ami

[nisc0]

(심 재윤) ─── ┊ ˚➶ 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫!jake 𝓍 f!reader｡˚ ☁️

SYNOPSIS ─── After a car accident that costed you 3 years worth of memory, you find yourself trying to start a new beginning in a new city with "new" people. Only God knows why would the universe make you cross paths with the cute guy nextdoor.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : neighbor AU, fluff, slight angst, smut (MDNI) 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : yearner!jake, swearing, loss of memory, mention of a car accident, unprotected sex, p in v, oral sex (f. receiving), jake is an ass grabber, praising, creampie, mutual orgasm, switch!jake, loss of virginity, jake and reader's first time, fingering, riding, domestic scenes 𝐰𝐜 : 25.5k

❕# this is my goodbye gift !! Hope you’ll all like it :)

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ──────

♯ 134340 - BTS ♯ Unconditional - JAEHYUN ♯ I.F.L.Y - Bazzi ♯ is it cool? - Steve Lacy ft. SZA ♯ pov - Ariana Grande ♯ XO (Only If You Say Yes) - ENHYPEN ♯ Get You - Daniel Caesar ♯ intro (end of the world) - Ariana Grande ♯ 3005 - Childish Gambino ♯ Tek It - Cafuné ♯ Roommates - Malcolm Todd

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼ ✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼ ✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　

You wouldn't have thought that the cardboard box in your arms would be heavier than it has any right to be, given it's mostly filled with towels and a lamp that probably won't survive the move. You shift it against your hip, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as Jungwon's voice crackles through the speaker.

"—and the landlord said the water pressure is good, but you should still check the boiler room, okay? Just in case. Mom keeps asking if you've eaten."

"I've eaten," you say, dumping the box onto the kitchen counter. The sound echoes in the empty space. "I ate a granola bar on the drive."

"That's not eating. You usually eat much more than that, Y/N."

You almost laugh. The corners of your mouth twitch, yet the energy to actually produce the sound feels too expensive. The new apartment is small, already making you hyperaware of your own breathing. White walls, beige carpet, a window that overlooks a fire escape and the back of a laundromat. It's nothing like your old place. And that's totally the point.

"There's a coffee shop down the street," you say instead, peering through the smudged glass of the window. "I saw it when I pulled in."

"Good, you should go there. Drink something with sugar and call me if you need anything."

"I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The line goes dead, and the silence in the apartment rushes back in to fill the space. You stand there for a minute, only breathing, letting your new life settle into your bones. New city with a new apartment, and no memories of the last three years to trip over on your way to the bathroom.

You grab your keys and head out. The neighborhood is weirdly quiet even in the afternoon, it feels like everyone is holding their breath. Old brick buildings line the street, their facades streaked with years of rain. A bodega on the corner, a laundromat, and there, wedged between a bookstore and a clothing shop, the coffee shop. It's decorated with mismatched chairs and a counter cluttered with jars of homemade pastries. You order a black coffee because you don't trust your brain to make decisions, and you take it to a table by the window. You're halfway through the cup, watching a pigeon peck at a discarded wrapper, when the sky opens up. The rain comes down in sheets, loud and violent, rattling against the glass like it's trying to get in. You watch it for a while, then check your phone. It's already 5 PM.

"Excuse me," you say, approaching the counter. The barista, a tired-looking woman with flour on her apron, looks up. "Do you have an umbrella I could borrow? I just moved in across the street, I'll bring it back."

She blinks at you before she disappears into the back, returning a moment later with a flimsy black umbrella. It looks like the one you buy at a bodega for five dollars and immediately regret. "Keep it," she says. "We have like twelve of these."

The rain hasn't let up by the time you step outside. You pop the umbrella open, holding it tight as the wind tries to wrestle it from your grip. The street is a river now, the buildings blurred through the curtain of water. You walk quickly, splashing through puddles, your sneakers already soaked.

The apartment building is a relief when it comes into view. You duck into the alcove of the entrance, shaking water from your hair, and fumble with the umbrella to close it. The mechanism catches on something, and you jerk it, frustrated, only to have it flip open in a violent snap. A spray of water arcs outward, catching the person passing behind you square in the chest.

You freeze.

He freezes.

For an agonizing long moment, neither of you dare to move. He's standing half in the rain, half out, his white t-shirt now clinging to his torso with a growing dark patch. His hair is damp at the ends, dark brown and curling slightly. His eyes ; wide and startled ; scan your face with intensity, making you want to quickly apologize, but the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

His expression falters for the briefest moment. The certainty in his eyes gives way to hesitation, his gaze tracing your features as though something refuses to add up. His head tilts slightly, thoughtful rather than confused. You brace yourself for annoyance. For the kind of clipped anger that would be entirely justified.

Rather than that, he blinks, and a smile touches the corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, uncertain and clumsy. "Hi," he says. His voice is a little rough, maybe from the cold. "Sorry, I was—do I know you?"

You shake your head, clutching the umbrella tightly. "I don't think so. I just moved in. I'm sorry about your shirt."

He glances down at the wet patch before looking back up at you. "Don't worry about it. It's just water." He's still looking at you, though. Too fucking long. His gaze lingers, waiting for...something. Whatever it is never comes. With a shake of his head, he drags a hand through his wet hair before a tiny smile finds its way onto his face, warming the corners of his eyes. "I'm Jake. I live in 9C down the hall."

"Y/N," you say. "5C."

"Welcome to the building."

"Thanks."

The rain continues to fall, filling the space between you with noise. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you realize you're both just standing there, awkward and dripping, with nothing else to say.

"Well," he says, "I should probably go change. Before I catch a cold."

"Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry again."

"Don't be."

He heads for the elevator, and you watch him go, his wet footprints staining the floor. He pauses with his hand on the button, and for only a second, you think he might turn back or might say something else. But then the door swings open, and he disappears inside.

You stand there for another minute, the broken umbrella dangling from your hand, the rain hammering against the awning above you. The feeling of his gaze on your face lingers, unsettled, like a half-remembered dream.

You close the apartment door behind you and lean against it. The key is still in your hand. The broken umbrella is still in the other. Your socks are soaked through because you forgot to wipe your feet.

None of that registers.

Because Jake ; apartment 9C, white t-shirt, gray hoodie, hole in his jeans ; had a face that shouldn't exist outside of Renaissance paintings and the occasional fever dream. Sharp jaw and messy hair that looked intentional even though it definitely wasn't. And his eyes, soft and curious, doing that slow scan of your features like he was reading something he couldn't put down.

You slide down the door until you're sitting on the floor.

This doesn't happen to you.

No—correction. This has never happened to you. You've read about it, sure. Pages in secondhand paperbacks where the protagonist trips and falls into a stranger's arms and he just happens to have cheekbones that could cut diamonds. You've rolled your eyes at those scenes and called them unrealistic. You told yourself that real life doesn't come with lighting cues and slow motion. However, standing on those steps with rain dripping off his chin and an animal shelter's worth of grime on his wrist, he had no business being that striking. That disarming. That stupidly attractive.

Your brain caught on the way he'd looked at you. Not like he was checking you out but more like he was searching for something. A flicker of recognition that didn't meant nothing if you recoil on it. And after that the shrug, and the introduction so smooth it had to be accidental.

Jake.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. Are you freaking kidding me ?

"You're being ridiculous." you tell the empty apartment.

Three hours later, you've unpacked exactly one box ; where it cointained your sheets and a single mug shaped like a cactus that Jungwon bought you as a joke three birthdays ago. The mug is now sitting on the kitchen counter, empty, staring at you judgmentally.

He keeps finding his way back into your thoughts. Not because you're trying to hold on to him, and surely not because you can't move on. It happens almost absentmindedly, the way your brain revisits familiar things when it's left alone. How his voice sounded slightly wrecked, like he'd been yelling or laughing or both. The smudge on his wrist ; potting soil, probably, if the canvas bag full of clinking jars was any indication. Pickles? Jam? The man had twelve jars of something and dirt on his hands and he lived four apartment next to yours.

You catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror and frown at yourself.

"Girl, you don't even know his last name." you say.

You go to bed early because there's nothing else to do. The new apartment sounds are unusual, there's more creaks and fewer sirens. At 2:17 AM, someone in the building starts playing the guitar badly. You fall asleep to a mangled rendition of "Wonderwall".

─────────

The alarm drags you from sleep sharply. You bat at your phone until the noise stops, and lie there, blinking at the still unfamiliar ceiling, reacquainting yourself with the fact that this is your life now. Everything was going to be new now.

By the time you've wrestled yourself into something presentable, you're already running five minutes behind. You skip breakfast, grab your bag, and lock the door behind you.

The elderly home sits at the end of a tree-lined street, a squat brick building, you almost mistook it for a community center. The receptionist gives you a visitor's badge and points you toward the common room, where a handful of residents are scattered across armchairs, some dozing, some staring at a muted television, one engaged in a heated argument with a plant.

You're barely through the door when a woman appears at your elbow, small and bright-eyed, with a name tag that reads Hanni in cheerful block letters. "New hire?" she asks, already steering you toward a supply closet. "Thank god. I've been doing double shifts for three weeks. I'm Hanni. You're Y/N. I read your file. It said you have experience with dementia patients. That's good, because Jacob over there—" she jerks her chin toward a man in a cardigan who's now trying to feed his coffee to the plant, "—thinks he's a squirrel."

You blink. "A squirrel?"

"Don't ask. Just go with it. If he offers you acorns, take them."

The day unfolds. You help Mrs. Han find her glasses (they were on her head), you listen to Mr. Eom's stories about a bakery he ran forty years ago, and you learn the exact difference between the "good" applesauce and the "bad" applesauce. Hanni works beside you with effortless competence, cracking jokes under her breath and seamlessly redirecting residents who wander toward the exit. "You're pretty good at this," she says during a break, as you both stand at the nurses' station, scribbling notes. "Most new people get that deer-in-headlights look for at least a week. You just sort of absorbed it."

You shrug, not sure how to explain that this ; the slow pace, the gentle repetition, the small dignities of helping someone remember their own name ; it feels like the only thing you're certain about these days. "It's not that hard. They just want to be seen."

Hanni studies you for a moment, something curious flickering behind her eyes. Then she nods, and the moment passes.

Your shift ends, your feet ache and your brain feels pleasantly fuzzy, which doesn't leave room for anxiety. You change out of your scrubs, say goodbye to Hanni, and step out into the evening air.

The street is calm, the rain from yesterday reduced to a thin dampness on the pavement. You're walking toward your building, hands shoved in your jacket pockets, when you round the corner and nearly collide with someone coming the other way.

Fuck, it's him.

Jake.

He's wearing a different shirt ; navy this time, sleeves pushed up to his elbows ; and he's carrying a cardboard pack of beer tucked under one arm. His hair is dry, pulled up in a little ponytail at the back, and the sight of him in the golden light of early evening hits you like a delayed punch.

"Oh," you say. Why now?

He stops. For a heartbeat, something unsettles his expression, his eyes lingering on you a fraction too long. Then, it melts away, something softer taking place. "Hey. Y/N, right?"

"Oh, you remembered." The words come out flatter than you wanted them to be, yet your pulse is doing a ridiculous drum solo again.

"I remember a lot of things," he says, there's a strange weight to the phrase, like he's saying something else underneath it. He gestures with the beer. "You're heading back?"

"Yeah. I just finished my first day at the elderly home down the street."

"How was it?"

"Exhausting. Good, though. I think. One of the residents offered me a fake acorn, so I'm taking that as a sign of approval."

He laughs, low and surprised, you can see that he didn't expect to find it funny. "That's a pretty solid endorsement. I'd trust fake acorn guy over most people."

You fall into step together, and you notice how he adjusts his pace to match yours, shortening his stride just slightly. The street stretches ahead, lined with those old brick buildings, the sky above streaked with pale orange and lavender. You nod toward the beer. "Expecting company, or is that just for personal purpose?"

He glances down at the pack, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. "I'm having friends over tonight. A couple of guys from the shelter—I work at the animal shelter a few blocks over. We do this thing every other Thursday. It's mostly just eating takeout and arguing about which dog breed is objectively the best."

"Which one is?"

"Rescue," he says immediately. "All of them."

You snort. "I think so too."

"Right? This is why we're going to get along." He says it casually, the words land in your chest with an unexpected weight.

The building comes into view, its facade warm in the fading light. He holds the door open for you, and you step into the foyer, the familiar smell of old carpet and someone's cooking drifting through the hallway. At your door you fumble for your keys, and he lingers, shifting the beer from one arm to the other.

"Good first day," he says. "At the job, I mean."

"Thanks." You find the right key, fit it into the lock. "Have fun with your friends. Try not to let the argument escalate into a physical altercation."

"No promises. We're very passionate about this." He's already turning, already stepping back toward his door, when something makes you call out : "Jake."

He stops and looks back.

"Thanks for walking me," you say. "Even if you didn't have to."

A small shrug. "It's fine. I wanted to, anyway." And he's already gone, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, and you're left standing in your doorway, keys still in hand, watching the space where he was.

You unlock the door, step inside, and close it behind you. The apartment is mostly empty, since your laziness won over you to unpack the rest of your stuff. You press your back against the door and stare at the ceiling.

This, you think, is exactly the kind of thing I'd roll my eyes at in a book.

Regardless, you can't stop the smile that spreads across your face, slow and helpless and embarrassingly real.

You're sprawled across the couch, legs tangled in a throw blanket, the glow of the television painting your face in shifting blues and reds. Some reality show about people competing to bake things that look like other things. It's mindless and perfect, exactly the sort of programming that requires zero cognitive effort. Your oversized t-shirt hangs off one shoulder with Justin Bieber's face from his Purpose World Tour, faded and cracked from years of washing. Below that, nothing but a pair of plain cotton panties. Your hair is messy, and there's a half-empty mug of tea growing cold on the floor beside you. You're comfortable. Vulnerable, maybe, but in the privacy of your own space, and that's all that matters.

Your gaze wanders into the kitchen and lands on the trash bin that is overflowing with flattened boxes and crumpled packing paper, the remains of a move you’re still halfway through. It doesn’t look like much, but you know it’ll be the first thing to irritate you in the morning if it’s left untouched. You weigh the options. Get dressed and actually put on pants, find a bra, the whole tedious ritual, or just…go. It's a quick trip. The trash chute is at the end of the hallway, maybe twenty steps from your door. The corridor has been empty all evening. And Jake has friends over. He's occupied. He's not going to be lurking around corners, waiting to ambush you with his inconveniently-timed presence.

Nobody will see you, you tell yourself. It's fine. You're fast as fuck.

You pad to the door, press your eye to the peephole. The hallway stretches, empty. Clear. You crack the door open, just wide enough to slip through, and you're out, barefoot, the cold floor sending a shiver up your legs. The trash bag is heavier than you expected ; you hoist it against your hip, jogging in that awkward, flat-footed way of someone who's both in a hurry and deeply aware of their own exposure. The chute is a metal hatch in the wall. You heave it open, shove the bag inside, hear it clatter down into the abyss. Mission accomplished.

