folds. your knees pointing to the ceiling as your shorts bunch up, a clear view of your ass available to him if he opens his eyes.
“f-fuck,” he mumbles, the sound slipping out without him meaning to, the friction of his own hand starting to feel good. his hips lift slightly from the chair, fingers pumping fast then slow, like he’s trying not to let it end too fast.
“chenle,” you whisper.
his eyes drag open, hazy, dark, “yeah?” and the sight of you almost breaks him. your fingers down your shorts, legs slightly parted, showing the supple flesh of your ass cheeks. you’re both watching each other now, breaths shallow, cheeks flushed, something dangerous catching in the air between you.
his gaze dips, he can’t believe this is happening, “y-you’re… really doing it.” you nod again, biting your lip as you stuck a finger in, curling it exactly the way you like it. he actually groans, when he sees the way your eyes flutter shut for a second, a breathy moan slipping past your lips.
“fuck,” he says again, breathless, “this is so—”
“weird?” you whisper.
he swallows, his eyes stuck on you, “hot.”
and it is. too hot. too real. you let your head tip back, your other hand coming in to rub circles on your clit, while you fuck youself on the other, “i-i didn’t think it’d feel like this.”
“like what?,” he grunts, eyes darkening.
“like…you’re touching me too,” you say breathily.
his eyes burn into you. he wonders what it would be like to actually touch you. and for a second, neither of you speak, just the sounds of your hands shuffling under your clothing. then he begs, “can i hear you…please?”
the question nearly knocks the air from your lungs. your fingers rubbing your clit faster. you don’t speak. then, softly, almost like a secret, you let out a moan. low. sweet. just loud enough to be heard.
he’s never been this aware of you. not in this way. he knew you were hot. he wasn’t blind – every guy on campus has had some sort of crush on you, whether quiet or full-blown obsessive. you walk into a room and conversations shift. eyes follow you. people stumble over themselves just to sit near you in class, to ask for your number, to post a blurry instagram story in hopes you’ll repost it. you’ve always been that girl. untouchable. effortless. intimidatingly magnetic — but somehow, over the years, he got used to it. to you.
somewhere between your chaotic texts, your weird humor, your unfiltered rants, and all the times you laughed until you were snorting. your hotness became background noise. familiar. comfortable. like sunlight on skin – always there, always warm, but never overwhelming. until now. right now? god, he’s overwhelmed.
chenle’s head hits the chair again, a desperate noise slipping out of him, his eyes half open, never wanting to look away from you. and it’s not in the way where it feels like someone put him in a trance. no. he’s fully conscious of you, “fuuuck, baby.”
your eyes fly open. you both heard it — the nickname. you moan louder in response. your pussy sucking in your fingers, hips thrusting up at the simple sound of that word, “chenle,” you moan like you’re in pain, you were getting closer, but it wasn’t enough. you never could just get off on your fingers alone. you needed something. visual help. audio. your vibrator. a dildo. more. “i want to see you.”
“only—fuck—only if you let me see you,” he grunts, his hand still pumping his cock up and down. you nod. he nods. and at the same time you bring your shorts and panties down to your ankles in one go. he releases his cock from his pants. he was so pretty. so pink. his precum leaking at the tip. you whine, another sweet sound hitting his ears as you match the rhythm of your fingers to his pace.
“you’re so wet, baby,” he praises, practically drooling at the sight of your pussy glistening under the dim glow of your room. he wonders how you tasted. if you were as sweet as your lips.
“f-faster lele,” you moan, his nickname slipping from your lips, making his brain go haywire as he pumped himself faster, following your command. you watch his cock, your imagination taking over, pretending your fingers were him thrusting in and out of you. he does the same.
you squeeze your eyes shut, panting now, “lele i’m, i’m gonna–,” you don’t even finish your sentence, your orgasm hitting you hard and fast, as you came all over your fingers, your head thrown back, jaw slacked, hair sticking to your skin, fingers coated with your slick and he’s obsessed. like he’s never seen something so unreal.
“that’s it baby. just like that,” he groans, talking you through it, heightening the feeling of your orgasm as you focus on his voice and the lewd noises coming from your bodies. it doesn’t take long for chenle to follow, “i-i’m coming,” he moans, whiny and breathless, snapping you out of your haze. you wanted to see it. wanted to see him unravel and, god, he look’s so pretty. his lips all flushed, his cock messily spurting out his white cum, some landing on his shirt, some on his sweats, eyes completely shut in bliss, mouth open in a soundless moan.
“you’re so pretty, lele,” you praise and he swore he felt his cock harden again. then the room is silent. still. unbearably charged. you pull your shorts back up, chenle tucks himself back in his pants. when you finally look at each other, neither of you knows what to say. he can’t believe that just happened.
“so…” he finally says, voice quiet, “that was uhm…educational.”
you nod, way too fast, “yeah, totally helps with this whole fake dating thing.”
“yeah,” he laughs but it comes out brittle. a little forced. “i mean, can’t have people thinking we’re not sexually active.”
you cough, “god forbid.” you both go silent again. you try not to look at the way his hand is curled around his sweatpants like it’s muscle memory, like he hasn’t quite come down from it. and he’s definitely not looking at your legs, even though you caught him glancing more than once.
“so,” you say, stretching like you’re just super chill about all this, “i think we’re good now. you know. in case it comes up again.”
he nods too quickly, “yeah, totally. i feel…prepared.”
you groan, “this is so stupid.”
he gives a weak laugh, “seriously, who does this?”
“we do, apparently,” you say, a grin making it’s way to your face.
chenle rolls his eyes but can’t help the small, crooked smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth, “great. we barely started and we’re already masturbating across from each other. what’s next, fake couple’s therapy?”
you snort, “i mean, give it another week”
he stares at you for a second longer, then sits up abruptly, rubbing his hands over his face like he’s trying to reset himself. “okay. cool. that’s it. it’s done. nothing weird happened. we’re fine.”
you nod, “totally fine. not weird at all.”
“super normal. totally best friend behavior,” he adds, trying to convince you both.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 12 - I JUST WANTED TO WATCH TRANSFORMERS ౨ৎ
the living room is dimly lit, the glow from the t.v. flickering across a sea of limbs tangled in blankets and pillows. laughter echoes between bites of popcorn and sips of soda, the scent of butter and pizza lingering in the air — you and chenle are sandwiched on the far end of the L-shaped couch. his arm is slung casually behind you, a move that looks natural, but you can feel how stiff he is, how aware he’s pretending not to be. meanwhile, the rest of the room straight out felt like cupid came and shot all of them with love arrows.
jaemin is lounging with angel curled up on his lap, his hoodie drawing her frame as she feeds him popcorn one by one. jeno and bunny are draped over each other, her head on his chest, his hand resting low on her waist. mark and kitten are practically fused at the hip, whispering and giggling like they’re in their own little world — it’s a lot.
you chew on a twizzler, pretending not to notice the glances being passed around, the not-so-subtle curiosity, the stares that linger a beat too long on you and chenle sitting way too properly to pass as a couple in love.
“i’m actually surprised,” kitten pipes up suddenly, tilting her head at you two, “you guys aren’t all over each other.” you almost choke on your candy. chenle tenses beside you, his arm still frozen behind your shoulders.
mark laughs, “yeah, when we first got together, i couldn’t keep my hands off her,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to kitten’s shoulder.
jaemin grins, tossing a popcorn kernel at him, “you still can’t keep your hands off her.”
“ohhhkay,” jeno chimes in, trying to sound diplomatic, “jaemin, maybe don’t butt in, you and angel have been together the longest and she’s still sitting on your lap.”
mark snorts, “yeah, and who did i catch fucking on the kitchen counter last week?”
“mark!,” angel yelps, face burning as she throws a pillow at him. kitten and bunny both laugh as they swat at their boyfriends, mumbling strings of shut up and stop talking.
jaemin just smirks, clearly unbothered, wrapping his arms tighter around angel as he chuckles, “you guys are just mad i thought of it first.”
angel’s cheeks are burning, she glares then turns toward you and chenle with a too-sweet smile it was almost scary, “okay, that’s not important” she says, “let’s go back to chenle and y/n.” and every single one of them is staring — chenle fumbles, trying to shift closer. you nudge into his side out of instinct and he reacts a second too late, hand brushing your thigh like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. the warmth of his hand immediately ignites that heat between your legs.
“yeah, how long has this been going on?,” mark asks. there’s a beat of silence. you glance sideways at chenle. he’s sweating. not literally, but he may as well be. his gaze flickers to your lips, then to the forgotten movie, then to mark’s arm around kitten’s waist, then to bunny playing with jeno’s fingers then back to you.
chenle blinks, “this?”
“you two,” kitten continues her boyfriend’s question, not bothering to hide the grin on her lips, “you’re together now, right?”
you exchange a look with chenle before nodding slowly, “yeah, seven days.”
you force a smile, shifting in your seat, “it just happened to be that way.”
jaemin leans forward, squinting, and it’s all feeling much like an interrogation, like they all planned this, “i thought you guys were just friends.”
“best friends,” jeno adds, looking way too interested, “as in, you’ve known each other since orientation, you call each other bro, you help each other get laid.”
chenle butts in, “you and bunny were best friends too,” he points out but no one pays him any attention so he sips on his soda instead, trying not to show how nervous he was getting. if he couldn’t even fool his friends, how was he going to fool his stalker? who’s watching his every move like a hawk.
jaemin raises a brow., “and now you’re suddenly dating… the week after his stalker?”
you stare back at them, doing your best to look unfazed and chenle was just throwing you to the wolves. he was an even worse liar than you. “timing’s weird, yeah, but feelings aren’t always convenient,” you say.
kitten gasps, “wait, were you secretly in love with him this whole time?”
chenle actually chokes on his soda. “what? no—” you start to say.
“i mean, it would explain a lot,” mark cuts you off, “like why you never dated anyone seriously,” he looks at you then at chenle, “or why you’d randomly punch guys who flirted with her.”
you and chenle both speak at the same time. “i didn’t—” ; “that wasn’t—”
bunny holds up a hand, “we’re just trying to understand. you guys went from ‘platonic soulmates’ to ‘public kissing in the gym’ very fast.”
the news traveled fast, of course it did. that little kiss you two shared yesterday — it was up on instagram and snapchat in minutes, everyone finding out in real time that the captain of the basketball team and the captain of the cheer team are now dating.
“we’ve always been close,” you say carefully, “we just didn’t know we liked each other that way until… recently.”
“did you… do anything else?” bunny asks with a sly little smile. chenle freezes. the memory of last night alive and burning in his head. your moans are still replaying in his mind. you still. all eyes are locked on you.
angel wiggles her eyebrows, “is he good in bed?”
you nearly choke on air. how many times were people going to ask you that question. “excuse me?!”
“it’s a fair question,” jeno shrugs, “we’re all friends here.” it’s not a fair question. they all know that. and usually the boys wouldn't discuss these things. but this was the group’s plan. your dating news came very suddenly. it was weird. they needed to know how serious it was.
“NO,” chenle says, eyes wide, “that is not a fair question.”
“oh my god,” angel gasps, covering her mouth, “you haven’t done it yet, have you?”
“guys,” you laugh nervously, “we’ve only been together for a week.”
“still!” kitten exclaims, “i couldn’t wait more than three days.”
mark smirks, wrapping an arm around her waist, “you didn’t even wait three hours.”
angel snorts, “okay, let’s not start outing each other again…anyway,” she says sweetly, “you must know what chenle sounds like in bed.” you stare. so does chenle. the room goes quiet. then, calmly, you set your drink down and smile — you’ve caught up to their plan. their teasing. and you decided to play along, “i know what his voice sounds like when he begs.”
silence. no one was actually expecting you to say something. hell, they were sure that there was nothing going on between you. that this was just a game you both decided to play. they all know how much the both of you loves games.
jeno lets out a choked cough. mark’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. jaemin’s jaw drops. chenle chokes on his own air, “WHAT?!” he sputters, turning red from the ears down, “w-when did i—why would you—what?!”
but he doesn’t get to finish. because suddenly all the girls are screaming. kitten grabs your hand. angel is already up on her feet, squealing. bunny’s dragging you by the wrist with wild eyes like you just dropped the gossip bomb of the year.
“YOU’RE COMING WITH US—NOW,” bunny demands through her laugh, “WE need DETAILS.”
“i’m sorry…he begs?!” angel shrieks as the girls literally pull you out of the living room.
“is he vocal?? how vocal?!” kitten gasps, already halfway down the hall with you in tow. your smug little smirk mixed with a mixture of fear is the last thing chenle sees as the girls yank you into a random bedroom and slam the door shut behind you.
the living room is left in stunned silence. mark sighs dramatically and throws his head back, “there goes my girl.”
“didn’t even finish her popcorn,” jeno grumbles, arms crossed.
“she was on my lap,” jaemin mutters, like he just got robbed.
chenle blinks, still stunned, “do they… always do that?”
“welcome to the club, man,” mark says, clapping him on the shoulder, “you’re one of us now.”
“yeah,” jaemin adds, pouting, “boyfriends left behind. again.”
“i just wanted to watch transformers,” jeno mumbles into a pillow.
chenle exhales, brain still short-circuiting, “why does it feel like i’m not the one in charge of this relationship?”
mark and jeno laugh. jaemin just shrugs, “none of us are.”
chenle is still staring at the closed door like it betrayed him. he runs a hand down his face, “what do they even talk about in there?” he mutters, getting nervous for you.
jeno doesn’t miss a beat, “us.”
chenle blinks, “like… guys in general?”
“no,” jeno says, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth, “specifically us.”
“they talk about everything,” mark adds with a grim nod, “our sex voice, our fingers, how fast we fall asleep after sex.”
“angel once told me she and the girls have a group chat called ‘the loverboys audit,’” jaemin sighs, “there are screenshots.”
“screenshots of what?” chenle asks, horrified.
“texts. apologies. unsent drafts. thirst traps. anything they can think of,” jeno lists off like he’s been through it.
mark cuts in, “one time i brought kitten her favorite cookie during her period without her asking and she sent a pic of it to the chat and now apparently i’m the gold standard,” he said beaming.
“congratulations,” jaemin deadpans, “i left angel a needy voice note saying i missed her…i’m pretty sure they’ve all heard it.”
chenle’s jaw drops, “i’m scared,” he says genuinely. and he is scared. less for him. but more for you. he wonders what kind of interrogation scheme you’re under right now. wonders if you can continue lying for him.
some time passes, the girl’s laughter echoes from behind the door, “do you think they’re still talking about us?,” chenle asks.
“absolutely,” they all say at once. you were right. girl’s do tell each other everything.
౨ৎ
the door clicks shut behind you and instantly the room explodes, their voices all harmonizing in the air, you weren’t even sure who said what anymore.
“okay, spill!” “when did it happen?” “did he kiss you first?” “who made the first move?” “is he big?”
your eyes widen. in any other situation, like for example: you were actually his girlfriend and you were actually fucking, this would’ve been fun. but right now the room is spinning.
“no, seriously,” kitten grins, practically vibrating with excitement, “you can’t sit here and tell us you bagged chenle and then give us nothing, he kissed you, chenle doesn’t kiss!”
bunny flops down beside you, legs criss-crossed. “like, i don’t even understand. you guys were just friends, right? and now he’s grabbing your waist and making out with you in public??”
“and don’t give us that ‘we’re private’ line,” angel smirks, “we saw the kiss. that was not private. that was possession.” you blink at them, smiling tight. you were prepared for fake couple questions like how did it start or where’s your first date gonna be, but this? this was a firing squad of horny girlfriends.
“i mean…” you trail off, trying to think fast, “it was kind of…sudden? things shifted. we realized we had chemistry and…boom.”
“boom?” bunny arches a brow.
“like…tension. long time coming. slow burn,” you say, proud of your own improv. they all squeal in unison.
“okay but is he good?” angel asks, not missing a beat.
you freeze for half a second too long. kitten’s eyes narrow, “oh my god. you haven’t slept with him yet.”
bunny gasps like you just confessed a crime, “wait. no. have you?”
you panic, “i mean—not, like, fully—but…”
all three of them lean in at once.
“okay, what have you done?” kitten demands.
you hesitate, chewing your cheek. and then you commit, “well,” you say, slow and measured, “we just…touched,” you admit, knowing you had to give them something for them to let you go.
there’s a pause, followed by a collective shriek.
angel grabs your wrist, “YOU MEAN—”
“guys,” you whisper, “it was hands only. that’s it.” you leave out who’s hand was touching who. their jaws drop. you force a smile but inside you’re combusting.
angel slings an arm around you, “god, i love new couple energy. so fresh. so chaotic. i give you a week before you’re fully obsessed with each other.” you just hum, hoping no one notices how hard your heart is pounding. because you're not just faking a relationship anymore — you're faking experience, chemistry, desire.
a few more minutes and you finally emerge from the room with the girls, cheeks flushed, hair slightly tousled, and a drained smile plastered on your face. your laugh is a little delayed. your steps slightly uneven. and chenle notices immediately. he’s sitting on the floor with the rest of the dream boys, a soda can balanced on his knee, but the second he sees you, his brows pinch slightly.
he stands, “baby,” he says, voice pitched just right, casual but a little needy, purposefully loud enough for the rest of them to hear, “you okay?”
you nod a little too quickly, “totally, just girl talk.”
he doesn’t buy it. not for a second. and then you feel it — his hand slipping around your waist, low, secure, warm against the small of your hips, thumb rubbing slow circles, and he leans in like he’s about to whisper something sweet. the small action makes you feel hot. god, you were going crazy.
instead, “we’re going,” he announces smoothly, voice dipped in just enough gravel to sound like he means business.
“what?” mark blinks, “we’re barely halfway through the movie!?”
“she’s tired,” chenle says, already pulling you into his side, “and i need her...in…more ways than one.”
kitten throws a pillow at mark. bunny covers jeno’s lips. angel’s cackling and jaemin’s trying to pull her back into his lap. but no one tries to stop you. chenle flashes the room a satisfied grin, like this was always the plan. like he didn’t just lie through his teeth to get you out of there. you barely manage a wave as he leads you to the door, “bye, guys!”
“BYE SLUTS!” kitten yells cheerfully. the second the door shuts behind you and it’s just the two of you on the porch, you groan and bury your face in his shoulder.
“i think i aged ten years,” you mumble.
chenle chuckles and tightens his grip around your waist, “you looked like you were about to pass out. what the hell did they ask you?”
you sigh, dragging your feet as he starts leading the way to your dorm, your hand wrapped in his, “everything. like everything, everything.”
he pauses, “like…”
“chenle,” you deadpan, “i had to describe what you sound like when you finish.”
he chokes, “YOU WHAT—”
you hold up you free hand, silencing him, “do not make me relive it. just know, i deserve more than the gym schedule.”
he’s red in the face again, “why do girls talk like that?!”
“because we’re nosy and unhinged, and also because men are way too hot when they fall apart. that’s why,” you say more than you’re supposed to and chenle can’t help but tease you.
“oh so you thought i was hot,” he smirks, eyebrows wiggling.
“don’t even start,” you groan, “i can’t go another second of this.” he just smirks as he walks you to your dorm.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 13 - SUGAR SWEET MOUTH ౨ৎ
you’re stretching at the edge of the court, hair pulled back, body still warm from the last cheer sequence. the gym smells like sweat and floor polish, the low thump of basketballs echoing from the other side where the boys are warming up.
then you hear it – gasps, followed by whispers. you glance up and see chenle walking in, a bouquet of blush-pink and white tulips in hand. the sight makes your heart skip a beat. you ignore it. he marches right past the curious stares and half-shocked teammates, past quinn, until he’s in front of you.
“for you, baby,” he says casually like he didn’t just change the rhythm of your heart beat, “they reminded me of you.” your mouth parts slightly. for a second your brain short-circuits. he needed to shut up before you forget you’re only playing a part. you remind yourself that this wasn’t just sweet — it was strategic. you’d both agreed. since you only were supposed to kiss when it’s absolutely necessary, courtesy of his rule, the two of you came up with alternatives. subtle touches, cute gestures, notes, little tokens of affection that would sell the story without breaking whatever fragile line of comfort was left between you.
today, he chose flowers. and he chose to give it to you in front of everyone — your fingers curl around the stems carefully, “lele,” you say, voice soft. he shrugs, feigning nonchalance but not quite hiding the way his ears are tinged red, “just pretty flowers for my pretty baby,” he says the line he’s been practicing ever since he bought those flowers a couple hours ago. you don’t even look around to check who’s watching. you already know. quinn is still near her usual wall, frozen mid-sip of her drink, eyes sharp with something between confusion and jealousy. the rest of the cheer team is giggling animatedly behind you, all of them feeling giddy. and on the other side of the court, mark, co-captain of the basketball team, watches it unfold like he’s watching one of his girlfriend’s rom-coms in real life. mark’s brows lift, lips twitching into a smile. then, silently, he pulls out his phone, took a quick picture and sent it to the couple’s group chat.
mark: okay maybe we were dicks last night. this might be real
the groupchat flooded with messages instantly, mostly from the girls talking about how chenle takes the number one boyfriend of the month spot.
back on your side of the court, you offer chenle a genuine smile. then, slowly, you rise to your tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek. soft. light. barely more than a brush of skin. but his breath catches. for a millisecond, his whole body stiffens, then softens. he tries not to react. tries to play it cool. but if he was being honest, his heart is pounding, traitorous and loud, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you but his own rules stops him.
“thanks, lele,” you say sweetly.
he offers you a smile, “anything for my baby,” he says, softly tapping your chin before turning his head toward the court, shooting a half-hearted glare at mark, who’s giving him a thumbs up and mouthing you’re so down bad across the gym. chenle doesn’t respond. he just grabs a ball, sinks a shot with near perfect form and tries to ignore the lingering warmth of his cheek.
౨ৎ
later that afternoon, the gym buzzed with the usual chaos of practice, only the basketball team were around now. sneakers screeched against the hardwood. balls bounced around the room. sweat, noise and routine, nothing out of place. until some of the players joined chenle – eric jogged up beside him, “so…you and the cheer captain now, huh?,” he said, not even trying to sound casual.
chenle nodded once, eyes still on the court, “yeah.”
“damn,” juyeon said with a low whistle, joining in on the conversation, “didn’t think you had it in you to bag the girl every guy on campus wants.” chenle’s jaw tensed, but he kept his eyes ahead.
jay, another player, chuckled, “yeah, she’s–,” he hesitated for effect, then grinned, “—a handful, huh?”
chenle didn’t look up but he did not like where this was going at all. juyeon leaned in a little, “mhm, still remember that party two semesters ago. she kissed me so hard i forgot my name,” he snickers, the memory playing in his mind, “sugar sweet mouth, bro and she tastes even sweeter where it really matters if you know what i mean.”
“real flexible too,” eric added with a laugh, “you just have to know how to use her.”
jay gave him a nudge, “seriously, props to you man, she’s got a mouth that–”
“stop.” chenle says. the word wasn’t loud. but it was final. dark. deadly. the ball hit the floor with a loud thud. chenle stopped moving. and it’s not like he was hearing all of this for the first time, he’s pretty sure you’ve told him about these activities in extreme detail before. i mean, you guys talk about everything and anything under the sun, including your sex life. but it’s different now. you’re supposed to be his gf. and he hates that they’re not respecting that. slowly, he turned to face them. not blinking. not smiling. nothing about his expression was amused. a silence fell between four of them.
juyeon rolled her eyes, “relax, man. she’s not a saint–,”
“i said stop.” he said, voice low, jaw tight, “that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.”
eric scoffed, “c’mon man, we’re just messing around. it’s not that serious.”
“it is serious,” chenle bit out, teeth gritted, “i don’t care what happened at a party two semesters ago, hell, even two weeks ago. if any of you talk about her like that again, i’ll kick you off this team myself.”
jay scoffed, arms crossed, “yeah, well she wasn’t always yours. don’t get all territorial now just because you finally got a turn.”
that did it. chenle’s eyes flashed. the cool, easy going demeanor he always wore was gone in an instant. his hands were shaking from how tightly he was clenching his fists, breath shallow with rage. he stepped in until he was chest to chest with jay, “you think this team matters more than my respect?,” chenle hissed, voice low, dangerous, “keep talking about her and you’ll be off the roster before you can blink.”
juyeon and eric looked stunned. none of them had ever seen chenle like this — not even close. he’d always been the chill one, the sarcastic one. even when people trashed him online after bad games, he shrugged it off. but this was different. chenle stepped back, nostrils flaring, chest still heaving. his hands curled into fists at his sides. then he blew the whistle. loud. sharp. angry.
“LAPS,” he barked, “until i say stop.” groans echoed across the gym, but no one dared challenge him. not when his voice sounded like that.
chenle wasn’t sure what he hated more. the fact that they were talking about you in that way or the fact that now he had to picture those guys touching you, tasting you, and he couldn’t unsee it. they knew the curve of your body. the sound of your voice when it cracked, broken with pleasure. they knew what made you moan. what made you beg. and he didn’t know any of that. all he had was one kiss. all he had was the memory of your dorm room, your mouth parted, hand between your thighs as you whimpered his name. the sound of your breath hitching. the way your eyes rolled back when you came. that was the only version of you he had – distant, aching, too far away to feel.
the image of you touching yourself ruined him. but now he had to imagine other guys doing it for you…and liking it. talking about it like it was theirs to own. that burned worse than anything. because now all he could think about was how other men got to taste you…and he hadn’t even had you. not like that. not the way he was starting to need to.
jealousy coiled tight in his chest like barbed wire. and worse than jealousy, something else had cracked open beneath it – something sickeningly possessive. something unspoken. nothing has ever made him angry like this before. no one had ever made him feel like this before.
౨ৎ
lele 😎💗: i’m coming over.
you barely have time to register the message before a sharp knock hits your door. he’s already here, less than five minutes later. you open the door and the look in his eyes hits you like a wave – anger, frustration and something darker curling beneath it. he walks in without a word, jaw clenched tight, hair damp from a recent shower, gym bag slung over one shoulder, his hoodie half zipped, exposing the clean line of his neck. you close the door behind him, “chenle?”
“it’s not right,” he cuts in, voice low and tense, dropping his bag on the floor at the foot of your bed, “it’s not fucking right that those guys know how you taste and i don’t,” he lets the words spill out of his lips, clearly not thinking properly.
you blink, thrown off by his bluntness, confusion all over your features, “what?”
he paces around, then stops and looks at you, “today at practice…they said things. stuff i didn’t want to hear,” he swallows hard, fists clenched, “and it’s driving me insane, because i’m supposed to be your boyfriend. even if it’s fake, i should at least –,” he trails off, his words finally catching up to him.
“you should what?,” you ask, heart pounding, “what do you want us to do, chenle?”
he stares at you for a second too long. then quietly, intensely, he says, “would you let me go down on you?”
you freeze. a million things he could’ve said. a million things you had expected him to say. and none of it included that. you think it over for a bit but it really doesn’t take long. you had needs too. your voice drops to a whisper, “only if you let me go down on you too.”
he stiffens just slightly, your eyes search his, “we need to get better at lying, right? everyone’s already asking what we’ve done…how far we’ve gone. it’ll just make this more convincing,” you explain, not too sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself. the tension hangs heavy in the air. his tongue darts across his bottom lip.
you decide to make the first move, stepping closer, “tell me to stop and i will,” you say. but he doesn’t. he just nods once. and in that moment, both of you know – the lines between real and fake are about to blur. hard.
you pull your shirt over your head, slowly, deliberately. if this is for a lie, for your story, for your reputations, then you’re going to commit to it.
chenle’s eyes drag down your breasts. of course you weren’t wearing a fucking bra. and fuck, you were so fucking perfect. his jaw is locked tight like he’s holding himself together with the last thread of restraint, all his blood surging to his cock. you walk toward him, fingers hooking into your shorts, peeling them down without breaking eye contact, leaving you completely bare for him. his breath audibly stutters but he still doesn’t move.
his rule rings out low and firm in the heavy silence, and he’s not sure if he’s reminding you or himself, “no kissing on the mouth.”
you nod, stepping closer, “i know the rule.” you take the last step in between you, closing the distance. you push his hoodie off, then slip your hands under his shirt, dragging it up and over his head. his skin is warm, his abs flexing as your palms skate across them. your lips brush along his collarbone, testing at first, and he doesn’t stop you. instead, he tilts his head back as your mouth trails down his neck, his breath catching like he wasn’t expecting it to feel this good and you’ve barely even started. you push his sweats down, it falls to his ankles. his cock already hard against your thigh.
his hands hover near your waist like he’s still unsure whether this is real. you decide for him. grabbing his hands and placing each one on your breasts, “you can touch me, lele,” you say littering kisses all over his neck, down to his chest.
you feel his breath hitch beneath your lips. then his fingers start ghosting over your perky nipples, making you release a sigh of pleasure in response. his fingers flick quick and fast and hot. you could feel the heat in your stomach start building. he bends over, just slightly, to take one of your breasts in his mouth and you can’t help but let out a whine, loud against his ear, gripping his hair as you pull him closer.
he pushes you back until your legs hit the foot of your bed, your back hitting your mattress, chenle still sucking on your nipples like it was the only thing he was made for. for someone who didn’t kiss, he knew how to use his tongue well. it was almost unfair, “lele,” you moan.
“hmm?,” he says, mouth still full of your breasts, tongue swirling around your bud, finger rolling the other. your pussy clenching at nothing. you needed to feel just how good his tongue is on you. now. you lightly push him off of you and he looks up with dazed eyes, already lost in the lust. you crawl backward on the bed, until your head hits the pillows. then you open your legs for him, fingers dipping down between your folds, showing him wet you are. showing him what he does to you.
“are you gonna keep staring or are you gonna make sure you know how i taste?,” you smirk. his gaze darkens and then he was moving. diving in between your legs, his hand on your hips as his tongue swipes across your folds, your reaction was immediate, a quiet gasp slipping past your lips.
his tongue swipes again, slower this time, more deliberate — like he’s savoring it. like he wants to make sure you feel every flick, every glide, every warm drag of his mouth along your slick folds.
“fuuck,” you whisper, head falling back into the pillows, hips jerking toward his face. you weren’t ready for how good it would feel, how thoroughly he’d devour you. he grips your thighs, spreading you wider, angling your hips up to meet his mouth better. his tongue laps at your clit, slow at first, then faster, more focused, until your breath catches in your throat. he moans low against you, the vibration rippling through your core, his hunger for you making your thighs tremble against his shoulders. the way he eats you is not shy. it’s messy. loud. tongue everywhere. mouth sealed around your clit, then dragging back down to tease your entrance, tongue prodding in and out of your hole, only to dive right back up to leave kisses on the bundle of nerves that has you clenching around nothing.
you reach for him. not just to ground yourself, but to do something back. “lele—” you murmur, voice barely steady, “i want to taste you too.”
his eyes flick up, dark and blown wide with lust, and he understands instantly. in a swift motion, he flips the two of you over so you’re straddling him, hands on his chest. then he completely mahandles you, turning you around, until you’re facing his cock. you let him do what he wants until you feel his breath on your hot core. you turn over your shoulder, “are you sure?”
“just take your seat, baby please,” he says, practically whining. you let yourself down slowly, carefully, until chenle grabs your hips and pulls you down hard against his mouth, lips immediately on you like a magnet. he’s all tongue and open-mouthed hunger, licking into you like he means it, like he wants you undone within seconds. you moan, hands flying to his hips for balance as yours stutter against his hot, wet mouth. he doesn’t ease up. he groans into you, low and hoarse. his hands grip your ass, guiding your rhythm — up, down, until you’re rolling your hips in sync with his mouth, pleasure crawling up your spine in electric waves.
and then you lean forward — hand closing around his cock, already hard and leaking, twitching under your touch. he jerks the second you stroke him. another moan vibrates against you. you lower your mouth over him slowly, savoring every inch, and when he feels your lips wrap around the tip, his hands tighten on your thighs, dragging you down even harder against his tongue — the position is hot, filthy and perfect for two people who weren’t allowed to be intimate. just pure lust and desire.
every time you take him deeper into your mouth, he moans against your cunt, sending vibrations throughout your body making you moan around him. it was a continuous chain reaction. a circle. a rhythm that shouldn’t feel this good for something that’s supposed to be fake. he eats you out like he’s starving, like he’s desperate. the groans he spills into your skin when you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock is addicting. you hollow your cheeks and bob your head steadily, spit and precum making it easier to move faster, sloppier. his thighs tremble beneath your hands. his breathing’s gone ragged, harsh exhales against your folds as he keeps licking you like he can’t decide what he wants more — to come or to pull you over the edge first.
you don’t stop until you feel him throb against your tongue, hips bucking weakly. his moan breaks against you — loud, unfiltered, completely undone. just as you fall apart on his face, grinding down until your vision goes white. you both cum at the same time, wrecked and breathless, your bodies slick with sweat and need. you swallow all of him as your thighs quiver above him, hands digging into the sheets for some sense of control that’s long gone.
slowly, you climb off him, your chest still rising and falling fast. his face is flushed, jaw shiny with you, eyes glazed as he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, still tasting you on him. you collapse beside his legs, your skin still tingling, the air thick with the scent of sex and something heavier beneath it — something unspoken.
you’re just catching your breath when he speaks, “they were right,” he says, voice low, jaw tight like he’s trying not to clench it.
you blink, turning your head toward him, “huh?”
he finally looks at you, eyes darker than before, almost like he was mad that they knew this about you.
“your pussy’s the sweetest there is” he whispers. you freeze. it was so vulgar. you’ve never heard him like that before. you’re not supposed to blush. you’re not supposed to feel anything — this was supposed to be for the lie. but your cheeks warm anyway, blood rushing to your face like your body doesn’t care what rules your brain is trying to enforce.
“…don’t say shit like that,” you mumble, hiding your face in your sheets, suddenly all too aware of your nakedness, your vulnerability, the way your heart is thudding like it wants to be acknowledged.
chenle lets out a soft, breathless laugh, the kind that’s more teasing than sincere, “relax,” he says, grinning as he taps your ass, “just telling the truth.” before you can respond, he’s already off the bed, striding butt-naked into your bathroom. you hear the soft creak of a cabinet, the rustle of movement and then he’s back, completely unfazed, moving like none of this is new to him. he doesn’t say a word as he gently nudges your thighs apart, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he’s cleaning you up with a warm, damp paper towel. slow, deliberate, and so unexpectedly tender it makes your chest ache. then, he reaches for your blanket and carefully pulls it over your body, tucking it around you like it’s second nature.
you stay sprawled on the bed, watching him through half-lidded eyes, too tired to argue, unsure if you want to kiss him or strangle him for how easy he makes this all seem. once he’s done, he tosses the paper towel in your bin like he’s shooting a three-pointer, throws his hoodie over his head, and slides back into his sweats like he wasn’t just naked with his face between your thighs and his cock in your mouth just five minutes ago. he heads toward the door, but pauses before opening it. then, with one hand on the handle, the other tugging his duffel bag over his head, he glances over his shoulder with a lazy smirk.
“later, baby,” he teases, “try not to miss me too much.” you groan and bury your face deeper into the pillow, flipping him off without looking, his laugh ringing in your ear. then the door clicks shut. and you’re left alone, naked under the sheets, your heart annoyingly full and your cheeks burning like hell.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 14 - LET’S SEE IT CAPTAIN ౨ৎ
the gym is still and quiet when you and chenle arrive, early enough that even the usual overachievers haven’t shown up yet. you’re both trying a little too hard to be normal. trying to pretend that you didn’t spend last night tangled in the 69 position. you stretch near the free throw line, lazily balancing on one leg. chenle’s dribbling nearby, head down, hair still damp from his pre-practice shower, glistening slightly under the overhead lights.
“you look like you’re in a gatorade commercial,” you mutter.
he doesn’t even glance up, “you look like someone who couldn’t shoot a basket if her life depended on it,” he teases, a playful smirk on his lips.
you gasp dramatically, “excuse me?”
“i’m just saying,” he walks over and tosses you the ball, “let’s see it captain.”
you scoff, adjusting your stance, “i’ll have you know i’ve cheered for hundreds of games, i know this court as well as you.”
he raises a brow, arms crossed, “sure. now actually throw the ball.”
you do. it doesn’t even hit the rim. you pout, “okay, rude,” you say, talking to the ball.
chenle smirks and jogs to retrieve it, “come here”
“what, so you can mock me more?,” you say, a light smile on your lips.
“so i can teach you,” he replies easily, motioning you over. you roll your eyes but go to him anyways.
he steps behind you, gently positioning your arms, “fingers here,” he says, softly guiding your fingers around the ball, “-elbow in,” he murmurs, low and close, sparking the goosebumps to travel down your spine, “breathe, you’re not stabbing someone, you’re guiding the ball.” you scoff, but let him continue guiding your hands anyway. his chest presses lightly against your back, his lips brushing warm at your ear. it’s oddly intimate, this quiet closeness. you pretend not to notice it. so does he.
“now,” he murmurs, “just relax…and shoot.”
the ball flies in a clean arc – nothing but net.
you beam, eyes sparkling, “did you see that?!,” you cheer, excitement written all over your face.
“i’m an excellent teacher,” he smirks. you turn to grin at him, but before you could reply — he kisses you. no warning. no smirk. no audience. just lips on yours. warm and deliberate.
you gasp softly, but your body reacts faster than your brain – your hands go to his chest, mouth moving against his in quiet surprise. it’s soft and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. he swipes at your bottom lip and you part them on instinct, giving him access. your tongues moving in sync like he means it.
and then your brain catches up. this doesn’t make sense. chenle doesn’t kiss. that’s when you’re reminded — quinn. she must be here. she must be watching. why else would he kiss you like his life depended on it?
you pull away slowly, eyes fluttering open, lips flushed, “was she here?,” you whisper.
chenle blinks like he was still processing what the hell just came over him, “yeah,” he answers, a little too quickly. you nod once, eyes scanning the gym, but you don’t see anyone. still, you assume she must’ve been behind the bleachers or near the doors. maybe she slipped out quietly after the kiss.
you swallow down whatever strange flutter just took root in your chest, “right. okay.”
chenle nods too, hands dropping from your waist, “just doing my part,” he mutters with a small, unreadable smile. you nod. some of your teammates start making their way in and that was your cue to escape. you walk away from him, pretending your heart isn’t doing cartwheels in your chest. because if you let yourself think about that kiss too long. the way his mouth moved perfectly in yours. you know you’ll be way past saving.
౨ৎ
his lips are still tingling. chenle walks the other way, jogging across the court to fetch the ball, but his heart isn’t in it. his chest feels tight.
he lied. quinn had been there – earlier. lurking behind the bleachers like some twisted shadow stitched to the edge of his vision. he spotted her in the middle of adjusting your grip on the ball but she slipped out halfway through your shot.
the kiss happened well after she was gone. he didn’t have to do it. there was no audience. no pressure. it wasn’t calculated. it wasn’t strategic — it was instinct. he couldn’t help himself. his body just moved, pulled by something stupid and impulsive and real that curled hot and electric in his chest. you were just standing there, flushed and proud and happy and annoyingly adorable he didn’t know what to do with it but kiss you.
he bounces the ball once. twice. his hands are suddenly sweating. it’s not supposed to feel like that. not with you. you’re his best friend. or you were. this whole mess, this fake relationship. it was all supposed to be fake. controlled clean. he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about how soft your lips were. how those damn assholes were right, you did taste like strawberries but also something else…something sinful. the way you kissed him back. the way you completely melted into him.
he grits his teeth and shoots the ball harder than he needs to. it hits the rim and bounces out. perfect. just like him — falling short. he drags a hand through his hair. the kiss can’t stop replaying in his mind. you, wide-eyed. you, tilting towards him without even thinking. you, pulling away and asking if his stalker was around as if that was the only possible explanation. and it should have been the only explanation.
he was slipping. the way your name is starting to echo louder than it should is suffocating. he’s not ready for that. and that tight, heavy feeling in his chest. it’s not guilt anymore. it’s want. god, help him.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 17 - DON’T ASK ME STUPID QUESTIONS. ౨ৎ
you’re already tense by the time chenle shows up at the gym. he’s leaning against the wall, holding up your favorite snack, “for the prettiest cheerleader in the world,” he says, before pulling you into his arms for a hug. it’s been like this for the past three days, him showing up to your practice with your favorite chocolates, a stuffed toy, letters, any gift he could think of. picking you up and walking you back to your dorm, putting on a show, making sure everyone knows the two of you are so sickeningly in love.
and as sweet as it all has been. you wanted something else. your thighs ache from practice but the throbbing between your legs is worse. you don’t smile. just snatch the bag from him and make your way out the door as he stumbles after you, “what’s wrong?”
you ignore him, just slipping your hand into his and walking the rest of the way in silence. he doesn’t ask again, not until the door to your dorm clicks shut, the silence crashing down like thunder. you toss your bag down, arms crossed, heart pounding with frustration and need.
“bad day?,” he asks carefully, not entirely sure what kind of territory he’s in.
“would it be okay with you if i went and had sex with someone else?”
the air goes still. chenle freezes like you slapped him, “what?”
“i’m serious,” you snap, arms crossed, “this plan sucks, i didn’t think being your fake girlfriend meant i’d be celibate for weeks, im sooo horny chenle, it’s not even funny!,” you groaned, throwing yourself onto your bed, arms covering your face. the silence stretched until you peeked through your fingers and saw him still frozen, mouth parted. “so?,” you prompted.
he blinked, voice lower now, “no. it’s not okay.”
you sat up, suddenly irritated, “why not? we’re not actually dating. it’s not like i’d tell anyone.”
“are you serious? people talk y/n, i’d rather not have everyone think i can’t satisfy you so now you’re cheating on me,” he groans, dragging a hand through his hair.
you stand up annoyed, stepping toward him with fire in your veins, “i’m ovulating, chenle. everything hurts. i’m soaking through my underwear. i can’t think. i’ve been dreaming about you. that night. the way you moaned, the way you ate me out — it’s all i think about. and then you kissed me at the court like i was yours.”
he blinks. swallows hard. your words affect him instantly. his cock twitching in his pants. his mind running a mile per minute.
“i can’t keep pretending that didn’t happen. my body won’t let me,” you say, not even caring if you sounded desperate. you need to be relieved now, “i fingered myself last night and i cried because it wasn’t enough.”
his head is spinning at the image of you not being able to get off. god, you were so sexy.
“don’t go to someone else.” he says, voice low and dark.
“then what?” you whisper, “because if i don’t do something, i swear–”
“i can take care of you.” he says, stepping in close. his breath brushes your lips.
“we said no sex,” you remind him.
his voice drops into something dark and dangerous, “that doesn’t mean i can’t ruin you.”
you raise an eyebrows, “with what? your hands?”
a smirk appears on his features, “my fingers. my mouth. whatever you’ll let me use.”
your heart thuds in your chest. you walk backward to the bed, pulse hammering, “then let’s make it interesting,” you reach into your drawer, pulling out your favorite toy – long, thick, velvety-soft silicone curved just right. you drop it onto the mattress like a challenge. he raises a brow, not shocked at all that you had a dildo.
“use your fingers, use your mouth, use that… i don’t care, just help me, please,” you practically beg. his eyes widen for a second before his mouth twitches into a grin, wicked and reverent all at once, “say less.” and then he was closing the distance. dragging your shirt over your head, unhooking your bra like it was second nature and yanking your cheer shorts and panties in one go, tossing it somewhere around your room. he pushes you down so you were sitting at the foot of your bed, his hands wandering throughout your body, lips marking your exposed breasts and then he was spreading you open, kneeling on your floor, slotting himself in between your thighs and actually groans when he sees how wet you already are.
“goddamn baby,” he whispers, dragging two fingers through your folds “this all for me?”
you nod, “yes lele, please,” you whine. he slides his digits in, deep, slow, curling with precision that makes your hips thrust up. you gasp, body tensing.
“jesus, you’re tight,” he murmurs, “and so fucking warm.” he pushes your legs up until your knees were almost to your chest then adds a third finger, working you open, pumping deep and steady, watching your face the whole time. his thumb brushes your clit in maddening circles, quiet and uncontrollable moans slipping from your lips.
then he picks up the toy. you watch, breathless, as he slicks it up with your arousal, pressing the thick head to your entrance, “ready?,” he asks, looking at you for final confirmation. you nod frantically and he slides it in slowly, dragging it against every swollen nerve ending, pushing it inside until it completely disappears in your cunt. the stretch is intense, full, enough to make your eyes roll back, “oh my god,” you whimper.
“that’s it,” he whispers, breath hot on your thighs as he leans in, “you take it so fucking well.”
he starts pumping it, setting a rhythm, the dildo driving deep, your chest rising and falling with every pant “do you use this and think about me, baby?,” he grunts. when you don’t answer, too lost in the pleasure, he stops his movement, making your eyes shoot wide open.
“lele–”
“i said,” he asks again, voice firmer this time, eyes darker, “do you use this and think about me?”
“y-yes lele, i think about you, how full your cock would feel inside me,” you admit and something in him breaks. he thrusts it deeper, faster, finding the spot that makes your eyes roll back, watching your legs shake. his lips press kisses to the inside of your thighs, sucking and biting, leaving his mark. then his free hand circles your clit in fast, tight spirals. the pressure in your stomach builds fast, unbearable, so sharp you can barely speak.
“fuuuck, chenle,” you breathe out, your back falling to your sheets, no longer able to keep yourself up, “i–im gonna come,” you moan.
“go ahead baby,” he commands, “come for me.” your body obeys. fast. your back arches, toes curling, hands gripping your sheets, jerking so hard the toy nearly slips out as you cry moans of his name. but he doesn't stop. he keeps going, driving you over the edge again, until you’re squirming, tears in your eyes, the toy moving in and out of you in sync with his fingers rubbing furious circles into your clit. you barely even get the chance to process your first orgasm before a second wave hits. the pleasure just as good, just as world rattling as the first. you sob his name, overstimulated, shaking, mouth open but soundless, hand pushing him away.
but chenle isn’t finished.
“c’mon baby, you’re the one who wanted this,” he says, amused as he swats your hand away, pushing you up to your pillows until he’s hovering above you. he pulls the toy out giving you a second to catch your breath before his mouth was on you, lapping you up like a man starved.
“h-holy fuck—,” your stomach tightens immediately, “chenle–too much–”
“no”, he laughs, against you, completely amused, the vibration making your toes curl, “not yet. i’m not done with you,” he teases, flicking his tongue on your clit and thrusting two fingers in your hole, dragging every ounce of sensation out of you. his free hand is strong, keeping you right exactly where he wants you until your hips buck into his face, bibbling his name, fists in his hair, riding the edge again.
“you taste so sweet,” he mumbles between licks. he’s in complete bliss, eyes shut, eating you out like he was satisfying his cravings.
“you’re mine. all of this is mine.” that’s what does it. you come again, even harder – thighs clamping around his head. he holds you through it, still sucking you like there’s no tomorrow, hands gripping your thighs to keep you open as you writhe beneath him, completely undone. yet he still doesn’t relent. you swore there’s tears streaming down your face now, incoherent noises slipping past your lips. you try to close your legs, try to shimmy your way out but he was stronger than he looks, “don’t you ever talk about fucking someone else again.”
he was so addicted. so pussy drunk. he doesn’t know how to stop. then you feel it. that curl in your stomach that only comes when you know you’re about to soak your sheets, the type of sensation no one else but yourself has made your body do.
you try to warn him, “w-wait–chenle–i’m gonna–” but the words don’t come out fast enough. your body explodes. your legs jerk, eyes snap open wide and you squirt – a hot rush of liquid soaking your sheets, his hand, his face.
you choke on a cry, body shaking. he stops dead for a second. his gaze flickers to your soaked thighs, the mess under you, then back to your face, “holy shit, does that always happen?,” he asks. his expression is pure awe and hunger.
you shake your head no, a little embarrassed “not with other people,” you manage to say, voice hoarse. and when you thought it was finally over – he buries his face between your legs for the umpteenth time, making you scream, more determined than ever to get you to do it again.
he’s laughing into your cunt, loving the way you’re crying out for him. the way your juices continue leaking out of you. the way you’re trying to push him away. his fingers are back inside, curling, pressing just right, over and over and over. you can’t breathe. can’t think. the sounds spilling from your mouth are desperate. pleas and stops that he ignores. until you’re twitching. gasping. and it hits again. another wave crashes through you, harder than the first. you sob his name as you gush, spraying him, your body completely undone. he continues rubbing until you we’re completely empty, hands keeping your thighs spread, mouth drinking in as much as he can.
you’re a mess — wet. crying. shaking. and he loves it.
“fuck, you’re so sexy like this,” he groans, licking you through the aftershocks, “fucking soaking for me. mine,” before kissing your clit one last time, finally letting you breathe. then he crawls up your body, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your jaw, your temple, everywhere but your lips. you’re panting, eyes glassy. you stay sprawled out on your back, chest rising and falling in erratic breaths, limbs heavy, brain wiped completely clean. everything’s soaked – the sheets, the comforter, your thighs, chenle.
he’s lying next to you now, propped up one elbow, hand toying with one of your breasts, grinning like he just won the lottery. his face is still shiny with you. you should feel embarrassed that you’re completely naked next to him and he’s still fully dressed but you’re not. you're too high up in the clouds, too light headed to think about anything else.
“you good?,” he asks, voice smug.
you roll your head toward him, still panting, “i think you broke me.”
he laughs, actually laughs, soft and playful and stupidly attractive, “i mean, i did make you squirt. twice,” he smirks, still palming your breasts, like he was glued on to your skin.
you swat his hand away, “god. don’t say it like that.”
“why?” he leans over, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “it’s the truth. you squirted. all over my fingers. in my mouth. whole crime scene situation down there.”
you groan, “shut up.”
“i’ve never seen someone look so sexy and so destroyed at the same time,” he pokes your cheek, “like, tears in your eyes, legs shaking, moaning my name…i'm flattered,” a smirk on his face.
you swat at him weakly, “stop talking before i die of shame.” but you’re smiling, cheeks flushed. and he notices.
“oh no, don’t get all shy on me now,” he teases, “not after you practically begged me to use a toy on you and called me sir at one point.”
“i did not—” honestly, you weren’t too sure. you had no idea what you were saying half the time. or if what you were saying were even words.
“you did,” he grins, “right when i had three fingers in you and you were like—” he puts on a dramatic impression, moaning exaggeratedly — “‘ahh ahh please, chenle, i’ll do anything, just make me come—’”
you grab the nearest pillow and smack him in the face with it. he just laughs harder. “you’re the worst.”
“and yet,” he says, catching your wrist, pulling it gently until you’re turned toward him again, “you’re here. naked and very very wet.”
you narrow your eyes at him, “you’re very proud of yourself, huh?”
“i made you do something no one else ever has. of course i’m proud,” his fingers skim your bare thigh, slow and cocky, “i own that now.”
and the phrase does more than he thinks. you push the thoughts away, “cocky bastard.”
he leans in, placing a kiss below your ear, “next time don’t ask me stupid questions.” you blink up at him, heart skipping. chenle softens for a second, gaze flicking between your eyes and lips. before his grin returns. mischievous. dangerous.
“and next time, i’m bringing rope,” he teases and you gasp, swatting his face away.
“what?,” he nuzzles into your neck, an arm around your waist, “you want me to keep your legs open properly, don’t you?” you shove him off again, laughing, flushed and glowing.
that night, when he got home, chenle pumped himself up and down, thoughts of you and only you plaguing his mind. he imagined your voice in his ear again. he tries to visualize the way your thighs were shaking, your hands gripping his hair. how beautiful you looked when you fell apart. how you tried to warn him but never got the words out before you were decorating him with your juices. he wants you again. he wants more. his orgasm tears through him, hot and sudden, spilling over his fist.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 19 - SORRY MR. BENCH ౨ৎ
the gym doors slam shut behind the last of his teammate. steam curls from the showers at the back of the locker room. chenle walks out, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp, boxers clinging to his hips. he hums to himself softly. and then he stops cold.
his eyes land on you, leaning against the metal lockers in your cheer shorts and his hoodie that he probably left at your place, “how’d you get in here?” he asks, eyes wide.
there’s a playful smile on your lips, “i snuck in.”
his brows shoot up, “you what?...you can’t just…this is the boy’s locker room, you maniac,” he says, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips.
you push off the lockers, crossing the floor toward him, “i couldn’t help it.”
he swallows, visibly trying not to look down at what you’re wearing or lack of, “it’s worse today,” you murmur, closing the space between you, “i thought the other day would calm me down but now everytime i close my eyes, i feel you.”
chenle exhales through his nose, the last of his restraints on a thin line, “you’re insane.”
you nod, “i know,” before stepping into his space and wrapping your arms around his neck.
he looks around quickly, like someone might still be lingering. then he grabs your wrist, dragging you behind a row of lockers, out of sight, “we’re going to get caught.”
“no one’s here,” you whisper, voice soft and sinful, “and if they are, i don’t care.”
he groans quietly, eyes flickering down to your exposed thighs, your shorts doing absolutely nothing to hide how worked up you already are, “i can’t stop thinking about the other night either,” he murmurs.
he leans in, lips brushing your ear, “we’re still not having sex.”
you nod, “we’re not,” lips brushing his jaw, “i just want to feel you….please lele…take care of me again.” you didn’t have to say anything else. that phrase was enough. suddenly, his hands are all over you, gripping your ass and pushing you back until you were seated on the wooden bench in between the row of lockers. he kneels between your legs, nuzzling your inner thigh through your clothes, and you whimper, hips bucking up as his breath ghosts over your clothed heat.
“you’re soaked already,” he murmurs against your shorts, breathing you in, “did you walk in like this?”
you nod, cheeks flushed, “i’ve been wet the whole day,” you say as he pulls down your shorts, the undeniable wet spot of your panties clear to him.
he hums like he’s satisfied, “you’re dangerous,” he says, almost lovingly, “no one should be this needy,” a playful smile on his face. you grab his shoulders, pulling him up and making him straddle the bench as you got into his lap. your mouth crashes on his neck, hot and messy, and he moans into your ear when you grind your hips against his. your underwear was still on but the friction was unreal.
he pulls your hips flush against him, and you feel him – hard, throbbing beneath his boxers, pressing against your clothed core, “like this?,” he pants, voice already ragged, “you just wanna feel me?”
“more,” you whine, “please, lele.” with a low groan, he pulls down his boxers just enough to free himself then hooks his fingers into your underwear sliding it down. he runs his hard cock through your folds, slapping his tip against your clit and your grip on his shoulder tighten, “mmm feels so good, just like that,” you moan before you straddle him, grinding into his shaft, the both of you moaning and whining into the night air.
he lets the feeling go on for a bit before he makes you kneel on the bench. then he positions his cock right in between your thighs, against your soaked folds, still outside and starts thrusting. slow. heavy. deliberate. the head of his cock glides between your thighs, through your ass, dragging against your clit with maddening pressure, slicking through your wetness. he unzips your (his) hoodie only to find you weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“god, baby, you’re gonna kill me,” he sighs, his hands on your ass, controlling your hips as your nipples brush against his chest. you nuzzle into his neck, gasping, clinging onto his shoulders like its the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.
“fuck–,” he breathes, “you feel like heaven.”
you nod frantically, “faster lele, please–”
he holds you tighter, gripping your hips, increasing his speed, thrusting between your thighs like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. his shaft brushes your clit over and over, grinding deep into that soaked spot right beneath your entrance, giving you the illusion that he’s inside you. and your body believes it. you rock against him like you’re possessed. like you need this to survive. every stroke sends heat spiraling through your stomach, your thighs trembling. he sucks that sensitive spot on the side of your neck and you were done for.
“i-i think,” you gasp, “i’m gonna–”
“do it,” he growls by your ear, “come on my cock, baby.” with a strangled cry, your body locks up, thighs quivering around him, vision going white. he didn’t even have to touch you inside and yet you unravel completely. chenle swears under his breath, thrusts harder once. twice. and then he’s coming too, warm and thick between your thighs, his juices slipping down your legs. the bench under you looks like it witnessed something illegal. his head falls to your shoulder, panting hard, clinging to you like he’s been holding back for days.
you’re both a wreck. neither of you move for a while. your knees start to get sore but you don’t care. his arms stay wrapped around your waist. eventually, he sits down, sitting you onto his lap, “shit,” he mutters, voice raspy, “poor bench.”
you smile weakly, “sorry mr. bench”
he looks at you for a long moment. and then that damn smirk returns, “we are so getting banned from the locker room.”
you groan, “they can’t ban both of the captains.”
“they can if the bench gives a testimony,” he teases. you elbow him, laughing breathlessly.
“i cannot believe we just did that,” you mumble, hiding in the crook of his neck.
chenle’s voice is way too proud, “i can. i had faith in our poor impulse control.”
you snort, “you're disgusting.”
he winks, “you love it.” there’s a pause. you go quiet. he does too. a beat of something unspoken simmers between you. but before either of you can crack it open, he glances down at the mess on your legs and grimaces.
“damn,” he mutters, reaching for his towel on the foot of the bench, “i got you good.” you roll your eyes as he dabs at your inner thighs carefully, like he’s handling something delicate.
“i can’t believe i ever thought we could pull off fake dating without...this happening,” you whisper.
he blinks at you, then grins, “you thought we’d not eventually dry-hump in a locker room?” you laugh again, trying to brush it off. but he doesn’t. he’s watching you now, softer. less joking. and then, the sound of the locker room door opens.
“chenle…you still in here?,” coach jaehyun’s voice echoes down the tiled corridor. both of your eyes go wide, “oh my god” you stare at each other like two deer caught in headlights.
“shit”, he hisses under his breath. he zips your hoodie up clumsily over your bare chest and scrambles to pull his boxers up as you pick up your shorts and underwear.
“stay still, don’t breathe, you’re invisible” he whispers.
“i’m not invisible!,” you whisper back, panic rising but he’s already shoving you behind one of the open lockers. your back hits the cool metal just as coach jaehyun’s footsteps draw closer. you clasped your mouth shut, heart pounding out of your chest, legs still weak. chenle wipes his hands on the towel, trying to look casual, and walks out just as coach rounds the corner, still in his windbreaker, clipboard under one arm.
“there you are,” coach says, slowing his stride, “always the last to leave, huh?”
chenle offers a lopsided grin, trying to keep his face neutral despite the chaos in his chest. “yes coach, just making sure the showers were off. locker doors closed. y’know, the usual.”
coach glances around, oblivious, “that’s what I like to hear.” you hold your breath behind the locker, still trembling slightly, trying not to let your knees give out or your breath catch audibly.
coach crosses his arms, “big game tomorrow. you’ve been putting in the work. i’ve seen it. just keep your head clear. and for god’s sake, get some sleep. no all-nighters, no tiktoks, no distractions. you hear me?”
chenle coughs, mouth twitching, “yes, sir.”
“good. i need you sharp. you're the heart of this team, chenle.” that hits. chenle’s face softens just slightly, eyes darting to where you’re hiding. “i’ll be ready,” he says, quieter this time.
coach jaehyun claps him on the shoulder, “proud of you, kid. lock up behind you.” and with that, the coach turns and exits, the heavy door creaking shut behind him. you wait until the footsteps fade. one beat. two. then you burst out of the locker, wide-eyed, “the heart of the team, huh?” you tease, breathless.
chenle lets out a laugh, bracing his hands on his hips, “do not talk to me about what just happened while i’m still trying to survive a cardiac event.”
you’re grinning now, limp but giddy, “you were sweating bullets.”
