I'm Brielle or @angstraykids ! I've put my main account under "Hiatus". I have been and still am focused on my personal life and I'm going to be inactive there for quite a while! BUT this doesn't mean that I am not going to continue working on my projects! Everything has been put "on hold", archived and being edited. I won't spoil anymore!
I created this account so I can interact more efficiently with other Stayblr writers, editors, artists and etc. and share their work, while my main account will be focused on my work only!
I hope you understand! I hope you're also doing well! Please, take care!
The moment I realized you are the one was when our eyes met that one early summer morning, when we were tangled up in our bed - our foreheads were touching, our breaths were synced and our lips were curved into smiles.
Your curly hair was falling on your soft freckled face like waves landing on a beach shore. I couldn't help myself from running my fingers through it.
You were staring at me, eyes shining brightly, resembling the sun that was awaiting for us to rise from our bed. But we both knew that we won't get out of it today.
You slowly moved your hand, pushed the strands of hair away from my face then slowly, softly caressed my face.
We were talking with no words. There was no need for words when you could tell me everything with just a glance.
I never wanted this moment to end. So it never did. You and me stayed there, laying in our bed, the sunlight shining through the thin white curtains which were floating in the air, carried by the summer breeze and the sound of the beach waves making us drift back to sleep in each other's arms again.
Something new, a bit different from what I usually post. I just couldn't help but think about this image of being so close with Channie... I loved every second of writing this. It honestly made my heart flutter💓 I need my delulu pills asap!😂
Here's my INTRODUCTION where you can find my Masterlists and my most recent work!
Synopsis: When a friend of your dad set you up with his son, you hope to see the man you used to love— but it was his stepbrother who showed up instead, Felix. He is your student. Too bold. Too young. But also impossible to resist. Then Chris returns—gentle, steady, still the same man you once dreamed of. Now you're stuck between the past that once had your heart… and the boy who’s learning how to break it. (17,5k words)
Author's note: You guys been asking for a Felix fic so here ya go (also, adding a dash of Chan just because I'm in the mood for some chanlix hehehe) pls enjoy it nonetheless and tell me what you think of it ♡
You’ve been in the city for exactly seventeen days.
Seventeen days of unpacking boxes, adjusting to the new water pressure in your apartment, forgetting which cabinet holds your coffee mugs, and waking up two minutes before your alarm like your body still doesn’t trust it.
It’s not bad. It’s just… not home yet.
But today is your official first lecture at the university. You’d spent the entire weekend reviewing your materials, making sure your notes were flawless, your syllabus airtight, and your first impression unforgettable. A fresh start—you could feel it humming in your veins as you stepped into the classroom, the low buzz of anticipation like something electric.
Your heels click against the polished floor, laptop tucked under your arm. The room quiets down the second you arrive—at least, mostly.
You give your students a quick once-over. All young, bright-eyed, some still blinking sleep away. You introduce yourself, establish expectations, try to make your voice firm but warm.
And then there’s him.
He’s sitting all the way in the back, golden hair catching the late-morning sun, one knee bouncing lazily, a lollipop tucked between plush lips like this is some high school drama. His name rolls off your attendance sheet like a warning bell: Lee Felix.
You’d recognize that smirk anywhere now—he’s had it on since you walked in.
Ten minutes into your lecture and he hasn’t looked up from his phone once.
“Mr. Lee,” you say, loud enough for it to cut through the room like a blade.
Heads turn but Felix glances up with deliberate slowness, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t flinch. He just quirks an eyebrow and drawls, “Yes, Professor?”
There’s something about the way he says Professor—just enough edge, just enough mockery, just enough heat to make your grip on the whiteboard marker tighten. You take a breath. You’re not going to lose composure on your first day.
“I’m sure your phone can wait until after class,” you say coolly.
“I was just Googling a term you mentioned. Trying to keep up,” he lies so smoothly it almost sounds real.
The class snickers under their breath. You don’t let it show, but irritation prickles down your spine. It’s clear: he’s one of those. Smart enough to coast, cocky enough to test you, and pretty enough to think he can get away with it.
You’ve handled worse. But you also didn’t move cities, start fresh, and build a reputation from scratch to be toyed with by a smug, lollipop-sucking troublemaker. Your eyes lock with his for just a beat too long, and he has the audacity to wink.
You move on with the lecture, but you already know one thing for sure: Lee Felix is going to be a problem.
-
You’ve just dismissed the class when you hear it—
The lazy drag of footsteps that don’t belong to anyone in a rush to leave.
You keep your eyes on your laptop screen, fingers clicking quickly across the keys as you save your lecture notes and power down. Maybe if you act busy enough, he’ll change his mind. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
“Professor,” comes that infuriatingly smooth voice, so much softer now that it’s just the two of you in the room.
You glance up slowly, only to find Felix leaning against your desk, arms crossed, expression smug like he knows something you don’t. You hate how good he looks up close.
His lollipop is gone now, replaced with a slightly lopsided smile. “Just wanted to say, great first class. You really know how to command a room.”
You blink at him. “You didn’t seem too interested in it.”
“Oh, I was interested,” he says, and there’s a deliberate pause before he adds, “Just not in the material.”
He’s playing a game. Testing how far he can push before you push back.
You meet his gaze, cool and calm, no room for flirtation. “Mr. Lee, I’d advise you to choose your next words carefully.”
“Wouldn’t dream of saying anything inappropriate,” he says with a flash of his teeth, and that voice of his drops just a little—low, teasing, like a dare. “Unless you’re into that.”
You don’t flinch. You don’t blush. You don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting at all. Instead, you close your laptop with a soft snap, stand slowly, and lean your hands on the edge of your desk as you face him head-on.
“Listen closely, Mr. Lee,” you say, voice low but clear. “If you want to pass this course, I suggest you drop the act. I’m not here to be entertained. And I’m not here to entertain you.”
He straightens up just slightly, eyes flicking across your face, and for a second—just a second—you think you might’ve caught him off guard.
“If this continues,” you continue calmly, “I’ll have no problem removing you from this class. Permanently. Is that what you want?”
There’s a pause. You can almost see the calculation happening behind those deceptively warm eyes and then he smiles again—smaller this time. Slower. More careful.
“Not at all, Professor,” he says smoothly. “I like being in your class.”
You say nothing, and the silence stretches between you like a taut string.
Eventually, he steps back. “See you Wednesday.”
You watch him walk out the door, and only when he’s gone do you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
Trouble. He’s going to be trouble.
-
There are only a few places in the city that feel familiar yet. The walk to the faculty lounge. The tiny bakery with the quiet owner who never talks too much. And this golf course—the green stretching wide under the open sky, the scent of cut grass and the satisfying weight of a club in your hands. But mostly, it’s him.
“Still swinging like a beginner, huh?”
The teasing voice makes you glance up just in time to see the man approaching, half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and a golf glove already in place.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Please. I’m still the only reason you don’t come in last in tournaments.”
He laughs—a full, warm sound that rumbles out of him and melts some of the stress clinging to your shoulders.
Mr. Bahng, as everyone else used to call him, but to you, he’s just Chris’s dad—and practically a second father of your own.
You’ve known him since you were a little, back when he was a partner to your father at work until he got transferred to another city but he’d visit your family during business trips or holidays and always bring you a snack from the airport like you were still ten. Now, he just sends books or gift cards for takeout, but the energy’s the same. Steady. Supportive. Familiar in a way this whole new city still isn’t.
You shake hands, and he pulls you into a quick side hug like always.
“Still keeping those city boys on their toes?” he asks as you walk to the tee.
“Trying to,” you reply, giving him a mock glare. “They’re just harder to scare.”
“Bet you’ve scared at least one of them,” he says with a chuckle. “You always had that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘don’t-test-me-unless-you-want-to-lose-your-ego’ look,” he grins. “Your dad told me you used that on a boy in high school. What was his name? Lee?”
You scoff. “He tried to kiss me in a stairwell and spelled Nietzsche wrong in his essay. I stand by my choices.”
He laughs again and steps up to take his shot—too wide on the angle. You make a noise of disapproval.
“Left your wrists back again,” you point out. “Still trying to brute force it instead of—”
“Relax,” he mutters, straightening up. “You always get mouthy before you lose.”
“I never lose to you,” you say with a sharp grin, taking your place behind the tee. “And today’s not the day.”
The rest of the game flows easy, the two of you bantering between swings, correcting each other’s posture, talking about everything and nothing. This kind of familiarity is rare. Comforting. He doesn’t ask about your dating life, doesn’t push you about making friends. He just exists beside you like a tree you could lean on if you needed it.
However, by the 14th hole, he clears his throat and says, “Actually… I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
You glance over. “That sounds ominous.”
“Nothing bad,” he says quickly. “Just—seeing you out here today, all grown up and holding your own. I was thinking…”
You pause mid-step, eyeing him carefully.
“I know someone I think you’d get along with,” he continues, tone light, like he’s testing the waters. “He’s smart. Ambitious. Got a good heart. A bit overworked lately, honestly. Reminds me of you when you first started teaching.”
You raise a brow, half-amused. “Are you trying to set me up?”
He grins. “Would it be the worst idea in the world?”
You open your mouth to say something sarcastic—but pause.
He said someone I think you’d get along with. Smart. Ambitious. Overworked. And you know he has a son.
Your thoughts go straight to Chris. Chris, who used to help you carry your books after class. Chris, who told you not to cry when you didn’t get into your first-choice university. Chris, who was always kind and quiet and maybe just a little too good-looking for his own good. You haven’t seen him in years, but if he’s back now…
You clear your throat. “Is this your way of recruiting me into the family?”
He laughs. “What can I say? I’ve always wanted a daughter like you.”
It makes your chest warm. He means it. You can feel it. You pretend to think it over, but your heart’s already made the leap. “Alright,” you say, trying to sound casual. “I’ll meet him.”
He claps you on the shoulder with a proud smile. “You won’t regret it.”
You smile back, and for the rest of the game, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to see Chris again. To be looked at like that. To belong to something… someone… that’s always felt a little out of reach.
You line up your next shot, but your mind drifts—
what would Chris wear to the date? Still gentle and quiet like you remember? Would he still have that soft voice, that shy, dimpled laugh? The idea of sitting across from him again after all these years tugs a smile onto your lips before you can stop it.
You swing but the ball hooks left—wild.
Mr. Bahng laughs behind you. “You were doing so well until I mentioned a certain boy.”
You blink at him, embarrassed. “I'm not,” you weakly defend yourself.
“I know that look,” he teases, eyes twinkling. “Don’t go falling in love just yet. Save that for the date.”
-
Studying bores him. It always has. It’s not that he’s stupid—God, no. Felix could probably ace half his classes with his eyes closed if he wanted to. That’s the thing—he just doesn’t want to.
Too many hours trapped in a chair listening to the same tired voices drone on about things that don’t light anything up in him. Too many papers, too many expectations. It all feels like white noise most days.
He comes to campus for one reason: to hang out. To be with his friends. To flirt, skate through the day, maybe sneak a smoke behind the student center or sleep through the late lectures if no one notices.
That’s all it was. That’s all it ever was. Until you show up like a glitch in the pattern. A brand new lecturer with no patience for bullshit and this fire in your eyes that makes Felix sit up straighter without realizing it. You dress sharp, speak sharper, and carry yourself like you’ve got the whole world under control. You don’t laugh at his jokes. You don’t flinch when he teases you. You don’t look at him the way others do—like he’s just the golden-haired boy who always gets away with things. You look at him like you see through him.
And that? That’s interesting. For the first time in years, he’s showing up to class early. He’s staying awake. He’s listening—to you, specifically. Not because of the material. Not because he cares about grades or degrees or whatever future everyone keeps pressuring him into chasing.