You turn, already planning your retreat, and—

He's standing three feet away. Oh fuck off.

Jake.

He's holding a bulging trash bag of his own, the clink of glass bottles audible as he adjusts his grip. His eyes travel from your face down to the faded Bieber shirt, then back up, and there's a beat of silence where neither of you move. Your brain short-circuits and your mouth opens. What comes out is a garbled mix of syllables that might have been intended as "hey" but emerges as something closer to "heh—uh—I—"

He blinks. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches. "Didn't mean to startle you," he says, and his voice is level, calm, almost like he's trying to soothe a startled animal.

"You didn't—I mean, I was just—" You gesture clumsily at your attire, then at the trash chute, then back at yourself, as if this chain of context will explain everything. "The trash was full. And I didn't think anyone would be—I mean, you said you had friends—"

"Friends," he confirms. "They left about ten minutes ago. I was just cleaning up."

"Of course you were. That makes sense." You're still standing there, bare-legged, the shirt barely grazing your thighs, and the hallway suddenly feels like a wind tunnel. You cross your arms over your chest, which does absolutely nothing to help the situation. Jake doesn’t leer nor does he joke. He meets your eyes with that same searching look, softened now into quiet amusement. "You know," he says, "you have a habit of running into me in unexpected situations."

"This is your fault," you say, and the words come out sharp without real bite behind them. "You're supposed to be busy. That was the whole point."

"Sorry to inconvenience you by taking out my trash."

"You're not sorry, are you?"

"No," he admits, his half-smile edges into fuller one. "I'm not." He steps past you toward the chute, and you catch a whiff of a clean and comforting scent, the ordinary scent of someone who's recently showered. He drops his bag in, closes the hatch with a metallic thunk and turns back. "See you around, Bieber," he says, the warmth in the nickname makes your stomach flip.

He's walking back toward his apartment door, and you're standing once again, your face heating in an inexorable crawl. You wait until his footsteps fade before you scurry back to your door, slip inside, and press your back against the wood. The television is still playing, some contestant weeping over a collapsed trompe-l'oeil. You stare at the screen, unseeing.

Bieber.

You look down at the faded face on your shirt, at your bare legs, at the utter mess of your appearance, and you press the heels of your palms into your eyes like the day before. You're still standing with your back against the door, willing your face to return to a normal temperature, when the knock comes.

Three sharp raps.

Your entire body goes still. The television babbles on, oblivious, as you press your eye to the peephole. Jake. Of course. He's standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor, he's waiting for something. He's changed into a gray sweatshirt, hood down, hair slightly mussed. You don't open the door. You can't, not after what he just witnessed. Not with this shirt still on.

"What?" you call through the wood, and your voice comes out higher, strained.

"Y/N," His voice is muffled but clear. "I know you're in there."

"I'm not opening the door."

A pause. "I'm not asking you to."

"Why are you here then?"

He pauses again. You can hear him shift his weight. "I just wanted to say—" He stops, and you imagine him running a hand through his hair, figuring out how to phrase something. "The shirt. I really like it."

You press your forehead against the door. "You're lying."

"I'm not. I had that exact one in middle school and I wore it until the print started peeling off."

"That doesn't make it better."

"Maybe not." His voice carries a smile, you can hear it, the slight lift in the vowels. "I thought you should know, though. That's all."

You stay silent, unsure how to answer. The pause settles in, comfortable rather than tense, and you notice he isn’t hurrying to fill it.

"Anyways," he says finally, "goodnight, Y/N."

You hear footsteps, receding. You wait until the sound fades completely before you let out a breath you were holding deeply. Your reflection stares back at you from the peephole's warped glass, only a blur of color, but you can feel the heat still lingering in your cheeks. You push off from the door, walk back to the couch, and collapse into the cushions. The reality show contestants are still crying about pastries. You look down at Justin Bieber's faded face. At the cracked screen print and the worn collar.

He had this exact one in middle school, what a coincidence.

You pull the hem of the shirt, stretch it, let it snap back. A small, involuntary sound escapes your throat. It might be a laugh or anything else. You grab your phone, open your messages, and type out a single line to Jungwon.

Y/N [11:52 PM]

I think I'm in trouble.

But you delete it, toss the phone aside, and stare at the ceiling until your heartbeat settles to normal again.

It takes a while.

─────────

The morning came faster than you thought. You grab the umbrella on your way out ; the same flimsy black one that started this whole foolish chain of events ; and stop by the coffee shop before your shift. The barista barely glances up as you set it on the counter.

"Thanks," you say. "For letting me borrow it."

She waves a hand, already reaching for a pitcher of milk. "Keep it next time. We've got a whole graveyard of those things in the back."

You almost tell her there won't be a next time, yet the words feel like tempting fate, so you just nod and head out.

The elderly home is already rumbling when you arrive. Hanni greets you with a coffee cup thrust into your hands and a breathless update about Mr. Eom's missing dentures. You take a sip, let the caffeine do its work, and fall into the cadence of the morning.

By early afternoon, the sun is actually warm enough to justify a walk. You round up three residents ; Mrs. Han, who's having a good day and remembers your name, Mr. Chen, who doesn't say much but mumbles tunelessly under his breath and Jacob, who offered you the fake acorn. He's wearing a different cardigan today, mustard yellow, and he keeps patting his pockets like he's checking for something. The path behind the building winds through a small garden, past benches and bird feeders and a sad little fountain that hasn't worked in years. You walk slowly, matching their pace, letting Mrs. Han point out flowers she's identified incorrectly and pretending to take Jacob's commentary seriously.

It's peaceful, nearly meditative. A moment like this makes you wonder if this new life really is as bad as you thought.

Abruptly, a dog comes out of nowhere. A golden retriever ; young, gangly, all oversized paws and manic energy ; bounds across the grass with the focus of a missile. It's not aggressive and not even barking. It's excited, and its excitement is directed straight at Jacob, who is the slowest-moving, most startle-prone member of your little group. The dog lunges up before you can react, front paws slamming into Jacob’s chest. He rocks back, arms windmilling, then drops in a slow heap, feeling like it’s happening in two conflicting speeds at once.

"Jacob!" You're at his side in an instant, dropping to your knees, hands hovering unevenly. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"

Jacob blinks up at you, more confused than pained. His glasses are askew. "I dropped my acorn," he says.

"I'll find it. Just—stay still. Tell me if anything hurts."

A voice cuts through the chaos, alert and breathless. "Oh god—I'm so sorry—"

You look up. Jake is sprinting toward you, the dog's leash trailing behind him like a forgotten flag. He's in work clothes ; a navy polo with the shelter's logo, dirt smudged on his forearm ; and his face is veiled with unguarded panic.

The dog, oblivious, is now trying to lick Jacob's ear.

"Leo, down!" Jake grabs the dog's collar, hauls him back with a firm yet gentle tug. "I am so, so sorry. He got loose—I was just bringing him out for a walk and he saw the—are you okay? Is he okay?"

You're already helping Jacob sit up, checking his wrists, his neck, the back of his head. No swelling or bleeding. He's still patting his pockets for the acorn.

"He's fine," you say, your voice flat. "He's just disoriented."

"Thank god." Jake exhales, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "I really am—I should have had a better grip on the leash. He's young, he's still learning, but that's not an excuse—"

"You're right." You stand, brushing grass from your knees. "It's not."

The silence that follows is stiffling. Mrs. Han is watching with curious eyes, Mr. Chen has stopped mumbling, and Leo is now sitting at Jake's feet, tail excitedly wagging. You turn to Jake fully. "You work at a shelter. You know how unpredictable dogs can be. Especially around elderly people. One wrong jump, one fall, and it's a broken bone or a concussion. That could actually hurt someone."

Jake meets your gaze without a trace of defensiveness or excuses. He simply nods slowly, his jaw tightening in restraint. "You're right," he says. "I wasn't careful enough. I got distracted, and I let him pull ahead, and I should have anticipated that this could happen." He glances at Jacob, who is now patting Leo's head with a delighted smile. "I'm really glad he's okay. And I'm sorry you had to deal with that."

The words settle with an unexpected weight, disarming you. You were ready for deflection, for something casual and rehearsed. Regardless, he stays still, accepting it without trying to cushion the blow.

You let out a breath. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a shaky residue. "Be more careful," you say, and your voice is quieter now. "Please."

"I will." He holds your gaze for another beat, and crouches down to Jacob's level. "Hey, sir. That was my dog. He's really sorry. Are you okay?"

Jacob looks at him, then at Leo before his gaze goes back at his empty palm. "I lost my acorn," he says, there's a note of genuine distress in his voice. Jake doesn't miss a beat. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small smooth stone and presses it into Jacob's hand. "Here. I found this, it must've been yours."

Jacob stares at it. His face splits into a wide, gap-toothed smile. "Thank you," he says, and clutches it like treasure.

You watch it unfold, something uneasy tightening in your chest. Jake stands and meets your gaze again. A flash crosses his face ; rueful, or closer to hope. "I'll make sure he's more secured next time," Jake says, nodding toward Leo. "And if there's anything I can do—"

"There isn't," you say, but the sharpness has gone from your voice. "But still...keep a closer eye on him."

"Always." He turns and walks back toward the path, Leo trotting obediently at his heel. You watch him go, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how he glances back once before rounding the corner.

Mrs. Han sidles up to you. "He's cute," she states. "The boy. Not the dog."

You open your mouth, not a sound escaping your mouth. You try again.

"Mrs. Han," you say, "you're supposed to be on my side."

"I am on your side," she says, patting your arm. "That's why I'm telling you."

You help Jacob to his feet, find his acorn in the grass, and start the slow walk back to the building. Your thoughts drift elsewhere, replaying Jake crouching down to Jacob’s level, finding the stone without hesitation, saying 'I will' like he truly meant it.

You shake your head, focus on the path ahead.

After you end your shift, you walk back to your apartment. The sky has gone hazy, and you keep your hands in your pockets, replaying the afternoon in fragments. You unlock your door, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto the couch. The television is still on from last night. You turn it off, let the silence settle.

You decide to pull out your phone and call Jungwon. He picks up, but the background noise is a wall of bass and overlapping voices. You can hear a bunch of voice shouting "CHUG CHUG CHUG!!!" and loud cheers. You hear a door slam, the noise muffles.

"Y/N?" His voice is slightly breathless. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," you say, and you mean it. "I just wanted to check in. You sound busy, though."

"I'm at a mixer party with my house and sororities. It's loud so I stepped outside." He stops for a second. "Are you sure you're okay? You never call this late."

"Late? It's like seven."

"Yeah. You're usually asleep by now."

You fairly laugh. "I've been more awake lately. I had a long day."

"Tell me about it."

So you do. You tell him about everything. You don't want to mention Jake.

"You sound good," Jungwon says when you finish. " Really good. Not just saying you're good."

"I think I am," you say, the words surprise you with their honesty.

"That's all I needed to hear." There's a muffled shout from behind him, someone calling his name. "I should get back. But call me anytime, okay? Even if it's just to complain about old people and dogs."

"Old people and dogs. The two pillars of my existence now."

"Don't let the dogs jump on you," he mentions, you can hear the smile in his voice.

"I won't. Have fun at your party."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

The line goes dead. You hold the phone for a moment before setting it aside, letting the quiet wrap around you. You stand, stretch, and gather your clothes for a shower, a clean towel, a change of underwear, the softest pair of sweatpants you own. You pad toward the bathroom, already anticipating the hot water, the steam, and the small escape from your own head.

You're two steps from the bathroom door when the lights flicker.

Once. Twice. It dies.

The apartment plunges into absolute darkness. No sound from the refrigerator, no glow from the microwave clock, just black, thick and total. You stand there, motionless, one hand gripping your towel, the other reaching for the wall. You feel along the switch, flick it up and down. There's nothing.

You step to the window to peer out. The streetlights are on. The building across the way is lit, warm rectangles of gold in every window. The coffee shop's neon sign still glows. You check your phone to see your battery at 60%. You switch on the flashlight, sweep it across the room. So it's only your apartment. The refrigerator is dead. The outlets are dead. The overhead light, the bathroom ; all dead. You flip the circuit breaker in the tiny panel by the door. Shit. You try the main switch. Nothing.

You stand there in the beam of your phone, your reflection ghostly in the dark window glass, wearing that stupid Justin Bieber shirt and holding a bundle of clean clothes, and you realize you have no flashlight, no candles, and mostly, no backup plan.

The silence presses in. 9C. A certain neighbor who might have a working outlet and a willingness to share. A part of you notes, almost critically, that this would be the kind of contrived convenience you’d hate in a book.

You sigh, grab your keys, and head for the door.

The hour stretches like taffy. You've tried the circuit breaker three times, called the landlord four times, and texted him twice, giving you no results. The voicemail picks up on the first ring, a generic recording without a name. You sit next to your door and consider your options. There's a motel two blocks away. There's the coffee shop, but they close in fifteen minutes. It got to be a joke.

And there's the door at the end of the hallway.

You pace. You argue with yourself. You list all the reasons this is a terrible idea ; all the incidents that happened and degraded your confidence, the fact that you've known this man for approximately forty-eight hours and he's already seen you at your most unguarded multiple times. But the need for a shower wins. You smell like old people and grass, with the sublte tang of anxiety sweat. You can't go to work like this tomorrow and you can't sleep like this tonight. So you put on a pair of shorts ; the longest ones you own ; and a different shirt, and you walk toward his door with the weight of your own dignity dragging behind you.

His door is at the end of the hall. You knock before you can talk yourself out of it. The door swings open. Jake stands there in a faded gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly damp, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He's holding a half-eaten apple. His eyes land on you. Travel down to your shorts, back up to your face.

His mouth curves into a smile so wide, so unapologetically amused, that you feel it like a punch right in your guts.

"Bieber," he says. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Don't call me that." The words come out weak, deflated. "My power's out. The landlord won't answer and I absolutely need a shower."

He takes a bite of his apple. He chews slowly, considers you.

"Just the shower," you add, and you can hear how defensive you sound, how utterly transparent.

"I didn't say anything." He steps back, holds the door open. "Come in."

His apartment is small too, but lived-in. A couch with a blanket draped over the back. A stack of books on the coffee table. A guitar propped in the corner. The kitchen is visible from the living room, dishes drying on a rack, a pot of something that smells like garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove. "Bathroom's down the hall, second door on the left," he says, pointing with the apple still in hands. "Towels are in the cabinet. Use whatever you need."

"Thanks." You pause at the threshold, suddenly aware of the absurdity of this. "I'll be quick."

"Take your time." That smile again, softer now. "I'll keep the apartment from burning down while you're in there."

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling. Hot water, steady pressure, a luxurious flow that makes you forget every indignity that led you here. You stand under the spray as long as you can, letting it beat against your shoulders, your neck, the tension you've been carrying since yesterday. When you finally step out, wrapped in a towel, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Wet hair and pink cheeks. A stupid smile that you can't suppress.