“he said no distractions, and i had my very naked distraction grinding on me just five minutes ago”
“you were very focused, i’ll give you that.” you put your underwear and shorts back on before shuffling over to him, still slightly dazed, “guess it’s good i helped you, then. let out some of that…pressure.”
he chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest, “you are not helping.”
you smirk against his collarbone, “want me to give you a pre-game pep talk tomorrow too?”
“i think you already gave me one tonight,” he murmurs, and you both dissolve into laughter. then he pulls back, a little more serious, “but for real… i’m glad you’re here.”
you blink at him, surprised, “you are?”
he nods, “i don’t think i could’ve slept tonight if i hadn’t…felt you. been driving me insane.” your chest tightens a little. something tender stirs in the air between you, but he breaks it off, walking to his locker.
you laugh helplessly as he gets dressed, grabbing his gym bag and throwing an arm around your shoulders, guiding you toward the exit, “come on baby, let’s get you home before you start climbing me again.”
you’re not entirely sure why you’re still acting sweet. why your fingers automatically laced with his as you walk down the hall — his stalker wasn’t around. there was no audience to act for. no one to fool. no reason to keep pretending. yet you’re still wearing the stupid smile he put on your face. and when he glances down at you, his gaze softens like he’s seeing you for the first time. maybe it should bother you. maybe you should pull away. to remind him, and yourself, that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. that this was a game. a favor. but you don’t. not yet. for now, you keep walking beside him – sweet, quiet, warm. not because you have to. but because you want to.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 20 - HIS GIRL. ౨ৎ
the gym roars with life – drums pounding, sneakers squeaking, the crowd’s cheers pulsing like electricity through the air. but chenle can’t hear any of it. because then you step out. and you’re not in your usual cheer top. no — you’re wearing his jersey. cropped. tied with a rubber band just under your chest so his number (30) stretches perfectly across the swell of your breasts. your cheer skirt is even shorter than usual. or maybe it just feels that way because now it’s paired with his name sitting proudly on your body. like a claim.
his eyes drag down your legs as you jog across the court, white sneakers bouncing, hair tied up in a high ponytail with ribbons that match the team colors (green and white). you wave your pom-poms and wink at the crowd, all of them screaming for the university’s darling. then you let your eyes slide to him. it hits him low. hard. his throat goes dry. and somewhere beneath the waistband of his shorts – he feels the heat pool. sharp and instant. you weren’t even doing anything yet. just being there, in his number — his hoodie had been one thing. but this was something else entirely. this showed everyone that you belonged to him.
the game starts. and every time he makes a shot, every layup, every three pointer – he points at you. the first time he does it, you blink. then your face breaks into a smile. the second time, your knees almost give out mid-cheer. by the third, the entire student section has caught on. they’re screaming for him and chanting his name but chenle only had eyes for you. you’re cheering like always, sharp, energetic, your moves clean and practiced. but every now and then, he notices the shift. the way your eyes flick only to him, the way you proudly shout, “let’s go! that’s my boyfriend,” when he scores. the way you throw in little extra spins, little kicks, a twirl you know he likes. you do a jump and land perfectly, grinning like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.
mark nudges him at halftime, chuckling, “dude,” he say under his breath, “your girl’s really going all out for you today.”
chenle’s ears turn bright red. his heart flutters. the way everyone knows you’re his girl creeps a smile in his face, “she’s just…excited for the game,” he mutters. mark just laughs and slaps his back before making his way to the stands, giving his own girlfriend a kiss on the lips for good luck.
during the cheer intermission, you’re front and center. the rubber band holding up his jersey bounces with every move. your chest jiggles with each jump. and there’s a moment, one that lasts way too long, when your skirt flips just enough to show the top of your spandex and chenle just stares. he swears he blacks out for a second. and then you get tossed into the air and he really can’t breathe. you were so high up. and yes, you’ve been a cheerleader since you could walk but his heart still lurches with worry.
by the final quarter, you’ve lost all sense of the score. you’re not sure if its the heat of the gym or the way he’s been looking at you all night, but your whole body feels flushed, electric. like the universe has boiled down to this court, this moment, him — and then it happens. final seconds on the clock. the score’s tied. chenle steals the ball, running pass the defenders, he jumps to shoot, you’re holding your breath so hard your lungs ache. and…he scores!
the ball hits the net with a clean, satisfying swish just as the buzzer blares. the gym erupts. but chenle doesn’t throw his hands up. doesn’t high-five his teammates. doesn’t go for the trophy.
he runs straight to you. before you can even say his name, he’s got both hands on your waist, twirling you in the air, your laughter ringing in his ears. and then his lips crash into yours. no hesitation. no warning — the cheerleaders squeal. the crowd screams. his team goes wild. and quinn watches with wide eyes and stunned silence, finally convinced that the two of you are head over heels in love.
and maybe it’s because you are. maybe the only people you were still fooling are yourselves.
you kiss him back like the world’s ending. like he’s gravity and you’re falling hard and fast and there’s no stopping it. like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth. it tastes like adrenaline and sweat and something dangerously close to love.
when he pulls back, breathless and glowing, you stare at him, dazed. your eyes meet his and for one aching second, just one, there’s something soft there. something real. a look you’ve never seen before. one that steals your breath in a different way. but it was gone in an instant, replaced with one of his usual smiles, that trademark, smug, chenle smile and he says, “that should really sell it now.”
your heart cracks. just a little. you pretend not to notice. you smile. of course you do. because that’s what you’re supposed to do. because he’s right. because his stalker was just right there, watching. because this whole thing is fake. because it’s easier to pretend this doesn’t mean everything to you. because if you stop smiling now, it’ll all fall apart. you’ll fall apart.
so you laugh, soft and light, like it didn’t mean anything. like it was all part of the plan. you slide a hand behind his neck, fingers trembling slightly as you pull him back down and kiss him again – fierce. desperate. wordless. pouring everything into it. all the things you can’t say.
you kiss him like you’re trying to convince yourself that this is enough. that pretending is enough. but you feel it—deep, deep in your chest. when you pull away, he lets go of your waist gently, oblivious to the way your fingers curl into fists at your sides, to the way you avoid looking at him too long. then he walks back to his teammates, laughing, his arm slung around mark’s shoulder like nothing just happened. you cheer with the rest of the squad. you wave at the crowd. you let the moment play out like it’s everything you wanted. but your chest burns. because you’re starting to realize the worst part isn’t pretending to love someone for the sake of a lie – it’s realizing you stopped pretending. and he still is.
౨ৎ
the music is loud, bass thumping through the floor of the dream frat house. the place is packed with players, cheerleaders, friends of friends but chenle doesn’t stray far from your side. he hasn’t left you since the two of you walked in together, hand in hand.
you’re both a little buzzed, drunk off victory and just enough vodka to feel reckless. his arm draped around your shoulders and your fingers are casually laced with his. you’ve stopped pulling away from him when he gets too close. maybe it’s the alcohol. maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like you were more important than stephen curry.
“you’ve been staring at me all night,” you murmur, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear as the two of you lean against the kitchen counter, resting for a bit after wining a beer pong game together.
he smirks, fingers sliding under the hem of the jersey you’re still wearing – his jersey, still tied into a crop top, showing off too much skin, “can you blame me?” his thumb brushes circles into your hip, playing with the bare skin just above your waistband. the party rages around you but it feels like it’s just the two of you. he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leans in to say something but instead of words, he presses a kiss to your cheek. then your jaw. then the corner of your mouth. so close to your lips.
“why are you being clingy?,” you whisper, not really complaining as you lean back on the kitchen counter.
“i’m being convincing,” he says with a wink and your heart cracks a little more. he slides his hands tighter around your waist, tucking you back into his chest and swaying the two of you to the song the dj is currently playing. then he’s guiding you back into the party, fingers laced with yours. without missing a beat, he tugs you closer, hands smoothing down your sides before settling on your hips. he rests his forehead against yours.
“everyone’s watching,” you whisper, your hands on his chest now, heart racing way too fast.
his eyes don’t leave yours, “that’s what we want right?,” your hands find the back of his neck, curling into his hair as his nose brushes yours, and he kisses you — just a ghost of a kiss at first, almost too soft to be real. but when he feels you lean into it, he kisses you again, deeper, more certain.
you pull back just long enough to smile, “breaking your own no-kissing rule again?”
he smiles too, that boyish, dizzy grin that always gets you, “had to.” that’s it. just had to. two words that now has your heart was soaring through the skies.
and he’s drunk. not just from alcohol. he’s drunk on you. during the next dance, he keeps sneaking kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone. at one point, he reaches around you to pull your jersey down a little, muttering, “my name looks really good on you,” before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. you roll your eyes and pretend not to melt.
when his teammates pull him away for photos and victory shots, you catch mark smirking, “you’ve got it bad, dude.”
chenle’s ears flush pink, “shut up.” but his eyes dart back to you instantly, and when he makes his way back, he grabs your hand again like it’s second nature. you’re halfway into another laugh when he spins you, catches you, presses your back to his chest again. his arms wrap around your waist like he never wants to let go.
“you’re seriously being so touchy tonight,” you say, but your voice is still soft. like you don’t mind it. like you want more of it.
“i’m celebrating,” he murmurs, “we made it to finals. you’re in my jersey. and i get to pretend you’re mine for a few more days.” your breath catches. you barely had time to process his words when his hand curls under your chin, tilts your face to his, and he kisses you again. gentle. long. like he’s memorizing it.
you pull away and his fingers interlock with yours, warm and familiar. you glance up at him. he doesn’t say a word, just gives you a soft, almost shy smile and tips his head toward the stairs. you nod, following him without hesitation — his bedroom door shuts quietly behind you. the music becomes a muffled thrum below your feet, nothing but a distant heartbeat now.
chenle turns around, eyes raking over you in his jersey, his cheeks flushed from the drinks, from the game, from you. “you’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbles, hands finding your hips like it’s second nature, “the way you cheered…my jersey,” he squeezes the hem of the shirt in between his hands, “this smile,” he adds, softly tapping your lips, “i couldn’t stop looking at you.”
your heart flips in your chest, “i was just playing my role.”
his jaw clenches at that, and for a second, he looks like he wants to say something. but instead, he just nods, “right.” — you want to take it back. you want to tell him it wasn’t just the role. that nothing about tonight felt fake to you. instead, you reach up and cup his jaw, tracing your thumb along his cheekbone. he leans into it without thinking, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of the night is finally catching up to him.
maybe you’ll both blame the alcohol tomorrow. whatever reason it is just so he could kiss you again — slow, unhurried, almost fragile. not like the others. not like you’re trying to convince anyone. just him and you and the quiet truth neither of you are brave enough to say out loud. and you let him kiss you. because pretending it didn’t mean anything was easier than acknowledging how badly you wanted it to. how badly you wanted him.
he pressed you up against his bedroom wall, pulling his jersey over your head like he’s unwrapping something fragile, and his eyes take their time, “you’re unreal,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion and desire. his hands grab at your waist, your hips, your ass, needy and warm and too far gone for restraint, his lips moving in sync with yours. he can’t get enough of you.
you murmured against his lips, “should we do it like last time?”
“yeah,” he panted, nodding, “just— just let me feel you again.” you both get undressed at the same time, fast, the need to feel each other overwhelming.
he sits on the middle of his bed first, patting the space in front of his legs. you make your way towards him, crawling on all fours and kissing him again. he kisses you just as hard. but before you could straddle him, he turns you around so your back is flushed to his chest. he parts your legs and his fingers slide through your folds with no warning, slow and teasing.
“you’re soaked,” he murmured against your neck, voice full of awe and want, lips brushing your skin between every word, “are you like this because of me, baby?”
you nodded, shameless, “all because of you.” his hands roamed your body, gripping your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts, to rub circles over your nipples. then he leans back against the pillows, settling you on top of him as his cock rocked in between your thighs. he thrusts up with a speed that has you moaning, his cock rubbing your folds perfectly. his tip curving up to hit your clit every time with just enough friction to build that heat in your stomach.
you were still playing by the rules. still pretending. or trying to.
but the moment he adjusted your hips to grind a little deeper, to rut you down against the underside of his cock — he slipped. not against you. into you. you gasped, eyes flying wide, breath catching in your throat as he filled you in one sudden, accidental thrust.
maybe it was due to how wet you both are. or maybe it was because both of you are tired of pretending you don’t want this.
“shit—,” chenle choked, arms tightening around you like a reflex, “i didn’t mean—fuck, i didn’t mean to—”
but neither of you moved. not forward, not away. because he was inside you. warm and hard and throbbing, deeper than anything before. and your body betrayed every rule with the way it clenched around him, wet and welcoming.
“lele…” you breathe, frozen in place.
he pressed his forehead to your shoulder, swearing under his breath, “we should stop,” he whispered, “we said we wouldn’t—fuck—you feel too good baby,” his hands gripping your hips tighter like he couldn’t help himself.
and then you moved your hips…once, instinctively, sliding up and back down. just to test it. just to feel him deeper.
“fuck–no–don’t do that baby, i can’t….” he groaned. your shared moans harmonizing in the air, low and broken. but even as he said it, his hips were bucking up to meet you, his hands were on your hips, guiding you up just to slam you back down on him, burying himself inside you again.
and now you were riding him. leaning back against his chest as he filled you again and again, so thick, so hard. neither of you were pretending anymore. it was all real — the desperate way he kissed your neck, the way your head tipped back against his shoulder as he bounced you on his cock, slow and deep, your thighs already shaking with how full you were. your moans were helpless now, sharp and breathy and real. his name spilling from your lips between curses and whimpers.
“fuck, you’re so tight,” he whine, voice cracking, “so warm, baby, i—shit, i knew it’d feel like this. i knew i wouldn’t be able to stop.”
“don’t stop,” you begged, clawing at his thighs behind you, gripping his arms, “please, lele, don’t stop.”
and he didn’t. he held you tight to his chest, fucking up into you in. deep, heavy thrusts that left your mind blank and your body arching. one of his hands slid to your breasts, twisting your nipples as he whispered filth into your ear.
“this is all mine,” he growled, “fuck, you take me so well. you love this, don’t you? my cock inside you. my hands on your body.” you couldn’t even speak. you just nodded, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how intense it felt, how much you wanted this, how terrifying it was to feel everything. it didn’t matter that you weren’t supposed to. that you’d agreed not to. that this was just pretend. because right now, as he pounded into you from below, forehead sweaty against your spine, mouth pressing open kisses to your shoulder, it felt like love — messy. real. dangerous.
his rhythm continued increasing, rougher, greedier. the bed creaked beneath you, the air thick with your shared moans, your slick, the sound of him thrusting into you again and again.
“c’mon baby,” he grunted, “soak my sheets,” and with no warning, one hand snakes down to your clit, rubbing furious and harsh circles and you feel it again, that overwhelming feeling and within seconds you’re cunt pushed him out, squirting all over his bedsheets.
“god, you’re so fucking hot,” he continues, rubbing you until you were crying and then shoving his cock again, chasing his own release, “i’m not gonna last,” he warned, “not when you’re like this.”
and you were overwhelmed – writhing, squirming, grinding down on him like you needed it more than oxygen. “one more,” he groaned, his hand making his way in between your legs again rubbing your clit harshly, “fuck, baby, come on, want to feel you come on my cock.”
you did, suddenly, violently, your body clenching around him so tight he swore. your juices leaking out of you. his muscles locked as you came with a strangled moan, shaking against him, “shit…fuck, i’m gonna—” he gasped, thrusting up once. twice. then he stilled with a low, guttural groan, cock twitching deep inside you as he released. his cum is hot. thick. buried deep.
you could feel it — the way he pulsed, the way he filled you with every drop, the way his arms wrapped around your waist like he was holding you together while he spilled himself inside you. he didn’t move. neither of you did. his breath stuttered against your neck. your body still trembled on top of him. you were both sweaty, flushed, ruined. the room spinning. neither of you said a word. because everything had changed. no rules left to break.
eventually, his cock softens inside you, warmth leaking down your thighs as the weight of everything you just did settles into the silence. but chenle doesn’t pull away. and you don’t make an effort to do so. instead, he wraps his arms tighter around you, placing you on his side and wrapping his arm around you. he’ll deal with the mess in the morning. right now he wants to keep you right there, tucked against him, safe in the quiet cocoon of his room and you were too fucked out to even care.
he kisses your shoulder. just once. you swallow the ache rising in your throat. he shouldn’t be this sweet. he shouldn’t be holding you like this — like you’re his. like this wasn’t a complete and utter mistake. but he is. and you let him. because the moment feels too fragile to ruin. because you’re too tired to pretend it didn’t mean something. you shift, slightly wincing a little as your sore body adjusts to the way he’s holding you.
“sorry,” he murmurs against your skin, brushing hair from your face, “did i hurt you?”
you shake your head, voice soft, “no…i just…” you trail off, unsure what you’re even trying to say. he doesn’t push, afraid you’ll pull away. he just holds you closer, his chin settling gently on your shoulder.
“don’t think too hard, okay?” he says, like he already knows what’s spiraling in your head, “let’s just sleep.”
maybe it’s the way he says it. or maybe it was still the alcohol lingering in your system. or it’s how warm his body feels against yours. but you close your eyes. you let your hand fall over his. let your fingers curl around him without thinking. let yourself pretend, just for tonight, that this means what you wish it did.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 21 - SO WEIRD ౨ৎ
you wake up first. the sun is filtering through chenle’s blinds, casting warm stripes across his bed. his room is still and quiet. your clothes are somewhere on the floor. his arm is still slung around your waist. you don’t move. you don’t dare. because if you do, this moment breaks.
you feel him shift behind you eventually. a groggy inhale, the slight tightening of his grip before it loosens again. he’s awake. you can feel it. but neither of you says anything for a while.
finally, he murmurs, “you awake?,” his arms finally let go of you.
you swallow, “yeah.” another beat of silence. then, as if on cue, like it was rehearsed, like you both felt the exact same pressure rise between your ribs, you both say:
“last night was a mistake.”
you laugh. a little too quickly, “yeah. for sure. we were drunk. stupid drunk.”
he nods, eyes still on the ceiling “it got out of hand.”
you sit up, pulling the blanket up with you, hiding behind it like you’re shielding yourself from what actually happened. what it meant.
“we should forget it,” he says, “it didn’t mean anything. just heat of the moment.”
“yeah,” your voice is soft but the pause between the words gives you away , “exactly.” you glance at him and you notice the way his eyes linger on you too long. the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding something back — it wasn’t just a drunken mistake. you both know it. you both remember every single second of it. neither of you says it. because admitting it would ruin whatever fragile thing you’re still pretending to control.
you slip out of bed first. the silence is unbearable now. you tug on one of chenle’s hoodie, “can i use your shower?”
“go ahead,” he nods. and then just as you thought you could have a moment for yourself, he asks, “mind if i join you?” you turn slowly. his tone is casual. too casual. and if he can act casual then so can you.
you nod, because it’s easier than saying no. because you’re not quite ready for this moment to be over yet, “sure, i mean we’ve already seen each other naked and all.”
he smirks but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “yeah, nothing to be shy about.”
the steam curls around the bathroom before either of you speaks, the shower running hot, fogging up the mirror, the air thick with heat and everything unsaid. you step under the spray first, letting the water hit your skin, trying to drown the memory of last night. at first, it’s easy. he jokes about how bad the punch was at the party. you tease him about the way he practically tackled mark after winning. he lathers shampoo in his hair with that boyish grin of his and you roll your eyes, stealing some of it for yourself. but under the surface, everything feels different. the rules are broken. there’s no going back. but here you are, still pretending to joke around like nothing happened.
you lean your forehead against the cool tile wall, letting the water stream down your back. behind you, you hear chenle’s voice, quiet now, “i…i remember everything about last night,” he whispers, almost afraid to say it too loud.
“yeah,” you whisper, “me too.” he doesn’t say anything after that. just reaches for your hand under the water, threading his fingers through yours for a few heartbeats. and you let him. even though it hurts. even though you’re both going to pretend later that it didn’t happen.
you turn around to face him, forcing out a laugh, trying to deflect, but your chest feels too tight, “we’re being weird, right?” you say finally breaking the silence that hugs the air.
“so weird,” he agrees. but neither of you moves. he looks at you, really looks, and his gaze dips to your lips before darting away. you both pretend not to notice. a beat passes. then, as if trying to make it easier, he says with a grin, “at least now we can lie better.”
your hide the way your smile falters. because yeah, now you didn’t have to improvise your lies. now when people ask you, there’s a story you could tell without looking like you just made it up on the spot. but for what? you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. and you hate the awkwardness that it brought. the way you’re tiptoe-ing around each other. you don’t do that — not with chenle.
౨ৎ
chenle still walks you home because it would be strange for him not to. he still has a role to play. the streets are quieter than usual. maybe it’s the way the sun is barely rising, casting the campus in soft golds and sleepy shadows. or maybe it’s just the stillness between the two of you – the space that used to be easy, now thick with all the things you’re pretending didn’t happen. every step feels heavier than it should, like the weight of last night is still stuck to his skin. like he's still in that bed, wrapped around you. he can still feel you. smell you. taste the words he didn’t say. he walks half a step behind. always close enough to feel the brush of your arm. but not close enough to take your hand.
you’re in one of his hoodie’s again and he’s convinced that they all look better than you than they ever did on him. he wonders if it’s going to smell like you now. if he’ll ever wear it again without remembering how you look in it – legs bare, eyes still a little sleepy, trying to pretend the morning hadn’t made everything more complicated.
he watches the way the sunlight hits your face in pieces as you pass under the trees. you’re not smiling. not frowning either. just quiet. and maybe that’s the worst part – how normal this feels when it isn’t. not even close.
he wants to say something like last night wasn’t a mistake or did it mean something to you, too?
but he can’t. he’s not ready for a relationship. instead, he stayed silent. when you get to your dorm, you thank him. just a quiet thanks, like that’s all this ever was. a walk home. a night you’ll both forget. a lie. he almost says your name. almost tells you to come back with him. that he can’t stop thinking about the way you kissed him. the way you looked after. the way it didn’t feel like pretending anymore. but you’re already turning. already slipping away with his hoodie and a piece of him he’ll never ask for back.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 24 - HE KISSED ME TOO. ౨ৎ
you’re quiet at the gym. too quiet. it’s not just you. chenle’s across the court, shooting hoops like he’s trying to outrun a thought. he misses most of it. you keep your eyes on your stretches, your warm-ups, your water bottle. anywhere but him. because looking hurts. because pretending is hard today.
you haven’t talked since that morning. not a call. not a text. not even to share gossip that you both love. just that long, strange walk home. just the memory of his arm around your waist, of his mouth on your neck, of the words this was a mistake and we can lie better echoing like a curse between your ribs.
now you’re back here — the gym, where it all started. where you first agreed to fake this thing. and it feels like neither of you knows how to act anymore. not when he won’t look at you. not when your heart is falling alone.
you’re mid-lunge when quinn walks into the locker room, ponytail swinging, perfectly smug as she drops her gym bag on the bench beside you. she watches you for a second. too quiet. too observant. then she says, “so, what, you’re not talking now?”
you glance at her in the mirror, “what?”
“you and chenle,” she points out. you just stare at her.
she turns to face you now, arms crossed, “let me guess,” she continues, “you finally gave it up, and now he’s pretending you don’t exist?”
your stomach drops. because maybe that is exactly what’s happening. you say nothing. she leans in a little, voice softer now, almost sympathetic. “look, i’m not trying to stir anything, i just… figured you should know how this ends.”
you blink, “how what ends?”
quinn sighs, “now that he’s had you, he won’t want anything to do with you again. that’s what happened with me.” you freeze. your chest tightens.
“he kissed me during it, too,” she adds casually, but it lands cruelly. you don’t respond. not because you don’t want to — but because you don’t know how. that one sentence shatters everything inside you.
“he told you it was just sex, didn’t he?” she continues, “that i was obsessed, that i didn’t mean anything.” you keep quiet. because yeah, that’s exactly what he said.
quinn gives a dry laugh, like she’s been expecting your silence, “it’s fine,” she says, reaching for her jacket, “i’m over him now. but i just thought you should know. watch out for yourself. because once he gets what he wants…” she trails off. shrugs. “he’s good at pretending it never happened.”
she walks out before you can respond, leaving the air too heavy, your mouth too dry. you sit there for a while. that ache in your chest — the one you’ve been trying to ignore since the moment you agreed it was a mistake, throbs a little sharper now.
because even if he didn’t mean it… even if quinn was exaggerating or playing games — chenle never told you that part. he told you they hooked up. he told you she got obsessed. he never told you he kissed her.
you were stupid enough to think you were different. stupid enough to think that maybe the way he kissed you meant something. stupid enough to think he only kissed during sex when it mattered. but you were stupidly wrong. maybe you’re just next in line. either way, it hurts. and it shouldn’t. because this was never supposed to hurt.
you stay in the locker room longer than you need to. you don’t want him to see your face —not like this, not while it’s breaking.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 26 - OVER IT. ౨ৎ
it takes you two full days to find the nerve to talk to him. and in those two days he never once reached out for you either — quinn was right. and you were furious. you only agreed to this stupid plan to help him out and now he’s the one acting like you were just one of his fucks and not his best friend.
he’s sitting on the bleachers alone after practice, still sweaty from drills, a water bottle half-forgotten at his feet. the rest of the gym is nearly empty — the team long gone, the lights dimming with the early evening.
you walk over before you can talk yourself out of it, “hey,” you say, voice quieter than usual but with a kind of bite that makes the hairs on chenle’s arms rise.
he looks up, startled, his expression is unreadable at first, like he wasn’t sure you’d ever come back. “hey,” he says back, and scoots over to give you space. you sit beside him. close, but not touching. not like before. the silence stretches out, filled only by the sound of a bouncing ball in the far court and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights.
“i talked to quinn,” you say finally.
he doesn’t move, but you see the way his jaw tightens slightly, “yeah?”
you nod, eyes on your hands, “she said she doesn’t care about you anymore. that… she’s over it.”
a beat of silence passes. awkward and dry. “that’s good,” chenle mutters. his voice is flat. you don’t tell him the rest. not the part about the kiss. not the way it made something cold and sharp twist in your chest.
instead , you take a breath and say, “i think we should break up.”
his head jerks toward you, eyes wide.
“not right away,” you add quickly, “just…not yet. not until after the championship. if we do it now it’ll look suspicious. but afterward… we end it. for real.”
he stares at you for too long. and for a second, one single second, you let yourself believe he’s going to fight you on it. that he’s going to say no. that he’s going to tell you this isn’t just fake anymore, not really, not to him. but he doesn’t.
he just nods. slow. measured. like it’s the only thing he knows how to do, “yeah,” he says, voice even, “that makes sense.” you both sit in silence again, this time with a weight that’s impossible to ignore. he doesn’t reach for your hand. you don’t lean into his shoulder. you just sit there, two people surrounded by everything unsaid.
this is what pretending gets you — a breakup plan for a relationship that never existed.
you nod, standing up slowly, “okay. after the game.” he still doesn’t say anything. you walk away before he can see your face. and behind you, chenle closes his eyes — like maybe if he squeezes them tight enough, he can pretend this doesn’t feel like losing something real.
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 27 - LARA JEAN AND PETER ౨ৎ
the echo of the basketball against the court was sharp, biting. over and over again, it bounced, rolled, slipped out of his fingers like he was a rookie who didn’t know how to play under pressure. but it wasn’t the upcoming game that was getting to him — it was you.
“dude, what’s going on?” mark asked from across the court, brows drawn together in concern, “that’s like your fifth miss in a row.”
chenle just shook his head, grabbing the rebound too hard, the ball nearly slipping from his hands again, “i’m good,” he lied, “just off today.”
but he wasn’t just off. he was losing it. every time he blinked, he saw the curve of your mouth when you smiled at him. heard the soft sound of your laugh in his ear. felt the weight of your body leaning into his. he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you said you’d break up after the championship like it didn’t mean anything. like it hadn’t changed everything. because for him… it had.
that night broke all his rules, no kissing, no sex, no romance all down the drain. but instead of regret, all he felt now was a hollow ache at the idea of losing it. of losing you.
he missed the next shot. the ball clanged off the rim hard enough to make mark flinch, “alright,” coach jaehyun called from the bench, standing up, “chenle. water. now.”
chenle huffed and jogged off, wiping sweat from his face with his jersey, heart pounding harder than it should’ve been. coach pulled him aside, “you need to lock in,” he said lowly, seriously. “championship is three days, we’re counting on you.”
chenle nodded, but his throat felt dry. he wasn’t locked in. he wasn’t even close, “i know,” he muttered, “i’ll fix it.” but he didn’t know how to fix any of it. because the only thing on his mind was you. and how soon you wouldn’t be his anymore, not even pretend. and he didn’t know how to go back to that. he didn’t know how to watch you cheer without knowing your laugh was waiting for him after the game. he didn’t want to share you with anyone else. he didn’t want it to be fake anymore. he wanted it for real.
your kisses, your stupid teasing, the way you wore his jersey like it belonged to you — he wanted all of it to be real. he took a deep breath, letting his head fall back, staring at the gym ceiling like maybe the answers would be up there in the metal beams or the lights or the sky beyond them. you were breaking up. that was the plan. that was what you’d said. after the championship game. no more fake dating. no more pretending to be in love.
but the worst part was he couldn’t even tell you that he didn’t want it to be fake anymore. somewhere along the way, he’d fallen. or maybe he was always in love with you and he just didn’t know it. and now he was losing you before he ever had the chance to ask if you felt the same. all because he kept telling himself he wasn’t ready. that he didn’t need distractions. yet here he is. more distracted than he’s ever been at the mere thought of not having you around.
mark sat next to him some time later, eyeing him carefully, “alright, dude. spill.”
chenle shook his head, “it’s nothing.” but mark knew better. his friend looked exactly like him when his heart was breaking over his girl a few months back.
“bullshit,” mark passed him the ball, watching as chenle failed to catch it properly, “you’ve been off all week.”
there was a moment of silence. then chenle let the ball roll away and sat down on the edge of the court, burying his face in his hands, “it was fake,” he muttered, “the whole thing. me and y/n, we were just pretending…to get quinn of my back.”
“damn,” mark reacts on instinct, then he sat down beside him slowly, “and now?,” he asked.
chenle swallowed, “now i’m in love with her.”
mark blinked, “wow, you went full on lara jean and peter, huh?”
“what?,” chenle breathes, a little annoyed.
“nothing,” mark shakes his head, “so what’s the problem now?”
chenle lets out a humorless laugh, “i didn’t mean for it to happen but it did and she…she wants to break up after the game. says there’s no point in pretending anymore.”
“have you told her you’re in love with her?,” mark asks, raising a brow.
chenle didn’t answer, just stared at the hardwood floor like it might save him. mark sighed, “chenle, c’mon man, you’re seriously going to let her go without even trying?”
“she already decided,” he huffs out. and it takes everything in mark to not strangle him. his friend needed a lot of help.
“she decided because she thinks it’s still fake. because you’ve never told her otherwise,” mark bumped his shoulder lightly.
chenle looked at him like he was piecing the puzzle for the first time, “what do i even say? what if she thinks i’m lying?”
mark grinned, “then you better not say anything small. you make it count. you make it big. you make it the kind of confession that leaves no room for doubt.”
chenle swallowed hard, “and if she doesn’t feel the same?”
“then at least you’ll know. and you won’t have to live the rest of your life wondering what could’ve happened if you’d just been brave enough to tell her,” mark says, giving him an encouraging pat on the back.
and chenle knew then and there what he needed to do, “okay,” he nods, “i need your help.”
౨ৎ NOVEMBER 30 - BREAK MY RULES ౨ৎ
you haven't spoken in three days. you weren’t supposed to see each other. that was kind of the silent agreement. keep your distance. stick to the plan. wait until after the championship, and then break up clean. quiet. neat. like it never meant anything — but that’s not what happens.
instead, you find yourself in the empty gym after hours, sitting on the edge of the bleachers, your legs dangling, the overhead lights buzzing faintly above you. you hadn’t meant to run into him. but of course he’s there — of course he’s the one taking extra shots alone, long after practice is over. the gym is quiet now. it’s just the sound of rubber on wood, the squeak of his sneakers, the soft thud of the ball hitting the backboard.
you think about leaving before he notices you. you should. but he turns, sees you, and doesn’t look away. he doesn’t smile, not really. just slows down, his shoulders heavy like the weight of the whole season is pressing down on him, and maybe something else too. he dribbles the ball once more, then lets it go. it rolls off to the side, forgotten.
you don’t say anything when he walks over. he sits beside you quietly, letting the silence settle, letting the soft echo of your presence fill the space. his leg brushes yours, barely, but it sends a jolt straight through your chest.
it shouldn’t feel like this. you’d already agreed it was a mistake. already agreed it didn’t mean anything. and yet it still feels like everything.
“couldn’t sleep,” you say finally.
chenle’s eyes stay on the court, but you can tell he’s listening, “me neither.”
silence again. you breathe in slowly, “you’re ready for tomorrow?”
his laugh is soft, a little breathless, “i don’t know.” he tilts his head back, leans against the seat behind him, “my shots were off all week.”
“i noticed,” you murmur, half-teasing, but there’s no real bite to it. he glances at you, and for a second, something flickers behind his eyes, something open, vulnerable, “i think i’m too in my head,” he admits.
you nod. you don’t say me too, but it’s there. in the way you look at him. in the way your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him, but don’t. “you’ll kill it,” you say instead, “you always do.” he looks at you then…really looks. and your heart stutters at the softness in his eyes, the way his gaze lingers a little too long on your mouth. like he wants to say something. maybe kiss you again. but doesn’t.
you hesitate, “why didn’t you ever tell me that you kissed quinn?”
his face twists instantly. confusion. surprise. and then, unbelievably, he lets out a breathy laugh, short and stunned, like he can’t believe what he just heard. it cuts through the tension but not in the way you expect. not relieving. not light. just disorienting. you blink. “why are you laughing?” your voice comes out sharper than you meant. your chest twists, your pulse jumping.
he turns toward you fully now, blinking like he misheard, “you think i kissed quinn?”
you don’t answer. your silence is enough. he stares at you a second longer, and something in his expression crumbles. the humor drains away. he leans forward, elbows on his knees, head down for a beat before he looks back at you, eyes searching your face.
“she kissed me,” he says flatly, “it wasn’t even a kiss. it was like…barely a second. she kissed me afterward. one of those dumb, post-nut haze things. i didn’t even know she was gonna do it. i pushed her off the second i realized,” his voice is low. careful. measured. you just look at him, unreadable, arms crossed like armor. you feel stupid now. exposed. but mostly — you feel small. stupid for caring too much. stupid for letting yourself believe her.
chenle studies you. there’s something in his eyes. something raw, almost hurt, “she didn’t tell you that part, huh?”
you swallow hard. your throat tightens, “no.” there’s a pause. heavy. he looks away for a second like he’s giving you space, then looks back, more carefully this time, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle that only just now makes sense.
then, gently he asks, “is that why you wanted to break up?”
you bite your lip hard. your whole body feels hot. ashamed. you’ve been caught caring more than you should. but it was more than quinn. it was so much more than that. it was the way everything felt too real. the way it scared you. the way he made you forget that this started as a lie. and hearing her say that she kissed him felt like confirmation. that this was never what you wanted it to be. that you were temporary. that, to him, it was still just a deal.
you feel ridiculous. jealous. attached. so in love it makes your whole body ache — because these are all emotions you’ve never felt before and you don’t know how to handle it.
“i don’t know,” you say finally, “maybe it just tipped everything over.”
chenle looks at you like he’s putting something together for the first time, “i never kissed quinn the way i kissed you,” he says softly, “i never even wanted to.”
your heart clenches. it’s too much. you break eye contact, stare at your sneakers like they can save you from this conversation. you think he’ll let it hang there. that maybe the silence will settle in again. but then, out of nowhere, he lets out a breath of laughter, quiet and half hearted.
you glance sideways, brows furrowing, “what?”
he smirks faintly, “i can’t believe you believed quinn.”
you roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it, “she was very convincing.”
he leans back, voice dry, “you really thought i’d break my rules…for her?”
you laugh now too, a soft, reluctant sound that melts into the air between you, “honestly? for a second, yeah. you’re not exactly known for your self-control.”
“hey,” he says, grinning, nudging your knee with his, “that’s fair…but…that’s only when it comes to you.”
the smile on your face falters. just slightly. because you believe him. and that makes everything so much worse. everything feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something too big. too fragile. the laughter dies down. what’s left behind is thick air. dense with unsaid things. the kind of silence that hums with everything you’re both too afraid to say out loud.
you glance over. he’s already looking at you. that look in his eyes — wide, scared, soft. like he wants to say something. like he wants you to say it first.
neither of you does.
instead, chenle clears his throat. forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “well,” he says, holding out his hand between you like a peace offering, “thanks for being my fake girlfriend.”
your chest aches. he smiles again, smaller this time, “let’s happily break up tomorrow.”
you stare at his hand. you should laugh. you should say something stupid to lighten the mood. but you can’t. because that single sentence shattered everything. you take the handshake. you force out a smile even though it burns in your throat.
that was all you needed to know — he’s sticking to the plan. he’ll let you go without a fight. you were wrong for hoping.
your hand is still in his when your heart breaks in your chest. neither of you says a word about it.
౨ৎ DECEMBER 1 - LET’S BREAK UP. ౨ৎ
today was the day. the day you put an end to the charade before anyone else got hurt. you told yourself it was for the best. so you smiled as you always did – bright and blinding. your makeup perfect, your cheer uniform pristine, your borrowed jersey tucked into your skirt, still repping chenle like it meant nothing. like it wasn’t the only thing holding your heart together.
the gym was packed. the team was currently losing. the crowd was nervous. your chest was tight. you’d barely spoken to chenle. barely looked at him.
then intermission started. you stepped forward automatically, muscle memory taking over, ready to lead your squad in the usual halftime routine. but then – the wrong music started playing.
your steps faltered, you blinked. this was not your cheer track. the opening synth of an unfamiliar but strangely familiar track poured through the gym. the kind that made the whole crowd tilt their heads in confusion. then the gym door flung open with dramatic flair and out came all seven of the dream boys, storming the court in a chaotic, barely synchronized line – in matching cheer skirts.
you froze. everyone froze. someone gasped. another person shrieked with laughter. and right at the center of the team – chenle, with glitter on his cheeks, mismatched socks, a crop top over his jersey and a neon green bow clipped into his hair.
he caught your eye instantly and grinned like a man with nothing left to lose. the music kicks up and the chaos began. they were recreating a choreography suspiciously similar to my first and last by nct dream – mark was tapping his feet like his life depended it. jaemin was twerking way too well. jeno did an unnecessary backflip that could’ve gone terribly wrong. haechan’s toe points were graceful. renjun was hitting heart poses with alarming precision. jisung looked like he was going to kill someone out of pure embarrassment.
and chenle? chenle was eating up the choreo like it was the final round of a dance competition. he was clapping, stomping, wiggling his hips, spinning with his arms out dramatically and he never took his eyes off you.
the crowd lost their minds. phones were up. people were screaming. someone in the back row might have even fainted when jaemin’s crop top rode too high up his chest.
and despite your shock and confusion – you were smiling. laughing. maybe crying just a little.
the routine hit a ridiculous crescendo with the boys scrambling into a final formation, chenle at the center, lip syncing the final line like he meant it. and then – like a miracle, like a rom-com, like a dream, each of the boys and coach jaehyun who was running at the last second to join them, raised their signs, flipping them one by one, until the words spelt: I L O V E Y O U
for one stunned heartbeat, the gym went silent. and then it exploded in screams, whistles, gasps, cheers. you stood there, frozen, mouth parted, breath stuck in your lungs. and then chenle stepped forward, ditching his pom-poms. his hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed from the effort. he was panting. but he smiled, sheepish and beaming, looking at you like there was no one else in the room. like the whole ridiculous routine was worth it—just to make you look at him again.
he picked up the mic, hands shaking slightly, “hi baby.”
the crowd lost it again but your heart stopped. his voice trembled, just once. just enough, “i know this is kind of…not normal protocol,” he said, laughter following, “but i don’t care.” he looked right at you like the rest of the world faded into static.
“i asked you to pretend to date me just to get someone off my back,” he starts. you hear the gasps echo throughout the court. could practically see their shocked faces, could envision the fire in quinn’s eyes, heads whipping toward each other in disbelief but you didn’t look away.
“that’s all it was supposed to be. just pretend, just fake,” he paused, taking a breath, “i even bribed coach jaehyun to let the cheerleaders into the morning session just so you would agree.”
coach jaehyun sputtered “what?!,” but mark pulls him back with a laugh. chenle winced, guilty, “sorry, coach,” he sent him a sheepish smile before turning his head back to you.
“and at first, that’s all it was. but then…it wasn’t fake anymore.” his voice was soft now. tender. scared and sure all at once.
“i started looking for you in every crowd. i love walking you home even when it was freezing. i love walking into the gym everyday because i knew you’d be there. i love buying every single thing that reminded me of you and seeing that sparkle in your eye. i love the way you wore my hoodies like they were yours. ”
you swallowed hard. he kept on going.
“i love seeing you in my jersey,” he said, eyes dropping to it now tucked into your skirt, “because it let’s everyone in this god damn gym know that you’re mine.”
silence. total silence. you thought your heart might break right through your ribs. you weren’t sure how you got from the sidelines to the center of the court. maybe your legs moved on their own. maybe the universe pushed you forward. either way, suddenly you were standing in front of him.
“chenle,” you whispered, barely louder than a breath.
he leaned in, gaze soft, he gets rid of the microphone, “i know we said we’d break up after this,” he added, quieter now, just for you, “but i don’t want to. not if you feel even a little bit of what i do. i’m not letting this end like that. not without telling you the truth.”
he stepped closer, “i don’t want to pretend anymore, i want to do all the romantic things, i want to hold your hand, i want to walk into the gym and greet you first thing in the morning, i want to kiss you whenever i want,” he admits, taking a breath.
“i’m in love with my best friend. i’m in love with you.”
and your world tilted. your heart was racing so hard it felt like it was going to burst. you stared at him. at the glitter on his cheek, the hope in his eyes.
“i thought i was the only one who caught feelings,” you whispered. his lips parted. you kept going.
“i was so sure it was just me. that you were just…playing the part a little too well. smiling like it didn’t matter, pretending like it didn’t mean anything when it meant everything to me.”
you blinked, tears threatening to slip, “i never thought you’d fall back.” the crowd was dead silent. chenle looked like he was about to crumble.
his voice barely made it out, “can i kiss you?”
you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to. you close the distance between you, grabbing his face, and pulling him down into a kiss so full of everything unsaid — every denied feeling, every stolen moment, every crack that led to this.
it was slow at first. gentle. like you were both still in disbelief that it was real. like he was afraid you’d vanish if he kissed you too hard, and you were afraid this might be a dream. the crowd was screaming, roaring, rising in volume like a crashing wave behind you. but none of it mattered — all you felt was him.
he pulled back only slightly, just enough to breathe, just enough to smile, and oh, it was the softest smile you’d ever seen on him, full of wonder and nerves and overwhelming joy.
“let’s break up,” he said, breathless. you blinked, confused, until his smile widened, “let’s end this fake relationship,” he added, voice warm with laughter and something deeper.
then, even softer “be my real girlfriend?”
your heart soared. “yes,” you whispered against his lips, pulling him in for another kiss, even deeper than the last, filled with promise and warmth and everything you hadn’t dared to believe. this time, the kiss wasn’t for an audience. it wasn’t to convince a stalker. it wasn’t part of a deal. it was real. and it was yours.
౨ৎ
the rest of the game passed in a blur. your lips still tingled from that kiss, head still spinning from his confession, and your heart was barely keeping up. but the game wasn’t over. it was the championship. the final battle. the one they’d been working toward all season. the air in the gym buzzed, every scream from the crowd ricocheting off the walls like firecrackers. sweat dripped, shoes squeaked, coaches yelled, but none of it registered, not really.
all you could see was chenle. he jogged back onto the court after the halftime confession, chest heaving, cheeks flushed but his eyes found you one more time and he grinned like he’d already won. the team played like their lives depended on it. chenle was unstoppable. every shot he took landed. every move he made was sharp, strategic, brilliant. you could see it – he wasn’t just playing to win the game. he was playing like a boy in love. a boy who wants to impress you. who wants you to keep your eyes on him and him only and you do. with every point, the crowd got louder, the bleachers shook beneath stomping feet. you were hoarse from screaming, your pom-poms nearly falling apart from the way you’d been shaking them. but none of it mattered.
you were his lucky charm. and you were so damn proud.
then – final minutes. the score was neck and neck. mark passed it to chenle. chenle faked, dodged, twisted. he didn’t hesitate. he launched the ball just before the buzzer. time slowed. the gym held its breath – swish. final point. game over. victory.
the crowd erupted. it was deafening. people screamed. some cried. streamers flew. confetti rained from nowhere. the scoreboard blinked their win in big, shining numbers. the team went wild, huddling, tackling each other to the floor in a euphoric mess. but chenle didn’t stay with them. he didn’t waste a second. he ran. straight for you. his jersey was drenched in sweat, his hair sticking up in every direction, his face flushed with effort and joy and something far deeper.
“we did it!” he yelled as he reached you, arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground. you shrieked with laughter, looping your arms around his neck as he spun you in dizzying circles, adrenaline mixing with something warmer, something forever.
“you did it,” you whispered in his ear as he set you down.
“no,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “we did it. you said yes and you wore my jersey. that’s, like, at least half the reason we won.”
you giggled, eyes glossy, “you’re ridiculous.”
“ridiculously in love with you,” he said without hesitation, and you kissed him again quick, giddy, and full of love.
౨ৎ
the dream house was bursting at the seams. laughter spilled from every room. music pulsed through the floorboard. red solo cups were in every hand. the whole school had shown up. and why wouldn’t they? the team just made history. the championship was theirs. the season was done.
except chenle wasn’t really feeling the party. not the loud music. not the overflowing drinks. not the swaying bodies or sticky floors. the only thing he cared about is you – the way you fit so perfectly into his side, like your body had been made to lean into his. you were in your cheer shorts and his hoodie, oversized and soft and swallowing your frame, and he couldn’t stop touching you. couldn’t stop looking at you. every few seconds, his hand would slide along your lower back, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shorts like he just needed to feel skin to believe you were really his.
he made the rounds because he had to – thanked the upperclassmen, posed for victory photos, people kept stopping him, clapping him on the back, calling him MVP, handing him shots. but each time, his arm stayed wrapped around your waist. each time, his fingers sought yours. each time, he smiled like none of it really mattered as long as you were still looking at him like that.
it felt like deja vu but it was different now. it was real.
“lets go up,” he whispered in your ear, a playful smirk on his lips.
you quip a brow, teasing “the party just started.” he didn’t answer. just grinned, tugged you closer, and whispered against your ear, “i’ve had enough of sharing you with everyone else.” you barely had time to process that before he was dragging you toward the stairs, weaving through the crowd with surprising focus. cheers and music and flashing lights swirled around you, but his grip never wavered, and you followed like you were tethered to him.
chenle shut his door, leaning against the wood. his eyes were soft. hungry. full of something that looked a lot like awe. “god,” he whispered, eyes sweeping over you, flushed, in his hoodie with your legs bare and glowing in the low light, “you’re my favorite win tonight.”
you took a slow step forward, “so…what’s your post-game plan, champ?” his breath hitched at your words, eyes dragging over you slowly, your bare legs, his hoodie hanging off your frame, the slight tilt of your smile.
“come here,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. you stepped closer, breath catching when his hands found your hips and dragged you closer. he kissed you hard. no hesitation, no slow build-up, all tongue and teeth and raw emotion. his lips moved over yours with urgency, like he needed to memorize every curve of your mouth.
“you,” he murmured between kisses, “you’re all i wanted tonight.”
your hands slid up his chest, nails grazing lightly over his collarbones, “then show me.”
he didn’t need to be told again. you gasped as his hands slid beneath the hoodie, warm palms skimming over your bare waist. the pads of his fingers traced your ribs like he was learning you by touch, brushing just under your breasts before he groaned into your mouth, “you’re not wearing anything under this?” he whispered, voice rough.
you grinned against his lips, “didn’t want to waste time.” he cursed softly, then pulled the hoodie up and off you in one quick motion. his gaze dropped, drinking in the sight of your bare skin, the soft swell of your breasts, the faint marks he’d left on them the last time, the flushed heat of your chest rising with every breath.
“damn, baby,” he whined, dragging his hands up from your hips to cup your breasts. his thumbs brushed over your nipples, slow, deliberate, and you arched into the touch with a soft gasp, “you’re so perfect,” he breathed, “so fucking perfect.” his mouth replaced his hands, lips wrapping around your nipple as his other hand slid down your back, gripping the curve of your ass through your shorts. he sucked gently, tongue circling until your knees buckled, and you clung to his shoulders.
you reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it off and tossing it aside. your hands ran over his chest, his stomach, lean and tense, muscles flexing under your touch. he was warm and solid and real, and when you pushed his shirts and boxers down, you felt how hard he already was for you.
“lele…” you whispered, and he responded by kissing you again, deeper, hungrier. he walked you backward until the backs of your thighs hit the bed. you let yourself fall onto it, legs parting instinctively as he followed, crawling over you like he couldn’t bear to be more than an inch away.
for the first time, there was nothing holding either of you back. no rules. no pretending. no almosts. there was nothing fake about this anymore.
he peeled the rest of your clothes off, leaving you both naked in the soft glow of the bedroom light, heart pounding as the moment stretched into something that felt timeless. chenle’s lips followed the path of your skin, reverent and hungry all at once.
“let me feel you,” he murmured, dragging his cock slowly through your folds, teasing and maddening. you were soaked already, the tip catching at your entrance again and again, never pushing in.
“lele,” you gasped, nails sinking into his back, “stop teasing.”
he grinned, nosing at your jaw, “i just love how wet you get for me, baby.” you whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer. but then he paused, reaching over you, as he fumbled in the nightstand drawer. then you saw the crinkle of silver foil in his hand.
“you’re joking, right?” you said breathlessly, voice cutting through the quiet haze of the room, laced with a teasing bite. chenle froze halfway through rifling his nightstand drawer. he looked at you, already flushed from everything that came before, your kiss-swollen lips, your thighs still brushing his hips, the marks that was starting to bloom on your chest.
“what?” he asked, eyes wide, confused.
you tilted your head toward the foil packet between his fingers, raising a brow, “you’re not putting that on.”
his brows knit, “why not?”
“because,” you said, taking it from him and throwing it off the bed, “you didn’t last time.”
his ears turned crimson, “that was different,” he muttered, flustered and suddenly shy, even as you were both naked and tangled together.
“was it?” you teased, brushing your lips against his jaw, “who just accidentally slips in?”, you smirk.
“swear it was an accident,” he groaned, burying his face in your neck.
“not a chance,” you grinned, and then your voice dropped lower, softer, “besides…i don’t want anything between us tonight.” that made him still. his eyes searched yours, like he needed to know you meant it. and you did. every inch of you meant it.
his fingers laced with yours, slow and sure “you’re sure?”
you nodded, “i want all of you, chenle.”
a beat passed, his gaze darkening just slightly, the weight of your words settling deep in his chest, “god,” he whispered, kissing you like he couldn’t believe this was real, “you’re gonna kill me.”
you grinned against his mouth, “maybe. but at least you’ll die happy.”
he laughed, low and breathless, but there was something else there too. a hunger, a desperation that hadn’t been there before, “you say things like that,” he murmured, voice rough now, lips brushing yours, “and i start thinking about how good it would feel to really fill you up. to know you’re mine. like…really mine.” the words creep up your toes. your pussy clenching at nothing.
“you feel that?” he murmured, grinding against you still teasing your folds, “i’m so fucking hard for you, baby,” you whimpered as he rocked against you again, slower this time, dragging the pressure right over your clit. your fingers curled into his back, nails biting lightly into his skin.
“need you inside me,” you gasped, “please, lele,” you snapped whatever thread of restraint he had left. he lined himself up and pushed in slowly, your breath catching as you felt him stretch you open, raw and unfiltered. you gasped his name half moan, half prayer, as he bottomed out, and his head dropped back with a groan.
“fuck,” he groaned, eyes squeezed shut, “you feel so good. so warm. so wet,” he muttered, rocking into you slow, controlled, like he wanted to savor it. every thrust dragged a sound from you, high and helpless. he watched your face, drinking it in like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. you whimpered, tightening around him, and he swore under his breath, picking up the pace.
“i think about this all the time,” he admitted, voice ragged, “when you wear my hoodie. my jersey. i think about being inside you. claiming you. fucking you like i’m the only one who gets to.”
“you are,” you whispered, voice breaking, “you’re the only one.” you pulled him in, breath hot against his ear. he groaned, fucking into you harder now. rougher. his hips snapped forward, cock dragging against every sensitive spot, his hand slipped between your bodies and found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your toes curl, made you cry out, made your body shudder beneath him.
“chenle— i’m close,” you warn him, your eyes rolling back.
“let go for me,” he whispered, teeth grazing your ear, “i wanna feel you cum.” his voice pushed you to the edge. you shattered, body arching, hands clutching him like he was the only real thing in the world — he held you through it, letting your clenched body milk him with every spasm, groaning loud as he gave in, hips stuttering, jaw clenched, gasping your name like a prayer as he spilled into you, raw and full and deep. he collapsed against you, both of you gasping, hearts hammering, limbs tangled. you stayed like that for a long while. just breathing. just being. just real.
“i love you,” you whisper into his side. he didn’t answer with words, just tilts your chin up and kisses you again. soft and slow.
౨ৎ BONUS SCENE: DECEMBER 12 - UNSPOKEN MOVIE NIGHT TRADITION ౨ৎ
the L-shaped couch was packed. mark had kitten tucked in between his legs. jeno had one arm lazily around bunny while she hogged the popcorn. jaemin was practically sprawled over angel while whispering dumb commentary in her ear. and on the loveseat was the newest couple, hyuck and princess, tangled up together like they’d been joined at the hip for years.
then there was you and chenle. last time, you sat side by side, awkwardly hyper-aware of every shift and brush. this time, you were sitting sideways on his lap, head nestled in the crook of his neck. his arms were wrapped securely around your waist, fingers absentmindely playing with the hem of his hoodie strings, a blanket draped over the two of you.
halfway through the grinch, his hand dipped lower. at first, it seemed casual, just resting on your thigh, fingers drumming absently like he was bored. but then his touch shifted, intentional and his hand slid closer. you stiffened slightly, heart racing. he acted unfazed, eyes still fixed on the screen. and then, slowly, deliberately his fingers crept under the waistband of your shorts and your breath caught. “chenle,” you warned, barely a whisper, glancing nervously around the darkened living room where your friends sat, fully engrossed in the movie. he didn’t answer with words, just leaned in and pressed a casual, innocent kiss to your lips. soft. sweet. utterly deceptive. like nothing sinful was happening under the blanket.
then a single finger slide inside you. your back arched the slightest bit before you could stop yourself and you clutched his hoodie tighter. the moan that threatened to escape got caught in your throat, your mouth falling open in silence.
“you’re so warm,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear as you bit your lips, your hips twitching against his hand. his fingers began to move, gentle and slow and infuriatingly precise. he knew exactly what he was doing, what you liked, how to get it without rushing. you were already soaked, and he was taking his time, like he had all the hours in the world. your thighs clenched around his wrist, but it only made him smirk.
he didn’t even look at you. his gaze was still on the screen, feigning interest in the movie as he worked you with a devastating calm. every curl of his fingers drew out more heat from you, more slick, more desperation. when he hit that perfect spot again, and again, your jaw tensed and your lashes fluttered shut. you didn’t dare make a sound.
you could feel your pulse hammering everywhere. sweat beading at your lower back. your stomach tightening with every calculated thrust. you were trying so hard to stay composed, to look normal, to not give yourself away. but your body had other plans. every nerve was screaming. every inhale was shaky – he knew and he loved it. he curved his finger just right, over and over, dragging you closer to the edge. you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. still, no one noticed. laughter burst out from the group at some scene on screen, and you clung to the noise like a lifeline, using it to mask the soft sound that slipped out of your lips.
then, finally, the credits rolled. the lights flicked on. chenle slipped his hand out with the same casual grace he started with, leaving your skin flushed, your core aching, and your thighs trembling with the aftermath. you watched in shock as he brought his hand to his mouth and sucked the tip of his finger, as if sampling a secret. then he leaned over, kissed your shoulder sweetly, and whispered, “you did so well for me.”
after a few minutes of everyone in their own worlds, bunny turned, eyes zeroing on princess and haechan like she’d been waiting all night, “so…” she starts, “how long have you and donghyuck been going on?”
“yeah,” jeno grinned, wiggling his brows, “i thought you two hated each other.”
princess didn’t even blink, “we did. until we didn’t.” everyone blinked.
“that’s it?” angel gasped.
princess shrugged, then smiled, “hating him was exhausting. loving him’s easier,” which made haechan break out into a grin, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. the room erupted in squeals. and as if on cue, the girls scrambled off the couch in a flurry of giggles and bare feet, all heading to the kitchen together, angel grabbing princess’ hand. in the kitchen, bunny poured wine, kitten grabbed the cookies but the real chaos started when angel leaned in, eyes narrowing at you with a knowing smirk, “so,” she said, tilting her head, “you were definitely getting fingered under the blanket earlier.”
your mouth dropped open. your cheeks flushed. but you didn’t deny it. “i knew it!,” bunny said with a laugh, “don’t worry…we’ve all done it!,” she smiles innocently winking at you.
“that’s like an unspoken movie night tradition,” kitten added, “i swear all the boys have the same brain,” she smirks. you covered your face in mock horror while the rest of them erupted in giggles.
then you said, “i guess princess and hyuck are next then?,” you tease, earning more squeals around the room. and the squealing didn’t stop for a while – everyone laughing over whispered confessions and wild stories.
౨ৎ
the second the girls vanished into the kitchen, all giggles and whispered chaos, the boys were left in their wake, staring blankly at the netflix home page like they’d just been collectively ghosted.
jaemin let out a slow, dramatic sigh and flipped sideways onto the couch, “every. time.” he muttered.
jeno added, “i still haven’t gotten used to it.
“used to what?,” haechan asks, looking towards the kitchen door, confused.
“girl talk,” chenle and mark says at the same time, sighing.
suddenly, in the middle of their group moping they hear a – CRASH. the sharp shatter of glass echoed from the kitchen. all five boys bolted upright.
chenle was on his feet first, not even bothering to say a word. haechan whipped around, calling out his girlfriend’s name. jaemin was quick to follow with a, “is everything okay?,” jeno called out in panic, nearly tripping over a pillow, “bunny, are you hurt?,” and last but not least was mark who’s eyes landed immediately on his girlfriend as they all stormed into the kitchen, a blur of limbs and frantic footsteps. it was chaos – every one of them expecting blood and tears. but what they found was very different.
the girls were all huddled in a circle of laughter, one hand covering their mouths in shock while the other held their sides from laughing too hard. a glass of wine had spilled and shattered on the floor, “i told you to stop swinging your arms when you laugh like that!” bunny said between cackles, nudging angel.
kitten held up her hands, “no one’s bleeding. we’re fine.”
the boys froze in the doorway, “…you’re okay?” mark asked, breathless.
princess blinked at haechan, “why do you look like you ran a marathon?”