He shows up because you’re there. Because you challenge him. Because you ignore him. Because you look like you should be untouchable, and somehow that just makes him want to touch even more.
He knows he’s pushing it, knows the lines you draw, the rules you hide behind. Knows you’d probably throw him out of class if he pushed too far. But he also knows one thing for certain— No one else on this campus makes his heart kick the way you do when you walk into the room like you own it. No one else makes him want to show up.
You’re the only part of his routine that’s not boring and if he’s being honest with himself, you’re the only reason he’s still coming to class at all.
-
As usual, Felix lounges on the edge of the stone steps, half-listening to whatever Jeongin’s rambling about beside him. It’s something dumb. Something about a failed group project or a girl who ghosted him after two texts. Seungmin chimes in now and then with his usual dry sarcasm, and Hyunjin’s too busy scrolling through his phone to contribute more than the occasional “damn, that sucks.”
Felix laughs at the right moments, leans back on his elbows, sunlight soaking into the leather of his jacket. It’s easy. Effortless. But he’s only half there. The other half is watching the lot. Waiting.
“You’re staring again,” Seungmin says without looking up.
Felix doesn’t bother denying it.
Jeongin follows his gaze. “The new professor?”
Felix hums. A little smile tugs at his lips. “She’s not my professor. She just… teaches the class I’m currently tolerating.”
Hyunjin snorts. “Sure. Is that what you’re doing? Tolerating her?”
Felix shrugs, but the grin spreading across his face gives him away. He thinks about that first day. You walked in like the room belonged to you, like the floor knew better than to creak under your heels. No hesitation. No nerves. Just sharp eyes and a sharper mouth, dressed in soft fabrics and clipped words.
Everyone else had gone quiet. But him? He couldn’t stop staring. You’d called him out within ten minutes and he still thinks about it.
No professor had ever done that—not like you did. Not with heat behind your gaze and ice in your tone, like you were daring him to cross a line just so you could destroy him for it. And yeah, maybe that should’ve turned him off, but it didn’t. If anything, it flipped something in his brain. Because suddenly class wasn’t boring anymore. Suddenly, showing up felt like chasing a high.
“Why don’t you just ask her out already?” Jeongin says, kicking a pebble with the toe of his shoe.
Felix scoffs. “Yeah. ‘Hey, Professor, wanna grab coffee after you finish grading my half-assed essay?’ Real smooth.”
Seungmin shrugs. “You’ve pulled off worse.”
“But she’s…” Felix trails off, frowning.
Different. That’s the word he wants. Different from anyone he’s ever wanted. Different in ways that make him want to push and pull and figure you out just to feel what it’s like to have your attention for more than five seconds at a time.
Before anyone can say anything else, a car pulls into the lot and just like that, his whole body sharpens because it’s you. Hair pinned back, sunglasses perched on your head, dark dress hugging all the right places as you step out of your car like you’re stepping onto a stage you were born to own.
He sits up straighter. Slides his phone into his pocket. Brushes a hand through his hair. This? This is the best part of his morning. Maybe his whole week.
The others go quiet as they follow his gaze.
“Go get your fix, lover boy,” Seungmin mutters, already standing. “I’m out.”
Felix grins, but doesn’t respond. He just leans back into place, he eyes the curve of your waist, the soft sway of your dress as you stride toward the building and when the time is right— When he’s sure you’re close enough to hear him—
He says it: “Morning, Professor. That dress looks real good on you today.”
You freeze for a second. Just long enough to confirm what he already knows—you heard him. But you don’t look at him. Don’t smile. Just a clipped, nearly inaudible, “Thank you, Mr. Lee,” and you keep walking like you didn’t just lose for a second there.
Felix grins. God, you make it too easy.
The way your jaw sets when you’re trying to stay professional, the way your hand tightens around your bag strap, like you’re holding yourself back. The way your spine straightens like it’s him you’re bracing against.
He laughs as you push open the door without looking back, the sound rolling low in his throat, just loud enough for you to hear it if you’re still listening. You always pretend you’re not but he knows better.
You’re already in his head—he might as well return the favor.
-
Class ends.
You dismiss everyone with your usual calm, collected tone—sharp enough to keep them in line, soft enough to keep the room respectful.
Most students pack up and shuffle out. But Felix? He lingers. Always the last to leave. Always with something to say.
You’re collecting your papers at the front, eyes skimming your notes like you’re already ten minutes ahead of the moment. But he walks right up to your desk anyway, slow and easy, with that same crooked smirk that got under your skin the first week.
“You got any plans tonight, Professor?”
You glance up, brows raised. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugs, tone casual. “Just wondering. You strike me as the type who doesn’t know how to have fun on a Friday night.”
You give him a flat look, the kind that usually ends the conversation. But this time, you surprise him.
You slide your notes into your bag, your voice calm and detached when you answer, “Actually… I have a date.”
It’s not the words—it’s how effortlessly you say them. Like it’s not meant to hit him. Like it’s not supposed to matter. But surprisingly... it does. His stomach dips, almost unnoticeable, like hitting a sudden drop in the road you didn’t see coming.
The smirk on his face falters for half a second—barely there—before he recovers. “Oh yeah?” he says, grin stretching back into place, like it’s all just a joke. “Lucky guy.”
You don’t respond to that. Just offer a tight smile, and a pointed glance toward the door. You don’t have to say it—he knows the conversation is over.
He tosses his bag over one shoulder and walks out with that same swagger, head high, like nothing’s changed, but something has.
The word date sticks in his head. Over and over. You never give him anything. Never let him in. But now… you’re going out with someone? Who?
Felix doesn’t even realize how deep in his thoughts he is until his phone buzzes in his back pocket.
Mom.
He answers without thinking. “Hey, mom.”
“Felix darling,” her voice comes through warm and familiar. “I need you to do something for me tonight.”
He exhales, already rubbing a hand over his face. “What is it?”
-
It’s just a date. You’ve been on dates before—awkward coffee meetups, polite dinners with forgettable conversation, half-hearted setups from friends who didn’t know you at all.
But this one? This one buzzes under your skin like something electric. Maybe it’s because it’s him. Chris. Or, at least, that’s who you think it is.
You’ve spent the entire week trying not to overthink it—how many years it’s been, whether he’ll remember the things you used to talk about, whether the way he smiled at you back then meant what you thought it did.
You told yourself you weren’t going to go overboard and yet, here you are, standing in front of your mirror for the third time, adjusting your necklace, smoothing the soft fabric of your dress over your hips again like it’ll make a difference.
You spent hours getting ready. Hair, makeup, choosing a shade of lipstick that wasn’t too bold but still enough to make him look twice. You hate that you care this much. You hate that your pulse quickens every time you glance at the clock, that your hands feel a little clammy, that you’ve changed your earrings twice already.
But god, the thought of seeing him again—the boy who used to lean in and whisper things only you could hear, who made you feel like you were more than just someone’s daughter or a mere friend— It makes your stomach flip.
You want him to see you and see how much you've grown. You want to impress him. You want him to want you.
You take one final look at yourself in the mirror, exhale slowly, and grab your bag. This is ridiculous. It’s just a date. One dinner. But still—
You can’t shake the feeling that this night might change something and you're right. It will. Just… not in the way you think.
-
The café is warm and quiet, tucked into a corner of the city where everything feels slow and curated. Jazz plays softly through the speakers, and the hanging lights above each table give off that soft golden glow that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.
You chose the booth by the window. Partly for the view, partly so you could look like you weren’t desperately scanning the room every time the front door opened and it's thirty-seven minutes past the appointed time.
It’s not like him to be late.
Chris—at least the Chris you used to know—was punctual. Thoughtful. Someone who would’ve shown up early and probably brought flowers and smiled that boyish, dimpled smile that made your stomach do flips.
You’re on your second latte now because the first one went cold while you kept glancing at the entrance like an idiot. This one’s mostly foam, but your hands need something to do. You pull out your compact and reapply your lipstick. Again.
God, this is ridiculous.
You keep telling yourself he’ll walk in any minute now. That he probably just got caught in traffic. That maybe he’s circling the block trying to find parking. That he’ll be here, and it’ll be worth it. That all this effort—all this nervous energy and too-tight hope—will mean something.
The bell above the door rings and you don’t look up. You’re tired of looking up. Tired of the tiny jolt of anticipation that always dissolves into another stranger, another group of friends, another barista returning from break.
You take a sip of your latte and slump slightly into your seat, letting your shoulders relax for the first time in an hour. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. Eyes on you.
You glance up, expecting… no one. Expecting just another unfamiliar face. But what you see is a black leather jacket. Tousled blond hair. And that unmistakable, shit-eating smirk.
Felix. He’s standing near the entrance, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket, head tilted just slightly like he’s amused. Like he meant to find you here.
You blink, completely thrown, stomach dropping as your brain tries to piece it together. He sees your confusion—and it only makes his grin deepen. He walks toward your table like he belongs here. Like this is a game and he’s been playing it longer than you realized.
And the worst part? He looks good. Too good. The kind of good that makes your throat dry.
You sit up straighter, every nerve ending suddenly on high alert. What the hell is he doing here?
This was supposed to be a date with Mr. Bahng's son. Chris. Not with the boy who makes a habit of testing your patience. Not with your student. Not with Felix.
You duck your head instinctively, hand lifting to shield your face like you’re invisible behind a half-full latte and a smear of lip gloss.
But it’s too late. Felix has already seen you.
You hear his boots before you see him—the confident thud of them crossing the café floor. You keep your eyes locked on the swirls in your coffee, praying he’ll just pass by, that this is some bizarre coincidence.
But of course it's not. Felix stops in front of your table. Then, without asking, without a shred of hesitation, he sits right across from you. One arm slung over the back of the booth, legs stretched comfortably, as if he’s been doing this with you every Friday night for years. And that smirk. That goddamn smirk. That smug, lazy, self-satisfied smirk that tells you this isn’t just a coincidence.
You stare at him, jaw tight, but before you can get a word out, he speaks. “Your date is here.”
You scoff. Audibly. “Felix, just because we’re off campus doesn’t mean you can do this.”
He raises his brows, all innocence. “Do what?”
You narrow your eyes. “Whatever this is. Showing up, sitting down—ruining my night.”
“I’m not ruining anything,” he says easily, resting his chin on his hand. “I am your night.”
You blink. “You’re—what?”
“I’m your date.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Nice try.”
But your heart stutters because he’s not joking. He’s not being sarcastic. He’s dead serious.
“No,” you say quickly, voice sharp. “No, you can’t be. It’s supposed to be—”
You stop yourself because you never actually said Chris’s name aloud. You just assumed because who else would it be?
Felix shrugs. Then, slowly, he pulls his phone out of his jacket and turns the screen toward you. There it is. A message thread from someone labeled Mom.
One message in particular, sitting bright and brutal on the screen: "Felix sweetie, don’t forget. Café Verona, 7PM. You’ll be meeting her there. Be nice. Your dad will be so happy if this works out."
No. No, no, no.
Your breath catches in your throat, your lips parting but no words coming out. Your brain tries to string together logic—maybe it’s a prank, maybe he hacked a phone, maybe—
But your name is there. The café’s name. The time. It’s real.
You stare at the message again, then at him, your voice cracking when you finally manage, “But—Mr. Bahng said—his son…”
Felix lets out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah. His stepson.”
He watches you with something gentler now beneath the smugness, like he knows the floor has just been pulled out from under you. “You didn’t know?” he asks casually. “He married my mom eight years ago.”
The air around you thins. You grip the edge of the table like it’ll keep you grounded.