Stop it. You wipe the steam from the mirror, and that's when you notice it. On the edge of the sink, next to a half-empty bottle of cologne, is a keychain. A small, plastic orange. Slightly faded, the paint worn at the edges.

Your breath catches. You have that exact same keychain. It's been on your keys for as long as you can remember. Well, as long as your memory goes back, which is not even a year. It's one of the few objects that survived the move, one of the small constants in the fog of your past.

You pick it up and turn it over. It's identical, even the little chip in the paint near the stem matches. You stare at it for a long moment. You dress quickly, step out into the hallway, and find Jake in the kitchen, stirring the pot on the stove. "Everything okay?" he asks without turning.

"Where did you get this?" You hold up the keychain.

He turns and sees it. For an instant, his expression falters into recognition before it smooths itself back into neutrality. "Oh, that." He sets down the spoon, wipes his hands on his sweatpants. "I found it, actually. A few years ago, on the street, I think. I kept it because—" He pauses, and you notice the way his eyes shift, slightly, like he's rearranging words in his head. "It reminded me of something. I don't know. I just liked it."

The explanation comes out too smooth and too rehearsed. You're wondering if he's said it before, practiced it, polished it until it sounded natural. You're not even sure why, something about how he said it, but you don't have the energy to interrogate right now. "Funny," you say, pocketing your own keys, where your matching orange dangles. "I have the same one."

He looks at you. You feel like you're standing on the edge of a cliff, for a jump you're not ready for.

"That is funny," he says, and his voice is softer now, almost distant. "Small world."

You nod, not trusting your voice. The moment stretches, fragile, and you're the one who breaks it. "I should go. Thanks for the shower."

"Anytime." He walks you to the door, and the teasing smile has returned. "If the power's still out tomorrow, you know where to find me."

"Bold of you to assume I'll survive that long."

"I have faith in you."

You roll your eyes, yet you're smiling as you step into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind you. You stand there for a moment, your keychain warm in your palm, and wonder what exactly you've just walked into. It's probably nothing, you tell yourself.

Oh it's definitely something.

─────────

A few days pass, you're unpacking one box at a time, learning where the light switches are without having to think about it, catching the same bus at the same time each morning until the driver starts to nod at you like an old acquaintance.

You see Jake in the hallways more often than coincidence should allow. Tuesday morning, you're leaving for work and he's coming back from a run, sweaty and out of breath, and he raises a hand in greeting without breaking stride. Fuck he's hot.

Wednesday evening, you're carrying a bag of groceries and he's hauling a bag of dog food toward the elevator, and you end up walking side by side without discussing it. Thursday, you don't see him at all, and you catch yourself checking the peephole before bed like a woman waiting for something she won't admit to wanting.

Friday arrives with gray skies and the particular exhaustion of a full week. You've just changed into sweatpants.

Three taps. You know who it is before you look. Jake is standing in the hallway wearing a knitted sweater and he's holding his keys in his hand. He looks different at night ; softer, somehow. The hard angles of his jaw blurred by the low light.

"I'm heading to the convenience store," he announces.

You lean against the doorframe. "It's eight o'clock."

"I'm aware. That's why I said convenience store and not, like, a sit-down restaurant." He jingles his keys. "You want to come?"

You hesitate for a second too long, and he catches it. His expression shifts into something hesitant. "For the accident," he adds. "Last week, with Jacob. I've been meaning to…I don't know. Make up for it, in a small way. This is the small way."

"You're making up for catastrophe with a trip to 7-Eleven?"

"Don't call it that. I'd rather call it a restitution." He pauses. "Also they have those frozen slushies that turn your tongue blue, and I don't want to drink one alone because that feels sad even by my standards."

You look down at your sweatpants. "Give me two minutes," you say.

"You look fine."

"I know I look fine. I want to look like I didn't just spend an hour lying on my floor thinking about nothing."

He blinks. "That's—"

"Two minutes." You close the door and change into jeans. You don't know why. It's just the convenience store after all. Although you put on real pants anyway, and you run your fingers through your hair, and when you open the door again, he's still standing there, checking his phone. "Cute," he says, not looking up.

"Shut up."

The walk is short ; five blocks, past the coffee shop with the broken umbrellas, past a laundromat, and past a house with a porch light that flickers like it's sending morse code. The air is cold enough to see your breath, and Jake walks on the street side of the sidewalk without making a thing out of it.

You two arrive at the convenience store, with the buzzing lights overhead. A bell dings when you walk in. The guy behind the counter is watching a small TV mounted in the corner, some sports game apparently.

You grab a basket and Jake grabs another. "This is a competition now," he says.

"It's always been a competition."

The snack aisle is narrow, forcing you to stand closer than necessary. You reach for a bag of chips. He reaches for the same bag. Your hands collide, and he lets you take it without a fight, which is suspicious. "You're being nice," you say.

"What do you mean? I'm always nice."

"No but, like, you're being strategically nice."

He grins. It's crooked and quick, making your chest tighten. "I just want you to let your guard down so I can steal the last bag of sour stripes."

"I don't even like sour stripes."

"Everyone likes sour stripes. That's like saying you don't like breathing."

You move down the aisle, scanning the shelves. Your fingers hover over a bag of shrimp crackers ; the spicy kind, bright red packaging, which Jungwon used to make fun of you for buying in bulk. You reach for them at the same time he does. "These," he says, pushing the bag toward you. "Get these."

"I was going to."

"They're your favorite, right?"

You stop. Your hand freezes over the bag. "I didn't tell you that."

He's already looking at the next shelf, picking up a pack of chocolate cookies, turning it over to read the nutrition facts. His expression doesn't change. His voice is casual, almost bored. "Everyone likes spicy shrimp crackers," he says. "It's not some niche preference. It's a classic. Like salt and vinegar. Or barbecue."

"That's not—"

"I'm getting these," he interrupts, holding up the cookies. "You want a drink? They have that weird melon soda. Everyone says that it tastes like liquid gummy bear."

You stare at the back of his head in confusion. He's walking toward the drink cooler, shoulders relaxed, like the conversation is already over. You grab the shrimp crackers and follow him.

The park is two blocks from your building, a small wedge of grass with three benches and a set of swings that face a community garden. The swings are old, their chains rusty, seats scratched with names and dates, but they hold your weight when you sit. Jake takes the swing next to yours. The plastic bags dangle from his wrist, crinkling every time he moves. You've split everything down the middle ; your shrimp crackers, his chocolate cookies, two bottles of the melon soda, a shared bag of sour striped that he claimed were for everyone, still you've noticed he keeps eating.

The soda fizzes when you open it. The park is empty except for the two of you and a cat sitting on a bench across the grass, watching like it's waiting for something to happen. You swing a little, just enough to rock. The chains squeak.

"My brother," you say, because the silence feels good but you want to fill it anyway. "He's the reason I moved here. Not because he lives here—he doesn't. He lives like four hours away. He helped me find the apartment and with all the packing."

Jake doesn't say anything. He's unwrapping a chocolate cookie, breaking it in half.

"He's in college now," you continue. "Fraternity guy, and he’s so serious about it, which is funny because he's also the least intimidating person I've ever met. Once he cried because I didn’t want to go with him at the dentist."

"That’s cute."

"He's sensitive." You shrug. "He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you this."

"I won't tell."

The cat on the bench yawns. The swings creak. You take a sip of your melon soda and watch the clouds move past the streetlights.

"Jungwon," Jake says.

You almost choke.

"What?"

"Your brother." He's looking at his hands, turning the cookie over and over. "His name. You said it. Jungwon."

You frown. Your brain backtracks through the last thirty seconds, replaying your own words. You definitely didn't say his name. You've been careful about that by habit. Jungwon is precious to you. His name is something you keep close, like a photo in a wallet. "I didn't say his name," you say slowly.

His chewing stops. His throat moves as he swallows. The openness on his face is convincing enough to pass for genuine, if not for the faint impression that he's worn it many times before.

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Huh." He dusts cookie crumbs off his fingers. "Maybe I heard it wrong, or you mentioned it before and I remembered. I don't know."

"I've never mentioned his name."

The silence stretches. The cat on the bench stands up, circles once, lies back down. He sets the cookie down on the plastic bag between you. He wipes his hands on his jeans. For a moment, he looks like he's going to say something else that might explain the way he looked at you that first night on the steps, like he was trying to place you.

His shoulders drop. "He came by," he declares. "Before you moved in. Your brother, Jungwon." He says the name carefully, testing each syllable. "He was checking out the building and making sure the landlord wasn't sketchy. I ran into him in the hallway."

You stare at him.

"He asked me about the neighborhood," Jake continues. "Whether it was safe. Whether people were friendly, and all that stuff." A small smile, almost self-deprecating. "I think he was doing a background check on all the tenants."

"That sounds like him."

"Yeah." He picks up his soda to take a long drink. "He mentioned you, and that you were moving in. I remembered."

It fits, it’s plausible. Jungwon would absolutely do something like that ; interview strangers in hallways, gather informations, build a mental map of everyone who might cross your path. He's been doing it since you were kids, since before the accident, before you forgot a quarter your life.

Nonetheless, something about how Jake tells it feels off. The words are right and the timing is too. Yet, his hands are still, and his hands are never still on the daily basis. He's always tapping or fidgeting or running his fingers through his hair, and right now, sitting on this swing in the dark, he's perfectly motionless. You want to push further. There's something in the back of your mind, a nagging feeling that you couldn’t put a finger on. You can’t, the evening is too nice, and he's bought you snacks. You let it go.

"Small world," you say, echoing his words from the night when you took a shower at his place.

"Small world," he agrees.

─────────

You walk into the elderly home with your hair still damp and the taste of the spicy shrimp crackers lingering at the back of your throat. Hanni's already at the nurses' station, flipping through a clipboard with focus, she’s been here for hours. "You look less dead than yesterday," she says without looking up. "That's progress."

"I slept." You hang your jacket on the hook and grab your name tag. "Almost eight hours. Uninterrupted."

"Must be the neighborhood atmosphere." She finally glances at you, there's a knowing tilt to her mouth. "Or something else."

You ignore that last part. The morning unfolds like every other morning ; the slow parade of residents who need help finding their glasses or their dentures or their way back to their rooms. Mrs. Han asks you three times if you've met her son, and you say yes each time, and each time she looks satisfied and moves on. You're in the common room, helping Mr. Chen with a puzzle he's been working on for weeks, when your gaze drifts toward the window. The street outside is quiet, the morning light still pale and thin. And there, on the other side, is Jake. Can he not look hot for just one day?

He's walking three dogs at once ; a golden retriever, a wiry terrier, and a bulldog that seems to be leading the pack. The leashes cross and uncross as the dogs weave around each other, and Jake's holding them with the practiced looseness of someone who's done this a hundred times. He's wearing a worn denim jacket and a few strands of hair are falling on his face, and when he glances up and spots you through the glass, his whole face shifts. He lifts his free hand to give you a small wave, fingers wiggling. You wave back, your brain couldn’t catch.

The bulldog tugs him forward and he's gone, swallowed by the next block. You turn back to the room. Hanni's standing beside you, arms crossed, watching the empty street with an ambiguous expression plastered on her face. "That’s him?" she asks.

"Yeah."

She hums in a considering sound. "He's fucking hot."

You snort, but it comes out wrong, sounding a bit too defensive. "Yeah. He knows it too, I think."

"He doesn't seem like the type who knows it." She shrugs, uncrossing her arms. "He's unaware of his own face."

You don't respond. You're already looking back at the window, though he's long gone. "His nose," you say, the words stumbling right out of your head. "That's the thing. I can't—" You stop yourself, shake your head. "It's nothing."

Hanni could only nod, she understands and hands you a stack of folded towels. "Focus on the towels," she says. "The nose can wait."

You take the towels and get back to work. The image of him across the street stays with you for the rest of the shift.

The sidewalk cracks under your feet as you walk, the sky a pale gray that threatens nothing in particular, hopefully not rain. You pull out your phone, scroll to Jungwon's contact, and press call. He picks up after some time, which means he's either not busy or he's avoiding something.

"What’s up?" he says. "You're calling at a normal time. That's kind of suspicious."

"I'm walking home from work and I thought I'd fill the silence."

"Fill away."

As you ramble on everything, you don’t allow yourself to bring up Jake yet.

"Sounds like you're settling in," Jungwon says. "That's really good, Y/N."

"Yeah." You kick a pebble off the curb. "It's weird, though. Sometimes I forget I'm supposed to be starting over. It just feels like—I don't know. Like I've been here longer."

"You have been there longer. In a way." His voice drops, careful. "You lived there before. Remember?"

You stop walking. A car passes, its headlights cutting through the dusk. You do remember—fragments, not really. The knowledge that you'd been in this city before the accident and the three-year gap in your memory. You'd chosen to come back because something about it felt familiar, even if you couldn't know why.

"Yeah," you say. "I keep forgetting that part."

Silence on his end. You start walking again. "There's this guy," you say carelessly, and you already regret it. "In my building. His name is Jake. We keep running into each other."

"What kind of running into?"

"Literally and figuratively. He nearly killed one of the old folk at my work. Long story." You suddenly pause. "He has this orange keychain. The same one I have. You know, the little fruit thing on my keys."

You can hear him breathing, he's seems like measuring his response. "That's weird," he says. "That's a weird coincidence."

"Yeah, I know." You wait for him to say more but he doesn't. "He also said he met you when you came to check out the apartment before I moved in. You talked in the hallway, isn’t it?"

"I did talk to someone. I don't remember his name, though."

"Jake," you repeat. "You don't remember him?"

"Lot of people in that building. I was there for like an hour." He laughs but it sounds flat. "Why are you asking?"

You don't know why you're asking. The question hangs there, unanswered, as you round the corner and your building comes into view. "Pure curiosity," you say. "He's nice. We went to the convenience store last night."

"The convenience store at night. Like a date?"

"Not a date, it was an apology. His dog knocked over an old man at my work."

Jungwon is quiet for a beat before talking again. "Don’t tell me that you like him."

"It's not like that."

"It's exactly like that. I can hear it in your voice."

You stop at the front door of your building, hand on the handle. It’s cool under your palm. "I don't even know him. We've talked, like, four times."

"And you're already calling him by name. That's more than you do with most people."

You leave the question unanswered. The door opens, and the smell of aged carpet and lingering cooking oil greets you before anything else. "I'll talk to you later," you say.

"Okay. But Y/N—"

"What?"

"Be careful, okay? Just—" He stops. "Just be careful with yourself. You're still figuring things out. I love you."

"I know. Love you too." You hang up and stand in the foyer, phone warm in your hand. The hallway stretches ahead, empty and quiet as usual. You climb the stairs slowly instead of taking the elevator, each step slow. What is happening? Something doesn't add up.