“we thought you died,” haechan says dramatically.
chenle’s eyes darted from you to the floor to your hands, “you’re not hurt, baby?”
you smiled, soft and amused, “i’m okay.” he visibly relaxed, like his bones finally settled back into place. the boys stood there for another second, dazed, still a little shaky from the adrenaline rush.
jaemin sniffed, “i was ready to jump in front of the danger.”
“you’re so dramatic,” angel muttered but she was grinning.
“okay, okay,” bunny said, hands up, “we’re all good, you guys can go back to the couch now.”
jeno walks over, “bunny, can’t we join girls talk?,” he asks, pouting, all the boys nodding simultaneously like that was the best idea someone has ever come up with.
she smiles at him sweetly, kissing his cheek and for a moment the boys seem excited until, “you have exactly three seconds to step out before we revoke your boyfriend privileges.”
“but we want to know what you were saying about us!” haechan pouted.
princess lifted a chip and smirked, “you don’t.”
chenle tried to casually lean against the counter next to you, giving you his best puppy eyes, “c’mon. just a little insider info…best friend to best friend?”
you raised a brow, “what, you think we were talking about you guys?”
kitten gasped dramatically, a sarcastic smile on her lips, “how arrogant.”
angel nodded, “as if you’d even make the top three topics tonight.”
the boys all looked genuinely offended.
“we better have made the top three,” jaemin muttered, crossing his arms.
haechan threw his hands up, “what could be more interesting than us?!”
mark, ever the peacekeeper, cleared his throat and smiled diplomatically, “look, we’re just curious. maybe we join for a few minutes. add a little masculine energy to the room—”
“OUT,” all the girls said at once, pointing to the door.
“but this is our kitchen!” jaemin protested but shuffled back into the living room anyways.
haechan looked at the kitchen again, filled with squeals and giggles and secrets, “do you think if i start crying she’ll let me in?”
mark just handed him the popcorn, “cry into this, rookie. you’ve still got a lot to learn.”
𓏲 the end.
—
18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content
bonus: loverboy links (i added so many for chenle it’s actually insane)
—
an: 5/7 is done! two more to go! that’s kind of insane guys. this was the fastest story i’ve written in this series (thank god for wfh schedules). i love these two baddd i didn’t want to say goodbye. also this is my first time writing for chenle i hope it was okay >.< (i’m so nervous for this one) i hope you liked baby! wanted to have female character who was very very in touch with her sexual side so there you go! also fun question: do you guys have a girlfriend bias? let me know! lolol
likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎
Genre(s) - Fluff, Slight Angst, Smut, Childhood Friends!AU, Royalty!AU but set in modern day, Black Butler!AU
Warning(s) - featuring Kun and Daegal, mention of a car accident, death of parents, smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, discussion of marriage
Summary - An invitation to the Zhong estate rekindles a bond long paused by distance, duty, and time. Between Earl Grey tea, rainy gardens, and childhood memories of Sunday afternoons, Chenle reminds you that some traditions are meant to be kept.
Word Count - 6.5k
Author’s Note - This is based on the anime Black Butler! You don’t have to know anything about the anime before reading, though.
Written for the Kurama Anime Collab originally hosted by @127-mile. Part of my NCT Dream: Seven Days Collection.
Now playing: My Youth - NCT Dream
The afternoon light filtered softly through your window as you sifted through the day’s mail. Most of it was mundane–bills, advertisements, the occasional invitation you barely glanced at. But then, a heavier cream-colored envelope caught your eye, distinguished by the meticulous flourish of handwriting and a deep crimson wax seal stamped with an intricate crest you hadn’t seen in years.
Your breath hitched. It was from Chenle Zhong.
You hesitated only a moment before breaking the seal, unfolding the thick parchment inside. The ink was dark, elegant, almost hesitant in its loops and curves.
“A quiet Sunday visit at the Zhong estate. Your presence is requested.”
No date or time. Urgent but not demanding.
You hadn’t heard from Chenle since he’d assumed the full mantle of responsibility for his family after the car accident that took his parents when you were both barely teenagers. The boy you remembered, bright, mischievous, the life of every gathering, was now the Earl of his house, a title he’d inherited too young, forced to mature behind a mask of composure.
The ink was smudged slightly beneath your fingertips, as if the writer had paused and wondered if you would come. Your heart flutters with a mix of curiosity and a quiet nostalgia for the Sundays long past, back when your parents were friends, when childhood laughter filled the halls, and Chenle’s sharp wit still sparkled behind youthful eyes.
You remembered those afternoons vividly, the two of you racing down the garden paths while the servants called after you, your shoes stained green from the grass and your hands sticky from stolen honey biscuits. Later, curled together on library floors, you’d pretend to read grown-up books while secretly whispering stories of knights and spells and kingdoms where no one had to wear stiff collars or learn etiquette at dawn.
Their estate had been a second home to you back then, a place of light and laughter where even the staff smiled kindly when you graced past. And Chenle, he had been sunlight itself, quick to grin, even quicker to plot trouble. He’d steal sweets from the kitchens for you, let you win at chess when you pouted, and always, always made sure you were never alone during the long, dull dinners the adults hosted.
But then the accident came. And with it, silence.
You remember hearing the news secondhand, your mother’s hushed voice through a cracked door, the way your father had pressed his hand to his face, unmoving for too long. The funeral had been quiet, grand, and distant. You hadn’t spoken to Chenle much after that. He hadn’t spoken to anyone, for that matter.
In the years that followed, your lives diverged like ink in water. He had responsibilities now. Lands, ledgers, a title too heavy for his still-growing shoulders. You’d only caught glimpses of him in society pages or overheard whispers at banquets, how mature he’d become, how cold, how poised.
Then years. Nearly a decade since you’d seen him laugh without reserve, since he’d offered you his hand and said, “come on, let’s find a dragon in the hedges.”
Now, the invitation felt like a thread pulling you back into a world paused in time, waiting behind grand doors you hadn’t dared cross in months. You reread it, each word carefully inked, tinged with something that felt both formal and deeply familiar. The way he’d signed his name, not with his title, but just Chenle, lingered in your mind like a breath you hadn’t meant to hold.
Would everything be the same as it was before? Or had the boy you once knew vanished entirely, buried beneath velvet, marble, and duty?
Still, you folded the letter carefully, almost tenderly, and set it beside your handbag. You would go. If only to see what remained.
The Zhong estate stood just as you remembered it–tall, elegant, and untouched by time. The iron gates creaked open slowly, as if reluctant to disturb the stillness. Gravel crunched beneath tires until they stopped at the base of the sweeping steps that led up to the manor’s doors. Two stone lions flanked the entrance, moss now gathering in the cracks of their paws. The air smelled of late roses and distant rain.
You stepped out, your heart tapping a rhythm that felt too loud in the silence that surrounded you. The doors opened before you could knock.
A line of servants bowed their heads, hands tucked neatly behind their backs. Only one of them stepped forward.
He was dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, a subtle sheen of the fabric catching the low light filtering through the overhang. No name tag, no smile, only poise and presence. His hair was neat, not a strand out of place. “Miss,” he greeted, voice velvet-smooth and refined. “Welcome to the Zhong estate. The young master is expecting you.”
His eyes met yours for only a moment, deep and unreadable, but something about his gaze made your spine straighten involuntarily. You remembered him. Not well, but enough. He’d always been nearby when Chenle attended formal gatherings after his parents’ passing. Never too visible, never too far, a butler of sorts. He hadn’t aged a day.
“I’ll take your coat,” he offered, stepping aside with perfect timing. “And your phone, if you please.”
You blinked. “My phone?”
“The master prefers no recordings or distractions on Sundays,” he explained politely, as though this were perfectly reasonable. You hesitated for only a second before slipping it into his gloved hand. He turned, and without so much as a signal, two other staff members began following him. “This way,” he said, guiding you through the entrance hall with soundless footsteps.
The Zhong estate in daylight was just as haunting as it had been in the shadows. The modern additions of discreet security cameras and smart lighting panels masked in antique sconces didn’t erase the echo of old wealth and even older secrets. Paintings lined the hallways, some traditional, some…not. One in particular caught your eye, a black canvas with a single smear of red, like a wound left open.
“His taste has evolved,” you note.
The butler glanced at the painting, then back at you. “All things do, in time.”
As you reached the glass doors to the sunroom, he paused just before opening them. “If I may,” he said softly, “it would please the young master greatly if you commented on the tea.”
You turned to him, surprised. “Why?”
“Because he made it himself,” the butler replied, with the faintest curve of a smile that might have been ironic, or simply precise. “And pride is a difficult thing for someone so young, yet so burdened.” Before you could respond, he opened the doors.
Sunlight spilled across the tiled floor. A fluffy, little, white dog, Daegal, if you remembered correctly, came racing to you first, tail wagging furiously. And then–
Chenle.
He stood beside the small tea table like a vision out of a memory, elegant hands carefully lifting the porcelain lid from the teapot. A slice of lemon floated inside, steam curling like breath into the air between you. His coat was dark and perfectly cut, his hair slicked back just enough to reveal the sharp curve of his jaw. But his expression was soft and contained. Practiced.
“Miss,” he greeted with a slight nod. “It’s good to see you.”
You smiled. “You made the tea?”
Chenle’s eyes flicked to the butler, then back to you. “Of course. Sundays are for personal touches.” The butler, now stationed silently by the doorway, inclined his head, satisfied.
You stood next to him, heart fluttering for reasons you couldn’t name yet, and lifted a teacup from the table. The first sip was warm, surprisingly delicate, almost floral, with a bitter edge that lingered. It tasted like restraint.
“You’ve improved,” you said, causing Chenle’s mouth to tilt at one corner.
“Thank you,” he replied.
From his spot near the door, the butler folded his hands behind his back and spoke no further. But even in silence, he was watching. Always.
You settle into a sun-drenched seat next to the tea table, as does Chenle opposite you, the upholstered cushions warm against your back. The light filtered softly through sheer curtains, casting lace-like shadows across the floor.
Daegal trotted back and forth across the sun-warmed tiles, the soft pads of her feet tapping in cheerful counterpoint to the silence. She paused only to nuzzle against your calf before leaping clumsily onto a nearby ottoman. Her joy at your presence was unfiltered and immediate, something out of place in this sort of scene.
You reached into your bag and pulled out a small, velvet-wrapped object. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still have her,” you murmured, unwrapping the plush toy. A stitched white lamb, slightly squashed from sitting in storage, with an embroidered version of the Zhong crest sewn carefully into one ear.
Daegal perked up immediately. Her paws hit the floor with a slap as she bounded forward, her tail a furious blur. You tossed the toy gently, and she leapt mid-air to catch it, skidding a little as she landed and gnawed at it lovingly.
Chenle’s gaze lingered on the dog, on the toy, and finally on you. The soft smile returned, flickering like candlelight behind his otherwise composed features. “She remembered,” he said, almost to himself.
You glanced at him, turning slightly in your seat, your teacup now balanced in one hand. “You never had a dog when we were kids…or a butler for that matter.” The two figures popped into Chenle’s life only after his parents were gone.
Chenle tilted his head thoughtfully, as if amused that you noticed. “Daegal was a gift from a diplomat friend with more money than manners. She chewed up a rare volume of poetry last month.”
You laughed. “So she fits right in.”
He smiled at that, shoulders loosening just a touch. “As for the butler, Kun has been with the family since before I was born. He stepped away for some time until after my parents passed.”
You turned your gaze toward the tall glass windows. “He doesn’t look any different.”
“Not at all,” Chenle agrees. “He rarely does.”
There was a warmth settling between the two of you now, not the scorching kind of old passion, but the quiet heat of long-kept familiarity. You sipped your tea again, this time slower, letting it bloom across your tongue.
“And you?” Chenle asked after a moment, fingers circling the rim of his cup. “How have your parents been?”
You looked down briefly, then back up at him. “Busy, boring, obsessing over estate paperwork and appearances. They ask about you sometimes.”
“I’m sure,” he responded, voice mild, but his eyes betrayed something more. Fondness, maybe, or regret. “And your duties as heiress? Still practicing the piano at dawn, I imagine.”
You smirked. “Not so much, these days.”
Chenle set his cup down delicately, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “And no betrothed yet?” he asked, tone light but with that unmistakable glint, something teasing and old.
You gave him a look over the rim of your cup, taking a short sip. “No. Not yet.”
His lips curved slightly, but he said nothing more. His silence said enough.
In the stillness, Daegal rolled onto her back, paws in the air, lab plushie between her teeth. Her little world was simple, just as yours had once been. But in this sunlit room, full of ghosts and new beginnings, you pondered if it could ever be that way again.
Chenle reached forward to refill your cup, carefully and gently, as though afraid it might spill. “Sundays,” he began, voice quiet, “are a sacred thing. I’m glad you’re spending this one with me.”
You didn’t answer at first. Instead, you watched the steam from the tea curl between you both, soft and fragrant, like a memory surfacing.
“I’m glad as well,” you replied, finally. “Though I suspect this isn’t just a ‘quiet visit,’ is it?”
Chenle’s smile didn’t fade. It sat like glass, set in place. “No,” he said plainly, “but we’ll enjoy the tea first.”
The sun had traced a lazy arc across the sky by the time you and Chenle stepped outside for a stroll around the estate grounds. The gardens sprawled wide, a curated wilderness of clipped hedges and blooming roses. You moved side by side along the gravel paths, the crunch beneath your feet a familiar sound that somehow bridged the gap between the past and now.
“Remember how we used to race through these?” Chenle asked quietly, his gaze sweeping the garden with a faint smile.
You chuckled softly. “You always let me win.”
He shook his head, eyes twinkling. “I did not.”
“But you never let me forget you might have.”
A silence fell between you, easy and full. It was like stepping into a dream where childhood and adulthood blurred, the years folding back to reveal the same faces beneath different masks.
“Do you remember the summer you tripped over your own feet halfway through the race and still insisted you should have won?” you added, turning to look at him with a teasing smile.
Chenle groaned. “Because you declared yourself the winner before I could get up.”
“You pouted the whole afternoon,” you laughed. “Sat under that tree and refused to eat lunch until I said you let me win on purpose.”
“I did let you win on purpose,” he muttered, nose wrinkling slightly. “You always cried when you lost.”
“I only cried once,” you countered, nudging him with your shoulder. “And that was because you cheated.” He feigned offense, but you caught the familiar glint in his eyes, the same one from years ago when he used to sneak behind hedges and jump out to scare you, only to offer you a flower seconds later in apology.
“I remember you doing that ridiculous victory dance,” he said, his voice softer now. “Spinning in circles, arms in the air like you’d won a whole kingdom.”
You smiled at the memory, the scene blooming in your mind like a pressed flower in an old book. The garden had seemed endless then, the hedges taller, the sun warmer. And Chenle, smaller, brighter, untouchable in the way only children can be. “I was convinced the garden applauded me,” you reminisced.
He glanced over at you, and for a heartbeat, he looked exactly as he had back then. “It did,” he agreed. “Or at least, I did. You just didn’t hear it.”
Your breath caught, but before you could reply, a gentle breeze stirred the rosebuds around you. The scent of late blooms and earth hung in the air, mingling with something else, something unspoken, yet profoundly understood. In that moment, surrounded by trimmed hedges and echoing memories, the present no longer felt so distant from the past. Just two old friends walking the same path again, where every step brought them closer not to what was, but to what might still be.
Later, the two of you settled by the grand chess table on the veranda, the carved wood worn smooth by decades of hands. Chenle set up the pieces with deliberate care, eyes focused, lips tight with that old resolve. The game began. Your moves were bold, daring, almost reckless. And for once, you barely won.
“I’m impressed,” Chenle remarked, watching as you blocked his king’s escape with a decisive move.
“Nearly,” you teased, leaning forward.
He allowed himself a small laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nearly counts for something.”
As dusk settled, the manor’s interior welcomed you back with muted light and the faint scent of old books. Chenle led you to the grand piano in the drawing room, the polished ebony keys gleaming beneath the soft glow of a crystal chandelier. His fingers hovered briefly, then began to play a slow, melancholy tune that felt both new and deeply familiar, like a secret whispered between childhood friends now stretched thin by time.
You listened, the music weaving through the quiet spaces between you, pulling memories from the shadows. When the last note faded, Chenle’s eyes met yours. The boyish glint in them was still there, it was guarded and distant, but unmistakable.
The sky darkened as rain began to tap against the windows, soft and steady. Chenle stood, closing the piano lid gently. “You should stay,” he suggested, voice even but with an edge of something warmer.
“Here?”
He nodded. “It’s what we used to do on Sundays anyway.” There was a faint smile, half-joking but entirely sincere.
You hesitated, the weight of the day pressing gently on your shoulders. Then, with a breath, you nodded. “Alright,” you said. “Sunday it is.”
Thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, low and unthreatening. The manor, with its high ceilings and timeworn walls, seemed to exhale around you, settling into the hush of rain-soaked twilight. Chenle lingered near the window, watching the droplets trace slow, silver paths down the glass.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, not from cold but from the sudden rush of a memory. “I used to beg my parents to let me stay,” you admit, the words almost like a whisper. “Just one more hour, one more game.”
Chenle turned toward you, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And then another.”
You nodded. “And another. Until it was so late we were running barefoot through the halls trying to hide from the maid.”
“She always found us,” he chuckled, walking closer. “Right before we could barricade ourselves behind the library curtains.”
“She let us off with a warning most of the time,” you recalled, warmth curling in your chest. “Unless we’d knocked something over, which we always did.”
His eyes met yours, playful but shadowed with something softer now. “You used to fall asleep halfway through your stories, sitting on the floor, still holding the book.”
“And you’d stay awake to finish reading them aloud,” you added. “Even when I couldn’t hear you anymore.” Outside, the rain thickened, drumming a little louder on the manor roof, like fingers tapping out old secrets on the spine of time. “It’s strange,” you murmured, eyes drawn to the window. “I can’t remember the last time I felt like this…like I belong in a memory that’s still alive.” You looked at him, at the boy you once knew and the man standing before you now, refined and burned by responsibility, yet still holding something unbreakably familiar.
You settled onto the edge of the bed, brushing your fingers along the embroidery of the guestroom duvet, a familiar pattern, faded just enough to speak of years passed. This room had always held a quiet kind of sanctuary, a place where time slowed, and the world outside softened.
You remembered the nights spent here as a child, when visits to the Zhong manor stretched too late for the drive back to your family’s estate. The whispered goodnights from your parents, the dim glow of candlelight flickering against the walls, and the distant hum of servants tidying the halls below.
You and Chenle had shared this space in different ways, sometimes in the same room, a thin curtain between you, sometimes just a few doors apart, but always under the watchful eyes of those who cared for you. The scent of aged wood and lavender lingered in the air, wrapping around you like a memory you could almost touch. Outside, the rain pattered softly against the window, a steady soothing rhythm that made the room feel even more cocooned from the world.
You were just about to close your eyes and surrender to the quiet when the knock came. A soft, measured sound. Three taps.
You opened the door to find Kun standing in the corridor, his posture as composed as ever, though his eyes softened slightly when they met yours. “The young master would like to see you,” he said.
Your heart stirred. “Now?”
“He asked if you might visit him in his quarters. Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”
You nodded before your mind had even caught up. “Yes. Of course.”
Kun inclined his head and stepped aside, guiding you down a quieter hall than one you’d been shown through earlier. The walls were darker, lined with old family portraits and paintings that seemed to watch as you passed. The carpet muffled your footsteps, though your pulse echoed loudly in your ears. Kun stopped at a tall, carved door and opened it with a smooth motion, revealing Chenle’s private quarters. The room was lit only by a fire crackling in the hearth, the amber light casting flickering shadows across the bookshelves and velvet drapes.
Chenle sat in an armchair by the fire, a book in one hand, though he set it aside the moment he saw you. “Come in,” he beckoned quietly.
You stepped inside, and Kun closed the door behind you with a barely audible click. Chenle gestured to the seat across from him, his expression unreadable in the shifting light. You sat, your knees not quite touching his, though they easily could have. It was only then, as Chenle leaned forward slightly in the glow of the fire, that you truly saw him.
The regal suits and polished formality he wore during the day were gone, replaced by something far more disarming. A simple knit sweater, soft at the collar, sleeves pushed up to reveal the quiet strength in his forearms. His hair was still damp from a recent shower, a few strands falling across his brow. And without the weight of expectation stitched into every thread of his wardrobe, Chenle looked younger somehow, and older at the same time, not in years, but in presence.
He had grown. Not just taller and broader, but steadier. There was still a trace of the boy you’d known in the sharp cut of his smile, in the way his fingers fidgeted slightly against his knee when he wasn’t thinking. But the mischief had mellowed into something quieter, something more restrained. The kind of charm that didn’t need to announce itself anymore.
It startled you, how handsome he was like this. And maybe he noticed the shift in your gaze, because his smile softened just a little, like he’d been waiting for you to see him not as the boy who used to race you through the hedges, but the man who learned to carry loss, legacy, and longing in equal measure.
For a while, the silence held, comfortable but heavy, like the pause before a confession. Finally, he looked at you. “Do you remember the Sundays we used to spend together?” His voice was low and steady, but with something frayed just beneath it. “I never said it then, but I…I never looked forward to anything more.”
His fingers brushed against the armrest, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he could. “I used to count down to them,” he admitted, voice roughened slightly by memory. “Even after everything happened, after the accident, after the title, after everyone started treating me like something untouchable, I kept thinking about those Sundays with you.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came, so he went on. “After my parents passed, after the estate became more fortress than home, I learned to wear the mask they expected. Polite, controlled, distant.” He looked toward the fire. “But you…you never asked me to be anything I wasn’t. You saw the boy, not the heir.”
He turned back to you, eyes dark but vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel human. And if I am a noble, it means nothing unless I can have you beside me. As my equal.” He paused. “As…mine.”
Your breath caught, heart crashing in your chest like a wave against old stone. “I’ve been waiting to hear those words,” you whispered, “since the first time you brewed tea for me.” You reached out, fingers brushing against his. He caught your hand within his own, warm and certain, and held it like he’d done it a thousand times before and never dared to believe he would again. It was warm, steady, and trembling all at once.
Your words hung between you, tender and raw, and for a moment, neither of you moved. But then he rose slowly from his chair, never letting go of your hand. He stood in front of you now, gaze searching yours as if to make sure this was real, that you were really here, with him, not just a memory conjured by the firelight. You tilted your face toward him and saw it again, that flash of the boy he used to be, tucked behind the man he’d become.
And then he kissed you.
The kiss wasn’t hesitant. It was years of longing, all the things he couldn’t say with words, pressed into the shape of his mouth against yours. He kissed you like someone who had dreamed of this moment too many times and never thought it would come. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin as if to memorize the shape of you. Your fingers tangled in the fabric of his sweater, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the only thing that had ever felt safe and inevitable.
He took your hand again, this time leading you gently toward the bed. The room was quiet, save for the fire, casting a flickering trail of gold across the sheets as he sat down and drew you with him. You let him undress you slowly, his hands shaking just slightly as he bared each inch of you like something sacred until you were nude in front of him. There was no rush, no hunger for the sake of it, only the overwhelming desire to memorize, to worship.
When your hands found the hem of his sweater, he let you pull it over his head, revealing the lines of a body hardened by hardship, but touched only by you in this moment. He kissed you again, slower now, laying you back against the pillows as if you were something delicate and treasured.
The fire crackled in the hearth, its amber glow dancing across the curve of your cheek as Chenle hovered above you, eyes roaming your face like he was still trying to memorize every expression. The air was warm, but his gaze was warmer, dark with awe and something deeper. Devotion, need, and reverence all knotted into one. His fingers traced down your arms with reverence, each brush a whisper of silk over skin. He kissed your shoulder first, then lower, the slope of your collarbone, the hollow beneath your throat.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, lips pressing between each word against your skin, “how long I’ve dreamed of this.”
He took his time with you. His hands mapped you gently and firmly, like rediscovering sacred territory. He cupped your breasts, thumbs grazing your nipples until they peaked, and then he bent his neck to kiss them with soft, open-mouthed worship that made your breath stutter. He tongued each one slowly, alternating between teasing flicks and deep, languid strokes, the kind that sent heat pooling low in your belly.
“Perfect,” he whispered, as if to himself.
Then his mouth trailed lower, kisses like slow fire down your ribs, across the dip of your stomach. His hands never left you, always touching, always grounding you to the moment. He paused at your hips, glancing up. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, breath hot against your lips, voice frayed with restraint. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You met his eyes, parted your thighs. “Don’t you dare.” That was all he needed.
He lowered himself between your legs with such intent that it made your heart ache. His lips pressed softly against the inside of your thigh first, trailing heat up until he reached where you ached most. His tongue was gentle at first, just the lightest flick over your folds, like he was learning you again. But when you gasped, when your hips lifted instinctively, he groaned low and deep and began to truly feast.
He licked you like he meant to undo every year of distance between you with his mouth. He circled your clit with maddening precision, then sucked gently, watching your face like he was memorizing every gasp, every tremble. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady as he worked you open with his lips and tongue until your thighs quivered around him and your fingers dug into the sheets.
When you came, it was with a sob of his name, your back arching, firelight painting you in gold as he helped you through every wave. He kissed your inner thigh one last time before rising to meet you again, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead. His lips found yours, and you tasted yourself on him, rich and intimate. He kissed you like he already belonged to you.
“Are you sure?” he asked against your lips, trembling now with the weight of hesitation. He searched your eyes for any sign of doubt, his hands trembling slightly as they cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that belied the fire simmering beneath his calm exterior.
“With you…I’m sure,” you told him, voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest.
A slow smile curved his lips as he lowered his forehead to yours. The world outside faded to a hush, leaving only the rhythm of your breathing and the warmth pooling between you. You reached behind him, tugging at the waistband of his underwear, freeing his length against your stomach. He brushed over you, skin to skin, and his length pressed against you, the feeling both foreign and thrilling.
You slid your hand around him, fingers curling gently around the warmth and weight of him. Chenle’s breath hitched softly as you took him in your palm, the smoothness of your skin a stark contrast to the pulsing of his cock in your hand. Slowly, you guided him, placing the head of his length against your entrance, already slick with arousal and spit.
The moment he entered you was unlike anything you’d ever known, an exquisite mix of unfamiliar tightness and deep belonging. He bottomed out with a careful, deliberate motion, as if committing every inch to memory, holding you close in a graph both fierce and protective. The firelight flickered over his flushed cheeks and tangled dark hair as he stayed still for a heartbeat, letting the newness settle between you.
He moved slowly at first, each stroke was deep and deliberate, like he was writing his name into your body, carving the memory of this night into both of you. His hands never left you. One cradled your face while he kissed you between quiet gasps, while the other wrapped around your lower back, holding you steady, like you might disappear if he let go.
You could feel the tremble in his arms, the restraint threaded through every thrust as he buried himself deeper with every roll of his hips. He murmured your name against your neck, sometimes soft, sometimes desperate, each repetition a tether to here and now.
Chenle pressed himself flush against your chest, and your legs curled instinctively around him. The sensation of him inside you, filling you so completely, was overwhelming. Just enough stretch to make you breathless and just enough heat to make you feel dizzy. He moved with a slow precision, saving each glide, like he couldn’t bear for it to end. And when your nails dug into his shoulder, your body beginning to tense, he whispered, “I’ve got you,” lips at your temple breath ragged. “Let go, I’m right here.”
And he was. Every inch of him, every sound he made, every soft press of his lips told you so.
As he brought you to the edge, your body trembling and heart racing, you clung to him like he was the only truth you’d ever known. You came undone in his arms, and even then, he held you through it all, mumbling breathless things you couldn’t quite hear over the rushing in your ears. He followed soon after, spilling into you with a shudder that rocked through both of you, still holding you as his length throbbed within your fluttering walls.
In the silence that followed, only the sounds of labored breathing filled the room. He didn’t pull away, he stayed tucked against you, his face buried in your neck, his heartbeat pressed tight to yours, as if he needed proof you were still there.
Eventually, he lifted himself off you, pulling out slowly and watching as your mixed releases spilled from between your thighs, catching the flicker of firelight in a way that made him pause. He sat back on his heels, gaze raking over the mess he’d made of you with a quiet adoration that bordered on awe.
You expected him to reach for the nearest cloth, but instead, his hand came first, fingertips ghosting over the inside of your thigh, gathering the slick evidence of your lovemaking. You shivered, the sensitivity sharp, and he hushed you softly, leaning in. Then, without a hint of shame, he brought his fingers to his lips and tasted you both. A hum escaped him, quiet and pleased, and it made your face burn.
“Chenle,” you breathed, somewhere between a reprimand and a plea.
But he only smiled, slow and unapologetic. “Still perfect,” he murmured, before finally reaching for the small linen square folded neatly on the nightstand.
Your breath caught when you recognized it. The Zhong crest sat embroidered in the corner with his initials in calligraphy. A symbol of lineage and legacy. “You can’t be serious–” you began, propping yourself up on one elbow.
He met your gaze, mischief softening into something far more solemn. “There’s nothing more sacred than this,” he said simply, and with gentle hands, began to clean you. Every touch was careful, almost ceremonial, as if this, too, was part of the way he loved you.
You winced slightly at the oversensitivity, but he whispered apologies into your skin, kissing the inside of your knee before tossing the soiled cloth aside, an object made holy only because it had touched you.
Chenle climbed back to where you lay and pulled the covers over both of you before lying on his side, facing you. You mirrored him, eyes meeting in the quiet. No grand declarations, no further words. Just his hand brushing yours beneath the covers, his breathing evening out when your foreheads touched. It felt unfamiliar, but safe. Like stepping into a home you’d never lived in, but always known by heart.
Tomorrow, there will be questions, conversation, and decisions. But tonight was sacred, as if Sunday had only just begun.
You wake to the soft, comforting smell of something cooking. The scent is homey and oddly familiar, drawing you from the depths of sleep.
Making your way through the halls, you find Chenle in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration as he tries not to burn anything. The golden morning light outlines his frame, and for a moment, you forget the years, the distance. He is just the boy who once ran with you through the fields and shared snacks with you.
You stepped closer to him, peering over his shoulder to see what he was making. It’s simple, nothing like the extravagant breakfasts prepared by his private chef. Just eggs sizzling gently, stewed tomatoes bubbling in a small pan.
“My mother used to make this for us when we were younger,” he says without looking up, voice low but carrying a smile you could hear. “You didn’t want toast because you hated the crust.”
You smile in return, the memory flooding back effortlessly, how you’d peel the crusts off with stubborn fingers while Chenle shook his head in mock disappointment. The simple ritual of breakfast feels like a bridge across all the years apart.
Breakfast now was quiet, the clinking of cutlery and soft breaths filling the room. But slowly, the mood shifts. Chenle’s eyes darken with thought, his usual playful glint replaced by something more tender, more real.
At your feet, Daegal settles, resting her head against your leg like a sentinel guarding a precious secret. She’s been with Chenle since your lives drew apart, and now, quietly, she seems to guard this moment between you two. When breakfast finishes, you rise and head together toward the garden, the morning air crisp with the promise of new beginnings.
Under the dappled sunlight filtering through budding branches, Chenle stops and turns to you. “About what you said last night,” he begins hesitantly, fingers twisting in the fabric of his sweater. “Did you really like me back then? When I brewed that tea for you when I was only thirteen? After…after everything changed?”
You take a breath, the memory unfolding clearly, how that boy, no older than thirteen, had already carried so much weight, so much loss. How, despite everything, he had somehow found the strength to care, to nurture, to hold onto the small rituals that tethered him to hope.
“Yes,” you say softly, your voice steady. “I did. And watching you now…I have so much more respect for you than I ever did back then. You were so young, but you had to grow up overnight. You navigated a world that wasn’t built for you, without your parents, without guidance. Yet here you are, still standing, still choosing to be kind, to be gentle.”
His eyes met yours, vulnerable but proud. “I didn’t know if I’d make it,” he admits quietly. “But you were a reason to keep going. Every Sunday when I made tea, I was trying to hold onto something good, something real.”
You reach out, brushing your hand over his cheek, marveling at the man he’s become. The boy you once knew, tempered by hardship but softened by love.
“Sundays,” you whisper. “They've always been sacred, haven’t they? A day of honesty. A day to remember who we are, to ourselves, and to each other.”
Chenle nods, a small smile returning, warm and certain. “From now on, I want Sundays to be ours. To make new memories, to choose each other again and again.”
In that gentle morning light, under the stretch of endless sky, you both knew that some things, like the warmth of a simple breakfast, the comfort of a shared tradition, could heal all the cracks left by time. Starting on Sundays.
Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like Perfect - Z.Chenle
Summary — You have every intention of coasting through the summer internship your dearest father handed to you (or rather, forced you into) with as little effort as possible. Luckily, no one in the office has the nerve to call out the CEO’s daughter for her poor attitude and terrible work-ethic. That is, until your usually polite, level-headed boss, Mr. Park, finally snaps. Suddenly, it’s a lot harder to ignore how good he looks when he’s pissed off— and how much you enjoy being on the receiving end of it.
CW & Tags — 18+ MDNI, Smut, Humour, Office AU, bratty!reader, mean dom!Sunghoon, Age Difference, Power Imbalance, boss!Sunghoon x intern!Reader, mildly implied daddy issues, morally grey characters, infidelity, humiliation kink, heavy degradation kink, mild praise, slut-shaming, abuse of authority, power play, brat-taming, mutual masturbation, edging, spanking, choking, slight overstimulation, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex, office sex, slowburn-ish, lots of sexual tension, sexting, slight corruption kink?, mild infantilization of reader, casual misogyny from male coworkers, Sunghoon genuinely trying to be a good boss/mentor/role-model and failing miserably, reader genuinely not giving a fuck, FEAT. bf!Jay, coworker!Jungwon NICKNAMES/PETNAMES USED: missy, young lady, Miss, baby, sweetheart
WC — 19.1k
A/N — so yeah um… I don’t know what kind of freak disease I’ve contracted recently. this is inspired by all the memes of Sunghoon being unc. love him down even if he acts like he’s 23 going on 32. shout out to my lovely moot @enchive who is riding the same office!enha wavelength as me
For someone who was handed a summer internship at your father's company on a silver platter, you don't act as grateful as you should be.
That’s because you aren’t— and with each passing day, you find it more and more difficult to even pretend like you are as the office hums its same old, familiar tune; a dull, monotonous symphony of keyboard clicking, phones ringing, and men arguing over numbers and deadlines and everything else you couldn’t give two shits about.
"It will give you real-world experience." Was your father's first proclamation.
Yeah, right. Three weeks in, and the only 'experience' you've gained is learning to optimize the speed at which you swap tabs from online shopping to whatever financial model you're supposed to be working on when your ‘boss’ walks by.
"Other people dream of working here!" Came the next.
It's technically true for anyone else— the role is competitive. People claw their way into divisions like these, just to sit in rooms and argue over numbers tied to companies they don't even care for. You, however, are not anyone else. Getting this job was as simple as a conversation over dinner, followed by a forwarded email. And why exactly would you be dreaming of something so easy to obtain?
"If you don't do it, I'll deactivate your credit card."
Now, that was the only statement that made you quiver, and some whining and back and forth later, you realized you wouldn't have it your way— not this time.
Which is how you ended up here.
In theory, it's easy enough. All you had to do was show up. Sit at a desk. Try. In practice? It's painfully, mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly boring. God, how you wish you could be doing literally anything else other than staring at your desktop screen, eyes straining from the blue light as rows of numbers blur together—valuations, projections and companies reduced to columns.
You switch to another tab, deciding you're done pretending to work for now, and scroll through your Instagram feed, seeing your friends' posts about their vacations abroad, shopping sprees, and summer adventures, soaking in the rays of the afternoon sun. It only solidifies for you what you already know: You don't care about this job. You just don't care at all. So much that it hurts.
It's why you had decided early on you wouldn't even pretend to care. You come in late and leave early. You do your work hastily— finished, but half-assed. You do enough to where nobody can comfortably call you out on it, but never enough to actually waste any of your precious energy on trying, because really, who's going to stop you? It's not like you need this job. It's not like anyone's going to fire the CEO's spoiled little princess of a daughter.
Nobody says it outright, but you felt it the first day you'd set foot in the building, designer stilettos clicking with every step. The air shifted. People smiled at you too quickly, their tone of voice too polite. It was all too easy, all too uninteresting, the way nobody dared to push back. And the ones that vaguely try to are met with a sharp glare— not because you're actually trying to threaten them, but because it was amusing to see how easily they doubled back, scrambling over their words in fear.
Call it cruel. Whatever. It's one of the few things that brought you joy in the midst of suffocating beneath fluorescent lighting and beige walls.
You lean back in your chair, a sigh falling from your lips as your eyes meet the ceiling. Only an hour left of the workday, and yet it felt like an eternity remained. You're not sure how you plan on making it through the rest of the summer.
Your gaze drifts a little to the side, where you catch sight of your boss in his office, the door wide open, eyes glued to his computer screen.
Mr. Park is the kind of boss who doesn't seem to have a flaw— at least in the corporate sense. Always composed. Always focused. Always just... there. Like he came with the office. Like he belongs to it more than anyone else does— like he's been built into the spreadsheets and decisions that run the place. Of course, he's the fucking Chief Investment Officer. He can probably reduce an entire company to numbers in his sleep.
He's also, apparently, the kind of boss who doesn't seem to know when to let anything go, given how it's three weeks into your internship and he continues to gently bring up the topic of your "lack of enthusiasm". He fills your inbox with "friendly reminders" to show to work on time, addressed to the whole team as if everyone didn't already know it was about you, he walks by your desk more than you wished he would, leaning over your shoulder and offering useless "pointers" that he should know by now you didn't plan on using, always careful with his words.
You suppress a snort at the thought of someone like him— with a title like his, and all the authority that came with it— having to tiptoe around you, too afraid to call you out on your bullshit. Your eyes drag down the features on his face, lingering maybe just a moment too long to watch as his glasses drift down the bridge of his nose, until his hand moves to adjust them. At least he's easy on the eyes, you think, snapping back to reality when his eyes tear away from his screen, looking directly back into yours.
Your back goes straight, and the backrest of your desk chair snaps back, hitting you in the back of the head. Looking back, you see his eyes had already returned to his screen, and you frown. You'd almost prefer it if he were to laugh at you. At least then, you'd believe he's human and not a lab-made corporate slave. Boring.
Your hand twitches at your side, feeling your phone buzz. Beneath the desk, you open it, smiling at your boyfriend's name atop the message notification.
Jay: hey baby hows work?
You: awful
You: i literally hate it here
You: i might actually jump out the window
Jay: dramatic as always
You: are you making fun of my suffering?
Jay: relax. just teasing baby
You: what you up to right now?
Jay: waiting for jake to finish in the shower
Jay: and thinking about you
Jay: you?
You: thinking about you too
You sigh as you click send. Your boyfriend, unlike you, got to go on vacation with his best friend. And while they get to lounge on beaches and eat at expensive restaurants, you're stuck here, trapped in this boorish hellhole surrounded by tired, boring, old people. It's not fair.
Jay: yeah?
Jay: ill be back soon
Jay: flight home sunday
Jay: come over monday?
Jay: wanna see you
You grin, picturing the suggestive smile on his face. You do a quick look around you, before replying.
You: sure you wont be too tired?
You: i dont wanna keep you up...
Jay: you can keep me up anytime
Jay: you know i dont mind
Face growing hot, you bite your lip, too immersed in the thought of all the things you'd do when you finally get your hands on your boyfriend again to hear the footsteps behind you. You're mid-way through typing your reply when suddenly your phone is snatched from your hands.
Your expression quickly going cold, you snap your head around, meeting eyes with none other than Mr. Park.
"What the fuck?" You scoff, loud enough that you hear a few conversations die, and the sound of keyboard typing slows down. You look around, feeling your coworkers' eyes on you and, lowering your voice, you return your attention to your boss. "What do you think you're doing?"
"No texting during work hours," his tone is matter-of-fact, like he’s explaining a foreign concept to you. His eyes flick to your desktop screen, where your Instagram is open. "None of that either."
You feel your face burn, closing the tab immediately.
"It was literally just for a second, Mr. Park," you roll your eyes. But seeing him look at you like that, stern like your father, you realize having an attitude won't get you what you want. With a sigh, you wipe your expression clean, looking up at him with the best sorry-eyed look you could manage. You hold out the palm of your hand, "Give it back to me. Please? I need to respond. My boyfriend—"
"Your boyfriend can wait. And so can you."
The sound of two more message pings is heard, and his eyes drop to the screen. The corners of his mouth twitch into the faintest hint of a smile before he swiftly tucks the device into his pocket. Meanwhile, your stomach twists with a mix of humiliation, annoyance, and disbelief at his sheer audacity to find any of this amusing. Since when did Mr. Park, of all people, find anything amusing, anyway?
"You can get it from my office later. In the meantime, how about you finally get to that acquisition brief you've been avoiding?"
An hour of angry typing later— summarizing some company into neat little bulletin points just so that Mr. Park can skim it and decide whether any of it is worth moving forward with at all— you're sending him the document, marching towards his office as the rest of the floor filters into the elevator. You don’t bother knocking; the same way he hadn’t bothered to warn you before snatching your personal property from your hands.
He doesn't even flinch as the door bursts open, heels clicking with each stride. He doesn't look up until you stand just before his desk.
"It's done," you gesture with your hand, open-palmed. "Now give it back."
"Impatient, are we?"
He moves slowly, without urgency, adjusting his glasses as he clicks around. After what feels like an eternity of watching him read, he finally tears his eyes away from the screen.
"I'm impressed."
"Are you, now?" You reply dryly.
He hums in approval, as if you care to hear it.
"This is the first time since onboarding that you've properly followed through on a given task— and not only did you follow through, you did a good job," he continues, scrolling down the page. "Well-written, well-researched, not a single typo... could use a little bit of refining, but—"
"Okay?" You shift uncomfortably, restlessly tapping your foot. "...Phone?"
His eyes drag from the screen, back to yours, looking at you with an expression you can't quite read, but all you know is that it's far removed from the veil of politeness he carried himself with day-to-day.
He nods to one of the chairs in front of his desk.
"Sit with me. Won't you?"
Reluctantly, you lower yourself to the leather cushion, smoothing the length of your skirt. You stare at him like it's a competition you refuse to lose, though you're starting to suspect it's entirely one-sided, seeing how he eases.
That's the kind of boss Mr. Park is, isn't he? Stern, but gentle. So well-mannered. So god damn clean-cut, calm, collected and controlled.
You suppose that must be why your father speaks so highly of him— why he assigned you to his team, under his supervision. You would've walked all over someone too soft and caused a whole lot of problems for someone too harsh. Mr. Park is harder to pin down, striking a balance somewhere in the middle, firm enough to make you hesitate before pushing your luck, but never enough to actually stop you from doing it.
"What do you want?"
"I want to discuss your work ethic. Or, lack thereof." His hands clasp together on the table, posture upright. "Frankly, your laziness is a liability to my team, and I would've fired you a long time ago if I could."
You blink, slightly taken aback. So he does have the balls to call you out directly, rather than beating around the bush. You’re the one feeling impressed, now.
"Me? Lazy?" You feign innocence, jaw dropping as if he hadn’t literally caught you red-handed scrolling Instagram and borderline about to sext your boyfriend. "Mr. Park. I swear to you, I am trying my absolute best. If that's not enough for you... Well, what can I do? I can't help being young and inexperienced. I'm still learning."
He inhales deeply, eyes scanning your face once again. A small, polite smile breaks as his tone softens— acutely controlled, steady.
You already know how this will go. It's the same thing every time. He calls you in. Calls you out politely. You deflect, avoid the consequences, and he sends you off when he gives up trying.
Except, he doesn’t this time.
"I think it is more than reasonable to expect a grown adult like yourself to show up to work on time. Don't you agree?"
You glare for a few moments, waiting for him to cower in fear as everyone else in this building does. But he doesn't falter. He doesn't bend to your will as he should. He only stares back, just waiting. Patiently. Calmly. Without intention to intimidate. Without the intention of grovelling in submission.
Decidedly done with pretending, you slump back in his chair, like you're at home, lounging in your living room and not currently sitting in your boss's office, being scolded.
"I can't control traffic, Mr. Park," you roll your eyes.
"Neither can I. Nor can anyone else in this office. And yet, you're the only one who's walking in ten... sometimes twenty minutes late?"
You don't even bother to respond, pretending like you hadn't heard a single word he said. You look down at your manicured nails, briefly wondering if you remembered to book your regular appointment. Maybe you could ask Jay what colour to get next time—
"Hey," his voice drops, leaning across the desk. Your eyes lock with his as he snaps his fingers. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you."
You look from his fingers, then back to him, a blatant scowl on your lips. Your hands curl into fists, tension coiling in your chest as your irritation slowly morphs into something overwhelmingly worse, given how he just snapped his fingers at you like some kind of dog.
You don't wish to question why the sudden change in his tone seems to command your attention. All you know is that you're sick and tired of sitting in his suffocatingly sterile, drab-looking office while you could be literally anywhere else.
"Mr. Park." You drag out his name. You're beyond annoyed now, and you don't care one bit that you're practically whining like an overgrown toddler, "Does it even matter if I'm, like, a little bit late?"
"...A little bit?" He repeats, almost in disbelief, as he glares at you. His hands tighten together, "I am trying to be gracious here. I really am. I don't think I am asking for much—"
"I show up, and I get my work done." his jaw tightens as you interrupt, eyes landing on your index finger, pressing firmly against the desk as if to make some kind of valid point. "I don't get what the big deal is. So just give me back the phone, and let it go."
With that, he stands, hands slamming down against the desk. There's a fire in his eyes, one you'd never noticed before, and suddenly your eyes drift to his hands. You note how large and strong they look, sprawled out against the wood, and shamefully, it makes you wonder what his arms must look like, hidden beneath the layers of his perfectly tailored suit, which hug his broad frame and— fuck, seriously? Is this what a few weeks without your boyfriend does to you?
"Your work is sloppy, lazy and barely meets the deadlines. Please use your common sense." He nearly growls, "You are not a child. I shouldn't have to scold you like one just for you to do your job."
"Well, sorry it doesn't meet your standards," you scoff carelessly, dismissively, "And sorry that I'm not an old, miserable, workaholic asshole like you."
Your hand slams back down on the desk, mirroring his rage. And just like that, his empty, ceramic coffee mug at the edge of the desk topples over and shatters into pieces. You wince at the sound, and in the dead silence, you both stand, staring at one another. Unmoving.
"Clean it up."
"...Me?"
"Yes, you. That's what people do when they cause problems," he circles the desk, until he's standing right in front of you, looking down. "They fix it themselves. Or did your daddy never teach you that?"
Sometime later, you return from the closet holding a broom and dustpan in a shaky, rage-fuelled grasp, huffing and puffing because it's just so stupid. Him, bossing you around like he has the right. Like your dad doesn't own him. But you think the stupidest part is the part of you that feels inexplicably inclined to listen.
You try to crouch down to keep the dustpan steady as you sweep up the broken ceramic pieces, but you quickly realize your tall heels and tight pencil skirt won't allow you to do that. He watches your every move, seeing how you huff as you slip off your ridiculously expensive footwear, seeing how you don't dare to look at him as you lower yourself to your knees.
"Look at you," he speaks, slow and cruel, making sure you hear every word loud and clear, "Bet you've never cleaned up your own mess before, have you?"
His footsteps approach, his shoes coming into view. You look up, meeting his gaze. And holy shit. There is no good reason for the strange, sudden flare of something hot and unwelcome you feel at the sight of your boss looking down at you like that— like you're a speck of dust, tainting his otherwise spotless existence.
"Useless fucking intern."
His words don't make you want to slap him, as you should. They make you feel something traitorous. They make you think of things you quickly shove deep, deep down, hoping to god they never resurface and see the light of day ever again, and you're too struck by the shock of your own body's reaction to even process what he'd just called you.
"Apologize."
"Why?" You carefully challenge, your glare sharpening, "I didn't do it on purpose—"
"Apologize."
You click your tongue, a defiant huff escaping you as your eyes return to the ground.
"I'm sorry, m'kay?"
"Look at me," he repeats, crouching down. His thumb and index finger hold your phone, dangling it in view, and you try to reach for it, but he pulls away. "Speak up, and say it nicely."
You crane your neck, sweaty hands curling into the fabric of your skirt despite the overly air-conditioned room. His glasses are gone now, giving you a better look at his hardened expression. He's not disappointed. Not just frustrated. He's completely, utterly floored by the audacity of you.
You find yourself staring a little too long, captivated by just how gorgeous he looks when he's no longer hiding behind a veil of professionalism. You just can't stop looking at the twitching of his strong brows, the fury behind those beautiful brown eyes, the way that sharp jawline of his clenches, and that frown on his pretty lips— stop.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Park."
You surprise even yourself with how easily the words seem to escape you— how there is no defiance or strain to be heard at all as they fall from your lips all too pathetically.
It haunts you long after you've left the building.
[Monday]
Friday night, you tossed and turned, trying to erase the image of your boss from your mind.
Saturday, you went out with your friends, hoping that drinking until you passed out would somehow reset your brain back to its normal functions.
Sunday morning brunch, you silently suffered through your hangover as you sat across from your father, not a hair out of place as you sat pretty on the rooftop terrace, pretending like the late morning sun wasn't worsening the terrible throb in your head. But your headache was long gone the moment your father's words gave you something far worse to worry about.
"I spoke to Park yesterday," he said.
Your stomach dropped, knowing the conversation could have only gone one way. If what you’d assumed was true—if he told your father about all the half-hearted reports, all the times you’d shown up late, about your attitude, about how you text during the workday—all the things a father trying to maintain a perfect image and groom you to take over his empire wouldn’t want to hear—then it would be over for you and your precious credit card. You could kiss your shopping sprees and fancy restaurants goodbye.
Instantly, you debated the possibility of biting back. You could tell your dad that Mr. Park had verbally berated you, humiliated you— but contrary to popular belief, your father isn't as doting as people would assume. He might get you a good job, but he would never fire one of his best employees just because you decided to whine about it.
"Whatever it is he said, I swear, daddy, it's—"
"I was very shocked," he continued, "To hear that you've been nothing but wonderful."
Wonderful. Of all the things he could've said about you, he chose to lie.
Needless to say, you arrive Monday morning— late, as usual— expecting something, though you’re not sure what, only to find everything completely normal. As if Friday never happened.
There are no hushed whispers among coworkers. No requests from Mr. Park. Nor does he avoid your gaze when he enters the office, shooting you a typical, polite smile. You find yourself watching him throughout the day, trying to catch a glimpse of the man you’d encountered Friday evening, but he wears his mask well.
He does, however, summon you to his office again at the end of the workday. Because, of course, he would on the day your boyfriend is finally back.
"This better be quick," you snap almost immediately. Impatiently.
"I believe I owe you an apology," he starts, back to his usual polite smile. "I lost my temper, and I spoke to you in an insulting and highly unprofessional manner."
You stare, flatly, looking him up and down. Too fake. Too eager to please.
"You know, my dad told me all the nice things you had to say about me, Mr. Park," you hum, almost bored, "Guess I'm just a bit confused as to why you would do that for me, since I'm just a useless fucking intern."
"I think we both know how much weight your words carry around here, young lady."
"Oh?" You raise your brow, the gears turn in your head. “You think I'm gonna get you fired?"
"...I wouldn't put it past you." He manages, which earns a laugh from you.
"Yeah. I wouldn't put it past me either," you look him up and down, allowing him to believe that you somehow hold that kind of power. "You can unclench your butthole, Mr. Park. I'm a bitch, but I'm not evil."
He sighs, appearing more unimpressed than relieved.
Realistically, the most your father would do, if he even bothered to listen, would be to move you to another department, which would be just another pain in the ass. But you're not about to tell him that.
"You are unbelievably difficult."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," you deadpan. "Can I go now?"
"Not yet," he gestures to the chair, "Sit."
You frown, opening your mouth to protest, but he quickly continues.
"You didn't think I was done with trying to correct your behaviour around here, did you?" He says, "I promise, it won't be long."
Foolishly, you believe him.
Dramatically, you plop yourself down.
"Is it because I was late again?"
"I just want to talk."
"About?"
"I was thinking, after our conversation on Friday. You are the only employee I haven’t interviewed. I know your face. I know your last name and the power it holds. I know your father and the things he says about you. But I don't know you," he starts, "So tell me about yourself."
"Seriously?" You snort.
"Yes, seriously."
You sigh. Deeply, deeply annoyed.
"What do you wanna know?"
"Anything," he shrugs, relaxing back into his chair. He watches you pensively. "What do you like to do? Any hobbies?”
"I dunno. Shopping. Going out with my friends or my boyfriend..." You're not sure why you hesitate to mention that last part. You shrug. "I don't do much, I guess."
"What do you do when you go out? Anything fun?"
"What do you think college students do when we go out, Mr. Park?" You grin.
He returns your teasing with an easy smile.
"Fair enough. You like to party. Then—"
"Did you like to party when you were my age, Mr. Park?"
"I believe I'm the one asking the questions."
"Come on. Now I'm curious," you look him up and down, picturing a twenty-something-year-old version of your boss.
Briefly, you wonder if he’s the kind of person who grew into his looks, or if he’s always looked that good. Hell, you could only begin to imagine what kind of heartthrob he must’ve been if he’s always looked like this— probably could’ve fucked a different girl every night. Probably still could, if he wanted to. Is this what college fuckboys grow into? Boring, business men who bask in their own self-importance?
"Bet you got a lot of attention from the ladies, huh?"
You don't really think about what you're saying until it slips out, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks at the fact that you'd just indirectly called him attractive.
Thankfully, he changes the topic, seemingly unfazed by your comment entirely. The same way he redirects the conversation in meetings when they get too side-tracked. Professional, as always. You decide to let yourself believe that he didn't hear it.
"According to your application, you're a Business major."
"Mhm."
"And if my memory serves me right, your grades are excellent."
"Guess so."
"You like studying business?"
"Sometimes."
"So you do have aspirations." He says, and you flash him a glare. "What, did you expect me to assume that you do? I have to practically breathe down your neck to get you to do your job properly."
"My 'aspirations' can wait. I have time."
"Young people always think they have time. But one day, you'll wake up and realize you're thirty-something, and—"
"You're only in your thirties, Mr. Park?" You dramatically gasp, "Sorry. Just. You're so boring and serious, I thought you were way older. Like, forties, at least."
Your teasing falls flat, as does your attempt to derail the conversation.
"What I'm trying to say," he says firmly, swiftly easing his tone of voice, "is that you're not wrong for wanting to live your life. However, you have been handed an opportunity that most people your age can only dream of, and it would be unwise to continue acting like it's the worst thing that's ever happened to you."
You roll your eyes.
"Do tell me— What are your aspirations?"
"I don't know."
"You must have some idea."
You don't respond, and he studies you for a moment, dissatisfied.
"You spend a lot of time researching luxury brands on your work computer. Not just shopping— reading. Articles, reports, brand strategy, market positioning."
"You sure spend a lot of time watching what I do."
"I only watch to confirm that you are not doing your work, as always," he says flatly, "Those companies you're reading about— they're businesses. Structured, valued, acquired. The same way anything else is. If you're looking to work in that industry, then the things you're learning here can be valuable."
"I'm not," you say a little too defensively, scrambling for your words, "It's just brands and clothes. Who cares?"
"You care, clearly."
"I don't."
"I have a hard time believing that," he comments, then persists, "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"
"Will you even be alive in ten—"
"Yes, I get it. I'm old. Very funny. Though if you're planning on becoming a comedian, I'd advise expanding your portfolio of jokes." He deadpans, "I'm asking you a simple question. What do you want?"
"Does it even matter what I want?" You scoff, muttering, "Everyone knows my future is here.”
He leans back in his chair, "You plan to take over your father's position one day?"
"That would be real fun, wouldn't it?" You avoid the question with a grin, "Me, bossing you around."
"You realize the sooner you give me proper answers, the sooner you can leave."
You huff, and after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you look down at your lap.
"You know how these things work. Needing to continue the family business, or whatever." You gesture aimlessly, shifting uncomfortably. "It's stupid. Honestly. I don't give a single crap about this company, and I'm obviously not even good enough for it either, so I don't know why he insists that..."
You trail off, shaking your head at the amount of information you just volunteered.
"You think you're not good enough?" Mr. Park furrows his brows.
"My work is shit. You said it yourself."
"That brief you gave me last Friday wasn't shit."
"That's one time."
He pauses. Suddenly, he’s leaning forward.
"You want to know what I think?"
"No."
"I think you'd rather be dismissed as lazy than to actually try and risk falling short of perfection."
The silence weighs on you.
"You must feel there's a lot of pressure to succeed, whether that be through on your own path, or following the one that's set out for you, don't you?"
"You pry around in all your employees' personal lives like this?"
"As your boss, it's my job to make sure that you do your job," he states. "Confronting you last time didn't work, and I can't exactly fire you. So I'm trying a different approach— to understand you."
You shift uncomfortably in your seat, irked by his gentle tone and how his eyes seem to look right through you. You'd rather he raise his voice. You'd almost prefer he insult you like the last time. Useless is easy. Spoiled is easy. This... is invasive, getting under your skin in ways his anger hadn't.
"I'm not going to tell you what to do with your life. But maybe I can convince you to take advantage of the opportunity you've been given. I'm not just saying that as your boss. I'm saying it as a mentor— and as someone who was once just as stubborn as you are." he smiles, "I don't want to see you wasting your potential."
Your mouth twitches.
"Yeah? Well, I don't want you to keep wasting my time," you cross your arms defensively, "You said this wouldn't take long, Mr. Park."
"How can I support you? How can I help you succeed at this job?" He presses further, "Is it more guidance? More positive reinforcement?"
"I don't want support. I don't want to succeed. I want to leave."
"You can leave when I say you can."
"Technically," you correct, "I can leave whenever I want."
That’s when you notice it—the look in his eye, barely containing that temper he seemed so intent on hiding beneath his clean-cut appearance and deceptively steady composure, as if you hadn't already come to know that side of him only yesterday.
Voice strained, he continues.
"I'm offering understanding and support. I'm letting you know that, despite our conversation last week, I don't expect you to be perfect; I just expect effort. Can you please try to meet me halfway?"
You suppose you could make this easier for both of you and just say whatever he wants to hear. But you don't want to give him that satisfaction. Not after he made you sit there, making assumptions about your inner thoughts, acting as if he knew you. Not after whatever the hell happened on Friday, which had left you hot and frustrated in ways that made you resent him even more than you previously did.