Mr. Bahng. Your second father. Your comfort in this city.
And Felix—the boy who’s made it his mission to get under your skin—is his stepson.
You feel it all at once. The burn of humiliation. The dizzying confusion. The heavy drop in your stomach like the whole night has collapsed under its own weight.
Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “This… has to be a mistake.”
But you know it’s not.
Felix leans back in the booth, watching you unravel with maddening calm, and that smirk returns—less teasing now. More… inevitable.
“Guess you’re stuck with me tonight, Professor.”
-
Felix watches you come undone. Not all at once—no, not the dramatic kind of breaking. It’s quieter than that. Subtler. A slow unraveling behind your eyes as everything you thought you knew about this night flips upside down.
God, it’s beautiful.
Not because he wants to hurt you—he doesn’t. But because for once, you’re not composed. You’re not hiding behind that perfectly neutral expression or snapping at him with rehearsed professionalism.
Right now, you're just you—confused, flustered, vulnerable. Human. And he can’t look away.
You’re staring down at the table, lashes low, jaw clenched like you’re trying to find a way to salvage what’s left of your pride, but there’s nothing to save.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do here,” you finally say, voice low and uneven, “but this can’t happen.”
Felix raises an eyebrow, like he hasn’t heard that a dozen times before—but this time, it feels different.
“This,” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, “isn’t going to work. You’re younger than me.”
“So?”
“And you’re my student.”
“At least for the next two semesters.”
You shoot him a glare. “That’s not the point.”
He leans forward just slightly, resting his forearms on the table, eyes locked on yours. The smirk on his lips curves slow and deliberate.
“No,” he says, voice low, smooth, “the point is… those are just excuses.”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out because you know he’s right.
He watches the way your throat moves when you swallow hard, the way your fingers tighten slightly around the cup in your hand. And then, like twisting the knife with velvet hands, he says, “You forgot the most important reason why you can’t say no.”
Felix grins, cocking his head just a little. “My stepdad will be really disappointed if you walk away from this.”
The effect is immediate. He sees it hit—hard. Your spine stiffens, your face goes still. You look down like the guilt weighs too much to hold in your chest.
“It's just a date,” he says softly, not pushing, just planting the seed. “Talk to me. Laugh. Pretend I’m not ruining your life.”
“No. You’re not listening,” you say, quieter now. Firmer, but not nearly as steady as you want to be. “This isn’t going to work.”
But Felix isn’t even blinking. He just watches you—closely, carefully. You think you’re convincing him but all he sees is conflict. You’re still holding on to your rules, but not because of him. Not because of who he is or what he’s doing. No, it’s because you’re scared. Scared of being seen with him. Scared of liking him. Scared of what it would mean if you let go. And more than anything—you’re scared of disappointing his stepdad.
That part is written all over your face.
Felix leans back in the booth, tapping his fingers once against the side of his glass, as if weighing something, pretending to think. But the truth is, he already knows exactly what he’s going to say.
“Okay,” he starts, and your eyes flick to him with something cautious. “How about this.”
You say nothing, just stare at him.
“Three dates.”
“What?”
“Three,” he repeats, holding up three fingers. “We go on three real dates. No weird tension, no professor-student labels, no excuses. Just two people. That’s it.”
You narrow your eyes. “And after three?”
“If you still think this is a bad idea,” he says with a shrug, “I’ll tell my stepfather myself. I’ll say it didn’t work. That we weren’t compatible. That I blew it.”
You hesitate but he sees it. That twitch in your jaw. The soft crease between your brows. You’re not rejecting the idea—you’re fighting the part of you that already wants to say yes. It’s almost too easy.
“And you’ll actually tell him?”
Felix smirks. “Promise.”
There’s a long beat of silence. You look away first, eyes darting toward the window like the answer might be outside. But all you find is the reflection of yourself next to him—and the growing weight of something you can’t explain.
Finally, you exhale, barely above a whisper. “Fine.”
Three dates. Three is more than enough. Because Felix has already made up his mind— He’s going to change yours.
Felix hides his smile behind the rim of his glass. Got you.
-
You tell him no. Twice. But Felix is already unlocking the passenger side before you’ve finished your sentence, leaning on the door like he’s doing you a favor, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to drive you home after ambushing your date.
“You’re not walking home alone after dinner,” he says, cocky as ever. “What kind of gentleman would I be?”
You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “You’re not a gentleman.”
He grins. “I am when I want to be.”
Still, you get in because the night has already gone to hell and honestly, you don’t have the energy to argue anymore. The car smells faintly like his cologne—clean, warm, and frustratingly pleasant. You fasten your seatbelt in silence, eyes fixed on the windshield as he pulls away from the café and into the quiet of the city night.
The ride is… quiet. Thankfully. You expected teasing. More smug comments. Some joke about how “charming” he is or how you were “clearly impressed.”
But for once, Felix keeps his mouth shut and you’re grateful for it because your mind is still a mess. You can’t stop thinking about how wrong tonight felt—how you built it up in your head, how you thought you were going to see Chris, how you’d imagined every version of what he’d look like now. How your chest had fluttered just thinking about him walking through that café door.
But it wasn’t him. It was Felix. And you hate that part of you isn’t as disappointed as it should be.
You reach your building too fast and the car slows to a gentle stop in front of the entrance, headlights washing over the brick steps.
You’re already reaching for your bag when he puts the car in park. “Thanks for the lift home,” you mutter, eyes still forward.
But before you can push the door open, his voice cuts through the quiet. “Don’t forget,” he says, lazy and low. “We still have three dates left.”
You pause and lare at him over your shoulder. “Two. After tonight, it’s two.”
He just grins, tilting his head like he’s about to break some tragic news. “This doesn’t count,” he says.
You blink. “And why is that so?”
He shrugs. “It’s not a date unless we kiss at the end of the night.”
Your jaw drops slightly. “You’re joking”
“I’m just saying,” he smirks. “I’m a really good kisser. Would’ve made it count.”
And you hate it. You hate that your brain stalls for a second, that it pictures it—his mouth, his hands, the taste of something dangerous and warm and off-limits. You hate that your fingers curl a little tighter around your bag. That your heart skips, just once.
You scoff instead. “Have a great night.”
“I already did,” he simply replies with his annoying smirk.
You throw the door open and step out before he can say another word, but just before you shut it—
“Goodnight, Professor,” he says, voice warm and velvet and full of satisfaction. “Dreams of me tonight.”
You slam the door harder than necessary. Your heels click furiously up the stairs as you make your way into the building, face hot with embarrassment and something else you don’t want to name.
And you know. You just know— He’s still watching you. Smiling like he already knows how this is going to end.
-
The morning air feels too bright.
You sip your coffee in slow, careful mouthfuls, the steam curling into your face as you stare at the slice of toast you haven’t touched. Your plate’s barely warm. Your stomach? Uneasy.
You barely slept because every time you closed your eyes, you’d see his—gold-flecked, too sure of themselves, that damn smirk that still burns at the back of your brain.
“It’s not a date unless we kiss.”
You rub at your temple like you can scrub the memory out.
This was supposed to be simple. One polite dinner. One quiet, grown-up “thanks, but no thanks.” Then you’d call Mr. Bahng in the morning and tell him it didn’t work out. That Felix was… impossible. Inappropriate. Not what you’re looking for. But just as you’re mustering the resolve to make the call, your phone lights up on the kitchen table.
Mr. Bahng.
Perfect timing. You swipe to answer, exhaling softly as you press the phone to your ear. “Hello, sir—”
“Sweetheart!” he beams, and you can practically feel his smile through the line. “Ah, I was just thinking about you.”
You sit up straighter, fingers curling slightly around your mug. “Oh?”
“I just had to call. Felix told me all about last night,” he says, voice filled with delight. “He said you had a wonderful time!”
Of course he did. You say in your head as you roll your eyes. You don’t know why you’re surprised. Felix probably hung up the phone after dropping you off and painted the whole evening in stars and candlelight. Told his stepfather you laughed. That you blushed. That you kissed. Who knows what he said.
You try to correct him. “Actually—”
“He’s really taken with you,” Mr. Bahng cuts in gently. “I always thought there was something different about that boy, but it’s nice seeing him this serious about someone.”
Your lips part but no sound comes out.
“Now, I know he’s a little younger,” he continues, “and yes, one of your students—but he only has, what? Another semester? Maybe less?”
You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Just under a year.”
“Exactly!” he says. “By the time anything serious happens, it’ll be completely appropriate.”
You open your mouth again to speak—but the next words from him feel like a train hitting your chest.
“I just can’t wait to welcome you to the family one day.”
You go still. “What?”
He chuckles. “Too soon? Ah, forgive an old man. I just—”
His voice softens. “I’ve always thought of you like a daughter. And to have you officially… well. You’d make this family better. You’re the kind of woman I always hoped my son would bring home.”
You bite your lip so hard it hurts.
“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You’ve done so well. You deserve to be loved the way I know Felix will love you.”
And just like that—
Whatever words you’d planned to say are gone.
Because how can you tell this man, the one who made you feel at home in a city full of strangers, the one who’s always been kind, who beams like a father when he sees you—how can you tell him no?
You swallow thickly. “Thank you, sir.”
He hums, satisfied. “Give it time. I know it’ll work out.”
You end the call with a numb sort of silence and the second your phone hits the table, you slump into your seat, burying your face in your hands.
Three dates. That’s all you agreed to. That’s all you owe. And then you’ll walk away from this—walk away from him. Three. Just three.
-
Class ends with the usual shuffle of feet and rustling of papers. You wrap up your lecture with a clipped reminder about the upcoming assignments, your voice cool and clear, carefully measured. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded these days—structure, professionalism, the boundaries that say you are not getting swept up in this mess.
You stay at the front of the classroom, organizing your notes, half-hoping for a moment of peace before the next meeting on your calendar. But the second you lift your head, you see him.
Felix. Leaning against the doorframe, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack slung over a single shoulder, the other shoved casually into the pocket of his leather jacket. His blond hair catches the light, and that same damn smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth like he’s been waiting for this all day. He doesn’t move right away. Just looks at you like you’re the main event.
“Hey, Professor.”
You roll your eyes. “How can I help you, Mr. Lee?”
He pushes off the doorframe and strolls up to your desk, the classroom now thankfully empty except for the two of you. He gives you that annoyingly charming smile—the one that probably works on half the campus—and says, “I figured you can help decide where we’re going for our first date.”
Your eyes widen a fraction. “What are you—shh!”
You glance toward the hallway as if anyone might be listening.
He laughs, delighted. “What, scared someone’s gonna overhear the scandal?”
“This isn’t funny,” you hiss, low and stern. “As long as you’re still enrolled in my class, I have to remain professional.”
He leans in a little, eyes gleaming. “You being all proper is kind of hot, you know that?”
Your glare sharpens. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, not at all sorry. “Secretly dating your lecturer? Feels like something out of a fantasy.”
You take a step back before he gets too close, shoving your notes into your bag with a little more force than necessary.
“We are not dating,” you snap, voice clipped.
“Not yet,” he replies easily.
You scowl, push past him, and make your way toward the door. “Please don't bother me with such questions unless it’s academic related.”
But he follows, relentless. “But we still need to choose a place for the first date,” he says behind you, like it’s already set in stone.
You say nothing. Don’t look back. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Still, as you step out into the hallway, you hear him call out after you, voice playful and smug:
You told yourself you wouldn’t care. You told yourself this was just an obligation—something to get through. Three dates. That was the deal. Nothing more, nothing less.
But here you are, standing in front of your mirror again, adjusting the neckline of your dress for the third time. You want to look put together. Sophisticated. Effortless.
You want to look good—but not for him.