─────────

The banging comes from somewhere down the hall. Sharp and insistent, the sound of a fist against wood or maybe a shoulder against a frame. You freeze mid-step, your keys still in the lock, heart lurching into your throat. The apartment building is usually calm at this hour with the muffled sound of someone's guitar upstairs or television, but nothing like this.

You press your eye to the peephole but the angle is wrong, the fish-eye view showing only the empty stretch of hallway directly outside your door. The banging continues, punctuated by a voice. It’s raised, female, too muffled to make out words but carrying an obvious edge of distress.

The smart move would be staying inside, lock the door, call 911 and wait it out. The sound carries a note of despair that makes you pause. Your mind drifts to the building's elderly residents and the possibility that someone is in trouble. Before the thought has time to settle, you're unlocking the door and pulling it open.

You step into the hallway.

Jake is there, about twenty feet down, his back half-turned to you. A woman stands in front of him, her posture stiff, her hands gesturing in jagged movements. She's undeniably pretty ; dark hair pulled back, a denim jacket, boots that look expensive. Her face is flushed, and even from here you can see the tension in her jaw. "It's not fair," she's saying, her voice cracking. "You can't just—I've been trying for months, Jake. Months. And you just—"

"Luna." Jake's voice is low, placating, his hands raised in that universal gesture of de-escalation. "I've told you. It's not like that. I'm not—"

She scoffs, loud and bitter. "Not what? Not interested? You've made that fucking clear."

You're frozen in the doorway, unsure whether to retreat or announce your presence. The woman's head snaps toward you, her eyes widening for a split second before narrowing.

"Oh," she says, the word dripping with annoyance. Her eyes scan you for approximately 5 seconds. "Great. She’s back." She brushes past you without another word, her shoulder colliding with yours hard enough to make you stumble back a step. The elevator doors close behind her, and it's just you and Jake in the hallway now. He's still standing there, hands lowered now, his face a mingle of exhaustion and embarrassment. He runs a palm over his jaw, lets out a long breath.

She's back. What?

"That," he says, "was not how I wanted you to meet my coworker."

You blink at him. "Coworker?"

"Luna." He points loosely toward the elevator. "She works at the shelter with me. We've known each other since we were kids."

You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms. "She seemed upset."

"She's been upset for a while." He rubs the back of his neck. "She's had a thing for me. For years. And I keep telling her I don't feel that way, but she doesn't—" He exhales again. "She doesn't take it well."

You raise an eyebrow. "So she followed you home and banged on your door?"

"She showed up unannounced. I was trying to calm her down. She's not a bad person, she just—" He hesitates, searching for the right words. "She's stubborn, and she doesn't like hearing no."

You study him. His shoulders are still tense, his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He looks genuinely rattled, not like someone who's been caught in a lie. "Childhood friends," you repeat. "she's been flirting with you, and you felt bad for her."

"First, I’m not flirting with her and I’m not planning on it. I felt bad because I know she's lonely. She's been through some stuff. But I can't—" He looks at you, his expression transforming invisibly. "I can't give her what she wants. It wouldn't be fair to her. Or to anyone else."

"I’ve never seen you so flustered," you declare softly. He huffs a laugh, short and breathy. "Yeah, well. You bring out the best in me."

You push off from the doorframe. "She seems like she'll be fine."

"She'll be fine. She always is." He pauses. "Thanks for not assuming the worst."

"I assumed the worst," you admit. " A girlfriend and an angry breakup."

"Not a girlfriend," he says. "Not even close."

You nod, and the moment stretches between you, comfortable but charged. "Goodnight then, Jake."

"Sleep tight, Y/N."

You close the door behind you and lean against it, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall.

Not a girlfriend. Is he lying?

You don't know why that detail settles in your mind the way it does. You’d rather sleep it away.

─────────

You're coming back from a late shift, leaving your feet sore and your brain half-fogged, when you round the corner to your floor and find the hallway occupied. Four of them, clustered around Jake's door like they're waiting for someone to let them in. You recognize Jake immediately ; he's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, laughing at something one of the others said. The other three are strangers, but they have that easy familiarity with each other, displaying years of friendship.

Jake spots you first. His face shifts, the laugh settling into a smile that's more reserved but no less warm. "Y/N," he says. "You're back late."

"There was a lot of work to do." You slow your pace, your keys already in hand. "I wasn't expecting to see a lot of people today."

One of the strangers ; tall with sharp features and a casual slouch ; he steps forward, extending a hand. "Jay. I've heard about you."

"Good things, I hope."

"Debatable." The one next to him grins, softer, with eyes that crinkle at the corners. "I'm Heeseung. This is Sunghoon, and that's Jenna, his girlfriend."

Jenna waves from where she's tucked under Sunghoon's arm. She has a face that immediately puts you at ease, round and open and curious.

"We were about to have a drink," Jake announces. "You want to join?"

You hesitate. The exhaustion is tugging at your limbs, but the alternative is your empty apartment and the leftover convenience store chips you've been picking at for days. "Sure," you say. "Why not."

His apartment is the same as before, but with four extra bodies it feels smaller, more alive. Jay immediately claims the couch, sprawling like he owns it. Heeseung perches on the armrest. Sunghoon and Jenna take the floor, backs against the coffee table, and Jake gestures for you to take the single chair by the window.

"Drinks are in the kitchen," he says. "Help yourself."

You grab something from the fridge ; a cheap beer, nothing fancy ; and settle into the chair. The conversation flows around you, natural and unforced, as they talk about work and mutual friends and an inside joke about the shelter.

After two or three drinks, someone suggests a game. "Chug or dare," Jay announces, the glint in his eye makes you immediately suspicious. "You know the rules. Pick chug, you finish your drink. Pick dare, you do whatever we come up with. But you’re forbidden to back down."

"Really?" you say. "This is how you treat your guests?"

"Guests are the most fun," Heeseung says. "You're fresh meat."

Jake shoots them a warning look, veiled with exasperation. "You don't have to play. They're idiots."

"We’re not," Sunghoon protests. "Jake, it’s been years since we know each other. Don’t be surprised."

You look around the room. The faces watching you are expectant, amused, a little bit reckless. The knot in your chest loosens. "I’m in. I'm taking Jake down with me, though."

The first few rounds are tame. Heeseung chugs three times in a row and declares himself champion. Sunghoon dares Jay to do a handstand, which he fails spectacularly. Jenna picks dare and has to call her mom and tell her she loves her, which she does with zero hesitation and an extreme level of sincerity.

After that, the bottle lands on you. "Y/N," Jay says, rubbing his hands together. "Chug or dare?"

You weigh your options. Your drink is half-full. "Dare."

Jay leans forward, eyes glittering. "I dare you to tell us what you first thought when you saw Jake."

The room goes quiet. Jake's hand stops mid-reach for his bottle.

"That's not a dare," you say. "That's kind of embarrassing."

"It's the correct functionality of a dare." Heeseung is grinning now, too. "Answer the question."

You look at Jake. He's watching you with a curious expression.

"You want the honest answer?" you ask.

"Always."

"His nose." The words come out neutral. "I thought it was ridiculous how perfect it was. It’s like someone sculpted it. It's annoying, honestly."

A beat of silence. Then Jay doubles over, slapping his knee. Heeseung lets out a wheeze of a laugh. Sunghoon is covering his mouth, eyes wide. Jenna just shakes her head, grinning. Jake's face has gone slightly pink. He looks down at his bottle, then back at you, and his face softens. "That's not what I expected," he says.

"I had to be unpredictable."

The game continues. Jenna gets dared to chug and does it with ease. Sunghoon gets asked if he'd rather fight a bodybuilder or five horses, and he spends five minutes arguing the logistics. Heeseung picks chug three times in a row and is visibly struggling to stay upright, his ears turning bright pink.

It's Jake's turn. "Chug," he says immediately.

"Whoa, not too fast." Jay says. "You're not getting out of it that easy. I'm changing the rules. You have to pick dare."

"Since when can you change the rules?"

"Since I'm the one asking." Jay grins. "Dare : show us the most embarrassing thing on your phone."

Jake's eyes narrow. "I'm not doing that."

"Then you have to answer a question instead," Sunghoon offers. "From anyone in the room. You pick who."

Jake considers this. His gaze scans the room, passing over Jay and Heeseung, settling on you for a moment before moving to Jenna. "Jenna. Ask me anything."

Jenna tilts her head, thinking. "Why did you move back to this city?" The question lands differently than the others. The light atmosphere falters slightly. Jake's jaw tightens, and for a second you see an unguarded expression crossing his features.

"Personal reasons," he says. "I needed to be back here."

"That's vague," Heeseung notes.

"It's still an answer." Jake picks up his bottle. "I'm drinking now." He finishes his drink in one long swallow, and everyone lets it go.

The bottle spins again, lands on you. Jay's turn to ask. "Chug or dare?"

You're feeling the warmth of the alcohol now, loose and careless. "Dare."

"I dare you to kiss Jake."

The room goes dead quiet. You hear someone inhale sharply ; maybe Jenna or yourself. Jake's head snaps toward Jay, disbelief and uncertainty show on his features.

"Jay," he mumbles, his voice has an edge to it. "That's not—"

"Too late," Jay cuts him off. "She already picked. Rules are rules."

You look at Jake. He's sitting across from you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his bottle dangling from his fingers. The light from the kitchen catches the lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. That stupid, perfect nose. Lord, why would you make me cross paths with a guy that I obviously can’t have? He’s going to be fucking weirded out since I haven’t kiss a single soul in my entire life.

"I don't have to, right?" you say. "I can chug instead."

"You're not chugging." Jay's tone is firm. "That's not how the game works."

The silence lingers. Jake holds your gaze, his expression betraying him ; hesitation, or resolve masquerading as it. Whatever it is, it stays unspoken.

"Jake," you say, and your voice comes out steady. "What do you think?"

He studies you in silence for what feels like an eternity. Then he sets his bottle down with delicate care, rises, and slowly closes the distance between you. "Okay," he says lowly. "If you're okay with it."

You're not sure if you're okay with it. I mean, he’s hot for sure. You're lost right now, while his hand finds the back of your chair, he leans down, his breath is warm and smells faintly of beer. His lips brush your cheek. Soft, quick, almost unsure. It's not a kiss, not really ; it's the ghost of one, lingering just long enough to leave a hot mark. He straightens up and steps back. The room erupts into wolf-whistles and laughter.

"Cheater," Jay yells. "That's not a kiss."

"Mind you, those are my favorite kind." Jake says, and he's looking at you, not at Jay. You touch your cheek, where the warmth of his lips still lingers. Your face is burning, you're not sure if it's embarrassment or something else. "You're a coward," you say, your tone weak.

He smiles, slow and crooked. "You’re going to thank me later."

The game dissolves after that, the energy beginning to loosen, more rambling. Jenna falls asleep against Sunghoon's shoulder. Heeseung starts recounting a story about one of his high school exes. Jake moves to the floor, leaning against the couch, and you find yourself beside him, your shoulders almost touching. Your head starts to pound.

The game continues. The bottle spins, lands on Jay, then Heeseung, then Jenna. People chug or dare with increasing abandon, the alcohol loosening tongues and lowering inhibitions. Sunghoon admits he once cried while arguing with Jenna. You're on your fourth bottle, maybe your fifth. The edges of the room have gone soft and blurry, and you're laughing at something Heeseung said that you're not entirely sure was a joke. Your face feels warm, your limbs loose, and when you lean back against the couch, your shoulder brushes Jake's once again.

The bottle spins again to land on you. Jay's turn, because it's always Jay. "Y/N. Chug or dare?"

"Dare." You're feeling bold, the alcohol humming in your veins. Jay's grin is wicked. "I dare you to spend ten minutes locked in Jake's bedroom. Just the two of you, with no phones."

The room erupts. Sunghoon lets out a low whistle and Heeseung chuckles while nearly passing out on the couch.

Jake shifts beside you. "Okay, let’s stop here—"

"You cheated earlier," Jay cuts him off. "You’ll have to make up for that."

You glance at Jake. His expression gives nothing away, even though the tightness in his jaw wasn't there a moment ago. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction.

"Ten minutes?" you say. "That's it?"

"That's it."

You stand, and the room tilts slightly. You steady yourself against the arm of the couch. "Fine."

Jake stands too, as hesitant as before. He leads you down the short hallway to his bedroom, and you hear the hoots and catcalls from the living room as the door clicks shut behind you.

The room is small and neat. A bed with rumpled sheets, a dresser with a lamp, a window overlooking the street. And on the nightstand, next to a half-empty glass of water, a photo frame turned face-down.

Jake leans against the door, arms crossed. "You don't have to do this. We can just sit here and wait it out."

"Where's the fun in that?" You're already wandering around, peering at books on the shelf, a guitar propped in the corner. Your eyes keep drifting back to the photo frame. You walk toward it, curiosity tugging at you. "What's this?"

Jake's body goes still. Before you can reach for it, he's there, his hand catching your wrist, turning you toward him. "No, please don’t," he says, and his voice is urgent.

"Why? Is it embarrassing?"

"Something like that."

You're close now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, his pupils are dilated, there’s a slight sheen on his lower lip. The alcohol has made you bold and afraid of nothing.

"I want to see," you say.

He leans in for his lips find yours. The kiss is warm, lingering, carrying a soft urgency that feels almost like a plea. Even though you thought you had no experience in kissing, doing it with him nearly felt natural, as much as muscle memory. The world seems to melt around you. Your thoughts dissolve, and the photo frame slips from your mind as completely as if it had never been there. You stumble backward, your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and you fall onto the mattress, pulling him with you. He catches himself on his hands, hovering over you, but your legs are tangled and the momentum shifts and suddenly you're in his lap, straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips.

His hands find your waist, then slide down, settling on your butt. He squeezes, and you gasp against his mouth. He kisses you again, deeper and slower, his tongue brushing your lower lip. You arch into him, your fingers threading through his hair, and he groans, low and rough.

The kiss breaks for a moment, both of you breathing hard. He's looking up at you, his eyes pleading, his lips parted. "Y/N," he murmurs, your name sounds different in his mouth, sounding like it means something more.

You finally get the hang of it and you kiss him again. His hands tighten on your ass, pulling you closer, and you feel the heat of him through both your clothes. The world outside this room fades into static.

Ten minutes pass. Even longer than that.

You feel him shift beneath you, his hips rolling upward in a slow motion, sending a jolt through your entire body. His hands are still firm on your backside, guiding you, and you follow the movement without thinking, your own hips tilting to meet his.

The kiss breaks just long enough for you to gasp, and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to your jaw, your neck, and the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you feel the low vibration of a sound that might be his voice or yours, you can't really tell anymore.

He grinds up into you again, and you feel the full heat of him through the denim, the friction of it making your head spin. Your breath is coming in short, uneven bursts, and his is the same ; harsh and ragged against your skin. His hands slide up from your backside to your waist, then back down, pulling you closer, harder, like he's trying to fuse you to him. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both lying back on the bed, him beneath you, your legs still straddling his hips, the kiss deepening into something messier. His fingers find the hem of your shirt and slip beneath, grazing the bare skin of your lower back, and you shiver.