Seeing the telltale signs of his anger, through the clenching of his fist, and the narrowing of his gaze into something sharp, a flicker of excitement stirs within you. What better payback would there be than to make your ever-so-perfect superior snap again?
"What is this, Mr. Park?" You mock, "Performance coaching? Amateur therapy?"
"Don't talk back to me, young lady."
"Oh, Mr. Park," you laugh, hardly suppressing your smile. "I think you're well aware that I can talk to you however I like."
Your fingernails tap against the desk, and you allow yourself a moment to capture the image of his deeply frustrated, beautiful face in your mind.
"And you know what?" You continue, leaning forward, "There's absolutely nothing you can do about it."
There's a silence, a calm before the storm.
"That mouth of yours... do you even hear yourself when you speak?" He growls. A beat passes, and he leans in too. "Or is that dumb little head of yours so empty that you don't even realize how fucking irritating you sound?"
Oh.
Your nails dig into the desk. His voice, low and unrestrained, ignites something deep within you.
"Speak to me however you like. Be as blatantly disrespectful and bitchy as you please. It won't make you any less pathetic. It will never change the fact that you're just a useless, whiny, spoiled, little girl who's never had to try a day in her life."
One leg crosses over the other, feeling how his insults seem to burn in ways they definitely shouldn't. What you should be doing is searching for the words to talk back like you'd intended. Instead, your mouth presses firmly shut, trying not to think about the heat that rises between your legs, and how it throbs without justification. Making him surrender to his anger was supposed to feel satisfying, not the opposite— Not this.
"What's this? Now you don't have anything to say?"
"No,” you quip, rather weakly.
You curse yourself for that being all you can manage. If you were in the right state of mind— if his voice weren't so low and effortlessly commanding— if his face weren't so damn attractive when he's pissed the fuck off— maybe then you could bite back. But right now, there was something deeply wrong with you, and you needed to get the fuck out of there and deal with it immediately.
"So be it." He mutters, "Get the fuck out of my office."
Your legs carry you out, feeling unsteady in your heels as if you didn't know how to walk in them, all thanks to the distracting, near-unbearable arousal which seems to linger. Your phone rings in the elevator, Jay's profile picture on your screen.
"Hey, baby. Just wondering if you're on your way? Been waiting a while," he says, "Everything okay?"
"No," you swallow, fingers curling around your handbag. "Everything is not okay."
"He is such an asshole, Jay," you groan.
He only hums in response, as his lips roam your neck.
You had arrived at his place only minutes ago, and you were already beneath him, sprawled out on his couch, eyes fluttering, and lips parted as he took his time worshipping you.
It's uncharacteristic of him. Jay isn't usually the type of boyfriend to be placing his hands on you the moment you walk through the door— he'd usually offer a drink, sit with you, talk to you like there's all the time in the world, before deciding to make his move. A real gentleman, unlike the flings you’d wasted time with before him. But you both knew how desperate you were to get your hands on one another, so all the talking vacation photos and complaining about Jake could wait.
The summer evening sun seeps through the windows of his downtown condo, his tanned skin illuminated by a warm, golden glow, and while you should feel relieved to finally be back here— in his living room, in his arms, with his playlist humming low in the background as he shows you just how much he's missed you— you instead find yourself tangled up and knotted in your frustrations from the past few days.
"You know what he said to me?" You continue, brows furrowed.
"What'd he say, hm?" He mutters against your skin.
"He called me lazy."
He chuckles when you let out a whimper, kissing a particularly sensitive part of your neck, and a shiver runs through you at the feeling of his breath.
You're more reactive than usual, given your... frustrations. And your boyfriend seems to be loving it, given how he's choosing to tease you instead of just taking you right there, like you need him to.
"Well..." You can feel his smirk on you, "Are you?"
"Hey," you pout, fingers gently threading through his hair. "Whose side are you on?"
You tug just enough to look at him. He wears the same playful, easygoing smile he always does. The one you've grown comfortable and familiar with.
"Yours. Always. My girl is always right," he says, leaning down to ghost your lips, before capturing them with his.
You smile into the kiss, a gasp escaping you when you feel his tongue slip into your mouth, and his hands roam the curve of your waist, down to your ass.
"So worked up," he comments, "Must've been exhausting, sitting there and looking pretty all day, hm?"
You feel his hands work away at your blouse, button by button, until his lips are at your exposed chest, peppering kisses down the valley of your breasts.
"You have no idea," you breathe, trying to focus on how good he's making you feel, trying to focus on him, but— "He said I'm wasting my potential."
"That's such a corporate thing to say," he snorts.
You should be snorting too. You normally would, brushing it off like it's nothing. So it's strange, really, that you feel your chest heave in frustration, dissatisfied with... well, you're not exactly sure.
"So you think he's wrong?"
You hear him sigh, and he props himself up, blinking down at you. His smile is kind, partially amused, partially only tolerating your antics with far more patience than anyone would expect from a man who hasn't seen his girlfriend in weeks. A moment passes, watching, waiting— deciding, finally.
"I didn't say that," he says gently, a hand moving to your cheek. His thumb moves in slow circles, and his tired, jet-lagged eyes scan your expression, trying to read you.
"What do you think, then?"
"I think..." he begins, carefully, "...that I'm a bit confused. Do you want me to take your side or not?"
"That's not an answer, Jay."
"Then I think you need to relax," he replies, his voice a little lower now, and you feel a hand dragging up the length of your thigh. "It's just some summer thing. You're taking it too seriously."
"I'm not, trust me."
"Then don't think about it."
He kisses you again, and you squeal when he pushes past your skirt. He thumbs the top of your sheer-black stockings, which hug the plush of your upper thigh, before moving to the heat between your legs.
"Shit," he breathes, palming you, feeling just how absolutely soaked you are through one layer of fabric, "Missed me that much?"
A pang of guilt runs through you, knowing part of your arousal is due to something else entirely. But you remind yourself that it's only because you missed your boyfriend, and your mind was only wandering because you were bored.
"Don't worry about anything else, sweet girl, m'kay?" He whispers, "Let me take care of you."
You pull him closer by the collar of his shirt, kissing him harder, and his response is immediate. His hands, familiar, practiced, safe and... easy. Against your will, your mind wanders to echoes of a voice that doesn't soften when you push back— of words that shoot to kill when provoked.
[Tuesday]
"You weren't lying when you said the morning traffic is a bitch," Jay says, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. He peeks his head out the window briefly, noting the long line of cars that won't budge.
Meanwhile, you hit your knee against the dashboard as you squirm around in the passenger seat, trying to peel your stockings from your legs. His head whips around at the sudden thud.
"You okay?"
"I can't wear these. I think you ripped them last night," you hiss, as you finally slip them off.
You inspect the torn nylon in your hands, then discard the fabric over your shoulder, landing somewhere in the backseat.
"Did I?" He teases, as if he doesn't fully remember how he had you sit on his face while wearing them, needy hands digging into the flimsy fabric as he'd held your thighs steady. "My bad, baby."
You scoff, knowing damn well he doesn't feel bad about it. You're not exactly mad about it either, though you are a little self-conscious as you check yourself in the sun-visor mirror, your hair neat enough but not exactly as flawless as you usually wore it, your makeup light and hastily applied.
You look down at your skirt, wondering if anyone would notice it's the same one as yesterday, or the faint wrinkles that remained as a result of last night's activities. You kept some clothes at Jay's, but nothing exactly up to the dress code of your current job, so outfit repetition it would have to be— save for an acceptable blouse you'd swapped out with yesterday's, the other long forgotten on his bedroom floor.
"I look like shit—"
"You look perfect."
"Fuck, I'm going to be so late!"
"Aren't you always?" He laughs.
"By, like, ten minutes. Not an hour," you groan, rummaging in your makeup bag. You fumble for your usual lipstick, looking in the mirror to apply. "Mr. Park is going to flip."
You don't want to admit that part of the reason you're stressed, though, is not because you fear him. Rather, you’ve become increasingly worried by the way your body seems to react to his temper.
"Just tell your dad to deal with it."
"You tell him. He listens to you more than me," you swipe the corners of your mouth, making sure your application is as neat as it can be for being applied in the car.
"I just know how to talk to him, that's all."
"Smooth talker."
"You mean charismatic," he winks, and you roll your eyes. He turns his attention away. "If it makes you feel better, I'm gonna be in deep shit, too. First day back, and I'm already late."
You watch how his eyes fixate ahead of him as the vehicle inches forward, one hand on the wheel, while the other reaches for your knee, mindlessly.
He looks like a wealthy man’s son in his tailored suit and neatly combed back hair. It's the reason you two just made sense— why your fathers got along, and why your mothers asked "so when's the wedding?" as if you were even close to the age where you should be settling down.
But, well, if not Jay, then who? He’s handsome, privileged, and laughs off your attitude with an easy smile. He walks through life like he’s weightless, talks like he’s worriless, and shakes hands with powerful men as naturally as he breathes air— and you suppose that's because it is. It’s what he was born to do.
He’d probably do a better job running your father’s company than you ever would, wouldn’t he? A part of you always assumed that’s why your parents love him so much. A union with Jay would mean the family fortune would be in good, responsible hands, unlike yours. You can’t really blame them for thinking that.
Jay drops you off with a quick kiss, both of you smiling into it as you say your goodbyes. And when you step into the elevator, tugging at your skirt and smoothing your hair, you can’t help but wish you could float through life as easily as your boyfriend seems to.
You're expecting the worst as you step out of the elevator, though you keep your chin held high despite the nerves coursing through your veins.
Sinking into your chair, your hands dig into your knees, and you prepare yourself for that look from him, only for you to take a quick, cautious glance behind you and find… nothing.
Mr. Park doesn't look up. He doesn't toss a glare or call you over to his office like you'd expect him to, given that you just walked in almost an hour late. He hadn't even left a passive-aggressive comment in your inbox, or a reminder to start your tasks or anything.
Okay, you think. So it's like that?
You turn your head back around, head craning just a bit more. And though you're certainly not about to complain about it, had he really given up just like that? One interrogation, and he decided your "wasted potential" was better off wasted? That would just be too... easy. Too simple.
No, you frown. Mr. Park isn't like that. He's a pest, an ever-present pain in the ass. You tear your eyes away with certainty this time. He's probably just scared like last time, right? Or worried you'll run off and badmouth him to father dearest?
You click through a few tabs for the next hour, pretending to work, pretending not to be so goddamn bothered, and pretending not to think about why that is. When, suddenly, you're watching others stand from their desk, filing into the conference room down the hall.
"Hey," you tug at your right-hand coworker's sleeve. Mr. Yang, you think, though you never bothered to learn his name, seeing how he never bothered to look you in the eye. "What's happening?"
"Ah, we have a meeting, remember?" He gulps, managing a polite smile, "An email was sent out last week—"
Rolling your eyes, you let go of his sleeve, and he mutters something before scrambling away. Then, you gather your things, trailing in with the rest of them only moments later.
You’re only half-listening, your eyes practically glazing over as Mr. Park speaks. He hadn't even bothered to acknowledge you today, so you might as well do the same to him, right? Though unlike everyone else in the room who listens like their life depends on it, you don't find it so difficult to ignore his dull droning. In fact, it's a little bit too easy to drown out the sound of him as your eyes drag over his tall, broad frame.
Suddenly, your name is called. Your eyes snap to him, as the room's eyes snap to you.
"Since you worked on the brief," he says, "Walk us through it."
Your stomach drops, and before you can think to glare, you're blinking, stunned.
"...What?"
You try to read him, to look for some kind of cruel intent behind his steady gaze. Instead, you find he almost appears wholly uninterested. That, you think, is far more infuriating than the former.
There's an uncomfortable pause in the room. The sound of pens scribbling and laptops being typed comes to a slow halt.
"You wrote it," his voice is steady. "So explain it."
You swallow dryly, unmoving, until it fully processes in your mind that he is being serious.
Managing a slow nod, you ask for a moment as you search for the file on your laptop, and after some fumbling, you finally pull it up. But as you nervously glance over the document, you’re reminded that you barely remember what you wrote, or what half of it even means, given that you completed it in a blind fury, with the sole purpose of getting Mr. Park off your ass.
"Well, it's basically..." you start, eyes flickering from the screen, back to him, pretending like you aren't trying to read off the document, "about the company's... growth projections."
"Which projections?" His response is immediate.
From the corner of your eye, you notice a few nameless faces exchange glances. Embarrassment tries to fight its way onto your face, and you counter it with your best fake, corporate smile.
"...The revenue ones."
"What about them?"
"They're... increasing?”
There's another pause, and you hear something that sounds like a chuckle disguised as a cough a few seats down.
Mr. Park allows the moment to linger, and to anyone else in the room, it might appear like he's giving you the chance to explain further, but you know what his true intentions are. You see it in the look in his eyes— that small, barely noticeable hint of satisfaction you'd come to know all too well. The same one he looked down at you with when he'd made you apologize to him on your knees. The same one he had when he'd rendered you speechless and flustered, and quite honestly, still threatens to.
"...Increasing?" he echoes, perfectly timed. He tilts his head, like it's a genuine question. "Increasing based on what?"
You don't even bother to open your mouth to say anything this time. Trying to explain yourself further would only dig you a deeper hole, and he’s already made his point. So instead, you sit there, jaw clenched, unmoving.
He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses.
"That's enough," he states, redirecting his attention away from you. "We'll revisit it later. Moving on..."
The rest of the meeting is anything but boring. It's torturous, sitting there with your face hot, as you look around the room, finding eyes that turn to look away as soon as you catch them.
And the worst part? He doesn't even call you in to speak after the meeting. That bastard.
Pacing across the tiled floor of the restroom, you simmer. You'd gone to try and cool yourself down, running your hands under cold water, taking deep breaths.
It's fine. It's just one meeting, and it's not like it matters. It's not like you care about being viewed as competent when you don't even have to be. But did he have to go as far as publicly humiliating you?
For a man who presents himself as pragmatic, he sure has a lot of nerve calling you out in a meeting to talk about something he knows you don't know shit about. Acting so unbothered. So professional. So bored. Seeing him sit there, pretending like he isn't savouring the sight of your misery is... fuck.
You sigh, a heat starting to pool between your thighs again, and you are not about to stand there and try to unpack why the hell you keep getting hot from the way he treats you, because frankly, the only thing you can do is just accept it at this point.
You're about to push past the door to the restroom when, just outside the door, you hear your name uttered. Leaning on it until you peer just a crack, you catch sight of two male coworkers— again, names of which you didn't bother to learn— who work a few desks down from yours.
They linger by the fountain, one of them holding their plastic water bottle up to the pathetic stream of water that leaks from the old machine.
"...don't even know why he bothers to give her real work when she's clearly a nepo hire."
"Right? Might as well just pay her to stand around."
The other male laughs in response, a sly smirk rising as he nudges the other.
"I mean... I wouldn't blame him for it."
The two snicker, and you narrow your eyes.
"Oh, please. Mr. Park?" the other scoffs, raising a brow, "The guy is practically married to his balance sheets. Probably gets off on them."
"Maybe he's got his eye on some new assets."
The other snorts, clamping a hand over his mouth before erupting into laughter, provoking the other to do the same. Meanwhile, your stomach twists in disgust.
Deciding you've heard enough, you push past the door, and one resists the urge to laugh even harder, while the other tries to shush him. You don’t bother to spare them a second glance, your eyes set on one thing only.
In deliberate strides, your feet carry you to his office, shutting the door behind you as you slam your hands on his desk.
"Is there a reason you decided to do that?"
He doesn't look up right away. He types for a few more seconds before looking to you. Calm. Measured. With a goddamn smile on his face.
"Do what?" he asks, "Ask you to explain the brief that you wrote?"
"You put me on the spot and made me look stupid on purpose," you seethe. "If you heard what others are saying—"
"Are you saying you feel embarrassed?" He raises his brows, acting shocked, before letting his expression fall flat. "Then, maybe you should've come prepared."
"I told you I don't care about this job." Your hands curl into fists.
"And I don't care that you feel humiliated by the consequence of your own actions. Did you really expect me to coddle you?"
"You are such an ass." You growl, "Is that why you give me real work? So you can torture me?"
"I'm helping you," He sighs, shaking his head, "And I know you don't understand that yet, but you'll thank me one day."
You scoff at him in disbelief.
"I'll thank you? Are you serious right now?"
"I am."
He says simply. Nothing more.
A beat passes, and you stare— You stare until you snap.
"Bet you'd love for me to thank you, wouldn't you? So fucking full of yourself. 'Oh, thank you, Mr. Park!' Is that what you want to hear? 'Thank you so much—'"
"Stop that."
"'Thank you so much for calling me a spoiled little bitch—'"
"I said stop." He repeats, sharper this time, like a warning.
"'Thank you sooo much for humiliating me—'"
With that, he stands to full height, glaring down at you. You try to straighten yourself out, lifting your chin, determined not to give him the satisfaction of intimidating you.
"If you don't have anything else to say, then get out of my office."
You stare a moment longer, deciding if you want to push your luck. Ultimately, you decide against it. You were done with him today, and you'd have plenty of other opportunities to make him pissed.
"Fine."
The door shuts with a rather loud thud, and you don't see how Mr. Park brings his hand to drag down his face, breathing in deeply as he suppresses the thought of what you just did from his mind. Though it does not work, and the image of his attractive, much younger intern thanking him for the humiliation lingers, unsettling and persistent, following him long after he’s left the office and returned home.
[Wednesday]
Subject: Brief Revision
From: Park Sunghoon
Hello,
Please revise your most recent submission as it is not up to the expected standard of quality.
Thanks,
Park Sunghoon
Chief Investment Officer
Re: Brief Revision
To: Park Sunghoon
make me
You only just hit the 'send' button when you hear a ping from your cellphone. Looking down at the notifications, you grin.
Jay: miss you
Jay: cant stop thinking about you
You: yeah?
You: what are you thinking about?
You're biting your lip, watching the three dots on your screen as you wait for your boyfriend's response, thankful for some kind of distraction— anything to take your mind off of yesterday. But of course, your moment of peace doesn't last long. It never does in this damn office.
Jay: you have no idea
Jay: im so hard right now
Jay: wanna fuck you so bad
You don't feel your boss's presence until he's right behind you, and you freeze when you realize he's right there, leaning down next to you. You nearly jump out of your seat, clutching your phone to your chest. And the expression on his face is... pure horror and disgust. In a less humiliating circumstance, you would find it amusing. But right now, you are in no place to be laughing.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I wanted to see what my intern does on her phone instead of working," he cringes, "Now I honestly wish I hadn't."
"Consequence of your own actions, Mr. Park," you quote him, "Does this mean you'll leave me alone, now?"
"Quite the contrary. If you don't want me looking over your shoulder, reading about... that, then get to work," he folds his arms, and you scowl in annoyance, "You are the one who asked me to 'make you' do your work."
"Pervert," you mouth, so that neither Mr. Yang nor your surrounding coworkers can hear.
He takes a glance around before leaning down right at your ear, breath tickling your skin.
"Says the one sexting at the office," he whispers, and you fight the shiver that threatens to run up your spine as he continues. "Really, do you have any shame?"
He lingers, waiting, and you open the document, reading it over. He waits a few minutes, watching you make a few edits here and there, and after a bit, he leaves.
As soon as he's gone, you delete the edits you've made out of spite, and for the next hour, you waste your time pretending to work, and send back the document with the only thing changed being the font from Times New Roman to Comic Sans.
Re: Brief Revision
To: Park Sunghoon
[attachment fuckoff.docx]
Re: Brief Revision
From: Park Sunghoon
Hello,
Please revise again, as it is still not up to company standards.
Thanks,
Park Sunghoon
Chief Investment Officer
You waste another hour, this time instead making it wordier, longer, and impossible to parse through. The document is now double the length of the original, riddled with unnecessary paragraphs, and you know he'll still waste his time reading because that's the kind of annoying little asshole he is. And once you're satisfied, you hit 'send' again.
Re: Brief Revision
From: Park Sunghoon
Hello,
Yet again, I am asking you to revise.
Please be reminded that you will need to speak about it at next week’s meeting.
Thanks,
Park Sunghoon
Chief Investment Officer
With a sigh, you glance back, seeing him hard at work as usual. And decidedly done with wasting his time, seeing as you aren't getting the kind of amusement out of it you'd hoped for, you open up a new document.
You do it right this time. Not with the intention of putting your whole heart into it, but admittedly, you grow more immersed in writing it than you should. You don't even hear your phone when it pings, and as you near the end of the workday, you don't realize when people slowly start packing up, leaving the building. When you finally click 'send', that's when you notice you've stayed overtime.
There's another ping on your phone, and you curse under your breath, scrambling to pick it up.
Jay: baby?
Jay: guess work is busy today :(
Jay: ill pick you up later
Sent 1:27 PM
Jay: see you soon beautiful
Sent 4:48 PM
Jay: almost done?
Sent now
You gather your things, texting out your reply as you make your way to leave. But, unfortunately, so does Mr. Park. You exchange a stiff glance as you wait for the elevator, which takes its sweet time like always.
"Better."
"Hm?" You raise your brow.
"The brief is better."
The elevator dings, and he gestures for you to step inside first, like he's some kind of gentleman. You'd roll your eyes at him for it if you weren't busy narrowing them in response to his choice of words.
"What do you mean, 'better'?" You ask.
"It means it's better," he repeats, stepping inside after you, "but you can still do better."
He presses the main floor button, and you watch in annoyance. You grip your handbag tight, wondering why 'better' feels worse than 'sloppy' or 'lazy' ever did. Whatever, you think.
"It's good enough."
"It is."
"Then why are you complaining?" You snap.
"I'm not." He replies simply. The elevator doors open to the main floor, and he gestures for you again. Just when you think he’s done, he continues, "I'm just saying you're capable of more."
"Well, I don't want to do more."
You step out, and you fully intend on walking far, far away from the conversation so that you no longer have to simmer in irritation.
"Alright. Sure."
Your steps halt, and for a moment, you watch him as he walks past you. With a frown, you take a few hurried steps forward, intending to catch up with his long-legged strides.
"What the hell do you mean by—"
You lose your balance, as one does when they try to jog in stilettos, and you feel yourself starting to fall face-forward. Then, he catches you by the arm. Blinking up at him a few times, you feel your pulse racing. You try to convince yourself it's from the panic of nearly tripping and nothing more.
"Careful," he utters as he steadies you.
His hand doesn't linger longer than it needs to. His distance is professional, his tone polite. There is absolutely nothing about the moment that should be making your heart race the way that it does.
You notice he moves a bit slower with his next step, allowing you the time to catch up.
"I meant that, for someone who claims they don't care about this job," he begins, pushing the door open and holding it for you, "You seem quite bothered by my feedback."
"You are what bothers me," you quip rather defensively, walking through the door.
"Believe me, the feeling is mutual."
A few cars away, your name is called, and you both turn. Jay is there, waving to you from where he leans against his car.
A faint smile spreads across Mr. Park's face. It's different from the one he wears around the office, more amused than it is polite, though you vaguely wonder if there is something else to it you can't quite place. He doesn't seem to be trying to hide it, regardless, as it lingers on his lips.
"Better not keep him waiting, hm?" He teases, and you feel a flush rush to your cheeks.
He begins to walk away, half-glancing back over his shoulder.
"Enjoy your evening."
[Thursday]
You're ready this time. On time. A coffee cup, half finished, as you type away.
You decided sometime last night— as Jay snored at your side, and you lay awake in frustration after having to fake an orgasm for the first time in years— that 'better' wasn't enough.
You do real research this time, instead of glazing over lines from Wikipedia and paraphrasing them. You organize it all, formatted to the expected standard format, in neat little sections, revise it until you can’t find a single flaw, over and over. You do everything you can until finally, you send it, checking your phone for the time. Barely past noon, and you were already finished.
You lean back in your chair with a satisfied smile and turn to the side to see Mr. Yang looking straight at you.
"What?"
"Oh. Nothing, just," he shakes his head, "I've never seen you that focused before."
His eyes go wide at the realization of what he'd just said, and he begins to scramble. He smiles, a look that screams 'please don't get me fired'.
"I mean, don't get me wrong! I'm not saying you're not focused or anything, or..."
His words fade to white noise in your mind as you spare a glance towards Mr. Park's office, smiling at the thought of when you'd be called in— you wonder what he might be thinking. If he's reading it right now. If he's shocked or maybe even proud.
Except he never calls you in. You refresh your inbox the rest of your shift, thinking he might've at least said something. Anything. He doesn't even stop by your desk or return your glances from across the office, and you decide to finally do what you always seem to do anyway, which is barge straight in.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
He doesn't look up, immersed in something else as he types faster than you think any human should be capable of typing. He’s probably busy. You sometimes forget that he actually has work he has to do, unlike you. But still, you find yourself frowning, shifting your weight where you stand, a good distance away from his desk.
"My work."
"What about it?" He responds quick.
So he did read it, you think, which does nothing to soothe your growing discomfort as you process his lukewarm reaction.
"...Your thoughts?"
He stops typing for a moment, sparing you a glance. Just one single glance, and a small smile.
"It's good."
He immediately returns to working, and you stand there. You just stand there.
"That's all you have to say?"
"Your work is good. You did a good job. What else can I say?"
"I did a good job," you repeat, trying not to seethe.
That's when he stops typing. And somewhat amused, he looks at you.
"What, are you expecting a gold star?" He teases, shaking his head. It's not meant to be cruel. You've seen how he speaks when he's trying to be. And yet, it cuts deeper than his cruelty ever has. "You finally did what I expect from everyone here, and what I already knew you were capable of doing. So good job for proving me right."
Your jaw tightens, and his eyes seem to drop, noticing how your hands tremble.
"Alright. Don't be like that," he starts, his tone softer this time. It does not make you feel any better. "I am pleased to see that you're finally making a real effort."
You exhale sharply through your nose as you watch him get up, circling the desk. And soon, a hand is at your back, gently guiding you to the door.
"But you know what would please me even more? Consistency."
You wince when he pats your back, like that's supposed to be supportive.
"So why don't you get back to it and—"
"You think I care about pleasing you?" You manage, swallowing the lump at the back of your throat, pretending like your heart isn't sinking in your chest because the hours of work you spent perfecting that stupid brief only earned you a good job and a pat on the back. Your hands curl into fists, and you're not sure why. You've gotten a bad grade or two before— disappointed a teacher here and there, felt the shame of failure. But this, right now? You'd never felt so pathetic. “ ‘cause I don't. I just did it so you don't embarrass me in front of everyone again. That's all."
He observes you, seeing how you avert his gaze, how you shift your weight from one leg to the other. You begin to blink, your eyes glossy.
"Maybe I should rephrase myself," He goes on carefully, "You're taking it the wrong way."
"Like I said. I don't care. So don't—" you inhale, "So whatever. Fuck you."
He lets out a deep, heavy sigh.
"Let's not take it there," he warns, sternly, "Good isn't an insult—“
"Then what part of it isn't good enough? What could've possibly fallen short of your standards, Mr. Park?"
Annoyed, but still patient, he observes. Finally, he moves towards the desk, and you watch with your fists still clenched at your sides.
"You want feedback. Is that it?” He asks, pulling out his desk chair, “You could've simply asked."
You watch as he beckons you.
"Come. Sit."
You do. And he hovers behind you, right hand on the mouse, his left on the desk, caging you in. You’re hyper aware of how close he is, with how his cologne invades your senses, and how you can hear him muttering low to himself as he pulls up the document you’d sent. You lay your palms flat against your lap.
"This, right here? It's too much. Same thing here. Here. And here. You're overcompensating,” he cuts straight to the point.
"Thought you wanted me to try harder?" You mutter.
"And I think it's sweet that you're trying, missy, but the goal is not to impress me." A low chuckle escapes him, going straight through you. "The goal is to be as clear and concise as possible."
Your jaw tightens, unsure if it’s in response to his annoyingly condescending criticism, or because you’re trying to fight the dirty thoughts of him that you just can’t quite push away, no matter how hard you’ve tried to over the past week. He continues, clicking to another section.
"This, here? Correct, but completely disorganized—"
"Still correct."
"Still disorganized," he affirms. You take a few deep breaths, and he's humming to himself as he highlights all the problem areas on his screen, "You have a tendency to be messy, don't you? Messy, messy, messy..."
You close your eyes as he trails off, acutely aware of how his voice, low and just inches from your ear, is driving you insane. He scrolls down and stops at the final section.
"Ah, and this rambling nonsense. This is the worst part." Your hands curl into fists at your lap, pretending like you don't feel his eyes shift to you, directly, "What was the point of this?"
"I don't know."
"You wrote it. You must know."
"Like...” you fumble, reeling in your thoughts as you continue, “to give my opinion, I guess? Or... something."
He allows you to scramble over your words for longer than necessary, and you wonder at this point if he just enjoys watching you suffer. Then, you wonder why you enjoy the thought of him enjoying watching you suffer. You take in a deep breath, reminding yourself to calm the fuck down.
"My job is to make the opinions. Yours is to give the information."
You wince when you watch him click 'delete' on the entire last section, and something inside you snaps. You spent hours on that. For him to just— You inhale, slow, controlled, desperate not to show that any of this bothers you at all, because why should it?
"Like I said. It's good." He says.
"Is it now?" You scoff.
He stares. Unmoving. You try to get up, but a hand on your shoulder keeps you planted in the chair, without much force at all. His gravitational pull is enough to keep you there, regardless, you suppose. He spins you around to face him.
"You asked for honesty. That's what I gave you." He replies, "You don't get to be sensitive about my response."
"Never said I was."
"You look like you want to kill me."
You have to fight the urge not to let your eyes drop from his, down to his pretty, full, frowning lips. God, how you wish killing was the only thing you wanted to do to him right now.
"I always look like that, Mr. Park," you scoff, "Hard not to."
"You know, I'm really getting tired of this."
"What's this?"
"Your attitude." He sighs, shaking his head. Exhausted from this. From you. From every exchange turning into something difficult. "Do you always have to throw a hissy fit when things don't go your way? I have real responsibilities here that I need to tend to. I can't spend every hour of the work day lecturing you."
"Says the one who turns everything I do into a lecture," You retort. "Seriously. Sometimes it's like you're finding an excuse to talk down to me, or something."
For some reason, this makes him freeze, like he'd only just noticed how close he was to you. You supposed you hadn't fully realized it either. He's close enough that you can see the moles on his face, the texture on his clear skin, and each individual one of his pretty lashes as he looks at you through them.
His tone is pissed, but his expression is... something else entirely. Wide-eyed, jaw clenched tight. His hand twitches, where it rests on your shoulder.
"You think I like talking down to you?"
"Don't you? Why else would you be doing it so much?" You tease, telling yourself it's just to get under his skin. But, you feel yourself start to grin just a little, your voice a little slow, the hint of something that shouldn't be there beneath the surface. "You do this with all your interns? Get all up in their face and insult them and call them names?"
He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn't appear amused either. He’s still. Uneasy.
"Just the ones who don't know their place.”
You wait for him to tell you to get out. To call you a stupid, immature intern or something along those lines, as he can never quite help himself from reminding you. To your surprise, he doesn't.
"Oh?" You tilt your head, and your grin spreads wider. Your hands curl in your lap, heart pounding in your chest as you continue, unthinking, "You're gonna put me in my place, Mr. Park?"
"Don't tempt me to,” his response is quicker this time, and you catch a glimmer of something dangerous in that calculated gaze of his.
"I'd like to see you try."
His mouth twitches, like he’s suppressing a smile as he looks you up and down. Then he laughs, hand tightening at your shoulder ever so slightly as he leans to your ear.
"You don't know what you're asking for, Miss—"
Suddenly, there's a knock at the door, and the two of you jump apart as if you'd just been shocked. Immediately, you stand up from your seat, and Mr. Park turns around to face the window, a hand running through his hair, neither one of you daring to comment.
"I should go."
"Yes,” he clears his throat, “Keep up the good work."
"I won't,” you return with a weak laugh, wincing as you leave.
There, at the door, you find Mr. Yang, eyes nervously glancing past you to try and meet Mr. Park’s, hands gripping the file folder in his hands like they’ll fly away. He offers you a polite nod, before trying to brush by you.
"Mr. Park, I wanted to ask about tomorrow—“
"If you have a question, you can send it to my inbox,” he snaps back, looking over his shoulder, “Leave. both of you.”
"But—"
Thankfully, you're shooing Mr. Yang out of the way, shutting the door behind both of you, reading the room for once in your life.
Finally alone, Mr. Park sinks into his chair, looking down at himself, half-hard in his pants. He brings a hand to his face, groaning to himself.
Surely, it's just the result of it being a long ass time since the last time he'd gotten any kind of action— not since he'd signed his divorce papers two years ago, parting ways with a flame that had long since burned out and refused to reignite.
No. Even he's not sure he can convince himself that's the real reason. Truthfully, the only thing he can blame is the one thing that he doesn't want to admit to himself; that despite all the sighs of frustration and headaches you've caused him, you're not exactly the worst distraction to have at his desk. Pretty, quick-witted at times, short-tempered and, well... very entertaining.
Truth be told, he'd encountered many interns over the years whose work ethics were similar if not worse. You're just more annoying and worse at hiding your phone beneath your desk. And, more intriguingly, you’re the first employee he’s never had to pretend to tolerate.
It was refreshing, to say the least, to be able to say exactly how he feels to your face instead of letting the resentment fester and build, with no way to let it out, like it seems to with everyone else. And yet, no matter how many times he loses his temper, or lets his mask slip, you only return with the same whiny, bitchy little attitude you always do— like you’re begging to be put in your place.
He wants to bury himself at his own train of thought, guilty for even thinking any of it in the first place. He’s your superior. He’s supposed to be guiding you, and he’s put in a great deal of effort to establish some kind of trust with you. Today it finally paid off, seeing as you came to him in search of his approval— and yet here he was getting turned on by it like some kind of creep.
Annoyed and deciding there is no point in dwelling on the thought any longer, he looks to his screen, quickly closing the document.
Fine. You’re attractive. He can admit that to himself. It’s not a crime to think it. But he’s not in college anymore, and though the thought of having his way with you may crawl its way to the forefront of his mind on occasion, it would always remain a thought and nothing more.
[Friday]
You stare at him all morning. Obviously.
How could you not, when the way you jumped apart from one another lingers heavily on your mind? You can still feel his casual touch on your shoulder, his voice at your ear, the scent of him. It’s all-consuming.
Shamefully, a part of your mind wants to search for an excuse to bother him again. You could act out. Go back to avoiding your work and texting instead, hoping he'd come by and talk down to you in that low, stern voice of his. The thought was all too tempting, though it had no business being— you know, given you have a whole ass caring, kind and tender boyfriend.
You mentally scold yourself. There is something extremely wrong with you for even entertaining the thought of ruining your Friday night plans with Jay, just so you can get held behind and berated in your boss's office, isn't there?
"He seems stressed, doesn't he?" Mr. Yang— or rather, Jungwon, as you'd recently learned— comments. "He always gets like this before client presentations. We always say it's the only time he seems human."
You try not to seem too surprised by the fact that there is a presentation today, praying there is enough time to review the client's portfolio.
Everyone begins to file towards the conference room later, and you clutch your laptop in your hands, repeating information in your head as you follow suit, but a firm grasp at your arm halts your steps.
"You won't be expected to speak. In fact, it's better you don't," He mutters, "Understood?"
You nod. Because what else can you even manage to say when he’s speaking like that to you?
You think you finally understand just why he's so tense when you sit down in the room, eyes landing on the various faces around the room. A Senior Executive, whose name escapes you, but whom you've shaken hands with more than once over the years, given his working relationship with your father. Senior Clients and their teams, ready to ask probing, technical questions.
Mr. Park leads like he always does—clean, controlled, efficient, with enough friendliness in his demeanour to appease the obscenely wealthy men he is trying to close a deal with. Every slide transitions exactly when it should, every point lands, and you follow instead of drifting like you used to.
You suppose you could say it's just because you're ogling him, but even in the midst of that, you find yourself nodding along to the presentation, comparing it with the overview document open on your laptop as he speaks.
"We're taking a conservative position going into the next quarter," he says, clicking forward. "Stability over aggressive expansion."
There's a pause as he clicks to the next slide, but your brows furrow at his words.
What he’s saying is not at all what you’re reading… and normally, you would chalk it up to your own ignorance but a direct contradiction of his own words cannot be a misinterpretation.
"Didn't we model a more aggressive expansion for Q3?" You mutter beneath your breath, only intended for yourself.
It’s barely audible, but the room, still and tense, picks up on it. Jungwon, sitting at your side, nudges you, shooting a worried glance.
A few eyes turn— not many, but Mr. Park’s do. His lock onto you, something flickering behind them. He doesn’t seem to realize how dangerous that look is, does he? He has no idea how a single glare has you crossing your legs in the middle of a conference room full of people.
"That was one of several scenarios," he replies evenly.
You nod, instinctively, and look back at your screen like you should. Just as you should keep your mouth shut. And you really were planning to behave today, you swear it, but...
"But it showed stronger returns," you add, just a little bit louder than before— Just enough to appear unintentional to everyone else again, but not enough to convince him. This time, Jungwon looks like he’s about to die on your behalf.
You relish the way he freezes, reeling himself back in to keep himself from glaring at you. That's all you really intended— to shake him, just a little, like you always do. So, it surprises you when a few heads begin to lift.
"I also thought the aggressive model was still under consideration," one of the senior analysts hesitates before nodding to you, then looking back to Mr. Park, "Was it scrapped?"
"Surely, it must be incorporated into the final recommendation?" another adds.
The room starts to buzz, a few murmurs are exchanged, papers shifting as a few flip back through their notes, and you sit there, frozen, because you weren't actually expecting anyone to take anything you say seriously.
"Because if the returns are—"
"The aggressive model was one of several evaluated scenarios," Mr. Park states finally, smoothing out the sharpness of his tone with an easy smile. He continues as the room settles, "The final recommendation reflects the conservative projection. Now, moving forward..."
The room follows, and you keep your mouth firmly shut the rest of the time. Because you know you've done more than enough.
When it ends, chairs scrape softly against the floor. Conversations resume—low, professional, and you gather your things slowly, not daring to look at him. You overhear it as the Senior Executive you'd recognized from before moves to shake hands with him.
"That was a bit messy, Park. I'd expect tighter control from someone in your position," He says, and though you don't turn, you can feel his eyes drift towards you, "And you might want to be more deliberate with how your team contributes in these settings."
"Of course, Mr. Lee."
Subject: Revision
From: Park Sunghoon
Revise and reformat the attached document.
I expect a clean version tonight.
Thanks,
Park Sunghoon
Chief Investment Officer
You were in the midst of getting ready to leave for the evening, packing up your belongings and fantasizing about all the ways Jay would hopefully relieve the ache between your legs tonight, when suddenly that bullshit appears in your inbox.
If he wanted to talk to you about what happened earlier, he could've called you into his office earlier. But no. He chose to assign you a meaningless task at the last minute.
You stare at it, and before you know it, you’re storming down the hall, pushing past his door to find him packing up his own things. He’s slipping his laptop into his work bag, completely unsurprised as you come right up to the desk.
"I know I fucked up, but is that really necessary?" You begin, fuming, "I didn't even mean to cause a scene. I was just reading the notes you provided."
He sets his work bag down, looking to you. His expression is rigid.
"You disrupted the flow of a client presentation," he says, voice tight now, controlled but slipping, "and introduced confusion where there shouldn't have been any."
"I clarified—"
"You contradicted me,” he cuts you off, practically hissing as he continues, “That wasn't your place, intern."
"You contradicted yourself and giving me bullshit to do on a Friday night as punishment won't change that," You retort too quickly, knowing you are right this time, "I have plans!"
"I don't care," he scoffs, voice slowly rising, "the same way you don't seem to care about undermining my authority, so far as having the audacity to do so in front of everyone."
"I asked a harmless question!"
"Harmless?" he laughs, "you humiliated me—"
"Oh, did I?" You snap, "how does it feel?"
He pauses for a moment, and you watch him circle the desk, standing right in front of you, a respectable distance away but… still.
"You think this is some sort of game?"
"I just think you're being unfair,” you swallow.
Now that really seems to make him want to laugh, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. He approaches you, slow and steady, until you’re backed against the desk, hands curling around the edge of it.
"The only thing that's unfair is how you seem to think you can do whatever you like, say whatever you want, and get away with it, like a spoiled, selfish little brat." You gape at his words, trying to find the words to retort, but pathetically, a heat pools in your lower stomach like it always does when he has you cornered like this. "So go on. Do your job. And while you're at it, better let that boyfriend of yours know that you're busy."
Your face burns, and your hands curl tighter around the desk. How dare he piss you off like this, then expect you to get your work done, all hot and bothered?
"With how much you like to call me in here and berate me,” you begin, venom dripping with every last word, “I'm starting to think you like it when I act like a brat."
His hand lands on the desk behind you, and he glares, inches away from you.
"I dare you to say that again."
"You like it when I—"
He grabs your chin, firm in his grasp as he forces you to look at him in those wild, untamed eyes of his.
"How many times do I have to remind you to look at me when you speak?" He says. "Go on."
You stare, and you breathe. Unmoving, hesitant.
"You like it when I act like a brat. When I give you an excuse to tell me off. Makes you feel real important, doesn't it? Like you're the big bad boss, with all this control."
He smiles, cruelly.
"Aren’t you the one who likes it when I'm in control?”
His eyes drop to your quivering lips, then the way you squeeze your thighs together.
"You know how I know? Because you just don't seem to listen when I'm nice. But when I'm mean, when I don't give you exactly what you want, suddenly... you're kicking down my office door, begging for my attention,” his lips are inches from yours now, and you can feel him breathing. “You don't realize how obvious you are, do you? You fall in line so easily."
He finishes, and you wait. Your whole body buzzes with anticipation, Jay being the furthest thing from your mind. But, looking at him, you watch as his hardened expression softens— pained, almost. He doesn't lean away just yet, hand still firmly planted into the desk, until he releases a regretful sigh.
"Get to work. I mean it this time."
You furrow your brows, watching him start to turn his head away, but he’s one big idiot if he thinks for a single second he can just corner you like that, expose that he can read your deepest desires like an open book, and walk away right after, like it never happened— like he isn’t clearly flushed in the face and pitching a tent in his pants right now— like he doesn’t want this as much as you do. As if you’d ever let him get away with that.
In one swift movement, your hand wraps around his tie, and you tug his lips to yours. And as relieved as you are to finally be tasting him, to have your mouth on his, you don't let yourself relax into it just yet— not when you have something to prove. You trace your tongue along his lower lip, gently coaxing his mouth open, and he fucking groans when you do, kissing you back with equal desperation, but much more restraint.
You’re heaving when he pulls away, like you’d forgotten how to breathe, and he stares down at you. Conflicted. Guilty. Annoyed. Speechless.
"Oh no, Mr. Park... did I just misbehave?" You flash him a not-so-innocent smile, fingers curling around his tie, "Guess you'll have to punish me for that, right?"
You're barely able to catch the flicker of annoyance in his expression before he’s grinning wickedly, one hand at your waist while the other moves to your face. His lips are on yours in an instant, swallowing your squeal of surprise, and every other stupidly pathetic sound you seem to make against your will. Every part of you is burning hot, sensitive to the touch, and he seems to enjoy the way you squirm at the simple feeling of his thumb rubbing circles into your waist. Your mouth parts as it slips beneath your blouse, just grazing the bare skin beneath it.
"Is this what you wanted?" He asks, teasingly, “Just wanted me to touch you? Is that why you’re always bothering me?”
You nod fervently, feeling his hand dip between your thighs. You swear your brain begins to short-circuit as he drags his hand painfully slow across your skin, torturing you right up until the moment he’s found your clothed cunt, soaked in your arousal. As if that wasn't evidence enough of how badly you were craving him, you helplessly move your hips against his hand, where he palms you.
"So fucking desperate,” he’s still grinning as he pulls away from your lips, just so he can watch you try to suppress your pretty sounds as he slips past the fabric just to tease you, letting your slick coat his fingers, sliding up and down your folds.
“Oh, now you want to shut up?” He teases.
The hand on your face cups your chin, his thumb sliding to your mouth to keep it parted, just so he can hear exactly what he’s doing to you as he sinks two fingers inside you. His dick twitches in his pants as you moan, breathless and needy, just begging to be filled.
"So fucking pathetic."
You clench around him at his words, fingers curling into you and hitting you right where you desperately needed them to for so long. You gasp when he offers another slow, torturous thrust, before fucking his fingers into you.
Your lashes flutter shut, trying to form a cohesive thought.
"Says you,” you say, eyeing his painfully hard and large erection in his pants. But your eyes fall shut again when his fingers angle into you just right.
"Says me," he echoes, satisfied as your words catch in your throat, "me, who's barely touched you, yet you clench around me like you're about to fucking cum."
Uselessly, you try shaking your head, but then he's fucking his fingers into you like his life depends on it, and you're crying out, grasping onto him. You can feel that familiar feeling start to unravel in you all too soon, too worked up to fight him, too fucking attracted to him to resist it, either. He's so tall, and broad, and freakishly handsome that it almost scares you. You wish you had the strength to peel those layers of clothes right off of him, to see all of him for yourself, and worship every inch of him.
"Who knew that all I had to do to get you to stop being a bitch, was to treat you like one?" He says cruelly, before slowing the pace of his fingers conveniently when you've almost reached your high. "But acting like a bitch doesn't get you what you want."
You whine pathetically when his fingers pull away from you, but he ignores your desperate pleas.
"Mr. Park..."
"I'm guessing you were never taught any manners. Looks like I will have to teach you."
He moves to sit on his chair, and you watch, eyeing the obscene bulge in his pants, only tearing your eyes away when he gestures for you to follow. You follow suit, assuming he means for you to climb into his lap, but before you can mount him, he's grabbing you, folding you over his lap.
With your skirt pushed up, revealing your ass and those little panties which barely cover anything, he's stroking your bare skin. Feeling, groping, never touching you where you need him to most. You can feel just how hard he is now, pressed against you, and it fucking kills you that his grip on your hips won't allow you to grind down against him.
"You wanna be punished?" His voice is soft, but there is nothing kind or good-intentioned about it. You nod, letting out a weak yes. "I'll show you punishment."
There's a pause in the air, heavy breathing as he traces the edges of your underwear, watching it snap back against your skin when he lets go.
"But I'm not gonna be generous, like your daddy." his hand cracks down on your ass, and you yelp, squirming as his large, strong hands keep you in place. "And I'm not gonna be sweet like your little boyfriend who clearly doesn't know how to fuck you right."
He spanks you again, this time with a little more force, and your back arches, crying out. Your pussy clenches around nothing.
"I'm gonna do things my way. And fucking hopefully, when I'm done, my dumb little intern will learn to treat her superior with respect. Got that?"
"Yes, Mr. P—"
You nod, crying out when his hand makes impact with your ass again, and your hips try to rock against nothing.
"Eager to please, are you?" He chuckles, hand rubbing up and down, while the other threads through your hair, lifting your head just enough to whisper in your ear. He pinches your clit, smiling at your little noises. "You're a lot cuter when you're playing nice."
Releasing his grasp on you, he allows you to crawl into his lap. Your lips meet his instantly, your mouth hot and desperate as you grind your hips into his lap. You swear, you're seeing stars at the feeling of his cock against you, and all you want to do is release it from its confines, when suddenly, you're being lowered to the floor.
You blink up at him, on your knees, as his hand meets your chin.
"Touch yourself."
"...huh?"
"Don't make me ask again," he states, stroking your cheek, "You remember what I said about fixing your own problems, don't you? So play with yourself while you tell me how sorry you are for earlier. Then, maybe I'll think about fucking you."
It's humiliating, to say the least, as you peel your panties down and spread your legs for him. But that's exactly why he asked you to do it, didn't he? His eyes are on you, carefully observing as your hand moves down, rubbing yourself in slow circles.
You can't even remember the last time you'd done this on your own, with your hand. Even before Jay, you'd become accustomed to your trusty vibrator to get the job done quickly, dismissively, like it was some chore you were too bothered to take care of. Your face burns as you roll your hips into your hand, while the other works at the buttons of your blouse, enough to palm your chest through your bra.
"M'sorry."
"For?" He questions, "There are a lot of things you need to apologize for, my pretty little intern."
Your eyes drag down to where his hand palms himself through his pants, a whimper catching in your throat as you look back up, "Sorry for embarrassing you today."
"And?"
"For being a brat," you sigh, your finger poking at the entrance of your cunt. He watches it sink in, adoring how frustrated you are with that simply not being enough. His hand moves over his crotch, palming himself absent-mindedly. "For having an attitude. For showing up late. For n-not doing my job right... for— ah"
Honestly, he loses his train of thought watching you slip another finger into yourself, watching your eyes flutter, and your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you ride your hand pitifully. It doesn't take long for him to get his cock out, stroking himself as he watches you pinch and roll your nipples between your fingers, your wetness seeping past your fingers and staining the carpet under his desk. You mutter incoherent apologies between whines and gasps until you look to him, licking your lips as you eye his erection.
"Mr. Park," you're whining as your movements become more erratic, "Please... s'not enough, need more..."
Hand still at his cock, he moves forward to place the tip of his cock at his mouth.
"You forgot one last thing," he says as he sinks into your mouth. He doesn't care about how you gag around his length, sliding in until he reaches the back of your throat. "To apologize for starting this. But I don't think you feel sorry about that part, do you?"
He laughs, watching you shake your head, trying to reply with your mouth full. He pulls back for a moment, allowing you a moment to breathe, adoring how you cough and pant, eyes slightly tear-stained.
“Well?”
“M’not sorry,” you finally say, careful not to smile too widely, but it’s hard to hide your look of satisfaction when you’re exactly where you want to be, “Not sorry at all.”
"Dirty girl,” he breathes, “You'll just have to make it up to me."
He sinks back into your throat as you touch yourself, just adoring the way you moan around him every time he tugs your scalp, and how you drool all over him. Enthusiastic and eager to please, he thinks he's obsessed with how you look up at him all wide-eyed, saliva and precum escaping the corners of your mouth from how he's stuffing it full.
He finds himself approaching his orgasm quicker than he would expect at his grown age, having thought he'd left that hormonal, insatiable version of himself he was in his twenties behind. He doesn't mind, though. He's sure you don't either, given how he's working your poor little throat to death.
"Gonna cum, and you're gonna swallow. And you're gonna fucking thank me for it afterwards."
You try to whine in approval, weakly, and he groans, burying himself to the hilt as he spills down your throat, and when he pulls back, he grabs your mouth, humming in approval at the sight cum in your mouth, on your tongue, opened wide for him. You make a show of swallowing it, moaning like it's the best thing you've ever tasted, smiling up at him after like you're searching for a hint of pride in his expression. And fuck, is he proud of you.
"Fuck," he breathes, "You're such a fucking slut."
You barely have time to process what's happening before he's sprawling you over the desk, pens and whatever the fuck else falling to the floor as your back collides with the hard surface. He's hovering above you, tie above your face as two of his fingers sink into your cunt, and god, you're just thankful to finally have something more than the shallow thrust of your own fingers inside of you.
His long, thick fingers curl right into that spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back, not taking much to build you up again. Soon, he's lowering himself, and when you feel his mouth on your clit, you're thrashing around.
"Now, remember what I said?" He coos, "Let me hear it. Say it nicely for me."
"Thank you— ah!" You cry out, fingers curling into his hair.
He's grimacing to himself as your legs fall over his shoulders, pulling his face closer. Hands threading through his hair, tugging harshly, you begin to fall apart. And after being on the edge for so long, you lose yourself around his fingers, his tongue lapping up every last drop.
A string of thank yous leaves your mouth, trailing off into whimpers, but his mouth doesn't leave between your legs until you're practically kicking and shoving his face away, overly stimulated. Still trying to wrap your head around whatever the fuck he just did to you, he's above you now.
As you come down, he hovers above you, and as he gazes over you, taking in how absolutely gorgeous you look spread out on his desk, more than ready to fuck the ever living shit out of you... He then sighs, a hand dragging down his face at the sheer realization of what he's done, and just what he's about to do.
He's supposed to be your mentor, a role model. That's the dynamic he had tried to establish with you, anyway, when he realized how much guidance you lacked and how severely insecure you are behind all the designer handbags, diamonds, and whatnot.
In a moment of weakness, he leans down, kissing you, hands moving to cup your face. He swallows your whines, lost in the kiss when—
"Mr. Park," you whine, dragging out his name in that annoying, breathy tone you always did. Now, he thinks he'll never hear it the same. "You gonna fuck me, or what?"
With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he pulls away from your lips— and of course, you're there, smiling up at him. Because you're exactly where you want to be, getting exactly what you want from him.
He flips you around, bent over the desk, and bottoms you out, quite literally knocking the wind out of you at the sheer force and size of him inside you. He's fucking huge, stretching you open, fucking you so deep you swear you feel him in your guts.
Your nails curl around the edge of the desk, bracing yourself as you take him, back arching, and a cry rips from your throat as his hand smacks your ass. You clench around him in response.
"Greedy whore. So fucking impatient," he groans. "Gonna fuck that attitude right out of you. Fill your tight little cunt."
You're gushing around him when he slaps your ass again, kneading the flesh, gasping with every deep thrust of him. There's not a thought behind your eyes as he takes his frustration out on you, head completely empty, your pussy completely full.
He can't say that his head is all that clear, either, though. Completely gone at the sight of you, a pretty, young thing wrapped tight around his cock like you'd never been fucked properly before. You probably hadn't, he's sure. Guys your age probably make it to three pumps before finishing from the sight of you all spread out alone— hell, he knows he would've if he were still the dumbass he was back then.
God, wasn't it just incredible to see you all wide-eyed and precious, knowing he'd just fundamentally changed the trajectory of your sex life forever. You'd never be able to go back to whatever bullshit you did with that trust-fund boyfriend of yours. Selfishly, he grins at the thought, and he's pulled out of them when he hears your cries get louder.
"I'm close, I'm—"
He grabs a fistful of your hair, dragging you enough so he can see your face.
"Yeah? You think you deserve it?" He slows down, letting his cock drag deliciously and torturously along your fluttering walls. "Think you deserve to cum around my cock?"
You whine, pleas falling from your lips, begging. Grinning to himself, he pulls out, just to flip you around again, because he doesn't want to miss a single second of seeing your dumbstruck, fucked-out face as you finish on his cock.
He throws your legs over his shoulders and places his cock between your legs, dragging the tip over your needy, soaked cunt. It would be a real sweet revenge to jerk himself, coating your poor, desperate cunt in his release, watching it twitch and throb as you beg for completion, wouldn't it?
He shouldn't give you what you want. But...
"You always have it your way," He scoffs, half at himself as he presses into you again, hand braced around your neck. "Spoiled little brat."
Your eyes roll back, and he fucks you through your high, the desk shaking with every thrust, your cries spilling from your pretty lips. He finishes sometime after, spilling deep into your cunt as you flutter around him.
He watches you breathe, his head clearing, the reality of what had just happened and what he'd just done weighing on him. He's already planning how he's going to clean up this mess, when he's going to buy you plan B, how the fuck he's going to go back to work next week and even function properly when—
"Holy shit, Mr. Park," you let out a breathy laugh, "You're such a freak. Where the fuck did you learn any of that?"
He blinks down at you, a second passing before a wolfish grin spreads across his face.
"Let's just say I got around in my younger years.”
[...]
"...GENE Group is currently positioned as a mid-market fashion brand," you begin, voice steady, "but over the past two quarters, there's been a measurable shift toward premium positioning."
You look around the conference room, noting how a few heads lift as you stand before the presentation slides behind you. But there's only one pair of eyes that carries any real weight, and not just because he's evaluating you.
"Retail partnerships have been reduced by thirty percent. The average unit price is up twelve. And their latest collection was distributed exclusively through flagship locations and direct online channels. They're not scaling anymore," you state, hand tightening around the clicker before moving to the next slide. "They're narrowing."
"Speculation."
Your mouth twitches, narrowing your eyes in his direction, careful not to let it linger for too long.
"The data supports a directional shift—"
"It supports a possibility," Mr. Park cuts in, sharper this time, in a tone that he knows you fall apart for. "You're assigning intent."
All eyes are on you now, and you nod once, taking in a slow, steady breath as you cool down your thoughts.
"Then I'll rephrase," you say, smooth, controlled. "The company's recent decisions suggest a move toward premium positioning, supported by reduced distribution and higher price anchoring."
"Better."
Your face is hot now, as is the rest of you, but you ignore it. You click to the next slide. Focus.
"If this transition is intentional, short-term performance will continue to decline," you continue, clearing your throat. "Which explains the current undervaluation—“
"But long-term, a successful repositioning increases brand equity and margin." Someone at the table leans forward, talking down to you like you're some kind of dumbass— which is something you tolerate from one man and one man only.
You scan the room, eyes finding the person in question, recognizing him as one of the sleazeballs who joked about you sleeping with the boss outside the bathroom a few weeks ago. And, well, you are fucking your boss now, you suppose, but at least you're getting laid. You doubt he can say the same.
"This creates a timing opportunity," you reply with a steady smile, "The market is pricing GENE as a declining mid-tier brand. But if the repositioning holds, it becomes a premium asset at a discount. This is where we enter—"
"This section," Mr. Park gestures, "is unnecessary."
You swallow, eyes returning to him.
"It contextualizes the valuation gap—"
"It buries your argument."
"Finish this faster" is what he's really trying to say, seeing how he glares at you like he's trying to look through your clothes. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead nodding.
"Then I'll summarize. In short," you click to the final slide, pulse racing as you continue, "we're not investing in what the company is today. We're investing in what it's trying to become—before the market fully recognizes it. And if they fail, the downside is already priced in."
"So based on current data," you finish, "GENE is a moderate-risk, high-upside opportunity contingent on execution."
You hear a few mutters of approval around the room, smiling to yourself both in relief and anticipation as you wait for him to speak. A second passes as he types a few notes into his laptop.
"Next time, lead with that. There's no need to make people wait for your point. It's a waste of everyone's time," Mr. Park sighs.
He's already closing his laptop shut and tucking it under his arm. And with a polite hand grazing your shoulder, he brushes past you.
"Meet me in my office after."
You have to bite down on your lip to suppress a grin.
"Yes, Mr. Park."
"Everyone is dismissed," he calls out as he exits.
The room gets up, and you collect your things, quietly buzzing with excitement. A few coworkers offer a nod of approval in passing, and some offer a word of encouragement, and you nod wordlessly, thoughtlessly, because all you can really think about is getting into his office before you go insane.
"Hey, don't look so down. You did a great job."
"Hm?" You look up, and Jungwon is there, offering a kind, pitiful smile.
"I've never seen him that harsh... but he's probably just upset over what happened at the client presentation a few weeks ago," He says. You bite your tongue, pretending to hide a frown. "I'm sure he'll warm up again soon. Especially if you keep working hard."
"Yeah." You smile, "I'm sure he will."
You're propped up on his desk, your legs wrapped around his waist as his lips press against yours, groaning into you.
His hands are all over you, at your hips, then at the collar of your blouse, slowly working at the buttons so that he can move his lips down your chest instead, marking you up where your clothes will at least be able to cover you. Though you're gasping when you feel his hand start to climb up your skirt already, before the work day is even over.