God forbid you look like you tried. Still… you try.
Light makeup, just enough to make your features pop. A dress that hugs you in the right places, but not too tight, not too obvious. Hair soft, perfume subtle. You want to look like you always look like this. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like this wasn’t Felix.
You’re fixing the strap of your purse when you hear the low rumble of his car pulling up outside.
You let out a sigh. You don’t even know if it’s from annoyance or nerves—or some messy tangle of both—but it crawls up your chest all the same. You refuse to be standing at the door like you were waiting for him. So you sit and wait.
When the knock comes—three knocks, bold and unhurried—you wait a little longer, just to make him sweat. He deserves that much. Then, finally, you open the door.
Felix stands there in a black button-up, sleeves rolled halfway to his forearms, silver rings glinting on his fingers. His blond hair is tousled, like he styled it with careless perfection, and he looks up at you as if he wasn’t expecting to actually be stunned. His eyes drag down the length of you slowly, drinking you in like he’s afraid to blink.And then—
He exhales sharply, eyes blown wide. “Holy shit.”
He leans one hand on the doorframe, the other over his chest like he’s been winded and slowly, he leans in close enough you can smell his cologne.
“You’re not even real,” he breathes, gaze flickering down to your legs, then back up—lingering at your lips before locking onto your eyes. “How the hell am I supposed to behave tonight?”
You fight the twitch in your lips. “Maybe start by not saying things like that.”
He whistles softly and shakes his head. “You’re dangerous.”
“And you’re annoying,” you mutter, grabbing your purse. But the way he’s looking at you—it rattles something. Makes your pulse shift in your wrist.
“Ready?” he asks, voice suddenly lower, deeper.
His tone does something to your stomach—something unwelcome.
“Y-Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat and adjusting your strap again to buy yourself a second of control.
He steps back and gestures toward the stairs. “After you, Professor.”
He opens the car door for you like a proper gentleman, and you hate the way that gesture makes your chest tighten. Once you’re seated, he rounds the car and slides in behind the wheel, flashing you a sideways glance as he starts the engine.
You glance at him. “Where are we going?”
He grins. “You’ll see.”
You cross your arms. “I don’t like surprises.”
He throws the car into drive, eyes on the road now. “Good thing I’m not trying to impress someone easy.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to hide your smirk. One date. One night. You just have to survive this without losing your mind.
Or your heart.
-
Felix slows the car as the dock comes into view, headlights cutting across the worn wooden path and rows of moored boats gently rocking against the water. He parks at the edge of the lot and throws it into neutral, then glances sideways—just in time to catch the crease forming between your brows.
Perfect.
You’ve been quiet most of the ride, arms crossed, lips pursed, trying your best to look unimpressed. But he’s seen the way your eyes flick toward him when you think he’s not looking. He knows you’re curious.
And now? Now he’s going to give you something you really weren’t expecting.
He steps out and makes his way around to your door, opening it before you can even reach for the handle. You arch a brow at him, but say nothing as you step out, heels clicking softly against the pavement.
You glance at the rows of boats ahead, a little suspicious now, a little cautious. You adjust the strap of your purse, scanning the horizon like it’ll give you answers.
Finally, you ask, “Where exactly are you taking me?”
There’s something in your voice—hesitant, unsure—and he lives for it. He likes you best when you’re like this: sharp on the outside, unraveling just beneath the surface.
He grins as he gestures toward the dock with a tilt of his head and starts walking, hands in his jacket pockets. “Well, since you’re all about professionalism and secrecy,” he says, “I figured I’d give you exactly that.”
You hesitate before following him, eyes narrowing. “What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “Means I borrowed a friend’s boat.”
You stop walking. “A boat?”
Felix turns, walking backward now as he faces you. “You didn’t want to be seen in public with me, remember?” he says, voice light, teasing. “So… I figured I’d bring you somewhere private. Quiet. Away from the curious eyes.”
You just stare at him for a second, and he can’t quite tell if you’re horrified or impressed. Probably both.
He leans against the dock rail, hands gripping the edge behind him, and lets his smirk tug slowly across his lips. “I mean—romantic sunset boat date? That has to earn me a few points.”
You shake your head, lips pressed together, visibly fighting off a reaction. “Do you even know how to ride it?”
“Most of it, yeah,” he laughs, already stepping down the planks toward where the small cabin boat is tied. “Don't worry. It floats.”
The boat rocks gently beneath his boots as Felix steadies it, reaching a hand out toward you with a grin. You stand at the edge of the dock like you’re still considering running, arms folded, skepticism practically radiating off of you—but you take his hand anyway. That’s all he needs.
“Careful,” he murmurs, guiding you on board, steadying your waist as you step down. “Wouldn’t want to lose you before the wine comes out.”
You scoff but let him help you.
The second you’re both aboard, Felix moves to untie the ropes and start the engine, navigating the small boat out onto the water with practiced ease. The city gets smaller behind you as the boat glides into the open, far enough that the buildings blur into the soft purple of dusk.
Once they’re alone with nothing but sky and water around the two or you, he heads below deck briefly and returns with a picnic basket tucked under one arm, a bottle of wine tucked under the other.
You watch him cautiously from your seat near the railing as he spreads a thick, navy picnic mat across the deck, anchoring it down with a few carefully placed cushions. He opens the basket and begins to arrange everything with the kind of care that makes you narrow your eyes like you’re waiting for the joke, but he’s serious about this.
A neat charcuterie spread: cured meats, brie, fresh figs, crackers, olives, sliced strawberries. A bottle of red. Two stemmed wine flutes he sets down gently beside the basket. Everything carefully packed. Nothing cheap. Nothing half-assed.
He’s never done this for anyone. Not like this. And when he finally sits back on his heels and looks up at you, it’s with a small, crooked smile.
“Well?” he says, extending a hand toward you again. “Gonna join me or just watch?”
Felix sees the internal war flashing across your face. But eventually, you sigh like you’re doing him a favor and slide your hand into his.
He helps you kneel down beside him on the mat, adjusting one of the pillows so you’re not sitting too close, even though he wants to. He pours the wine carefully, offering you your glass before taking his own.
And for a moment… neither of you speak.
The boat sways gently, slow and steady like a lullaby. The breeze is soft. The water reflects gold and violet, and the sun hangs low over the edge of the world, bleeding into the sea.
It’s beautiful. But Felix doesn’t look at the view. He looks at you. The way your eyes catch the light. How your features soften when you’re not frowning at him. How your fingers wrap around the glass just a little too tight like you’re trying to remind yourself you’re still in control.
You don’t notice him staring until you shift your gaze—and catch him mid-sip, lips curved around the rim of his glass, still watching you.
You blink, instantly suspicious. “What?”
He lowers the wine, leans his elbow on his knee, and smirks. “Sunset’s not even the prettiest thing on this boat.”
You roll your eyes, muttering, “Jesus Christ.”
But he sees the way your cheeks warm. You turn your face slightly like you’re annoyed, but you’re smiling now. Barely. That’s all he needs to keep going.
“You always look at your lecturer like that?” you say dryly.
He tilts his head. “Only when they show up looking like they walked out of my dreams.”
You shoot him a warning glance, but it’s too late as you sip your wine again. And again. And you stop correcting him after a while.
You sit there beside him as the light fades and the world quiets—and Felix can’t stop watching you. Because somewhere between the teasing and the lines you keep drawing between you, he knows that you’re slipping and he’s going to make sure you fall.
-
The sun is dipping below the edge of the water now, casting everything in shades of gold and blood orange, and the warm breeze dances across your skin, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make you shift self-consciously.
You don’t mean to relax but with every sip of wine, your shoulders lower just a bit more, your limbs a little softer, your glare a little slower to come.
It’s the wine. The atmosphere. Felix. And you hate that he was right.
This is beautiful.
You’re swirling the wine in your glass when he suddenly leans toward you, slips off his leather jacket, and drapes it gently over your shoulders.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, like you didn’t just freeze at the feel of him so close. “You looked cold.”
“I’m not,” you lie.
“You are,” he insists, settling the collar against your neck. “And besides, don’t act so shocked. I can be a gentleman.”
You scoff. “Since when?”
He laughs, lounging back on his side and propping himself up on one elbow. “Since now.”
The weight of the jacket feels heavier than it should. Like it’s trying to pull you toward him. And maybe it is.
You sip again, letting the silence stretch, but something’s been itching at the back of your mind since this morning—and you can’t pretend anymore.
You turn your gaze toward him. “What did you tell Mr. Bahng?”
Felix raises an eyebrow, like he’s surprised you brought it up now, like you’ve only just remembered the other half of your mess. “What?” he teases. “You didn’t like how I told him we had a magical night?”
You narrow your eyes. “Exactly that.”
He holds up a hand. “Relax. I didn’t tell him everything. Just that you enjoyed yourself.”
He pauses, lips twitching. “Which you did. Still are.”
You exhale, trying not to give in to the pull of his smile. “That’s not the point.”
He leans in slightly. “No, the point is—” he tilts his head, eyes dropping to your lips—“you still owe me a kiss.”
Your breath catches. “That again?”
“It’s part of the deal,” he shrugs, all innocence. “It doesn’t count as a real date otherwise.”
You don’t answer. Instead, you deflect—like always. “Why are you so interested in me anyway?”
He blinks, thrown for a second.
“I’m your lecturer,” you continue, words low and rushed. “You could date any girl your age. And let’s be honest, it wouldn’t be hard for you. You’re… popular and all.”
Felix pauses, and then—just like that—he gives you the most straightforward answer he’s given all night.
“Because they’re not you.”
It’s not even the words—it’s the way he says them. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact.
You glance down at your wine glass, trying to ground yourself, but nothing feels real. Not the boat rocking gently. Not the jacket over your shoulders. Not the heat slowly blooming in your chest. You feel hot and it’s not just the alcohol. You shift your gaze back to him—and he’s already watching you.
“So... should we kiss now?” he asks, voice low, smooth, almost careful.
You don’t answer. You can’t. But your eyes flick down to his mouth. Just briefly but enough for him to see it. And maybe that’s answer enough.
“We just need one,” he murmurs, inching closer. “One kiss. To make this a real date.”
There’s no avoiding him forever, right? Sooner or later, it’ll happen. Might as well be now. So you nod and close your eyes
He doesn’t dive in. Doesn’t rush. Instead, he lifts his hand and brushes a few strands of hair away from your face, tucking them gently behind your ear. His fingers linger at the side of your head, warm against your skin, and you lean into the touch without meaning to.
And then— He kisses you. Soft. Barely there. A press of lips so careful, so unexpectedly tender it makes your heart stutter. It’s nothing like you expected from someone like Felix. It feels like the first kiss you had when you were still young and naive, full of nerves and promise. It makes your chest tighten, makes your hands clutch the edge of the picnic mat for balance. But then, slowly, he deepens it. He leans in closer, tilts his head, breath brushing your cheek, and the kiss melts into something warmer—something heady and patient and intentional.
Your hands drift up without thinking, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and suddenly you’re not just kissing him—you’re wanting it. Wanting him.
You feel yourself sink, cushions soft beneath you, and before you can catch yourself, your back hits the mat with Felix hovering over you, lips still pressed to yours.
And you hate it. God, you hate that he’s right. That he is a good kisser—too good. The kind that leaves you breathless and warm all over, like oxygen suddenly doesn’t matter as long as his mouth is on yours.
You never imagined this. Not like this. Not with him. But now that you’ve had a taste… You’d rather not breathe than not kiss him again. And just when you start to chase him back with your lips, he pulls away.
Your body instinctively leans up, trying to follow—but he stops you with a quiet breath against your mouth. You frown before you can catch yourself, but quickly smooth your expression, swallowing hard.