Someone bangs at the door. Insistent knocks on the bedroom door. Heeseung's voice, muffled but audible. "Time's up! Ten minutes are over! You're not dead, are you?"

You both stop in your tracks. Your foreheads almost touching, your breath mingling in the small space between. He laughs from half-exasperation and half-relief. He drops his head back against the pillow, and you feel the tension in his shoulders subtly ease.

"Ignore him," he says while he's already loosening his grip on your waist, giving you space to pull back. You sit up, your thighs still bracketing his hips, and run a hand through your tangled hair. Your face is burning. Your lips feel swollen. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between you.

"We should—" you start, yet you don't know how to finish the sentence.

"Yeah." He's watching you from beneath half-lidded eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Heeseung bangs again. "I'm not leaving until you open the door! Jay's timing you!"

Jake groans without real frustration in it. He sits up slowly, his hands finding your waist and steadying you as you climb off his lap. You stand, smoothing down your shirt, and he gets to his feet, adjusting his jeans with casualness.

He opens the door.

Heeseung stands there, arms crossed, a triumphant grin on his face. "Took you long enough. What were you doing in there?"

Jake steps past him into the hallway. "Mind your own business."

You follow, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, you catch Jenna's teasing glance and Jay's eyebrows have shot up past his hairline. You already have to resist the urge to hide behind Jake's shoulder.

"Drink," Heeseung says, shoving a fresh bottle into your hand. "You've earned it."

You take it carelessly. You stand there, feeling the phantom weight of Jake's hands on your waist, the lingering heat of his mouth on your neck. How the fuck am I going to face him after that?

Or any day after.

─────────

A week passes.

Seven days of routine, of work and sleep and the occasional text from Hanni about something absurd a resident did. You walk the same hallways, take the same elevator, pass the same doors. But you don't see Jake ; not in the corridor, not at the coffee shop and not on the street. It's like he's vanished into the walls of the building, existing only in the memory of that night ; the heat of his hands, the press of his mouth, and how your name rolled over his tongue in such a delicate way.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter, that it was just a game, just alcohol, just ten minutes in a locked room that somehow stretched into something you can't stop replaying. You tell yourself you're not looking for him when you walk past his door nor listening for his footsteps on the stairs.

You can’t even lie to yourself.

Jungwon arrives on Friday afternoon, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a grin that takes up half his face. He hugs you in the doorway, squeezing too tight, and you let him because you've missed him more than you realized.

"Damn. It’s smaller then I remember," he announces, dropping his bag on the floor. "Like, really small. How do you live here?"

"I manage."

"Barely, by the looks of it." He peers at the stack of boxes still in the corner, the ones you haven't touched since you moved in. "You haven't unpacked everything."

"I'm getting to it."

"Yeah, right."

The weekend unfolds. You take him to the park, to the coffee shop, to the elderly home to meet Hanni and Jacob and Mrs. Han. He charms everyone, that's what he does the best, and by the end of the first day he's already promised to visit again.

Sunday afternoon, you're walking back from the park, the sun warm on your shoulders. Jungwon is telling you about a girl in his sociology class, someone he's been dancing around for weeks, he met her that one mixer party, and you're listening with half your attention, the other half occupied by the streets and the weight of your keys in your pocket. You round the corner into your building's corridor.

No way.

Jake.

He's standing by his door, keys in hand, like he's just coming back from somewhere. He looks up as you approach, and for a moment, A subtle change passed over his face. His eyes lit with recognition, followed by a fleeting trace of relief that was quickly replaced by his usual impassive stance.

"Y/N," he says. "Hey."

"Hi."

Jungwon's gaze flickers between you, sharp and assessing. "You're Jake," he says, there's a weight to the words that makes you look at him. Jake's posture shifts, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah. And you're Jungwon."

"You remember me."

"I remember a lot of things." Jake's voice is calm, yet there's a tension in his jaw that wasn't there before. You look between them, suddenly aware that you're missing something. "You two already know each other. From before I moved in, right?"

"Briefly," Jungwon says, and the word is clipped. He turns to you, his expression softening. "Y/N, can you go inside? I want to talk to Jake for a minute."

"What? Why?"

"I—" He hesitates. "I'll explain later. Please."

You look at Jake. He's watching Jungwon with an expression you can't read, and when he meets your gaze, there's something almost apologetic in it.

"Please," Jungwon repeats.

You hesitate, the key in your hand feeling heavier than usual. Jungwon has never asked you for much, and the look on his face is earnest in a way you rarely see. "Fine," you say, and you don't miss the way both of them exhale just slightly. "You better tell me later."

You slip into your room and quietly shut the door behind you. Remaining still, you lean close until your ear rests against the wood, listening for the hushed conversation outside. Only faint murmurs reach you, too muffled to make out.

You stand in the middle of your apartment, staring at the closed door, your hand still resting on the handle. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant sound of traffic from the street. You count the seconds, then the minutes, your mind spinning through possibilities you can't figure out.

When the door finally opens, Jungwon steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click. He doesn't meet your eyes immediately, and his shoulders are set in an unusual way ; the tension he carries when something is bothering him but he doesn't want to talk about it.

"Everything okay?" you ask.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "Yeah, it’s fine. It was—" He stops, shakes his head. "He's a little weird. That's all."

"Weird how?"

"I don't know." He shrugs too quickly. "It’s just the way he talks. He sounds like he knows more than he's saying. It's probably nothing."

You study him. His jaw is tight, and there's a crease between his brows that he's trying to smooth away. You've known him your whole life, or at least the parts you remember, and you can tell when he's holding something back. "Jungwon." You keep your voice level. "What did you talk about?"

He moves past you toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, and stares inside with focus. "I just wanted to get a read on him and make sure he's not some weirdo who's going to cause problems for you."

"And?"

"And he's not." He pulls out a bottle of water, twists off the cap to take a long drink. "He seems fine. Genuine, even. I just—" He pauses and sets the bottle down. "I don't know. There's something about him that feels familiar, and I can't figure out what it is."

Your stomach tightens. "Familiar how?"

"I don't know." He says it again, more frustrated this time. "It's probably nothing. I'm probably just being overprotective."

The unease that's lingered since the moment you saw the keychain resurfaces with renewed force. Jake's searching gaze keeps replaying in your mind, refusing to be ignored. Questions crowd your thoughts, but one look at Jungwon's guarded expression tells you this isn't the time to press him. You know he'd only withdraw further.

"Okay," you say. "If you say it's nothing."

"It's nothing." He meets your eyes, something in his gaze that's almost pleading. "Drop it, okay? For now."

You nod, even though every instinct is telling you not to. He relaxes for a bit, and the moment passes. Something is happening. Something you don't understand. And you're starting to think that the answers might not be as simple as you hoped.

─────────

As the door shuts behind Jungwon, the apartment returns to its usual calm. You stand quietly, replaying the fragments of a conversation you were never meant to hear. Whatever Jake said has stayed with him, but his expression is firmly closed off.

You wander into the living room, grab your phone and scroll through notifications. A news alert catches your eye ; an article about the sequel to that movie you've been waiting for, the one you've watched half a dozen times since you moved. Your stomach drops as you read the date. The premiere was last week. You missed it.

You're already moving toward the door before you fully decide to go. Your shorts are fine. The hoodie is fine. It's just a movie, and the theater is only a few blocks away. You don't bother changing or checking your reflection. You grab your keys and step into the hallway.

Jake is at the elevator, walking out as you're heading down. He stops when he sees you, his gaze traveling over your outfit, the urgency in your stride.

"Whoa," he says. "Where's the fire?"

"Movie." You're already past him, one hand on the buttons. "The sequel to that film I've been waiting for. I missed the premiere. I'm trying to catch a showing."

He watches you for a beat, then his hand lands lightly on your arm, stopping you. "Wait. Which movie?"

You tell him the title. His eyebrows lift.

"I like that one too," he says. "I actually have it. The original, I mean. On my laptop. I downloaded the sequel the day it came out."

You blink at him. "You downloaded it?"

"Yeah. I was going to watch it tonight, actually." He drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket. "If you want, you could watch it with me, at my place. Instead of running to the theater in shorts."

The simplicity of his offer makes it harder to dismiss. You think about the movie theater and everything that comes with it, but those thoughts are quickly overshadowed by the past week without him, the lingering uncertainty between you, and the rush of your heartbeat. "That's not weird?" you ask. "Watching a movie with your neighbor you haven't talked to in a week?"

He shrugs, a small smile playing at his mouth. "It's a good movie. And I promise I won't talk during the quiet parts."

You consider it. The hallway is dark, the evening light filtering through the window at the end. He's standing there, patient, and waiting for your answer.

"Okay," you say. "I don’t want to share my snacks, though."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

You follow him to his door, your footsteps echoing in the hallway. His apartment is just as you remember it ; the guitar, the books, the soft warm lights. He gestures toward the couch while he grabs his laptop from the coffee table and plugs it to the TV. You settle into the cushions, pulling your knees up, the hoodie swallowing you. The screen lights up, the opening credits rolling. He sits at the other end of the couch, a respectful distance between you, and hits play.

The movie plays on, but neither of you is really watching anymore. The scenes blur into background noise, punctuated by your shared laughter at a line you both find cliché, a character you both hate, a moment that still makes you cringe after all these years. Between scenes, you talk ; about the original movie, about other films, about nothing at all ; and the space between you shrinks with each exchange.

You barely register the moment his arm comes to rest along the back of the couch. The small brush of his fingertips against your shoulder goes unnoticed too. It's only when his hand settles there, warm and reassuring, his thumb lazily drawing slow circles over your hoodie, that you become aware of just how close he is. The blanket is draped over both of you, a thin barrier against the cool air of the apartment. His other hand slips beneath it, finding your thigh, resting there with a casualness that feels anything but like it. You lean into him, your head drifting toward his shoulder, the conversation fading into comfortable silence.

The movie continues, although you can feel your eyes becoming heavy. The warmth of his hand on your thigh, the rhythm of his breathing, the low murmur of dialogue from the TV ; it all blends into a haze of contentment. Your eyelids droop, flutter, close.

"Y/N." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. "You're falling asleep."

"Mmm." You don't open your eyes. "I know."

"Do you want to go back?"

The room stays quiet as his words linger. Beyond the door waits a dark hallway, an empty apartment, and a bed that has already gone cold. The image settles over you like a burden, leaving you with little desire to leave.

"I don't want to move," you murmur, the words slurred with sleep.

He's quiet for a moment before he decides to speak. "You could stay here if you want. I have an extra blanket, or—" He pauses. "The bed's big enough."

You lift your head, blinking at him. His face is so close, his eyes soft in the low light of the screen. There's no expectation in his expression, no pressure. It’s an offer.

"Okay," you say.

He stands, extends a hand, and pulls you gently to your feet. You both walk shortly to his bedroom. He pulls back the covers, and you slip in, the mattress dipping under your weight. He climbs in behind you, his arm finding your waist, pulling you close. His chest presses against your back, his legs tangling with yours, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck.

"You smell so good," he murmurs, the words a low vibration against your skin.

You laugh, low and drowsy. "I haven't showered."

"Don't care." His nose brushes your hairline. "You always smell good."

His arm tightens around you, his hand splayed across your stomach. His lips press a soft, absent kiss to your shoulder, then another, barely there. "Your skin is so soft too," he confies, you can hear the smile in his voice. "I wanted to tell you that before. When you got out of the shower at my place, that first time. But I didn't want to be weird."

"You're being weird now," you mumble, but you're smiling too.

"Keep acting like you don’t like it." He nuzzles into your neck. "I'm okay with it."

You feel his hand slide from your stomach to your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against the bone. His breath evens out, his body relaxing behind you, and you feel yourself sinking into the warmth of him.

"Jake," you say, barely audible.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for letting me stay."

He squeezes you gently, his lips pressing against your hair. "Anytime, Y/N."

Curled against his chest, you slowly surrender to sleep. His arm remains securely around you, its warmth grounding you until the last of your thoughts dissolve.

─────────

The sunlight filters through the curtains, and you blink awake slowly, your mind still thick with sleep. The bed is warm, the sheets tangled around your legs, however, the space beside you is empty. You reach out, your hand finding only cool fabric.

You lie there for a moment, orienting yourself. Jake's room. Jake's bed. The events of the night before trickle back in fragments. You check your phone on the nightstand. Saturday, 9:47 AM. Two days off stretching ahead of you, unplanned and open. You pad out of the bedroom, still in the oversized hoodie you wore last night, your hair a mess and your eyes half-opened. The smell of coffee hits you brutally. Jake is standing at the kitchen counter, a mug in one hand, his phone in the other. He's in a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair still sleep-tousled, and he looks up when he hears your footsteps.

"Morning," he says, his voice so soft and reassuring. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked comfortable."

"You're still here," you say, your voice scratchy. "Don't you have work?"

He shakes his head. "Day off. I figured I'd take it easy."

You close the distance without giving yourself time to hesitate. Slipping your arms around his waist from behind, you rest your cheek between his shoulder blades. Warmth radiates through him, and you feel his entire body go still beneath your embrace. He stays still. His breath barely catches, and you feel the tension ripple through his shoulders. After that, his hand comes down to rest over yours, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.

"Y/N," he says, and his voice is rougher than before. "You're going to make me drop my coffee."

"Put it down, then."

He does as you say. You hear the mug clink against the counter, and then he's turning in your arms, his hands finding your waist, his face close to yours. A flush is creeping up his neck, pink and noticeable, the sight of it makes thousands of sparks flicker in your stomach.

"You're blushing." you observe.

"I’m not," he says, his ears are red now, and he's not meeting your eyes. "I just wasn't expecting a hug. First thing in the morning. From someone who—" He stops, clears his throat. "Never mind."

"From someone who what?"

He finally looks at you, vulnerability filling his gaze completely. "From someone I really didn't want to wake up alone."

Words fail you, so you simply stay where you are. He pulls you into him, holding you with gentleness before resting his forehead against the top of your head. As he breathes in deeply, the strain he'd been carrying begins to slip away.

"Your hair smells like my shampoo," he mumbles into your hair.

"Your shampoo smells good."

"It's just generic stuff from the convenience store."

"Still smells good."

He laughs, soft and warm, and his arms tighten around you. "That sounded stupid, doesn’t it?"

You smile and chuckle against his chest. "A little bit."

You only eat eggs, toasts and drink coffee, but it feels like more than that. You sit across from him at his small kitchen table, the soft light of the sun landing on his face, and the conversation flows easily between bites.

He tells you about the shelter and problems that he had when he took care of a dog for the first time, and you do the same.

"It's a good job," you say, stirring your coffee. "Exhausting, but good. They make me laugh sometimes."

"They sound like characters."

"They are." You pause, watching him over the rim of your mug. "Can I ask you something personal?"

He looks up, a hint of wariness in his eyes, but he nods. "Sure."