"You dragged out that presentation on purpose, didn't you?" He scoffs into your neck, "Made me sit there, thinking about spreading you out on that conference table."
"Sunghoon..." You breathe.
"Not at work," He says sternly.
"Mr. Park," You then continue, whimpering as his lips worship your skin, "Don't you think you were too harsh earlier?"
"Was I? Thought I was just giving feedback, the way you like to hear it," he replies, his fingers now brushing over your arousal. You shiver from the touch, "Think we both know you don't get this wet for praise."
"But was it..." you blink, collecting your thoughts for a moment, breathing hitching, "Was it good?"
He pauses, pulling away just enough to look at you. Taking in your unsure expression, he then cups your face, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"You didn't need to drag it out, but apart from that, it was great," He smiles sweetly, hesitantly as he quirks a brow, "You want me to be nice today?"
"Not at all," you shake your head, grinning to yourself, "Just wanted to make sure you're still giving honest feedback.”
"I told you I would. No special treatment... apart from this," He kisses down your face, and you giggle, beaming as he drops his face between your legs, "So let me reward my slutty intern properly, hm?"
You're nodding enthusiastically, but before he can get his face between your thighs, his phone is ringing. You whine as he pulls away, pouting as he tosses you a stern look, and without checking, he answers, a hand still stroking your knee.
"Yes?"
You recognize the voice immediately, fighting back a loud snort.
"...of course. She's been improving."
Your dad’s voice drones on the other end, and you’re just about dead seeing Sunghoon reply in that professional tone of his. Desperately trying not to laugh, you clasp a hand over your mouth, ignoring his glares until his expression then shifts.
"Oh?"
He raises a brow at you, and you tilt your head in confusion, hand mindlessly reaching out to play with the end of his tie. His hand continues to slide up and down your thigh.
"I see. That's... unfortunate."
Though for some supposedly ‘unfortunate’ news, he sure is beginning to smile widely, and you can't help but wonder what the hell your dad could've possibly told him. A few more yesses and hums later, he's hanging up the phone. And he looks at you, brow still quirked.
"Your father seems upset," he says, almost casually, amused as he watches your face drop.
"What?" You scramble, “Over what? Does he know about—?”
"He’s upset about you breaking up with that guy."
Ah. Right. Jay.
You tore off the band-aid pretty soon after you slept with Sunghoon, telling him you’d fallen out of love. Though if you're both being honest, you were never in love with him to begin with, and neither was he. He didn't understand. Didn't see it coming. But you figured leaving him confused would be better than continuing to pretend like your heart was in it at all.
Your father was the one who was taking it the hardest, though. Kept calling you and pleading with you to give Jay another chance. Hell, it seems he even took it upon himself to even try calling your boss. It’s moments like these where you want to tell him to just adopt Jay if he loves him so damn much.
"Is he?" You act surprised, "How tragic."
"You really broke up with him?" Sunghoon asks, definitely not disappointed, but a little unsure about how to react, given the complicated nature of your relationship with one another.
"Yeah," you shrug, "Got bored of him, I guess."
With that, he’s grinning.
"Is that what you're calling it?"
"What would you call it?" You return, brow raised as you pull him in by the tie again. His lips ghost yours for a moment, humming to himself thoughtfully.
"...Inevitable?”
Your laugh is cut short by his mouth on yours, a little too pleased to know he hasn’t had to share you these past few weeks. Still, there’s something else in the way he kisses you. Something that feels like a quiet approval that runs deeper than plain jealousy.
"I'm going to miss this job,” you manage as his lips travel down again, nipping at your collarbone.
"Thought you hated it?”
"I like making your job hard..." You smirk, and he glances up at you, while your eyes travel down, "And you, harder."
❝ our friendship was already ruined the day i fell for you.❞
PAIRING ▸ park jongseong x fem!reader (ft. park sunghoon)
GENRES ▸ smut, fluff, angst, gossip girl au, rich kid au, fake dating au, friends to lovers
WARNINGS ▸ profanity, sexual tension !!, jay and mc are the chuck and blair, enemies to lovers dynamic but they’re friends i swear, toxic rich kids doing toxic rich kid things, jay calls you princess which definitely needs a warning, smut content, oral (f. receiving), oral (m. receiving), thigh riding, dry humping, fingering, multiple orgasms, corruption kink, dacryphilia, slight degradation
SUMMARY ▸ life seems to finally be going your way. that is, until your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend is back, and gossip girl appears to be out to get you. but there’s only room for one queen bee in the upper east side, and with a hand from your best friend, park jongseong, you’re going to make sure it’s you.
WORD COUNT ▸ 10,193 words
PLAYLIST ▸ fever by enhypen • positions by ariana grande • daddy issues by the neighborhood • swim by chase atlantic
AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ this is sooo long overdue, but i’m so glad i wrote it because rich kid aus are my everything. also this fic was kickstarted by this and this :’) i hope you guys enjoy !! ♡ ps: you don’t need to know anything about gossip girl to read this
IT MIGHT HAVE COME OFF AS A SURPRISE FOR ONE TO HEAR THAT YOU HAD THE PARK JONGSEONG WRAPPED AROUND YOUR FINGER.
He was a man of class, of refinery. Well, at least that was how he presented himself when he wasn’t being a complete and utter sleaze.
Coming from a family of old money, Jongseong’s father owned a chain of hotels and resorts worldwide. You weren’t quite at their level, but you couldn’t sell your father short. As a world renown fashion designer, your father styled several celebrities and was even good friends with the Parks. They were probably the richest family in Seoul, just barely topping their rivals, who happened to be your boyfriend’s family.
Said boyfriend, Park Sunghoon, wasn’t as perfect as Jongseong, and that was why your mother was a touch disappointed when you ended up dating the wrong best friend.
Summary: Modern problems call for modern solutions, including naming a random stranger in the book store as your boyfriend to avoid an embarrassing encounter with your ex. The problem? The stranger is Vernon and he’s not supposed to be a stranger at all - he’s your coworker, and now everyone at the office - including your ex - thinks you’re dating.
Word Count: 20,296
Genre: Faking dating, Coworkers to Lovers, Romcom
Type: Smut, some fluff and crack
Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
Warnings: Reader has some insecurity about how her working hard is perceived, some ranting about Being A Girlboss, a little bit of inner angst, my bad attempts at humor, reader’s ex boyfriend SUCKS sorry to all the Minho’s of the world I named him after, explicit language, some minor commentary on power dynamics, Star Wars Lore, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (never do this), oral (f. receiving), nipple play, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, a little bit of a handjob, some cum eating if you squint, Vernon was supposed to be a freak but I made him soft instead, mutual pining.
A/N: Thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be a part of the Lonely Hearts Collab. I’m honored to be among such amazing writers and I cannot wait to see what everyone else wrote.
A/N 2: Thank you to the (w)hor(e)anghae squad @daechwitatamic @eoieopda and @jihopesjoint for beta reading this and letting me blind pass it over so I wouldn’t have to read it again because I don’t like it :)
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Whosoever slayeth Cain shall suffer sevenfold… or whatever it is the Bible says. You haven’t slayed Cain and you’re not really sure you believe in anything in the Bible, but you’re certainly suffering sevenfold. Eightfold. Ninefold.
Sevenfold had been earlier this morning when you dropped your glass of coffee on the ground, shattering your favorite cup and staining your white tile. Several Clorox wipes later, there is still brown stuck to the grout, looking a bit like you had an unseemly accident in the middle of your kitchen.
Eightfold had been when you decided to fix your weekend by heading to the bookstore. Surely purchasing books that you were going to let sit on your shelf months before reading would fix your day - until someone rear-ended you in the parking lot, leaving a good dent and an apologetic exchanging of numbers and insurance information.
Ninefold comes when you least expect it, standing in the aisle with a stack of books in your hand, eyes flickering over the different titles and ornate covers. You already feel better than you had this morning. The smell of paper, the whisper of turning pages, and the hum of the cafe brewing coffee in the distance immediately puts you at ease.
You swear nothing can put a damper on a good hour spent between shelves - until ninefold walks around the aisle corner.
The stack of books in your arm nearly drops to the ground when you see your ex-boyfriend hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend. You wheel around so fast you slam into the person behind you, which does knock all the books from your hands onto the floor.
A hissed curse leaves your lips followed by a quick apology. You drop to your knees, picking the books up as quickly as you can. The dude you’ve collided with has also dropped his books, the amalgamation of your soon-to-be-purchases making it more difficult for you to pick up your shit and leave the scene before Minho sees you.
Minho says your name, surprised.
“Fuck,” you whisper, fingers going rigid on the stack of books in your hand. You shoot to your feet and spin around, breathless as you come face to face with Minho and the new girlfriend that you definitely didn’t look up on social media a few weeks ago. “Hi, Minho.”
“Wow, it’s nice to see you not in the marketing department for once.”
“Well, I work there…” You offer a bit sharply, tapering to adjust to a nicer tone. “Hence, you know - finding me there.”
“I meant you rarely leave there.” He laughs and you feign a grin, eyes flickering over to the rosy-cheeked and very glossy-haired girl on your ex’s arm.
Good for her, you think. I wonder what hair product she uses.
“This is Mina.”
“Mina?” You ask, sticking your hand out as you shuffle your books awkwardly to the crook over your elbow. She smiles - god she has good teeth - and shakes your hand. “Mina and… Minho. Easy to remember.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Minho tells me you’re the only ex he’s ever left things on good terms with.”
Your eye twitches.
Good terms was a serviceable way to put it, you suppose. Sure, there had been no fighting or infidelity or long distance that put a strain on your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t been aware that there was a strain on your relationship until Minho was sitting you down on his couch and letting you know that it just wasn’t working for him anymore.
That had been confusing. You hadn’t asked any questions though, opting to sit and stare at him while clenching your teeth, nodding along while he explained that your inability to leave work at work and enjoy home while at home was wearing down on him.
You’re not saving lives, he’d said. He had been earnest too, which is the crux of it. You’re in marketing. You need to take a breather.
As if he didn’t come home in a bad mood after shitty sales calls all day, as if he wasn’t stressed when he didn’t hit quota, or didn’t complain about how long the department meeting went - you know. You were there, too.
So sure, you were on good terms. But only one of you seemed to have been unhappy with where things were going, and only one of you seems to have moved on to someone with really good hair genes and great dental hygiene.
Your tongue runs over your teeth, suddenly worried that you’d forgotten to brush them this morning.
“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat and choking a bite. “Good terms are always the goodest - best way to end things.”
“He’s really hopeful you’ll find someone,” she sighs, looking up at him dreamily. “He’s always wanted the best for you.”
A vein bursts in your head. Well- no. You wish the vein you feel throbbing in your head would burst and knock you out so you’d no longer have to suffer through this ninefold moment of suffering. Perhaps, even, a very attractive medic with glossy hair and good teeth could come save you and fall in love at first sight.
The genuine way that Minho and Mina look at you tells you that they’re serious, that they see you as something that deserves love too. Said in a cooing voice, said patronizingly, said with a pat on the head and a firm pout.
You turn with your free hand, grabbing the sleeve of the man who is hovering behind you and pull him over to you, grin growing sevenfold. Eightfold.
“No need to worry,” you assure them. “My boyfriend is right here! The stars really did align for me, just like you hoped and dreamed.”
Your seconds-old-star-crossed-lover looks entirely startled, looking between you, Minho and Mina. His books are cradled against his chest, his brown eyes wide. He’s actually incredibly cute, his glasses a little askewand his brown hair a little unruly.
“You’re dating Vernon?”
You look at Minho, blank. “What?”
Minho looks at your Very Real Boyfriend. “You’re dating Vernon? From IT?”
Ninefold, meet Tenfold.
“Of course,” you answer slowly, looking at your partner of now thirty seconds. “I am dating Vernon… from IT.”
Vernon (from IT) looks like he would rather be anywhere else than standing in the middle of the fantasy novel aisle with you at a bookstore, your nails digging tighter into his sleeve and your crazy eyes telling him to get with the program.
Vernon (from IT) clears his throat and nods, looking over at Minho. “Yeah. Hey, Minho.”
“Wow. This is really unexpected.”
“It sure is.”
Your nails dig in harder and Vernon (from IT) tries to pull away from you but you step closer, leaning toward him while flashing Minho and Mina a smile. “Anyway, no need to worry about me finding a relationship. I am very happy.”
“Figures you found someone at work again.” He laughs, but the comment lands like a blow. You feel yourself flinch, smile going too tight. “You really don’t leave enough to find anyone else, huh?”
Vernon (from IT) seems to notice, shifting toward you to slide his arm around your waist. The move startles you, drawing your attention to his face. He really is pretty this up close, his lips the perfect shade of bubblegum pink, his cheekbones high and hidden beneath the rim of his glasses, the tangy scent of citrus on his clothes.
“I like women who work really hard,” Vernon (from IT) assures Minho. “I’ll never get tired of resetting her password over and over again because she loses all her sticky notes everytime the cleaning crew comes through.”
If Minho senses the shift, he doesn’t let on. He’s never been great at social cues anyway, which is what makes him a decent salesman. Still, you’re eager to get out of their way and the glare of Mina’s shiny hair.
“Well,” You state. “We have to get going.”
“For sure. It was nice seeing you outside of work!”
With a final nod, Vernon (from IT) tugs on your waist. You both navigate awkwardly down the aisle, steps not quite in time and hips bumping. It’s uncomfortable and uncoordinated, but as soon as you’re around the aisle and away from your encounter, the two of you separate.
Vernon (from IT) looks anywhere but you. His cheeks are tinted pink as he looks up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot while you regain all your books in your arm. Embarrassment and gratitude both well up inside of you, one beating the other out.
“I am really sorry,” you blurt, voice a little loud. The people around you startle and you lower your pitch when Vernon (from IT) looks at you, chewing on his lip. “Thank you - I don’t even know how to say thank you for doing that.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Your cheeks heat. “Right.”
“Happy to help, though. You can thank me by swapping books with me, though.”
“What?”
He gestures to your books. “I was standing behind you because you grabbed my books after you ran into me.”
Oh. Right. You look down at the pile of books in your hand and see a few titles that you own, but did not plan on buying today. You divest yourself of his selections, taking the ones he’d collected off the ground from there.
“So you really work in IT?”
He snorts. The sound is… a little off. You glance up at him, but his face gives away nothing. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know.”
His smile is off, too. “I know.”
You’re unsure how to reply to that, but you’re also uneager to let him go, suddenly. Vernon (from IT) stands there for a second, lips pressed in a firm line and studying you. He really is beautiful, the light hitting his eyes in a way that turns them molten gold and-
“Alright well,” he interrupts your thoughts. “See you later or something.”
The urge to stop him strikes you, your mouth opening and closing. No words come out. You don’t know what to say - or why you want to stop him, just that you do. He walks toward the front of the store to purchase his books, leaving you standing in the middle of the store and wishing you’d met Vernon (from IT) under different circumstances.
-
Routine is important to you, especially during the weekdays. Wake up, snooze your alarm for at least fifteen minutes, get up when the second one goes off. Groan as you feel every single joint in your body pop after sitting up in bed. Wonder if you really need a corporate job to pay your bills (decide the answer is yes), and get up to feed the furious beast yowling from the bed.
The ferocious beast in question has a routine as well. Perhaps not as important as yours, the cat knows when he’s supposed to be fed and when it’s even a minute past feeding time. Halloween takes his meals very seriously, which you respect.
Your morning continues with the monotonous rhythm you’ve learned to appreciate: make coffee, shuffle back to your room into the ensuite bathroom for skin care, start your morning proper. The only thing that isn’t the same thing every morning is your playlist and your outfit of choice, leading both items up to fate to decide.
A hint of spring is in the air when you step outside. It’s that kind of sunny day with a cool breeze that promises longer days of sun ahead, despite still being brisk in the morning and biting when the sun sets.
Mornings during the days that hang between winter and spring are your favorite. You roll the windows down a little on your drive to work, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as you crawl along with all the other commuters.
Buildings shoot up toward the sky on either side of you. Dozens of banks, private firms, buildings with multiple different businesses and food courts become your entire world as you navigate to the parking garage. It’s already full of cars, but you get special parking.
Well - special as of your promotion just a few weeks ago. The designated parking spot and title bump was all that had come with the promotion, though, much to your dismay.
Still. You’d worked for this particular publishing house in the marketing department for close to a decade now. You weren’t quite as far up the ladder as you wanted to be, but you were trying to get there little by little.
So close. No cigar.
The elevator of the parking garage opens to reveal other office workers already filling the mirror-walled space. You step in as everyone makes room, clutching their bags and briefcases a little closer. You see Mingyu from creative and flash him a polite grin, which is answered with a bright one of his own and a small wave.
When the people not associated with your company shuffle off on other floors, Mingyu slides over closer to you. He’s one of the many designers in the art department, and definitely several rungs below your position, but you started the company at the same time together.
“How was your weekend?” He asks, wagging his brows up and down.
You frown. His questions suggests there’s something salacious to your wild weekend spent reading books with Halloween, but you don’t think burning the bagel you ate for girl dinner or staying in the same shirt for forty-eight hours straight is what he’s looking for.
“It was fine?” It comes out as a question. “How was yours?”
“Hm. It was good. We went out to catch the big game. Seokmin got so drunk he vomited, and Vernon won all of the bets we placed before.”
Mingyu leans forward, looking at you like you’re supposed to understand something. You don’t get it, looking him up and down with a pinched brow.
“That’s nice?” Again, it comes out as a question. “Not for Seokmin, I guess.”
His eyes narrow. Pin you to your spot against the elevator wall.
Then the elevator dings, signalling that you’re at his floor. Creative is an entire level down from marketing, all dim lights and glowing screens for the designers hard at work. Mingyu gets off, still looking suspicious as the elevator doors close and you shoot up another floor.
Instead of focusing on it, you shrug it off. Mingyu has a penchant for being weird - a creative thing, in your opinion. As soon as the elevator door opens, his behavior is long forgotten as you slip into work mode.
Everyone greets you with a polite smile or small wave on the marketing floor. The main office is filled with grey-walled cubicles, employees popping up to peer over walls with mugs of coffee and protein shakes and breakfast items as they ask their neighbors how the weekend was.
A glass wall in the far back denotes the executive and director offices. You head for the one in the back, right corner. Instead of turning on your lights, you let the natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows filter in, keeping the ambiance muted and relaxing. The only additional lights you flick on are the monitor light at your desk and a small salt lamp wedged between the books on one of the many shelves behind you.
Your office is still slowly being decorated. You’d only moved in after your recent promotion, and it’s still bare of personalization, save for the salt lamp and a few things you’d moved in from your cubicle.
And the coffee machine - your own private, blessed coffee machine in the corner on a small bar cart. That might be your favorite thing about your office. You like your coworkers - for the most part, anyway - but being able to bury yourself in your work without having to interact with all of them every time you want coffee is nice.
Sitting down, you roll your shoulders. When your monitor flashes to life, you see the number of emails in your inbox and try not to groan out loud. You’re thrilled to be the new Senior Director of Marketing, but you’ve gone and made the mistake of becoming too important at work, most things unable to move forward without you playing some part in it.
In theory, that was one of the reasons Minho had broken up with you in the first place. Too buried in work, too many late nights at the office, too many dates or movie nights interrupted by the blue glow of your phone screen on your face while you answer urgent emails.
The thing is - you don’t mind. It doesn’t bother you to pause and send a quick email, or to stay late and help get something launched. You like the intricacies of being a problem solver, and with as fast as your company is growing and publishing new titles, you’ve got challenge after challenge ahead of you.
It’s easy to fall into the monotony of answering emails, joining virtual meetings and striking your pen through your to-do list. It fills three pages, but it feels good to cross something off, even if you’ve only completed two things.
By lunchtime, someone is knocking on your window. You look up, surprised to see Seungkwan sticking his head in. He’s the Manager of Digital Marketing and Social Media and he’s dubbed himself as your assistant.
Other duties as assigned, he always jokes, but you are thankful for him.
“You have to eat,” he reminds you in a singsong voice, crossing his arms over his chest. His glasses are pushed up into his blonde hair. “Maybe you can take me to lunch and divulge every detail about your new romance.”
That makes you sputter. “My what?”
Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Seungkwan slips into your office, clapping his hands together. He sits on the edge of the couch in front of your desk, bounding with energy.
“Come on,” he whispers, looking at you earnestly. “Everyone knows - you don’t have to keep it a secret anymore!”
“Keep what a secret?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re dating Vernon!”
You stare. “Who?”
“Vernon! From IT!”
It comes back in tunnel vision. Ninefold meeting tenfold, Minho and Glossy Hair Mina, Vernon (from IT). Suddenly you’re hot all over, feel it creeping up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair as your fingers reach for your water.
“I’m - oh!” You escape answering for a second by gulping down copious amounts of water, trying to cool the panic that is licking flames up your skin. “Right. Vernon… from IT.”
“Honestly, he’s cute.”
“Ha. Ha. Yes. Um. Yeah.”
“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. How long have you been dating?”
“Uhh very new. Yes. Super new. I’m sorry - how did you hear about this?”
“Mingyu told me, but Soonyoung told him and Joshua in sales told Soonyoung because Minho told the Always Closing group chat.”
“The what?”
He sighs. “Ugh, do you keep up with anything? The sales floor has a group chat. It’s where Soonyoung gets all his tea because he and Joshua room together.”
“Who the fuck is Joshua?”
Seungkwan stares. “It is a wonder you even know who Vernon is. I swear you don’t know people you’ve worked with for years.” A thought seems to strike him and he gasps. “Oh my god is that why you’re always going to him for your fucked up passwords?”
Something Vernon said comes back to you vaguely. Something about forgotten passwords when the cleaning crew throws out your sticky notes. Of course, no one would throw out your sticky notes if you weren’t dropping them all over the floor, but that’s neither here nor there.
Bolting from your seat, you startle Seungkwan, whose brows disappear in his hairline as he stares up at you.
“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”
He sighs. “Boss, you have to eat.”
“I am! I am going to lunch with my…. Vernon from IT.”
“Oooo.” He leans back, shaking his head and grinning at you. “Go on then. Make sure you wrap it before-”
“If you finish that sentence I will revoke your privilege to my coffee cart.”
Seungkwan’s grin only gets wider. “Enjoy, boss.”
In a flurry, you leave your office. Eyes follow you as you go and suddenly you’re unsure if people are looking at you because you’re walking so fast that you’re almost running, or if it’s because they think you’re dating Vernon).
Your finger nearly breaks as you slam the button over and over again to shoot a few floors down. It doesn’t make the elevator go any faster. When the doors finally close and you begin to descend, you turn to the mirror walls and panic, tucking stray pieces of hair back into place and trying to fix the mascara smudges from staring at your screen for four straight hours.
A knot forms in your stomach. You press your damp palms against your dress pants, wiping viciously to try and keep the moisture at bay. When the elevator dings and the doors open to the silent hum of the IT department, you think you might vomit.
Unlike the marketing floor, no heads turn as you go. You try to maintain a normal pace this time, marching down the rows of cubicles before you realize you have no idea where Vernon sits. You pause awkwardly, standing on your tiptoes to try and see over the walls of cubicles to spot him.
“Can I help you?” A man sticks his head out of his cubicle, his headphones around his neck. He looks you up and down critically. “You’ll have to have proof of submitting a ticket before-”
“Vernon,” you interrupt him. “Vernon from IT? Where does he sit?”
For a second, the guy narrows his eyes. Then a lightbulb seems to go off and he grins, leaning back in his chair. He looks far too pleased with himself, and there’s something oily and slick you don’t like about his gaze. “You’re her.”
“I’m a senior director, yes.”
That changes his tune immediately. He sits up, clearing his throat. “To the back on the left.”
“Thanks.”
Following his lead, you pass by several empty cubicles, everyone seemingly at lunch. You take the corner as instructed and find a handful of men sitting in the same cubicle, one sitting atop a desk and swinging his legs, another leaning against the cubicle wall, and the last one sitting in the seat.
The one sitting in the seat is the quarry you seek, his eyes going wide when he sees you storming toward him. He goes rigid in his seat, clearing his throat and slapping the leg of the man sitting atop his desk. He kicks at Vernon before spotting you and immediately jumping down, straightening his shirt.
Nervous energy crackles as all three sets of eyes settle on you. You stop right in front of his cubicle, trying to put on your bravest smile.
“Hi?” Vernon asks, looking at the two men on either side of him. “Did you forget your password again?”
“What? No. I don’t do it that often.” He looks unsure, brows raised behind his glasses. You huff, putting your hands on your hips. “Okay, I forget it sometimes. But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”
“Does your software need updating?”
“No, I-”
“Oh. I did forget to give Seungkwan that new phone he asked for on behalf of the social team. It came in last week - I’ll finish setting it up and-”
“Lunch!” You all but yell, startling all three men. “I came here for lunch.”
There’s a long pause. Vernon’s coworkers look like they’d rather be anywhere else than trapped by you. You ignore them in favor of a quick study of Vernon. He’s in dress pants and a button down shirt that is untucked and a little wrinkled. It’s a far cry from the casual way he was dressed at the bookstore, but it’s still not totally work appropriate.
Still he pulls it off. There’s something casual and cool about it, aloof in a way that still looks good. His hair is even styled neatly, though a brown lock falls over his eyebrow as he leans forward and asks, “Lunch? The cafeteria is on the first floor.”
The man who had been sitting on his desk kicks him. “She’s asking you to go to lunch, dude.”
“She’s not-” Vernon pauses and looks at you. “Are you asking me to go to lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Your patience narrows to a tight smile, your words pinched between your teeth, “Because that’s what loving girlfriends do, sweetie.”
The words land and have an immediate effect. Vernon flushes from the neck up, mouth opening and closing as he presses his palms against his thigh. The man who kicked him snickers and tries to hide it with a thinly veiled cough.
Your gaze narrows and he notices you watching, clearing his throat to stretch his hand toward you. “I’m Chan. It’s nice to meet… Vernon’s girlfriend?”
You shake his head and say nothing, eyes drifting to the man leaning against the wall. He gives you a small salute. “Seokmin.”
“Oh.” You blink. “The puker?”
His charming smile drops immediately as he looks at Vernon, smacking him on the shoulder. “You told her about that?”
“I didn’t tell her anything.” Vernon stands, shrugging away from both of his friends’ wandering eyes. “Sure, sweetie,” he answers you, giving you a plastic grin. “It’s your treat this week, right? At that very nice, very expensive steakhouse down the block.”
There’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells you Vernon will only play along if it’s by his rules. You’re at a disadvantage, so you grin and nod, willing to go by his rules for now. “That’s so right, darling. Let’s go.”
“Enjoy lunch!” Chan calls behind you as Vernon shuffles behind you, quickly trying to tuck his shirt. “Don’t do anything I-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vernon warns, quickening his step to match yours. “Sorry about him.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got my own version of him sitting in my office.”
The elevator ride down to the first floor and the walk out onto the busy street is silent. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence you might have with Seungkwan or Mingyu - if Mingyu could wrap his head around silence. It's awkwardly silent, both of you looking anywhere but one another.
You don’t know where you’re going, but Vernon leads you to a Michelin steakhouse down the block, true to his word. You glare at him when you step into the dark entryway where a host with hair as glossy as Mina’s greets you.
“Two?” You both nod and she grins. “Right this way.”
Vernon follows her first, shuffling behind her as she leads the two of you into the dining room proper. It’s a beautiful establishment with lacquered floors, rich wooden tables draped with fine tablecloths and the kind of glassware that looks like real crystal.
When you both sit down with menus in hand, the hostess leaves you and you lean forward, hissing, “How much money do you think I make?”
“More than I do in IT,” Vernon answers breezily, eyes roving the menu. For a second, his gaze flickers to meet yours over the top of the menu. It’s the first time he’s really looked at you since you marched into his office. “Consider it an apology meal for the mess you’ve got us in.”
“Hey! You played along?”
“You’re right, I guess I could have just super embarrassed you in front of your ex-boyfriend. That would have been very polite of me.”
That stumps you. You open and close your mouth, feeling a bit like a fish. You suppose that’s fair - what was Vernon supposed to do when you’d grabbed him in the middle of a bookstore and staked your claim?
Sighing, you lean back as your server gives you a moment of respite, filling your glasses with water and going over the specials. When they leave, you grab your glass and take several gulps of water, trying to cool your head.
It only works a little.
“I didn’t know Minho was going to tell the entire world.”
“Really? Minho has the biggest mouth at this company. You should see his Teams messages.”
“You can do that?”
“On the clock?” He asks. When you shake your head, assuring it stays between you, he nods. “Yeah, we can see everything you do.”
“Oh.” You think of all the terrible things you’ve searched on your work computer like how to get over a breakup and how to tell if my ex still likes me. “Anyway, I didn’t know he was going to say anything.”
The server returns to take your orders. You order some sort of steak salad at random while Vernon orders something blessedly modest. As the server parts ways, Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at you again, expression unreadable.
“Well,” he eventually says. “No harm done once you tell everyone we’re not dating.”
“Once I what?”
“Well you’ll have to-”
“No way.”
“What?”
“Do you know how embarrassing that would be?”
He raises a brow. “More embarrassing than grabbing some dude in the bookstore and claiming he’s your boyfriend.”
The air leaves your lungs and you melt into the seat, your misery showing. “I already said sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just tell everyone you broke up with me.”
You snort. “No one would believe that.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering him immediately, you busy yourself unraveling silverware. It’s a hard question to answer, not because you don’t know the answer but because you don’t want to tell him. Vernon is quiet, though. Patient.
He doesn’t press you for an answer, happy to wait you out until you’ve folded your napkin and placed it on your lap, and once again drained the rest of your water. It does nothing for your nerves as you fixate on a spot atop the table.
“I don’t… date.”
“You dated Minho.”
“Yeah. That’s uh… it. It’s kind of a running joke that I am undateable.”
He frowns at that. “Respectfully, I find that incredibly hard to believe.”
“Thanks. I think.” You pick at a string in the tablecloth. “Anyway, no one would buy that I ended the first relationship I’ve had since Minho. I didn’t even end the last one and sort of clung to it in a way that was sort of embarrassing.”
“I see.”
You’re unsure if he really does. When Minho had broken up with you, you’d attempt to make arguments to keep him around. Offered less work hours, even said you’d go to therapy to talk about your insane need for success. He hadn’t wanted any of it, and you’d eventually realized that he just… didn’t want you.
They never did, when people realized what dating you entails. Everyone wants a woman who works hard. They like the illusion of it, the woman who gets up early in the morning and goes to workout before going to her corporate job and girl bossing all day long. They desire the woman who dresses fashionably, who wears designer tags and commands a room all day before coming home to make an effortless dinner followed by a luxurious night routine.
And you get it. You want to be that too. But the truth is most days you wake up past your alarm and rush to the office wearing shoes that don’t match, and sometimes you come home so late and burned out from your job that you eat a handful of shredded cheese over the sink with a stick of beef jerky, only to do it all again the next day.
That wasn’t what anyone wanted. At least, not in your experience.
“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “You’re right, or whatever. I should just tell them I lied. I’ve given worse news. Just you know - less personal.”
For a few minutes, Vernon is quiet. You don’t look up to meet his gaze. Instead you watch the ice cubes in your glass melt, little beads of condensation zigzagging down the curve of your glass.
A sigh makes you look up at Vernon. “What if we dated for like a month or something?”
“What?”
“I don’t mean really date,” he offers quickly, sensing your surprise. For some reason, that stings a little. You swallow it down past the knot forming in your throat. “It’ll get people off your back or whatever and we can just mutually end things.”
“Really? You’d do that.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, yeah.”
“You can break up with me,” you promise eagerly, leaning forward with the new promise of a solution to your problem. “Everyone will believe it. Just say I work too much and I’m too obsessed with my career.”
An uneasy gaze flickers in Vernon’s eyes. “It can be mutual,” he says firmly. “That way it ends nicely.”
“Fine. Everyone will think one thing anyway, you’ll get out without a scratch, trust me. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I can… suck it up and tell everyone I made it up.”
“Do you really want to?”
“No,” you admit.
“Then it’s settled.” He shrugs, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a month and then we can mutually end things.”
Sticking your hand over the table, you offer it for Vernon to shake. His mouth twitches a little as he smiles, leaning forward to take your hand. His is warm and softer than you imagined, enveloping yours firmly as he shakes.
“Deal,” you smile, feeling a glimmer of hope.
Just like that, Vernon (from IT) becomes Vernon (your boyfriend).
Sort of.
-
Vernon doesn’t consider himself anxious. He’s never really dealt with anxiety, and there are only a few things that can make him nervous in the world. The few times he remembers being nervous were when he was in a bidding war for a limited edition Millenium Falcon model, in line at a meet-and-greet for his favorite band when he was sixteen, and when he lost his virginity to Carley Waters in his sophomore year of college.
He’d won the bidding war and managed to not sound like an idiot meeting his idols, but he definitely came immediately after putting his dick inside Carley. Two out of three were pretty good odds, all things considered.
Vernon is more nervous than all three of those events combined as he checks himself in the mirror for the millionth time. Usually, he doesn’t really think twice about what he wears to the bar on the weekend. He has fifteen of the same shirt in the same colors, and his jeans all look the same, even though he thinks they’re different.
Now, though, he has the added element of you. He cannot recall a single time that you’ve ever agreed to go out with your work friends - and to your surprise, not his, you do have the same work friends - but tonight is different.
Tonight, you’re supposed to be dating.
It’s weird. Chan and Seokmin agree it’s weird. He keeps no secrets from them and had already told them about the encounter at the bookstore. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy, though Vernon cannot fathom how they just go with it.
She’s really hot, Chan had said after a few sips of beer. Fuck it, right?
She’s the third most executive person in marketing, Seokmin warned. Be careful.
Both are true. Vernon had acknowledged Chan’s point the first time he’d seen you in Information Technology a little over two years ago. You’d been dating Minho then and entirely untouchable - still are, kind of - and Vernon had been the only person at the office early enough to help you out. He’d been new then, and often came in the earliest to get started on the overload of tasks he was always given as the junior employee.
Even then, Vernon thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Sure, you had on mismatched shoes and there was a breathy chaos to you that would probably stress most people out, but he sort of liked it. Thought that it was different in a good way, and spoke to the sort of person who worked really hard and didn’t fake their way through the day.
Vernon had realized Seokmin's point right after he’d learned Chan’s. As soon as he helped you login to your computer, he’d realized you were a Senior Manager of Marketing. Not a huge title in a company so big, but high enough that Vernon thought twice about his attraction to you.
Now, both of their points are moot. You’re still attractive but that doesn’t really change the situation - makes it harder, even. Vernon had never really dreamed of an actual relationship with you and now that he’s found himself in a fake one, he’s not really sure what to do with the acknowledgement that he’s attracted to you.
Worse is that he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed to date you. Vernon is a senior coordinator in the IT department and you’re a senior director. Perhaps not in his department or directly overseeing him, but it’s a high enough position that Sekomin is right - it could mean trouble if this goes poorly.
So why the fuck did he offer to fake date you for a month?
As someone in Information Technology, most people think Vernon is smart. He doesn’t consider himself to be above average intelligence, and as he slides his sneakers on his feet to go pick you up for a night out, he thinks everyone is wrong about him - he’s fucking stupid.
Looking in the mirror one more time, Vernon decides it’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Jeans, a black shirt and a hat facing backward is all he really knows how to style. He shoves his keys in his pocket, a tiny vial of contact solution just in case, and grabs his phone as he heads out the door.
Your apartment complex isn’t that far from his. He finds it with ease, surprised that you don’t live in one of those high-rise apartments that all the other executives live in. The apartment is pretty modest with only three floors and rows of respectable Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics.
When he spots you coming down the stairs, his traitorous heart does that same little staccato it had last weekend when he saw you at the bookstore. He hadn’t expected to run into you outside of work and only panicked for a split second before he realized that you didn’t recognize him.
And then you’d called him your boyfriend.
Recovering from the memory of it, Vernon stares as you open the door to his car, flashing a tight smile as you slide in. He doesn’t know what he thought you might wear on the weekend, but he’s surprised to see you in jeans, a black form-fitted shirt tucked in, and a simple purse on your arm.
“What?” You ask, a little breathless. He sees the sticky shine of lipgloss on your mouth and squeezes the wheel, fighting the urge to lean over and taste it.
Insane, he thinks as he puts the car in gear. He’s gone insane.
“Nothing. I guess I just thought you’d live somewhere nicer.”
“Oh.”
Your shift in tone makes him realize how it sounded. “Sorry - not like that. I thought it would be somewhere really fancy. You’re a senior director and all that.”
“I only got promoted a few weeks ago. And it was not a pay raise, trust me.”
“Seriously?” You glance sidelong at him, pausing like you’ve said something you shouldn’t. His lips twitch and he says, “Not on the clock.”
That gets you to grin, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Only came with an office and title bump. I was already doing all the work of a senior director so they felt like they needed to bump my title to protect themselves, I think.”
“That’s kind of shitty.”
You hum. “Is it like that in IT?”
“I think it’s like that anywhere.”
“Good point.”
A comfortable silence falls over the car. It’s not at all like the awkward, stilted lunch the two of you had at the beginning of the week. He had been sweating through his shirt that time around, though you didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a little angry with you too, for getting the both of you into this mess.
But… it had been his idea to help you save face. He didn’t have to. He didn’t owe you anything, and he believes you when you say you would come clean and admit you lied through your teeth. Maybe that’s why he offered to help anyway, your willingness to swallow the pain of embarrassment to relieve him of the facade.
Library is a hole in the wall bar that Vernon and his friends from work like to go to on Saturday nights. It’s sort of a funny joke, a bunch of professionals from the publishing industry getting drunk and eating shitty bar food in a place named for the very buildings they dedicate their life to, in a weird, roundabout, mathematical way.
Vernon has friends outside of work that come too, but tonight it’s just the usual crowd: Chan, Seokmin and Seokmin’s girlfriend, Mingyu and Soonyoung from creative, and some of the people from the sales team. The sales team is only there by virtue of Joshua, who is the only person from sales Vernon remotely tolerates.
Vernon isn’t exactly sure what a sales team does at a publishing company anyway.
When Vernon parks, he sees you take a deep breath. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment before you brace yourself and get out of the car suddenly. He makes a noise and panics to follow you. You’re already plunging ahead like you’re storming into battle, and perhaps in your mind you are.
He jogs to catch up. “Wait!”
You stop, turning to face him with a dubious expression. “What?”
“We should walk in together.”
“Oh.” You blink. It’s a bit cute but Vernon shoves that down. “You’re right. Sorry. I sort of… set my mind to the task and forgot.”
“You can’t approach this like you approach work.”
“I can’t?”
He laughs. “No. Relationships aren’t jobs - so a fake one isn’t either. You have to try and appear like this is natural. If you come in all to-do list and checkmarking the boxes, it’s going to look weird.”
“Oh.”
The confidence you had a second before deflates. He feels a little guilty, reaching out to take your hand before he realizes what he’s doing. Your hands are cold in his but he doesn’t mind, wrapping his fingers in yours as you stare at him like he’s grown three heads.
Maybe he has.
“We should walk in together. Maybe holding hands.”
“Right.” You lick your lips and he tries to give you a smile more confident than what he’s feeling. His heart is hammering in his chest, both at the way your hand squeezes his nervously and at the preposterousness of it all. “You’re kind of good at this.”
“I just have a different perspective.”
“The perspective of someone who knows how to date versus… whatever I am.”
He hears the joke in your tone so he lets himself laugh a little. He starts walking, tugging you next to him. “Not exactly. I just watch a lot of movies, including romances.”
“Really? What’s your favorite one?”
“Uhhh.” He thinks about it as you both approach the door. He doesn’t answer for a second while he flashes the security outside his ID. “I really like The Proposal. With Sandra Bullock.”
Instead the bar is filled with modern music at a reasonable level and small, wooden tables with chipped tops. There is nothing about the bar that actually looks like a library, save the single shelf shoved in the corner with beat up comic books and an insane amount of hentai that Soonyoung put there.
“You mean the one where the boss fake dates her employee… and they work at a publishing company?”
As soon as you ask the question, Vernon realizes the irony. He looks at you with a wide gaze, pausing at the entrance to look at you. Your mouth folds on itself, trying not to laugh as you too realize the irony of the movie.
“Yeah, so that’s weird I guess,” he admits. He tugs on your hand. “Come on, we always sit in the back.”
You follow him wordlessly. The crowd isn’t big inside, but there are enough people that you have to shuffle a little closer to him. He catches the scent of your perfume - it smells like sweet tobacco and vanilla, something that is subtle with a little bit of spice.
Turning around the corner of the bar, you see a wall entirely taken by booths with pool tables in the open space. Mingyu and Seokmin’s girlfriend are already fighting over the felted green as she points a pool cue at him, threatening. Seokmin is lounging in one of the booths, watching on with a dopey grin that makes Vernon roll his eyes.
Everyone else sits in in a variety of booths, an entire corner dedicated to the dozen or so of them who have made this their home for the last two years. Vernon keeps you close, feeling his hands go clammy when all the eyes turn to the two of you. Despite the rumor having spread far and wide, it’s clear that surprise ripples through the crowd at seeing evidence of your relationship.
The fake one, that is. Naturally.
Instead of going directly to the safety - or danger, in this case - of his friends, Vernon heads to the bar. He needs to take the edge off immediately, though he knows he can’t get too crazy. The drive home is short, but even if you weren’t in his car for the evening, he doesn’t like to tempt fate.
Next to him at the bartop, you drop his hand to press your palms against the sticky wood. You make a face and he laughs before ordering a simple rum and coke. You order the same but with a lime and the bartender flashes you a charming grin.
Vernon glances at you and realizes you don’t even register the bartender. You’re chewing your lip and fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt and shifting from foot-to-foot. A pang goes through him.
“Relax.” You look up at him, eyes wide. “We’re going to do fine.”
“What if I fuck it up?” You ask, voice barely audible as you lean in. “They’re going to see right through me, Vernon from IT. They’re going to have one conversation with us and be like ‘no way is he dating that lunatic.’”
“For starters, you’re not a lunatic.” You give him a look and he amends, “Not in the way that’s bad, anyway.”
“How do you know? We barely know each other.”
You’ve got him there. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you take yours, draining half of it before remembering the lime. He watches you squeeze it into the drink while he contemplates his answer.
“I guess I just have a feeling for these things. You don’t seem very crazy to me.”
“Thanks.”
“And I guess I’m getting to know you, so there’s that.”
You sigh. “Right.”
“You’ll do fine. But maybe don’t call me Vernon from IT.”
“Right.”
“Come on.”
With wavering confidence, you follow Vernon over to the crowd from work. Everyone greets you warmly, though a little unsure. He notes the comments about being shocked to see you outside the four walls of your office, a joke you take in stride.
It’s clear you don’t know how to interact with everyone at first. It’s not to say that you’re stiff or awkward, but Vernon can see the rigid set in your shoulders and the way your eyes follow the conversation but don’t actually contribute.
You have an effect on others as well. For those who are a little more unfamiliar with you, they can’t seem to puzzle out why one of the higher ups is here guzzling down rum and cokes. And you are guzzling them down, carving a path to and from the bar at a rate that impresses Vernon.
“How are things going?” Chan slips into the seat you just vacated to march to the bar again. “She seems surprisingly normal.”
“Why is that surprising?”
Chan gives him a look. “She’s a suit.”
“I don’t think so,” Vernon laughs. “Trust me on that.”
Chan hums unconvinced, watching you at the bar. “She’s nice, at least.”
“Very.”
“Don’t fall in love with her or anything.”
“Weird thing to say, man.”
“Yeah, well. She’s attractive, nice, and no offense, a little weird. She’s exactly your type.”
That makes him frown. “What’s weird about her? Also, would that be so bad?”
“She knew the radius of the sun and the verbatim definition of parsecs. I’m not answering that second question because I shouldn’t have to.” Chan claps him on the shoulder, looking over Vernon’s head. “She’s coming back, but seriously. Be careful.”
Chan scoots away, flashing Vernon a look that makes the single drink Vernon has had sour in his stomach. Then you’re there, sitting down next to him, swaying a little bit. He smells sweet tobacco and vanilla, his eyelids fluttering for a second as you shift a little too close - or what would be too close, if you weren’t fake dating.
“What’s that look on your face?” You ask, sipping your drink. He wonders if it’s appropriate to ask if you need water.
“What look on my face?”
“You know, like-” You try to pinch your brows together and your mouth puckers downward. He feels himself smile and he shakes his head. “Sort of frowny.”
“Nothing.” You look at him skeptically. “Hey, I have a question.”
You pause, looking a little panicked. “Okay.”
“What’s the radius of the sun?”
“Oh!” You visibly brighten and it’s like watching the sun spill over the lip of the horizon, all gold and liquid, warm and bright. “432,690 miles. Surface temperature is about 5,772 Kelvin.”
Suddenly, Chan’s warning feels very, very real. Vernon tries to hide his smile, looking down at the table. Meanwhile, you start rattling off facts about the sun, not taking a single breath as you explain you memorized them from when you were working on the marketing for a line of textbooks about space early on in your career.
Vernon lets you talk. Lets you somehow divert back to work, watching as you animatedly walk him through the process of what you do. How you think. It’s fascinating, and he’s not really sure how anyone else could find it tiresome, seeing the way you light up when you tell him about a project that Seungkwan’s team killed it on.
Your pride is palpable, your energy shifting from unsure to confident.
Suddenly, you pause, leveling Vernon with a hard stare. He says nothing, watching the way you drink him in, something beneath the surface of your gaze he can’t quite read. “Can I say something?”
“On the clock?” he asks, grinning. You shake your head and he gestures for you to continue.
“You have pretty eyes. I still like when you wear glasses, though. They suit you.”
Yeah. Vernon thinks Chan’s warning is very real.
-
Running in heels is hard. You don’t know how anyone manages to do it in movies. Not that you think anything that happens in movies is real, but you can’t imagine how they make it work for the scene. You nearly break your ankle three times on your sprint to IT and you’re sure you scare the daylights out of Chan when you come tearing around the corner.
You shout a greeting over your shoulder but don’t stop until you’re hissing Vernon’s name while rushing into his cube. He flinches, turning around to look at you mid-task. You’re heaving, putting a hand on your hip as you straighten, trying to suck down air.
“Say no!”
He’s visibly confused. “To what?”
“Just say no!”
Before Vernon can ask you another thing, you hear Minho’s voice. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you try to lean against the wall of Vernon’s cube, nearly missing it. You stumble a few steps and he catches you by the elbow, lightning quick as he helps steady you.
When he drops his grip, the place where Vernon had held you moments before is warm. You try not to think about it, heart thundering doubletime as you watch Minho approach, a lazy swing to his step and a smirk on his face.
“Funny I found you here!”
“Why would that be funny? My Vernon - my boyfriend is down here.”
From the corner of his eye, you see Vernon wince. You’re not doing a great job at keeping it casual, but you’re also still out of breath from sprinting down the stairs to beat Minho here and warn Vernon. Seungkwan had barely been able to give you the heads up that Minho was going to ask for a double date, and you simply couldn’t have that.
Even as you near the end of your second week dating - fake dating - Vernon, you’re unsure the two of you can get through a date with someone who actually knows you. Vernon might be able to give some details on the surface, but you dated Minho for a year - how could Vernon ever hope to keep up?
Minho leans against Chan’s cube. Luckily it’s vacant of its usual occupant - Chan hates Mihno, as you’ve recently learned through a lunch with him and Vernon.
“Glad I caught you together, then,” Minho says, though you think he’s not that glad. But what do you know? “I wanted to see if you were busy on-”
“Yes.” You flash him a too-wide grin with too many teeth.
“I didn’t even give you the date.”
“We’re always very busy.”
“Ah.” Minho scratches the back of his neck and gives Vernon a look akin to sympathy. “Never has time, does she? Always all work, no play. I wanted to see if you guys wanted to go to dinner with Mina and I tomorrow night, but…” He shrugs. “Same old.”
You try not to let your exterior crack, but Minho’s words cut right through your outer shell to the softness of you. Without fail he manages to highlight this obsession you have with work, making it sound worse every single time.
Behind you, Vernon shifts closer. You become acutely aware of him suddenly, warmth radiating from him as his chest presses against the back of your arm and his hand slips to the middle of your back, featherlight, like he’s afraid to touch you. He smells like ocean driftwood and salt, something that makes you think of warmer days. Fresh fruit. Cold water.
Fighting a shiver, you freeze up, hyper aware of him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Vernon says gently. “She doesn’t work that much. She makes plenty of time for me.”
Minho’s eye twitches, the only sign he’s annoyed. As a trained salesperson, his tells are always subtle, nearly undetectable. But you know him inside and out, can see the sliver of annoyance there.
Satisfaction rules supreme, a smile tugging at your lips until Vernon adds, “We can make time for them, right?”
You snap your head to the side, eyes meeting his. Vernon has beautiful eyes. You’d said as much the other night when you had a little too much to drink, staring up at him without his glasses. He looks good without them, but you like the way the frames sit on his nose, the way they reflect light against the liquid brown of his iris.
Now, those eyes are staring back at you straight on. There’s something fierce in them, and though you barely know him, you have a sneaking suspicion Vernon is annoyed. Not with you but with Minho.
Still…
“Are you sure?”
Your question is gentle. For a moment, you forget Minho is there at all. You’re looking at Vernon, trying to puzzle out why he would say yes to something insane again. It was lucky enough he’d offered to participate in this little charade to save your pride, and now here he is doing it again, unprompted.
Vernon’s mouth twitches. He nods, hand pressing into your back a little firmer before he drops it away. You turn to Minho, who watches the two of you with a peculiar expression. “Alright,” you tell him. “It’s a date.”
“Great. I’ll send you the details.”
When Minho leaves, you turn to Vernon, the question on the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t give you a chance, shooting you a sidelong glance as he says, “Why is he always bringing up your work schedule?”
You wince. Vernon either doesn’t notice or is nice enough not to say anything. Instead of answering right away, you sit on top of Vernon’s desk, feet dangling a little. He makes room for you, turning his chair to face you and give you his full attention.
He’s dressed the same as always today, but you notice his shirt is ironed and tucked in neatly. Rubbing his brow, he slides his glasses up on his head, pressing his fingers along his eye sockets like they’re strained.
“What kind of stuff do you do?” You ask instead of answering his question. You gesture to his multiple computer screens. “Besides help me figure out my passwords.”
“Lots of stuff. It’s mostly small things like remoting into people’s computers to help them solve their issues. I spend a majority of my day showing people how to unmute themselves on their virtual meeting software.”
“Do you like it?”
He shrugs. “It’s got a rhythm to it that I like. I like having a to-do list every day and I can pretty much always know what to expect.”
“That does sound nice. And you can spy on everyone’s messages right?”
He raises his brow. “On the clock?” That makes you smile and you shake your head. “I could, but I don’t. There are a ton of people who forget us and HR can see all their shit, though.”
“Ooo like what?”
He sucks in air through his teeth, “Man, I don’t think I can tell you.”
You can tell he’s teasing and you scoff, kicking out with your foot toward his knee. He dodges you easily with a playful grin. “Come on!”
“I’ll tell you off the clock. Real off the clock.”
“Fine. Speaking of - are you busy tonight?” He raises his brows in question. “We should probably meet up and try to flesh out some details of our uh… relationship. I know some things about you but not a lot. Like, when is your birthday?”
“February 18.”
You slap your hand on top of his desk. “Vernon! That’s super soon! Are you doing anything for it?”
“Nah. I don’t ever want to make a fuss and it's close to Valentine’s Day so sometimes people are doing things retroactively.”
You hum, displeased with the answer, but you file it away for later. “So are you free tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool, you can come over to my place. Do you like pizza? You have to like pizza, right? You’re a boy.”
“A lot of boys like pizza, yes. Specifically me.”
“Good. Seven?”
“Seven.”
-
A knock at the door makes you look up from your computer. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, the light outside the office windows long fading with the setting sun and the only other source the salt lamp behind you and the burn of the safety lights in the main cubicles.
Vernon leans against the door frame, resting his head against it as he peers at you. For a second, you forget about everything except the way he looks leaned against the frame, his glasses perfectly perched on his nose and hair soft with wear from the day.
Then, you lurch with realization, gasping and looking at your watch. “It’s seven.”
“It’s seven,” he agrees, laughing gently.
You bolt from the seat, groaning and grabbing things to shove in your bag. In the process, you knock over a cup and a curse flies out your lips. He pushes off the door, walking over to help you tame the chaos.
“Easy,” he admonishes. “All good here, don’t panic.”
“I’m really sorry. I got stuck working through this media plan that someone asked for and I completely lost track of time.”
“It’s okay.”
The panic welling up inside you calms down as you look up at him. Vernon says nothing further, picking up your cup and righting the pens that you’ve knocked over. His movements are casual, straightening the things on your desk until he’s satisfied and steps away.
You prepare for annoyance, for the same expression you’re used to when you’re late to an event or have missed a thing, when you’ve yet again lost track of time holed up in your office and yet… Vernon just gives you an easy smile and a shrug.
No annoyance. No judgment. Just… Vernon.
Perhaps tenfold isn’t so bad.
“It’s not pizza, but there's a tiny little bar a few blocks down that I really like. They serve food.”
“Yeah?”
He nods and hesitates. “It’s… themed, though.”
“That’s okay. I like a theme.”
The theme in question isn’t so much of a theme as it is an entire franchise. You stand in the doorway of Cantina Far Away, mouth parted as you drink in the sights and sounds of the Star Wars themed bar.
A circular bar sits in the middle of the small establishment. There isn’t a ton of room to recreate the iconic corner of the world where you were first introduced to Han Solo as a kid, but there’s just enough to make the magic work.
Kegs and other apparatuses hang from the ceiling of the stone top bar. Lights track underneath the bar top and in the ceiling, giving the dim illusion that it’s permanently dusk inside. Small, round tables fill the main space, with three booths lined against the back wall. An R2-D2 replica stands beside C3-PO in the corner, and a familiar soundtrack plays through the sound system.
“If you want to go somewhere else-”
“Do they have blue milk?”
Vernon pauses. “What?”
You look up at him, grinning. “Do they have the blue milk?”
“They have something on their menu like that, yeah. I don’t know what it is.”
“I always wanted to drink the blue milk as a kid.”
“Alright.” He gestures to the bar, which is mostly empty. “Let’s get you blue milk.”
Popping up on a stool, you can’t help but crane your neck upward to look at the bar from this angle. It truly looks like every part of it was taken from the movie set. You run your hand atop the bar’s surface to realize it’s actually wood that looks like stone, marveling at the smoothness.
Behind the bar, two bartenders move in sync, dressed in Jedi robes. When they approach, you both order the blue milk - you, because you demand to know what it tastes like, Vernon, in solidarity.
Vibrating with excitement, you turn to look at Vernon. “When I was a kid, watching Star Wars was one of the few things my mom and I got to do together.”
“One of the few things?”
You nod, clapping your hands excitedly when the bartender brings you whatever concoction the blue milk is. It comes in a tall glass and is clear, baby blue and frothy at the top. Leaning over, you take a whiff. It smells vaguely coconutty and you narrow your eyes, leaning forward to take a tentative sip.
Coconut rum hits your tongue and you cringe. Vernon does too, making a face and sticking his tongue out as he immediately shoves the drink away from him. You laugh, not even caring that you hate it. It tastes nothing like you expected and you don’t really like coconut, but it strikes a nostalgic chord.
“My mom was a single parent and worked really hard at a law firm,” you eventually answer, taking another sip and cringing. Vernon orders something more generic - a rum and coke for you both. “But she always made time on the weekend if I really wanted to do a Star Wars marathon and she took off work for all the prequel releases to take me.”
“That’s cute. My mom was really into it too. Want to know a secret?”
“Yes.”
“My first name is Hansol. A little inspired by Han Solo. I prefer to go by Vernon with everyone who isn’t my family, though.”
That makes you smile. “I like it, though. Your mom has good taste like mine. Think they’d be friends?”
He blushes. “Maybe.”
You realize how forward of a question it is. You avert your gaze to your blue drink, sipping it and grimacing. Vernon chuckles and says, “You don’t have to drink it.”
“I don’t have to do a lot of things but I do anyway.”
“Hmm. Like what?”
“Ugh. I don’t know? Attend meetings all day?”
“I think you do have to do that.”
You scrunch your nose. “Alright, fair.”
“Tell me about your job.”
You glance at him, brows raised. “You want me to talk about work?”
“It’s obvious you like what you do, and by the sounds of it, working hard runs in the family. Tell me what you like about it.”
That makes you sigh as you push the ice around in your glass. What do you like about your job? Well, you like a lot of things and you hate a lot of things. So you start listing them, telling Vernon that you like the routine and you enjoy having a rhythm to your day. You like feeling proud when you can solve a problem no one else can, or when you lead your team through chaos and they look at you like you’re a god who showed them the way.
You like that you can be an authority in the room but you don’t feel like a dictator, and that now when you talk, people listen. Your team is your favorite, loving the way you and Seungkwan work in tandem, and the way the creative department likes to pick your brain. Mingyu and Soonyoung are always asking for your feedback, even if your opinion doesn’t matter in the hierarchy of their world.
The dislikes though… well, you dislike that you never have enough time in the day. That you’re always in a meeting and feel like you leave your team drowning in work picking up the slack. Hate that you get time blindness and sit in your office for hours past dinner to get something right, to get something perfect.
Hate that because you like what you do, everyone thinks you don’t have a life or don’t want a life. And that leads you to the center of the entire issue with your relationship with Minho.
You pull away like you’re approaching a particularly purple bruise when you near the topic of Minho. Your blue drink is gone and you order something more normal instead. The coke and rum sizzles on your tongue as Vernon looks at you expectantly.
“I’m doing all the talking,” you mutter, a little defensive. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“What kind of blue.”
“Blue like that very nasty milk you just drank.” You stick your tongue out and Vernon smiles. His smile is like a burning star at the center of a solar system, glowing and bright and warm. It gives life. “What’s yours?”
“Deep red. Like… wine or burgundy. What’s your favorite movie?”
“Ah, not that question. I’m a bit of a cinephile.”
“Too bad. You have to pick one.”
Vernon thinks about it. The tip of his finger traces the condensation of his glass lazily and you hyperfocus on it, watching the way he catches the bead of liquid every time. He has nice fingers, you realize. The thought makes you clench and suddenly wonder if you need to walk out of the bar down to the church to confess the sin of your mind.
Not that you’re religious, but maybe you should be, with where your mind has wandered.
“I like The Princess Bride.”
You gasp, grabbing him by the wrist and shaking it excitedly. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!”
Vernon’s laughter is infectious. You both fall into a fit of giggles, quoting your favorite parts of the movie. It’s nice - this is nice. It’s unexpected and you’re a little unsure how you got here, but Vernon makes the pressure of getting to know one another in preparation to fake date in front of your ex fade away.
Until, of course, you remember that’s why you’re at the bar and the thought suddenly sobers you.
Straightening, you ask, “Why’d you want to go on a double date, anyway? You don’t owe me that.”
“He seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying.”