His face hovers just above yours, close enough that you can still feel the heat of his breath. Then his eyes trail down. Slow. Lingering. His gaze drags down your neck, over your chest, down the curves of your body pressed beneath him—like he’s undressing you with just his eyes—and it shouldn’t make you feel as hot as it does.
But it does because you suddenly feel too exposed. Your skin prickles, heart slamming inside your chest, breath shallow.
Then he brings his eyes back to your face—and the stare is even worse. Too intense. Too real. He’s not smirking anymore, not entirely. Just this soft, knowing pull at the corner of his lips, like he’s watching something slowly crack open in you and loves every second of it.
You look away, cheeks burning. “Don’t stare at me like that…”
“Why not?” he says, voice lower now. “You’re beautiful to me.”
You curse him silently for saying it so easily. So genuinely. You want to say something clever, to brush it off like it didn’t hit you straight in the chest—but then his hand is on your face, fingers light against your cheek, tilting your chin gently until you’re forced to meet his eyes again.
He smiles, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “So?” he asks. “What did you think of my kiss?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Because what are you supposed to say? That it wrecked you? That you’ll never forget the feel of his mouth on yours? That you can still feel the ghost of it against your lips like he’s still kissing you?
You look away again and he chuckles. Low, smug, warm. “Come on. Tell me,” he murmurs.
Then his thumb brushes across your lower lip—soft, slow, lingering. Your breath catches.
“I’ll just give you another one,” he whispers, “so you can figure out your answer.”
And then— He kisses you again. But this time, there’s nothing tentative or slow about it. He kisses you hard. Lips crashing into yours like he’s waited years instead of weeks, like he’s finally allowed to show you what’s really been hiding under all that teasing. His tongue slides into your mouth, warm and hungry, and you respond before you can stop yourself. Your hands are in his hair, his shirt, anything you can grab onto to hold yourself together.
He shifts his weight fully over you, an elbow propped beside your head just to keep himself from crushing you—but god, you want the weight. The press of him. The heat of his body, solid and steady and burning against yours. You arch slightly, chest to chest, and he fits over you like he belongs there. The kiss grows messier, deeper. Teeth graze lips, your nails curl into his shoulders, and your breath is short and shallow between the drag of your mouths.
You can't tell when you stopped thinking. Maybe it was when his tongue slipped into your mouth. Maybe it was the way his hands started roaming—confident, warm, sure. Or maybe it was the moment you stopped pushing him away.
You’re not even sure where his jacket went—just that you’re burning now, every part of you, and the cool night air does nothing to help it.
Felix is all over you now. His mouth trails down your jaw, across your cheekbone, and to your neck. He kisses like he means it. Like he’s wanted this for a long time. And the worst part? You let him. No—you want him to.
You tilt your head without meaning to, baring your throat to him as he presses soft, open-mouthed kisses there—then bites, gentle but claiming. His hand is on your waist, then your thigh, then everywhere at once. Exploring. Possessive.
Your breath hitches as he shifts over you, one knee between your legs, pressing just enough for you to feel the heat of him through the fabric.
It’s dizzying. Too much. And at the same time... Not enough. Then his mouth finds the opening of your dress—his breath hot against your skin—and you feel his lips trail down, slow and deliberate, until he’s mouthing at the swell of your chest.
It doesn't take long until he gets impatient. You feel it in the way his hands move—rougher, needier. With a tug, the neckline of your dress gives way, falling enough to bare your breasts to the night. The air rushes over your skin, cool and sharp, but it's nothing compared to sensation of his mouth meeting your flesh. The hot of his tongue swirling around your nipple. The wet press of lips on your soft mounds. The way he focuses on you like there’s nothing else in the world.
You arch into him, your hand flying to the back of his head, anchoring him there. His tongue flicks—his lips close around your nipple—and suddenly your stomach clenches, heat coiling deep.
Your thoughts blur and you only come back to yourself when you feel his hand again—sliding lower now. Slower. Deliberate. Fingers skimming your inner thigh, teasing along the edge of where you want him most. Not touching. Not yet.
Your body reacts to his touches. Your hips shift, seeking him. Inviting him.
His mouth returns to your neck, voice low, muffled, intoxicating. “Does it feel good?”
You open your mouth, but all that comes out are breathless whimpers.
His hand moves again, and you feel the press of his palm against your sex—over the fabric, light but maddening. He draws slow, lazy circles on your clit right where you’re pulsing for more, and your body shivers beneath him.
Still, you can’t answer. Still, he doesn’t stop.
Then his lips are at your ear again, the heat of his breath skating over your skin. “I’m going to touch you now,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost don’t hear it. “Really touch you.”
Hearing that only tightens the knot inside your stomach and worse is he makes you wait—just long enough to make you tremble—before his hand slips beneath the fabric. Beneath your last barrier. You suck in a breath at the first contact of his hand on your wet cunt.
The way his fingers explore, the way he learns you—he’s not teasing anymore. He’s focused. Intent. Working you open with every glide, every press, every calculated movement like he’s mapping you with his hands.
“Still can’t answer?” he whispers against your skin.
You shake your head. Maybe in protest. Maybe in surrender. You don’t know anymore.
He chuckles softly, like he’s enjoying every second of your unraveling. “Don’t hold back,” he says. “Let me hear you,”
And then—
The tension snaps. You moan, soft at first—then louder, fuller. You can’t contain it. Not with the way he’s touching you, kissing you, covering you like you belong to him. Your head tips back and then you feel it—your whole body winding tighter and tighter until—
Everything explodes.
Silence, except for your breath and the gentle lap of the water around the boat. But somewhere in the haze of it all, your dazed eyes flick upward—and for a second, you catch the stars.
Tiny, glittering specks scattered across a black sky. The soft rock of the boat. The smell of the sea. The jacket around your shoulders. His weight, his mouth, his hands…
You hate it. Because this—this whole thing—it’s beautiful. And Felix? Felix was once again right.
-
Felix can’t believe himself. Scratch that—he can believe himself.
What he can’t believe is how easily you came apart for him. How your body arched, how your moans spilled, how your fingers curled into his shoulders like he was the only thing anchoring you to the world.
He just made you come with his hand and God… you were so beautiful like that. Unglued. Unfiltered. Yours.
You’re still beneath him when he lifts his hand, fingers glistening in the soft light. Without thinking, he slips them between his lips, tasting the evidence of how badly you wanted him—how badly you still do, no matter how much you pretend otherwise. You taste like the ocean and sin. Sweet and sharp.
Felix sighs through his teeth, the heat in his chest simmering slow now. Satisfied, but not done. Not even close.
“You’re so beautiful like that, Professor,” he murmurs aloud, almost absentmindedly.
Your body tenses instantly. It’s subtle, but he feels it. The way your legs clamp shut. The way your arms cross over your chest like you’re trying to erase what just happened. Like you’ve suddenly remembered who you are and who he is.
Shit.
You don’t even look at him when you speak. “I don’t want to do anything more than this.”
The words hit like a slap—cold and clipped—but Felix doesn’t flinch. He blinks, sits back, gives you space.
“Hey,” he says softly, “I wasn’t planning to.”
You still don’t look at him.
So he smirks. Just a little. “Besides, we still have two dates left, remember? Enough time to try a lot of things.”
That makes you glance his way—only to shoot him a glare sharp enough to kill a lesser man.
Felix just grins wider. He lives for that look on your face now. The one that says you want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time. He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. We’re taking it slow.”
Then he flops onto the mat beside you with a dramatic sigh, tucking his hands behind his head, eyes toward the sky like he didn’t just completely ruin you five minutes ago.
“I happen to like it slow,” he adds casually, “makes the payoff even better.”
Your sharp exhale beside him tells him you’re glaring again, and it makes him smile into the stars. Because the truth is he’s not sorry. Not even a little.
He knows you’re back to building your walls again, wrapping yourself in professionalism and distance and control. But it’s too late. He’s already seen what’s underneath.
And now? Now, he’s never wanted anything more than to crack you open all the way—slowly, thoroughly, sweetly.
He’s going to take his time. And you? You’re going to let him. Even if you don’t know it yet.
-
The ride back is quiet.
Not the awkward kind of silence—more like the weighty kind, heavy with everything that was said without words. Everything that happened. Everything that shouldn’t have.
Felix grips the steering wheel with one hand, the other resting on the gear shift, stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye when he can. You’re turned toward the window, face unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line.
You haven’t said a word since you pulled yourself together and climbed into the passenger seat, cheeks still flushed, your arms crossing like they’re trying to hold in all the heat he coaxed out of you.
He gets it. He knows what this is. It’s embarrassment. Guilt. Confusion. And again—he’s not sorry. Not even for a second. Not when he can still feel the shape of you in his hands. Not when his jacket is still draped over your shoulders.
He parks outside your apartment building and kills the engine. The car dips into silence again.
You reach for your bag, already halfway out the door—still trying to flee the moment—when he leans over the console slightly.
“Hey,” he says, just loud enough to make you pause. “You can keep the jacket. Looks good on you.”
Your hand immediately flies up to the collar like you only just remembered it was there. And the moment you do, you’re shrugging out of it like it’s on fire, shoving it into his lap without even looking at him, then you’re out the door. No “thank you.” No “goodnight.”
Felix doesn’t take it personally. He watches as you march up the steps, heels tapping fast against the pavement like you can’t get inside fast enough.
Just before you disappear through the building’s front door, he rolls the window down and calls out. “Goodnight, Professor! Sleep tight. Dream of me.”
You don’t stop. Don’t turn around. But he swears he sees your shoulders tense.
He waits until the door shuts behind you. Waits until he sees the faint flicker of light from your apartment window upstairs—just to be sure you're safely home.
It’s only when he’s alone again that he brings the jacket up to his face, presses it to his nose. It smells like you now. Soft, floral, faintly sweet—your perfume clinging to the fabric in a way that makes his stomach twist and settle at the same time. He smiles to himself in the dark, fingers tightening around the collar of the jacket. He’s not going to wash it. Not yet. Then he turns the engine back on, and the car hums back to life as he drives off into the night—already thinking about what he’ll do with the next date.
Because now he knows exactly how close you are to falling for him and he has every intention of pulling you the rest of the way down.
-
Felix walks through the front door of his parents’ house and is instantly hit with the scent of something warm and sweet wafting from the kitchen. Cinnamon, maybe. Apples. Something homey. It’s the kind of smell that sinks into your skin and makes you feel like a kid again.
He kicks his shoes off by the hallway, but pauses when he notices something new—several boxes stacked by the wall near the coat rack. Some labeled with marker. One of them is slightly open and reveals a pair of heavy-looking boots and what looks like a rolled-up poster tube sticking out. His brows pull together as he aware that these boxes weren’t here the last time he visited.
He brushes it off for now and heads into the dining room, where his mom already has the table set—placemats, cutlery, homemade pie resting under a net cover at the center. She greets him with that familiar warmth and tells him to sit while she finishes up the last of the side dishes.
Mr. Bahng walks in not long after, clapping Felix on the back and sliding into his seat like it’s been a long day already. “Glad you’re here, son.”
Felix grins. “Wouldn’t miss mom's cooking.”
“Smart boy,” she calls from the kitchen.
They dig in not long after she joins them—grilled chicken, sautéed greens, roasted potatoes. Comfort food at its finest. And for a while, it’s just peaceful. Familiar. Family.
But curiosity keeps tugging at Felix so he sets his fork down. “Hey, uh… what’s with the boxes by the door?”
His mom looks up at Mr. Bahng, who chuckles around a bite of chicken. “Oh, that’s Chris’s stuff,” he says, like it’s nothing. “He’s moving in for a bit.”