"Why did you move back here? You said that night at the game—personal reasons. But you didn't elaborate."

He's quiet for a moment, his fork hovering over his plate. "I had some things to figure out," he says slowly. "Things I couldn't figure out anywhere else."

"Like what?"

He meets your gaze, something you can’t quite read passes across his face. "Like whether some things are worth coming back for."

The answer is vague and careful, yet there's a weight to it that makes you not want to know more about it. So you don't.

"Your turn," you say instead. "You can ask me anything."

He sets down his fork, considering. "What made you choose this city? Out of all the places you could have gone."

You look down at your coffee. The steam rises in slow spirals. "I used to live here. Before the accident." You say it matter-of-factly, you've learned to say it over the past year. "I don't remember it, but something about it felt right. Like I was supposed to come back."

"The accident," he repeats, and his voice is measured now. "You've mentioned it before. The memory loss."

"Yeah." You wrap your hands around the mug, let the warmth seep into your palms. "Three years. Just gone. I woke up in the hospital and suddenly I was 22, and I didn't remember being 21, 20 and even 19. My brother had to tell me who I was friends with, where I'd worked, what I'd done." You pause. "It's strange. Knowing there's a version of yourself out there that you'll never meet."

Jake is watching you intently, his breakfast forgotten. "That must have been hard," he says quietly.

"It was. Still is, sometimes. There are things I know I'm supposed to remember—people, places, moments—and I just can't access them. It’s like a locked door I don't have the key to."

He's silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than before. "Do you ever feel like you're close to remembering? Or that something triggers it?"

You consider the question. "Sometimes it’s little things. A smell, a song, or an object." You think of the keychain, the one that matches his. "But it never sticks. It's just—there and it’s gone."

He nods slowly.

"Sorry," you say. "That got heavy."

"Don't apologize." He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. "Thank you for telling me."

You look at his hand on yours, warm and soft. "Your turn," you say, trying to lighten the mood. "Ask me something else."

He thinks for a moment. "What's your favorite thing about this city? Now that you're back."

You smile, the tension easing. "The coffee shop on the corner. They have terrible pastries but really good lattes."

He laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen. "I'll have to try it sometime."

"Maybe I'll take you." The words come out before you can stop them, and you feel a flush creep up your neck.

He squeezes your hand. "I'd like that."

The morning stretches into a lazy afternoon. You've migrated to the couch, your phone in one hand, scrolling through nothing in particular. Jake is stretched out beside you, his head resting on your thigh like it belongs there, his own phone held above his face. The weight of him is warm and familiar now, and you've stopped overthinking how his hair brushes against your bare knee.

He's quiet, focused on whatever he's reading, his thumb occasionally swiping. You're half-watching a video on your own screen, the sound muted, when you feel his body shift. A pause. His thumb stops moving.

Then his free hand moves, quick and unexpected, his fingers finding the spot just above your knee. He digs in lightly, and you jolt, your phone nearly slipping from your grip.

"Jake!" Your voice comes out loud, a mix of surprise and laughter. "What are you doing?"

He grins, an unapologetic grin, and his fingers keep moving, dancing along the sensitive skin of your thigh. You try to twist away, but his head is still heavy on your lap, pinning you in place, and he's using his other hand to trap your leg.

"Stop—" You're laughing, breathless, trying to grab his wrist. "I'm serious—"

"Are you?" His voice is teasing and low. His fingers find your ribs, and you arch, a helpless sound escaping you.

"You're the fucking worst." You manage to grab his hand, but he's stronger, and he uses the momentum to roll slightly, shifting so he can reach your side. The tickling intensifies, and you're squirming, your free hand batting at his shoulder.

"Say I'm the best," he says, his voice muffled against your stomach.

"Never."

He doubles down, and you dissolve into helpless laughter, your phone clattering onto the floor. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

"Okay—okay—you're the best." The words come out in a wheeze. "You're the best, Jake. I surrender."

He stops, his hand stilling, still he doesn't move away. His face is close now, hovering over you, his eyes bright with amusement and softness beneath.

"That was easy," he says.

"Fuck you."

"You wouldn't," He settles back down, and you slap his arm for the comment. His head finding your lap again, his hand resting loosely on your knee. "Don't worry. I'll go easy on you next time."

You pick up your phone with your heart is still racing, and you can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your shorts.

A random movie starts on the laptop screen, playing as background noise to fill the silence. You're sitting on the floor between Jake's legs, your back against the couch, your head tilted back slightly as his fingers work through your hair. He's been at it for a while now, separating strands, twisting them together, muttering under his breath when they slip apart.

"Like this?" he asks, his voice close to your ear.

"Tighter," you say. "You're not pulling enough."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. Just—here." You reach up, your hand finding his, guiding his fingers to the right section. "Hold that one. Now cross it over the middle. Yes, like that."

He follows your instructions with concentration and that makes you smile. His fingers are careful, delicate, and you feel the gentle tug as he works through a tangle.

"You've done this before, no?" you say.

"Never. I'm just naturally talented."

You snort. "We'll see about that."

Another minute passes. He's quiet, too focused, and you can feel the slight movement of his hands as he continues his work. You're both lost in the small intimacy of the moment.

"Okay," he says finally. "I think I got it."

You reach up, your fingers brushing against the braid he's made. It's lopsided, uneven, with strands sticking out at odd angles. You tug at it gently, and a section comes loose.

"It's bad," you say, and you can hear the laughter in your own voice.

He lets out a mock-offended sound. "I spent ten minutes on that."

"Ten minutes and this is what I get?"

"I'm a beginner. Tell me I’m doing good. Please."

You turn your head to look up at him. He's pouting weakly, his bottom lip pushed out, his eyes looking down with exaggerated hurt.

"Okay," you relent. "You did great."

His expression shifts instantly, the pout melting into a pleased smile. "Really?"

"For a first try. It's not completely terrible."

"High praise." His hand finds your shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'll take it."

You settle back against the couch, your head still tilted to look at him. He's looking down at you, his gaze soft, unguarded, letting you see something he usually keeps hidden.

"These past few days," he says, his voice quieter now. "They've been—I don't know. I've been comfortable. More than I have in a while."

"You're not going to get all sentimental on me, are you?"

He laughs, low and warm. "Maybe a little. Is that okay?"

You wait and watch him, the light catches his eyes, the slight curve of his mouth. The air between you feels heavier now. He leans forward, his face hovering above yours, and you feel a pull ; something that tugs at the edges of your memory. The feeling is fleeting, gone before you can grasp it, yet it leaves a warmth in its wake.

"Y/N," he says, your name sounds different on his lips.

Suddenly, his mouth is on yours, gentle and upside down, his lips soft against your own. You lean into him, your hand reaching up to cup his jaw, and the kiss deepens. His fingers thread through your hair, careful not to pull the messy braid loose, and you tilt your head further to meet him. The angle is awkward, the position of him behind you and you below making it clumsy, but you don't want to stop.

When he finally pulls back, his face above yours by an inch, his breath is uneven.

"You’re so pretty that it hurts," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I could handle a little pain, though."

"You don't look bad yourself." You chuckle softly, close your eyes and let yourself feel it ; the warmth of him, the pace of his heart against your back, the small certainty that this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

Now, the movie has ended, the credits scrolling silently across the screen. Silence remains in the living room. You've shifted positions, no longer on the floor but curled together on the couch, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you. His legs bracket yours, and your head rests in the crook of his neck, the warmth of him seeping through your t-shirt.

His lips find your temple first, light and sweet, a barely-there press of skin against skin. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your eye. Each kiss is soft, as he's memorizing the geography of your face. You feel the slight stubble on his jaw brush against you.

"Are you still going to kiss every inch of my face?" you murmur, your eyes closed.

"Every single one." He punctuates the words with another kiss, this one on the bridge of your nose. "I have a list. It's very thorough."

You laugh, tired and content, and his arms tighten around you. His lips trail down to your jaw, then your chin, then the spot just below your ear.

"Getting distracted?" you ask.

"Completely." Another kiss, this one on your neck. "This is your fault for being here."

"I didn't do anything."

"You’re existing right now, so deal with the consequences."

You tilt your head back, giving him more access, and he takes the invitation, his mouth trailing along the curve of your throat. His kisses are still gentle, almost reverent, but they linger a little longer now.

His fingers find your hand, lace through yours, squeeze once. You feel the weight of his lips on your shoulder, your collarbone, the soft skin just above the neckline of your hoodie. Then back up, retracing the path, pausing at your cheek again.

"You're very thorough," you manage, your voice dreamy.

"I told you. I'm a man of my word."

He presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth, soft and sweet, and then settles his chin on the top of your head, his arms still wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.

You don’t want to move. The afternoon light has shifted, growing gold, and the room feels suspended in a bubble of warmth and intimacy.

"Jake," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For today. For all of it."

He presses his lips to your hair, a silent reply, and you feel his smile against the strands. The last kiss lingers, right against your hair, and then you tilt your head up, catching his mouth with yours. It's not the upside-down kiss from before, this one is direct and utterly intentional, your lips finding his with unexpected certainty. He responds immediately, his hand cupping your jaw, angling you toward him.

You feel his other hand slide from your shoulder down your side, settling on your hip. You shift, twisting in his arms, and before you know it, you're turning to face him properly. Your knees find the cushion on either side of his thighs, and you settle into his lap, straddling him, your chest pressed against his.

His hands find your waist immediately, gripping you through the fabric of your t-shirt, his fingers splaying across the curve of your hips. He pulls you closer, and you feel the strong warmth of him beneath you, his breath hitches slightly as you settle your weight against him.

"You're going to make it hard to stop." he murmurs against your lips while he's smiling.

"That’s too bad." you whisper back, you could feel the vibration of his laugh.

─────────

It’s been an hour. You’re still straddling Jake, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips as your mouths move together in a heated, urgent kiss. His lips are warm and demanding, although there’s a delicious clumsiness to the way he kisses you ; teeth grazing a little too eagerly, his tongue sliding against yours with more hunger than precision. He’s so turned on he can barely focus, and it shows in every shaky breath and muffled sound.

His large hands slide down your back and grip your ass firmly now, fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive strength. He squeezes and fondles you without restraint, kneading your cheeks as he pulls you harder against the growing bulge in his sweatpants. A low throaty moan echoes from his chest into your mouth, raw and needy, sending a rush of heat straight through you.

He breaks the kiss for half a second to gasp for air, forehead lightly pressed to yours, before diving back in even sloppier than before ; lips wet, tongue eager, hands still greedily massaging and spreading your ass as he rocks you against him. His grip is tight enough to leave marks, but the way he groans your name between kisses makes it impossible to care.

You pull back to catch your breath, your hands resting on his chest as you look down at him with flushed cheeks. His eyes are veiled with want, lips slightly swollen from the messy kiss, and his hands are still firmly anchored to your ass, unwilling to let go.

“Sorry,” you whisper, voice a little shaky. “If I’m bad at this…it’s my first time doing any of it, really.”

Jake blinks up at you, his breath still ragged. For a moment his grip on your ass loosens slightly, but then he squeezes again, almost reassuringly. A soft surprised chuckle escapes him before he leans in and presses a gentler kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky and sincere. “I’ve never gotten past a kiss either. So…we’re both figuring this out.”

He pulls you closer again, one hand sliding up your back while the other stays possessively on your ass, and kisses you slower now ; still clumsy with need, still moaning softly into your mouth, but now with a shared nervousness that somehow makes everything feel even hotter.

You smile softly against his lips at his confession, a warm flutter of relief mixing with the heat in your belly. Boldness comes through you, you slide one hand down his chest, slowly tracing the ridges of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. Your fingertips press lightly, exploring the firm muscle beneath, and Jake’s entire body jolts under you.

He gasps sharply into your mouth, hips twitching upward as a shiver runs through him. He’s incredibly sensitive there ; every slow drag of your fingers makes his muscles tense and twitch. Another involuntary moan slips out of him, breathier than before.

“S-sorry,” he blurts out by reflex, cheeks burning as he pulls back just an inch, eyes half-lidded and embarrassed. His hands tighten on your ass again, almost like he’s grounding himself. “I’m just…really sensitive. Fuck, that feels good.”

He leans in quickly to kiss you again, clumsier now from the rush of sensation, his abs contracting under your exploring touch as he rocks you gently against him, clearly fighting the urge to apologize a second time.

You keep tracing his abs, feeling them flex and twitch under your fingertips, when his breathing grows even heavier. His hands squeeze your ass one last time before sliding up to your hips. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear as he whispers softly, voice rough with arousal.

“Take your panties off for me…please?”

The words send a fresh wave of heat through you. You hesitate, suddenly shy, cheeks burning as you bite your lip and glance away. Jake notices immediately. A small affectionate smirk tugs at his lips despite how flustered he is.

“What’s wrong?” he teases gently, voice playful, his fingers tracing slow circles on your hips. “Don’t get all shy on me now…I’m dying here.”

You swallow hard, heart racing, but the way he’s looking at you ; equal parts desperate and sweet ; makes you brave. Instead of taking them off completely, you reach the hem of your shorts and throw them next to the couch, hook your fingers into the side of your panties, and push the damp fabric aside, exposing yourself to him.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

Jake’s eyes widen slightly. He nods slowly, one hand sliding from your hip down between your bodies. His middle finger gently traces along your slick folds, testing, before he slowly pushes it inside you ; careful, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time to make sure it’s okay. His breath catches at how warm and wet you feel around his finger, and he lets out a shaky moan, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck…is this alright?” he murmurs, voice trembling with restraint as he holds still, letting you adjust.

You let out a shaky breath, hips shifting slightly against his hand as his finger moves inside you.

“That feels good,” you whisper, voice breathy and honest. “Really good…”

Jake’s eyes light up with relief and hunger. Encouraged, he slowly pulls his middle finger back, then carefully pushes two fingers in this time ; his middle and ring finger ; stretching you more. He’s clumsy about it, his movements a little uncoordinated from how turned on he is, but the gentle pressure feels incredible as he works them deeper.

He starts to pump them slowly, trying to find a rhythm, when suddenly his breath hitches.

“Wait—” he says quickly, almost like he remembered something.

Before you can respond, he curls his fingers upward, searching. The moment he hits that sensitive spot inside you, a loud, involuntary moan escapes your lips, loud and needy. Your thighs tremble around him as pleasure jolts through your body.

His face flushes deeper, a proud but clumsy grin breaking across his face even as he keeps awkwardly pumping and curling his fingers, trying to do it again. His free hand grips your ass tightly for balance, his own breathing ragged and uneven while he watches you react, completely lost in how you sound and feel.

You’re still trembling from the sudden rush of pleasure when he slows his fingers, keeping them buried inside you. He looks up at you with those wide, needy eyes, his cheeks flushed and his breathing ragged.

“Tell me I’m doing good…” he whispers, voice deep and a little vulnerable as he searches your face. “Please?”