You hum, studying him. “It’s a bit risky. I dated him for a year… if there’s anyone who knows anything about me, it’s probably him.”
“I can always just hack into your data and learn everything about you.” You stare at him, mouth opens. His grin grows. “I’m kidding. I mean I probably could but I’m not a hacker.”
“Are you sure? You’re a bit suspicious, Vernon Chwe.”
“Hansol.” You frown in confusion. His tone is gentle, eyes soft when he murmurs, “You can call me Hansol. You know… to make it um. Seems legit.”
“Hansol.” You try out the name, liking the way it fits on your tongue. His eyes are dark and you feel like you could fall into them - you kind of want to. “Hansol. I like it.”
Maybe you don’t need to go to that church to beg for forgiveness after all. What you think you need might be divine intervention to stop the butterflies in your stomach when you say his name, or the nervous shake in your hand when you see him smile.
Not Vernon (from IT) but Hansol.
-
Hansol (from IT) is late when he picks you up. For once, you’re just glad it’s not you. Your heart beats a little faster when you see him pull up in his nondescript, black RAV4. He waves through the window when he sees you, a shy smile on his face as he reaches to turn down the music.
Inside the car smells distinctly like Hansol - driftwood, salt, a little bit of the air freshener that has long since dried but still sways under his rearview mirror. He looks good tonight, dressed in ripped jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket. He’s sans glasses, and though he looks good, you miss them a little.
Hansol without the glasses is a little intimidating. Especially this version of him that grins when you settle into the seat next to him, his brows slightly raised as though to ask if you’re good. When you nod, his grin tilts upward again and he puts the car and drive, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift tapping to the beat of the music.
It feels like you’re radiating nervous energy, but you relax as Hansol asks about your day. He’s good at that, eliminating whatever weight is sitting on your shoulders or whatever residual stress you’ve got from work. You don’t feel so… well. On the clock.
The thought makes you squirm in your seat, pulling the edge of your dress down your thighs a little. You picked it out as a last minute choice, unsure whether you’re trying to dress to impress or dress to show you don’t care what Minho thinks of you.
Hansol notices you fidgeting. “You alright?”
“Kind of nervous.”
“Any reason in particular?”
You blow out air, your head smacking against the headrest. “On the clock?”
“Off,” he says with a grin.
“I feel like I’m going to fucking blow it.”
“How so?”
“What if he asks me to kiss you?”
The words are out before you can stop them. It isn’t until you’re met with silence that you realize what you’ve said. You’ve certainly stuck your foot in your mouth on more than one occasion. You do it often, and quite wonderfully, truthfully. It has taken years of practice to stop flubbing presentations and pitches at work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t say insane shit.
Like right now, when you tell Hansol that of all the things you’re nervous about, the very slim, tiny percent of a chance of being asked to kiss him is at the top of the list.
And yet, because it’s Hansol, he grins and says, “Damn, Minho’s a freak like that? He likes to ask people to kiss so he can watch?”
Just like that, the tension eases. You laugh, hand flying your mouth to try and suppress it. His eyes are on the road, but they glitter when you catch a glimpse of his face in the headlines, flashing from dark to liquid gold for a split second.
“Okay,” you admit, laughter dying down. “He’s definitely not going to ask that. It’s just one of those irrational fears, especially with him.”
“Why especially?”
“I feel like he’s always trying to prove that he was right when he broke up with me. Or I guess, in general. He loves being right and sometimes it’s like he’s trying to force a gotcha moment.”
Hansol is silent as he turns into the parking lot. You say nothing, watching as he navigates to find a parking space. The restaurant is busy and there’s a valet, but Hansol is determined to find his own. He does - very close to the entrance - letting out a happy noise as a car backs out.
Car in park, he turns to look at you. “Can I say something? Not on the clock.”
Your heart skips a little. “Sure.”
“Minho is an asshole.” You smile, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “And you’re going to get through dinner just fine because he’s an asshole, and you’re not.”
“Are you sure?”
His laugh is full. “I’m actually pretty confident in this. And if he does ask us to kiss, you have my full consent to lay one on me. Come on.”
You wish you felt as confident as Hansol seems. He slides out of the car easily, coming around to your side as you get out. He reaches out a hand almost instinctively, waiting for you to grab it. You look at him in surprise to find that he looks equally stunned at his own gesture.
Grinning, you take his hand. It’s warm in yours and he gives you a squeeze as you drop your linked fingers between you, walking toward the establishment like a real couple.
It feels real. You’re not sure what to do with that. The sudden realization of it churns in your stomach as you approach the dark interior of the steakhouse, immediately hit with a romantic ambiance that feels far too big for this tiny thing brewing inside of you.
Twelvefold? How many times have you suffered since that first day you ran into Hansol at the bookstore? You think it might continue through the evening, especially when he glances over at you on the way to the table to check on you, hand tightening for a split second.
As soon as you spot Minho and Mina, you’re glad that Hansol has a steady grip on you. Mina’s glossy hair is nearly blinding under the glow of the soft lighting and her smile is brighter still. You almost want to shield your eyes as they wave you over.
Neither of them seems to know if they should stand and greet you or what the protocol is. Good, you think, happy to see them as off kilter as you feel by this very weird and very unnecessary dinner date.
Why had Hansol agreed to do this again?
“She keep you late?” Minho asks Hansol, immediately reminding you why Hansol had said yes in the first place: he seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying. “You’ll get used to it!”
“Actually, it was me,” Hansol answers smoothly. He pulls out your chair for you, startling you again. You try to fein admiration - it’s not hard - and sit, looking up at him with a little bit of awe. Hansol sits, adjusting his seat so that it’s a little closer to yours. “I was working on an infrastructure request and lost track of time.”
That seems to shut Minho up for a moment. Then he laughs his businessman laugh and you wonder if it’s always sounded that way, hollow and fake and… well, annoying. “Damn, so you’re both like that?”
“Yep.” Hansol leans back in his chair, stretching his arm so that it rests over the back of yours. He doesn’t explicitly touch you, but you feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, a shiver snaking through you at how close he is. “Works well for us.”
You try not to frown. He’s not going to make it easy for your fake breakup. You’d assumed that you’d tell everyone you just didn’t have time for him, but with the way he’s talking to Minho now, you’re worried it’ll make the impending breakup a little less believable.
“That’s good, then,” Minho says eventually. “Just don’t schedule any vacations or you’ll both miss it.”
“I never did that,” you scowl.
Before he has time for a rebuttal, the server is there welcoming you to the restaurant. You shift in your seat, feeling irritated. Hansol senses it, the tips of his finger brushing against your bicep as if to tell you it’s okay. You relax, but only a little, still frustrated.
Again, you can’t help but feel like your faults are being exacerbated, like Minho is drawing them up to be far grander than they really were. You had missed some dinners and cancelled on some things, but you’d never gone as far as to miss a vacation or a birthday - never the big things. Never the milestones.
If the server can tell the energy at the table has shifted, they don’t let on. They pour glasses of wine that you let Hansol order while you’re spiraling in your head, and leave with the promise of coming back to take orders when the table is ready.
It’s Mina who restarts the conversation, glancing at Minho who sucks down the entire glass of wine in a single go. “So,” she says. “What is it exactly that you do?”
“Careful with that question,” Minho jokes. “She’ll talk to you about work for hours.”
“Which is what makes her good at her job.” Hansol’s voice is even. Smooth. Almost severe, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Tension ripples from him for just a moment before he looks at you and smiles. “Her job is very cool.”
Unlike her blockhead of a boyfriend, Mina seizes the chance for normalcy and asks, “Marketing, right?”
Mina (with the glossy hair) is really nice. You like her almost immediately and strangely enough, you’re glad she’s there. Minho is like a stormcloud at the edge of the table, a little pocket of pressure that everyone can feel but tries to ignore.
Hansol makes your fake relationship look effortless. You have to mask your surprise when he recounts a detail about you that you didn’t expect him to know, or makes an observation that has you warming, ducking your face to hide the smile tugging your lips.
You know little things about him too. It’s almost like you weren’t aware until you’re saying them, all the small things about him bubbling to your lips like an instinct.
“He’s such an Aquarius!” You laugh, finish the rest of your steak. “The IT department is full of them, even and they’re all so effortlessly cool and have different interests. Hansol has the coolest case full of Star Wars collectibles and-”
“Hansol?”
Minho’s question catches you off guard. You blink at him a few times, confused until Hansol interjects, “That’s my legal name.”
“Damn. Should we be calling you Hansol?”
“Nope. Reserved for my mom and my girlfriend.”
“Wow.”
Minho sits back and observes the two of you. The plates have been cleared away for the evening and the glasses of wine have dwindled. You’re a little sleepy, ready to go home, but the appraising look in Minho’s eyes as they flicker back and forth between you and Hansol has you on edge.
Hansol seems unbothered, finishing his water. His arm rests against your back properly now and you almost melt when his fingers start to trace a pattern on your arm, almost absently. You’re so acutely aware of him that you’re nearly vibrating, telling yourself over and over again that this is just him committing to the bit. This isn’t something to overthink. His touch is for show.
You don’t want it to be for show. God, you don’t want it to be, but you try not to let it unravel right now, instead finishing your water under the heavy and calculating gaze of your ex-boyfriend, who, over the course of dinner, has made you realize you are so grateful is your ex.
“Huh.”
“What?” you ask, voice coming out a little more challenging than you intend. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to position himself in a way where he’s not wrong.
“You guys are really together.”
That makes you stiffen. Hansol’s fingers go still on your arm. “What do you mean?”
“You just didn’t really seem like you were dating at the bookstore. It didn’t even seem like you knew who Vernon was.”
“It was still new,” You lie. “I also wasn’t expecting to run into you both. That’s all.”
“I guess. Just… find it surprising, I guess. Figured you’d never have time for someone.”
It’s Hansol who says, “She has plenty of time for me. Speaking of time, it’s time we head home. I have to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow and she just finished an insane project and deserves some sleep.”
Again, Minho seems thrown for a loop. You could get used to seeing him like a fish out of water, trying not to let an evil smirk take over your face when Hansol beats everyone to the check.
There is an edge to Hansol’s movements. You observe him quietly, noting the way his mouth is pinched at the corners and the way his eyes darken when he looks at Minho. But when he looks at you, it’s like the world stops. Hansol’s eyes soften and his lips turn up at the corner, a gentle smile for you.
Only you.
You’re fucked. You’re fucked fucked fucked and it’s nearly all you can think about as dinner wraps up and Minho and Mina thank Hansol for paying. You want to smack him for offering to pay for the insanely expensive bill, but he takes everything in stride.
Outside, it’s a little cold. Hansol shucks his jacket off immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders while giving Mina some sort of computer advice that goes over your head because all you can focus on is the way Hansol smoothes the jacket over your shoulder, his hand dropping to your waist to keep you close.
You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with him. You can’t recall a single time you ever felt this affected by Minho, much less anyone else. Despite having two glasses of wine, you know it’s Hansol and not the wine that has you buzzing. Hansol who has you warm, Hansol who makes it feel like there’s static in your brain when he glances at you to make sure you’re still okay after you’ve gone silent.
Hansol gives you a quick smile and turns to say farewell to the other couple. You’re happy to say goodbye - though perhaps you should have asked Mina her haircare routine - and you wave as Hansol leads you into the parking lot, fingers intertwined.
He turns to you, making you look up at him. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs, barely giving you a warning. “Unless you say no.”
“I - okay.”
There is the barest of smiles on Hansol’s face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief and gentle, so quick that you barely register he’s kissed you at all. He’s already pulling away when you blink, nearing his car as he does.
“He was a dick,” Hansol explains. “And he was staring at us when we left. So. Let him question what’s real now.”
Minho isn’t the only one questioning what’s real. You’re hung up on the kiss, despite it being nothing more than a peck. Your mouth is warm, thoughts spinning as Hansol helps you into the car. You say nothing, completely consumed by the feel of his mouth, the smell of driftwood and salt, the barest taste of wine.
The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Hansol’s hand grabs yours instinctually over the center console, fingers tied together loosely as he drives. But there’s no one to perform for her, no one to show off too. No one who needs convincing.
It’s just you and the burning desire for him bubbling up inside of you.
You’ve lost count of how many folds you have suffered, but somehow, this one is a little less worse than the others.
-
Hansol cannot stop thinking about you. He’s pretty sure the last time he had brain rot this bad about another person, it was Larcy Dodsen in his senior year of college who had blown him to heaven and back. He’s had better (and worse) blowjobs since then, and doesn’t really think of Larcy Dodsen ever anymore.
But you. You.
You occupy every corner of his mind. He wavers back and forth between thinking about the way you smell or the way you laugh (a little reedy, but cute) and thinking about how bad he fucked up by kissing you that night.
Things aren’t exactly weird. The very basis of your relationship - or lack thereof - is weird. He’d agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a month, but with zero terms. No contract outline. No do’s and don’ts. No guidelines. No rules. No regulations. Just an agreement and a fucking dream.
Now, he’s wishing he had something to go off of, because what started out as an agreement to help someone out has turned into something else entirely.
Chan was right. Hansol is desperately trying to hide that fact from his best friend, but the way Chan side-eyes Hansol at lunch when he stares off into the distance, he thinks that the younger man might be onto him.
It doesn’t help that Hansol is buried in Help Desk tickets the weekend following kissing you, and you’re six feet under in a pile of projects. It isn’t until he goes a few days without talking to you multiple times that it’s occurred to him how much he texts you during the day.
Hansol finds himself checking his phone again at lunch, swearing that he felt it vibrate. This time, Chan catches him, putting down the fork and clearing his throat to gesture at the phone. “So it happened, right?”
“What?” Even Hansol winces at his own defensiveness. “I can’t check the time?”
“Do you check the time three times every five minutes? I know you can do math.”
“Just checking to see how her presentation went.”
Chan laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. So it did happen.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
He doesn’t. Chan knows it. Hansol knows it. Chan gets more specific anyway. “You like her. As in, you have feelings for her after… well. This weekend will make it a month. So wouldn’t that be your deal coming to an end?”
Hansol wants to think about anything other than that. “Everything is fine.”
Chan holds up his hand, a white flag. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just make sure you know what she wants too, is all I’m saying.”
And that’s the crux of it. Hansol isn’t sure what you want. He assumed that you just wanted to get through this month and your fake breakup, but now he’s not so sure. He thinks of the way you’d look at him during dinner last weekend, the way your expression gets dreamy with a soft smile, eyes glowing.
Hansol doesn’t think he made it up - his creativity is good but not that good. He had been so sure that you felt something too, swears that you melted into him every time he touched you, every time he turned to check in on you.
And the kiss… it had been brief and born from wanting to rub it in Minho’s face, but Hansol had wanted to do it, too. Wanted it for himself. Wanted to allow himself a single, greedy thing. You’d been surprised but leaned into him, almost instinctual. It had been so short but it haunts his dreams, the phantom press of your mouth keeping him up late at night.
Even now, Hansol’s fingers trace his mouth, as though he can remember the feeling of your mouth against his. So maybe Chan is right. Hansol likes you - has feelings for you. There is a lingering sense that you might too, but he’s not sure.
He needs to be sure.
Finding a window to make sure, is tough, though. He only hears from you once throughout the rest of the day, and it's to shoot him a quick text that the presentation was moved to Monday and that you have to work all weekend on it.
He feels more disappointed than he lets on. He wonders if you remember his birthday is on Saturday. Not that you owe him that since you’re not actually dating, but in a perfect world Hansol thinks it might have been a good day to tell you how he feels. That he kind of wants to make this thing real.
On the bright side, you do remember his birthday. On the shitty side, he can’t spend it with you. You’re working on your presentation for the foreseeable future, and Hansol had hesitated to make plans with his friends knowing some of them were celebrating Valentine’s Day late with their partners and because he’d hoped to maybe spend it with you.
It feels stupid, thinking about it now. Of course you weren’t going to spend it with him. He knew what this was when he offered to do it. You were a bright burning star at the top of the company, and Hansol had been someone you barely registered.
By the afternoon, he’s still sullen. He’s thinking about just spending the evening eating pizza and playing video games online where he’ll get bullied by a bunch of high schoolers when he hears his phone ring and your name flashes across the screen.
Hansol’s heart soars. He all but throws the control across the room, diving to pick up the phone and answer, “Hi!”
“Please don’t hate me,” you rush out, completely out of breath. “I am panicking right now. My work laptop randomly got the blue screen of death and I’m in the middle of my project and-”
“I’ll come look at it.” He cringes, realizing how down bad he is. It’s his birthday and he shouldn’t have to work, but he’d rather come solve a problem for you than have a bunch of thirteen year old’s tell him that they’re fucking his mom. “I can come over in fifteen.”
“Oh! Uh… can you make that twenty?”
Weird. “Sure?”
“Great! Text me when you’re here and I’ll give you the unit number.”
Twenty minutes ends up being perfect, because Hansol goes through the mental anguish of what to wear, which is new for him. He showers as quickly and efficiently as he can, hopping with one leg in his jeans and the other missing the hole multiple times. He nearly runs into the wall as he’s pulling on a band tee over his head while also looking for his flannel.
Hair still damp, he pulls on a hat and twists it around backward, grabbing his glasses because he doesn’t feel like wearing contacts (and because you said you liked them) as he barrels out the house, radiating with nervous energy.
Hansol wonders if it’s appropriate to tell you how he feels today. It will be face to face but… no. You’d sounded stressed on the phone and he knows how important this presentation is for you, despite not knowing what it’s about.
He barely remembers the drive to your apartment, blinking and realizing he’s parked and texting you that he’s there. You give him directions to your unit and with shaky hands, Hansol turns off the car. He takes a few steadying breaths before getting out and heading to the stairs, his heart hammering with each step.
When he finally gets to your door, he double checks that it's the right one. His hands shake when he knocks, and he has to remind himself several times that he’s just here to fix your computer. Sure, he’s thrilled that he gets to see you, but this is on the clock. Not off.
You’re breathless when you open the door. “Hi!” You say a little too loudly. He raises his brows but you open the door and step aside, ushering him in. “Come on in.”
Hansol gives you an amused grin as he walks into your apartment. He’s confused as to why it’s completely dark, a question that he’s about to ask you as you shut the door, but you flick on the lights and he’s met with the world’s loudest shout of surprise he’s ever heard.
He flinches, hand flying to his chest in terror as the lights flood on and Hansol realizes that the reason they were off is to hide the obscene amount of Star Wars decorations covering every part of your apartment. He can’t even picture what your home is supposed to look like, just that it’s covered in streamers and paper Luke Skywalkers and RD-D2s, and filled with familiar faces.
Hansol’s mouth pops open as the crowd screams at him. Chan and Seokmin are at the forefront, phones in hand capturing Hansol as he stands there, dumbfounded. Soongyoung and Mingyu are blowing through noise makers with so much force that the paper on them breaks, and Seungkwan is leading an off-key rendition of happy birthday with Hansol’s friends you’ve never even met.
Slowly, Hansol turns to look at you. You’re standing behind him, hands clasped nervously and tucked under your chin as you watch him, terrified. You’re chewing on your lips, entire frame vibrating with energy.
He wants nothing more than to walk over to you and kiss you stupid. The flame of desire that licks through him is borderline impossible to tamp down, staring at you like the eighth world wonder as you slip over to him, scanning his face.
“Surprise?” You squeak.
“You did this for me?”
“Well, yeah.”
You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He wants to pin you against the island counter behind you, but it’s fill with food and beverages and blue fucking milk. “Is that okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous.
Hansol softens and starts to laugh. “Yeah,” he shakes his head. “It is more than okay.”
Before he can say anything else, the crowd of people crashes into him. Seokmin and Chan are screaming in his ear, grabbing him and yelling for shots. Mingyu and Soonyoung are chanting his name and his best friend from college manages to squeeze in and give him a hug and a birthday greeting.
How did you even know Minghao existed? Or how to contact him? Hansol has no idea, but before he can ask you any questions about the how or the why, he’s swept into your kitchen for birthday celebrations he thought would never happen, orchestrated by the single person he wanted to see most.
Fuck was Chan right more than ever.
-
The thing about being a bad liar is that you found it nearly impossible to hide what you were doing from Hansol. The thing about everyone thinking you’re always busy, is that it was an easy facade to shield the sheer stress of trying to plan a surprise party for him.
Your apartment is filled with more people than you’ve ever dared to let inside. It makes you a little nervous for all of these people to see this new part of you, but with a little bit of rum and the released pressure of Hansol looking like he’s enjoying himself, you decide it’s worth it.
Squished in the corner of your couch, you watch as Chan leads a game of cards that he is losing very badly at. Most of these people in your apartment are casual friends, with the exception of Seungkwan who is playing DJ in the kitchen, but they’re all friends that Hansol would want at a celebration for him.
At least, that’s what Chan and Seokmin said. Recruiting them had been pretty easy, but during the process of them helping you plan this, you’re pretty sure they’ve caught on to the AT-AT Walker-sized elephant in the room: you are very much into their friend. In a very Not-On-The-Clock appropriate way.
Now, you watch as Hansol makes his way over to you, dodging people who stop to talk to him. He seems pretty determined to reach you, clapping someone on the shoulder and moving them aside to continue his journey to you.
Your stomach flips when he sits on the arm of your couch, perched perfectly next to you. He looks good today, dressed in jeans, a soft looking tee and a flannel. The backwards hat does wonders for you - which you will not be psychoanalyzing now - and his black frame glasses.
“How did you do all this?” He asks, shaking his head in wonder. “I just… what?”
“It wasn’t easy, but it worked, right?”
“Is this the presentation you’ve been working on all week?”
“Yes. Please don’t be mad at me for lying.”
He laughs. “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried.”
An argument breaks out over cards, Chan and Mingyu yelling at each other about someone cheating. Hansol winces at the noise and you scoot a little closer to avoid the deck of cards Mingyu throws in Chan’s direction.
“Is there anywhere quiet we can talk?” Hansol asks, though he’s laughing at them. “They’re giving me a bit of a headache.”
You grin. “For sure.”
Getting up, you lead Hansol down the hall to your bedroom, which is off limits to the rest of the party. The good thing about adult festivities is that no one is a weirdo about going into rooms they shouldn’t, staying exactly where it’s appropriate to be.
Shutting the door behind you, the noise of the party dies down immediately. It’s dark in your room, save for the single lamp burning in the corner at a low setting. You realize it’s a bit messy, apologizing to Hansol as you kick clothes out of the way. You hadn’t intended on bringing him in here, and suddenly the implication of Hansol standing in your room tingles down your spine.
“I, uh-” You stammer, looking at him. “Sorry it’s a mess. I didn’t intend on anyone seeing this.”
Halloween yowls, getting up off your bed. Hansol makes a surprised sound and you apoogize again, “It’s just Halloween. He likes to sleep in here. Out, kitty!”
You open the door and Halloween bolts out, going to find Seungkwan who will give him snacks.
Hansol grins and wanders over to the bookshelf, looking over the titles. You take a few steps to follow him but keep your distance, suddenly very nervous. He points his finger at a title and looks at you, inviting you to step closer to read it in the dim light.
You recognize the title - you’d bought it the day you’d crashed into him and got some of your books mixed up.
“This one one of the books you accidentally swapped with me,” Hansol notes, running his finger along the spine. You zero in on his finger - his hands, in general. They’re pretty. You swallow hard, looking up at the ceiling instead. “Have you read it yet?”
“Not yet. I started one of the others but I’ve been having trouble breeding - reading lately.”
Hansol presses his lips together in a flat line and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at you. Warmth floods your face and you want to die on the spot, especially when he turns to face you head on, leaning against your bookcase.
His eyes are dark, drinking you in. Your pulse skyrockets, thinking about that quick kiss he had given you the other night. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, too afraid to ask him if it was just for show and too busy trying to plan this party to work out what to say about it.
Now, alone in your room, the questions fizzle on your tongue at the nearness of him.
“Thank you,” Hansol says eventually. “For planning this. I… would never have expected you to do that.”
“I wanted to celebrate you.”
He blushes, ducking his head. “It’s sweet. It did make me nervous, though.”
“Why?”
“I thought you were avoiding me, kind of.”
You blink. “Why on earth would I be doing that?”
“Thought that maybe I took it too far with the kiss.”
“No. You didn’t.”
Hansol’s gaze falls on you. It’s razor sharp and there’s something there, burning just under the surface. You swear it’s something like desire, but you’re too afraid to name it. Too worried that it’s just what you want reflected in his glassy gaze, and not his.
Then, “Did I not take it far enough?”
The question hangs in the air. You cannot hear anything but the pounding of your own heart. It’s just Hansol in this dark room with you, looking at you with exactly the same hunger that’s been churning in your gut.
You don’t know when this hunger started. All you know is that the last few weeks, it’s been there. Every time you look at him you feel it ignite, the desire so raw that you don’t know what to do with it.
Now, you know he feels it too - see it, in the way he waits for your answer. Patient. Calm. Steady.
“On the clock?” You ask, voice shaky. He shakes his head no. “You could go further.”
That’s all Hansol needs. He’s gentle when he reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. You barely get to suck in a trembling breath before he’s kissing you.
This kiss is entirely different from the peck he gave you in the parking lot last weekend. This kiss steals the breath from your lung, his mouth confident and sure as he slots his mouth against yours. He smells like the sea, all driftwood and salt and his lips taste like the tangy drink he’d been sipping on earlier.
Everything else fades to the background. Your hands twist in his flannel. It’s soft, but nothing compared to the softness of Hansol’s tongue as he licks at the seam of your lips. You let him in and he groans, pulling you in impossibly closer as the kiss turns more desperate.
You melt. He kisses you hungrily now, sucking your tongue into his mouth. It makes your head spin, the party long forgotten as you press further into him. The bookshelf wobbles under the weight of both of you leaning against it, making you break, both of you panting.
Hansol’s mouth shines with your spit in the low lamp light and you have the urge to lean forward and lick it. You resist, only for him to give into his urge. He leans forward, tongue pressing to the corner of your mouth gently.
“What about now?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your mouth. “Too far?”
“No.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands dropping to your waist. You let him grip you, backing you up toward your bed. It’s a bit clumsy but you don’t care, hands looping around his neck to keep him close.
“Tell me what you want,” Hansol mumbles. Your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall backward. He follows you, caging you in with both of his planted on either side of your head. “Tell me how far you want me to go.”
“On the clock?”
“Fuck no. Nothing I want to do right now is on the clock.”
“Good. I want you to go as far as you want.”
He drops his mouth to your neck. A moan slips between your lips when you feel his tongue scrape across the soft skin of your throat. He sounds strained when he says, “You gotta tell me, baby. I need to know what you want.”
“You.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month. “All of it. Everything. But for real.”
Hansol nods. He presses messy, wet kisses up your neck, along your jaw, stopping at your mouth. His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your lips, giving you a chaste peck. “You’ve got me. For real.”
Grinning, you slide your hands underneath his shirt. He moans, throaty and delicious. He twitches under your exploration but he lets you brush your palms up the warmth of his stomach, reaching around until your hands are gripping his lower back.
His mouth attaches to yours again. The kiss is messy and addictive, Hansol filling your senses as he lowers himself so that his weight is rested on top of you. It’s comforting and wanted, your knees squeezing his hips to hold him in place.
One of his hands leaves the mattress to drop to your hip, squeezing before he scratches his nails against your thigh. You shiver, feeling the stimulation through your jeans. His hand slips under you, gripping the curve of your ass to lift you a little, pressing you closer to him.
A moan slips through your mouth to his when he rolls your hips against him. The stimulation isn’t remotely enough but you like this version of Hansol. His touch is confident, his lips intentful as they leave a trail from your mouth to your collarbone.
With one last squeeze to your ass, Hansol traces his fingers over the tops of your thigh to drop between your legs. He presses his fingers to the apex of your thighs, working you through your clothes. You let out a desperate sound and you feel the way he smiles against your skin.
His touch sparks a flame. You tear at his flannel, peeling it from his shoulders. He helps you get it off of him but he’s just as eager to peel you out of your jeans and shirt. A deep curse leaves his mouth when he sees you in just a bra and underwear, your chest heaving as you pant, staring up at him, mouth swollen and tender.
Reaching for him, you grab the hat and throw it. “Hat is very hot,” you admit. “But I wanted to do this.”
You slide your fingers in his hair, curling them through the strands to tug him back to you. He smiles into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand skims up your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes until he slides his hand back between your legs.
A gasp leaves you as he presses his fingers back to your cunt, pressing the fabric into your aching clit. He whispers a string of curses when he feels how damp you are, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment as he teases you over your panties.
“Please,” you whisper, hips rising off the bed. “Want more.”
“Mhmm.” He lifts his head and gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ve got you.”
Hansol doesn’t make you beg. You like that about him. Your breath catches when he drops to his knees, reaching his arm up to pull the back of his shirt over his head, tossing it. The sight of him between your knees in just jeans, his hair mussed and mouth swollen is enough to make you dizzy.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching with hooded eyes as Hansol grabs you by the calves, spreading you a little more. His hands are gentle and warm, rubbing up and down while he takes his time pressing a myriad of kisses up the right side of your inner thigh.
It feels so good. Your lashes flutter a little, breath coming in quicker. Everywhere his mouth touches tingles, a little path of buzzing electricity as he makes his way closer and closer to your heat until he switches sides.
You make a sound of protest and Hansol looks up at you through his lashes, grinning. He looks smug, leaning forward to bite your thigh playfully. It stings but it feels good, making your fingers twist in the sheets.
“Feel good?” he whispers, pressing his tongue to soothe the sting. You nod, mouth parted, unable to speak. He smiles again, dragging his tongue down your thigh. You think you might die right there.
Hansol makes his way back up. He drags his burning gaze up to meet yours, deliberately making eye contact as he presses the flat of his tongue against your underwear. If it wasn’t soaked before, it is thoroughly drenched now. You suck in a sharp breath, knees closing on instinct to squeeze against his shoulders.
He chuckles, dragging his tongue upward where it presses against your clit momentarily. He brings one of his hands up, pressing his middle finger right against your hole. You feel yourself clench around nothing and you know he knows, his grin wicked.
“Don’t worry,” Hansol promises with another languid lick to the soaked fabric. “I will make up for all the times you didn’t get to come.”
“Fuck.”
Vernon (from IT) has been replaced with Hansol (the Menace). He hooks a finger in the crotch of your underwear, pulling them to the side. He drags a knuckle against your pussy on purpose, both of you groaning in unison.
Eagerly Hansol leans forward, giving you a teasing lick. Your fingers dig into the mattress anyway. You can do nothing but stare at him, watching the way Hansol drags his dark eyes up to watch you as he drags his tongue through your folds again.
“Shit,” you hiss at him, a shiver wracking your body.
He seems pleased, shooting you a quick smile before he brings his mouth to you again, sucking gently. He avoids your clit at first, working you up slowly. Hansol eats you out like he has all the time in the world, like there’s no where he would rather be than tonguing your pussy.
It drives you mad, his name slipping from your lips in little gasps. His tongue circles your clit, applying pressure indirectly, working you up and up until finally, he closes his mouth around the throbbing bundle of nerves, suckling.
“Ohhhh,” you laugh, half delirious. “That. Whatever that is.”
He hums, parting only to say, “You got it.”
You see God when he fastens his mouth to you, sucking your clit gently. Dropping back against the bed, you twitch and gasp under Hansol’s ministrations. He sets a rhythm, adding his fingers to the mix as they press against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, but rather traces a pattern, making you squeeze.
Panting, you drop a hand to his hair. He hums in delight as you tangle your fingers in the strands, bringing him closer to your cunt. You feel like you’re burning up, your sheets sticking to your skin, the room spinning as Hansol eats you out in earnest now.
No one has ever seemed this dedicated to your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for a second, fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you to a cliff of insanity. All you have to do is jump and dive head first into an orgasm.
You do. Hansol works you right to the very edge and you topple over, falling into it hard. You go taught but he holds you down, fighting your spasm as you come hard. He doesn’t miss a beat, the obscene sounds of him slurping at you drowning out the pitiful, high pitched whine that leaves you.
In a wave of exhaustion, your orgasm subsides. You flop on the bed, still shaking as he removes his mouth in favor of pressing slick, cum-stained kisses to your thighs. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, flashing wickedly.
He pauses, looking at your wet, messy cunt back to your face. “Want a taste?”
Hansol (the Menace) is going to kill you.
You nod and he smirks. He runs his tongue generously up your pussy, making sure to dip into your entrance just a little before he stands up and leans over you to press a filthy kiss to your mouth. You suck at his tongue greedily, tasting yourself and him, a combination you’ll never get tired of.
One of his hands snakes up to your chest, tweaking a nipple gently, testing the waters. You nod, breaking the kiss with a gasp, “Yeah.”
“Gonna work you open with my fingers,” he slurs. He kisses down your neck again, working his way to your chest. “That okay?”
“More than okay.”
“God,” he whispers. “You sound so fucking good when you come. Want to hear it again.”
There is no doubt he will. Hansol rids you of your bra before returning to suck greedily at your chest. Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his sides as he presses a finger into your warmth.
“God damn,” he laughs. He plucks at a nipple with his teeth and you curse. “You’re so fucking wet.”
“On the clock?”
“Fuck no. My finger is in your pussy.”
“I am really turned on.”
He gives your other breast a playful bite. “Good. Now I want you to come apart on my fingers.”
That won’t be an issue. Hansol gets you there embarrassingly fast. He finds the sensitive spot inside of you with ease and doesn’t hold back, pressing another finger in. He works you toward another orgasm like it's easy - and maybe for the both of you, it is. Maybe Hansol was meant to have you like this, gushing around his fingers and babbling nonsense as you come again, his mouth pressed against your hammering heart.
Maybe he was meant to have you fucked out and light-headed by the time you’re helping him out of his jeans, sliding his briefs down his muscular thighs to free his cock. The tip is dark and sticky, weeping with precum when he pins you to the bed, catching you in a bruising kiss.
Gone is the patient Hansol who had started with gentle kisses to your thighs, replaced by his need to have you. To consume you. You let him, willing to let him do whatever he wants. You want his pleasure just as much as he wants yours, slipping your hand between your bodies to palm his cock, heavy and warm in your hand.
He whispers your name and it sounds like a prayer. His forehead presses against yours, letting you pump him slowly. His hips twitch as though he’s fighting to control himself, letting you have your fun before he growls and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers to pin above your head.
Hansol scoots you up the bed, putting you where he wants you. Gone is the sweet guy from IT, replaced with whatever this is. You like this side of him equally, listening to him when he asks you to lift your hips so he can slide a pillow under your ass.
With a kiss to your brow that feels sweeter than the moment allows for, Hansol lifts your leg, prying you open for him. His cock is heavy against your cunt and he ruts a little, making you both whine in tandem.
“You still want this, right?” He asks, voice shaking. “For real?”
“Yes.” You squeeze the hand he has laced with yours, pinned to the mattress near your head. “On the clock. Off the clock. Literally all of the hours.”
“What if I refuse to change your computer password?”
That makes you laugh. He gives you a glowing smile, kissing the tops of your cheekbones. “Even then,” you promise.
“Good. Try breathing for me when you come this time.” You give him a look and he smiles. “Did you think you were done? I told you I was making up for lost time.”
He doesn’t give you a second to retort, his cock pressing in at that exact moment. “Ohhh you fucker,” you moan and he laughs, which makes things worse. You squeeze around him hard, barely breathing as Hansol slides in to the hilt, the pressure and stretch divine. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did,” he admits before trapping you into an uncoordinated kiss.
With one hand holding yours to the bed and the other sliding under your ass to help lift you with the pillow, Hansol sets a slow pace. You continue to kiss him, just as slow as he fucks you. He is deep, cock brushing against your g-spot on every upstroke.
Your free hand slides to his lower back, urging him to keep going. His tempo is measured, perfect, the angle of his hips just right. You start to feel insane, mumbling his name, whining between kisses, making a pathetic noise when he increases his pace.
Hansol fucks like he knows exactly how you like it. Of course he does. Even from the moment in that bookstore, he had you figured out. No one else has been able to adjust to you like he has, no one else has been able to understand - to see you.
“Fuck,” he hisses when you start squeezing on him for harder and longer. He’s pushing you toward that edge again, so close you’re already seeing stars. “Pussy feels so good.”
He shuffles up the bed more, folding you a little. You make a wild sound, gasping as the angle pushes his cock in deep. “Holy shit, Hansol.”
“That the spot?” he asks, and you nod. He starts fucking you in earnest, pace picking up. “God damn I could do this all day.”
“Keep doing that and I’ll let you.”
He laughs and kisses you again, all tongue and teeth. You start to spasm, feeling the way your muscles clench as you near your third orgasm. This one is tight in your stomach, a pressure that is so compact you feel like you’re going to combust.
“Breathe through it,” he reminds you, out of breath as he chases your high. “You can do that, yeah?”
You nod, saving your breath for when he tells you to use it.
A few more hard strokes and you’re doing exactly as instructed, taking in a deep breath as your orgasm hits. You see white, shaking underneath Hansol as the warmth of your high blooms in your lower stomach and expands. It’s better than the first two, stretching longer, the feeling reaching to your toes.
You manage to breathe all the way through it, barely hanging on as he fucks you through the entire length of your high. He presses his mouth to your temple, slowing his pace to let you recover. You feel melted, like your bones and muscles have all gone on vacation, leaving Hansol to do the work for you.
“Good?” he asks, breath fanning your face.
You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You,” you mumble. It’s not a complete sentence, but he gets what you mean, kissing you quickly before chasing his own high, gritting his teeth.
As spent as you are, you do your part to help him get there, squeezing with what strength you have left, whispering his name, pulling him in close with a leg around his hip. It works, sending Hansol over the edge and spilling into you within a few seconds.
He curses into your shoulder, pace turning sloppy until he finally stops, hips pressed to yours, cock sheathed to the hilt. Both of you stay like that, trying to catch your breath in a sweaty pile of limbs.
Hansol recovers first, shifting so that he can lay next to you. He pulls out, a mess of cum and fluid going with him. You don’t care, rolling to your side to kiss him slowly. Softly. He rests an arm over your hip, keeping you connected.
“This is a great birthday,” he jokes, voice hoarse. “I uhhh, forgot there was a party. No one will think we’re fake dating now.”
You grin. “Whatever. We’re not on the clock.”
He kisses you again. “Thank god. Cause I really want to do this again in fifteen minutes.”
You smile, really glad that Hansol (the Boyfriend) is on the same page as you.
this fic was absolutely fucking incredible???? i was laughing swooning screaming??? the way hali writes vernon is just a 10/10 constantly it’s never a miss. i have so many feelings about this story and it deserves so many flowers
Jay would never claim to have a thing for innocent girls, in fact there was nothing to claim. It wasn't like he deliberately went after or sought you out cause he knew you were inexperienced, he truly had no idea plus you didn't even act like a virgin at first.
Maybe your first kiss with him after the fourth date he took you on should've been a sign, it was like you didn't know what to do with your tongue and it ended up awkward and hasty. But Jay didn't care, you were his whole world and he couldn't get enough of you, so it really hit him like an oooooh moment when you finally admitted you were a virgin.
He really did find it endearing though, and he was so turned on at the idea of being your first but he also didn't want to rush you, as a result he never pushed. He let you have full control of how far you went with him sexually, which always consisted of sloppy make outs and your shaky hands on his shoulders. You definitely had no idea how hard you made his cock with your little sounds and soft giggles, Jay was completely gone for you.
He never expected to be this turned on by your extreme lack of experience, you truly had no idea what you were doing. But what really turns Jay on the most is when you pretend to know what you're doing, like right now you’re perched in his lap with your knees bracketing his hips, trying to grind down on him like you've seen in the movies maybe. Cause recently attempting to dry hump him is your new favorite thing, and who is Jay to stop you? It’s awkward and unsure but oh so fucking determined.
Your fingers are shaking where they rest on his shoulders, your teeth worrying your bottom lip like you're trying to remember the "sexy" way to do it. You're trying, by God you really are trying, swaying your hips in little circles and dragging yourself across his sweatpants covered crotch like it's the sexiest thing you've ever done.
Jay knows you're not quite hitting the right spots, he knows that if he shifted you just a little lower and angled you just right, your core would drag so deliciously on his aching cock, then you'd really understand what it meant to make him feel good. But he doesn't move you.
Instead, his head tips back against the pillows, his eyelids are heavy as his mouth falls open "Ahhh, baby...yeah...just like that."
Your cheeks burn hot at the sound but your body is buzzing with pride. "Y-you like that?" you ask, almost shyly, even though you're supposed to be the one playing it confident.
"Mmhm," he groans, his hands splay over your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles into your skin cause he really can't get enough of you. "God, feels amazing, angel. Look at you...so eager to please."
Jay knows the praise hits you harder than anything else, he can see it in the way your thighs shake and the way it makes you try harder, you start grinding a little more deliberately, leaning forward—an attempt to put your titties in his face to turn him on even more. He exhales a low, shaky moan right into your chest, the sound vibrating down your spine. Jay doesn’t know how he stops himself popping a tit in his mouth, instead he just groans and throws his head back again.
He’s become a master at this, he knows how to time every little sound perfectly, he’ll give you a deep grunt when you shift your weight, a sharp inhale when your soaked shorts barely brush his sweats. You have no clue he's faking nothing but restraint, keeping himself from taking over, because he loves watching you light up with every reaction he gives you.
When you accidentally pause to catch your breath, he tips his head forward, catching your mouth in a slow, deep kiss, murmuring against your lips, "Don't stop, princess. You're driving me crazy."
You beam as your heart pounds, thinking you've got him right where you want him.
But he's the one who has you exactly where he wants you and he wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world.
nene’s note: super random and short, i wrote this in class cause i couldn’t listen
One second, you were telling a little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the whole school thought you were dating Park Jongseong—the cold, untouchable, and ridiculously hot guitarist. What started as a desperate move to boost your reputation took a wild turn when Jay decided to go along with it. Now, you’re caught up in nonstop gossip, awkward moments, and a fake relationship that feels a little too real—especially with Jay showing a surprisingly sweet side that no one, including you, saw coming.
content tags: fake dating, lots of fluffs, comedy, slight angst, strangers to lovers, reader is in 11th grade while jay is in 12th, (but both of them are over the age of 18) reader is short, jay smokes vape in the middle of the story, jay hates everyone lol. warning: profanities, mentions of sex, mild smut. WC: 14.7k
song used: same ground by kitchie nadal
note: thank you for the 95 followers!
You were a simple girl.
Simple, average, ordinary. Not the type to snag straight A's in every class, but not failing either. You were the kind of girl teachers barely noticed—just another name on the roll call, another face in the crowd.
You liked pink—just enough to keep it cute, but not the over-the-top glittery kind.
You didn't obsess over fandoms or have bags covered in pins and but you have figurines. Your style wasn't edgy or pastel chic or anything that made you stand out. You were... balanced. Plain. Normal.
Your high school life reflected that. Simple. Average. No exciting detours.
You weren't a sports star who got their name chanted in the bleachers. You weren't a science geek impressing everyone with your brainpower. You weren't a mean girl, a party kid, or a cheerleader.
Oh, but you wanted to be a cheerleader.
You wanted to wear that uniform, flip through the air, feel the rush of the crowd. You wanted the applause, the way everyone's eyes followed them when they walked the halls.
But no one cared about a normal girl trying out.
Reputation was everything in high school, and yours? Too simple. Too... forgettable.
You could cheer. You could dance. You could pull off a backflip, a split, the whole routine. You had the skills. What you didn't have was the image.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" one of the cheerleaders asked, her voice dismissive as you landed your final jump during tryouts. You stood there, panting, sweat dripping down your face after nailing the routine.
"A boyfriend?" you repeated, blinking, stunned. What did that have to do with anything?
"From football? Hockey? Maybe Math Olympiad?" she continued, her smirk curling like she already knew the answer.
You froze. Of course you didn't have a boyfriend. You were an NBSB—No Boyfriend Since Birth kind of girl. But how was that even relevant? You were here to cheer, not audition for a dating show.
"We'll let you know if you're accepted... or not," another cheerleader chimed in, her voice dripping with boredom. She wasn't even pretending to care about your performance.
You stood there for a moment, trying to steady your breathing, gripping your bag so tight your knuckles turned white. The sting of their indifference burned in your chest as you turned and walked out of the gym, sweaty and defeated.
Reputation doesn't matter, they always said. What a joke. High school was all about reputation—who you dated, who you were seen with, who you weren't.
And being a simple, average, normal girl? That just wasn't good enough.
It was a warm afternoon when you found yourself face-to-face with them again—the cheerleader tryouts.
So, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out:
"My boyfriend is Park Jongseong."
The world seemed to stop for a second. All the cheerleaders froze, wide-eyed, jaws dropping like a scene from a poorly-scripted teen drama.
"Wait—Park Jongseong?!" one of them shrieked, her voice climbing several octaves. "The hot guitarist in the band?"
You nodded, keeping your expression sweet and innocent, careful not to let your fabricated lie crumble.
"Oh my god!" Another cheerleader nearly jumped out of her skin. "He's, like, the hottest guy in school! And so... mysterious."
"He's so cold, though," another chimed in, tilting her head suspiciously. "How did you even—"
You cut her off, spinning your web of lies before she could unravel it. "Oh, it just... happened," you said with a casual shrug, as if it were no big deal.
"We met at this café off campus. He asked me about my drink order, and, well..." You let out a dreamy sigh, painting a picture so vivid you could almost convince yourself it was real.
"He's so sweet. He cares about me so much. Like, he cooks for me when I'm tired, aftercare after sex, kisses me goodbye every morning, and—" You leaned in conspiratorially, lowering your voice to a whisper. "He even lets me touch his guitar."
The gasps that followed were almost deafening.
"No way!" one of them shrieked, clutching her chest in disbelief. "Park Jongseong doesn't let anyone touch his guitar!"
You nodded solemnly, as if sharing a sacred truth. "Well, he lets me."
For a moment, you thought you'd pulled it off. You were a star in their eyes, a girl who'd managed to capture the unattainable Park Jongseong's heart.
But deep down, you knew the truth.
Park Jongseong hate everyone, especially you. And honestly? You didn't blame him.
The first time you'd crossed paths, it had been a disaster.
You'd been drinking water at your locker when he appeared out of nowhere, walking right past you. Startled by his sudden presence, you'd choked, spraying water directly into his face.
His jaw had clenched, his eyes shutting as he took a deep breath, clearly fighting the urge to lose his temper.
"Sorry!" you'd squeaked, your face burning with humiliation.
And then, like the socially awkward creature you were, you'd bolted down the hallway, leaving him dripping and furious.
Then there was the incident in the music room.
You'd been poking around the instruments out of boredom, your fingers grazing the strings of a random guitar when—CRASH. Your foot caught on something, and the stand holding his prized guitar tipped over, sending it sprawling to the floor.
Right at that moment, the door swung open, and in walked Park Jongseong.
You froze like a deer in headlights, your heart dropping to your stomach as his gaze landed on his guitar, then on you. His face was unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw told you everything you needed to know.
"Uh... sorry?" you muttered, holding up your hands in a weak peace sign. Before he could say anything, you darted out of the room. You ran away, again.
And who could forget the volleyball incident?
You'd been practicing serves in the gym when he and his friends walked in. Your focus wavered for a split second, and the ball sailed in the wrong direction—straight into his face.
You gasped as blood began dripping from his nose. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you stammered, panicking as he grabbed his face, clearly in pain.
Without thinking (or, honestly, with too much thinking), you did what you always did. You ran, again.
And now, standing here, spinning lies about a romance that didn't exist, you had to fight to keep your composure.
"Wow," one of the cheerleaders gushed. "I can't believe you and Jongseong are, like... a thing!"
"Yeah," you said with a forced laugh, clutching your bag tightly to hide how sweaty your palms were. "He's... amazing."
But in the back of your mind, all you could think about was how Park Jongseong would react if he ever found out about this.
And...The story spread faster than you could have ever imagined.
One second, you were fabricating a harmless little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the entire school seemed to think you and Park Jongseong were soulmates—or worse, a thing.
And not just any kind of "thing." No. The rumors had grown legs, arms, and a whole personality.
"Is it true that Park Jongseong is... like, huge in bed?" one girl whispered as you passed her in the hallway, her eyes wide with curiosity.
You choked on absolutely nothing, gripping your bag as if it might save you from spontaneously combusting.
Another girl caught up to you, practically skipping alongside you. "Oh my God, how was it? You know, with him? Is he all intense and broody like he looks, or does he have a soft side?"
You stared at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
"He's... uh... great?" you stammered, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so unconvincing.
Her jaw dropped, and before you knew it, a crowd of girls—yes, the famous girls—was swarming you, each one louder and more persistent than the last.
"I can't believe you got him to date you!"
"Wait, wait, wait—did he really let you touch his guitar? Because I heard he doesn't even let his bandmates touch it."
"What's his favorite food? Does he let you steal his hoodies? Is he ticklish?"
"Is he actually the silent-in-public, wild-in-private type? Tell us everything!"
Your head was spinning. They were everywhere, and you couldn't escape. You tried smiling naturally, nodding here and there, but the panic bubbling inside you was threatening to explode.
"Oh my God, you're not even in the cheerleading pep squad yet? How dare they still not accept you!" one girl exclaimed dramatically. She flipped her hair with a loud scoff. "I mean, I saw your audition, and it was fucking amazing."
You blinked. She definitely had not seen your audition.
"Y-yeah, um... thanks," you muttered, clutching your bag tighter and taking a deep breath to steady yourself.
It was still early, but the hallway was packed. The questions kept coming, the voices growing louder, and you were just about ready to melt into the floor.
And then it happened.
You let out a tiny squeak as someone grabbed your arm, yanking you out of the circle of girls. You stumbled, blinking in shock, and turned to see who your savior—or captor—was.
Your heart nearly stopped.
It was him.
Park Jongseong!
Jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes darker than your worst nightmares, and hair falling messily across his forehead like he just stepped out of a photoshoot.
Except he didn't look like a model. No. He looked angry.
Like, furious.
Oh, you were so, so dead.
"S-see you later, girls!" you called out, your voice cracking as you tried to sound cheerful. You gripped his arm like your life depended on it, forcing a smile as he dragged you through the hallway.
The crowd erupted behind you.
"Oh my God, they're really together!"
"I knew it!"
"They're so cute! Look at how she holds onto him!"
Your face felt like it was on fire. You could feel every pair of eyes in the hallway locked on you as Jongseong stormed forward, his grip firm but not painful. You tried to match his pace, but his legs were longer, and you were practically jogging to keep up.
You tried to focus on breathing, but the more they talked, the more you wanted to just curl up and disappear.
Meanwhile, Jongseong hadn't said a single word. His jaw clenched, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Uh, Jongseong—"
Before you could finish, he yanked open the door to a small storage room, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind you with a loud click.
"Hey—what are you—"
"Shut up," he muttered, his voice low and sharp.
You blinked, startled. The room was small, cramped, and dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. Shelves stacked with cleaning supplies and dusty boxes surrounded you, and the air smelled faintly of bleach.
Jongseong leaned against the door, running a hand through his messy hair and letting out a frustrated sigh.
"What the hell?" he said finally, his voice laced with irritation.
You swallowed hard, gripping your bag like a shield. "I... I can explain?"
"Yeah, you'd better," he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes locked onto yours, and the intensity of his gaze made your knees feel like jelly.
"Why is everyone in this school convinced we're dating? And why," his voice dropped lower, "did I just hear someone asking if I'm good in bed?"
You winced. "Okay, so... it might've gotten a little out of hand."
He let out a bitter laugh, raising an eyebrow. "A little?"
You hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Look, I was just trying to impress the cheerleaders! They don't think I'm cool enough to make the squad, so I might've... um... made up a story."
His jaw tightened. "A story? About me?"
You gave him a weak, apologetic smile. "I didn't think it would blow up like this! I thought they'd just forget about it after tryouts!"
"Oh, yeah, because rumors about me always disappear quietly," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
You bit your lip, your embarrassment growing by the second. "I'm really sorry. I'll fix it. I promise."
He scoffed, shaking his head. "How exactly do you plan to fix this? Everyone already thinks we're a couple. You should've thought about that before you opened your mouth."
"I know, I know!" you said, your voice rising slightly. "But I didn't think people would actually believe me! I mean, look at you! You're, like... you, and I'm just... me."
He stared at you, one eyebrow twitching. "What does that even mean?"
"It means no one would ever think you would date someone like me!" you blurted out.
There was a brief silence, Jongseong blinked, his expression unreadable.
"Wow," he said finally, his tone flat. "That's... depressing."
You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I'm making this worse, aren't I?"
"Yeah," he said bluntly.
You peeked at him through your fingers, your voice small. "Can you... just not kill me, though?"
He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. For a moment, he looked like he was considering throwing you out the door, but instead, he leaned back against it, running a hand down his face.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said finally. "You're going to go out there, tell everyone you lied, and make sure my name is out of their mouths by the end of the day."
Your eyes widened. "I can't do that! If I tell them the truth, I'll look like a total loser! They'll never let me on the squad!"
"Not my problem," he shot back.
"Please!" you pleaded, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Just... let me ride this out a little longer. I'll figure out a way to fix it without dragging your name through the mud, I promise!"
He stared at you for a long moment. He let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Do whatever you want," he said finally.
Your eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Don't make me regret this," he added,
"I'll do anything!" you said quickly, your relief overwhelming your sense of pride.
His eyes flicked back to yours, and you swore you saw a flicker of amusement in his expression. "Anything?"
You hesitated. "Uh... within reason?"
He smirked, shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered, pushing off the door and opening it.
"Wait, where are you going?" you asked, panicked.
"Class," he said simply, walking out and leaving you standing there, still clutching your bag like it might protect you from the fallout.
"Oh my God, they just came out of the storage room together!" someone squealed.
Your blood froze as a wave of gasps and murmurs rippled down the hallway.
"No way! They're so freaky!"
"They couldn't even wait until after school? A quickie in the storage room?!"
"That's so wild!"
You bolted out of the storage room, your face burning so hot it was probably visible from space. "It's not what you think!" you stammered, waving your hands frantically. "Nothing happened! I swear!"
But your protests only seemed to make things worse.
"Did you see her face? She's totally guilty!"
"God, no wonder he's so obsessed with her. She's probably insane in bed."
"Wait, so does this mean she's, like, not lying about them being a couple?"
The crowd erupted into a chorus of giggles, whispers, and scandalized gasps, and you felt your soul leave your body.
At the end of the day, you got the news: you were officially part of the cheerleading pep squad.
This wasn't exactly how you pictured it, but hey, you'd finally made it. You thought practice would be all about jumps, flips, and cheers, but instead, it was questions. Endless questions.
All about your "boyfriend."
By the time practice ended, you were convinced the squad cared more about Park Jongseong than they cared about cheerleading. It was exhausting. They made him your whole personality.
Now, you stood outside the music room, foot tapping nervously as you psyched yourself up. You needed to talk to him. Jongseong—Jay—walked out with his guitar slung over his back, his expression colder than a freezer. His eyes landed on you, sharp and annoyed.
"Why are you here?" he asked, as blunt as ever.
You forced an awkward smile. "Hi! Because... you're my boyfriend?"
Jay scoffed, walking past you like you didn't exist. Panicked, you scrambled to catch up, nearly tripping over your own feet.
"H-hey! Wait!" you called, gripping the edge of his jacket. "I'm Y/N! Please, for the second time, just hear me out!"
He stopped, turned, and stared at you with the kind of look that could burn holes in concrete. "What do you want now?"
You fumbled with your bag, your cheeks burning. "I just... I wanted to talk about—"
"Fuck off," he snapped, making you flinch and throw your hands up like you were bracing for impact.
"I'm sorry!" you squeaked, your voice small.
Jay sighed, running a hand through his hair as he shifted his weight. For a second, his eyes softened—but not enough to let you relax.
"I already let you use my name. What else do you want from me?" he asked, voice low and sharp.
You bit your lip, tapping your foot nervously. You'd practiced this speech in your head a hundred times, but the words suddenly felt scrambled.
"I just... I got into the cheerleading squad, but they keep asking me questions about you, and—"
His glare deepened. "After you spilled water on me, crashed my guitar, and hit me in the face with a volleyball, what more do you want?"
You gasped, offended. "E-excuse me?! Those were accidents!" you said, emphasizing the word with dramatic hand gestures.
"I didn't spill water on you on purpose! And I didn't crash your guitar—it fell! And your nose? Total accident!"
He turned to leave, but you panicked again, grabbing his arm and walking beside him as fast as your shorter legs could go.
"Please, just help me for a little while longer!" you pleaded.
He glanced at your hand on his arm, then at you, looking like he wanted to throw himself into the nearest trash can. "You got what you wanted. Tell them we broke up or something."
You shook your head frantically. "No, no, no! I know I'm a loser for using your name, but I need to keep this up for a few more months!"
Jay's jaw tightened. "What now?"
"I just... need some information about you," you said, your voice small. "Like, your favorite color, or your hobbies, or—"
He cut you off with a groan. "Just make something up. You're good at that."
"But it sounds fake!" you whined, stomping a little like a frustrated child.
Jay stopped walking and turned to glare at you again. "And the story about the café and me being good in bed doesn't sound fake?"
Your cheeks turned crimson. "I-I didn't say anything about you being good in bed!" you squeaked, waving your hands defensively. "I just said you were good at, uh, aftercare! They're the ones who assumed the rest!"
Jay stared at you, his face unreadable, but the way his lips twitched told you he was this close to laughing.
"So, you want more information about me so you can answer their next stupid questions?" he asked.
You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Exactly!"
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Like if I'm huge?"
Your brain short-circuited. "N-no!" you squealed, stepping back as your cheeks burned even hotter. "It's not like that!"
Jay smirked, adjusting the strap of his guitar as he stood up straight again. "Right," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Good luck with your cheerleading squad, girlfriend."
And with that, he totally walked away, leaving you standing there, red-faced and humiliated. But you weren't about to give up.
No way. You'd come too far and sacrificed too much pride to back down now. If groveling got you this far, then maybe going lower would get you what you needed.
So, you became... everywhere.
After his chemistry class, there you were, waiting outside the door with a bright smile and an awkward wave. "Hi! How was class? Did you learn anything interesting?"
He barely looked at you as he walked past, muttering, "I don't know, did you?"
At his band practice, you somehow sweet-talked your way in. His bandmates, thinking you were his girlfriend, welcomed you with open arms.
"Jay never told us you were so supportive," one of them said, grinning.
"Y-yeah! That's me! Super supportive!" you laughed nervously, while Jay sat in the corner, tuning his guitar, looking like he was plotting your demise.
But you stayed anyway, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching him play with stars in your eyes. He was good—like, really good—and for a second, you almost forgot how much he hated you.
After practice, you walked out with him, chatting non-stop about your cheerleading routine. "So then Karina said I should try a - "
Jay, walking ahead of you, sighed heavily. "Do you ever stop talking?"
You froze for half a second before jogging to catch up. "Not really!" you said cheerfully, ignoring the withering glare he shot you.
During break time, you plopped down beside him in the cafeteria, chatting away about your practice. You didn't even realize you were rambling until he looked at you, his expression blank.
"Do you ever run out of words?" he asked, deadpan.