Felix blinks. “Wait, seriously?”
“Mmhmm,” his mom nods, reaching for her glass. “He just got a placement in the city. Starting work soon. He’ll be staying with us until he finds a place of his own.”
Felix leans back in his chair, letting the news settle.
Chris. Moving in. He hasn’t lived under the same roof with Chris in a while—not since college holidays. But the thought instantly makes him grin.
Chris is… Chris. The kind of older brother who never treated Felix like a nuisance, even back when they first met. Always patient, always willing to listen. Even when Felix was a kid who didn’t know where he belonged in the sudden shuffle of a new blended family. Despite not being related by blood, Chris feels more like a brother than anyone ever could. He’s solid. Reliable. Always there when it matters.
“Man,” Felix says with a chuckle, “that’s awesome.”
His mom smiles, clearly pleased. “I thought you’d be happy. He should be back from overseas next week.”
“I can’t wait,” Felix says. “It’s been too long.”
There’s a warm buzz in his chest now, a genuine excitement he hasn’t felt in a while. Not the same kind of heat he feels when he’s teasing you, not the thrill of chasing what he’s not supposed to have—but something steadier.
He’s missed having Chris around and maybe this whole year’s going to be more interesting than he thought.
“Thanks for lunch, Mom. I’ve got class in an hour, I should head out,” Felix calls out as he pushes back from the dining table, rubbing his stomach.
His mom waves him off from the kitchen sink. “Take some pie with you!”
“Already packed it,” he says with a grin, lifting the foil-covered plate as proof.
He heads to the front door, crouching down to shove his feet into his sneakers. But as he balances on one foot, he loses it—just slightly—and his elbow knocks one of the boxes stacked by the wall.
The lid pops open and its contents tumble out across the floor—books, folders, a pencil case, a couple old notepads with their corners bent.
From the kitchen, his mom’s voice floats out, slightly alarmed. “Everything okay out there, honey?”
“Yeah!” Felix calls back. “Just me being clumsy.”
He sighs and crouches to gather everything back inside. Most of it is harmless. Academic stuff. Some sketchpads. The kind of things that live at the bottom of someone’s closet and don’t see daylight for years. He grabs a weathered notebook and flips it shut, about to toss it back in—when something slips from between the pages.
A photo. It flutters to the ground, landing face-up on the hardwood. Felix immediately reaches for it and holds it in his hand.
There’s a boy in the photo—about nine or ten, cheeks round with youth, arms skinny. He’s grinning ear to ear, dimples sunken deep into his cheeks, the kind of smile that hasn’t yet been weighed down by the world. Chris. Definitely Chris.
But what makes Felix’s breath catch is the girl standing next to him and holding his hand. She looks about the same age. Bright eyes. That same shy-but-curious smile you sometimes wear when you’re not pretending to hate Felix. He knows that face. Knows it too well.
It’s you. There’s no mistaking it.
His chest tightens with something sharp and unfamiliar as he flips the photo over. Sure enough, there it is. Scrawled in faded pen at the bottom corner:
“Chris & Y/N – Summer 2004”
Felix stares at it. Something shifts in his gut. A dull thud against the inside of his ribs. He remembers what his stepdad said about introducing him to a “daughter of an old friend.” How proud he was. How eager he was for Felix to meet you. He didn’t think much of it at the time. Just assumed it was some business acquaintance. But now…
It clicks.
Your dads are friends. Longtime friends. You and Chris? You were childhood friends.
Felix tucks the photo back into the notebook and shoves it deep into the box. Closes the lid tighter than before. Like it might stop his thoughts from racing.
The ride to campus feels longer than usual. One hand on the wheel, one drumming against his thigh, restless. He should be brushing it off. Laughing it away like he usually does.
But something’s different now.
Instead of feeling closer to you, like he’s found another link in the invisible thread tying you to him, Felix feels like he’s trespassing. Like he’s stepping into something that was never meant to be his.
Then his thought drifts to that time he came to that café thinking he was just part of a harmless setup. A playful matchmaking attempt. But now, he wonders.
That night…
When you sat there in that dress, checking the door every few seconds, lips pressed together, nervous as hell—
You weren’t waiting for him. You were waiting for Chris. And when Felix walked in instead? Your disappointment had nothing to do with the date. It had everything to do with who showed up.
The car turns down the familiar campus road, and his grip on the wheel tightens. Felix isn’t sure what stings more—
The lie he didn’t know you were telling. Or the truth that’s starting to settle inside him.
-
Class is nearly over, but you’ve barely registered half the things coming out of your own mouth. You wrap up the last of your lecture with a few half-hearted sentences, distracted by the empty seat near the back of the lecture hall.
It’s the first time Felix's missed class since the semester started.
It shouldn’t bother you. Really, it shouldn’t. You’ve had students skip before. It happens. Life happens. But something about his absence unsettles you more than you’re willing to admit. Maybe because he’s always there. Always in your peripheral, always smirking, teasing, leaning just a little too close when he talks to you after class.
Or maybe it’s because after everything that happened on the boat, part of you expected him to show up today—maybe act smug, maybe act like nothing happened at all—but at least be here.
But he’s not and instead, you’ve spent the entire hour distracted, stumbling over your words and overcompensating by overexplaining theories that didn’t need elaboration.
You tell yourself it’s fine. Better even. That space will do you both good. That last night was nothing but a heat-of-the-moment lapse in judgment and him being gone today is a blessing. Still, as you pack up your things, you feel the smallest pang of something you don’t want to name.
With a sigh, you sling your bag over your shoulder and head toward your office. The halls are mostly empty now, the soft hum of end-of-day quiet settling over the building.
By the time you reach your door, you're already mentally sorting through the stack of ungraded papers and files you shoved into your inbox tray last week.
You’ll focus on work. That’s what you need. Something to ground you. Something predictable.
You open the door to your office and step inside, setting your bag down beside your desk. The room smells faintly of paper and coffee, and it’s quiet. Peaceful.
Finally.
You roll your sleeves up and start organizing the scattered papers across your desk—mind slowly settling, your thoughts just beginning to clear.
Until the door creaks open behind you. You're not expecting anyone, so when your office door swings open without a knock, irritation flares fast.
“Excuse me—” You spin around, ready to scold whoever it is.
But the words never make it out because it's him. It's Felix.
And before you can ask what he’s doing here, why he looks like he hasn’t slept, or what that look in his eyes means—
You barely have time to suck in a breath before his lips crash into yours.
The kiss is hot. Hasty. Desperate. It’s not soft or teasing the way it was on the boat. This one is rough—nearly frantic—like he's trying to prove something. Like he’s trying to erase something.
Your back hits the filing cabinet behind you as he leans in closer, his hand gripping your waist tight. You push at his chest just enough to part your lips from his.
“Felix—” you pant, breathless, “We can't do this here. You—”
Felix swallows your words with another kiss, even deeper than before, mouth hot and hungry against yours. And you try to resist—you should resist—but every time you try to push him away, his hands slide over your body like they already know you’re bluffing. Because they are. You are.
Every second of hesitation only makes him more relentless. Your body betrays you first, melting into his again. Then your hands, wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. And finally your mouth—kissing him back, just as desperate, just as needy.
You’re not sure when it happens, but he’s steering you backward. One slow step at a time. Until the backs of your thighs bump into the edge of your desk. Your palms find the wood behind you, bracing yourself as Felix presses into your space. His mouth doesn’t leave yours, but his hands have already started to wander—fingertips skating down your waist, tugging at the hem of your blouse like he wants it out of the way.
You break the kiss with a gasp, heart pounding, and your voice comes out weaker than it should. “Felix—someone could walk in—”
He dips his head into the crook of your neck, breath hot as it ghosts over your skin. “Then tell me to stop.”
But you don’t. You can’t. Because right now, with the way his mouth finds that sweet spot under your ear, the way his hands slide up your thighs, slow but firm—you don’t want him to.
Felix kisses you again and again and you’re still trying to catch your breath when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, eyes wild. Your heart is hammering, your back still against the edge of your desk, and everything feels too hot—too exposed.
“This is wront,” you whisper, voice trembling. “We shouldn’t be doing this here—”
But he isn’t listening. Instead, he looks at you like he can’t hear anything but the beat of your heart.
His hand slides to the front of your blouse, fingers slipping over the first button. You catch his wrist, but it’s weak—your grip is nothing more than a suggestion. He undoes one button. Then another.
“Felix—” you warn again, quieter this time.
Sunlight pours through the office window, washing over your chest as he parts the fabric, slowly, reverently, like he’s unveiling a masterpiece.
When your skin is bare to him, he sucks in a breath. His hand lifts, fingers grazing lightly over your skin—barely there, but enough to make you shiver.
“I can’t believe,” he murmurs, gaze fixed to the lines of your body, “you stand in front of a whole class looking like this underneath.”
He says it like a confession. A sin he’s desperate to keep committing. “I'll think of this heavenly body when you stand in the front of the class.”
Before you can stop him, his mouth is on your neck—warm, open kisses trailing lower, over your collarbone, down to the edge of your bra. And then he’s pushing it down. Not gently.
You gasp when the cups fall away, your breasts spilling out, exposed to the cool air and the sun pouring through the window.
“Felix—”
But his mouth is already there. Heat rushes to your face as he latches on, tongue circling one sensitive bud while his hand kneads the other, fingers rolling your nipple between them with maddening care. His teeth scrape just slightly, enough to make your knees threaten to buckle.
You bite your lip to suppress the sound that builds in your throat.
He glances up at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Shh,” he whispers against your skin, “if you’re not quiet, someone might hear.”
You clench your jaw, trying to stifle the gasp that escapes anyway when he drags his tongue across your breast again—slow, deliberate, wicked.
His other hand is relentless, teasing, squeezing, coaxing more of your body’s reactions. Every nerve feels raw, hyperaware. You're trying to stay still, to stay sane, but the feel of his mouth, his hands, the sunlight on your bare skin—it’s too much and not enough.
You brace yourself against the desk, lips pressed tight, hoping no one walks past your office door. But the only sound in the room is your own ragged breath and Felix’s low voice, murmuring things you’re too overwhelmed to process, with his mouth still on your skin like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
And God help you, you’re letting him.
Your back arches again—instinctive, helpless—as Felix's mouth works your chest and his hand roams lower, setting your nerves on fire. The motion grinds you just slightly against his thigh, creating friction that shoots lightning up your spine.
Felix pulls back just enough to look at you. His lips are red and wet, his breath warm against your cheek. “Do you want me to touch you there now?” he murmurs, voice thick, slow—like velvet dragging across skin.
But he doesn't wait for your answer.
One hand stays at your chest, gently squeezing on your breast as he leans forward, while the other glides down your side, over your hip, until he reaches the hem of your skirt. He slips under it with practiced ease.
His fingers find their way between your thighs, spreading warmth and promise as he presses his palm against your cunt through the thin barrier of your underwear. Your breath stutters as he starts to move it, slow at first, the pressure teasing—deliberate.
“Want me to make you cum again, mmh?” he asks, lips grazing your ear. “Don't you want to feel good like before?”
You can’t speak so your body does the talking, hips arching again to meet the slow drag of his hand on your dampness. The friction makes your legs tremble.
Felix smirks. You feel it against your neck. “Then tell me,” he whispers, “tell me where you want me to touch you.”
His fingers slide down again, shifting under the fabric, brushing past the heat of you. He traces between your folds, drawing a quiet gasp from your throat. You grip the edge of the desk behind you, fingers curling.