You cup his face gently in both hands, thumbs brushing over his warm cheeks. Leaning down, you kiss him softly, tenderly, your lips lingering against his for a long moment. When you pull back just enough to speak, you gaze softens.

“You’re being so good to me,” you murmur. “It feels really good, Jake…keep going.”

A relieved moan slips from him at your words. His eyes flutter half-closed, and he presses into your touch like he’s starving for the praise. His fingers start moving again ; still a little clumsy and eager ; pumping slowly in and out while curling every few strokes to hit that spot that make you squirm. His free hand squeezes your ass tighter, pulling you closer as he kisses you back, messy and grateful.

You keep kissing him, slow and sweet, when Jake suddenly pulls his fingers out of you with a wet sound that makes you both blush. He shifts underneath you, breathing hard, and hurriedly works open his jeans.

“I need to feel you more,” he mutters, voice thick with desperation.

He lifts his hips and shoves his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock springs out, hard and throbbing, already leaking at the tip. You barely get a look at it before he pulls you back down onto his lap, lining you up so your bare, soaked pussy presses directly against his length. You start moving again, grinding with your panties still pushed to the side. The hot, velvety shaft of his cock slides perfectly between your slick folds, the head bumping against your clit with every roll of your hips. Jake groans loudly, head falling back against the couch as his hands return to grip your ass, guiding you faster.

“Fuck…you feel so good,” he moans, clumsy and desperate. He’s getting impossibly harder beneath you, his dick twitching and throbbing with every grind. His hips jerk up to meet yours, uncoordinated and eager, making wet sounds every time your slick heat drags along his entire length.

He looks completely wrecked already ; lips parted, eyes hazy with desire, fingers digging into your ass as he rocks you harder against him, chasing more of that delicious friction. You keep grinding against him, the slick sounds growing louder as both of you get messier. Your panties are completely soaked, the fabric clinging wetly to your folds, and his boxers ; now bunched around his thighs ; are dark with your arousal too.

Jake lets out a frustrated groan and lifts you just enough to shove his boxers the rest of the way down his legs, kicking them off. He reaches into his pocket, tears open a condom with shaky hands, and rolls it on quickly, his cock twitching hard as he does. You move to slide your panties down, but he catches your wrists gently, stopping you.

“Wait—” he breathes, voice hoarse. His eyes drop to where your soaked panties are still pushed to the side, the pretty fabric framing your glistening pussy. “Don’t take them off. They’re too pretty on you like this…looks so fucking hot.”

He pulls you back down onto him, guiding the head of his cock to nudge against your entrance through the shifted fabric. His hands return to your ass, squeezing firmly as he looks up at you with doe, desperate eyes, clearly waiting for you to take the next step while his throbbing length presses impatiently against your heat.

You brace your hands on his shoulders and slowly sink down onto him, taking every inch of his cock inside your tight, soaked heat. The stretch is intense, making you gasp and pause halfway before you breathe through it and slide all the way down until your hips meet his. Jake’s head falls back with a deep, broken moan, his fingers digging hard into your ass.

But after a few seconds, the latex feels uncomfortable and distant. You lift yourself off him, quickly peel the condom away, and sink back down onto his bare cock before he can protest. The raw heat of him makes you both moan.

His eyes fly open in panic. “Wait—fuck—baby—” he stammers, hands gripping your waist tightly as his cock throbs hard inside you. His face is flushed with alarm even as pleasure clouds his expression.

You can’t help but laugh softly at his wide-eyed reaction, the sound breathy and fond. “It’s okay,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss him.

You start moving ; not bouncing, but grinding slowly in deep circles with him fully buried inside you. The pressure against that sensitive spot makes you whimper, but it completely wrecks Jake. He moans loudly, the sound raw and uncontrolled, his whole body tensing beneath you.

Suddenly, his hands clamp around your waist and he lifts you straight up, pulling out of you with a wet pop. You blink in confusion, hovering above him as his cock twitches angrily in the open air, slick with your juices.

“I was about to cum,” he pants, voice strained and embarrassed. “You’re too warm and tight…and I’m really sensitive right now. Fuck, I almost didn’t stop in time.”

He looks up at you, chest heaving, cheeks burning red as he tries to catch his breath, still holding you suspended above his lap.

You hover above him for a moment, still catching your breath, then bite your lip shyly and whisper, “It’s okay…if it happens and you cum inside me, I can take the morning after pill.”

Jake looks up at you, eyes glassy from the pleasure, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. He swallows hard, then nods, his hands gently squeezing your waist. “Okay…but I’ll still try to be careful,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to mess this up for you.”

You smile softly at his sweetness and slowly sink back down onto his bare cock, taking him all the way inside again with a soft gasp. Once he’s fully buried, you resume grinding on him in deep circles, your soaked pussy clenching around his thick length.

He groans loudly, his head tipping back for a second before he looks down to where your bodies are joined. His hands slide firmly onto your hips, fingers digging in as he starts guiding you harder against him. He pulls and pushes you in longer, more insistent grinds, forcing your clit to rub against the base of his cock with every roll.

Sloppy sounds fill the room as your soaked folds slide back and forth along his shaft. The harder he makes you grind, the louder the sounds get, your arousal coating him completely. Jake’s moans turn ragged and desirous, his abs flexing under your hands while he stares at the way your pretty panties, still pushed aside, frame your pussy taking every inch of him.

You keep grinding on him, the wet sounds growing filthier with every roll of your hips, when Jake suddenly sits up straighter. One of his hands slides up your back, pulling you closer as his mouth finds your neck.

He starts licking and kissing the sensitive skin there, sucking gently at first, then harder, while his hips snap upward. He shifts from letting you grind to actively pounding into you, thrusting deep and fast from below. Each rough stroke makes you whimper, your fingers clutching his shoulders as pleasure spikes through you.

“I’m sorry—” he whispers hotly against your neck, voice strained and weak between open-mouthed kisses. His thrusts grow erratic, sloppy, and frantic. “Fuck, I’m so sorry…I’m gonna cum inside you.”

His grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as he buries himself as deep as he can, moaning loudly into your neck while his cock throbs hard inside your tight heat. His body trembles beneath you, clearly fighting it for only a second longer before he loses control.

You cry out as the intense rhythm pushes you over the edge right along with him. Your orgasm crashes through you hard, walls clenching and fluttering wildly around his cock as waves of pleasure rip through your body. At the same moment, Jake groans deeply into your neck and starts cumming, pulsing hot and thick inside you with every thrust.

Still trembling and moaning from your climax, you gasp out quickly, “Finger me—please—”

You don’t need to tell him twice. He lifts you off his cock with a wet sound, lays you back on the couch, and slides two fingers deep into your dripping pussy. He keeps them buried inside you, pumping slowly and softly, curling them gently against that sensitive spot while his thumb rests lightly on your clit.

“Fuck—that’s it,” he whispers soothingly against your ear, voice gentle even as he’s still catching his breath. “You’re doing so good. Let it all out for me.”

His fingers move in slow strokes, drawing out every last pulse of your orgasm as he kisses your neck and jaw. “So pretty when you cum…keep squeezing around my fingers, baby. I’ve got you.”

He stays close, murmuring soft praises while his fingers continue their gentle rhythm inside your soaked heat, helping you ride through the aftershocks.

An hour later, you’re sprawled on the couch with your legs spread wide, one draped lazily over the armrest. Jake kneels between your thighs, his hands resting on your inner thighs to keep you open.

He starts with broad strokes of his tongue, licking up and down your slick pussy, tasting the mess you two made earlier. Then he dives in deeper, pressing his whole mouth against you and kissing your folds like he’s making out with them ; soft, wet, hungry kisses that make filthy sounds echo in the living room.

A deep moan escapes you as his tongue swirls around your clit.

Jake pulls back just enough to grin up at you, lips glistening. “Hey, you gotta be quiet,” he teases in a joking tone, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I can’t hear the TV show if you’re moaning like that. Rude.”

You try to focus on the screen, but the pleasure is making you sleepy and relaxed. Your eyelids start to flutter, growing heavier as you sink deeper into the couch.

Without warning, Jake tightens his grip on your thighs and thrusts his tongue straight into your pussy, fucking you with it in deep, firm strokes. Your eyes snap open with a sharp gasp, hips twitching against his face as the sudden intensity jolts you awake.

He pulls back for a second, smirking. “There you go. Can’t have you falling asleep on me already,” he murmurs playfully, before diving right back in, tongue thrusting into you again while his nose nudges your clit.

His hands hold you firmly in place as he eats you out with renewed energy, clearly determined to keep you wide awake and moaning.

You can’t hold back anymore.

The steady thrust of Jake’s tongue inside you, combined with the way his nose keeps rubbing against your swollen clit, pushes you straight over the edge. Your second orgasm hits hard and fast. Your thighs clamp around his head as you cry out, back arching off the couch while waves of pleasure crash through you.

While you’re still cumming, he quickly pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two fingers, sliding them deep into your clenching pussy. He curls them gently against that sensitive spot, pumping them slowly and steadily to draw out your orgasm even longer.

“That’s it…cum on my fingers again, baby,” he murmurs against your thigh, voice low and husky as he watches you fall apart. “Fuck, you’re squeezing so tight.”

He keeps fingering you through every pulse and shudder, soft and deep, never rushing. His thumb moves up to circle your clit lazily, prolonging the pleasure until your moans turn into breathy whimpers and your body finally starts to relax.

Even then, he doesn’t pull his fingers out right away. He leaves them buried inside your warm, fluttering heat, gently stroking your walls while he kisses the inside of your thigh, looking up at you with a satisfied, slightly smug smile.

─────────

Both of you cuddling in his bed, and sleep finally gets to you. You're both tangled in his sheets, limbs intertwined, the warmth of his body a grounding presence against your back. His arm is draped over your waist, his breath slow and even against your neck, and you can feel the occasional press of his lips against your shoulder ; delicate, absent, as he's kissing you even in his sleep.

You should be content and you are content. Nevertheless, there's a dull ache beginning to throb behind your eyes, a persistent pressure that makes you wince when you shift against the pillow.

"Jake," you murmur, your voice rough. "I have a headache."

He stirs behind you, his arm tightening around your waist. "Mmm?"

"A headache. Do you have any painkillers?"

He blinks, his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Bathroom cabinet on the top shelf. There's a bottle."

You start to untangle yourself, but his arm holds you for a moment longer, pulling you back against him. "Don't go," he mumbles, his nose brushing your ear.

"I'll be right back." You press a kiss to his knuckles, and he loosens his grip.

You pad out of the bedroom, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on your bare skin. You grab the shirt he'd left on the floor ; his shirt, the one he'd worn earlier ; and pull it over your head. It falls to your thighs, soft and worn, and you feel a small thrill at the intimacy of it.

The bathroom is as small as you could remember the last time you took a shower, the light harsh when you flick it on. You find the painkillers easily, shake two into your palm, and turn to get water.

You pause.

The drawer next to the sink is slightly open, just a crack, and something inside catches your eye. You don't know why you reach for it. Curiosity, maybe. The same instinct that made you want to see the photo frame by his bed.

You pull it open.

The drawer is filled with photographs ; loose, some curled at the edges, same as snapshots you'd find in a shoebox under a bed. But these aren't random. You recognize the faces.

Your face. And Jake's face.

Both of you, younger. His hair is different, shorter, but the smile is the same. Your hair is shorter too, your eyes brighter, and you're pressed together like you've known each other for years. In another, you're at a café, holding up coffee cups, laughing at something off-camera. In another, you're in a park, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Your hands are shaking. You dig deeper, pulling out more photos. One with your parents. Your mother's arm around you, your father's hand on Jake's shoulder, and the four of you are smiling at the camera like a family.

Another with Jungwon. He's younger, his face rounder, and he's giving a thumbs-up while Jake ruffles his hair.

You drop the photos. They scatter across the floor, and you stumble back, your back hitting the bathroom wall.

This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. You don't remember any of this. You've never seen these photos before in your life. But your face is there, your smile, your eyes. And Jake is there too, always beside you, he's always been part of the picture.

The memory loss. The three years.

You feel the world tilt beneath you, the edges of your vision going fuzzy. The photos on the floor stare up at you, silent and damning.

"Y/N?"

Jake's voice. He's at the doorway, his eyes still sleep-soft, and he's holding a glass of water. He takes one step into the bathroom, then stops. His gaze drops to the photos scattered around your feet.

The glass slips from his fingers. It shatters against the tile, water spreading in a river across the floor.

"Y/N," he says again, and his voice is different now, sounding afraid.

You look at him. At the face you've come to know over these past weeks. The face you've kissed, laughed with, let hold you. The face that has been hiding everything from you.

"You knew me?" you say, and your voice comes out flat, hollow. "You knew me before?"

He doesn't answer as the look on his face says it all.

"All this time," you continue, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. "You knew everything. You knew me. You knew me and you didn't say anything."

"I was going to tell you." His voice is low. "I was trying to find the right time. I didn't want to scare you—"

"Scare me?" A broken laugh escapes you. "I've been living in a fog for a year. I've been trying to piece together who I am, and you—you've been standing right there, holding all the pieces, and you didn't tell me."

The rain starts outside, a sudden downpour that hammers against the window. You don't remember putting on his clothes, but you're moving now, past him, through the apartment, toward the door. He calls your name without you turning back.

You barge into the hallway. The stairs are a blur beneath your feet. You burst out into the rain, and it hits you like a wall ; cold, merciless, soaking through the shirt, your hair and your skin.

You don't know where you're going, and you know you can't be near him, nor look at his face and see the truth you were too blind to notice.

The street is empty, the rain turning the pavement into a river. You walk, then run, your bare feet slapping against the wet ground, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind you, you hear a door slam. A voice calling your name, distant and helpless.

Your legs don’t seem to want to stop. Your bare feet slap against the wet pavement, each step sending shocks through your legs, but you don't stop. You actually can't stop because if you do, you'll have to think, and thinking means facing what you just saw.

Your fingers fumble with your phone, slick with rain, and you manage to pull up Jungwon's contact. It rings once, twice, three times, and then the automated voice cuts in. Voicemail. Full. You try again and it’s the same result.

"Come on," you mutter, your voice cracking. "Come on, pick up. Pick up—"

The phone slips from your grip, clattering onto the wet ground. You leave it behind and keep walking, your arms wrapped around yourself, the thin fabric of his shirt doing nothing to ward off the cold.

"Y/N."

His voice. Behind you. Closer than you expected.

You keep walking faster, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Y/N, please—just stop—"

"I don't want to talk to you." Your voice is barely audible over the rain. "Go away."

"I can't do that." His footsteps are closer now. "I can't let you run out like this. It's not safe."

"You don't get to decide what's safe for me." You finally stop, spinning around to face him. He's there, a few meters away, soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving. He's stopped too, keeping his distance like you're a wild animal that might bolt.

"You don't get to decide anything," you continue, your voice rising. "You knew me. You knew me and you lied. Every single day, every single conversation—you looked at me and you knew exactly who I was, and you let me stumble around like an idiot trying to figure it out."