You blinked. "Uh... no?"
He groaned, rubbing his temples.
It wasn't long before your cheer squad started noticing things, too.
During one break, Yunjin leaned over, lazily plucking at her nails. "Your relationship seems so... one-sided," she said casually, enough to make your stomach drop.
"Eh?" you squeaked, your chest tightening with nerves. "W-what do you mean?"
Yunjin shrugged. "We never see you guys together. And when we do, he looks like he's about murdering someone."
You forced a laugh, your hands sweaty. "W-well, he's just... had a lot of bad days lately!"
"Jay's always having bad days when he's with you?" she shot back, raising an eyebrow.
"And you two don't even kiss in public," Karina added, leaning her chin on her hand.
Your throat went dry. "Uh, well, he doesn't like PDA," you said quickly.
The two of them exchanged looks but eventually shrugged, letting it go. You let out a quiet breath of relief, only to freeze when Karina clapped her hands.
"Y/N, you said you can do back handsprings, right?"
You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Do you need me to—"
"Great!" Karina stood, surveying the gym with a critical eye. "We need you to cover the entire formation during lifting. Can you do five in a row?"
Your eyes widened. "F-five?"
"Yeah, starting from over there." Karina gestured to the far side of the gym.
You forced a smile and walked to the starting position, nerves rattling in your chest. Everyone's eyes were on you.
You took a deep breath and started your back handsprings, nailing five in a row. When you landed, slightly dizzy, you raised your arms triumphantly.
"Hmm... it doesn't cover the right side," Karina said, tapping her chin. "Y/N, try seven this time."
Your smile faltered. "S-seven?"
They nodded.
You did as they asked, pushing through the dizziness, only to hear them call for more.
By the fourth round, you were practically collapsing mid-air. Ten was far too much, and by the end, your knees hit the floor hard, sending pain shooting up your legs.
"Oh, perfect!" Karina said, clapping her hands. "That covered the whole area. Great job, Y/N! But you need to work on your posture."
You winced, clutching your bruised knee as you shuffled to sit beside the others. The pain was sharp, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you forced a smile, trying to keep it together.
"I'm kind of craving boba tea," Karina said suddenly, standing up. "Who wants some?"
"Oh, me too!" Giselle chimed in, followed by the rest of the squad eagerly raising their hands.
"Perfect!" Karina said, pulling out a notepad. "Let's make a list."
A moment later, she shoved the list into your hands. "Here. And here's the money. You can go get it for us."
You stared at the list, dumbfounded. "Wait... me?"
"Yeah! Thanks, Y/N!" she said brightly, already turning to talk to Giselle about something else.
You blinked, standing stiffly as pain radiated from your knees. You didn't even have the energy to argue. Instead, you hobbled to the restroom first, tears spilling over as you washed your knees.
Violet bruises were already forming, and the cold water stung as it ran over the tender skin.
This wasn't what you'd imagined when you dreamed of joining the cheer squad.
You thought it would be glamorous—flipping in the air, cheering under bright lights, and finally belonging to something cool.
Instead, here you were, limping to a nearby boba shop with bruised knees and teary eyes.
Still, you told yourself it was okay. You were part of them now. You weren't just a simple girl anymore—you were a cheerleader. Their friend. It was normal to run errands and do things for your friends, right?
So why did it feel so awful?
As you stood in line, you checked the money Karina had handed you earlier, only to realize it was short. Way short.
You panicked for a moment, but what could you do? You had no choice but to pay for the rest out of your own pocket, all while swallowing the lump in your throat.
By the time you were walking back to school, holding a bunch of boba cups in flimsy plastic bags, you were crying. Pathetically.
Tears streaked your face, and your lips wobbled as you sniffled, trying not to let the world see how pitiful you looked.
But it wasn't their fault, you told yourself. They weren't bullying you. You were just having a sensitive day. Your knees hurt from all that back handspring practice, and the money situation had just been bad luck.
That's all.
You furiously wiped at your cheeks, determined to look normal before you made it back to the gym. But then, a voice startled you out of your thoughts.
"What happened to you?"
You nearly dropped the boba.
"Jay!" you yelped, turning to see him standing there with his guitar case slung over his back, his sharp gaze flicking from your tear-streaked face to the plastic bags in your hands—and then to your bruised, purple knees.
"I—uh—hi!" you stammered, forcing an awkward smile.
He didn't return it. "You didn't visit the music room today."
"Oh!" you exclaimed, caught off guard. "I was busy with practice. I completely forgot! I'm sorry!"
He didn't respond, just reached over and took the plastic boba bags from your hands.
You blinked at him, muttering a quiet "thank you" as he carried them down the hallway beside you.
"What happened to you?" he asked again, his tone firmer this time.
You scratched the back of your head, feigning cluelessness. "Uh, what do you mean?"
He gave you a look, and his voice dropped. "Why were you crying? And why do you have bruises all over your knees?"
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He was staring at you like he could see right through every lie you'd prepared.
"Oh, that?" You waved a hand as if it were nothing. "They made me practice back handsprings today. I just, uh, had a bad landing. But I'm totally fine! See?" You gave him a shaky thumbs-up, forcing another smile.
Jay didn't look convinced. His gaze flickered back to your knees, then to your face.
"Why? Do you care about me?" you teased, lightly bumping his shoulder with yours.
He rolled his eyes, but you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Without a word, he gestured toward the gym door.
"You first."
You laughed nervously, pushing the door open and walking inside.
"Oh, Y/N," Karina called out from across the gym. "Coach said we're not allowed to have boba anymore since she's strict about our diet. Did you already buy it?"
Your face fell. "Yes..."
"Oh crap!" Giselle smacked her forehead. "I texted you, but I guess it didn't go through!"
"But the boba? The money?" one of the girls asked, holding out her hand expectantly.
You hesitated, your voice caught in your throat. "I already bought it," you said quietly, glancing nervously at Jay.
Before you could say anything else, he walked past you, heading toward the bleachers. Without a word, he dropped the bags of boba onto the bench—hard. The cups jostled, some of the liquid spilling over the edges.
"J-Jongseong?!" Karina stammered, her confident tone faltering as she gulped nervously.
Jay stood there, his sharp glare slicing through the room. "Are you serious right now?" he said, his voice calm but dangerous.
Karina shifted uncomfortably, swallowing a lump in her throat. "W-we didn't mean for her to actually buy them—"
"Yeah?" he cut her off. "Because it looks like you had her running errands like your personal delivery service."
"Jay, it's not like that!" you blurted, defending them instinctively, though your voice wavered.
The room went silent. None of the girls dared to speak as Jay's gaze swept over them, so sharp.
"Is your practice over or something?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because none of you look like you're doing any cheers anymore."
Giselle quickly nodded, her voice high and nervous. "W-we're on a break!"
Jay's eyes narrowed slightly, making Giselle shrink under his gaze.
Finally, he turned to you, and his expression softened just enough to make your chest feel weird—like relief, or maybe something you couldn't quite place.
"Come on," he said, nodding toward the door.
"H-huh?" you stammered, blinking up at him.
"Let's go," he repeated, already turning away.
Before you could argue, he noticed the way you hesitated, the way you winced with every step. His eyes flicked down to your knees, bruised and swollen, and without a word, he leaned down and effortlessly scooped you up into his arms.
"W-what are you doing?!" you gasped, your face burning red as you scrambled to hold onto him.
The squad collectively let out a series of audible gasps behind you.
"Oh my God, she's not like, totally lying," Karina whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief.
Jay didn't acknowledge them. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed ahead as he carried you out of the gym.
"Jay, I can walk!" you protested weakly, even though your knees were very much not in walking condition.
"Yeah, you're doing a great job of that," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he adjusted his grip on you.
You clung to him in stunned silence, trying to ignore the burning stares from the squad still watching as the door swung shut behind you.
Your heart raced, and whether it was from embarrassment or something else entirely, you didn't want to think about it.
"You're going to stop running around like this," Jay said firmly as he walked. "If they want boba, they can get it themselves."
"But I'm part of the team now," you mumbled, your voice small.
"You're not their errand girl," he shot back, his eyes flicking down to you.
You shut your mouth, letting him carry you to the clinic as the nurse tended to your bruised knees.
He leaned casually against the wall, watching the whole process like he was supervising. Every time you dared to glance his way, he raised an eyebrow, silently daring you to say something stupid. You wisely kept quiet.
The next day at practice, things hadn't gotten much better.
The girls were still bombarding you with questions—except now, Jay had inadvertently raised your popularity to new heights.
"He's sweet but terrifying," one of them whispered, watching you stretch. "Maybe you should get him to smile for once. He's always glaring."
"Yeah, but it's kind of hot," another one added, fanning herself dramatically. "It's like he hates everyone except her."
You snorted at that, almost choking on your own air. If only they knew the truth. But you couldn't even laugh properly because someone tapped your shoulder, pointing toward the gym doors.
"Y/N, look!"
You turned and nearly choked on your own spit. There he was—Jay—walking toward you.
The girls squealed, whispering loudly as they quickly backed away to give you "privacy."
Your stomach flipped as he approached, his dark eyes scanning the gym before locking on you. "What are you doing here?" you whispered, gripping the edge of the bleachers.
He ignored your question, dropping his bag and kneeling in front of you.
"How's your knee?" he asked, his tone softer this time as his eyes flicked to your legs.
"I'm fine! What are you doing here?" you repeated, feeling heat crawl up your neck as the gym filled with the sound of squeals and whispers.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out something.
"I bought you knee pads," he said simply, holding them up.
Your jaw dropped. "What—why?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he gently took your leg, his hands warm as he began securing the knee pad in place.
"He's so sweet!" one of the girls whispered loudly.
You tried to ignore the growing crowd of gossipers, your face burning as you stared down at him. "You really didn't have to—"
"Stop moving," he interrupted, his focus entirely on your knee as he adjusted the strap.
You sighed, crossing your arms. "Jay, seriously, what are you doing here?"
"I'll watch your routine," he said casually, moving to your other knee.
"What? No!" you exclaimed, flailing slightly. "What do you mean, you'll watch?"
He glanced up at you, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "You watch me practice at the music room. It's only fair I watch yours."
"That's different!" you sputtered, your face heating further.
"How is it different?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because—because I'm not good at this yet!" you said, flustered. "What's your deal?"
"What do you mean?" he said, his voice light with amusement. "I just want to support my girlfriend."
You froze. Your brain short-circuited. Did he just—
"W-what did you just say?" you stammered, your voice cracking.
"Girlfriend," he repeated smoothly, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Isn't that what you keep telling everyone I am?"
You wanted to crawl into a hole and die. The giggles and gasps around you didn't help, either.
"You can't just—" you started, but he cut you off.
"Relax," he said, smirking as he turned to walk away. "Good luck with practice, babe. I'll be watching."
You watched him head toward the bleachers, still reeling from the fact that Park Jongseong, the untouchable cold Jay, just called you his girlfriend in front of everyone.
If you hadn't been blushing before, you were definitely on fire now.
The routine begins with a burst of synchronized cheers, the squad moving in perfect unison. You jump, spin, and dance, throwing in a split and a clean back handspring. When the lifting section comes, you step onto their hands with, you stick the landing, holding your pose as they lower you carefully.
You finish the routine without letting your bruised knees slow you down, your chest heaving as sweat drips down your temples.
The coach claps, giving feedback to the squad, but all you can think about is sitting down and catching your breath.
Unconsciously, you find yourself collapsing onto the bleachers—right next to Jay. He doesn't say anything, just pulls a water bottle and towel out of his bag, as if he'd been expecting you to need them.
"Here," he mutters, handing them over.
"Thanks," you say, too exhausted to overthink it. You take a long sip of water before draping the towel over your shoulders.
"How's the performance?" you ask him, still catching your breath.
"You're good," he replies simply.
You pause, blinking at him. "No, like... us. The cheering squad. How did we look?"
Jay shrugs, leaning back slightly on the bleachers, his gaze fixed ahead. "I don't know," he says, his tone casual. "I only had my eyes on you."
The water bottle in your hand almost slips from your grasp.
"W-what?" you stammer, turning to look at him.
He doesn't meet your gaze, his expression cool and indifferent, but there's a small twitch at the corner of his lips. "You heard me," he says, his voice even.
Your face heats up, and you're not sure if it's from the workout or his words. Before you can respond, one of your squadmates calls your name, pulling you back to reality.
"I—uh, thanks," you mumble, scrambling to stand.
"Don't fall," Jay says, glancing at your knees briefly before leaning back and pulling out his phone, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on you.
Your heart races as you jog back to the squad, Jay's words replaying in your mind. "I only had my eyes on you."
What was that supposed to mean?
Over the following weeks, something shifted. Jay did seem to like you—no, that would be too strong—but he definitely didn't hate you anymore. If anything, it felt like he had resigned himself to your presence.
Your schedules matched perfectly: you'd stop by the music room before your cheer practice, watching him play with quiet awe. After his practice ended, you'd walk together to the gym, where he'd drop you off with a gruff nod.
And during those walks, you talked. A lot.
Jay didn't interrupt or roll his eyes at your endless stream of words, but he didn't say much either. He'd let you ramble about random things—your favorite stories, songs, foods, or some obscure fact you'd read online.
One day, while rifling through your bag in frustration, you whined, "Crap, I always forget to bring an extra shirt!"
Jay didn't respond, just kept walking. You assumed he wasn't even listening.
But the next day, when you showed up for your routine walk to the gym, he handed you a neatly folded shirt.
"Here," he said, his tone flat, as though it wasn't a big deal.
You blinked, staring at it. "Wait, is this for me?"
"No, it's for the bench," he replied dryly. Then, seeing your expression, added, "You said you forget yours. Just take it."
Your heart skipped as you took the shirt, muttering a soft "thank you."
On another day, after practice, you grinned at him. "I really want a spicy ramen—like, with crab sticks and shrimp! Let's go get some!"
He raised an eyebrow. "That's a one-way ticket to high blood pressure," he deadpanned.
You pouted, whining dramatically. "Come on, Jay!"
Yet not long after, you found yourselves seated at a small ramen shop. You happily slurped your noodles, your feet swinging slightly under the table. Jay glanced down at your feet before looking up at you, finding you smiling as you focused on your bowl.
"What?" you asked, catching his gaze.
"Nothing," he muttered, shaking his head as he went back to his own noodles.
Spending time with Jay made you lose your guard in the best way.
You weren't as self-conscious anymore, and little things just felt... natural. Like the time you were walking together, mid-laugh, and he suddenly pulled your arm to stop you.
"Look both ways," he mumbled, his hand lingering on your arm as you gripped it instinctively.
You giggled, wrapping your hand around his. "Okay, Dad."
He didn't respond, but his lips twitched ever so slightly.
Another habit of his? Waiting for you after practice, leaning against his motorcycle with his usual nonchalant expression. He'd nod for you to hop on, offering you his spare helmet.
It felt normal now—holding onto him as he drove, the wind whipping around you as the city lights blurred by.
Sometimes, Jay and you didn't even talk. Like when you'd share a cup of ice cream on a bench after practice, the two of you just staring at nothing. He'd sit beside you, watching as you bit down on your spoon absentmindedly.
"You look dumb," he'd say eventually, breaking the silence.
You'd laugh and stick your tongue out at him. "Thanks, Jay. Love the confidence boost."
Jay's attention to small things surprised you most when it came to your ketchup obsession.
It started when you were both sitting at your usual fast-food joint—a chain with a bright red logo and the smell of fries and fried chicken wafting through the air.
You'd always order the same thing: chicken nuggets and fries. But what made you stand out (to Jay, at least) was how you hoarded ketchup packets.
You never even used them at the restaurant. Instead, you'd stuff them into your bag, mumbling something about "saving them for later." Jay didn't ask at first, but the mystery was solved when he saw you in their practice one day, pulling out one of those packets.
You ripped it open quietly, then tipped the packet to your mouth and slurped the ketchup straight out of it.
A week later, during a break, Jay casually handed you a small stack of ketchup packets.
"Where did you get these?" you squealed, your eyes sparkling as you grabbed them from his hand.
"My bandmates ordered fries," he said with a shrug. "They don't like ketchup, so I took them."
You stared at him, your heart doing an annoying little flip. "Jay, you get me," you said dramatically, clutching the packets to your chest like they were a bouquet of roses.
"Don't make this weird," he muttered, already turning away.
You ripped one open immediately, slurping the sweet and tangy ketchup with a grin. "Thanks, Jay!"
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched again—his almost-smile.
Then there was the time in the cafeteria when he handed you a tissue.
You stared at him, confused. "What's this for?"
"Your lip gloss," he said simply, his tone so casual it made your brain short-circuit.
You blinked, dumbfounded, as heat rose to your cheeks. How did he even notice that you always wiped off your lip gloss before eating?
You muttered a shy "thanks," taking the tissue as your heart thumped in your chest.
And then there were even smaller things.
Like how he bent down to tie your shoelaces without a word when they came undone during your walk.
Or how he fixed your hair once, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a quick, almost annoyed motion.
Or how he straightened your uniform when it got wrinkled after a particularly rough practice, muttering something about how you looked like "a mess."
They weren't grand gestures. Jay wasn't the type for big declarations or sweeping acts of romance. But it was always the small things that left you breathless—the way he noticed you, the way he cared without saying much.
And maybe, just maybe, the cold, untouchable guitarist didn't hate you as much as he let on.
"That's Park Jongseong's girlfriend!"
"Park Jongseong's girl is so pretty!"
"I didn't know Park Jongseong's girlfriend is so good at dancing!"
But honestly? You weren't sure how to feel about it anymore.
People didn't want to know you. They wanted to know him. Even when someone started a conversation with you, it always led back to Jay.
"How did you two meet?"
"What does he do when he's bored?"
"Does he even smile around you?"
You started noticing how Jay wasn't immune, either. People would corner him in the halls, asking invasive questions about your "relationship," and he'd glare at them in that trademark way of his until they got the hint and left. He never complained, never said anything about it to you, but you could see it in the way his jaw clenched tighter these days.
You weren't cool. You weren't special.
You were just someone who had made a stupid, selfish decision to drag his name into your mess. And now? You weren't sure if you could keep it up any longer.
It was a quiet afternoon in the music room. Jay sat across from you, strumming his guitar in the golden light of sunset. Normally, this was when you'd ramble on about whatever random topic popped into your head, but today, the words felt too heavy to come out.
Instead, you pulled your knees to your chest, hugging them as you stared at the floor.
"I'm sorry if I always bother you," you said suddenly, your voice barely audible.
Jay's fingers stilled on the strings, his head tilting slightly as he glanced at you.
"I... I really don't have any friends," you admitted, resting your chin on your knees. "I think I'm too crazy for the good girls in my class, too dumb for the nerds, and way too soft for the mean girls."
He didn't say anything, but you felt his eyes on you.
"But, you know," you continued, your voice shaky, "you're the first person who's ever... tolerated me. And I really appreciate that."
You laughed weakly, even though it wasn't funny. "Thank you, Park Jongseong, for listening to me go on and on about dystopian movies. For putting up with me when I get loud and excited. For not judging my weird ketchup obsession."
Jay leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, as you let out a long sigh.
"I thought dragging your name into the cheer squad thing would make me feel like I belonged somewhere," you said, your voice breaking. "But it hasn't. If anything, it's just made me feel worse. Like I'm not enough for them. Like I'll never be enough."
Your chest tightened as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, unable to meet his gaze. "And... I feel like I've dumped all these responsibilities on you because of one stupid little lie I told. It's not fair to you."
Jay stayed silent, but you could feel his presence, heavy and quiet.
You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "I think... I think it's time we break up."
Jay's hands froze on the guitar, his entire body going still. His gaze sharpened.
"Break up?" he repeated, his tone even but taut, like he was holding something back.
You nodded, your throat closing up. "Yeah. I've caused you enough trouble already. I think... I think it's better if we just end it. It'll be easier for you."
Jay's jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of the guitar as he stared at you. "Is that what you want?" he asked, his tone calm but laced with something you couldn't place.
Your chest felt like it was caving in. You couldn't look at him, couldn't bring yourself to say what you really wanted to say. So instead, you nodded.
"Yes," you whispered, barely audible.
The silence that followed was unbearable. You expected him to agree, to maybe sigh in relief or tell you that you were right. But instead, he just stared at you, his gaze unreadable.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose, his voice low. "Alright."
Your heart sank at the word, even though it was what you'd asked for. You forced yourself to stand, forcing a shaky "thank you" past your lips as you made your way toward the door.
But just as you reached it, his voice stopped you in your tracks.
"But you should know," he said, "that if you think you're not enough, you're wrong."
You froze, your breath hitching. Slowly, you turned to face him.
He wasn't looking at you anymore. His gaze was fixed on his guitar, his fingers idly plucking at the strings, but there was a softness in his voice that you weren't used to.
"You don't have to try so hard to fit into their world," he said quietly. "You already stand out. You don't see it, but you do."
Your throat tightened as tears pricked at your eyes. "Jay..."
He looked up at you then, his dark eyes piercing but calm. "If you want to end it, I'll let you go," he said, his voice steady. "But don't do it because you think you're causing me trouble. That's just you overthinking, as usual."
The ache in your chest grew unbearable, and for a moment, you thought about staying.
But the weight of your emotions felt too heavy, and you bolted, muttering a weak "thanks" as you ran out of the room, tears already spilling down your cheeks.
You didn't look back, but as you closed the door behind you, you swore you heard the faint sound of his guitar strings—soft, steady, and full of something you didn't quite understand.
By the time you reached the bathroom, you were a mess.
You locked yourself in a stall and let it all out, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried—and failed—to convince yourself this was what you wanted.
"It's not even real," you muttered, your voice cracking. "We're not a thing. We were never a thing. Why am I crying like an idiot?"
But no amount of reasoning stopped the ugly sobs from wracking your chest. You clutched some toilet paper, blowing your nose dramatically and telling yourself to get it together.
When you showed up to practice later, your eyes were swollen and red, your nose a little too pink to hide what had happened.
"Y/N, are you okay?" Karina asked, looking concerned.
You forced a shaky smile. "I'm fine! Totally fine! Oh, by the way..." You paused, sniffling slightly. "Jay and I broke up."
The words felt like ripping off a Band-Aid, but you didn't have time to process them before the room erupted.
"What?!" Giselle gasped, clutching her water bottle.
"No way!" Yunjin exclaimed, already pulling out her phone.
Within hours, the news spread across the school faster than you thought possible. Everywhere you went, you could hear whispers and murmurs about the "breakup."
And Park Jongseong?
He was still Park Jongseong.
You spotted him in the hallway, his face set in stone, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp as ever.
He walked like he was on his way to commit murder, every step filled with tension. People gave him a wide berth, whispering things like, "He's even scarier than usual," and, "God, she must've really broken his heart."
But when your eyes met his for a split second, he looked away, his expression you can't read.
Your chest ached painfully every time you passed him. And when you were finally alone at night, you curled up in bed and cried yourself to sleep, the pain in your chest refusing to fade.
By the time your classmates dragged you to karaoke, you were on emotional autopilot. You didn't want to be there, but they'd insisted.
"It'll help you get over him!" Sunoo had said, practically shoving you into the room.
It wasn't helping. At all.
Sunoo grabbed the mic, singing passionately as the lyrics flashed across the screen. "That's why I don't understand... why I'm feeling so bad now, when I know it was my idea."
You froze, staring at the lyrics like they'd personally attacked you. Your lips twitched, but you refused to let the tears fall.
Ni-ki leaned forward, grabbing the mic dramatically. "I could've just denied the truth and lied... why am I the only one, standing, stranded on the same ground?!"
You let out a choked laugh, trying to brush off your growing emotions, but then Sunoo turned to you with wide, knowing eyes. "Oh my God, what happened to you?!"
"Shut up," you muttered, pulling your cardigan over your face to hide the tears forming in your eyes.
The room erupted as Ni-ki wrestled the mic away from Sunoo. "My love, it's been a long time since I cried and left you out of the blue." Ni-ki sang into the microphone.
You couldn't help it—the tears started spilling as you wiped them furiously with your sleeve, hoping no one would notice.
"It's hard leaving you that way... when I never wanted to!"
Your classmates were belting out the lyrics, screaming into the mic with way too much passion. And somehow, the chaos made it worse.
"Self-denial is a game!" Ni-ki shouted, practically falling to his knees. "It's strange, I never would've wanted it until there was you!"
You sniffled, wiping your cheeks again, but the tears wouldn't stop.
"Y/N, are you crying?!" Sunoo gasped dramatically, leaning closer, his voice high-pitched enough to rival a whistle.
"No!" you wailed, burying your face deeper into your cardigan. "It's just—the lyrics are so stupid!"
Jungwon, ever the responsible one, grabbed the remote and immediately switched the song. "Okay, we need a vibe shift. No more heartbreak songs."
The opening beat of Apple Bottom Jeans blasted through the room, and everyone burst into cheers and laughter.
You couldn't help but laugh, sniffing back the last of your tears as Ni-ki grabbed the mic and jumped onto the couch.
You felt a little lighter. Sure, your heart was still aching, but at least now, you now had friends who made it a little easier to breathe.
The next day, you were required to attend the university baseball game. Every student was, but as part of the cheerleading pep squad, you had absolutely no excuse to skip.
The stadium was packed with thousands of students from your university and the rival school, the energy buzzing in the air. You tugged at the hem of your uniform skirt, your face burning with embarrassment. "Is it really this short?!" you whined, glaring at Giselle.
She shushed you with a wave of her pom-poms. "Relax. It's normal!"
"You don't have to be awkward about it," Karina added, flipping her hair. "Your legs look great!"
Your coach, however, was far less delicate. "We're making it look longer because your legs are short," she said bluntly, not even looking up from her clipboard.
You gasped, utterly dumbfounded. "I—should I be offended, or...?"
The coach just shrugged, moving on with her notes.
Before the game officially began, your squad performed a short routine to hype up the crowd. The music blared through the speakers as you stepped forward, executing a clean front handspring. The crowd roared with approval, but your face burned as your skirt rode up mid-flip.
When the routine ended, you cringed, tugging your skirt back down as you returned to your seat at the front. You waved your pom-poms enthusiastically, shouting the university yell every time your team scored, even if you were still mortified from earlier.
When the game finally ended and the crowd began to thin out, you found yourself standing near the bleachers, clutching your pom-poms and phone. The cheer squad was preparing to take pictures, but you hung back for a moment, trying to catch your breath.
That's when someone approached you.
"Hi," a voice said, warm and slightly out of breath.
You turned to see a guy standing in front of you, wearing his baseball uniform. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed from the game, and his smile was boyish and shy.
"I'm Heeseung," he introduced himself, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just wanted to say your routine was really cool. And, uh... I was wondering if I could get your number?"
You blinked, your brain stalling. Wait, what?
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, a loud voice called out from across the field.
"Y/N! Hurry up!" Sunoo waved his arms dramatically, yelling over the crowd. "We're taking pictures!"
Your face turned even redder as you looked between Heeseung and Sunoo. Panicking, you muttered a quick, "Sorry, I've gotta go!" before rushing off toward your squad, clutching your pom-poms.
By the time you reached your squad, you were out of breath and flustered, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.
You grabbed your bag, rummaging through it in search of a shirt to change into. The crowd had mostly cleared out, and the stadium lights were dimming, but you were too busy muttering to yourself to notice.
Of course, you didn't have a spare shirt. Why would you?
You sighed heavily, dropping your pom-poms into the bag and staring at the empty space inside. Without thinking, you mumbled, "I miss Jay."
The words hung in the air, surprising even you. You froze for a second, realizing what you'd just said out loud.
It had been months since you'd ended things—or whatever it was you'd had—with Jay. And somehow, instead of feeling lighter, you felt worse.
The more you saw him in passing, the more you missed him. The more you craved him. The ache in your chest refused to fade, no matter how much time passed.
Sometimes, you still cried yourself to sleep, clutching your pillow as memories of him flooded your mind.
You hated how much you missed him.
And then there were moments when your body moved on its own, as if drawn to him.
You'd find yourself standing outside the music room, staring at the door like you were waiting for something—or someone—to pull you inside.
But you never went in. You just stood there, your heart heavy, before walking away again.
Or you'd sit at your favorite bench, the one where you used to share ice cream with him after practice. You'd sit there alone, biting the spoon absentmindedly and staring at nothing, replaying old conversations in your head.
It was during one of those quiet moments, as you sat with a half-melted scoop of vanilla in your hand, that the truth finally hit you.
You liked Jay.
No, you more than liked him. You missed him so much it hurt. And the worst part? You had no idea if he missed you, too.
You bit down harder on your spoon, frustration bubbling in your chest.
Why had you been so stupid? Why had you pushed him away when, deep down, he'd been the only one who ever made you feel seen?
Maybe you were too late. Maybe you'd ruined whatever connection you had with him.
But one thought kept circling in your mind, no matter how much you tried to shake it off.
What if you weren't too late?
"Do you party?" Sunoo asked casually, flopping onto your bed like it was his own.
You raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide your skepticism. "Not really. I mean, I've been to a few, but it's not my thing. Why?"
"Let's go to a party this weekend! You know Sunghoon, right? The baseball player? He's hosting!"
You laughed, waving him off. "I'll think about it, but probably not."
Sunoo narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but you brushed him off, fully intending to stay home.
But when the weekend came, your plans to stay curled up in bed went out the window.
Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki just barged into your house.
"Why aren't you dressed?!" Sunoo exclaimed, throwing open your closet as Jungwon inspected your makeup drawer.
"What are you doing?!" you shrieked, clutching a pillow like it was a weapon.
"You are going to this party," Ni-ki said, arms crossed like he was your older brother instead of one year younger. "Get ready. Now."
With no way out, you reluctantly threw on a simple crop top and shorts, tying your hair into a ponytail and doing clean, light makeup.
When you arrived at the party, the atmosphere immediately overwhelmed you. The music was loud enough to shake the walls, the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something smoky lingering in the air.
You stuck close to Sunoo as he handed you a red cup with some drink you didn't recognize.
"Just take a sip!" he shouted over the music.
"Excuse me for a second," you said, escaping to the balcony.
The moment you stepped outside, you exhaled deeply, the fresh air calming your nerves. The cool night breeze felt like a blessing after the suffocating heat inside.
But then, you stiffened.
Sitting in one of the chairs was someone you hadn't expected to see—someone you hadn't seen up close in months.
Jay.
He sat with one foot tapping rhythmically against the ground, a vape in his hand. The dim light from the balcony highlighted his sharp jawline, his pointed nose, and the effortless way his hair slicked back. He wore a simple white shirt under a blue Nike jacket, but somehow, he looked stunning.
Your chest tightened painfully as his head turned, his dark eyes meeting yours.
"Oh," you said awkwardly, frozen in place.
He stared at you for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, taking a long drag from his vape.
Without knowing why, you found yourself walking over to him and sitting quietly beside him, your gaze fixed on the stars above.
"I didn't know you actually smoked," you said softly, breaking the silence.
He hummed, his head tilting slightly as he exhaled the smoke in the opposite direction, making a point to avoid letting any of it near you.
"I don't. Not usually. I don't smoke at school."
He shifted in his seat, sliding the vape into his pocket and straightening his posture.
"Why'd you stop just now?" you asked, glancing at him.
He didn't hesitate. "Your nose is sensitive to strong smells."
Your breath caught, his simple answer hitting you harder than you expected. That was Jay—always quiet, always watching, always knowing without making a big deal of it.
The ache in your chest grew unbearable.
"I'm sorry," the words came out from your mouth.
Jay's gaze snapped to yours, his expression neutral.
"For what?" he asked evenly.
"For just leaving," you said, your voice shaky. "For everything you've done for me, and then me just... walking away. I didn't know what I was feeling back then. I was hurt and scared because... you're you, and I'm just me. I'm not good enough for you—"
Jay didn't respond immediately. His gaze softened, though his expression remained guarded. "And what are you feeling now?"
You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest.
"I... I miss you, Jay," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I miss everything about you. The small things, the way you cared, even if you acted like you didn't. I'm sorry for leaving you. I'm sorry for being stupid."
Jay looked at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching yours.
"You're really stupid, aren't you?" he said, his voice calm but laced with a faint humor that made your heart ache.
You managed a weak laugh, wiping at the corner of your eye. "Yeah, I am."
Jay exhaled slowly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.
"I thought you'd like me and never break it off because that's what happens in those books you always talk about, right?" he said, his voice softening. "But somehow, I fell harder than I ever expected."
Your breath hitched as he let out a quiet laugh—so rare, so warm, it made your chest ache. He finally looked at you, his eyes glinting with something vulnerable.
"I've always waited for you," he admitted, his voice low. "Waited for you to stop standing outside the music room and just walk in. But you never did."
Your eyes widened, surprise flickering across your face.
"I saw you," he continued. "Every time you sat on that bench, on our place... I saw you at a distance, sitting there, staring at nothing. And I waited. I always waited for your eyes to look at me the way I was looking at you."
Tears began to swell in your eyes as you took in his words.
Jay leaned closer, his movements gentle.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "For being such a coward. For not walking up to you when I wanted to. I told myself I'd wait, but waiting just hurt more because all I could do was think about you. About us."
He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingers against your cheek, his hand warm and grounding. "I'm hurting. I've been hurting since you left. Do you feel the same way?"
The tears spilled over, warm and slow, streaking down your cheeks. You placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch as you nodded. "I do, Jay. I've been hurting, too."
He watched you closely, his eyes softening as you smiled at him through your tears.
"You're crying," he murmured, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb.
"Yeah, well, that's your fault," you whispered, laughing through the tears.
Jay shook his head, his lips tugging into the faintest smile. "You're impossible," he muttered, his voice affectionate.
"And you're annoying," you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion.
But neither of you moved away.
The balcony felt smaller, quieter, as Jay's hand lingered on your cheek. His gaze flickered to your lips for a brief second, and your heart jumped, but he didn't move, waiting instead for you to close the gap.
So you did.
You leaned forward, pressing your lips softly to his, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. His lips were warm and hesitant at first, but then he shifted, tilting his head slightly as he kissed you back.
His hand slid into your hair, his fingers brushing lightly against your scalp as he pulled you closer. The kiss deepened, your lips moving in perfect sync.
When you pulled back just slightly to catch your breath, his forehead rested against yours, and his lips hovered mere inches away.
His voice was low, and soft as he whispered against your lips, "Don't ever think of yourself like that. You're more than enough."
His words struck you deep, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his. "But... you're you, and I'm just me," you murmured, your voice barely audible.
Jay didn't let you finish. His lips captured yours again, silencing your insecurities. When he pulled back, he looked at you with a gaze so intense it made your breath hitch.
"I like you for being you," he said simply.
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening with emotion. "But you're like a big star," you said, holding up your fingers to make the shape of a small star, "and I'm just... a little star."
Jay's lips curved into the softest smile before he leaned forward again, kissing you gently.
His voice was tender when he murmured against your lips, "A little star that shines brightest in my eyes."
Your cheeks burned, and you couldn't help but let out a flustered laugh, lightly hitting his chest. "How come you always know how to get my heart?!"
Jay chuckled, kissing your forehead as he hugs you.
Jay just wanted to play guitar. That was all. He didn't ask for the reputation, the attention, or the corny nickname the school had slapped on him—the "cold, untouchable hot guitarist." God, how he hated that.
Every day felt the same: girls cornering him in the halls, asking for his number or accidentally brushing their hands against his arms or guitar case. His eyes would glare like knives as he gritted out, "Don't touch me."
He hated it—the fake admiration, the empty attention. Everyone seemed to care about him for all the wrong reasons. And when they annoyed him too much?
"Fuck off," he'd mutter, his tone so cold it practically froze people in their tracks.
But you? You were different.
Jay remembered the school festival three years ago. He'd been sitting in Jake's booth, tuning his guitar lazily while Jake served spicy noodles to an occasional brave (or dumb) soul willing to risk their stomach for the thrill.
It was supposed to be a chill afternoon, but then you showed up.
You were the only person who kept coming back to Jake's booth. Every hour.
"I swear, you're going to burn a hole in your stomach," Jake had told you, half-laughing as he handed you yet another bowl of his stupidly spicy noodles.
"Totally worth it," you'd chirped, your voice high-pitched and cheerful. "Do you have a permanent shop? I'd eat there every day!"
Jay had glanced up from his guitar, staring at you through the slits of the tent. You were completely oblivious to his presence, happily slurping noodles as Jake made small talk with you.
Later, Jake stormed into the tent, tossing his apron onto the chair. "We're sold out," he'd announced. "And it's her fault."
Jay had raised an eyebrow. "Her?"
Jake pointed outside. "The spicy noodle girl. She's been coming back all day. We sold out because of her."
Jay hadn't said anything, but his lips had twitched, the smallest hint of a smile forming before he went back to tuning his guitar.
Jay hated everyone. He hated how they tugged at him, how they fawned over him for no reason. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to hate you.
He remembered the little things—moments that no one else seemed to notice.
Like the time you walked down the hallway with that cute little bag, the kind of bag that didn't really suit a high schooler but looked perfect on you.
It had a figurine hanging from it, neatly wrapped in a plastic pouch, and you carried it like it was your most prized possession.
Then, just days later, he'd found you outside the lost and found office, whining and crying. You'd lost the figurine, and you'd spent an entire lunch period pacing back and forth in front of the office, waiting for someone to turn it in.
Or the time he saw you clapping and cheering during a cheerleading pep squad performance, smiling so brightly that it felt contagious. You weren't even part of the squad back then, just a spectator, but you looked so genuinely happy that even he couldn't look away.
Then there was your PathFit (PE) class. Jay hadn't meant to stop by, but he'd found himself standing near the open door, his guitar case slung over his shoulder, as his eyes drifted toward you. You were on the floor, legs stretched into a perfect split, your forehead pressed to the ground as you stretched.
Jay once again noticed you searching frantically for a notebook you'd dropped in the hallway. You were crouched on the floor, mumbling to yourself, "This is why I can't have nice things."
He'd spotted the notebook a few feet away, picked it up, and placed it on the bench beside him.
When you found it moments later, you gasped, "Oh my God, it's a miracle!"
You always said you were just a simple girl. That no one really noticed you or cared about someone like you.
But in Jay's eyes, you were the opposite of invisible.
And every time he thought about you, he realized the same thing.
You stood out more than anyone else ever could.
When you'd spilled water all over his face.
His first reaction wasn't anger or annoyance, but something that surprised even him—he noticed how beautiful you looked up close.
Your wide eyes stared at him in shock, your pouty lips forming a small gasp as you muttered incoherent apologies. The faint, sweet floral scent of your perfume hit him, and for a second, he forgot the cold water dripping down his face.
Jay closed his eyes, his jaw clenching as he tried to take in more of that intoxicating scent, grounding himself. But before he could say anything, you bolted, muttering a quick "Sorry!" as you sprinted down the hallway.
He almost laughed when you tripped on your knees, scrambling awkwardly to escape. He stood there for a moment, wiping the water off his face with his sleeve.
The second interaction was you crashing out his guitar. He almost didn't notice his guitar on the floor because his eyes were locked on you.
Slowly, you raised two fingers in a peace sign, your expression a mix of guilt and panic.
"Uh... sorry?" you muttered before immediately backing out of the room.
Jay stood there, staring at the empty doorway, blinking in disbelief. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe even laugh, but the sound never left his throat. You were gone before he could even start a conversation.
And then there was the volleyball incident.
Jay didn't even see the ball coming. One second he was walking into the gym with his friends, and the next, a sharp pain hit him square on the nose.
"Shit," he hissed, dropping to the ground and clutching his face.
When he opened his eyes, you were hovering over him, your face inches from his. Your hair framed your face like a curtain, and there it was again—that scent. Sweet, light, floral.
He blinked up at you, stunned into silence. For a split second, he forgot about the pain, about the blood dripping from his nose. He was too focused on you—your soft features, your panicked expression, the way your lips trembled as you tried to form words.
Before he could open his mouth to tell you he was fine, the blood started pouring out of his nose.
"Crap!" you yelped, standing up quickly, flailing in panic. "I—I'll get help! I'm so sorry!"
And then you ran. Again.
Jay lay there, groaning as Jake handed him a tissue, snickering the entire time.
"Shut up," Jay muttered, even though Jake don't even say anything.
The breaking point came when Jay heard about the rumor that he was in a relationship.
He was furious. Annoyed didn't even begin to describe it. He hated how his name was constantly dragged into things, but this? A fake relationship? With some girl he didn't even know?
Storming through the hallways, he cornered one of the guys he'd overheard spreading the rumor. Grabbing the boy by the collar, he slammed him against the lockers.
"Tell me who started it," Jay demanded, his voice low and sharp. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes boring into the boy's.
"I-I don't know! I swear!" the boy stammered, flinching under Jay's glare. "They said it was some girl—Y/N! Y/N told the cheerleaders about it!"
At the mention of your name, Jay froze. His grip loosened slightly.
For a moment, he couldn't believe it. Of all people, it was you.
Releasing the boy with a shove, Jay stepped back, his emotions in a whirlwind. He should've been angrier—should've been ready to confront you and demand answers. But instead, he found himself... curious.
He should've been irritated. He should've hated you for dragging his name into a mess.
But somehow, he didn't.
Instead, he felt something he couldn't quite place. And he wasn't sure what annoyed him more—the rumor itself or the fact that the thought of being tied to you didn't bother him as much as it should have.
“Oh my God, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Did they just come back together?!”
Whispers followed the two of you as you walked hand in hand down the hallway.
Jay’s tall frame dressed in his usual all-black outfit. His guitar case was slung over his back, the strap resting effortlessly against his shoulder, and his hand held yours with an ease that made your heart race.
Every head turned to look at you. It wasn’t just the sight of Jay—cold, untouchable, and intimidating—but the sight of him with you, a cheerful and bubbly cheerleader.
You leaned closer to him, lowering your voice as you whispered, “Do you think a guitarist and a cheerleader is a weird combination?”
Jay glanced down at you, one eyebrow raised, his expression softening. “No,” he said without hesitation, his voice steady. “You and me? We’re a perfect combination.”
You let out a laugh, lightly bumping your shoulder against his arm. “God, you’re so cheesy.”
He smirked faintly but didn’t respond, the corners of his lips tugging upward in amusement.
Park Jongseong as a fake boyfriend was good.
But Park Jongseong as a real boyfriend? He was so much better.
You used to think of him as just the guy with the sharp jawline, the deadpan expression, and those sharp, eagle-like eyes that seemed to shoot lasers at anyone who got too close. He was the “fuck off” and “shut up” guy, the untouchable guitarist who kept everyone at arm’s length.
But now, as you walked hand in hand with him, you realized how wrong you’d been.
Jay wasn’t just sweet—he was unbelievably sweet.
You remembered all the little lies you’d told about him when you were trying to fit in with the cheer squad.
“He’s so sweet,” you’d said back then, fabricating stories about how he’d treat you like a princess.
But now? Those stories felt laughable because the reality of being with Jay was so much better.
When you were tired, he’d carry your bag without a word.
“Let me take it,” he’d say simply, slipping the strap off your shoulder.
He opened doors for you—every single time. If you walked through a doorway together, you didn’t even have to reach for the handle because Jay would already be holding it open, waiting patiently for you to step through.
Once, when you were getting into a car, you’d bumped your head against the roof. From that moment on, Jay always, always put a hand over your head to make sure it didn’t happen again.
“Careful,” he’d murmur, voice low but gentle.
You’d joked about him cooking for you once, completely unaware of how true it would become.
One evening, after a particularly long practice, Jay had brought you to his house. “You’re tired,” he’d said. “Let me make you something.”
You hadn’t expected much—maybe instant ramen or a sandwich at most. But then you’d watched, wide-eyed, as he moved around the kitchen with surprising ease, chopping vegetables, seasoning meat, and sautéing everything.
“Do you cook often?” you’d asked, leaning against the counter as the delicious aroma filled the room.
“Sometimes,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “Jake says my food is too good for him, though.”
You laughed, resting your chin on your hand as you watched him. Jay, the sharp-tongued guitarist, was making you a home-cooked meal. And it wasn’t just good—it was amazing.
Then there were the kisses.
You’d made up a story once, saying, “He kisses me goodbye every morning.” You thought it was the perfect romantic lie to impress the cheerleaders.
But now? Jay had made it a reality.
Every morning before he left for his own class, he’d touch your cheek lightly, his fingers brushing against your skin.
Then, he’d lean in, his lips meeting yours in the gentlest, softest kiss.
“See you later,” he’d say, before turning and walking away.
Each time, your heart would flutter uncontrollably, your fingers brushing against your lips as you watched him go.
"Aftercare after sex"
Except now, the real thing had turned out to be even better.
“Jay!” you whined, your hand gripping his hair as your hips moved uncontrollably against his mouth.
His tongue worked magic against your clit, circling and sucking gently while his long fingers moved inside you. His fingers curled just right, hitting your sweet spot effortlessly, and you gasped, your jaw going slack from the overwhelming sensation.
Your stomach tightened as the heat pooled low in your belly, and you felt yourself getting closer with each passing second.
Jay let out a low hum, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. His free hand moved up to intertwine with yours, grounding you even as you felt like you might fall apart.
“Feel so good,” you sobbed, your eyebrows furrowing together in pleasure. “Don’t want to stop.”
Jay pulled back just slightly, his lips glistening as he murmured, “Are you close, baby?”
You nodded frantically, your breathing erratic.
He leaned up, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You tasted yourself on him, your tongue meeting his as the kiss grew messy and desperate. His fingers didn’t slow for a second, pumping relentlessly inside you as you gasped against his mouth.
When you broke the kiss, your eyes were teary, your chest heaving. Jay looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, his own breathing labored as he took in your flushed cheeks and swollen lips.
“Fuck,” he muttered, biting his lip as he moved back down between your legs. Without hesitation, he latched onto your clit again, sucking hard.
Your body jolted, your hands clutching at the sheets as you screamed his name. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum—”
Jay hummed in approval, his tongue working in perfect sync with his fingers, coaxing you to the edge. His free hand squeezed yours gently, the small gesture making your heart flutter even as your hips bucked uncontrollably against his face.
“I love you,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I love you, I love you—”
Your back arched as the tension inside you snapped, and your vision blurred with stars. You cried out, your body shaking as you came, the overwhelming pleasure leaving you breathless.
Jay stayed with you through it all, his tongue and fingers slowing to help you ride out the waves. When you finally slumped back against the bed, exhausted and trembling, he moved up beside you, brushing the hair from your face.
He kissed you softly, murmuring sweet nothings against your lips as he fixed your shirt and wiped you down with gentle care.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, soothing. “You did so good.”
Jay was definitely good at aftercare.
“Is it true that Park Jongseong is… like, huge in bed?”
You flushed instantly, your thoughts flashing to the one time you’d seen him fully exposed, when he’d let you take him in your hand.
Yeah, he was definitely huge.
"Did he really let you touch his guitar?"
You stared down at the sleek Stratocaster electric guitar now resting gently in your lap. Jay handed you a white marker, his eyes soft as he watched your expression shift from confusion to awe.
Your fingers lightly brushed over the strings and the smooth, glossy surface of the guitar’s body. “What’s this for?” you asked, holding up the white marker he had placed in your hand.
“I need you to sign your name on my guitar,” he said casually.
Your eyes widened as you looked between the guitar and Jay, who was now sitting beside you. “W-wait,” you stammered, your voice rising slightly. “Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin it—”
“Baby,” he interrupted, “you’re not ruining it.” He leaned closer, gently pointing at a spot near the edge of the guitar’s body. “Right there. That’s where I want it. Sign it for me, hmm?”
You swallowed hard, this wasn’t just any guitar—it was his guitar. The one he cherished.
“Okay,” you whispered, nodding as you carefully uncapped the marker.
You hovered the pen above the guitar for a moment, practicing your signature in the air as your nerves fluttered.
Jay chuckled softly beside you, his voice warm. “You’re acting like you’re signing a million-dollar contract.”
“This is more serious than that,” you shot back, your lips curving into a nervous smile.
Finally, with a deep breath, you pressed the tip of the marker to the glossy surface, your hand moving carefully as you signed your name. The white ink glided smoothly across the black body, and when you pulled the marker away, you stared at the result with wide eyes.
“Perfect,” Jay murmured.
You turned to look at him, your heart skipping a beat at the way his gaze lingered on the guitar. His usual sharp, stoic expression was replaced with something softer, his eyes shining as he traced your signature with his finger.
He looked up at you, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you,” he said, his voice full of warmth. Then, leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.
Your cheeks burned as you gripped the marker tightly, unsure of what to say.
Jay pulled back slightly, his smile still in place. “Now it’s perfect,” he said simply, taking the guitar from your lap and standing up.
You watched as he adjusted the strap and slung it over his shoulder. His fingers moved instinctively to the strings, testing a few chords, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes kept flickering to your signature.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice casual, but you could hear the pride beneath it.
“It does,” you said softly, your chest feeling warm and full.
It was the school festival again, and you couldn’t contain your excitement. Still wearing your cheerleading uniform from your earlier routine, you tugged at your cousin’s arm, practically dragging her through the bustling crowd. The stadium was alive with energy—students cheering, music blasting from nearby booths, and the smell of snacks wafting through the air.
“Come on, we’re going to miss it!” you squealed, your ponytail bouncing as you hurried forward, your pom-poms tucked under your arm.
Your cousin groaned dramatically, trailing behind you. “You’ve been talking about this all day. Who are we even going to see?”
“My boyfriend!” you said, grinning from ear to ear. “My boyfriend's in a band!”
“Boyfriend?” she repeated, narrowing her eyes. “Since when do you have a boyfriend?”
You turned to her with a mock gasp, clutching your chest like she’d insulted you. “Excuse you. I’ve had one for months now.”
Your cousin raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, then. Let’s see this mysterious boyfriend of yours.”
The two of you found seats near the front, and you craned your neck, scanning the stage as the band members set up. The noise of the crowd grew louder, students and visitors alike cheering as the festival program officially began.
And then he appeared.
Jay stepped onto the stage, standing out against the bright festival decorations. The strap of his guitar rested comfortably on his shoulder, the instrument gleaming under the stage lights—and there it was, your signature on its glossy surface.
Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, a giddy smile tugging at your lips as you clapped your hands together in excitement.
“Okay, but which one is your boyfriend?” your cousin asked, squinting at the stage as if trying to piece it together.
You didn’t even hesitate. Pointing toward Jay, you said proudly, “The guitarist. His name is Park Jongseong. That’s my boyfriend.”
Your attention was locked on Jay as he adjusted his guitar strap and tested a few chords. His sharp, eagle-like eyes scanned the crowd, his usual stoic expression giving him an air of effortless cool. But then, something changed.
His gaze stopped on you.
Jay’s piercing eyes softened, his lips curving into the faintest smile, the kind of smile he rarely let anyone see. It was small, barely noticeable to most, but you knew it was for you.
Your hand flew to your mouth, trying to hide the giddy grin that threatened to take over your face. Your cheeks burned, and your heart raced as he looked at you.
After a brief moment, Jay’s gaze dropped to his guitar. He adjusted the tuning, his fingers moving skillfully over the strings, but you could tell his mind wasn’t entirely on the music. He stole one last glance at you before focusing on his task, a quiet confidence radiating from him as he prepared to play.
Your cousin, still in shock, nudged you. “Okay, he’s hot. How did you—like, how did you—end up with him?”
You laughed, brushing her off as you continued to watch Jay. “It’s a long story,” you said, your voice dreamy.
As the band began their set, the crowd’s cheers grew louder, and Jay’s fingers danced effortlessly over the strings. The sound was mesmerizing, and your chest swelled with pride as you watched him command the stage.
And as you sat there, smiling like an idiot, you realized once again how lucky you were to call him yours.
I have been watching NCT since their debut. At that time, I didn't pay much attention to NCT Dream because to me it wasn't fair to debut an entire group of such young boys, especially someone who was from my own age group, and I considered myself a literal kid back in 2016. But then, from 2018 to 2019 time NCT DREAM was also the NCT subunit that really made me their fan from a casual listener
Losing Mark to the graduation system of NCT DREAM was really hard, especially when it seemed like Mark was the support pillar of NCT DREAM. But still, it gave me some peace to know that Mark will still be in NCT, he will be around in the whole NCT system, NCT 127, and NCT U. And then came the 2020 to 2021 era, the golden era of NCT as a whole, and Mark finally coming back to NCT DREAM. that era was magical and u just had to be there to truly understand the happiness that we felt at that time.
Mark had always been the one member who was very close to my heart. I had always adored Mark for being the bravest person and the glue that holds the whole NCT together. NCT is Mark, and Mark is NCT. Taeyong and Mark are the most neo members who make NCT what NCT is. As much as it breaks my heart to see Mark leave NCT and SM, I am also happy that Mark can finally break that vicious overworking and hate cycle. and seeing members writing msgs and having closure, and providing us with closure to help us heal something in me. But regardless, this is one of the most bittersweet group-leaving experiences that I have experienced in KPOP ever. Mark Lee, you are so loved, and you will be missed badly by everyone in every moment of NCT
(Its been a hard hit for me cuz NCT is my ultimate grp and I have been very much into enhypen from last 2 years. So, first Heeseung and now Mark is a little bit too much for my heart. What wrong with all LEEs TTTT)
In all seriousness, I truly wish the best for Mark. If there was a person I could think of who deserves another shot at life, a normal life without the pressures of being a public figure with more critical eyes then there are of adoration, Mark is the first person that comes to mind.
This is Mark's decision—probably a difficult one with heavy consideration too—and I of course will wholeheartedly support the path he had chosen for himself. It may not be the path I had envisioned at first (because I fully believed 7dream will be dancing Trigger the fever like they're still in their 20s at like 80 or something lol) but if it involves him, his happiness and well-being, then who am I to go against what he wants?
Reading Mark's heartfelt letter was bittersweet too. It was beautifully written, a goodbye letter that almost felt like a promise of coming back? Whether as an artist or something else veering away from what he was once to us, I will wait for that day. Doesn't matter how long, or how he'll do it, just know I'll greet him like a close friend i haven't seen in years but still so excited to reunite with.
I'm not angry (gosh I could never be), just mostly sad and maybe still in shock like I still can't really believe that this is all real, and yet at the same time I also kind of made peace with it. I haven't been with them long, but I do know that Mark has been in this industry for more than a decade. He has done so much and pushed through even with the hellish schedule he's been given time and time again.
He deserves to properly rest, to breathe without having the crushing weight of being put on a pedestal by hundred, thousands or even millions of people, and live life the way that he wants to.
As Jisung said, 'nothing lasts forever, but just as the wish for something to be eternal is love, I think the feeling of not wanting to let go, yet wanting to let them go, is also love'.
the sm entertainment building is going to start crumbling in the same fashion that the castle from 'howl's moving castle' did when calcifer was removed
Park Sunghoon was not the love of your life, only a wealthy heir you were arranged to wed. After a year of marriage full of dealing with his affairs and arrogance, you're ready to walk away. Soon, Sunghoon is facing the truth. If he wants to learn to love you, it's going to be a fight he can't give up.
pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader
genre: arranged marriage, smut, second chance
This content is only for readers 18+
word count: est. 10-11K
content warning: strong language, sexual content, toxic relationships, Sunghoon is an asshole, off-page infidelity, so much angst, suggestive usage of alcohol, marital discourse, emotional distress, detailed smut
[ catalogue. ]
Teaser:
It’s been a year since you said “I do.”
It’s not like you really had a choice.
Park Sunghoon was never the love of your life. A piece of you shattered as you stood helpless at the altar.
As a little girl, you dreamed of falling in love—of waking up next to a man who had it all.
Park Sunghoon would never have been your first choice.
His family was obscenely wealthy, and when their only son started acting out of line, a ring was the swiftest way to knock him back into shape. A punishment, even.
The Park family business made enough money to drown in, but all the luxury in the world couldn’t make your marriage feel like home.
The office became your only escape—from him, and from the women who came and went through that godforsaken house.
Until the night you finally reached your breaking point.
When you walk out, Sunghoon realizes too late what he’s lost.
He doesn’t know how, but he’s going to earn you back.
Because love is a choice—and his marriage needs saving.
You were supposed to be his lesson.
Not the woman he’d beg to stay.
kates note: With the heat of Kinktober coming to a close, we're bringing out the angst!! If any of you are fans of my Heeseung fic "Second Chances," this is similar to that, but it you smothered it in delicious angst. The taglist is open!! (18+ accounts only!!) If you would like to be added just drop a comment below or send me an ask!
premise: the deal was simple. plan the wedding, invite the most important people in seoul, show up at the marriage hall, get married, bind the two family businesses together, and then go on that picture-perfect honeymoon to cap it all off. and of course, pretend that you're deeply, madly, happily in love with your husband.
notes: arranged marriage au, fem!reader, dom!sunghoon, rich!reader x rich!sunghoon, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), dry humping, choking, dirty talk, degradation, praise, creampie, public sex
a/n: this idea came to me in a dream. sunghoon is certified #wifeguy here lol
the penthouse is quiet, save for the clinking of utensils and the occasional clearing of sunghoon’s throat. every time he takes in a breath, you think that he’s finally going to say something to you. but it’s just him, sounding as if he’s trying to dislodge something from his airway.
after half an hour of this, you have half a mind to ask if he needs a cough drop.
“you’re quiet today,” sunghoon observes, eyes momentarily flitting up from his phone.
“i could say the same for you,” you respond, spearing a piece of omelette with your fork.
sunghoon snickers, finally taking a good look at you. you stare back, raising your brows in question.
for the six months spent playing house and pretending that you two were a happy newlywed couple, you’re glad to report that it hasn’t all been a soulless, unfruitful charade. after some time, you and sunghoon learned to live around each other, acquired the knowledge of what makes the other tick, and developed a sort of secret code between the two of you. you have the hours-long gala dinners to thank for that.
“there’s something on your mind,” sunghoon states simply, locking his phone and sliding it away. you watch him as he does this, his fingers resting delicately on the polished wood of your dining table.
his button up is impeccable as always, ironed to perfection, and hugging his figure just right. you made sure to let your housekeeper know that sunghoon is very particular about his clothes.
your eyes follow the trail of his arm up to his firm shoulders, then down to his chest, before finally resting on your husband’s handsome face. some strands of his meticulously styled hair hang over his forehead, giving him a slightly younger look than his outfit originally demands. but you know it’s on purpose. he’s only in his late twenties, after all.
yes, you’re not afraid to admit that you definitely couldn’t have done any better than park sunghoon. he has everything. the face, the money, the notoriety. and now, he has an equally accomplished wife, too.
“my mother called.” you reach over to take a sip of your coffee, watching as sunghoon tilts his head to the side.
“she’s asking when our honeymoon will be,” you continue. no use in delaying the message.
sunghoon scoffs, leaning back against his chair. you tap your fingernails on the table, waiting for whatever your dear husband has to say.
a sorry excuse to put off what should have been a done deal months ago, you bet.
“when do you want to go?” sunghoon asks.
you’re surprised by this. the entire deal–the entire marriage–came with its own terms. plan the wedding, invite the most important people in seoul, show up at the marriage hall, get married, bind the two family businesses together, and then go on that picture-perfect honeymoon to cap it all off.
so far, you’ve achieved all but one of these. no thanks to sunghoon’s persistent avoidance of the topic.