His thumb presses against your clit—bare now, exposed to his touch. He moves in gentle, maddening circles. “Here?” he teases, breathless against your cheek. “Or…”
He moves lower, two fingers dragging down, hovering just outside your entrance. “Or do you want me to touch you here instead?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Every thought in your mind has collapsed into sensation. But he knows. Of course he knows. So he sinks his fingers into you and you fall apart almost immediately.
His breath catches against your skin as he groans softly. “God,” he murmurs, “you’re even wetter than the other day.”
He starts moving—slow, deep strokes—his fingers curling just right, finding that spot inside you that makes you tremble all over again. Your jaw slackens. Your body clenches.
Felix presses kisses along your neck, then your jaw. Between strokes, his lips hover by your ear. “Does that feel good?” he breathes.
You nod, but it’s not enough. His thumb returns to your clit, working in sync with his fingers, and your legs begin to shake.
Felix pulls back just far enough to look down—watching, breath hitching as his fingers disappear into you over and over again. “You’re tightening around me,” he mutters, voice dropping into something dark and hungry. “Like you’re going to swallow my fingers whole.”
Your head tips back, but he catches your mouth in a kiss—hot, open, consuming. “God, I want to put my cock inside you,” he groans against your lips. “So. Fucking. Bad.”
The words shatter something in you. Everything—his fingers, his mouth, his voice—it’s too much. You feel yourself teetering on the edge, breath shortening, body winding up so tight it hurts.
“Going to cum, huh?” He innocently asks as if he's not making you a moaning mess as he speaks. But he knows. He always knows.
“Go on,” he whispers, right against your ear. “Let go for me.”
With a soft, broken cry muffled against his shoulder, you let go—clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you in sharp, trembling waves. You let yourself fall—no resistance, no pretense. Just heat, and light, and him.
-
As the last waves of pleasure fade, so does the haze that clouded your thoughts.
The warmth of Felix’s body still lingers against yours, his breath ghosting over your cheek, but your hands reach instinctively for your blouse. You fix the buttons in silence, one after the other, your fingers trembling as you adjust your bra back into place and smooth down your skirt.
The silence between you grows heavy.
Felix doesn’t say anything at first, but when you refuse to meet his eyes, he speaks—quietly.
“Are you okay?”
Your fingers pause mid-button. You look up at him finally, and the question tumbles out of you before you can stop it. “Why are you doing this to me?”
His lips part like he wants to speak, but nothing comes out. His brows draw together. He opens his mouth again, then closes it. Struggling. Hesitating. That alone shakes you more than anything else.
Then finally, he asks, “That night at the café... were you expecting someone else?”
Your heart drops to your stomach and he’s looking at you like he already knows the answer—but still needs to hear it. Needs to hurt himself with the confirmation.
You open your mouth, trying to come up with something to smooth it over, to spare him. “I was only there because your stepdad invited me—”
Felix shakes his head, a hollow laugh escaping him. “No. No, that’s not it.”
You look away as if it would hide you from the truth.
“You were expecting Chris.” His voice is calm. Too calm. It cuts deeper because of it.
“I found the photo,” he continues. “At my parents’ place. You and him, when you were kids. I figured it out.”
Your throat tightens. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” he says, voice rising slightly now, eyes locked on yours. “You looked crushed when you saw me walk through that door. You didn’t even try to hide it.”
You inhale sharply. “Felix, let me—”
“So what was that night then?” he asks. “The boat, the wine, the way you let me touch you... the way you kissed me back. Was that all because you felt bad for me?”
“No,” you whisper, too quickly.
“Then why?” he demands, stepping forward. “Why me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you don’t even know yourself.
His gaze flickers across your face, searching. “Is it because I’m not him?”
The question hits you like a slap because a part of it is true but at the same time, you don’t want to hurt him.
“I’m not stupid,” he says, softer now, but his voice is taut with something sharp—hurt or anger, or both. “I know he’s older. That he’s a lecturer now, too. That he’s... respectable. But you think I'm... not worthy of you?”
You shake your head, but no words come.
Felix gestures between you. “You think this—what just happened—that wasn’t real? You didn’t feel that?”
You want to say you did. But the guilt. The shame. The confusion. It’s all too loud.
He exhales, chest rising and falling as he tries to rein himself in. “I’m just as good as him,” he says bitterly. “Maybe better. I see you. I make you laugh. I make you feel.”
His voice lowers. “I’m the one who knows how to touch you right. I’m the one who made you come like that. Not him. Me. So why can’t that be enough?”
You look at him, lips parted, but nothing comes out. Nothing but silence. And he hears it loud and clear.
“Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he bends down, grabs his bag off the floor, and slings it over his shoulder without another word.
The door creaks as he opens it and when it closes behind him, the sound is deafening. And the worst part? You don't even try to stop him.
-
Felix slams the car door shut with more force than necessary. The engine's dead—again. The third time this week. He leans his forehead against the steering wheel and exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight with irritation.
Of course it won’t start. Of course the world is against him this morning.
His mom had texted him earlier, asking him to come home for breakfast. Nothing special, she said. Just family. Just something warm to start the day. But Felix is cold inside and out.
He curses under his breath, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and stomps down the street to the nearest bus stop, hands shoved deep in his leather jacket pockets. The air smells like burnt toast and traffic fumes. Everything feels grating today.
The bus comes late. And it’s crowded. He squeezes into a seat by the window and slumps into it, earbuds in but no music playing. He doesn’t feel like drowning anything out—not today.
Instead, he just watches the city blur past the glass. But it's not the city he’s really looking at as his thoughts wander and bouncing around from one thought to another.
First, to that day at the café. He remembers the exact look on your face when you saw him walk in—like someone flipped your entire world upside down. You didn’t even try to hide the disappointment. That stung. It still does.
Then the boat. The wine. The stars. The way your lips tasted like something forbidden—like something that never should’ve happened but did anyway. You let him in. Let him touch you. And he thought maybe, just maybe, you saw him. Chose him.
But then... that day in your office. Your silence. Your hesitation. That damn look in your eyes like you’d made a mistake letting him get too close. Like you regretted every second of it.
It’s still there—that pressure, that ache he’s been trying to ignore. He leans his temple against the window, the cool glass grounding him. Sort of. He doesn’t know why he’s letting this get to him so much. He’s not the type to mope or sulk.
But this? This is different. Because he likes you. He wants you. And it’s not just physical. It hasn’t been for a while.
-
The second Felix steps through the front door, he kicks it shut behind him with the heel of his boot and mutters a flat, “I’m here,” loud enough for anyone in earshot.
He doesn’t mean to sound so drained, but he doesn’t bother correcting it either. He leans down to untie his shoes, tugging at the laces like they’re personally offending him. His fingers are stiff from the morning chill and the ride over didn’t help. He’s just about to straighten up when he hears footsteps—quick, familiar ones—and then—
“Hey, little bro.”
He looks up and there he is. Chris. He’s standing just past the hallway, grinning wide like nothing’s changed. Like the last few months apart didn’t matter. Like this is how things have always been.
Chris opens his arms. “What, not gonna hug your big brother?”
Felix just blinks at him. His body stays frozen in place, shoes half-on, his backpack still hanging off one shoulder.
Chris’s grin falters slightly when the silence stretches. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, still joking but with a touch of genuine concern underneath. “What, you didn’t miss me or something?”
Felix knows he shouldn't compare. He knows Chris is everything he’s not—polished, dependable, the golden boy. But it’s not his fault that he’s everything people compare Felix to—without even trying. That the woman Felix wants... might’ve wanted him instead. It’s not Chris’s fault he’s the one you used to dream about.
Felix swallows thickly, forces his shoulders to relax, and steps forward. He walks into Chris’s open arms and pulls him in for a hug. And weirdly—weirdly—it helps.
Because Chris hugs him back strong and easy, like he always does. Like he doesn’t notice the heaviness sitting behind Felix’s ribcage. And when he claps a hand against Felix’s back, steady and warm, the tension in Felix’s chest eases—if only a little.
Maybe it’s just been a rough morning. Maybe he’s just in his own head too much. Maybe he’s projecting all of this onto Chris when he shouldn’t. Because Chris isn’t the enemy. He never was. He’s just Chris. And he's back.
-
The kitchen smells like warm butter and toasted bread, the scent of home wrapping around Felix like a familiar blanket. His mom is bustling around the counter, plating eggs and pouring orange juice like she’s hosting a royal brunch instead of a small family breakfast.
Felix takes his usual seat at the table, Chris sitting across from him with the same casual energy he always carries—like he belongs anywhere, like nothing could ever shake him.
“God, I missed this,” Chris says, mouth already full of toast as he gestures with a fork toward the spread. “You guys don’t even know how hard it is to get a real breakfast where I lived.”
“Maybe if you stopped ordering delivery at 2 A.M.,” Felix mutters.
Chris grins, unfazed. “Hey, a man’s gotta eat.”
Their mom laughs, giving Chris a playful tap on the back of the head as she sets more food on the table. “He never changes.”
Everything feels normal. The clink of silverware. The sound of Chris rambling about his last few months. His stepdad throwing in occasional dad jokes. His mom glowing with joy now that both her boys are under one roof again.
“So,” Chris starts between bites of scrambled egg, “I’ve got some good news.”
Felix raises a brow as he sips his coffee.
“I’ll be teaching at your university starting next week,” Chris announces, tone light and proud. “They needed someone in the department and my name came up. Perfect timing, right?”
Felix freezes, coffee halfway to his mouth.
Chris beams. “Guess that means I’ll be seeing you around campus a lot, little bro.”
Felix lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Can’t get rid of you, huh?”
Inside… something curls. Not quite jealousy. Not quite dread. Just something uneasy. Because suddenly, the world he’s built with you—quiet and slow and maybe still figuring itself out—feels like it’s going to get crowded.
Chris will be on campus. With you. Around you. And the two of you already have history. A history that Felix now knows runs deeper than he originally thought.
He takes another bite of toast and nods along as the conversation keeps moving, but his mind is elsewhere.
He knows Chris. Chris is kind. Charismatic. Considerate. A genuinely good man. He’s not the type to hurt people. Not the type to steal something that isn’t his. Not the type to steal someone Felix wants. Right?
Still, Felix can’t help it—he glances across the table at his older brother, who’s laughing at something their mom just said, eyes bright and warm. And for the first time that morning, Felix doesn’t taste his food. He tastes something bitter instead.
Once he's finished with his breakfast, Felix stands from the table, brushing crumbs off his jeans and slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I gotta head out early. Bus won’t wait for me.”
His mom frowns, mid-sip of her tea. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? We could’ve packed you some food—”
“I’m good,” he says quickly, offering a reassuring smile. “Really. Breakfast was great as always, mom.”
As he moves toward the door to put on his shoes, Chris rises too, stretching his arms over his head with a yawn. “You taking the bus all the way there?”
Felix nods without turning around. “Yeah. Car’s still being a dick.”
“You sure? I can drop you off,” Chris says, ever casual, ever kind.
Felix pauses, foot halfway into his sneaker. “It’s fine. You just got back, you should rest.”
Chris shrugs. “I’ve got some files I need to hand over at the admin office anyway. Might as well kill two birds with one ride.”
Felix opens his mouth then closes it. He’s out of excuses now and Chris is looking at him with that easy smile, the kind that makes people say yes without thinking twice.
“Alright,” Felix says eventually, trying to sound more grateful than tense. “Thanks.”
“No worries.” Chris grabs his keys and his messenger bag like it’s nothing. Like this is nothing.
-
The hum of the engine and Chris’s occasional humming to the radio fill the car as they cruise down familiar streets. Felix stares out the window, head propped against the glass, the ache in his chest growing with every passing second.
“You’re quiet,” Chris notes, glancing over from the driver’s seat with a half-smile. “That’s not like you. What’s going on in that pretty blond head of yours?”
Felix forces a chuckle. “Just tired.”
Chris doesn’t buy it, not entirely. “How’s school? Finals coming up?”
“Yeah. Busy.”
Chris hums, eyes back on the road, and there’s a beat of silence before he throws it casually: “You seeing anyone?”
The question hits like a sudden gust of cold air and Felix straightens slightly, forcing a nonchalant shrug. “Not really.”
Chris raises an eyebrow. “Not really?” he echoes, voice teasing. “So there is someone.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t have to,” Chris grins, nudging Felix with an elbow. “You’ve got that look—like someone’s got your stomach in knots. Mysterious, broody, lovesick Felix. Who is she?”
Felix laughs, tight and hollow. “You watch too many dramas.”
Chris lets it go—thank God. The rest of the ride plays out in easy small talk and music until they pull into the university parking lot.
“I’ll drop you off by the entrance,” Chris says, already turning toward Felix’s department building before he can object.
“It’s fine, I can walk—”
“Don’t be weird,” Chris waves him off. “I want to see where I’ll be working soon anyway.”
Felix swallows the lump in his throat. “Sure.”
As the car rolls forward, Felix leans back in his seat—until he sees movement from the left. You. Just stepping out of your car, your figure unmistakable even from a distance. Your hair catching the sunlight. The slight sway in your stride.
Felix’s heart stops. He doesn’t move. Just watches, something cold flooding into his chest as your presence fills the parking lot like a warning.
Chris is still talking beside him, something about grabbing food together soon, but Felix hears nothing except the rush in his ears.
You cut through the lot, headed right toward the building. Toward them.
Shit.
Felix debates it. Should he say something? Distract Chris?
It's too late as Chris puts the car in park and opens the door. He steps out and then, in the worst twist of fate—
“Hey!” Chris calls out, voice bright. “Is that you?”
Felix’s eyes widen as you keep walking, one, two, three steps... and then you stop. Your hand pauses mid-swing, your body freezing for a split second before you turn around.
Your expression says it all. The way your eyes widen, lips parting in silent disbelief.
Chris grins like the sun as he strides toward you. “Wow… it is you.”
Felix watches, frozen in the passenger seat, as Chris walks straight into your orbit, completely unaware of the undercurrent crackling in the air. Of the past. Of everything.
You blink at Chris, stunned. A polite smile plays at your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. And behind it—behind the professional front—you’re unraveling. Felix knows it. Because he is too.
He watches from behind the windshield, stomach tight, heart clenching as he suddenly, vividly, desperately doesn’t want to know what happens next.
Because in that moment— in the way you look at Chris… in the way Chris lights up seeing you… Felix realizes something he’s been trying not to. You were never supposed to be his.
And now… he’s no longer sure if you ever will be.
-
✨ COVET: CHAPTER TWO is available on my Patreon ✨
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!
You were barely ten minutes into the movie, Chan was laying with his laptop on his lap and you were closely snuggeled next to him with you arms wrapped around his bicep when you began losing focus. You tried your best to go back to the movie, but the soft warm skin of your shirtless boyfriend was calling for your affection and you couldn't hold yourself back anymore. You slowly began leaving soft kisses and bites on his bicep and moved up his shoulder, then his collarbone making him sigh silently.
"Baby, what are you doing?" He whined.
"Nothing." You said playfully, moving up to the column of his throat and sucked on it.
"You're such a tease, you know?" He sarcastically asked when you pulled away, but instead of answering him you just kissed his soft plump lips.
Chan moved the laptop aside and you made your way closer to him, puttling your legs on both of his sides without sitting on his lap, continuing kissing his soft skin. His hands began roaming your back going down to your booty that he playfully squeezed.
Chan put his hands on the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to himself and sitting you down on his lap while successfully entering your mouth. His warm tongue fighting for dominance as if you're not going to let him win as always. His hands moved under your silk nightdress to grab a handful of your breast with one hand and play with your lace covered clit with the other, making you breathe a bit heavier than a second ago.
"Who's the tease now?" You ask with barely opened eyes, gazing down at him.
"I think we're equal now, aren't we?!" He smiled cockily and kissed you again.
He moved his hand from your clit up to your other breast and started playing with both of your nipples and moved his mouth down to the soft spot of your neck making you moan. You on the other hand started moving your hips, making his length harden under you.
"I want you to suck me off, baby." He whispered in your ear between the small kisses he was pepering the skin of your shoulder with, sending chills down your spine.
Both now a moaning mess, couldn't hold yourselves back so you pulled away to discard your underwear.
In no time you found yourself face to face with his semi-hardened cock. You couldn't help but salivate from the view of his mad red tip. You spat a on it and licked the slit while massaging his balls, then you slowly grazed his tip with your teeth repeatedly, making Chan grunt in frustration.
"Just get to it already!" He demanded, making you chuckle.
"Someone's impatient, huh?" You licked his shaft from the bottom to the top and then took him in your mouth and started bobbing your head.
"Ugh, yes, finally! Just like that, baby, keep going!" He praised you.
You started bobbing your head fasted when Chan began buckling his hips up hitting the back of your throat and making you gag a little but then he pulled on your hair and told you to stop "I don't wanna cum yet."
"Channie..." You began saying but then you felt shy all of a sudden, because you didn't know how to ask him about the thing you wanted to try with him. You looked down making Chan frown in concern.
"What's up? What's wrong, baby? Did I hurt you?" He started questioning you.
"N-no, no, everything's fine. I-I was just wondering if I..." You stopped for a second, wondering if you should really ask him about it.
"What baby?" He asked you lifting your head up by holding your face in his hands.
"Your face...n-nose... Can-Can I kind of... sit on it?" You blushed in a fire truck shade of red, while looking down in embarrassment.
"Baby-" He tried to talk to you but then he laughed again "Baby, what kind of question is that?" He asked while bending to your height to be face to face with you. "Of course you can." He said, now calmly with a smile on his face. "I'd love you to sit on my face, my nose... wherever you like." He kissed you and slowly layed down on his back.
Suddenly Chan bursted in laughter making you laugh too.
Chan pulled you closer and helped you position yourself on top of his face. When you settled down on his face he started eating you out immediately. It felt as if you've entered heaven and you didn't want to leave any time soon. You moved your hips in sync with his tongue that was playfully moving between your folds and your clit was touching on the tip of his nose, making the bundle of nerves in your stomach tighten.
Suddenly you felt Channie's tongue circle around your entrance.
"Put it in." You moaned and he wasted no time. You started slowly bouncing on his tongue but Chan grabbed on your thighs, restricting your movement. His whole face was under your weight but it seemed like he didn't care because his tongue kept moving inside of you and his nose was pressed against your clit doubling the pleasure. The combination of both making you lose your mind and soon you came, drowning him in your juices.
You slowly lifted yourself up so Chan can take a breath, only for him to push you down on your back and make his way between your legs again.
"You're so sweet." He hummed while licking off your juices. "I can't get enough of you, baby."
You whined in response, wanting him to never stop lapping you, but also because you wanted him inside of you.
"Channie, fuck me..." You said breathlessly.
"So impatient." He growled and started sucking on your clit.
"Baby, fuck me... fill me up." You moaned.
"Gosh." Was the only thing he said before he got on his knees. He positioned himself between your legs and slid his cock between your folds to use the leftover juices as a lube before sliding it inside of you. He stayed still for a second, getting used to the feeling of your slick walls, which were clenching around him as if trying to suck him in even deeper, making him roll his eyes to the back of his head.
After what felt like forever Chan started trusting into you. At first he tried to move slower, because of your sensitivity but the combination of you asking for more and your walls clenching was slowly making him lose his mind. He couldn't hold himself back any longer so he started ramming his cock in and out at inhuman speed, trying to reach as deep as humanly possible.
"Such a whore, only thinking about her own pleasure, ain't you?" Chan slapped you thigh.
But you couldn't answer him. You were lost in the tension that kept building up in your core.
"I'm gonna fill you up to the fucking brim!" He said and a few minutes later he came inside of you, his hips buckling, making him go even deeper, hitting your spot one last time before your release was unleashed.
Chan laid next to you, cock still buried inside you. He pulled your tired body closer and kissed your lips tenderly.
ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊ send these stars 🌟✨💫 to your favorite blogs and remind them how bright they are! ெ♡
(I know you are on a hiatus brielle,but if you ever come to tumblr again just read this cause I want you to know 1. I miss you and your writing a lot,lots of people do. 2. if you’ll come back someday I will be so happy,but do whatever makes you happy.)
Luv you and your writing,no matter if you are active or not
~H
This is the cutest sh*t eveeeeer! Whoever wrote this - i love you and I hope you're doing well, sweet angel!🩷
the way people treat fanfiction these days is genuinely awful. i've been writing and reading fanfics for about ten years now (with some breaks in between) and i can confidently say that the way fandoms currently behave genuinely sucks for authors.
people rarely comment on fics anymore and it's more often than not something negative or demanding. instead of scrolling when someone doesn't like a trope, they let the author know that they hate it. instead of thanking the author when they write a request, they just demand more without even as much as a thank you. you can't even post a fanfic without someone immediately demanding more to read, without even saying what they liked about the fic in the first place.
i think a lot of people forget that fanfics are free. this isn't something you pay for, this isn't something you're fed by by companies. fanfics are passion projects written by people who like a thing just as much as you do. they're publishing this for free and even though it's not as professional as published books by any means (even though ;; this is debatable), authors still put so much work into everything they put out.
and it's frustrating ! don't ask yourself why authors delete their accounts, why they delete their fics, and start thinking about how you treat them. start commenting on fics you like. talk about it to the authors! don't only like, talk. tell them what you loved, what you think they did well. i promise a little goes a long way.
The moment I realized you are the one was when our eyes met that one early summer morning, when we were tangled up in our bed - our foreheads were touching, our breaths were synced and our lips were curved into smiles.
Your curly hair was falling on your soft freckled face like waves landing on a beach shore. I couldn't help myself from running my fingers through it.
You were staring at me, eyes shining brightly, resembling the sun that was awaiting for us to rise from our bed. But we both knew that we won't get out of it today.
You slowly moved your hand, pushed the strands of hair away from my face then slowly, softly caressed it.
We were talking with no words. There was no need for words when you could tell me everything with just a glance.
I never wanted this moment to end. So it never did. You and me stayed there, laying in our bed, the sunlight shining through the thin white curtains which were floating in the air, carried by the summer breeze and the sound of the beach waves making us drift back to sleep in each other's arms again.
Something new, a bit different from what I usually post. I just couldn't help but think about this image of being so close with Channie... I loved every second of writing this. It honestly made my heart flutter💓 I need my delulu pills asap!😂
Here's my INTRODUCTION where you can find my Masterlists and my most recent work!
this account on wattpad is copying other authors’ works word for word an posting them on there without their permission. they didn’t even change the titles so you can easily find them on tumblr.
they’ve reposted without permission works by: @gimmeurtmi , @tasteleeknow , @hwajin , @smuttystraykidsthoughts , @lalal-99 , @silentcryracha , @angstraykids
also, i’m sure i read both parts of “birthday boys” here on tumblr months ago, but unfortunately i can’t remember the author’s name. if you do, please tag them. 🙏 there’s also a couple of fics that i haven’t been able to find here on tumblr so i can’t know for sure if they’ve been stolen, which are: caught + jeongin, untested waters bang chan and minlix. however, if you do recognize them, please don’t hesitate to let the authors know and tag them.
report this account please.
this really sucks, especially because these amazing writers put a lot of time and effort in their works, and they definitely do not deserve to see their fics stolen and posted elsewhere without their permission.