"I didn't lie—"

"Hiding the truth is lying." You're shaking now, from cold and anger. "You kept all of it from me. The photos, the memories—" You gesture wildly. "Everything. You let me think we were strangers." Your voice cracks. "You let me fall for you like you were someone new."

"I had to." His voice is raw. "I had to keep it from you. It was the only way—"

"The only way for what?" You're yelling now, the rain muffling the sound but not the anger. "The only way to protect yourself? The only way to make sure you didn't have to deal with the mess of my broken brain?"

He flinches like you've struck him. "No. That's not—"

"Then what? What the fuck is about?"

He's quiet for a long moment. The rain falls between you, heavy and cold, a curtain that separates you from him. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, barely above a whisper.

"Because I was scared."

You laugh, a hollow, broken sound. "Scared of what?"

"Of this." He gestures between the two of you. "Of you remembering and looking at me like you are right now. Like I'm a stranger. Like I'm someone who hurt you."

Your chest tightens. "God—Jake do you even care about me?"

"I fucking do." He takes a step closer, and then stops himself. "I loved you, Y/N. Before the accident. We were—" He runs a hand through his wet hair, his voice cracking. "We were together. For three freaking years. We lived together. We had a life."

You stare at him, the words hitting you like blows. "I don't remember."

"I’m aware of that." He's crying now, his tears mistook for rain drops. You can't tell. "I’m aware that you don't. And that's—that's the worst part. Because I've been standing here, watching you rebuild your life, and every time you looked at me like I was a stranger, it felt like losing you all over again."

"Why did you stay, then?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Why didn't you just leave?"

"Because I made a promise." He meets your eyes. "A promise to your brother, to Jungwon. After the accident, when you couldn't remember anything—he came to me. He said that if I really loved you, I would stay away. That seeing me, remembering me, would confuse you. That it would hurt you more than it would help."

"So you just—walked away?"

"I tried. I moved to another city. I told myself it was for the best. But I couldn't." He stops, his voice breaking. "I couldn't stay away. When I heard you were coming back here, I told myself I wouldn't interfere and that I'd keep my distance. But then I saw you with that stupid umbrella, and—"

His words trail off, lost in the rain. You stand there, shivering, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

"I was scared," he continues, his voice still barely audible. "I was scared that if I told you, you'd run. That you'd look at me and feel nothing. That the person you were before—the person I loved—was gone forever, and I couldn't bear that. So I kept it to myself. I told myself I was protecting you. But really, I was protecting myself."

The silence stretches between you.

"You should have told me," you finally say, and your voice is weak, drained of emotion. "You should have trusted me to handle it."

"I know." He looks down at the ground. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to hurt you. I just—" He stops, his shoulders shaking. "I just wanted to hold onto the part of you that was still mine. Even if you didn't know it."

Your chest is heaving again and you feel the tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. You're not sure when you started crying or maybe you've been crying this whole time.

"When?" Your voice cracks once again. "When did we—when did we first meet?"

He looks up, and you see the tears streaming down his face, indistinguishable from the rain. "Nineteen," he says, his voice raw and broken. "We were nineteen. You were wearing that oversized Bieber shirt, and you tripped over your own feet walking into that library, and I—" He pauses, a sob tearing from his throat. "I fell in love with you right there."

You feel the sob building in your chest, unstoppable and devastating. "I’m sorry."

"It’s okay." He's crying openly now, his shoulders shaking. "I—I needed you to know that you were loved. That you are loved. By me. Always."

Your legs give out. You don't realize it until you're sinking, your knees hitting the wet pavement, your hands bracing against the cold ground. The sobs are torn from you now, ugly and loud, your entire body shaking with the force of them.

He’s already moving. His feet splash against the wet ground, closing the distance between you in seconds. He drops to his knees in front of you, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest. His body shields you from the rain, his hands cradling the back of your head, pressing your face into the warmth of his neck.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice broken and fragile. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N."

You feel his tears against your skin, his body shaking with the same sobs that are tearing through you. He holds you tighter, afraid you'll disappear, and you grip the wet fabric of his shirt, your fingers twisted in the material.

"I don't remember," you choke out. "I don't remember any of it."

"That's okay." His voice is a whisper, trembling. "That's okay. We can—we can start over. We can make new memories. Whatever you need. I'll give you whatever you need."

You pull back just enough to look at him. His face is streaked with rain and tears, his eyes red-rimmed, his expression open and completely unguarded.

You let him hold you, his arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world, and you feel something shift in your chest. The rain continues to fall, but you barely notice it anymore.

All you feel is him.

─────────

The next morning. You're sitting on the edge of the couch, your legs stretched out in front of you, the bruises on your knees a mottled purple from the fall the night before. The rain has stopped, but the world outside is still wet, the streets glistening under the gray sky.

Jake is kneeling in front of you, a small first-aid kit open on the floor beside him. His movements are gentle, careful, as he dabs at the scrapes with an antiseptic wipe. You flinch slightly at the sting, and he murmurs an apology, his fingers light against your skin.

"I could do it on my own." you say, your voice hoarse from crying.

"Let me do it for you. Please." He doesn't look up, his focus on the cut on your knee. "I should have done this last night, but you were—" He stops, swallowing. "You were upset. I didn't want to push."

You watch him as he works, the furrow of concentration between his brows, his lower lip catches between his teeth. His hands are steady despite everything, carefully smoothing the edges of a bandage over your skin.

"There," he says softly. "All done."

You're about to say something when the door slams open.

Jungwon stands in the doorway, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. He's still in his clothes from yesterday, his hair disheveled, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. He must have come straight from wherever he was, must have run the whole way. His gaze sweeps the room and takes in the two of you. Jake kneeling at your feet. The bandage on your knee. Your tear-streaked face. And mostly, the visible tension in the air.

He looks at Jake and at you while shifting his gaze between both of you.

"Fuck." he says, the word heavy, loaded with remorse.

Jake rises slowly to his feet. He stands there, his hands at his sides, his face blank.

"Jungwon," he starts, but Jungwon cuts him off.

"What the fuck, Jake." He steps into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. "I told you—I told you to stay away. I told you it would be better for her. And for everyone. And you—" He stops, his jaw tight. "You couldn't keep your promise for even a year?"

"It wasn't like that." Jake's voice is steady yet a tremor is present beneath it. "I didn't plan this. It just happened."

"It just happened?" Jungwon scoffs. "You see her in the hallway and suddenly all your promises mean nothing?"

"Jungwon—" you start, both of them turn to look at you, and the weight of their gazes makes the words die in your throat. Jungwon's expression softens slightly. "Are you okay?" he asks, the question is directed at you, not Jake.

You don't know how to answer that. Are you okay? You're sitting in the apartment of a man you've known for weeks, who apparently knew you for three years before that, who you still can't remember, who you cried in the rain with, who bandaged your knees this morning because he cares about you. And you can’t understand any of it.

"I don't know," you say honestly.

Jungwon runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. "I should have told you," he says with regret in his voice. "I should have told you about him. About everything. I thought I was protecting you, but I—" He pauses and shakes his head. "I made it worse."

"He knew," you say, voice flat. "He knew and he kept it from me. You both did."

Jake flinches and Jungwon looks away.

"I had to," Jake says quietly. "I had to see if you could remember on your own. If there was any part of you that still—" He swallows, the words caught in his throat. "I needed to know if you could love me without the memories."

Jungwon's head snaps toward him. "That's not why you did it."

"Isn't it?" Jake's voice is raw. "I wanted to believe that if I just gave you time, you'd remember, and I know that it sounds stupid. That you'd look at me and see all the years we had. But you didn't. You never did." He looks at you, his eyes glassy. "And I had to accept that the person I loved might never come back. But I still loved you anyway."

The silence in the room is suffocating. You look from Jake to Jungwon, the weight of their secrets pressing down on you, and you feel something crack inside your chest.

Jungwon is the one to break it. "I'm sorry," he says, the words are directed at both of you. "I was scared. I didn't want to lose you again, Y/N. And when I saw the two of you starting to know each other I panicked." He confesses, his composure cracking. "I just wanted to protect you and I failed. I failed both of you."

Jake stays silent, his eyes fixed on the floor.

You take a breath. The air is thick, but you force yourself to speak.

"I don't remember him," you say, looking at Jungwon. "I don't remember any of it. But I—" You stop, your voice catching. "I know I felt something. Even when I didn't know who he was. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"

Jungwon meets your eyes. Then he nods, slowly.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "It does."

─────────

The afternoon has settled in, the earlier tension slowly unwinding like a knot being picked apart. Jungwon left an hour ago, his goodbye awkward but not hostile, a promise to call later that felt more like a question than a statement. You'd watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him, and then you'd turned to find Jake standing in the middle of the living room, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes uncertain.

Neither of you had spoken for a while. Then you'd walked to the kitchen, pulled out a cutting board and some vegetables, and started preparing something that might become dinner. He'd followed, hovering at the edge of the counter, until you'd handed him a knife and told him to chop the onions.

Now you're standing at the stove, stirring a pan of vegetables, while Jake sits on a stool behind you. His fingers are in your hair again, separating strands, twisting them together with a concentration that's become familiar over the past few days. The braid is better than yesterday ; still not perfect, but recognizable.

"You're getting better at this," you say, your voice quiet.

"I've had practice." An incredible softness in his voice. "Also, you're very patient. That helps."

You stir the vegetables, watching them sizzle and soften. The silence is comfortable, however, there's something sitting between you, a question you've been turning over in your mind since last night.

"Jake," you start, and you feel him pause, his fingers stilling in your hair. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

You keep your eyes on the pan. "Last night—was that our first time?"

You feel him go still behind you. His hands are frozen in your hair, and for a moment, you think you've overstepped. You feel his breath, a soft exhale, and his hands resume their work.

"Yes," he says, and his voice is careful. "That was our first time."

The words hang in the air. You nod slowly, processing. "So we never had sex…before the accident?"

He shakes his head, even though you can't see him. "We were close, and we lived together. But we never did those kind of things." He pauses, his fingers continuing to work through your hair. "We were waiting. I don't know what we were waiting for. The right moment, maybe." His voice drops. "I never really thought about it. I just knew I wanted it to be right."

You set down the spoon, turning to face him. He's watching you, his hands hovering where your hair falls against your shoulders. His eyes are searching, cautious.

"Jake," you say. "How long did you go without doing it?" You stop, not sure how to phrase it. "Without being with anyone?"

He understands. His jaw tightens, and he looks down at his hands. "It’s been a year. Since the accident." He meets your eyes again. "I couldn't. I tried to…talk to girls, once. It didn't feel right. I mean, I didn't feel right. I couldn't even hold someone's hand without feeling like I was betraying you."

You feel your breath catch. "Even when you didn't know if I'd ever remember?"

"Especially then." His voice honest. "It didn't matter if you remembered me or not. I remembered you. I knew what we had, and…I couldn't replace that. I really didn't want to."

You look at him, this man who's been carrying this weight for three years, who stayed loyal to a ghost he didn't know would ever come back. You look at his hands shaking slightly, his eyes are glassy.

"I didn't know," you say.

"How could you?"

You reach out, your hand finding his. He looks down at your fingers intertwined, and you feel the dull trembling in his grip.

"Thank you," you say, your voice almost a whisper. "For waiting. Even when you didn't have to."

He looks at you with vulnerability in his gaze. "I never really had a choice. It was always you. It's always been you."

You pull him closer, your arms wrapping around him, your face pressing into his shoulder. He holds you back, his arms tight around your waist, and you feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest.

The vegetables are still burning. You're still wrapped in his arms, your face pressed into his shoulder, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt. His hand is cradling the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through the braid he'd just finished.

He pulls back to look at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face still carrying the traces of the tears you'd both shed.

"I love you," he says.

The words are simple, unadorned. Only three words, spoken as they've been sitting on his tongue for years, waiting for the right moment to be released. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your throat is tight, your chest aching with the pressure of everything you don't know how to say.

Noticing your silence, he leans in, his lips pressing against your forehead, lingering long enough for you to feel the slight shaking in his breath.

Then your cheek. The corner of your eye. The bridge of your nose. Each kiss is slow, like he's tracing the contours of your face with his mouth, memorizing every inch. His lips brush your temple, your jaw, the base of your neck.

"You don't have to say it back," he murmurs against your skin. "I just needed you to know."

You feel the tears pricking at your eyes again, yet they're not the same as before. "You've been carrying this for a year," you manage, your voice thick. "And you still—"

"Still love you." He presses another kiss to your cheek, then your other cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "Yes. I do. And I'll keep saying it until you're tired of hearing it."

"I won't get tired."

He pulls back, his eyes searching yours.

"That’s good for me." he says softly, the smile that tugs at his lips is small and tentative. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that have escaped down your cheeks. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, and you feel the warmth of him surrounding you.

"Jake," you whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Stay with me. While I try to remember. While I figure this out." You swallow. "Don't leave again."

He doesn't hesitate once. "I won't."

His lips find yours, soft and gentle, and when he pulls back, he presses one last kiss to the tip of your nose.

You were ready to rebuild your life, with everything you’ve shared from now, with him.

📎— @kookieterry @wonderikii @rikisloverrr @icryforenhypen @hyyhwriter @nodoubtily @teddyberryy @genienha @simjakeyjake @2dolcee @heartheejake @amiiq7 @only4nrkkiii @meowieshibal @ily4hoonity @d1m-cataclysm @blaisehazey @not--christ @svtenfate @ilofflee @imtiredofthisbsstuff @megamatt43 @whoshoonie @ni-kichromeheartzz @kristynaaah @charlotee8 @idkhahaha1234 @beomxmii @enlov3vampxo

[amiiq7]

Genuinely the best thing I’ve ever read

[michellesgirlblog]

What life currently feels like:

[thinningwh0re]

finding new excuses when a friend asks to go out for food is so awkward

[amiiq7]

Jungwon Looks so mummy here omg

I LOVE FEM ENHYPEN

[simjakedly]

sunoo is so pretty i want to kiss him

[amiiq7]

STOPPPP

[amiiq7]

Selfie got sent in the Weverse dm thing I’m going crazy

[ifwgossip]

How I feel when the author describes y/n as petite, zero figure, -50 kg weight, hourglass, perky 💔💔

[amiiq7]

SOMONE HOLD ME BACK

Korea only a swim away btw

[1009exp]

i need Jake in my veins and bed

[hoonneyyz]

You haven't given up yet right?

"May the flowers remind us why the rain was necessary,"

by Xan Oku

[amiiq7]

Me and hg doing our course work together

[amiiq7]

Please recommend me some p1harmony songs ❤️❤️

[amiiq7]

STOP THIS MADNEES IM GONA GO CRAZY WATCH IT NOW OR ILL BEAT YO ASS

[tetsur0-1]

How i be reading smut wth a straight face in bed

[amiiq7]

Have yall seen the tumblr sound edits on ur tik tok fyp?? They are so funny

[amiiq7]

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