'it’s just a trip,’ you had said, unable to understand why sunghoon kept delaying the final part of your parents’ conditions. after the third time of asking, you simply let it go, putting the topic onto the back burner for now. you were busy with work, anyway. a staged honeymoon is hardly at the top of the list of things you’d happily expend your energy on.
“let me guess, i’ll give you a date, then you’ll say you’re busy, then i’ll suggest an alternate date, then you’ll say you’re still busy, and then we’ll go ‘round and ‘round until the topic just dies out,” you deadpan, crossing your arms in front of you.
sunghoon grins and damn him for it, because you can’t help but smile back. you both know you’d rather be anywhere else than in this marriage. you’ve cultivated a sort of truce over it. hesitant friends. comrades in matrimony. alas, even the rich and powerful have their problems.
“how does next week sound?” sunghoon says smoothly, picking his phone back up. he taps on the screen for a while, peering back up at you when you fail to respond.
you gape at him, unsure if he’s being serious. you decide to humor him.
“that’s a close call, but i’m sure i can turn over some of my work to my team.” you lean your elbow on the table, resting your chin on your palm.
“do you even know where i want to go?” you prod, looking at sunghoon expectantly.
he merely smirks, still typing on his phone. tap, tap, tap goes your fingernails as you wait.
sunghoon turns his phone towards you. the screen displays flight options to milan. you pause, peering closer at the words and dates.
with eyes narrowed, you turn to sunghoon.
“how’d you know i wanted to go to milan?”
sunghoon sighs, retracting his hand while he continues to peruse the ticketing site. “i see your instagram reposts, my love.”
you inwardly cringe at the term of endearment. it’s the one he uses in the presence of others, when reporters, colleagues, and your parents are around. he started using it in private as a joke, a mockery of the whole thing. my love. as if there was any love to begin with.
“wait, are you actually booking tickets? now?” you ask incredulously, leaning over the dining table in an attempt to see sunghoon’s screen. you realize it’s futile, given how absurdly large this three-thousand-odd-dollar piece of furniture is.
you stand, scurrying over to the other side of the table. sunghoon holds up a hand, warding you off. you ignore this, of course, invading his personal space.
“easy,” sunghoon warns, but a laugh bubbles underneath. his palm presses against your hip, keeping you at bay.
you huff, barely registering the unwarranted physical contact. it’s not unusual for you and sunghoon to hold each other this way, or touch whenever necessary. but there are no cameras now, no curious eyes to judge whether your marriage is a happy one or not.
you swat his hand away, planting your hands on your hips.
“i thought you wanted to go on that honeymoon,” sunghoon points out, looking at you expectantly.
“i thought you didn’t want to go on that honeymoon,” you counter.
sunghoon’s expression shifts into a look of suspicion mixed with disbelief. “who said i didn’t want to go?”
“you!”
“i never said that.”
you splutter, trying to find the right words to say. “why have you delayed it for so long, then?”
“i said i was busy,” sunghoon reasons.
“for six months?”
sunghoon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. he throws his hands up as if surrendering. “i thought maybe you wanted to wait a bit until we both were ready to take our first trip together.”
this gives you pause. but not for long.
“i wanted this whole thing to be done and over with, so we don’t have this hanging over our heads,” you argue.
“okay, and i will give you that, if that’s what you want,” sunghoon cuts in, pushing his chair back and standing. his voice isn’t raised, just firmer than usual.
“you don’t have to scream and shout about it,” sunghoon adds, gentler this time, another sigh escaping his lips.
the air is still, silent for a few seconds as both of you recollect yourselves. you may have just come close to your first marital spat. you haven’t cared enough over the past six months to actually fight over anything of importance.
“look, what if i take you out for dinner tonight so we can talk about it?” sunghoon lays his hands on your shoulders, grounding you.
you let your body sag under the weight of his touch. for all his indifference towards you, he sure knows how to calm you down.
“dinner?” you ask suspiciously. “are you sure you’re not sick or something?”
sunghoon’s brows knit together. “no. why would i be sick?”
the look on his face is genuinely perplexed. you bite back the urge to cajole him even more.
“nothing. nevermind.” you wave him off dismissively, extracting yourself from his hold. you turn, gathering your things from where you deposited them on the kitchen island before breakfast.
“just text me the details and i’ll be there.”
“i’ll pick you up after work,” sunghoon declares.
you turn to him, eyeing him hard. sunghoon looks back, his hands in his pockets, relaxed, as if he didn’t need to clock into his job as regional director in approximately twenty minutes.
well, if you’re the regional director, clocking in on time is probably the least of your priorities.
“are you sure you’re feeling okay?” you begin, reaching over to lay a hand on his forehead. sunghoon catches your wrist before you can, though.
“_________.”
sunghoon’s voice is stern as he says your name. he gives you a look.
“okay, fine,” you concede, withdrawing your hand. you forget just how warm sunghoon is.
“good,” sunghoon responds, seemingly pleased. “now hurry up, or you’ll be late. unless you want me to drive you to work, too?”
“no, thank you,” you cut in quickly. “at least my driver doesn’t pressure me into booking a trip to europe on a whim.”
sunghoon chuckles, following you as you exit the kitchen into the front hallway.
“hey, you wanted to go,” sunghoon reminds, watching as you slip your shoes on by the towering racks of both your and your husband’s perfectly polished footwear.
“i know, i know,” you affirm exasperatedly. “what would i do without my generous husband?”
you say your last statement, turning to give sunghoon a mockingly sweet look. sunghoon blinks and freezes in place. he clears his throat a moment later, his hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck.
“take care,” sunghoon mumbles, suddenly enamored with the flooring beneath his feet.
you give him a look, a perplexed one this time. you don’t linger for long, though. sunghoon’s right about one thing at least, and that’s you being late for work.
“thanks,” you respond rather simply. “bye.”
-
“you have what tonight?”
your secretary and assistant leans over the table, eyes wide as he tries to peer closer at your face.
you love sunoo, you really do, but he can be a bit of a gossip sometimes, and while most of your coworkers and colleagues kept to themselves, you know how the office grapevine works. one slip of a word and the whole truth about your marriage could be discovered.
“a dinner, sunoo,” you respond in a low whisper. “it’s not that strange to have dinner with my husband, is it?”
sunoo shoots you a look as if to say, ‘be for real’. he crosses his arms and assesses you.
“what changed?” sunoo asks.
“what do you mean, ‘what changed’?” you clarify. the cafeteria is quiet at this time, most of the associates and lower-level employees finished with their lunch breaks.
being vice president for marketing has its perks sometimes.
“sunghoon has been more like ‘glorified arm candy’ than ‘husband’ to you,” sunoo points out. “now he wants to take you out to dinner and whisk you away on a honeymoon? clearly something is happening here.”
“nothing is happening.” you’re quick to squash any notion of conspiracy in sunoo’s voice. “this is just something we have to do because our parents said so.”
“and what filial children you are,” sunoo taunts chirpily, taking a sip of his coffee.
“i’m withholding your next paycheck,” you grumble, brandishing your chopsticks towards him.
“i’ll report you to HR,” sunoo counters, grinning.
-
“you have everything?”
sunghoon gives you a once-over as you slip into the front seat. he checks the back where your work bag and laptop were deposited just moments ago.
“yes, my love,” you sigh, pulling your seatbelt on. “i don’t bring a suitcase to work, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
sunghoon’s face breaks into a slow grin as he pulls away from the driveway of your office building.
“you know, i could get used to you calling me that,” sunghoon muses, eyes on the road.
“well, don’t,” you intervene, laying your head back against your seat. a tired sigh escapes you.
the car is quiet for a few minutes, all conversation dying out in under a minute. this isn’t out of the ordinary, though. much of your relationship with sunghoon is defined by the long stretches of silence. you understood your part, and he understood his. with none of your peers around, you’re free to be as indifferent to each other as you two wanted.
but something scratches at the back of your mind, a thought that has been slowly nibbling away at your consciousness since lunch today. a certain question, posed by someone outside, looking in.
what changed?
“so, uh, where are we going for dinner?” you ask, swallowing down the awkwardness. the two of you never made plans that weren’t at least partly influenced by your jobs or duty towards your families’ businesses.
this is uncharted territory for you both.
a date. an actual date, you realize with startling clarity.
“le jardin,” sunghoon answers promptly, making a turn. you watch as he drives. you notice his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.
you like this look on him. sometimes, he comes home like this, with his suit jacket neatly folded as it hangs off one of his arms. you eye the watch on his wrist, a gift you got him for his birthday. you weren’t actually sure what his tastes were at the time, but you had a feeling he would like the one you picked.
you realize it’s the only watch he’s been wearing since.
“wait,” you say, his words finally registering with you. “le jardin, as in–”
“yes, my love,” sunghoon interrupts gently. “where we had our reception.”
a blush settles on your face, totally unprompted. memories of your wedding day invade your consciousness; the sights, sounds, and smells of the day you became mrs. park suddenly resurface in your head.
“you liked le jardin,” sunghoon prods, half-statement, half-question. “right?”
you nod, subtly pressing your palm to your heated cheek. “yeah. i liked their desserts.”
sunghoon hums. “i thought so. you seemed to really like the cheesecake.”
you turn to your husband, a brow raised. he has a reminiscent smile on his face, as if recalling your wedding day, too.
“you noticed that?” you ask. sunghoon turns to you briefly, his grin widening.
“of course.”
those two words seem to strike a chord within you. of course. as if anything else was unthinkable. as if he always meant to notice things about you.
“oh,” is all you say.
no one speaks after that. you let your mind wander off, back to that day.
it seemed surreal, having to get married. and to a person you considered an acquaintance at best. it sounded crazy. it was crazy. but it had to be done, and while you didn’t marry for love, per se, you repeated then what you continue to repeat to yourself now.
you could do so much worse.
the rest of the way to the restaurant is short, and before you know it, you’ve arrived. after a quick parking, sunghoon kills the engine and immediately gets out, his stride relaxed as he makes his way to your side of the car.
“no valet this time?” you ask with a teasing smile as he opens the door for you.
“i wanted to open the door for my wife myself,” sunghoon says, shrugging.
you gape at him for what seems like the hundredth time today.
sunghoon ushers you out, a hand settling on the small of your back. this isn’t new, either, as he does this a lot during official functions. but in the middle of a near-empty parking lot, it hardly seemed necessary.
still. it’s not all unwelcome.
you’re greeted by the restaurant entrance with the usual hospitality, the hostess recognizing you both. you’re led to a booth tucked away toward the back of the restaurant, semi-hidden from the rest of the establishment. sunghoon lets you sit first, watching carefully as one of the waiters pulls your chair back for you. he settles in his own seat a moment later, satisfied after knowing you’re comfortable.
“wine?” sunghoon asks, eyeing the beverage menu.
“whatever you want,” you mumble distractedly. instead, you peruse the mains.
a beat of silence. then–
“decoy, pinot noir,” sunghoon informs the waiter, handing the drinks menu back. the waiter nods before walking away.
you glance at sunghoon, mildly surprised. he catches your eye, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips.
“i know it’s your favorite,” sunghoon says matter-of-factly.
you inhale, snapping the menu closed. sunghoon seems surprised at the movement, eyes blinking and expression turning serious.
“okay, what’s going on?” you interrogate, leaning closer over the table.
“first, you offer to take me on a whirlwind honeymoon to europe. second, you’re suddenly picking me up at work. third, you’re sprouting facts about me that you shouldn’t even know about.”
with every word you let out, sunghoon’s face shifts between mild confusion and amusement. it’s irritating. even when he frowns, he’s still so goddamn handsome.
sunghoon lets you finish before locking his fingers loosely together, resting his forearms on the table. he mirrors your posture, inclining his head towards you.
“first, it’s hardly a whirlwind honeymoon when we’ve waited six months to go. second, i have a car. i can drive. you’re my wife. i can pick you up if i need to,” sunghoon answers, voice careful and steady as he counters your statements.
“and third,” sunghoon continues, reaching across the table, his fingers brushing your left hand.
the hand where two rings sit pretty on your finger: the first, a simple band with a singular shining diamond that catches the dim lighting of the restaurant. the second, a diamond-studded ring that has your wedding date engraved on the inside.
sunghoon eases your fingers into his hand, his thumb brushing the precious stones.
“i should know things about my wife, don’t you think?”
you freeze under sunghoon’s touch. there’s an unfamiliar twisting in your gut.
you’ve touched sunghoon countless times before, and he has done the same to you. but it was all for show. there has always been a purpose to the careful brush of his palm against your body. how dare he take liberties with you like this?
and how dare you admit that you’re starting to like it?
“do you like me, sunghoon?” you ask abruptly, tightening your own hold on his hand.
a perfectly shaped brow rises on sunghoon’s forehead.
“of course. you’re my wi–”
“that’s not what i meant,” you interrupt.
“outside of this arrangement,” you clarify. “do you like me?”
sunghoon smiles, slipping his fingers between yours. to anyone looking, it would look just like a romantic dinner between a perfectly normal couple.
and it is. somewhat.
but you never knew sunghoon to be romantic. meticulous, yes. that’s why he makes an effort to coordinate his outfit with yours when the two of you are seen in public. attentive, sure. that’s why he swapped out the living room rug for a fluffier one when you complained once about how scratchy the old one was. thoughtful, even. that’s why he orders you your favorite wine. he remembers your favorite wine.
“you’re kind. funny at times,” sunghoon begins. his voice drops lower, eyes trailing down your face.
for a second–a seemingly long, amplified second–his eyes dart down to your chest. your work blouse is undone down to the second button. it’s not scandalous, but it’s relaxed enough.
“and you’re easy on the eyes,” sunghoon concludes, his prominent fangs flashing as he grins. “what’s there not to like?”
you scoff, pulling your hand away. your palms are starting to sweat now. why that is, you’re not so sure.
“so, milan.” you steer the conversation elsewhere, desperate to get out of whatever weird limbo you’ve managed to find yourself in with sunghoon.
“what’s in the itinerary?”
sunghoon beams, leaning back. you can’t help it. his smile is infectious, and somehow, despite your denial, you’re actually a little excited about this trip. you feel yourself smiling back.
“it’s a surprise,” sunghoon says.
“sunghoon,” you deadpan, giving him a look.
“________,” he mimics, crossing his arms over his chest.
there’s a brief standoff between the two of you, eyes staring into each other. you tilt your chin up, as if challenging your husband, and eventually, sunghoon sighs, shaking his head. there’s somewhat of a fond upward tilt on his lips.
“we’re flying out on monday, lunch time. it’s a thirteen-hour flight, nonstop. we’re staying for ten days, so pack accordingly,” sunghoon explains.
“and?” you prod.
“what part of surprise do you not understand?” sunghoon asks, rolling his eyes, but there isn’t any real annoyance in his tone.
you find it quite enjoyable, teasing him like this.
your wine arrives, and all conversation is cut short as the sommelier starts his spiel. you smile politely, gushing about the pinot noir when necessary.
in the corner of your eye, you can see sunghoon.
just watching.
watching you.
-
“easy,” sunghoon chuckles, an arm wrapping around your waist. the two of you descend the front steps of the restaurant, your gait much sloppier than his.
you’ve had too much wine. there’s no other way around it.
you indulged yourself, enjoying the hints of strawberries and cherries in the liquor, and before you knew it, you had three glasses all polished off.
sunghoon guides you down the last steps, grumbling about how he should have just called for the valet. his hand tightens at your hip.
“i told you,” you giggle, clutching at the back of sunghoon’s dress shirt.
“yes, my love. you were right,” sunghoon agrees, planting a kiss on the top of your head. a passing member of the restaurant’s security nods and smiles politely at you both.
you probably look like every other flirty, unruly rich couple that dined at this restaurant.
“don’t do that,” you complain, nuzzling your face closer to sunghoon’s chest.
“do what?”
“be sweet to me.”
sunghoon falls silent after this, his stride still steady as you get closer and closer to his car. in your wine-drunk haze, you start to think you might have said something wrong. you tilt your head up, peering at sunghoon’s chiseled face.
he looks back at you and it’s almost instant. the softening of his eyes.
“do you want me to stop?” sunghoon asks, halting the two of you. you stumble a bit, but his arm keeps you upright.
“what?” you ask. fuck, i’m really sleepy. what did i say? was sunghoon saying something?
sunghoon gives you a look, then sighs. he shakes his head, resuming his careful steps towards where his car awaits. you follow along, relishing the warmth that sunghoon gives off.
-
“i’ve truly seen it all.”
sunoo is looking at you with pure, unbridled amusement as you shuffle around your office, trying to organize the space. he leans against the doorframe, laughing when you drop your pen yet again.
there’s a pounding, skull-crushing headache weighing heavily behind your eyes, and all the lights (save for your desk lamp) are turned off. you think, rather regretfully, that you really shouldn’t have let sunghoon buy you that bottle of wine last night.
“you know, instead of treating me as your personal comedy show, you could, i don’t know, assist?” you glare at your supposed assistant.
sunoo gives another delighted giggle before stepping into your office. he picks your pen up, places it on your desk, then dutifully maneuvers you towards your seat. you let him, too tired and too hungover to protest or argue.
“what happened to never drinking on weeknights?” sunoo admonishes mildly. he sets a stapled stack of papers on your desk.
“anyway, here’s the printed campaign rationale, with the advertising review board permit in the appendix,” sunoo details. “soft copy is in your email. if you’re well enough to turn your computer on.”
“thanks, sunoo,” you murmur, pressing hard against your temples.
“what kind of sweet talking did your dear husband do for you to drink this much?” sunoo questions.
sunoo was one of the first people to know of this arrangement with sunghoon, nearly a year ago now. for a coworker, you trusted sunoo a whole lot. he was there at your wedding, and he was there when you’d complain in the weeks after, agonizing over why sunghoon was so cold to you.
if anyone deserves to know about the new developments in this twisted marital story, it’s sunoo.
but admitting it to another person would mean you’ve admitted it to yourself.
admitted what?
even that, you’re too afraid to name.
you chuckle. “he did no such thing, mother.”
sunoo playfully smacks your arm before turning on his heel with a huff.
“i’ll get you some meds. drink water in the meantime, lover girl.”
-
the penthouse is quiet as usual when you unlock the door, the faint smell of lemon disinfectant the only indicator that the housekeeper was here today. you toe off your shoes, your entire body begging for some rest and reprieve.
you hear faint footsteps coming from somewhere further in the house. you expect it to be seolmi, the kind, round-faced lady who cleans your house every other day. but to your surprise, the figure that approaches you now is tall, hulking, with a sure stride.
“sunghoon,” you mutter weakly, surprise evident in your tone.
“hey,” he greets, stopping just short of getting within arm’s distance of you.
“sorry i couldn’t pick you up after work,” sunghoon apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck. “i was out at a client meeting. figured i’d just go straight home and wait for you.”
you shake your head, heading past him towards the living room. “it’s fine. you don’t have to pick me up after work all the time.”
it’s only at this moment that another smell hits you. kimchi stew. even fainter, the aroma of freshly fried twigim.
you turn and see a bunch of delivery tupperware laid out on the kitchen island. all opened, with plates dutifully set up for two. you return your gaze to sunghoon, your eyes narrowing in question.
“for your hangover,” sunghoon says, gesturing to the food. “i was worried about y–”
sunghooon pauses briefly.
“i was worried about whether you were eating enough today.”
for all the stomach-churning queasiness you had to endure today, you realize, as you approach the spread of steaming food, that it might have been worth it, after all.
you could do so much worse.
you turn fully to your husband, taking slow, measured steps towards him. he stiffens, a minuscule tensing of his frame as you approach.
reaching up, you rest your hand on sunghoon’s shoulder. he automatically bends down to match your height, perhaps anticipating a few words from you.
you lean up and kiss his cheek.
“thank you,” you say. and you mean it. genuinely, gratefully.
sunghoon stares at you for a few seconds before his dimples poke out in a bashful smile.
“of course,” he responds, squaring his shoulders. you notice his attire.
plain black shirt. grey sweatpants. your eyes betray you as they trail down lower, towards an unmistakable outline in his bottoms.
you quickly divert your eyes.
“i’ll start packing later,” you say offhandedly, walking back towards the kitchen. you slide onto one of the barstools surrounding the kitchen island.
sunghoon joins you a moment later, seating himself across from you. he picks his chopsticks up, plopping a piece of kimbap onto your plate.
“just rest. you can pack tomorrow. it’s a saturday, anyway,” sunghoon suggests, taking the prepared bowl in front of you and filling it with soup.
“i’ll help you, if you want,” he adds.
you watch silently as sunghoon continues to serve you food.
“i thought you had another meeting tomorrow?” you ask. “you’ve been complaining all week about it.”
sunghoon meets your eyes, a smirk settling on his lips.
“you’ve been listening?” sunghoon questions teasingly.
you roll your eyes. “it’s kind of hard not to. not when you’re that loud.”
this elicits a laugh from sunghoon. you snicker along, taking a bite out of your kimbap.
“i’ll tell them i can’t make it,” sunghoon declares.
“i have to take care of my wife.”
-
the airport hums with the restrained energy of thousands of people running on less-than-ideal hours of sleep. the crowd is a little more manageable today, seeing as it’s off-season, but there is still the bustle of airport activity, a collective rushing of individuals trying to get to some place or another.
you and sunghoon make your way leisurely to one of the lounges, your boarding time still two hours away. he offered to take your carry-on bag for you, and you readily agreed. anything to put your strong husband to good use.
“after you,” sunghoon says, pushing the lounge door open with one hand while the other holds on to both your carry-ons.
you walk through, and instantly, the drone of voices from the airport is muffled as the door swings closed. sunghoon checks you both in, and before you know it, the two of you are seated in a corner, piping hot cups of coffee in front of you.
“do you want anything?” sunghoon asks, already eyeing the buffet.
“just some pancakes if they have them,” you answer, leaning back against the plush chair. you dread the long flight ahead of you, so every moment spent sitting is time well spent.
“with chocolate syrup instead of maple?” sunghoon clarifies, getting up from his seat.
you look up at him, your face suddenly warm. “...yes. how’d you know?”
sunghoon shrugs nonchalantly, his hand reaching out to briefly grasp yours. you let him, the heat in your face creeping downward to your neck.
“i’ll be right back,” he says, gently prying his fingers away from you.
-
the flight is as comfortable as it can get, with sunghoon insisting you fly first-class. you argued that business was more than enough, but sunghoon reiterated, rather exasperatedly, that this is your honeymoon. he’s pulling out all the stops, apparently.
his words, not yours.
it’s hour six out of thirteen, and you feel as if you’ve watched everything there is to watch on the airplane entertainment catalogue. it’s around 6 PM, seoul time, but your dear husband is knocked out in the cubby next to you. you straighten your seat, peeking over the divider.
you give a small huff, not really sure what to do at this point. you could try sleeping, but dinner could be served soon. you could continue watching whatever movie is next on the screen in front of you.
somehow, your gaze drifts back towards sunghoon.
he’s wearing an eyemask, but you can see the slight pout on his lips. you catch yourself smiling, leaning against the divider to get a better look. sunghoon has the airline-provided blanket draped over his lap, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up to his elbows. he’s wearing headphones, the expensive, noise-cancelling model you got him as a personal wedding gift. once again, you had no direction when it came to picking the gift out. you just had a feeling he’d like it.
so many other people needed him at all times of the day. he deserved some quiet, too.
you admire the rings on your finger next. memories of the ‘proposal’ play like a movie in your mind.
your parents and the two of you were finally all in agreement on the arrangement, and sunghoon had invited you out to lunch to make it official. it was at another restaurant, an upscale japanese bar close to your office. the two of you had a private room to yourselves, perfect for getting to know your spouse-to-be.
after the two of you placed your orders, sunghoon produced the ring box from his pocket.
“i picked it out myself,” he said. he opened the box, and there lay the simple yet elegant ring you wear now.
sunghoon cleared his throat, and you caught sight of the slight tremor in his hand as he asked for yours. you placed it in his warm grasp, and with surprising smoothness, he slipped on the engagement ring.
“your mother said you prefer emerald cuts,” sunghoon continued. “if you want a different ring, just let me know.”
you told sunghoon it was perfect. a little boring, yes, but it suits you, at least. it’s classic, almost to the point of basicness.
but you deem it fitting. you and sunghoon started on a blank canvas. plain and basic. and now, adorned in the little ornaments of thoughtfulness and gifts borne of noticing, that canvas seems to be filling up nicely.
sughoon shifts, and the dim cabin lights catch on the watch on his wrist.
he has his watch and you have your ring.
-
“let me carry that for you.”
sunghoon reaches his hand out to you, making you both stop. you had just come from baggage claim and are now slowly making your way through the arrival halls. a number of shops glitter in your periphery and people mill about, rushing to catch their airport transfers or running into the arms of a waiting loved one.
“you’re pulling two pieces of luggage with your own carry-on. i can manage to bring my own bag for a bit,” you reassure, giving sunghoon a look.
“the extra luggage is empty, it’s fine,” sunghoon insists, reaching for your shoulder.
“sunghoon.”
he freezes at the use of his name, an eyebrow cocking.
“i said i’m fine,” you reiterate. you slip your hand in his, tugging him forward.
you start walking again, pushing your luggage along. you glance back over your shoulder as sunghoon pauses to adjust both luggage handles in one hand. you shoot your husband a look of feigned impatience.
“you won’t let me carry your bag on account of the stuff i have to bring, but you want me to hold your hand?” sunghoon scoffs in disbelief. nevertheless, he manages to wrangle both his full case and the other extra in his one hand so the other can wrap around yours.
“i don’t wanna lose my husband in this crowd,” you say matter-of-factly. as if to prove your point, a gaggle of chatty old ladies brushes up close to you.
“and i wanna see if i can score a bag in one of these stores,” you add, scanning the shops around you.
“you want something?” sunghoon asks, suddenly interested. you turn to see him observing you with rapt curiosity.
“i was thinking of getting a bag,” you explain.
“okay,” sunghoon says. now he’s pulling you along. “what brand?”
“uh…another birkin? i’m not actually sure,” you respond.
“sure, i’ll get you another birkin,” sunghoon agrees almost instantly.
you pull hard on his hand. sunghoon skids to a stop, looking back at you, confused. “what?”
“you’re gonna buy it for me?” you clarify.
sunghoon shrugs. “i thought you wanted me to. besides, i’ve bought more expensive things for you. that ring is one.”
he gestures to the hand he’s holding. you make a sound of disbelief.
“i was kidding. and it’s not about the price,” you elaborate. “it’s just–i mean–
you sigh. “what’s gotten into you?”
sunghoon looks at you, fully perplexed now. he drops your hand and with it, your heart sinks.
“what do you mean?” sunghoon presses.
“we’re in milan. this was your idea,” you begin.
“i didn’t force you to come.” sunghoon’s voice has grown quiet now. he steps closer, a hardened expression on his face.
“i know you didn’t,” you counter. frustration starts to bubble up in you.
“but, booking first-class seats? calling off a whole meeting so you could help me choose which pajamas to bring? offering to buy me a designer bag? what’s going on?” your voice is frantic, teetering on defensiveness.
you’re confused. unprepared for all the attention, all the care. you suppose sunghoon has always been caring, even from the start. but that was from a distance. now he readily holds your hand and follows your every whim. one cannot be faulted for thinking that there may be a motive to all this.
“oh, wow. i put my wife’s comfort and wants first before my own. what a crime. arrest me then,” sunghoon drawls sarcastically.
you’re taken aback, not having heard this tone from sunghoon before. he sighs, bowing his head, as if realizing what he just said.
“is it so bad…” sunghoon starts. “...to want an actual companion?”
he raises his eyes just for a moment.
“am i not allowed to want an actual partner, an actual wife?”
you’re stunned into silence. around you, people continue on with their lives, unaware that there is a revelation unfolding just before them.
“if…if showering you with affection is the only way to do that, the only way to get you to look my way, i will do it. i am doing it.”
your throat constricts and your ears start ringing. this isn’t what you expected from sunghoon at all. since when? since when did he want a wife? since when did he look at you that way?
“i’m sorry,” is all you can manage. shame fills your chest.
“let’s just get you that bag, then we can go,” sunghoon concludes, sighing. he takes your hand again, but his eyes refuse to meet yours.
you open your mouth to protest, but you think better of it.
-
an hermès bag and a tense van ride later, you finally find yourself walking through the door of the suite you will call home for the next ten days.
it’s a two-bedroom, complete with a kitchen area and living space. the hotel staff wheels your things in, prattling off about the readily available amenities. you send him off with a thanks and some bills.
sunghoon has been mostly silent over the last hour. he shrugs off his jacket, folding it neatly before hanging it on the back of one of the dining table chairs. he’s still avoiding direct eye contact.
“sunghoon,” you call out.
he pauses, already halfway to retreating to one of the rooms. he finally, finally turns to you.
“i’m sorry.”
it seems like both the worst and most appropriate thing to say at the moment. because what do you say? is there a handbook out there on how to apologize to your arranged marriage husband? a guide on how to not run away from the first signs of genuine affection?
“you’ve been…nothing but thoughtful, even from the beginning,” you say, fiddling with your fingers.
“i’m just a bit overwhelmed, that’s all.”
there are a few seconds wherein you and sunghoon just look at each other, unsure of what comes next.
“if you wanted…whatever it is you wanted, you should have just told me,” you hurriedly add, dropping your own eyes to the floor.
you listen as sunghoon takes a long breath in.
“i wanted to give you space,” he says. “to open up on your own. or to come to me first.”
“still,” you argue lightly. “it’s better than leaving me in the dark.”
“okay,” sunghoon concedes quickly.
“i’m sorry, too.”
you look back up, and sunghoon is already peering at your forlorn face.
“we don’t have to do anything together,” sunghoon continues, gesturing around vaguely. “you can explore the city alone, if you want.”
you scoff. “that’s not what i meant.”
sunghoon looks confused.
“of course, i want to see the city with you,” you clarify.
sunghoon is seemingly caught off guard by this. for a few tense moments, he doesn’t say a word.
“alright,” he says a little dazedly. “good. because we have dinner reservations tonight.”
your face breaks out into a grin. you can’t help it. always so romantic.
“good,” you parrot back. “because i studied french in school, not italian. i’m for sure going to get lost if i go around alone.”
sunghoon finally mirrors your expression, his shoulders relaxing. the two of you awkwardly stand there, smiling at nothing for a few seconds, just basking in the temporary truce.
“it’s in two hours,” sunghoon informs. “i’m gonna go shower first.”
“oh, me too,” you say.
sunghoon blinks. “there’s only one bathroom.”
you blink back. “oh. um, you can go first.”
sunghoon gives you a look, as if to say, ‘you should know better’.
“you go ahead,” he says, stepping forward.
time seems to pause. his hand lays gently on your arm. his lips brush the top of your head.
“i’ll wait.”
-
you fiddle with the straps of your dress, twisting this way and that way, trying to figure out if this is the right one to wear out.
you took your time with your shower, scrubbing off all the evidence and essence of your long-haul flight. you painstakingly did your makeup, even going as far as to pluck the stray eyebrows growing. you never do that. you always had your trusty eyebrow lady to do it for you.
but for some reason, you’re compelled to try tonight.
for what, you don’t know.
you sigh, yanking your bedroom door open. you peer down the short hallway to see sunghoon already done up and ready, waiting by the kitchen area. he sees you peeking out and immediately perks up. his hand subconsciously comes up to smooth his hair down.
(it looks perfect to you.)
“hey,” you call out, taking a few steps down the hall.
“can you zip me up?”
you turn to show sunghoon the half-done zipper of your dress, the expanse of your upper back still exposed. sunghoon’s footsteps seem to echo louder as he takes short, measured strides towards you.
“i like this dress,” sunghoon mumbles, his palm coming down to your hip, steadying you.
“thank you,” you respond, trying not to let your voice waver as you feel his warmth even through the fabric of your clothes.
his other hand reaches for the zipper, his knuckles brushing against the skin of your back. you startle, having always been mildly ticklish in that area.
“sorry,” sunghoon whispers. he carefully tugs the zipper up, his other hand sliding along your spine as more of your dress closes.
finally, he finishes. but his hands remain on you.
your heart is pounding in your chest. you’re convinced he can hear it slam against your ribcage over and over.
you feel your knees weaken when a warm breath brushes your neck. sunghoon moves closer.
and then–
a kiss. featherlight. a brush of lips against the space just below your nape.
you feel sunghoon tighten his hold on your hip. your head moves to drop back, eyes half lidded.
RING! RING! RING!
you jolt back to clarity, whipping around to look at sunghoon. there’s a pinch in between his brows as he fishes his phone out of his pocket.
“hi, eomma.”
sunghoon shoots you a sheepish look.
“yes, we landed already. yes, she’s here,” sunghoon faces his phone towards you. he mouths, ‘say hi’.
“hello, eomeonim!” you greet. you reach for sunghoon’s phone, but he returns it to his ear before you can take it.
“see? she’s fine, we’re fine. eomma, we have a dinner reservation soon, and we really need to rush,” sunghoon rambles on in record speed. “also, it’s past midnight there; you need to sleep.”
sunghoon stays on the call for about a minute more, in an attempt, you presume, to shoo away his mother. finally, he hangs up after an overenthusiastic goodbye.
the two of you lock eyes, once again finding yourselves in that strange limbo.
“well,” you begin. “you just reminded me that i need to text my mom.”
“i’ll go grab my purse and we can go,” you add, turning back towards your room.
“take your time, my love,” sunghoon calls out.
you think you can hear the hint of a smile in his voice.
-
“are you up for lake como tomorrow?”
you pause mid-bite, eyes snapping up to sunghoon. he sits across from you, the candlelight bathing his features with a warm yellow glow. the breeze blows just right and you tilt your face a little towards the direction from which the wind came.
“seriously?” you ask.
sunghoon nods. “yep. i booked a van rental service through the hotel. it’s about a two-hour drive.”
you raise an eyebrow. “we can just take the train.”
“have you ever ridden a train before?” sunghoon counters without missing a beat.
you splutter indignantly. “of course, i have! i didn’t have a driver throughout uni, if that’s what you’re implying.”
sunghoon snickers, taking a bite of his pappardelle.
“it’s true,” you continue. “just because i’m more comfortable than the average person doesn’t mean i’m automatically spoiled.”
“okay, okay, i believe you,” sunghoon says with a laugh. “we’ll take the train, then.”
you narrow your eyes. “have you taken the train before?”
“yes, my love, i have,” sunghoon confirms, a teasing lilt to his voice. “contrary to your beliefs, i have friends, and not all of them live in hannam-dong.”
you burst out in giggles and sunghoon can’t help but join in.
“don’t overpack,” you remind, pointing your fork towards him.
“speak for yourself,” sunghoon retaliates.
“wow,” you say exaggeratedly. “who suggested we bring an extra suitcase for when we go shopping?”
sunghoon just shakes his head, amusement on his face. “i know your shopping habits, ________.”
you raise an eyebrow. “oh yeah? what else do you know about me?”
sunghoon meets your eyes. he smirks, as if challenging you.
he reaches forward, his hand open, palm up. you reluctantly place your hand against his, his thumb automatically brushing over your knuckles.
“isn’t us being here enough to prove that i know a lot about you?”
-
the suite’s cool air hits your face as you step across the threshold. you sigh in relief, shoulders sagging in relaxation.
“who knew dinner could be so tiring?” you mumble, making a beeline for the couch. you plop down ungracefully, eyes slipping closed.
“that’s the wine talking,” sunghoon informs. you feel the couch sag under his weight as he sits right beside you.
“that’s the second time i’ve seen you demolish a whole bottle of red.”
you chuckle, not necessarily disagreeing.
you crack your eyes open just a bit, looking over to see that your husband has a similar posture. eyes closed, hands linked on his stomach, reclined and relaxed.
“i don’t know,” you mumble, subtly inching closer. it’s suddenly so cold and sunghoon is a human heater.
“for some reason, i feel like i can just let loose with you.”
it takes a moment for your brain to catch up to what you just said. sunghoon shifts beside you. you force yourself to look at him.
his perfectly styled hair is windblown, with stray pieces hanging over his forehead. you’re shoulder to shoulder, arms pressed together.
“yeah?” sunghoon asks, voice low. his eyes flit down momentarily.
you nod.
you move to say something more but sunghoon raises a hand, his pointer finger hooking through one of the straps of your dress. it had come loose, falling down your arm. he tugs on it, trying to deposit it back onto your shoulder.
“leave it,” you say.
sunghoon stills, eyes focusing back on yours. he unhooks his finger, then pauses again.
his hand moves towards the back of your head instead.
you sigh softly as you feel sunghoon give a firm pull, your hair spilling loose, your scrunchie dropped and forgotten. it was getting a little tight, anyway.
“i like it when you wear your hair down,” sunghoon whispers.
he dips his head, then...nothing. a few moments pass where neither of you moves. your eyes burn holes on the top of sunghoon’s head, and his nose is so close to brushing against your skin.
finally, he presses his lips to your shoulder. you flinch, more from surprise than from anything else.
sunghoon pulls back tentatively, eyes filled with caution.
“i’m sorry,” he says.
you shake your head. “don’t be.”
sunghoon exhales. he straightens, pulls away even more. you hear yourself squeak out a sound of protest.
“sorry,” you say, clearing your throat. “i just…you–”
sunghoon waits, face frustratingly void of any indicating expression. all while your emotions are churning up a storm inside you.
your body is warm, anticipating. the ghost of sunghoon’s lips lingers, spreading, taking over all your faculties.
at this moment, you want nothing more than for him to touch you again.
“touch me,” you implore boldly. “please.”
“you can touch me,” you add even further, as if it isn’t clear enough what you want.
this is when sunghoon’s eyes cloud over, lips parting as he takes in your state. flushed from the cheeks down to your neck. your dress in disarray. your hair untamed, spilling over your shoulders.
“don’t make me ask again,” you challenge. you reach forward, flattening your palm against his chest.
in a flash, you feel sunghoon press his lips to yours. your entire body melts against his, any previous doubt about the whole thing, about your marriage, dissipating in a clash of teeth and ragged breath.
this is as real as it gets.
sunghoon pulls away and you protest, but you see in his eyes that it pains him just as much.
“bedroom,” he says gruffly, pushing off the couch and pulling you along with him.
you capture his mouth once more, fingers tangling in his hair as the two of you stumble through the suite. you don’t even know which bedroom you’re going to. damn him and all this pragmatic, propriety bullshit.
“you should have just gotten a single room suite,” you mumble against sunghoon’s lips.
his back hits one of the closed doors, and you take this opportunity to tug him down by the hair, kissing him even harder. sunghoon moans, hand fumbling for the doorknob. he gets the door open, almost tripping backward and taking you with him in his haste.
he extracts himself from you, both his hands clamping down on your arms. he manhandles you towards the bed; the hours he spends in your condominium building’s gym are evident in the way he practically throws you onto the plush surface.
“play nice,” sunghoon warns, getting on the bed with you, his knees braced on either side of your hips.
there’s a steeliness in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. his pupils are blown wide, and his tongue darts out to wet his already swollen lips.
“i hope you’re not forgetting your manners, my love,” sunghoon coos, his hands splaying over your stomach, traveling up, up, up to your chest. he cups your tits against his palms, squeezing experimentally over the material of your dress.
you whine, hips bucking up involuntarily. your thigh brushes against the faint outline in sunghoon’s slacks, eliciting a groan from him.
“say thank you,” sunghoon instructs, stepping off the bed. he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach.
your yelp is cut short as you feel him press your body down onto the bed. he undoes the zipper of your dress. slowly. agonizingly so.
“i’ve done all of this for you, but you’re still complaining?” sunghoon admonishes.
you quiver beneath his touch. the sharp tone in his voice, the stoic control he has over the situation, it all shoots straight into your needy cunt.
you’ve never wanted to be at anyone’s mercy as much as you do now.
“not complaining,” you protest weakly. sunghoon answers by shoving you even harder against the mattress.
“then you’ll have no problem thanking me,” sunghoon counters, leaning down right next to your ear.
“be a good, grateful girl, and i’ll give you what you want.”
you take in a shaky breath.
“th-thank you. thank you for everything, sunghoon.”
he hums, planting a soft kiss on your cheek. “that’s more like it.”
sunghoon rips your zipper all the way down before he returns you on your back. you’re exposed from the chest up, having foregone a bra, the bodice of your dress halfway down your midsection. you prop yourself up on your elbows as you watch your husband unbutton his shirt.
the hum of the air conditioner is the only sound in the room, followed by the clink of sunghoon’s belt hitting the floor. his pants are discarded soon after, and you can see, clear as day, the tent in his boxers.
“off this goes,” sunghoon mutters, tugging your dress down by the hem. you pull your arms out of the straps, wriggling out of it, before throwing it unceremoniously to the side.
sunghoon rejoins you on the bed, caging you against it. he kisses you harshly, his strong arms holding him up over you. you respond eagerly, running your hands all over every plane of exposed skin on sunghoon. his chest, his toned stomach, his biceps, down to the converging lines on his pelvis, just before his waistband.
a sudden surge of vertigo overtakes you. you realize sunghoon has lain himself flat on the bed, hauling you onto his lap in the process. you’re seated directly on top of his growing erection, his and your underwear the only barriers between your sexes.
he rests his hands on your hips, and you instinctively grind forward.
you both moan in unison, the friction sending a wave of pleasure up your body. sunghoon’s clothed cock presses deliciously against your core, a faint wet patch already blooming over your panties.
“show me how thankful you are, baby,” sunghoon commands. a pathetic whimper escapes you.
“yeah?” sunghoon grins lazily. “like it when i call you ‘baby’?”
you nod, all semblance of shame falling away.
“yes,” you pant. “i love it so much.”
sunghoon chuckles, guiding your hips forward and back. he bucks up in time to your rhythm, hissing through his teeth.
“i haven’t even done anything and you’re already this worked up,” he remarks.
“who knew my wife was such a slut?”
a high-pitched mewl erupts in your throat, your hips speeding up over his. you shouldn’t be this turned on over sunghoon degrading you like this. but, you are. there’s no other way around it.
“oh, fuck, baby–yeah, just like that,” sunghoon goads, his own pelvis rocking up to meet yours.
the springs in the mattress groan underneath the intensity of your movements, your thighs sore from the tension of clamping them around sunghoon. you can feel a coil tighten in your abdomen.
you continue to rut against your husband, a near-animalistic instinct kicking in within you. you want this so bad. you want him so bad. you want to ruin yourself over sunghoon’s dick.
the knot pulls taut in your stomach. almost there, please, just a little bit more–
you gasp as the pleasure is ripped away from you. sunghoon stills your hips, pushing you off him.
“no! please, no,” you protest, tears filling your eyes.
“on all fours,” sunghoon barks out.
with shaky limbs, you maneuver yourself on your hands and knees. sunghoon yanks your underwear down and you feel a hardness press against your leaking hole.
“want you to cum on this cock,” sunghoon says through gritted teeth.
a sob rips out of you when sunghoon fully sheathes himself in, bottoming out in one swift motion. he doesn’t even give you time to adjust before he’s pounding into you, his hands clamped around your waist.
“oh, yeah,” sunghoon grunts. “you’re taking me so well. knew this pussy was made for me.”
your voice is reduced to syncopated squeaks as sunghoon drills himself into you. over and over and over, the head of his cock hits deep within you. your clit twitches and you reach down to pleasure yourself.
the combination of sunghoon’s relentless movements and your fingers making quick work on your clit has you hurtling towards your release once more. your one free arm gives out, so now you’re planted face-first on the bed, your body completely in sunghoon’s control.
“shit, your pussy feels so good,” sunghoon babbles, hips speeding up even more.
“gonna cum in this cunt. can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from me for six months,” sunghoon says, pressing his chest to your back. he reaches around you, his hand clamping down firmly on your neck.
he puts the slightest bit of pressure and your eyes roll into the back of your head.
“s-sunghoon,” you choke out, your mouth agape with how good it feels. you’ve abandoned any effort in rubbing yourself, opting to clutch at the sheets instead.
“yes, my love? feel good?” sunghoon teases. you arch up into him as you feel him plunge himself deep in you, grinding shallowly.
“i’m close,” he warns, picking up the pace once more. but his movements have turned frantic, hips stuttering as you clench down on him.
“please,” you croak. “give it to me. need you to fill me up. fill your wife up, hoonie, please.”
sunghoon grunts loudly in your ear at the mention of his nickname, one you haven’t used on him yet. he mentioned to you once that it was a childhood term of endearment. one that only his loved ones are allowed to utter.
in the throes of pleasure, your body bucking up against sunghoon’s, you wonder if you’ve finally made the cut.
sunghoon’s entire body is rocking into you with an intensity that has you scared for the bed’s integrity. tears flow freely down your face now, your makeup smudged a hundred different ways. your moans are all but uncontrollable at this point. sunghoon moves his hand away from your neck, smothering it against your mouth instead.
a particularly hard thrust brushes that one spot inside you just right, and that is the moment when your whole world unravels.
your body stills, muscles twitching, your scream muffled against sunghoon’s palm. your orgasm comes in wave after wave, rendering you momentarily blind and deaf to the world around you. you barely register sunghoon’s groans, his hips stilling as he buries and releases himself in you.
it takes a moment for the ringing in your ears to dissipate. when it does, you’re made fully aware of the state of your body.
you’re face down on the bed, limbs splayed like a ragdoll’s. sunghoon had rolled off you some moments ago, catching his own breath beside you. you feel his cum leaking out of you.
“you made a mess,” you manage to say, throat scratchy and hoarse. you turn towards your husband, whose eyes flutter open at the sound of your voice.
“i’m sorry,” sunghoon mumbles, scooting closer to wrap an arm around you.
you snicker. “no you’re not.”
he laughs along, brushing some of your hair away from your face. sunghoon leans in and kisses you sweetly.
“we’re taking the van tomorrow to lake como,” sunghoon says with an air of finality that you find difficult to argue with.
“agreed,” you say.
-
“hoonie, not here.”
your voice is cranked down to a whisper, your eyes darting around in nervousness. all that you can see is shrubbery, similar to the canopy of leaves where you and sunghoon are tucked away.
in front of you, at least, is a breathtaking view of lake como.
“yes, here,” sunghoon argues, his lips traveling up your neck, stopping just behind your ear.
his hands smooth up your thighs, flipping the skirt of your dress over your hips.
“i can’t help it when you’ve got this pretty sundress on,” sunghoon says, grinding himself against your bare ass.
“and no underwear? baby, you’re asking for it at this point.”
you huff, gathering your skirt further up your body.
“hurry up.” you press yourself back against sunghoon’s rock-hard cock.
sunghoon chuckles, a hand coming up to grope your chest.
“lovely view with a lovely wife. i could get used to this.”
SYNOPSIS all you want is to be seen and loved by your future husband, two of the very things park jongseong has no idea about. but through unspoken protection and warm tension, jongseong lets himself love again.
OR, jongseong falls for you when a series of events pushes you both closer
GENRE arranged marriage au, angst, fluff, hurt & comfort, ‘she fell first but he fell harder’ vibe (?) slowburn-ish
PAIRING cold fiance! park jongseong x female! reader ( ft. other characters )
WARNINGS mention of bruises and fighting, alcohol, arguments, skinship, kissing, underlying misogyny ( not from jay ), crying, alcohol mention and use
WORDCOUNT 19.5k words / 19,557 words
AUTHORS NOTE hey precious readers! i would like to start this special message by an apology because one i am posting this a month late and two this is my first ever long fic. so you know the drill, i havent quite mastered to flow of long fics, so im sorry in advance if there is any type of mistakes in the story TT that being said, i chose a pretty easy topic to work with this time, so im hoping you guys will like it! arranged marriage aus and jay is definitely one of my fav combos, and i hope it delivered it well >< please enjoy and happy reading :3
FEEDBACKS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY APPRECIATED
PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU.
Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you.
And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you.
Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.
To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable.
Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room.
But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.
His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.
It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.
“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks.
“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.
“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers.
“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it.
“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.
Ouch. Does he not want you touching him?
You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void.
You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown.
Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this.
You wish he would just kiss you.
Just once.
Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.
“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.
Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.
“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”
The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty.
Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.
Because deep down, you know.
Jongseong is lying.
You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.
“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—”
“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision.
In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice.
And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks.
An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face.
“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence.
“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.”
Your breath hitches.
The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.
Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.
You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.
Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.
And neither was his.
For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.
You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.
“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.
“Jongseong—”
He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.
You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.
There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.
Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.
Park Jongseong had never kissed you.
And at this rate, you aren't sure if he ever will.
THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.
You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.
Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.
Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”
The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.
You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.
“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”
The words taste sour in your mouth.
You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.
He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.
“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.
There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.
Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”
Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.
You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.
You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.
The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.
As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.
Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.
You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.
You walk side by side in silence towards the car.
You can't hold it in any longer.
“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.
Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.
“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.
“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”
He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”
You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”
He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”
You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”
His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”
You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.
“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”
The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.
For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.
But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”
You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.
When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.
You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.
But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.
So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.
And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.
Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.
PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.
But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.
And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.
No. He does nothing.
Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.
He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.
9:30 am, he reaches his office building.
The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.
The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.
“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.
He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.
The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.
A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.
Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.
“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”
“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”
A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.
When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”
But Jongseong shakes his head.
“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”
He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.
Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.
Birthday.
The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.
He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.
A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.
But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.
“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.
A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.
Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.
Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.
His breath falters, you remember.
His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.
And the scent hits him instantly.
Curry.
Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.
Something coils in his chest.
Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.
JAY
Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.
It indeed spells, JAY.
He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.
Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.
And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.
By you.
“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.
Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.
“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”
“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.
Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.
“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”
“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”
“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”
Jongseong glares at him.
“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”
Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.
“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”
“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”
Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.
Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.
“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”
Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again.
Finally, blessed peace.
He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.
A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.
But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.
YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.
Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.
He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.
“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”
He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.
“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.
He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.
But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.
Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.
But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.
Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.
Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.
Is that you?
Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.
“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.
“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”
You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.
But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.
“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”
“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”
“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?
“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”
You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.
“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”
He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”
Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.
But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.
“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.
He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”
The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.
“I won’t go—”
“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”
Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.
“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.
“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.
He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”
The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.
And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.
His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.
“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”
You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.
“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.
“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”
Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.
You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.
You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”
Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.
“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”
He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.
When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.
“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”
“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.
“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”
“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.
You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.
“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.
“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”
“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”
There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.
It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?
“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.
He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”
Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.
Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.
“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.
You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.
RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.
Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.
It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.
You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.
The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.
He doesn’t see you at first.
Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.
You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.
You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.
You hope none of that was your imagination.
Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.
That’s when someone steps beside you.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.
You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.
“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”
“You look tired.”
“You have no idea.”
He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t notice the shift in the room.
But Jongseong does.
He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.
The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.
He downs his drink.
“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”
He doesn’t hear it.
Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.
The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.
Why are you smiling like that?
He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.
And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.
He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.
You feel it before you see him.
The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.
He’s coming toward you.
Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.
Your heart stutters.
You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.
“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”
Jongseong stops beside you.
Too close.
Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.
“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.
Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”
He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.
Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.
“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”
Your breath catches.
Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.
Not entirely touching you.
Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.
“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”
When he leaves, the space collapses.
You’re alone with Jongseong.
Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.
“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.
“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.
“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.
He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.
“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.
You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.
“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”
For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”
The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.
“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”
His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.
“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.
Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.
But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.
“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”
“Why?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.
“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”
He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”
“I’m fine,” he repeats.
But he isn’t.
You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.
“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.
“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”
The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.
At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.
Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.
Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.
“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”
You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.
When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.
His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”
He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.
“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”
You freeze.
His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.
You don’t move.
Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.
And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.
It makes him tell the truth.
YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.
Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.
You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.
Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.
If anything, he does the opposite.
He lingers.
At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.
You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.
After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.
You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.
But rules blur when he learns your steps.
He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.
It’s never announced. Never even whispered.
It just happens.
And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.
Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.
That’s when it starts to bleed through.
In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.
At night, he sleeps closer.
Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.
You start waking before him just to watch.
The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.
You don’t ask, even when you know you should.
Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.
The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.
You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.
Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.
“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“So are you,” you reply.
He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.
Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.
He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
That alone feels like a confession.
The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.
“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”
You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.
Breakfast is quiet after that.
He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.
It’s barely noticeable.
But you notice.
You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.
“You already have one,” you say.
“I know.”
He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”
He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”
You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.
“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”
You look up at him, still braced.
“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.
Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.
He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.
“I can share,” he says.
You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.
But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.
It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.
Jongseong comes home late.
You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.
You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.
He doesn’t greet.
His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.
“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.
“I know,” he replies, cold.
He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.
Something prickles.
“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.
His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.
“I was busy.”
The way he says it feels deliberate.
You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”
Silence.
You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”
His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”
“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”
“I am okay,” he snaps.
The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.
He sees it.
Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.
“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”
The words land badly.
“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”
“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”
That does it.
He crosses the space between you in three strides.
Too fast. Too close.
You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.
The sound it makes is soft.
The effect is not.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.
“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.
“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”
Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”
“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”
You don’t move.
You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”
“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”
His eyes darken.
Because he wants to kiss you.
Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.
You think this is it.
Then he pulls back.
Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.
He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.
“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”
He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.
He doesn’t.
The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.
And how far he ran.
PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.
He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.
Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.
Just for a fraction of a second.
He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.
The bedroom door opens softly behind him.
“Jongseong?”
Your voice.
He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.
You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.
The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.
“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”
The question hangs between you.
Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.
His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.
Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.
“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.
“You look—”
“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”
The moment collapses.
Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”
The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words
----
The family house is already alive when you arrive.
Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.
“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”
Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.
“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.
“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”
He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”
That’s not an answer.
You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.
You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”
His jaw ticks. “All of it.”
“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.
He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”
“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”
Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.
Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.
Conversation starts harmless.
Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.
But then the atmosphere shifts.
“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”
Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.
Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”
She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”
Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”
You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”
“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”
The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.
You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.
“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”
Fortunate.
The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.
You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”
You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.
Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.
Jongseong’s fork stops moving.
It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.
He looks at you. Really looks this time.
The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.
“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.
Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.
His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”
“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”
His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”
The silence thickens.
His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.
His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”
Jongseong turns to him slowly.
For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.
“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”
He stops. Breathes shakily.
“—my wife.”
The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.
“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”
A pause.
“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.
“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”
You move before anyone can stop you.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.
No one stops you. No one knows how.
You walk out before the tears can fall.
The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.
You don’t hear him at first.
“Y/n—!”
Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.
You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.
You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.
Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.
“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”
Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.
“I’m fine,” you whisper.
“No,” he says, “You’re not.”
He doesn’t ask for permission.
Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”
He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.
Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.
The house disappears behind you.
THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.
Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.
“Let me see,” he says, voice low.
You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”
“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”
He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”
He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.
The silence stretches.
“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”
He doesn’t look up. “I did.”
“I could defend myself—”
“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”
Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.
You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”
“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”
Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.
“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”
His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”
“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”
That makes him stop again.
“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”
You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”
His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.
“A little.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.
“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“I should’ve been there faster.”
You look at him then. “You caught me.”
“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.
His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.
Then Jongseong straightens.
The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
You tilt your head up to look at him.
His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.
“I’m okay,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer.
Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.
“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.
You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”
His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.
“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”
You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”
“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”
His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.
“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”
Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”
The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.
His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.
“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”
“Contained from what?”
“From wanting more,” he admits, voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”
“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.
That’s all it takes.
He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.
When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.
Almost reverent.
The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.
He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.
He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.
“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.
“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.
Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.
You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.
He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”
His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.
He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.
“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”
He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.
“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”
“Jay,” you answer.
He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.
Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive
He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.
“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.
“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”
“Of what?”
He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.
MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.
The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.
You wake first.
For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.
Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.
You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.
Jongseong looks different in sleep.
Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.
Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”
He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.
“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.
“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”
He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.
“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.
You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”
That makes his eyes open again.
Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.
“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”
“A little,” you admit. “You?”
He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”
There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.
He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.
“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.
“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”
Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.
Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.
Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.
He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”
You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”
He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.
You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.
As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.
Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.
And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.
You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.
That’s when you notice the folder.
Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.
Your stomach twists.
You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.
But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.
You stand.
Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.
You pull the paper free.
Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.
The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.
You scan the first page. And then the words blur.
Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.
Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.
Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.
You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.
Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.
But it doesn’t.
Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?
A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.
Footsteps sound behind you.
“Coffee will be ready in—”
The sentence dies in his throat.
You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.
“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.
When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.
The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.
Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.
“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.
He doesn’t answer.
That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.
“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”
He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.
“A while,” he admits.
The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.
“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”
His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.
“Years.”
The word drops into the room like a blade.
For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.
“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.
Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.
“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”
He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.
“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.
“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”
Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.
“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”
His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.
“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”
“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”
“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”
He stops himself.
Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”
“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.
The words don’t land right away.
They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.
“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”
He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.
“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”
You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.
“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”
He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”
“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”
You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”
“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.
“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”
“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”
He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.
“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”
The words gut you.
“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”
His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.
“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”
He stops. Swallows hard.
“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”
Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.
You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.
And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.
Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.
Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.
Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.
Love, most of all.
You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.
Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.
“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”
“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”
That hits him harder than shouting ever could.
Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.
“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”
The word hangs in the air between you.
Dying.
It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.
Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.
“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”
Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”
The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.
“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.
His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”
The words knock the breath out of you.
“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”
His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”
You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.
“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”
“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”
That does it.
Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.
“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”
“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”
For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.
Then he leans in.
The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.
His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.
“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”
You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.
“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”
His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.
“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.
“Sorry” you reply quietly.
He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.
He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”
Your heart twists painfully.
“You are my future,” you say without thinking.
The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.
He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”
“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”
He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”
You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.
“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath stutters.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”
Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”
He winces like you’ve struck him.
“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”
Silence falls again, thick and heavy.
You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”
He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.
“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”
“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.
His face tightens, but he nods once.
Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.
“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
“I will marry you, Y/n.”
The certainty in his voice steals your breath.
He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.
“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”
Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”
Something inside you shatters completely at that.
You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.
Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.
“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.
His breath catches.
“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”
You still, listening.
“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”
He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”
Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.
“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.
He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.
“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”
A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.
“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”
You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”
He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.
He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.
And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.
Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.
EPILOGUE
The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.
There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.
Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.
So here you are.
The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.
Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.
Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.
The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.
You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.
Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.
This is real.
When you open them, you see him.
Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.
And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.
His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.
You start walking.
Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.
With every step, memories rise up uninvited.
The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.
And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.
You stop in front of him.
Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.
“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.
When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.
But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.
His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.
When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.
“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”
His voice steadies, just a little.
“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”
Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.
When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.
And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.
The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.
Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.
His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.
“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”
You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.
The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.
You and Jongseong take a step forward together.
The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.
“Jongseong?” you murmur.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”
You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.
“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”
“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”
So you walk slowly.
Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.
His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.
And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.
Your own thoughts are no less tangled.
Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.
You reach the middle of the aisle.
There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.
Jongseong exhales, long and slow.
“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”
You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”
His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.
“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”
You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.
It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.
“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.
The room seems to tilt.
For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.
“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.
Then his knees buckle.
The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.
Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.
“Jongseong—!”
The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.
His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.
“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.
Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.
AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛
