Genre: s m u t, domestic!au, kinda fluffy, blowjob + unprotected seggs
WC: 1.2K
Synopsis: Sungchan comes home after a long, tiring day at work and needs you to help him melt the stress away...
The apartment is cloaked in golden evening light when the door swings open. Keys clatter onto the side table as Sungchan steps inside, his shoulders slumped, the weight of the day etched into his posture. The familiar scent of home is a balm, but tonight, even that can’t quite shake the exhaustion from his frame.
You’re curled on the couch, half-buried in a blanket, the soft glow of your reading lamp painting halos across the room. He doesn’t say a word—just drops his bag and sinks into your arms, pressing his face into the curve of your neck. The silence between you is comfortable; you know better than to fill it with questions right away. Instead, you hold him close, your hands tracing slow, soothing circles along his back.
A few minutes pass before you tilt your head to catch his eye. “Rough day?” you murmur. He nods, but words seem out of reach. You comb your fingers through his hair, gentle and patient, waiting for him to find his voice. Eventually, he lets out a long, heavy sigh.
“Just stay with me, right here like this,” he whispers, voice muffled by your shoulder.
“I can do that,” you reply, tightening your embrace. For a while, you both just breathe—his exhale gradually softening, your presence quietly anchoring him. Then, there’s a soft press of lips against your collarbone. You feel the tension in him begin to ebb, replaced by something tender and yearning.
He shifts, pulling you down until you’re nestled beneath him. The kisses he trails along your jaw are unhurried, his hands gentle as if he’s afraid to break the fragile peace you’ve created together. You respond in kind, matching his pace, letting him set the tone—slow, grounding, intimate.
Sensing his fatigue, you guide him to sit back, cupping his face in your hands. “Let me take care of you tonight,” you say softly, your thumbs brushing away the last traces of worry from his brow. He closes his eyes as you begin to melt away the stress with every loving touch.
You move on top of him, straddling his lap. His thighs are solid underneath you, hands naturally falling on your hips. Curling your fingers into his hair, you return your mouth to his, tongue swiping over his bottom lip, faintly. He parts his lips permissively, sighing into the kiss as he follows your every move lazily.
When you pull away ever so slightly, his eyes crack open, peering at you intently, wondering what you have in mind for him. He’s relaxed, impatient, curious, but eager. A smile tugs at your lips as you push his jacket off his shoulders, lifting his shirt off along with it.
Running your palms over his chest, you bend down, finding the spot behind his ear that makes him whine quietly in protest. His hips drag against yours instinctively as heat slowly begins flaring within him.
You shift to his jaw, then down to his neck, tongue traveling over his collarbone and further over his chest. He squirms under you, the soft thud of his heart picking up just slightly. His quiet breaths become sharper as your kisses begin mapping lower on his torso.
Rising from his lap, you drop to the floor, sitting between his legs. He locks eyes with you, a glint of anticipation in his gaze, letting you sweep his pants off. You wrap your fingers around his member, not entirely hard yet, but still impressive in girth. Sungchan watches intently, arms falling to his sides, unwilling to intervene.
You start with a shy lick at his tip, then trail your tongue from the base of his cock to the top. He leans back fully against the couch, letting his eyes fall shut. Then, you take him in your mouth, sucking slowly, letting your tongue do most of the work as you gently tug on the remaining length of his cock.
He hums accordingly, blood quick to rush to his member. The firmer he grows, the wider you part your jaw, gradually taking more of him in. He’s quite the mouthful, which you don’t mind. You keep your hand working at the base of his cock, using your spit to make the friction much smoother.
“Fuck, keep doing that…faster.”
You listen to him, following the curve of his cock with your tongue. The sounds he emits spread a familiar heat between your own legs. He plants his feet firmly on the floor, resisting the urge to buck his hips upward. All he wants is to let you take care of him.
There’s a flare in your lips and jaw that compels you to pull away for a breath, but the urgency behind Sungchan’s groans spurs you on. He’s close, and you can taste it. But just before you can take him there, he stops you.
“Wait,” he breathes, “I want to be inside you.”
You can’t hide your smile. “Is that so?”
Standing up, you wipe the spit off your chin and push your pants down. Sungchan’s cock is erect against his stomach, glistening under the warm lights in the room. He takes hold of it as you resume straddling him again.
Pressing your chest flush against his, your faces inches apart, lips ghosting over one another’s, Sungchan places a hand on your hip while you take hold of his shoulders, guiding your pussy down on his cock.
You trade warm, satisfied exhales as the feeling of each other consumes both your minds. Arching your back, you let him dictate the rise and fall of your hips, moaning softly against his jaw. His hands are hot to the touch, and every inch of your skin he traces leaves tingling.
He kisses you hungrily as he drops your hips down harder, brows knit in concentration, eager for his climax. You let your fingers lace through his hair again, teeth grazing messily against his lips and tongue. “Just a little more,” he pants breathlessly, watching the way your face contorts in pleasure.
It’s a bittersweet warning. You don’t want the feeling to end, but you crave the warmth of his cum filling you up. Nuzzling your face in the crook of his neck, you nibble on his ear, pulling him closer to comfort the burning ache in your thighs.
Hearing your moans is like feeling a blanket wrap around his mind. He squeezes your hips, lurching forward as he holds you tightly in place. Your toes curl intuitively as the sensation of him releasing washes over you. It makes you feel high.
His heart drums against your breasts, breath sharp and labored against your shoulder. Both of your bodies fall limp, the adrenaline gradually dissipating from your systems until you’re left flushed and spent.
“Thank you…for that,” he whispers into the air, placing an obliged kiss to your temple. You peel yourself off of him, just enough to see his refreshed face. The sight brings a triumphant grin to your lips. “I’m glad you’re feeling better now.”
He chuckles in a relaxed whim and taps the small of your back lightly. “Only you can make me feel that way,” he confesses.
You retort playfully, “Well, I sure hope so.”
He smiles at you. It’s radiant and reaches his eyes.
“How about I return the favor…in the shower?”
You cock your head to the side, biting your lip to conceal your enthusiasm, though it slips past you.
thank you so much for the soobin fic you wrote.. i relate so completely to y/n, it hit really close to home. i just wish i had someone like soobin :( you wrote it so beautifully and it was cathartic for me to be able to visualize a reality where i’m cared for like this. i love your writing and hope to see more txt/soobin fics from you in the future <33
thank you so much! i'm so glad you enjoyed it...i was definitely needing a feel good fic and it was very fun to write :) soobin is the best haha
Genre: s m u t, friends/neighbors to lovers, sort of fluffy
WC: 4.7K
Synopsis: For you, Soobin is just a neighbor you spend nights talking about life with. Things are simple between you two; heavy and vulnerable, but never too intimate, until one night, when word of your worries strike his heart a little harder than he expects. After an unexpectedly surprising confession, you let yourself give into him completely, and realize that maybe it's time your relationship changed.
The night air was cooler than usual, the kind that bit gently at your cheeks and made the city lights feel sharper, clearer. From the rooftop, the world below looked distant and harmless—tiny cars crawling through narrow streets, people reduced to the smallest moving dots, as if none of it could really touch you up here.
You leaned back against the rough concrete ledge, a half-finished drink cradled between your fingers. The ice had already melted, the condensation dampening your palm. Overhead, the sky was hazy, a faint smear of stars struggling against the city’s glow.
Soobin sat beside you, one leg bent, one dangling over the edge, as relaxed as if this rooftop were just another couch in his apartment. The faint orange from the small, flickering rooftop light painted gentle shadows along his jaw, softening his features even more. He swirled the drink in his hand, the clink of ice against glass punctuating the silence between your words.
“Sometimes it feels like everything is some kind of sick joke,” you said suddenly, staring out at the skyline. “Like… I’m doing everything I’m supposed to, and life just keeps finding new ways to prove I don’t deserve any of it anyway.”
Soobin huffed a quiet laugh, one that wasn’t really amused. “Feels unfair?”
“That’s an understatement,” you murmured. “It feels like I’m being punished for something I don’t remember doing. Like I missed a memo somewhere.”
He didn’t respond right away, just tilted his head back, looking up at the murky sky. The breeze ruffled his hair, and for a moment, you envied how effortlessly calm he always seemed.
You took another sip of your drink, letting the alcohol burn its way down your throat, hoping it would burn away the heaviness in your chest too.
“I keep thinking,” you went on, voice softer now, “that nobody really cares about me. Not really.” You paused, then corrected yourself. “I mean, my family does. But that’s… different. It’s like they’re obligated to. They love me because they’re supposed to. It doesn’t feel like something I earned. It just… is.”
You swallowed, eyes tracing the antennae on a nearby building, the blinking red light that marked its tip.
“I miss the feeling of knowing someone cares because they want to. Because they decided I was worth it. Because they chose me. Not because blood or history or guilt said they had to.”
The words left your mouth and drifted into the air between you both, fragile and raw. You weren’t even sure what you expected him to say in response. Maybe nothing. Maybe just that familiar, quiet presence you’d grown used to on these nights.
Soobin glanced at you, his lips pressed into a small line. “I get that,” he said after a moment. “More than you think.”
You turned to look at him properly then. His gaze was steady, gentle, but serious in a way that made you feel like he wasn’t just saying it to relate.
“It’s not as hopeless as it feels,” he added. “People care about you more than you realize.”
You gave him a skeptical look. “You don’t know that.”
He smiled faintly, eyes dropping to his drink before returning to the skyline. “I think I do. It’s just… people are bad at saying it. Or showing it in the way you need. Sometimes they care in these small, stupid ways that don’t look like much until you’re really vulnerable. Until something breaks you open. Then you notice all the little things.”
You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening around your glass. “It just makes me feel ungrateful when you say it like that. Like I’m ignoring what I have and focusing on what I don’t.”
“No,” he said immediately, turning back to you. “That’s not what I mean.” His voice was soft but firm. “You’re allowed to feel like this. It doesn’t make you ungrateful. It makes you human. Wanting to be chosen, wanting to be loved, wanting to hear that you matter—that’s not selfish.”
Your shoulders loosened a little, the tension there unraveling just a bit.
“As long as you don’t let it eat you alive,” he finished quietly. “That’s the only part that worries me.”
You looked down at your hands, tracing the faint ring of moisture your drink had left on the rooftop ledge. “It’s been hard lately,” you confessed. “Harder than I want to admit.”
The city hummed below, a distant, unfocused sound. Up here, the noise inside your head was louder.
“I’ve become so painfully aware of how much I want to be loved,” you said. “Like, obsessively aware. I want someone to look at me and just… decide I’m worth the effort. I want to hear it from someone’s mouth, not just assume or hope. I want to know I matter to someone, and not in a vague, ‘everyone matters’ way. In a real way.”
You could feel his eyes on you, heavy and attentive. Before he could speak, you rushed on, cutting him off.
“And I don’t need to hear it from you,” you added quickly, a half-laugh slipping out that sounded more like a defense mechanism than actual humor. “That’s not what I’m fishing for. I don’t want it to be some empty consolation prize you hand me because I sound pathetic. I want it to mean something when I finally hear it.”
Soobin stared at you, then let out a low chuckle, the sound warm but tinged with something else. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”
You shrugged, a little embarrassed now that your own words had caught up with you.
“It is disappointing,” he said, rolling the glass between his palms. “When life doesn’t meet your expectations. When the things that are supposed to come naturally—love, comfort, being understood—feel like things you have to beg for instead.”
His voice faded off, and you noticed the way his expression shifted. His shoulders tensed slightly, his gaze dropping to his drink again. He pressed his lips together, as if weighing something in his head.
You watched him, your earlier heaviness momentarily replaced by curiosity. “What?” you asked softly. “What’s on your mind?”
He hesitated. You could practically see the thought wrestling behind his eyes. The rooftop suddenly felt smaller, the space between you both more charged.
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “I… probably shouldn’t say this,” he muttered.
You tilted your head. “You know that’s the worst possible way to start a sentence.”
He let out a breathy laugh, almost nervous this time. A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Finally, in a low voice that felt like it was meant just for you, he said, “You need to know that I have grown to care for you. Deeply.”
For a second, you were sure you’d misheard him. Your brain refused to process the words, as if they were in a language you’d never learned.
You stared at him, your mouth parting slightly. “What… are you talking about?” you asked, the words coming out faint and disbelieving.
Soobin looked almost painfully honest as he held your gaze. “We’ve been doing this for a while now,” he said. “You and me. Coming up here, talking about everything we don’t tell anyone else. Trading scars. Being vulnerable in that weird, safe way because we’re just… neighbors who happen to share a rooftop escape.”
His fingers drummed lightly against his glass. “At first, I thought I just pitied you a little,” he admitted. “Or that I sympathized with you. I liked having someone I could relate to every now and then. Someone who didn’t expect anything from me outside of these conversations.”
He swallowed, his eyes softening. “But then it started to hurt,” he continued quietly. “Every time you told me you were having a hard time, something in me twisted. Because to me, you don’t deserve any of it. Not the loneliness, not the doubt, not that feeling that no one cares about you.”
His voice trembled on the last words, almost imperceptibly.
“We’re just two strangers,” he went on. “Two people who decided this rooftop would be our way to escape the rest of the world. We started talking because it was easier to tell the truth to someone who had no influence over our lives. No shared history. No expectations.”
He paused, then gave a small, almost helpless smile.
“But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred,” he said. “Somewhere, you stopped being just a stranger I vented to. I started looking forward to seeing you up here. To hearing your voice. To knowing how your day went. And I knew what that meant.”
Your heart was hammering in your chest, thudding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.
“It meant,” he finished softly, “that you were going through something. That I was going through something. That our hurt brought us together. And I…” He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want that to be the only reason we stay together.”
The words settled over the rooftop like a warm blanket, heavy and comforting and terrifying all at once.
You didn’t know what to say. You were stunned, but beneath the shock, something in you felt achingly moved. Touched in a place you hadn’t allowed anyone to reach in a long time.
You understood, in a way, why he hadn’t said anything sooner. If he had, on some random night when you were still clinging to the idea that your lives were cleanly separated, it would have made no sense. It would have broken the unspoken rules you’d both quietly agreed to.
Still, hearing it now made your chest ache.
He seemed to notice your silence and quickly raised his hands in a small, reassuring gesture. “I’m not expecting anything from you,” he said. “I just… wanted you to know. So that the next time you feel like no one cares, you can at least remember that isn’t true.”
Your throat tightened. “Soobin…”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he added gently. “Really. This isn’t supposed to make things harder for you. I just didn’t want to keep it all in and let you sit with those thoughts alone.”
You blinked rapidly, turning your gaze away so he wouldn’t see the way your eyes were starting to sting. The city lights blurred, smearing into hazy streaks.
“Thank you,” you managed after a moment, your voice quiet but sincere. “For telling me. For… all of this.”
He smiled, small and relieved, like your gratitude was more than enough.
The two of you fell into a comfortable silence then, the kind that only people who had bared enough of themselves could share without it feeling awkward. You listened to the hum of distant traffic, the faint thump of bass from a party a few buildings over, the clink of his ice melting completely in his glass.
Time passed in unmeasured increments. Eventually, Soobin stretched his arms above his head and let out a soft sigh.
“It’s getting late,” he said, his tone apologetic but light. He set his now-empty glass aside and pushed himself to his feet. “I should probably head in before I turn into a rooftop fossil.”
You snorted quietly at that. He dusted off his jeans, then looked down at you, hesitating for a moment.
He usually ended nights like this with a soft, certain, “I’ll see you again.” It had become your unspoken promise, your assurance that this strange little bubble you’d built together wouldn’t just pop overnight.
But tonight, he hesitated.
“Will I…” He paused, catching himself, and his voice came out a little more tentative. “Will I see you again up here?”
There it was—the question slipped in where a statement used to be. It shouldn’t have made such a difference, but it did. You felt his uncertainty like a small tug on your heart.
You looked up at him and nodded, a tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you said softly. “You will.”
Relief flashed through his expression, subtle but unmistakable. He gave you a gentle smile, one that lingered even after he turned to head toward the rooftop door.
You watched his back as he disappeared down the stairs, the metal door swinging shut behind him with a soft clank. You stayed there a little longer, your drink now warm and flat, your mind replaying his confession over and over like a record caught in a groove.
Eventually, when the chill in the air seeped past your clothes and into your skin, you dragged yourself downstairs and back to your own apartment.
—
Your bedroom was dim, lit only by the faint glow from your phone screen on the nightstand. You lay on your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the shadows there morphing into shapes that didn’t hold your attention for more than a heartbeat at a time.
You were exhausted. The alcohol had left a pleasant heaviness in your limbs, your body sinking comfortably into the mattress. But your mind wouldn’t quiet.
Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice again.
You need to know that I have grown to care for you. Deeply.
It echoed, threading itself around old memories of his soft smiles, his thoughtful questions, the way he always listened like what you were saying actually mattered.
You tossed onto your side. Then your other side. You kicked your blanket off, then pulled it back over you. Your pillow felt too warm, then too cold. Your frustration built with each minute that passed, and still, sleep refused to take you.
You didn’t fully understand why you were so restless, but you knew—instinctively—that it had everything to do with him.
With a sigh, you sat up and swung your legs over the edge of the bed. You stared at the floor for a moment, then found yourself standing, your body moving before your mind caught up.
By the time you were slipping into a hoodie and shoving your keys into your pocket, you’d stopped questioning it. You just needed to see him. To make sense of this new thing between you.
The hallway outside your apartment was quiet, the hum of old fluorescent lights overhead filling the silence. You padded down the worn carpet, your steps soft but quick, your heart pounding unreasonably fast for such a short walk.
You stopped in front of his door, staring at the faded number for a few seconds. Part of you wanted to turn back, to crawl into bed and pretend this was just another passing late-night thought.
Instead, you raised your fist and knocked.
For a long moment, there was nothing.
Then you heard faint movement inside—footsteps, the shifting creak of floorboards, the soft rustle of fabric. Your pulse skipped.
The door opened.
Soobin stood there, hair slightly tousled, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants that hung comfortably from his hips. He looked tired, but not annoyed. If anything, his expression first flickered to surprise, then very quickly softened into something like concern.
He didn’t ask, What are you doing here? He didn’t demand an explanation.
Instead, the first words out of his mouth were, “Are you okay?”
The simplicity of it, the sincerity, hit you harder than you expected.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah,” you said, though your voice came out a little thin. “I just… can’t fall asleep.”
He studied you for a beat, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to read between every blink, every twitch of your mouth.
He didn’t ask why. He didn’t ask what he was supposed to do about it.
He simply stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in,” he said quietly. “It’s okay.”
You swallowed, your chest tightening again for a totally different reason this time, and stepped past him into his apartment.
He closed the door behind you with a soft click, but you both lingered there near the entryway, neither of you rushing to move further in. The air felt different in here—warmer, more intimate, carrying a subtle scent of something clean and earthy.
You’d known him as your neighbor for a while now. You’d shared so much of yourselves on that rooftop that it sometimes felt like you knew every corner of his mind. But this… this was different.
You’d never been inside his space before.
You slipped off your shoes, more out of instinct than instruction, and let your eyes roam.
Soobin’s apartment was nothing like what you had imagined, and yet somehow, it fit him perfectly. The living room was tidy but lived-in, with soft, mismatched cushions thrown over a comfortable-looking couch. A small bookshelf stood against one wall, filled not just with books, but also with small trinkets—tiny figurines, a few framed photos, a well-loved mug holding an assortment of pens.
Plants claimed the corners—tall ones reaching for the light, smaller ones perched on shelves, their leaves catching the dim glow from a warm lamp. A faint scent of vanilla and something woody hung in the air, likely from the half-burnt candle you spotted on the coffee table.
You drifted further inside, drawn by curiosity. Your fingers brushed the edges of a framed print on the wall—abstract shapes in soft blues and muted pinks. You paused at a small gallery of photos: blurry shots of city streets, close-ups of hands holding coffee cups, a candid picture of someone laughing that you didn’t recognize.
You noticed Soobin watching you quietly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants.
“You have good taste,” you said, turning to him with a small, genuine smile.
He ducked his head, a hint of color blooming along his cheeks. “I just buy whatever doesn’t make my eyes hurt,” he replied, trying to play it off. But there was a glimmer of pride there, and you caught it.
You moved slowly through the hallway, the soft soles of your socks silent against the floor. You ran your fingers along the wall as you passed, letting yourself feel the texture of the paint, the quiet intimacy of being in his space.
He followed a few steps behind, saying nothing, but you could feel his presence like a warm shadow.
When you reached the doorway of his bedroom, you hesitated.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint light spilling in from the hall and a soft glow from a lamp on his nightstand. The bed was unmade but not messy—sheets slightly rumpled, pillows pushed toward the headboard like he’d been lying there not long before you knocked.
A couple more plants sat on the windowsill, their leaves silhouetted against the curtains. The fabric filtered the city lights outside into a muted, dreamy glow.
You stepped inside and went straight toward the window, drawn as always to the view. You slipped your fingers into the curtain, parting it just enough to see the city stretching out below, familiar but new from this angle.
Through the thin reflection in the glass, you could see Soobin behind you.
He’d followed you into the room, standing a few steps away, his posture relaxed but careful, like he was trying very hard to give you space in his own bedroom.
Your eyes flicked to his reflection. He looked softer in the weak light—eyes gentle, hair falling haphazardly over his forehead. Something about the sight of him there, in his space, with you in it too, settled over you like a quiet calm.
Looking at him made you feel oddly peaceful.
You let the curtain fall back into place and turned around.
For a moment, the two of you simply looked at each other. No one said anything. The silence didn’t feel empty; it felt full, charged with everything you’d said earlier and everything you hadn’t.
You weren’t sure who moved first.
All you knew was that one second you were standing a few feet apart, and the next, the distance between you was gone.
You closed the gap slowly, bodies drawn together by something that felt inevitable. The first brush of his lips against yours was tentative, almost questioning, but there was a warmth there that made your knees go weak. His hands hovered for a second, like he was asking for permission without words.
You gave it.
You let your hands find him—his shoulders, his chest, the solid, surprising strength beneath the softness of his shirt. He shivered under your touch, his breath catching, and it sent a thrill through you that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with him.
You moved together through the dim room, slow steps bringing you closer to the edge of his bed, your mouths never fully parting for long. You could feel the thud of his heart when you pressed closer, fast and uneven against your palm.
When he sat down on the mattress and you followed, settling onto his lap, the world outside the bedroom ceased to exist. There was only the slide of his hands over your sides, the way he murmured your name like it meant something precious, the familiar smell of his skin now so close it wrapped around you.
He lifted your hoodie off your body, the faint clink of your keys hitting the floor compelling you to learn further into him. His shirt followed. Your hands roamed over his firm shoulders, his chest, his back. His skin was soft and warm, his heart hammering rapidly under his ribs.
His fingers were gentle, patient as they unclasped your bra, which joined your hoodie by the foot of his bed. He touched your breasts, caressed your back, and picked you up, placing your body under his, shifting to hover over you.
Your eyes met briefly, a gentle smile splaying on his lips. You pulled his mouth back to yours, tasting a faint sweetness that was likely his mouthwash, but also something irresistibly him. He pulled your shorts down, along with your underwear. You kicked them off, your breath hiking as his own pants followed. Nothing about his actions felt hasty. Even though you were moving fast, everything felt just right.
You let your hand wrap around his member. He wasn’t completely hard. You tugged softly. He groaned quietly, his fingers sliding between your folds tentatively. He swallowed your helpless whimpers as his tongue rolled over yours. You could feel his cock getting heavier with each second that passed, matching the aching pulse between your legs as his thumb toyed with your clit.
He pulled away from you, just for a moment, and you could see in his expression that he was ready. So were you. He settled next to you and drew you on top of him. You pressed your chest flush against his, angling your hip upward while he worked to slip his cock inside you.
You lowered yourself slowly, losing your breath as he filled your walls. His hands found your hips, holding you tighter now than he had before. He guided your movements, keeping them steady. As he brought you down, he bucked his hips up, your bodies falling into a cohesive harmony.
Eventually, leaving one hand fixed on your hip, Soobin brought the other to your jaw. Your lips, which had been travelling down to his neck and collar, were brought back to his mouth. His kisses felt more urgent now, the pace of his thrusts picking up just slightly.
Your fingers wove out of his hair and pressed against his chest. Sitting up, you sent all your weight into your hips, meeting his thrusts halfway, making them feel sharper. Though your thighs burned, you didn’t relent. The way his head fell back against the pillow and his jaw slacked motivated you to keep going just the same.
Soobin’s fingers squeezed your ass, his touch feeling desperate. Heat crawled up your face every time you slid down on his cock. Your body was ablaze. As his thrusts began faltering, you moved faster. He sat up quickly, mouth opening on your neck, anguished lips sucking on your skin.
It was like he had struck a match; the sensation ignited you. He took control of your movements again, relieving the fire in your legs, using your body selfishly. You dug your knees into the mattress, throwing your head back, letting him have at you.
With one final push, you felt his body tense up, and then he released. Your limbs were shaking with adrenaline. He relaxed within seconds, still groaning through gritted teeth, but he maintained his strong grip on you, not ready to let you slip away.
You pressed your forehead against his, panting softly, eyes shut, focused on the feeling of his cum mixing with your own wetness. The thin sheen of sweat lining your back felt icy now as you finally registered your state of undress. It felt calming, like a gentle breeze.
Soobin didn’t want you to move an inch. He wanted to stay just like this, bodies recovering in tandem.
Later, when everything had quieted down and the air in the room felt heavy and warm, you found yourself lying with your head resting on his chest.
His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear—a slow, gentle rhythm that reminded you of waves lapping at the shore. Comforting. Repetitive. Safe.
Your fingers skimmed lazily across his torso, tracing meaningless patterns along his skin. He, in turn, was doing the same to you, drawing feather-light lines along your arm, your side, wherever he could reach without disturbing the way you were perfectly draped over him.
His touch was so soft it was almost ticklish, but there was something soothing in it too, something that made your eyelids grow heavier with each passing minute.
You fought the sleep pulling at you.
You didn’t want to close your eyes, didn’t want to miss a single detail about him that you’d never been allowed to notice this closely before. Not just his words now, but him. The ordinary, quiet things that made up who he was in these unguarded moments.
The way his chest rose and fell under your cheek. The subtle, clean scent of his skin, still tinged with the faint sweetness of his body wash. The shape of his collarbone beneath your palm when you shifted slightly.
You lifted your head just enough to look at him.
His hair was a little messy, strands falling haphazardly over his forehead. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes resting gently against his cheeks every few seconds as he blinked slowly, like he was on the edge of sleep too but fighting it for the same reason you were.
When he looked at you, it was with an expression so soft it made your chest ache. He looked at you like you were something fragile and precious—a delicate vase he was terrified of dropping, but couldn’t bring himself to put down.
Your throat felt tight again, but not in the same painful way it had on the rooftop.
He reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary against your skin.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “You should sleep.”
You wanted to protest, to tell him you weren’t tired, but your jaw stretched betraying you in a slow, involuntary yawn.
He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting in quiet amusement.
“See?” he whispered. “Go to sleep.”
You rested your head back on his chest, this time letting more of your weight sink into him. His arm tightened around you, holding you secure against him in a way that made something deep inside you finally, finally relax.
“I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he added softly, his lips brushing the top of your head as he spoke. “Still holding you. I’m not going anywhere.”
The reassurance settled into you, warm and sure, filling the spaces that once felt so hopelessly empty.
For the first time in a long time, the thought of being cared for didn’t feel like some distant, unreachable fantasy.
With the steady beat of his heart in your ear and the weight of his arms around you, your eyes fluttered shut. The city outside continued on, loud and endless, but in Soobin’s bedroom, everything was quiet.
You let yourself believe him.
And this time, as sleep finally pulled you under, you didn’t fight it.
Synopsis: Y/n dreads sharing a beach house with Park Wonbin, the infuriating flirt she swears she hates. When her friends invite his group along to split costs, days of sun, sand, and petty rivalry follow. Caught between old grudges and a new, dangerous kind of chemistry, the two navigate a secret shift in their relationship over the course of one chaotic, end-of-semester trip—one that might not stay just a summer fling once they’re back in the city
The group chat was chaos.
Mina: beach house is $$$ we are actually broke
Jia: but i already bought 3 bikinis
You: return them
Jia: wow ur so anti-fun
You huffed, tossing your phone face down on your bed. End-of-semester beach trip, they said. It’ll be relaxing, they said. Somehow, the only thing you felt right now was a mix of anxiety and secondhand poverty.
Mina’s voice floated in from the desk where she was hunched over her laptop, tabs upon tabs open with photos of beach houses, price comparisons, and an ominous-looking spreadsheet.
“Okay,” she sighed, spinning her chair toward you. “If we get this place, it’s like… fifty dollars over budget per person.”
“Per person?” you deadpanned. “What are we renting, a castle?”
She swung the screen toward you; the listing showed floor-to-ceiling glass windows, a wraparound porch, a view of the ocean, and a hot tub.
“…Okay, it’s a really nice castle,” you admitted. “But still.”
Mina gnawed her bottom lip, then brightened like she’d just solved world hunger. “Actually, I might have a solution.”
You didn’t like the way she said that.
“What kind of solution?” you asked slowly.
She swiveled back to the laptop and clicked over to another tab—her messages. A chat with someone named Jihoon 🏄♂️ popped up.
“Mina,” you warned.
“So, Jihoon and his friends are planning an end-of-semester trip too,” she said, fingers flying over the keys. “They’re also broke. If we go together, we split the cost between more people. Boom, solved.”
From the floor, where Jia was lying on her stomach painting her toenails neon yellow, came a delighted gasp. “Co-ed beach trip? Say less. I’m in.”
“Of course you are,” you muttered.
Jia looked up, grinning. “What, do you hate fun and men?”
“Yes,” you replied without missing a beat. “Absolutely.”
Mina laughed. “Come on. It makes sense. We were gonna hang out with them anyway when we got back. This is just… combination hanging out. Economical hanging out.”
You frowned, trying to find solid ground under the wave of sudden change. “It’s supposed to be a girls’ trip,” you pointed out. “We planned this since, like, midterms. And now we’re just… adding a horde of loud boys into the mix?”
“They’re not a horde,” Mina protested. “There’s just five of them.”
“So a small horde,” you countered. “Also, is there even enough room? What if they’re disgusting and smelly and leave sand everywhere? What if they’re annoying? What if—”
“Oh my God,” Jia cut in, capping her nail polish. “Just say what you really mean.”
You crossed your arms. “I am.”
She and Mina exchanged the kind of look that said they’d been waiting for this.
Mina spun fully toward you, folding her arms to mirror your posture. “This isn’t about logistics,” she said. “This is about Park Wonbin.”
Your stomach dropped. “No, it’s not,” you lied immediately.
Jia laughed. “You just said boys like it was a slur.”
“That’s because he is included in ‘boys,’ and he’s basically a walking red flag,” you shot back. “Why would I willingly sign up to share a roof with Wonbin?”
Mina groaned. “You two don’t, like, actually hate each other.”
“Yes, we do,” you said at the same time Jia chimed in, “They definitely do.”
You pointed at Jia. “Thank you.”
“Babe,” Mina said, exasperated, “the most intense thing that’s ever happened between you two is him calling you ‘princess’ and you almost throwing your coffee at him.”
“First of all, I am the victim in that story,” you argued. “Second, he’s—he’s overconfident and annoying and flirts with anything that breathes. Including you two!” You gestured at them. “Why are you so excited to spend days trapped in a house with someone whose entire personality is being a menace?”
“Because he’s hot,” Jia replied instantly.
Mina snorted. “Okay but also he’s funny. And he’s Jihoon’s best friend, which means he’s vetted.”
“Vetted for what?” you said. “Being chaos incarnate?”
Mina sighed, softening her tone. “Look. Whatever this… thing is between you two, it doesn’t have an actual basis. You never could give me one concrete example.”
“He exists,” you said flatly. “Is that not enough?”
Jia threw a pillow at you. “You’re so dramatic. It’s not that serious. You talk about him like you’re writing an essay about idiots.’”
Heat crawled up your neck. “I do not.”
“You do,” Mina and Jia chorused.
Mina rolled closer and bumped your knee with her chair. “Be honest. He gets under your skin and you kind of… like having someone to spar with.”
You scoffed. “I like winning. Which I do. Often.”
Jia raised a brow. “You two are like… fifty-fifty at this point.”
The fact that she wasn’t entirely wrong pissed you off more.
Mina’s expression turned pleading. “It’s just a few days. You don’t even have to talk to him. You can pretend he doesn’t exist and enjoy the beach and the hot tub and not being broke.”
Your jaw tightened. A part of you wanted to dig your heels in, to prove them wrong about… whatever dumb theory they had about you and Wonbin. Another part of you imagined saying no and then listening to them complain about money for the next week.
You exhaled. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Mina repeated, eyes widening.
“As long as they say yes,” you clarified. “And as long as he doesn’t pull any of his usual crap. If he pisses me off, I’m dealing with him privately.”
Jia wiggled her brows. “Privately?”
“Not like that,” you snapped.
Mina’s grin was instant, blinding. “You won’t regret this.”
You already did.
~
They said yes.
Of course they did.
The beach house looked even better in person. The front porch wrapped almost all the way around, the salty air was thick and warm, and you could hear the ocean before you could see it—waves crashing in a soothing, relentless rhythm.
Your group’s car pulled in first. You stretched your cramped legs, shouldered your tote, and took a deep breath of sea air.
“Smell that?” Jia sighed happily, shading her eyes. “That’s the scent of freedom and bad decisions.”
“Smells like SPF fifty and sand in unfortunate places,” you muttered, but your lips twitched anyway.
You had just wrestled your suitcase out of the trunk when another car pulled into the driveway. Bass thumped faintly from within. Of course.
“Boys are here,” Mina sing-songed.
The car doors opened in succession. Jihoon, all sun-tousled hair and easy smile, waved as he stepped out. A couple of the other guys you vaguely recognized from campus spilled out after him.
Then he appeared.
Park Wonbin hopped out of the backseat like this was a commercial for summer, stretching with a groan that lifted his already-too-short T-shirt to flash a strip of tan skin. His hair was pushed back by a pair of sunglasses perched on his head. He slung a duffel over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
The worst part was that Jia was right. He was stupidly attractive.
You schooled your face into neutral.
His gaze swept across the driveway, landing on you like it’d been looking for you in particular. His mouth curled.
“Aw,” he drawled, striding closer. “They let you come?”
You inhaled through your nose. “Unfortunately, no one enforced a minimum IQ requirement, so here you are.”
Behind you, Mina cleared her throat sharply.
Jihoon clapped a hand on Wonbin’s shoulder. “Play nice,” he murmured.
Mina slipped her arm through yours, voice low. “Remember what we talked about. Group morale. No banter.”
You bit back three separate comebacks. “He started it,” you said under your breath.
“Don’t care,” she whispered back. “If you murder him on day one, Jihoon’s going to be sad and I’ll be single forever.”
Wonbin’s brows rose as if he’d heard that last part. “I promise I won’t die,” he said easily. “Princess here doesn’t have it in her.”
Your eye twitched.
“Suitcases,” Mina said brightly, louder now. “Let’s get everything inside.”
You dragged yours up the steps, muttering, “If I push him down these stairs by accident, that’s not murder. That’s gravity.”
“Y/n,” Mina hissed.
“Fine,” you grumbled.
Inside, the house was cool and spacious, all wooden beams and big windows. You staked out a bedroom with Mina, unpacked just enough to feel like you weren’t living out of your bag, and changed into your bikini and an oversized T-shirt.
The others congregated in the living room, voices overlapping as everyone talked at once.
“Beach first?” Jihoon suggested.
“Beach first,” the group agreed.
You grabbed your book from your bag—a slightly battered paperback you’d been slowly savoring all semester—and tucked it protectively under your arm as you headed out.
The sand was hot under your feet, the early afternoon sun blazing overhead. Everyone scattered: some ran straight for the water with whoops and shouts, others started setting up towels and umbrellas.
You spread your towel a little distance from the chaos and lay down on your stomach, book propped in front of you. The familiar weight of it in your hands calmed you.
The noise of a volleyball game picking up further down the beach faded into background static as you lost yourself in the words.
You were just getting to a particularly devastating line when a shadow fell across the page.
“You know no one actually reads at the beach, right?” a voice said.
You didn’t even look up. “And yet, here I am, disproving your thesis.”
A low chuckle.
“Come on,” Wonbin said, dropping down in the sand near your towel without invitation. “You bring a book to the beach so everyone thinks you’re mysterious and deep while you stare off into the distance dramatically. You’re doing this all wrong.”
You turned a page deliberately. “Not everything is performative.”
“Says the girl who brought the thickest book she owns and placed it cover-up,” he pointed out.
Your eyes flicked to him, annoyed. “Maybe I like the cover.”
He tilted his head, studying you. There was something softer in his gaze that made your chest feel uncomfortably tight, so you looked away.
“So,” he continued, undeterred, “what are you reading that’s more interesting than inescapable fun with me?”
“You seriously want me to list all the things more interesting than you?” you asked. “We’d be here all day.”
He grinned. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”
You blinked. “Jealous… of what?”
He sprawled back on his elbows, sunglasses sliding down onto his nose. “Of how much everyone else likes me.”
A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. You quickly turned it into a scoff. “Please. They’re just gullible. You turn on the charm and they forget you’re a bitch.”
“Or,” he said, voice taking on a teasing lilt, “they think you’re being a little extra about hating me for no real reason.”
A flare of heat licked at your cheeks. You sat up, closing your book. “I have reasons.”
“Name one that doesn’t sound made up,” he challenged.
You opened your mouth.
Silence.
He smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
Before you could respond, Mina’s voice called your name. You turned to see her and Jihoon waving frantically from the volleyball net.
“Swap out with us!” Jihoon shouted. “We need fresh legs!”
You shot Mina a look that said traitor. She mouthed please and made a heart with her hands.
“I’m reading,” you protested weakly.
“Come on,” Wonbin goaded, already getting to his feet. “What, afraid to lose to me again?”
“That implies I’ve ever lost to you,” you said, standing and brushing sand off your legs.
He walked backward toward the net, grinning. “There’s a first time for everything, princess.”
“Stop calling me that,” you snapped, following.
Mina and Jihoon jogged off the court, exchanging a relieved look.
“It’s like distracting two kids with a toy,” Mina muttered to Jihoon as they passed.
You pretended not to hear.
~
The game dragged on for longer than you expected. You forgot, briefly, that you were supposed to be avoiding Wonbin, caught up instead in the rhythm of serve, bump, set, spike. Sweat beaded on your skin, salt sticking to everything.
Wonbin, infuriatingly, was good. His serves were powerful, his reflexes quick. Every time he scored a point, he shot you a cocky grin across the net.
By the time someone finally declared a winning team, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, the light softening.
Of course, his team won.
“Losers,” Jihoon crowed, “go wet yourselves and get sand-bombed. We agreed.”
“Who agreed?” you demanded. “I didn’t agree.”
“You didn’t say no,” Mina sing-songed.
“This is peer pressure,” you muttered as you trudged toward the water, the other “losers” following.
The ocean was cool against your overheated skin. A few of your teammates dunked themselves fully, shrieking at the temperature.
You waded in up to your thighs, glaring murderously at the boys on shore gathering handfuls of sand.
“Don’t you dare,” you warned as you came back up the beach.
Wonbin, holding what looked like an actual bucket of sand, smiled sweetly. “Punishment builds character.”
Before you could escape, he upended the bucket over your head.
Sand rained down your hair, your back, into your bikini, everywhere.
You sputtered, blinking grit out of your lashes. “I hate you,” you informed him.
He laughed so hard he doubled over. “You look like a croquette.”
The others howled with laughter. Even you couldn’t help a disbelieving, half-strangled laugh once you realized how ridiculous you must look.
“You’re dead,” you said, wiping your face. “You know that, right?”
He only winked. “Worth it.”
~
By the time everyone trudged back to the house, the sky had turned pink and gold. You showered quickly, washing what felt like a pound of sand from your hair, then slipped into comfy shorts and a loose top.
The house’s porch was shaded, a faint breeze cutting through the warm air. You curled up on a chair outside, hair still damp, your beloved book in hand again.
The sliding door opened with a soft thud. You didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
“You know, if you sit in silence too long, you might start having thoughts,” Wonbin said, stepping out.
“I already have thoughts,” you replied dryly, eyes on the page. “That’s the problem.”
He leaned against the porch railing, looking out at the glimpse of ocean beyond the dunes. For a moment, he was quiet.
Then, “Jihoon says I’m not allowed to ‘provoke’ you.” He even did the air quotes.
You snorted. “Mina said the same. Something about ‘keeping group morale up.’”
“Apparently we’re exhausting,” he said.
“You are exhausting,” you corrected.
He glanced over, lips twitching. “See? That. Provocation.”
You closed the book with a finger marking your place and finally met his eyes. “You always have some criticism ready. It’s like a reflex. Maybe we just… don’t have compatible personalities. And that’s fine. I’m planning to pretend you don’t exist for the rest of the trip.”
You’d meant it to sound flippant, but the words came out firmer than you expected.
For a flicker of a second, something like disappointment crossed his face. It was gone almost immediately, replaced by his usual lazy amusement.
“Bold of you to assume you can ignore me,” he said lightly. “You’ll get bored and come running back for an argument. You’ll miss me.”
“In your dreams,” you shot back.
He pushed off the railing. “I have very interesting dreams,” he said casually, then slid the door open and disappeared inside.
You stared at the closed door long after he was gone.
Did you seek him out? You thought back—every party, every mutual hangout, every casual gathering. How often did you end up near him? How often did you launch the first barb?
You pressed your thumb harder into your book, annoyed at yourself.
It wasn’t that you liked the arguments. You liked… getting the last word. Putting him in his place. Right?
You reopened your book, determined not to think about it.
~
Dinner was loud and messy. Someone burned the garlic bread, but everyone ate it anyway. Afterward, you all migrated to the living room with drinks and snacks.
Games started: card games, drinking games, dares. Wonbin drifted in and out of your orbit, sometimes sitting across from you, sometimes ending up right beside you on the couch.
Every time your knees brushed, you pretended not to notice.
“Truth or drink,” Jihoon declared at one point, slamming a bottle down on the coffee table.
It devolved quickly.
“Who here would you hook up with?”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve done drunk?”
“How many people have you kissed?”
You answered your share, deflected a few with sips, rolled your eyes a lot. Wonbin answered everything with almost infuriating ease, laughing his way through.
At one point, someone asked him, “Have you ever fallen for someone who hates your guts?”
The room ooohed.
He looked right at you when he answered.
“Not yet,” he said smoothly, taking a sip.
Your throat went dry. You looked away first.
Later, some of the group migrated out to the hot tub. You stayed inside, perched on the arm of an armchair, ostensibly scrolling on your phone but really just… watching.
You hated how often your gaze found him.
He was laughing at something Jihoon said, head thrown back, lips parted, eyes crinkling. He moved so easily, as if his body was made to occupy space like that. There was something magnetic about it, which you resented on principle.
He glanced over suddenly, catching your eye. You snapped your gaze back to your phone.
Smooth.
~
It was late by the time you finally peeled yourself away from the group and headed toward the hallway where the bedrooms were.
You were half-asleep on your feet when a shadow appeared at the end of the corridor.
You almost ran into him.
“Jesus—” you started, stopping short.
Wonbin leaned a shoulder against the wall, blocking your path just enough that you had to either brush past him or step back.
“I noticed you staring,” he said, tone lazy.
Your stomach plummeted. “What?”
“Earlier,” he clarified. “On the couch. By the hot tub door. You kept looking at me.”
You scrambled for logic and came up empty-handed. “I was… looking at everyone.”
He smiled, slow and knowing, like he could see right through you. “Sure.”
You grasped at indignation like a lifeline. “Not everything is about you,” you snapped.
He hummed, amused. “It kind of looked like it was.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. You genuinely didn’t have a solid reason, and that unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.
“It’s not what you think,” you managed finally.
“What do I think?” he asked softly.
You scowled. “That I want your attention or something.”
He shrugged, finally straightening up to give you space. “If the shoe fits.”
You shoved past him, heat prickling under your skin. “Go to bed, Wonbin.”
“Goodnight, princess,” he called after you.
You slammed your bedroom door harder than necessary.
Mina, already in bed, looked up from her phone. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” you said, too quickly.
You lay down, staring at the ceiling.
Ignoring him was going to be harder than you thought.
~
The next day dawned bright and hot. You tried to blame the heat for how restless you felt.
Out on the sand again, you staked out your towel right next to Mina and Jia, determined to focus on the water, the sky, literally anything else.
Wonbin jogged by on his way to join another impromptu volleyball match, pausing for just a second.
His gaze skimmed over you from head to toe, lingering for a heartbeat longer than it should have.
“I like your swimsuit,” he said easily. “It’s my favorite color.”
The compliment landed like a pebble in a still pool, sending rings of awareness through you.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
He clucked his tongue. “Even when I’m being nice, you act like I’m about to bite you.”
“Force of habit,” you said coolly, reaching for your sunscreen. “You trained me well.”
He shook his head, smiling as he ran off. “Suit yourself.”
You watched him go, jaw tight.
“Y/n,” Jia said, sunglasses perched atop her head as she turned toward you. “He was being nice.”
“Exactly,” you said. “Which is suspicious.”
She laughed, flopping back down. “You exhaust me.”
You rolled your eyes and eventually wandered into the shallows with your friends. The waves lapped at your calves, the water sparkling around you. Further up the sand, the boys were mid-game again.
You tried to tune them out… and failed.
You found yourself watching Wonbin, tracking the way he moved, the easy power behind his spikes.
“Stop staring,” Mina murmured.
“I’m not,” you lied.
She gave you a look. You focused very intently on the water.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Wonbin go for a particularly ambitious hit. The ball flew up, catching the wind.
Too much power, wrong angle.
You followed its trajectory with growing dread.
“Oh no,” you breathed.
The ball arced perfectly toward the cluster of umbrellas where your towels and bags were spread out. And right in the middle of it all, lying face-up on your towel like a vulnerable sacrifice, was your book.
“No, no, no—” you splashed forward, but the ball had already landed, crashing into your things and sending sand spraying.
From the dunes, you saw Wonbin sprinting after it, feet pounding, sand flying. He skidded to a stop right on your towel.
Right on your book.
You watched in horror as his wet, sand-covered foot came down squarely on the paperback.
He froze, looking down.
You saw the exact second realization dawned on his face.
Mina grabbed your arm. “Don’t fight,” she said nervously. “It was an accident.”
But you were already pulling away, storming up the sand.
Your heart pounded, rage lighting up your nerves. You barely heard your friends calling after you.
Wonbin bent down and gingerly picked up the book, wincing at the bent cover and creased, dampened pages.
“I can fix it,” he started.
“Don’t touch it,” you snapped, snatching it from his hands.
He flinched at your tone. “It was an accident.”
You held the ruined book up between you like evidence. “You would’ve reacted the same if it were your stupid sunglasses.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Okay, fair,” he admitted.
Your friends had caught up by then, hovering a few feet away.
“Guys,” Jihoon called out, half-laughing, half-worried. “Let’s not—”
“No one needs to see this,” you cut him off sharply, jabbing a finger at Wonbin. “We’re taking it inside.”
The group went quiet.
Wonbin blinked. “What?”
“You heard me,” you said, grabbing a handful of his hair at the back of his head and tugging.
He yelped. “Ow—okay, okay!”
You marched him up the beach, ignoring the disbelieving laughter and wolf-whistles behind you.
“You’re going to kill him,” Mina called out.
“He’ll be lucky if you ever see him walking again,” you threw over your shoulder.
Wonbin stumbled along, half-bent to relieve the pull on his scalp. “Is this really necessary?” he complained.
“Yes,” you said.
~
Inside, the air conditioning hit your heated skin, making you shiver. You shoved Wonbin toward the couch.
“Sit,” you ordered.
He flopped down, rubbing the back of his head with a wince. “You’re actually insane,” he muttered, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked, leaning back and spreading his arms along the back of the couch. “You made this whole spectacle about teaching me a lesson. Might as well commit. As long as you don’t make me cry.”
You glared. “I want to hit you over the head, but you’d probably enjoy that.”
He grinned. “Depends how hard.”
You threw your hands up. “See? This is why I hate you.”
You stalked into the kitchen, leaving him confused—but not nearly as confused as you felt.
Your eyes landed on the fruit bowl.
Slowly, a plan formed.
When you came back, you were holding a lime and your phone.
He eyed the lime warily. “Please tell me that’s not going where I think it’s going.”
“You’re going to eat this,” you said, holding it up. “The whole thing. Rind and all. While I film it. If you spit it out, I pinch you... as hard as I want.”
He stared. “Are you in middle school?”
“My book is traumatized,” you retorted. “It deserves justice.”
He gestured at the bedraggled paperback on the coffee table. “You can still read it. It’s just a little… creased.”
“Say that again, and I’ll go cut up your swim trunks,” you threatened.
His eyes widened. “You’re bluffing.”
You took a step toward the hallway.
“Okay, okay,” he said quickly. “Jeez. So, me eating that would actually make you feel better?”
You considered it. “Yes.”
He sighed, grabbed the lime, and bit into it like it was an apple.
You hit record.
The first chew was immediate regret. His whole face contorted.
“Oh my God,” he choked. “This is so bad.”
“Keep going,” you said sternly.
He made an inhuman noise, but complied. Juice dripped down his chin; his eyes watered. You zoomed in mercilessly.
“If you spit it out, I’m pinching you,” you reminded him.
“Y-you’re a sadist,” he managed around a mouthful of citrus and peel.
You bit back a smile. “You ruined my book. Actions have consequences.”
He powered through the last bite like a man on a mission. When he finally swallowed, he collapsed back against the couch, grimacing like he’d just seen God.
You stopped recording.
“Happy?” he croaked.
You set your phone down and, almost without thinking, reached over to pat his head, fingers brushing through his damp hair.
He went very still.
“Yes,” you said simply.
Then you stood, grabbed your book, and headed toward the door.
“Wait,” he called after you, voice faintly hoarse. “You’re just… leaving?”
“You served your sentence,” you replied over your shoulder. “You’re free to go.”
~
When you stepped back onto the porch, the air seemed brighter somehow. You walked down the steps toward the sand where the others were still gathered in a loose circle.
A minute later, Wonbin emerged from the house, wiping at his mouth like he could scrub away the taste of citrus.
Everyone stared.
“What happened to you?” one of the guys blurted.
He glanced at you, something sparking in his eyes. “I apologized,” he said solemnly. “And I was forgiven.”
There was a chorus of disbelieving laughter.
Later, as the sun dipped and a cooler breeze rolled in, someone brought out more drinks. You all sprawled in deck chairs and on the porch steps, the sky shifting from orange to purple.
Stories began—about classes, professors, embarrassing moments from freshman year.
Inevitably, the lime incident came up.
“Tell it again,” Jia giggled, already tipsy. “I want to hear it from him.”
“Absolutely not,” Wonbin said.
“Yes,” the group countered.
He sighed dramatically. “Okay. So, I accidentally murdered her book with my foot. May it rest in peace.”
“It’s still alive,” you interjected.
He continued as if you hadn’t spoken. “And in a fit of righteous fury, she dragged me inside by the hair—”
“You deserved that,” you said.
“—and made me eat an entire lime, rind and all, on camera, under threat of violence.”
Mina choked on her drink, laughing. “You did what?”
“Show the video,” someone yelled.
You debated for a half-second, then shrugged and pulled it up, passing your phone around.
The porch erupted in screams and cackles as everyone watched his increasingly devastated expressions.
“You’re such a simp,” one of Wonbin’s friends declared between wheezes.
“You really ate the whole thing for her?” Jihoon added, incredulous.
Wonbin took a long swig from his cup, then flicked his eyes to you.
“You have no idea,” he said lightly.
Something in your stomach flipped.
“Y/n,” Jia teased, nudging you. “You look so pleased with yourself.”
You realized you were smiling.
“Because he deserved it,” you said quickly. “Not because—”
“Sure, sure,” she drawled.
You ignored the heat creeping up your neck and took a sip from your own drink.
~
Later, when the crowd started thinning—some people drifting to their rooms, others lying on the couches half-asleep—you headed to bed with Mina.
She changed into her pajamas as you sat on the edge of the bed, fingers picking at a loose thread on the comforter.
“Hey,” you said abruptly. “Do you think he’s… flirting with me?”
Mina paused mid-step. “Wonbin?”
You gave her a look. “No, the other boy I dragged inside by the hair today.”
She climbed into bed opposite you, facing you with interest. “I mean… yeah? I always kind of thought he was.”
You blinked. “What?”
She shrugged. “He only argues with you like that. He remembers everything you say. He knows exactly how to get under your skin. That’s not… nothing.”
You shook your head. “He just likes annoying people.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But don’t you ever feel like there’s… something else?”
Your mind flashed with the image of him looking at you when he’d answered that Truth or Drink question. The way he’d eaten the lime without really fighting back. The way he’d gone quiet for a second when you’d said you’d pretend he didn’t exist.
You swallowed.
“I’ve never even thought about him like that,” you lied.
Mina raised a skeptical brow. “Really? Not even once? He’s literally a campus heartthrob.”
You scoffed. “I have too much self-respect to fall for someone like him.”
She laughed. “You say that like you’re not obsessed with arguing with him.”
“I’m not obsessed,” you protested. “I’m… invested.”
“In what?” she asked gently.
You didn’t have an answer.
Mina sighed, a little dreamy. “I just think it would be cute, that’s all. If you and he actually liked each other, we could go on double dates with him and Jihoon.”
You groaned, flopping back. “I hate you so much right now.”
She turned off the lamp, plunging the room into soft darkness.
“Just think about it,” she murmured.
You stared at the ceiling again, this time with his face stubbornly occupying the space where your thoughts should’ve been.
~
The next morning, you woke up with the distinct feeling of having had a very important dream that you couldn’t quite remember.
It left you unsettled.
Mina’s words replayed in your head as you brushed your teeth, as you pulled on your swimsuit, as you tied your hair up.
If he didn’t like you, would he bother so much?
You thought about every time he’d sought you out. The way he lit up just a little bit more when you threw something back at him. How, even yesterday, when he’d clearly been worried about your wrath over the book, he’d still joked and fumbled his way through that stupid lime challenge.
If he truly didn’t care, he wouldn’t give you all that attention.
An idea slipped in, uninvited and unwelcome—and yet, once there, impossible to shake.
What if you tested it?
You stared at your reflection.
If you pushed, if you turned the tables, if you went as far as you could… would he still be there matching you? Or would he pull away and show you that you’d been right all along—that he was just an asshole who liked to play games?
You dried your hands and made a decision.
If he let you go all the way, you’d know.
And if he didn’t… well. Then at least you’d finally stop wondering.
~
The day unfolded like the one before it, but with one key difference.
You didn’t avoid him.
You sought him out.
At breakfast, you stole the last piece of toast off his plate just as he was reaching for it.
“Hey,” he said, eyebrows shooting up.
“You snooze, you lose,” you replied, biting into it.
His eyes narrowed. “Oh, we’re doing that today.”
“Doing what?” you asked innocently.
He studied you for a long beat, something sharp and curious in his gaze.
“Nothing,” he said at last, a slow grin spreading. “Game on, princess.”
On the beach, you splashed water at him first. When he retaliated, you only went harder, laughing as you ducked under the waves and popped up behind him to push him back down.
You chased him through the shallows, hooked your ankle around his to trip him, shoved him into the water when he least expected it.
He took it all, laughing, eyes bright, like this was the most fun he’d had in ages.
At one point, you climbed onto his back in the water, arms around his shoulders, pushing him under with a victorious whoop.
He surfaced, coughing, hair plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his face.
“You’re actually trying to kill me,” he accused, breathless.
“Maybe I am,” you said, heartbeat thudding oddly at how close your faces were.
He stilled for a fraction of a second, gaze flicking to your mouth and back.
Then he shook his head, swam away, and you followed, relentless.
You could tell he was trying to figure you out.
Good.
~
By mid-afternoon, he was flagging. Even you were starting to feel the burn in your limbs.
“I need a break,” he said finally, pushing wet hair back from his face. “I’m going inside for water before you drown me for real.”
“Coward,” you taunted.
He rolled his eyes, half-smiling, and headed up the beach toward the house.
You watched him go, chest tight with a mix of triumph and something you didn’t want to name.
Then you followed.
The kitchen was cool and bright when you stepped in, the buzz of the fridge loud in the quiet.
Wonbin stood by the counter, back to you, gulping from a bottle of water. He set it down with a sigh, bracing his hands on the countertop, head hanging for a moment like he was trying to pull himself together.
You leaned in the doorway, watching him.
He must’ve sensed you, because he spoke without turning around.
“If you came to drown me in the sink,” he said, voice a little rough, “you’re going to have to wait until I catch my breath.”
You pushed off the doorframe and padded into the kitchen, water still dripping from your hair onto the tile.
“Did you think I was done with you?” you asked softly.
He straightened and turned, eyes widening slightly when he saw how close you were.
“…Honestly?” he said. “Yeah. I was kind of hoping.”
There was a strain in his expression now, a tension in his shoulders. You noticed the way his fingers curled into the counter’s edge, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
“What more could you possibly do to me today?” he asked, reaching absently for the fruit bowl. He picked up a lemon, holding it up as a joke, a crooked smile on his lips. “I’ll just go ahead and eat this if it means you’ll give me a break.”
You stared at him for a long moment, that same mix of amusement and something hotter pooling low in your stomach.
A laugh slipped out of you, surprised and genuine.
“You’re pathetic,” you said, stepping closer. “I didn’t expect you to give up so easily.”
His smile faltered, something raw flickering in his gaze.
“If you’re trying to give me a taste of my own medicine,” he said quietly, “you’re not playing fair at all.”
You tilted your head. “Unlike you, irking people isn’t really my thing,” you replied. “So I’m sorry if you don’t think it’s fair.”
Your apology didn’t sound very apologetic.
He studied you like he was memorizing you, eyes moving from your damp lashes to the droplets clinging to your collarbone.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s kind of what I’m afraid of.”
You felt something in the air between you shift, going denser, charged.
He was still holding the lemon.
It looked stupid between his fingers, bright yellow and harmless, like this was just another one of your stupid games.
Except it didn’t feel like a game anymore.
You could hear the faint thump of music through the walls, the muffled crash of waves outside. In here, though, it was just you and him and the hum of the fridge.
“You’re pathetic,” you repeated, softer now, watching the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
His hand tightened around the lemon until his knuckles paled. “And yet you still haven’t told me what this is,” he said quietly. “You flipped the script on me and didn’t give me a reason. Why?”
You swallowed, forcing yourself not to look away.
“Why don’t you tell me?” you countered. “You’re the one who’s always analyzing me, right? High and mighty princess, too proud for anyone. Isn’t that what you said?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You remember that?”
You scoffed. “Of course I do. You think I forget every little jab you throw?”
His gaze flicked over your face, lingering on your mouth. “No,” he said slowly. “I guess you don’t forget anything.”
Silence stretched between you, dense and prickly.
He set the lemon down with a dull thud and straightened, like he was bracing himself.
“Look,” he exhaled, “if this is you trying to get back at me for… whatever, congratulations. I’m officially off-balance.” A humorless little smile tugged at his lips. “You win. Again. So what now?”
You stepped into his space before you could overthink it.
Up close, he smelled like salt and sunscreen and something warmer underneath. His chest rose and fell a little too fast.
“Now,” you said, tilting your head, “I keep going until I figure you out.”
His voice dropped. “You think you don’t already know me?”
You searched his eyes. There was the usual teasing spark there, but underneath it… something else. Something you’d been carefully ignoring.
“I think,” you said slowly, “I know the version of you that likes pissing me off.”
“And?” he prompted, barely above a whisper.
“And I want to see what happens when I stop letting you hide behind that,” you finished.
His breath hitched.
For the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t have a comeback ready. No joke, no deflection, no smug little jab.
Just you, reflected back in his eyes, closer than you’d ever let yourself be.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he said at last, voice rough. “All of this. The toast, the water, drowning me, dragging me around like I’m your personal punching bag—”
“You like it,” you cut in.
He huffed out an incredulous laugh. “That’s the problem.”
Heat crept up your neck. “So you admit it.”
He looked down at you, something resigned and fond and exasperated all tangled together.
“Y/n,” he said softly, and your stomach flipped at the way your name sounded in his mouth. “I’ve been admitting it in every stupid way except actually saying it out loud.”
Your heartbeat stuttered.
He let out a breath, almost like he was tired of holding something in.
“You’re right,” he said. “I do think you’re a high and mighty princess sometimes. You overthink everything. You act like liking anybody is… beneath you.” His mouth twisted. “And still, I keep ending up where you are. Every party, every group hang, every stupid beach game. I look for you first. Even when I know you’re just going to roll your eyes and insult me.”
Your fingers curled at your sides, suddenly unsteady.
“You’re not special,” you said, but it came out too thin.
He smiled faintly. “I don’t do this with anyone else.”
You hated how that landed in your chest.
“Then why make fun of me?” you demanded, clinging to the familiar ground of irritation. “Why call me princess and talk about my ‘personality’ like you’re writing a character study?”
He shrugged one shoulder, eyes never leaving yours. “Because if I didn’t, I’d end up flirting with you like everyone else does. And you’d hate that even more.”
You opened your mouth to argue—and stopped.
Would you?
Or was that just what you’d been telling yourself?
“Say something,” he murmured, a hint of nervousness finally bleeding through. “You’re freaking me out.”
You swallowed, throat dry.
“So,” you said carefully, “all the picking on me, all the stupid nicknames, all the times you went out of your way to get on my nerves—”
“Were me being a coward,” he cut in. “Because if I didn’t turn it into a joke, it was going to be obvious.”
“Obvious that you… what?”
He held your gaze, no more room to run.
“That I like you,” he said simply.
The words dropped between you, so plain and serious they didn’t feel real.
You forgot how to breathe for a second.
Something inside you that had been coiled tight for months—maybe years—snapped.
“Then why,” you said slowly, “do you keep acting like an asshole?”
He let out a strained laugh. “Because you respond to that. Because every time I tried to be normal around you, you’d look at me like I’d grown a second head. You only ever looked straight at me when we were fighting.”
That stung more than you wanted to admit.
You’d given him attention, sure. But only the kind fueled by indignation and pride.
And he’d taken it.
Every scrap.
You realized, abruptly, that you were still standing way too close, your bodies only inches apart, his damp skin a line of heat in front of you.
You realized you’d walked him all the way out here, into this quiet, empty kitchen, with some vague plan to “test” him—as if he hadn’t been showing you his answer this whole time.
You realized you weren’t actually sure, anymore, which one of you was the bigger coward.
Your voice came out smaller than you expected. “If I stop making it a joke… what then?”
He searched your face, and whatever he found there made his expression soften.
“Then,” he said, “you can stop pretending you hate me.”
You bristled on instinct. “I never said—”
He stepped closer, close enough that his chest brushed yours when he inhaled.
“You never had to,” he said quietly. “You act like you do. But you don’t avoid me. You don’t shut me down. You don’t walk away when you could.”
His hand lifted, hesitated, then settled very carefully at your hip, fingertips barely pressing into the damp fabric of your swimsuit.
You felt it like a brand.
“If you actually hated me,” he continued, “you wouldn’t be here right now.”
Your pulse roared in your ears.
A part of you wanted to shove him away, toss out some cutting remark, push everything back into the safe territory of banter.
Another part of you—annoyingly loud—wanted to see what happened if you didn’t.
You heard your own voice before you fully decided.
“What if I’m here to keep testing how far you’ll let me go?” you asked, low.
His grip at your hip tightened, just barely.
“Then I should probably tell you,” he murmured, “that you’re playing with fire.”
“Maybe I want to know if you’ll burn me,” you said.
He exhaled a shaky laugh. “You’re unreal.”
You lifted your chin, stubborn. “Are you going to stop me?”
His eyes darkened.
“No,” he admitted. “I’m not.”
That was all the permission you needed.
You slid your hand up, fingers finding the damp skin at the back of his neck. He shivered under your touch.
He was watching you so intently it made your stomach swoop.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you lied, even as your thumb brushed the soft hair at his nape. “I’m just… curious.”
“Sure,” he said, voice gone rough. “Just curiosity.”
You hated how gentle he sounded. You hated how much you liked it.
“Say you’re not going to be weird about it,” you demanded, because control was the only thing you had left.
He huffed out a breath. “You’re about to do something reckless and I’m the one who can’t be weird?”
“Wonbin,” you warned.
His mouth curved. “Fine. I won’t be weird.”
He paused.
“Unless you want me to be,” he added under his breath.
You didn’t give yourself time to react to that.
You tugged him down and kissed him.
For a second, he just… froze.
You almost pulled back, panic clawing up your throat.
Then he exhaled a sound somewhere between a groan and your name, and everything tilted.
His hand at your hip tightened, dragging you flush against him. His other hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as his mouth moved against yours like he’d been waiting for this for a long, long time.
Heat flared low in your stomach, sharp and intoxicating.
He kissed like he argued—confident, unyielding, intent on pushing you just that little bit further than you meant to go.
Except this time, you didn’t mind losing.
Your fingers knotted in the damp hair at the back of his head, holding him there as you deepened the kiss. He made another low sound that went straight through you.
You felt him smile against your mouth.
“Still pretending you hate me?” he murmured between breaths.
“Shut up,” you whispered, and kissed him again to make sure he did.
He obeyed, but his hand slid from your jaw down the line of your throat, lingering over the rapid flutter of your pulse like he was memorizing it.
You’d meant to keep control. You’d meant to test him.
Somehow, without you noticing, he’d taken over.
You broke away first, breathing hard, lips tingling. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed like he was trying to steady himself.
You could feel the solid press of his body against yours, every line of him warm and real and entirely too much.
“Say something smug,” you managed, voice unsteady. “Get it over with.”
His lashes lifted. He looked at you like you’d put the sun in his hands and then told him not to drop it.
“I’m trying not to scare you off,” he said quietly. “For once.”
Your chest did something unhelpful.
“This doesn’t make us… anything,” you said, clinging to the last of your defenses. “We’re still—”
“Enemies?” he supplied, amused.
You scowled automatically. “I was going to say ‘not whatever you’re thinking.’”
He hummed, thumb tracing idle circles at your hip.
“I’m thinking,” he said slowly, “that you’re going to overthink this to death if I give you any room. So how about this.”
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“For now,” he murmured, “we keep it between us. No labels. No big talks. Just you and me, seeing what happens when you stop pretending you don’t want me.”
You shivered.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” you said, but it came out breathless.
“Not really,” he admitted softly. “I’m just sure I’m not done with you yet.”
Your fingers tightened at the back of his neck.
“You’re insufferable,” you whispered.
His smile grazed your cheek.
“And yet,” he said, “you’re still holding on.”
You realized you were.
You didn’t let go.
~
You were still pressed up against the counter, his hand firm at your hip, your fingers tangled in his hair, when the sound of the front door opening sliced through the haze.
The two of you froze.
You heard the familiar tune of a song being hummed.
Jia.
You and Wonbin sprang apart so fast you almost slipped on the tile.
He caught your elbow on instinct, steadying you. You glared at him like this was his fault, which, to be fair, a good chunk of it was.
You yanked your T‑shirt from the back of a chair and shoved it over your head, trying to smooth your hair with shaking fingers. Your lips still tingled; you could feel his gaze flick down to them and dart away.
Jia rounded the corner a second later, sunglasses perched atop her head and a water bottle in hand.
She looked between the two of you, taking in your flushed faces, your slightly crooked shirt, Wonbin missing one entirely.
Her brows climbed. “What were you two doing?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
“Staring contest,” Wonbin blurted.
You turned to stare at him. Staring contest?
Jia blinked. “Staring contest.”
He snatched the forgotten lemon off the counter and held it up like a prop. “Yeah, we, uh… challenged each other. Loser gets this squirted in their eye.”
You wanted to die.
Jia’s gaze slid to you, suspicious. “Well, am I interrupting?”
You crossed your arms, willing your heartbeat to slow. “No,” you said, forcing an eye roll. “He’s just being dramatic because he lost and he’s scared.”
Wonbin nodded too fast. “So dramatic. I’m traumatized.”
Jia narrowed her eyes, then smirked. “You two are weird,” she said. “Anyway, are you coming back out? We’re about to start a card game and Mina’s trying to cheat already.”
“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just… getting water.”
She shrugged and padded back toward the porch, humming under her breath.
The moment she disappeared, you rounded on Wonbin.
“‘Staring contest?” you hissed.
He winced, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I panicked.”
“You’re an idiot,” you muttered.
He smiled faintly, the edges still a little dazed. “You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
You realized your hands were still trembling. You smoothed out your shirt calmly. “It’s cold in here,” you lied.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Right.”
From outside, someone shouted your name, followed by Mina’s whiney “Hurry uuuup!”
You took a step toward the door, putting space between you.
“We should go,” you said.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
You didn’t look at him as you slid the door open.
You felt his eyes on the back of your neck all the way out to the porch.
~
Back on the beach, it was like nothing had happened.
At least, that was how you were determined to act.
You plopped down on your towel, book in your lap, the text blurring as your mind replayed the last half hour on a loop.
The way his voice had gone quiet when he’d said I like you. The way he’d eaten the lime just because it made you happy. The way his hands had settled on you—not possessive, not cocky, just certain.
You’d come into this trip with the absolute conviction that he was an obnoxious flirt who cared more about reactions than people.
He had… not behaved like that.
You’d taunted him, tested him, tried to shake him. He’d let you drag him inside, let you punish him, let you push him around in the water. He’d confessed first. He’d tried, in his own backwards way, to make it less scary for you.
Unconventional methods, you thought, a little hysterical. But he got what he wanted.
He wanted you to take him seriously. And now, annoyingly, it was working.
You watched him from the corner of your eye as he mingled with the others—laughing at some joke from Jihoon, reaching for a drink, moving through the group with his usual easy charm.
Except now you could see all the ways his attention slid back to you, subtle as he thought he was being. A glance when someone mentioned your name. The way his smile shifted, softer, when your eyes accidentally met.
The new weight of those looks made your skin prickle.
You were hooked.
You didn’t want to be. You could feel your pride protesting, scrambling for excuses. You barely knew how to navigate people you liked normally, let alone someone you’d built an entire personality around disliking.
But the idea of this new version of him—of you and him—clung to you like salt.
Foreign. Fascinating.
Terrifying.
Throughout the evening, you both pretended.
Mina dragged you into a card game; you lost horribly and accused her of conspiring with Jihoon. Jia did a run to the kitchen for snacks and came back with enough junk food to feed a small army. Someone put on music, and there was a brief, chaotic attempt at a dance party in the living room.
Wonbin was never far, but never too close. He’d sit across the circle, leaning back against the couch, legs stretched out. He’d call you out when you tried to cheat, tease you when you lost, roll his eyes when you rolled yours.
On the surface, it was the same old script.
Underneath, everything had changed.
Every time your knees brushed under the low table, your heart jumped. Every time you glanced up and found him already looking, your stomach swooped.
He didn’t push. Didn’t corner you, didn’t say anything loaded in front of the others.
He just kept catching your gaze and holding it a second too long, the corners of his mouth softening like there was some shared joke hanging between you that no one else could see.
By the time people started drifting toward their rooms, the sky outside was ink‑dark and your head felt pleasantly fuzzy from sun and laughter and one too many drinks.
You yawned, stretching your arms over your head.
“I’m actually dead,” Jia groaned from the couch. “If I don’t sleep twelve hours, I’ll pass away.”
“You say that every night,” Mina said, but she sounded tired too.
You gathered your things—phone, book, a hoodie someone had abandoned—and headed toward the hallway.
You’d almost made it to your bedroom door when a hand appeared above your shoulder, pressing lightly against the wall just beside it.
You stopped short.
“Relax,” Wonbin said softly, stepping into the narrow space between you and the wall.
Your back was inches from the door; his chest was inches from yours. It felt like that kitchen all over again, but this time the hall was darker, quieter, the only light coming from the strip under the living room door.
Your pulse jumped.
“We’re in a hallway,” you hissed. “Anyone could see.”
He hummed. “That sounds familiar.”
You shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
He didn’t. Not with words, anyway.
His fingers brushed yours, just a ghost of a touch, then slid against your palm, offering. Without thinking, you let your hand fall into his. He squeezed once, like he couldn’t help it.
The simple contact made your throat go dry.
“Y/n,” he said quietly.
You hated how much warmer your name sounded from him now.
“What?” you whispered.
He leaned down, his breath brushing your ear. “I’d like to continue where we left off,” he murmured. “Before we were so rudely interrupted.”
Heat shot through you.
You fought to keep your voice steady. “You’re impatient.”
He laughed under his breath. “I’ve been patient for months.”
You stilled. “Months?”
He pulled back just enough for you to see his face. There was no smugness there, no joke. Just that open, slightly vulnerable look from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “You’re just finally letting me do something about it.”
Your heart did something traitorous.
You swallowed. “If we do this now, someone will catch us,” you said, trying to be rational. “Do you know how thin these walls are? If Mina walks in and sees—”
He cut you off with a tiny grin. “I can work something out.”
“That’s not comforting,” you muttered.
He squeezed your hand again, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Just… don’t fall asleep too early,” he said. “Okay?”
You gave him a flat look. “That’s your master plan?”
“For now.” His smile tilted, equal parts mischief and promise. “Trust me.”
You opened your mouth to tell him you absolutely did not trust him.
Instead, you heard yourself say, “Fine.”
His grin went feral.
“I won’t need that long,” he said.
The implication made your face heat. You slapped his chest lightly. “Be serious.”
“We’ll see,” he replied, and then he was backing away, disappearing down the hall with a soft, “Goodnight, princess,” tossed over his shoulder.
Your skin buzzed long after he was gone.
~
You’d barely had time to wash your face, brush your teeth, and pull on an oversized sleep shirt before Mina burst into the room, squealing.
You jumped, nearly stabbing your eye with your hairbrush.
“What?” you demanded.
Mina bounced onto the bed, clutching her phone like it was a winning lottery ticket.
“He texted me,” she half‑whispered, half‑screeched.
You blinked, heart lurching for reasons that had nothing to do with her. “Who?”
She gave you a look. “Jihoon, obviously.”
Of course. Jihoon, who shared a room with Wonbin.
Your pulse picked up for a completely different reason.
“What did he say?” you asked, trying to sound normal.
Mina thrust the phone at you. A message glowed on the screen:
Jihoon 🏄♂️: hey, you still awake? Jihoon 🏄♂️: come to my room? we can talk without everyone yelling over each other lol
Mina kicked her feet like a teenager in a drama. “Talk, he says,” she giggled. “Do you think he means… talk?”
You thought about Wonbin’s face in the hallway. I can work something out.
You swallowed a laugh that was half nerves. “Only one way to find out,” you said.
Mina flopped back dramatically. “But what if it’s weird? What if I go and he’s like, ‘So anyway, about this group project from freshman year—’”
“Mina,” you cut in gently. “You’ve been flirting for months. He’s not calling you in there to discuss academic policy.”
She covered her face with a pillow, muffling a scream. “I’m gonna throw up.”
“You are not,” you said, prying the pillow away. “You’re going to go in there, hang out, and if at any point you’re uncomfortable, you pretend you’re sleepy and leave. Simple.”
She peered up at you. “You really think I should go?”
Guilt and excitement warred in your chest.
Because you knew exactly why this invitation had materialized at this particular moment.
You also knew how badly Mina wanted this.
“Yes,” you said firmly. “Go.”
Mina squealed again, launched off the bed, and scrambled to fix her hair in the mirror.
“You’re a good friend,” she said, slapping on lip balm.
You forced a smile. “Obviously.”
When she finally squeezed you in a quick hug and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click, the silence that followed throbbed with anticipation.
You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the door.
He wouldn’t actually…
A knock sounded, barely a minute later.
You jumped.
“Y/n?” came the low voice from the other side.
You exhaled, heart hammering. “You’re insane,” you muttered, standing.
You cracked the door open just enough to see him. The hallway behind him was empty, dim.
Before you could get a single word of scolding out, he shouldered his way in, kicked the door shut with his heel, and his mouth was on yours.
All the arguments you’d been lining up evaporated.
He kissed you like he’d been thinking about it every second since the kitchen—no tentative testing this time, no caution. Just heat and relief and a kind of hungry determination that made your knees go weak.
You made a sound into his mouth, half protest, mostly something else.
“I was going to yell at you,” you mumbled when you managed to breathe.
He laughed against your lips. “You can yell at me later,” he said, already chasing another kiss. “I’ll even let you win.”
“You used my best friend as a distraction,” you accused, even as your hands were already fisting in his shirt.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and serious in the low light.
“Do you really think I’d set her up with some guy who wasn’t going to treat her right?” he asked softly. “I’m not the only one who’s been waiting.”
That shut you up.
He watched your expression flicker, something like understanding settling in.
Then his gaze dropped to your mouth again.
“Can we get back to the part where you were doing that thing with your hands?” he asked, voice going rough.
You huffed. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re the one who decided you like me anyway.”
You hated how true that felt.
You grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him closer.
This time, nothing slowed you down.
Your fingers threaded through his hair, just like he had wanted, lips moving against his, rushed and heated. He made a disgruntled noise, pulling your waist toward him, leaving no space between you. Your bodies were hot and buzzing with a tension that was ready to tip over the edge.
Both of you stumbled backward, clumsily dropping onto the bed. Wonbin was quick to hoist you up, climbing over you while pulling your shirt clean off your body. He gave you no time to feel conscious of your nakedness, fingers cupping the swell of your breasts as his thigh slotted between your legs.
Something burned, low in the pit of your stomach. You arched your back into his touch, inviting him for more. His tongue slid over yours deliberately, making your toes curl. You dragged your mouth away just long enough to suck in a breath. He chased you, lips landing at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the hinge of your jaw.
Your head fell back, a helpless sound escaping you as his mouth found a spot under your ear, teeth scraping lightly.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your skin. “You have no idea.”
“Prove it,” you breathed, voluntarily reaching to slip your underwear off.
“Fuck, y/n.”
Wonbin sat up just enough to take you in completely. A drunken expression washed over his face. His lips were glistening, eager hands tracing your thighs, trailing down your legs. He couldn’t decide what he wanted to do to you first. You could see the impatience in his eyes.
You felt it too.
He started by rolling his tongue over your nipples. They were hard and sensitive. He sucked and released them with a salacious pop, the sound making your head spin.
You sensed him moving away from you yet again, but this time you weren’t going to let it happen. You rose with him, fingers hooking into the hem of his shirt, urging him to shrug it off.
As his shirt fell to the floor, you kissed him hard, digging your palms into his firm shoulders.
“Pants too,” you followed.
In this moment, to you, he was absolutely irresistible.
He groaned in accordance and pushed his shorts down in one swift motion. You could see how uncomfortably tight his boxers looked. Your hands went there instantly, teasing, exploring.
Wonbin bit your lip in protest as he fell back over you. Feeling his weight on top of you made your heart hammer wildly in your chest.
Before you could think, the words rolled off your tongue like they had been sitting there forever.
“Fuck me. Now.”
The moisture between your legs was an indication enough that you were ready for him. And you knew exactly where he stood.
He fumbled with his boxers, and you gasped when his cock pulsed against your pussy. His eyes watched you carefully as he slowly entered you, fighting to remain focused the deeper his cock went.
It stole your breath away.
Your eyes rolled back, head falling slack against the pillow you were lying on.
He started slowly, hips moving steadily, as if he were savoring the feeling before he let greed take control.
You were so warm and so tight. Wonbin sucked in a sharp breath, speeding up ever so slightly.
He left a hand planted by your ear, the other cupping your neck, thumb sliding over your throat, where he felt the shallow reverberations of your quiet moans.
He leaned in closer, needing to hear more.
Maybe it was because you remembered where you were, or maybe because he was tapping into a part of your subconscious you never thought would surface, but Wonbin couldn’t stand that you were holding yourself back.
His hips jerked forward, the movement harsh.
“Fuck,” you exclaimed, and he did it again, the faintest smirk painting his parted lips.
His thumb traced your lip as he began fucking you harder. You let it slip into your mouth, sucking desperately. That only spurred him on further.
“Oh, princess,” he moaned, his pace unrelenting. He was pounding into you now. “You feel so good.”
Even though your mouth was occupied, urgent whines spilled from you. There was no stopping them.
Wonbin pulled his thumb away so that he could hear you unobstructed. Even you were shocked by just how loud you were. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had made you feel like this.
No one had come close.
“Say my name.”
You gave in, though it wasn’t easy, sputtering his name between labored breaths. It drove him mad. He didn’t want to hear anything else.
You felt his temple press against your cheek, a thin layer of sweat lining his skin. Your fingers curled into his hair, holding him close so that his hot breath tickled your neck.
He was close. Even if he finished now, he knew he wasn’t done with you yet. He needed more.
He was fast to pull out of you. Seconds later, his cum was dripping onto your stomach, warm and cloudy. His groans, deep and raspy, were invigorating.
Your chest rose and fell vehemently. He let his cock slide against your pussy, softer now, but still bold.
Wonbin turned you on your side and fell into place behind you, his strong chest pressed to your back. Instinctively, you bent your knees and pushed your ass against his cock, feeling the blood gradually rush back into it as he splayed wet kisses over your shoulder.
“One more time,” he whispered into your ear, raising your leg so he could slip right back into you. His other arm wrapped around your chest, fingers pinching your breasts and nipples.
You craned your neck around, lips searching for his. They found yours earnestly, his kisses messy and fervent.
As if he had never stopped, he started again.
~
Later, with your clothes scattered on the floor and the room dim and quiet around you, you lay on your back staring at the ceiling, lungs still trying to remember how to function.
Wonbin’s arm was draped over your waist, his chest warm and solid against your side. His breathing was a little uneven too.
Silence stretched, full but not uncomfortable.
“We’re dead if Mina comes back early,” you said eventually, voice low.
He hummed. “We’ll hear her.”
You weren’t so sure.
He must’ve seen the doubt on your face, because he sighed and pushed himself up on one elbow.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll check.”
He grabbed his discarded shorts from the floor and dragged them on, hair a mess, skin still flushed. You pulled your shirt back over your head, heart doing that annoying jumpy thing again at the sudden domestic mundanity of it.
He cracked the door open carefully, peering into the hallway.
You eased up beside him, peeking over his shoulder.
From down the hall, muffled and unmistakable, came a breathy, stifled laugh followed by a low male voice you recognized as Jihoon’s.
You both froze.
“Yeah,” Wonbin said quietly. “She’s not coming back.”
You covered your face with one hand, equal parts mortified and relieved. “I did not need to know that.”
He shut the door again, locking it this time for good measure.
When he turned back, he was smiling.
“So,” he said, climbing back onto the bed beside you. “I can stay?”
You narrowed your eyes. “You can stay as long as you’re gone before Mina wakes up,” you warned. “If she sees you here, we’re both dead.”
“Noted.” He settled beside you, arm sliding back around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You hesitated a second, then let yourself relax into him, head finding his shoulder.
The room felt smaller now, cozier somehow. The ocean’s constant shush filtered through the walls; someone laughed faintly in another part of the house. Here, everything felt oddly still.
“So,” you said, staring at the shadowy outline of his hand on your stomach. “What now?”
He was quiet for a moment, thumb drawing idle patterns on your side.
“When we get back to the city,” he said finally, “I want to take you out.”
You blinked. “Out?”
“On a date,” he clarified. “Like, a real one. Food, maybe a movie, me pretending I’m not already stupid about you.”
Your heart lurched.
“Confident,” you muttered.
He huffed a laugh. “Terrified, actually.”
You turned your head to look at him. In the soft half‑dark, he didn’t look like the overconfident flirt you’d built up in your mind. He just looked… young. Hopeful. A little scared.
“Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
“Because,” he said slowly, “you’ve spent this entire time convinced that you’re too good for me. And I don’t want you to wake up one day and decide you were right.”
That knocked the air out of you more than any kiss had.
You stared at him, throat tight.
“You really think I’m that horrible?” you asked quietly.
His eyes widened. “No. God, no. I think you’re… picky. And proud. And terrified of being wrong about people. Big difference.”
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.
“I also think,” he added, softer now, “that you’re the smartest person in any room we’re in, and that you make me want to be less of a dumbass. For whatever that’s worth.”
You swallowed around a lump in your throat.
“Don’t say things like that,” you muttered. “It makes it hard to keep my guard up.”
“That’s kind of the point,” he said.
You glared at the ceiling so you wouldn’t have to look at him for a second.
“What if I say no?” you asked. “To the date.”
He exhaled, not dramatically, just honestly. “Then I’ll be disappointed. And I’ll try really hard not to be weird about it.”
“You’re bad at not being weird,” you pointed out.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I’d still try.”
You were quiet for a beat.
“Okay,” you said finally.
He frowned. “Okay what?”
“Okay, you can take me out,” you said, staring resolutely at the ceiling. “Once. We’ll see how insufferable you are in public.”
There was a pause. Then his arm tightened around you.
“Deal,” he said, voice a little too bright.
You wanted to say you regretted it already.
You didn’t.
“Go to sleep,” you grumbled instead.
“Yes, princess,” he said.
You elbowed him lightly. He just laughed and pressed a quick, soft kiss to the top of your head, like he’d done it a thousand times.
Your heart did that stupid thing again.
You drifted off eventually, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling you under.
~
When you woke up, the other side of the bed was empty.
For a split second, panic flared. Then you saw the indentation in the pillow, the faint warmth left on the sheets, and heard the sound of running water from the bathroom.
The door opened a moment later and Mina emerged in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped around her hair.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” she said, grinning.
You squinted at her, brain still booting up. “Why are you so cheerful?”
She wiggled her brows. “We both seem to have had a good night.”
Your heart stuttered. “What?”
She crossed to her suitcase, digging for clothes. “I didn’t get back until, like, four,” she said happily. “And when I finally snuck in, you were starfished across the whole bed like a corpse. Out cold. And there was someonestuck underneath you.”
She shot you a pointed look and winked.
Heat rushed to your face.
“Well,” you said, scrambling for dignity, “he had to sleep somewhere.”
She snorted. “Uh‑huh. Sure.”
You ducked your head, hiding a smile.
“Anyway,” she continued, pulling on a T‑shirt, “we have to be out by eleven, so start packing, lover girl.”
You threw a pillow at her. She dodged, cackling.
The morning blurred into organized chaos.
Everyone moved through the house with that particular end‑of‑trip energy—tired but wired, arms full of bags and leftover snacks, calling dibs on who got which shower.
You caught only flashes of Wonbin: him hauling a suitcase down the stairs, him laughing at something one of his friends said, him helping Jihoon wrestle with an overstuffed duffel.
His eyes found yours once, across the living room.
He didn’t wink or smirk. He just smiled, a small, private thing that made your chest feel too tight.
You looked away first, cheeks warm.
The driveway was a jumble of cars and people as everyone loaded their luggage.
Jia slammed the trunk of your car shut. “Shotgun,” she declared.
“You had shotgun on the way here,” Mina protested.
Jihoon wandered over, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, actually,” he said, “Mina, do you… want to ride with us?”
Mina’s face lit up like someone had flipped a switch. “Yeah,” she said, a little too quickly. Then she glanced at you, checking.
You swallowed a grin. “Go,” you said. “Jia and I will survive.”
She squealed, hugged you briefly, then scurried off toward Jihoon’s car.
“Traitor,” Jia muttered, but she was smiling.
Then, something dawned on you. “But doesn’t that mean someone from their car’s gotta switch with us?”
“I can switch cars,” Wonbin offered.
You whipped around. “No.”
Everyone looked at you.
You cleared your throat. “I mean, that’s not necessary,” you amended. “We’re fine.”
He sauntered closer, hands in his pockets, looking annoyingly unbothered. “It’s either me or one of the guys who sings off‑key to the same three songs the entire drive,” he pointed out. “I’m taking one for the team here.”
Jia clasped her hands dramatically. “Wow, what a hero,” she said.
You glared at him. He met your eyes, amusement flickering there.
“I promise I’ll sleep the whole way,” he added, more for the group’s benefit than yours. “You won’t even know I’m there.”
“Bold promise,” Jia said. “You snore?”
“If he snores,” you cut in, “I’ll suffocate him.”
“See?” he said cheerfully. “Group safety and accountability.”
The others laughed, already moving toward their cars.
Somehow, Jia ended up in the driver’s seat with you in the back and Wonbin sliding right next to you like this was the most normal thing in the world.
He leaned back, buckled in, and pulled one of the spare jackets from the back, tossing it over himself like a makeshift blanket.
“Wake me when we’re halfway,” he said lightly.
You rolled your eyes as Jia started the engine. “If you drool on my shoulder—”
“You’ll what?” he asked, eyes half‑lidded.
You hesitated. “Make you eat another lime,” you said.
He grinned, then let his head rest back against the seat, eyes sliding shut.
The first stretch of highway was quiet.
Jia put on a podcast episode almost immediately, mumbling something about catching up on her playlist. The hum of the car, the rush of wind, and the distant sound of waves fading in the rearview mirror created a weirdly soothing backdrop.
Wonbin stayed still beside you, eyes closed, jacket pulled up to his chest.
You focused on the cars outside, knuckles gripping a little too tightly on your seatbelt.
You were acutely aware of how close his knee was to yours. Of the way his hair fell a little into his eyes. Of the faint marks you’d left on his collarbone peeking out from his T‑shirt neck.
You told yourself he really had fallen asleep.
Then you felt it.
His fingers, sliding under the edge of the jacket, found your thigh.
You nearly screamed.
He didn’t grab, didn’t squeeze. Just rested his hand there, warm and solid, thumb brushing the inside of your leg in a slow, barely‑there stroke that made your breath catch.
From the front seat, Jia hummed in agreement along to something from the podcast.
You darted a glance sideways.
Wonbin’s eyes were still closed, lashes resting on his cheeks. The picture of innocence.
“You’re not sleeping,” you muttered under your breath.
His mouth twitched. “I’m resting my eyes,” he said quietly.
“You should try being more slick,” you hissed.
“And you should take a chill pill,” he replied.
You wanted to smack him.
Instead, your iron-clad grip on the seatbelt faltered for a moment—just long enough to slide the jacket closer on your lap. You let your hand meet his underneath.
His fingers stilled, then laced with yours.
You squeezed, once.
He squeezed back.
A slow, helpless smile tugged at your lips as the miles stretched ahead, the road unspooling toward the city and whatever came next.
You’d come on this trip determined to prove he was exactly who you thought he was.
Turns out, you’d been wrong.
And for the first time, that didn’t feel like a loss.
It felt like the start of something.
You kept your eyes on the road, his hand warm in yours beneath the jacket, and let yourself be a little bit excited about the new beginning waiting for you on the other side of the drive.
Genre: s m u t , friends to lovers 😽, kinda fluffy too
WC: 5.7K
Warnings: 18+ content (pls don't be reading shit ur not old enough to be doing :), this is pretty soft core tbh, unprotected seggs (be safe out there y'all)
Synopsis: You and Mark have always been friends. You've never considered being anything more, until feelings, realizations, and the desire to be wanted leads to something special.
You don’t mean to stay this late.
You never really do. It just…happens.
By the time you’re aware of the clock, it’s already close to midnight. The city outside Mark’s apartment hums in that oddly soothing way it does at night—distant traffic like ocean waves, the sharp wail of a siren somewhere blocks away, a thump of bass from a neighbor’s questionable music taste filtering through the walls.
Inside, it’s warm. Soft. Safe.
Mark’s place isn’t big, but it’s cozy in a way that feels almost unfair. A couple of mismatched lamps cast a honey-colored glow across the living room, catching on the framed prints he swore he’d hang straight one day and the books stacked in uneven piles near the coffee table. The couch is a little too old and a little too soft, but it’s perfect for sinking into after long days, which is exactly what you’re both doing.
You’re curled up against one end, socked feet half-buried under a blanket. Mark is beside you, one knee up, arm slung along the back of the couch in that easy, thoughtless way he always does when it’s just you. His hoodie hangs loose on your frame, sleeves covering your hands, the faint scent of his laundry detergent and something undeniably him clinging to the fabric.
The TV plays some random show you started twenty minutes ago and promptly stopped paying attention to.
This isn’t unusual.
Your spare toothbrush lives in his bathroom. One of your old sweatshirts is draped over the back of his desk chair. There’s a half-empty bottle of your favorite sauce in his fridge because he remembered you said you liked it once. The edges of your lives have been blurring for a while now, your things quietly migrating into his space like they belong here.
Mark notices all of it.
He notices the way your shoulders drop as soon as you step through his door, like you left the whole world in the hallway. The way you tuck your feet under his thigh for warmth. How his hoodie dwarfs you, the sleeves slipping over your fingers. How right it looks—your body, your laughter, your scent—tucked into the little corners of his apartment.
He tells himself it’s normal. Friends get comfortable with each other. Friends share hoodies. Friends leave toothbrushes. Friends know exactly which crack in the ceiling the other person stares at when they can’t sleep.
Still, his gaze lingers.
On the curve of your cheek as the TV light flickers across your skin. On the way your lips twitch when something almost makes you laugh. On the soft line of your throat when you tilt your head back against the couch.
You shift closer, your shoulder bumping his. The contact is casual, familiar, the kind that’s been happening for so long that neither of you really registers when it started. Once upon a time, you would have been hyperaware of something this intimate.
Now? It’s just…how you are.
Your feet end up in his lap like they always do, ankles crossed, blanket draped sloppily over both of you. He doesn’t think before resting his hands lightly on your calves, thumbs tracing idle patterns over the fabric of your sweats.
You sigh. It’s a little sound, small and content.
His chest tightens.
On-screen, some character is crying about heartbreak, about being tired of trying with people who never see them. You’re only half-listening, the dialogue washing over you, but a line cuts through the haze:
“I’m just so tired of being everyone’s almost.”
Your breathing goes quiet beside him. He feels, more than sees, the way you still.
Without meaning to, you and Mark both turn toward the TV at the same time. You catch each other in your peripheral vision and your gazes snag—just for a heartbeat. Long enough for something to flash between you, quick and indefinable.
You look away first. He does, too, pretending to focus on the screen again. The show continues, laugh track blaring at something neither of you find that funny.
The unspoken thing settles between you like a third presence on the couch.
It’s a weeknight. That’s the excuse.
Most of your mutual friends are busy, working late or out with other people. You had tentative plans to go out earlier—maybe hit that bar downtown, maybe grab dessert somewhere—but when the time came, you were both somehow too tired, too worn around the edges.
“Your place?” you texted.
“Always,” Mark replied, before he had time to talk himself out of how much he meant it.
Then the rain started.
Now, outside his windows, it streaks down in silver sheets, tapping against the glass and making the city feel smaller, quieter. The world shrinks to the glow of his lamps, the low murmur of the TV, the warmth under the shared blanket.
It feels like being in a cocoon. Like the rest of your life is on pause.
You’re tired. The weight of the day has your body heavy and boneless, your thoughts soft at the edges. At some point, you shift again, pulling your feet from his lap to stretch out along the couch. There’s not enough room for both of you to lie down fully, but that’s never stopped you.
“Move,” you mumble, nudging at his side.
He huffs a laugh. “You move.”
You kick his thigh, no real force behind it. “I’m exhausted, Mark. I’m claiming horizontal rights.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically, but he shifts anyway, twisting so he’s sitting more upright, knees bent to make space. You scoot, rearrange, and somehow you end up with your head sliding into his lap, the side of your face pillowed against his thigh.
You’ve done this before. Late nights. Early mornings. After parties when the room tilted a little too much.
But tonight, it feels different.
His breath stutters when your cheek settles on him, warm and familiar. Your hair fans out over his legs, a few strands tickling his fingers where they hover, uncertain, above you.
You notice the hesitation.
“Comfortable?” you ask without looking up, voice blurred with exhaustion.
Mark wets his lips. “Yeah.” He clears his throat when it comes out rougher than expected. “Yeah, you’re good.”
He lets his hand drop.
His fingers find your hair like they always do. It’s easy, absentminded at first—just smoothing a flyaway here, gently combing through the strands there. Your body relaxes even more, a soft hum of appreciation escaping you.
His fingertips trace the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. It’s innocent. It’s always been innocent. Just touch, just grounding, just comfort.
Tonight, it burns.
He doesn’t know what changed. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
Conversation drifts the way it often does at this hour.
You talk about work. About that coworker who chews too loudly in meetings. About the neighbor in your building who insists on doing laundry at 2 a.m. You complain about the app that keeps crashing on your phone and the podcast you’re trying to get into but can’t.
Eventually, inevitably, it circles back to the same topic it always does when the night gets late and the rain gets heavy:
Dating.
“Tell me again about your latest Hinge tragedy,” you mumble, eyes half-closed.
Mark snorts. “Tragedy is a strong word.”
“You literally texted me ‘this is a tragedy’ last week.”
“Well, okay, that one was bad,” he concedes. “In my defense, she told me her favorite hobby was waking up at five a.m. to ‘optimize her productivity cadence.’”
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “People like that are why I don’t go outside.”
“Yeah, well, maybe if I had better standards—”
“Your standards are fine,” you cut in. “Your taste is just…questionable.”
He gives your hair a little tug at that. You yelp, swatting vaguely at his knee.
“Ow. Rude.”
“You were rude first,” he says mildly, but there’s a smile in his voice.
You fall quiet for a moment, the air between you thickening with the weight of things unsaid. The show continues to play in the background, a meaningless noise you’re both using as cover.
You speak again, but your tone is different this time—softer, more raw.
“Honestly?” you sigh. “I’m just tired.”
“Tired of what?”
You stare at the television without seeing a single frame. “All of it. Swiping, small talk, pretending to be interesting to people who clearly don’t care. It’s like…no one really sees you, you know? They see whatever they want to project, and then the second you’re a real person with real baggage and weird habits, they’re out.”
His fingers pause in your hair.
You keep going, the words spilling out now that you’ve started.
“I don’t even need some big epic thing,” you murmur. “I just…miss being wanted. Like, really wanted. Not ‘you’re convenient’ or ‘you’re fun for now,’ but—”
You falter, searching for the right words.
“Like someone looks at you and thinks, ‘That. I want that. I want you,’ and they actually mean it.”
Your voice dips, quiet and fragile.
“I just…miss feeling like someone wants me.”
Mark goes very, very still.
His hand rests against your temple, fingers threaded gently in your hair. He stares at the TV without seeing it, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache.
He wants to say, I do.
I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember what it’s like not to.
The words swell in his chest, a pressure that has nowhere to go.
He doesn’t say them.
“Yeah,” he manages instead, his voice low. “I get that.”
You huff a humorless little laugh. “Do you? Because you actually get matches. People want you.”
He glances down at you, at the side of your face pressed against his thigh. “People want…some version of me,” he says. “The easygoing guy. The one who makes decent playlists and shows them new food spots. But that’s not the same as…you know. Wanting someone.”
You swallow. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Silence settles over you again, but it’s not empty.
It’s thick. Charged.
You think about all the almosts you’ve had. The dates that were fine, but not enough. The people who liked your jokes but flinched away from your bad days. The ones who called you “too much” or “not enough,” never pausing to consider you might be exactly right for someone else.
Beside you, Mark thinks about every time he’s swallowed back something he wanted to say around you. Every time he’s stopped himself from reaching out, from pulling you closer, from pressing his mouth to your forehead when you fell asleep on his couch.
He thinks about the night, months ago, when you’d both stumbled back here after a party, laughter bubbling between you, your hand in his. How you’d stopped in his doorway, faces inches apart, your breath warm against his lips.
He remembers the way your gaze dropped to his mouth.
He remembers the way his heart stuttered, the way every cell in his body leaned forward.
He remembers the phone ringing—some drunken friend asking where you were, if you’d gotten home safe—and how the moment snapped like a rubber band.
He remembers pretending that was nothing, too.
The TV is still going, but neither of you is watching.
Your eyes have slipped closed, but you’re not asleep. Just floating in that strange space where your mind is both sharp and soft, more honest than it would be in daylight.
Mark’s touch changes.
It’s subtle at first. His fingers move slower, less like idle habit and more like intention.
He traces the shell of your ear, the curve of your jaw. The pads of his fingers linger at the corner of your mouth, just long enough to make you catch your breath. He drags a thumb lightly along the side of your throat, feeling your pulse skitter under your skin.
Your heart thumps faster.
You don’t open your eyes, but you tilt your head the tiniest bit into the contact. Just enough to say, I feel this. Just enough to say, I’m not pulling away.
He notices.
He’s always noticed you.
“Mark?” you murmur.
“Yeah?” His voice comes out rough.
You hesitate. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth.
“Do you ever think,” you start, then stop.
He waits.
You swallow. “Do you ever think maybe we’re just…meant to be lonely together? You, me, your terrible Netflix recommendations.”
He huffs a small laugh, but the sound is unsteady. “My Netflix recommendations are elite, actually.”
“Debatable,” you mumble. “But really. Sometimes it feels like…maybe this is it. Maybe it’s just us. And that’s not…bad. It’s actually kind of…nice.”
You don’t see it, but your words hit him like a blow.
You don’t count, you mean.
When you talk about being alone, about not being wanted, about people not choosing you—you don’t mean him.
Because you’ve always had him. You always will.
He’s your constant.
Something in his chest twists, painfully tight and painfully sweet.
“You don’t count,” you add quietly, like you’re reading his mind. “You’re just…you.”
His hand stills in your hair.
You. Like a category of one. Like an exception to every rule.
He exerts every ounce of willpower he has not to say something that would change everything.
“Hey,” you say after a beat, your tone dipping, almost shy. “Can I ask you something kind of…dumb?”
He forces his lungs to work. “You can ask me anything.”
You bite your lip, gathering courage.
“Why do you…put up with me?” you ask softly. “Like, all of this. My late-night freakouts, my rants, my existential crises about snack choices. You always…show up. You always make space for me. Why?”
His throat goes dry.
“Because I care about you,” he says. It’s the simplest, safest truth he can offer.
“You care about a lot of people,” you murmur.
“Not like this,” he says before he can stop himself.
The words hang in the air, heavy.
Your eyes open.
For the first time in a while, you tilt your head back enough to really look up at him. His face is bathed in the dim gold from the lamp, shadows cutting across his cheekbones, his mouth pressed into a thin line like he’s holding something back.
“Mark,” you say quietly.
His gaze flicks down to meet yours, then away, then back again. He swallows hard.
“You know I’d do anything for you, right?” he says, voice low, almost hoarse.
Your breath catches.
He doesn’t quite look at you when he says it. His gaze hovers somewhere over your head, like if he meets your eyes fully, he’ll give himself away.
Your heart is beating too fast now, each thud echoing in your ears.
“Anything?” you ask, half-teasing, half desperately serious.
He lets out a soft, unsteady laugh. “You have no idea,” he says under his breath.
Something in you clicks.
Pieces slide into place—little moments you brushed off or didn’t let yourself examine too closely. The way his hand always finds the small of your back in crowded places. The way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you’re answering a question he didn’t know he’d asked.
You shift, rolling carefully from your side so you’re half-turned in his lap, your body twisted to face him. The movement brings you closer, your faces a breath apart.
The TV is just noise now. The rain is just a blanket around the city.
Here, in this small, warm pocket of the world, it’s just the two of you.
You can feel his breath on your lips.
His gaze keeps dropping to your mouth, then back to your eyes, like he’s fighting himself. His fingers flex in your hair, the slightest tremor betraying how hard he’s trying to stay in control.
“Mark,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
“If this is…nothing,” you say slowly, “you’re doing a terrible job pretending.”
His lips part.
He laughs once, a quiet, broken sound. When he speaks, it’s barely more than air.
“You have no idea,” he repeats.
Your chest tightens, nerves lighting up like a live wire.
“Then don’t pretend,” you say.
The words leave your mouth before you can second-guess them.
For a split second, everything stops.
His eyes search yours, frantic, disbelieving, hopeful, scared. Like he’s waiting for you to laugh, to say you’re joking, to snatch the floor out from under him.
You don’t.
You stay right where you are, your hand coming up to rest lightly on his chest. You feel his heart slam against your palm, wild and stuttering.
He inhales sharply.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, touch reverent. He leans in, slow enough to give you every chance to pull away.
“Mark,” you breathe.
“Tell me to stop,” he repeats, voice barely there now, his forehead dipping to rest against yours.
You don’t say stop.
You lift your chin just a fraction instead.
It’s all he needs.
The first brush of his mouth against yours is almost nothing.
A ghost of a kiss. A question.
Your eyes flutter shut. Your fingers curl into his hoodie, knuckles pressing against his chest. He tastes like the soda you shared earlier and something warm and familiar that’s just him.
He pulls back a millimeter, just enough to look at you. Your breaths mingle in the narrow space, your noses almost touching.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod, the movement tiny, shaky. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Are you?”
He huffs a silent laugh that trembles. “Not even a little,” he admits. “But I don’t want to stop.”
“Then don’t,” you murmur.
This time, when he kisses you, it’s not quite so timid.
It’s still soft at first—careful, almost reverent. His lips move against yours like he’s memorizing the shape, the texture, the way you breathe out a tiny sound whenever he changes the angle.
Then something gives.
Maybe it’s the way your hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. Maybe it’s the little sigh that escapes you when his thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw. Maybe it’s simply the weight of every moment you’ve both spent wanting this without admitting it.
Whatever it is, the kiss deepens.
It turns urgent. Messy.
Your mouth parts under his, and his response is immediate, like he’s been waiting for years for that one small invitation. His other arm wraps around your waist, hauling you closer, somehow impossibly closer, until you’re half in his lap, the blanket slipping to the floor unnoticed.
You gasp quietly against his lips as your bodies press together, every inch of you alive and humming.
He breaks away just long enough to drag in a sharp breath, his forehead dropping to yours again.
“We’re supposed to be friends,” you whisper.
“We are,” he says, voice rough. “We still are.”
His thumb strokes your cheek, his eyes flicking between yours. “But I’ve…” He swallows hard. “I’ve wanted you for so long. I tried to be okay with just—this. With just being your friend. But every time you walk through that door, I—”
He cuts himself off, like he’s afraid if he keeps talking, he’ll say too much.
Your heart aches in a way that’s both terrifying and perfect.
“How long?” you ask quietly.
He lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “Long enough that I don’t remember when it started. Long enough that I can tell you exactly how you take your coffee and which movie you put on when you can’t sleep and the exact sound you make when you’re trying not to cry in front of people.”
Your throat tightens.
“If you don’t want this,” he says, his voice suddenly trembling, “if this is just—tonight, or because you’re lonely, or because I’m here—tell me now. Please. I’ll stop. I’ll pretend this never happened. I’ll—”
“Mark.”
You cut him off by leaning in and kissing him again.
The answer is in the way you press your mouth to his, in the way you sigh into him like your body finally found something it didn’t know it was searching for.
He makes a small, helpless sound, his hand tightening at your waist.
The kiss turns slower again, then deeper, then slow again, ebbing and flowing with all the things you’re both too overwhelmed to say.
You don’t remember when your hands slide under his hoodie, palms flattening against the warm skin of his back. You don’t remember when he shifts you fully into his lap, one arm firm around you, the other cradling your face like you’re something precious, breakable, irreplaceable.
Time blurs.
The world narrows to the drag of his lips, the rush of his breath, the way he whispers your name like a promise between kisses.
“I’ve thought about this,” he confesses against your mouth, words punctuated by soft, breathless kisses. “Every time you’re here, I—”
“Yeah?” you murmur, your forehead resting against his, your fingers curling in the fabric at his shoulders.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, voice low and raw.
Heat flares in your chest, in your cheeks, everywhere.
You don’t need the details. You don’t need the graphic edges. The intensity in his voice, the way his hands tremble slightly where they hold you, tells you everything.
His care is threaded through every movement.
“Is this okay?” he asks when his lips wander to your jaw, your throat. He presses slow, lingering kisses there, each one a question as much as a declaration.
“Yeah,” you whisper, your head tipping back in silent invitation. “More than okay.”
He exhales shakily, relief and want tangling together.
“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmurs. “If you want to slow down—”
“Mark,” you say softly, pulling back just enough to look at him.
His eyes search your face, pupils blown wide, vulnerability stark and open.
“I trust you,” you say simply.
Something in his expression crumples, then rebuilds itself into something even more tender.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”
The night stretches out.
Everything stays close, intimate. The couch. The low lamplight. Your bodies pressed together like you’re both afraid the other might vanish if you let any space open up between you.
His touch is reverent. Patient. Like every inch of you is something he’s been waiting a long time to trace, to memorize.
Your kisses break again and again—because you’re laughing softly against his mouth at some half-whispered joke, because you’re both breathing too hard, because he keeps pulling back to check your eyes, to make sure you’re still there with him.
You are.
You’re more here than you’ve been in a long time.
At some point, the couch becomes too small, too cramped. You don’t remember who suggests moving, or if it’s just a wordless agreement when he stands and you cling, your legs wrapped around his waist, his arms secure beneath you.
The bedroom is dim, the citylight leaking in through the curtains painting soft stripes across the bed he drops you on.
The feeling of Mark’s mouth, hot and wet on your skin, leaves your mind unravelling in spirals. You feel light, delicate and sensitive, unsure of the journey your bodies will take as they get lost in exploration of one another, but you’re eager and curious.
Almost effortlessly, his hoodie gets lifted off your body, leaving you bare and exposed. Under the scrutiny of his eyes, you feel shy, aware that he’s taking in a sight of you that’s never been revealed to him before.
A breath catches in your throat when his mouth connects with your chest. His tongue moves over your skin in a slow and controlled trail, wanting to savor every inch of you. He’s squeezing your waist, jaw fighting against biting down on your breasts. Your back curves instinctively, your body giving into him completely. You feel drunk on the warmth that courses through your nerves, all in response to him.
He moves lower, bringing a familiar pulse alive between your legs. The only thought circling your mind is that you want him like you’ve never wanted anything more. An almost greedy groan escapes him when your fingers meet his by the waistband of your sweats, helping him push them off and away.
His name is but a whisper on your tongue as his mouth finds the sweetest spot of you. Your brows furrow, the ache he had spurred within you dissipating the second he covets your taste. Wetness rushes through you, and he drinks it all up.
You tug on his hair as he makes you cry out for him. Somewhere in your daze, your eyes meet, telling him everything he needs to know. His fingers replace his mouth while he sits up, the tent in his pants a hint at what’s to come next.
Like any distance at all is unbearable, you reach for him, and he’s right there, fitting his mouth over yours once again. You can taste yourself on his tongue, a sensation that’s foreign yet so inviting. Under your palm, his jaw feels strong. His ears are hot to the touch, his entire body buzzing with a fervent energy that matches yours.
He spreads your legs and dips his hips to meet yours, his pants bunched carelessly by his knees, too impatient to take them off completely. His cock is heavy and throbbing against your cunt as he rubs between your folds. Then, finally, he pushes himself inside you.
Lips parted, shared gasps, eyes shut, the sensation makes you crumble underneath him. Gripping your waist in place, he buries his face in your neck, jerking his hips forward. Quiet curses fill your ear as he begins thrusting into you, his movements precise and deliberate.
You throw your head back, calling his name to give you more.
Everything that follows is slow and careful, threaded with breathy laughter and whispered names and the constant hum of, Is this okay? Are you okay? and your steady, gasped yes, yes, I’m okay, I’m with you.
It doesn’t feel filthy. It doesn’t feel wrong.
It feels like finally.
Like coming home to a place you didn’t know you’d been walking toward the entire time.
He flips you around, taking the time to completely undress himself now. Breathless, you wait for him, watching his every move from over your shoulder. His hand slips around you, holding you as close as he can as he enters you once more, pressing himself deep against the curve of your ass.
You reach for his cheek as his mouth splays wet kisses all over your shoulder. The intimacy of it all, the way he’s so gentle and passionate, it drives you crazy. He’s giving you so much and yet, you can’t get enough of it.
And neither can he.
The sudden rouse of his hips tells you all you need to know, and you’re there with him.
He lifts himself just slightly, skin slapping against yours in desperate vigor. Your moans spur him on, guiding him to the peak of ecstasy. He pulls out of you on instinct, fingers quick to wrap around his pulsing member as he releases onto your back, whining weakly.
Then, without missing a beat, he raises your hips in the air and pulls your body back to his mouth, tongue circling your clit until you’re squirming in a way that confirms the knot of pleasure that’s been tightening within you has finally snapped.
When he rises, you fall back into the mattress, the weight of your body finally registering in your mind. You feel him shift off the bed, only to be back moments later with a warm towel in tow, cleaning the traces of himself off of you.
You turn around lazily, breaking into a breathless grin when your eyes meet his. His gaze is full of endearment, his skin flushed, chest rising and falling stiffly.
“Mark…”
“Yeah?”
The words feel zealous coming from you, “That was perfect.”
He trades you a laugh in his usual embarrassed but agreeable way, handing you his hoodie that had fallen to the floor somewhere in all the chaos. You slip it on, carefully observing as he clothes himself partially and returns to your embrace.
The world eventually knits itself back together.
The rain has gentled to a soft patter outside. The sounds of the city have dulled to a distant murmur. The TV in the living room is still on, long forgotten, casting mute light across an empty couch and a discarded blanket.
In Mark’s bed, you lie tangled in the sheets, skin warm and a little damp, breaths slowly steadying.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
You’re on your side, facing him. The room is dim, but there’s enough light to see the details—the way his hair is mussed, the flush still lingering on his cheeks, the softness around his eyes.
You share a pillow, noses almost brushing.
He looks…young, suddenly. Unshielded. Like the Mark you see when he’s half-asleep on lazy weekend mornings, not the Mark the rest of the world gets.
His hand finds your waist under the sheet, fingers spreading over your skin with an unconscious possessiveness that makes your chest ache.
You let your own hand settle over his, threading your fingers between his.
He exhales, a small, disbelieving sound.
“You okay?” you ask quietly, echoing his earlier question.
He smiles, crooked and a little dazed. “Yeah,” he says. “Just…trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is real and not something I made up in my head at three a.m.”
Your heart stutters.
“How many three a.m.s have you spent thinking about this?” you ask gently.
He hums, pretending to consider. “Enough that if I told you the number, you’d bully me forever.”
You snort softly. “Rude of you to assume I’m not already going to bully you forever.”
His smile widens, the tension in his shoulders easing further.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I can live with that.”
He shifts closer, if that’s even possible, his forehead pressing to yours. You can feel the steady beat of his heart where your chests touch, solid and reassuring.
A quiet settles over you again, but it’s different now.
Not tense. Not filled with sharp, unspoken almosts.
It’s soft. Heavy with warmth.
“I don’t know what this means,” you admit after a while, voice barely above a whisper. “Like…for us. For everything. I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to lose you.”
His hand tightens around yours.
“You’re not going to lose me,” he says immediately, fiercely. “Hey. Look at me.”
You do.
His gaze is steady, even in the dim light.
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” he says, echoing the thought that’s been hovering in the back of your own mind.
There’s something about the way he says we—like it’s a promise. Like it’s a given.
“Tomorrow?” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he says. “We can…talk. Decide what we want this to be. Or try to, anyway. I’m probably going to be an idiot about it and you’re going to make fun of me and it’ll be a whole thing.”
You huff a soft laugh against his mouth. “Probably.”
“But…” He trails his thumb along the back of your hand. “You’re here. I’m here. You’re wearing my hoodie in my bed, and I can feel your heartbeat under my hand, and I’m not…imagining this.”
He lifts your joined hands to his lips and presses a slow kiss to your knuckles.
“For tonight,” he says quietly, “can it just be this? You and me? No labels, no panic. Just…this.”
You feel your eyes sting.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, I want that.”
His shoulders drop, some final thread of anxiety unwinding.
“Okay,” he says again, more to himself this time.
He moves in closer, tucking you against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One arm wraps around your waist, firm but gentle, hand resting at your hip. The other slips under the pillow, his fingers brushing your neck.
He holds you like he has no intention of letting go.
He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until you make a small, pleased sound and burrow in even further.
“Comfortable?” he asks, voice already going soft with impending sleep.
“Yes,” you mumble into his skin. “You’re warm.”
“So are you,” he replies, pressing a lazy kiss into your hair.
You feel him shift again a few minutes later. He slips away just long enough to grab a bottle of water from his nightstand and offers it to you.
“Here,” he says. “Drink.”
You take a few sips, hand trembling with leftover adrenaline and something like wonder. He watches you with that same soft, aching look in his eyes, like you’re something he’s not quite sure he deserves but can’t stop reaching for.
When you’re done, he sets the bottle aside and wipes a thumb gently under your eye, even though there’s nothing there.
“You’re staring,” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he says, unbothered. “I know.”
You smile, small and full.
Minutes pass.
Your breaths start to sync up. The city outside keeps moving—cars passing, lights flickering, people living entire lives beyond these walls.
Inside, the world has shrunk down to the warmth of his chest under your cheek, the slow circles his thumb rubs against your hip, the steady beat of his heart.
You’re almost asleep when you feel his lips brush your temple.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into your hair, so quiet you might have missed it if you weren’t pressed right against him.
You don’t know if he means tonight or tomorrow or every day after.
You decide to believe it’s all of them.
Your last coherent thought before sleep pulls you under is that for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like an almost.
You feel wanted.
Chosen.
Held.
The city lights leak in through the curtains, painting you both in soft silver. Outside, the world keeps humming. Inside, in the small, warm space of Mark’s apartment, you lie tangled together, his arms around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his grip.
Tomorrow will come. Questions, complications, conversations.
But tonight, there is only this:
You. Mark. The quiet between you, no longer empty but full.
And him holding you like he finally has what he’s been reaching for all along—and he has no intention of letting go.
Genre: kinda fluff, kinda suggestive, just barely sfw lol
WC: 3k
Synopsis: At a party, your friends set you and Sohee up with a cheeky game of 7 minutes in heaven.
The music is a little too loud and the apartment is a little too warm, but the energy in the air makes it hard to care. Laughter spills from the cramped living room, mixing with the bass of whatever playlist someone threw on earlier. Empty beer cans and half-finished soju bottles crowd the coffee table. Someone’s jacket is hanging off the back of the couch, precariously close to falling.
You’re perched on the arm of said couch, legs crossed, idly scrolling through your phone as your friends argue about whose turn it is to pick the next game.
“Truth or dare is boring,” Hana groans, flopping backward dramatically. “We already know too much about each other.”
“That’s because you keep making people choose truth,” someone complains from the floor.
You glance up, amused, just in time to catch a familiar profile across the room.
Lee Sohee is sitting on the floor with his back against the opposite wall, long legs folded awkwardly. He’s holding a cup with both hands like it’s a lifeline. His shoulders are slightly hunched, as if he’s trying to take up less space than he actually does. Dark hair falls over his forehead, almost covering his eyes, and he keeps pushing it back only for it to fall forward again.
He’s quiet, as usual. Watching. Listening. Occasionally smiling at something someone says, but never quite jumping into the center of the conversation.
Your mouth quirks.
You know him well enough by now to recognize the difference between uncomfortable and shy. Sohee is the latter: aloof to the point of seeming cold to people who don’t know him, but with a softness underneath that you’ve grown more and more aware of.
You’ve also grown more and more aware of how attractive that softness is.
“Alright,” declares Minjae, clapping his hands loudly enough to make a few people jump. “New game. Since you children can’t commit to anything—”
“Children?” Hana splutters. “You’re literally only a year older than me.”
“—we are playing,” he continues dramatically, ignoring her, “seven minutes in heaven.”
Groans, cheers, an impressed whistle. You raise an eyebrow, interest piqued.
“Seriously?” you ask. “What are we, fifteen?”
Minjae smirks. “You scared, Y/N?”
You smile back, slow and unbothered. “Should I be?”
The room erupts in teasing oohs. Minjae throws a cushion at you, which you dodge easily.
“We’ll use the laundry room,” suggests Jisoo, pointing down the hallway. “It’s the only room with a door that fully closes and doesn’t have people’s stuff all over the place.”
“And it locks,” someone adds.
You notice, out of the corner of your eye, Sohee shifting in his seat. His shoulders tense just enough for you to catch it. You resist the urge to walk over to him and poke fun at him for looking vaguely terrified.
“Okay, okay,” Minjae says. “We need a volunteer couple to go first.”
“I’ll go,” Hana announces immediately, raising her hand.
“Of course you will,” Jisoo mutters under her breath.
“I’m not going alone,” Hana continues. She scans the room, then points at the guy sitting beside Sohee, who nearly chokes on his drink.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” she insists. “Come on, Jihoon, don’t be a coward.”
Jihoon grumbles but stands, and there’s more cheering, more laughing, more half-drunken jeering. They head down the hallway amid dramatic commentary from Minjae. A minute later there’s the click of a door, muffled laughter, and the sound of someone twisting the lock.
Seven minutes, they say.
You’re not really paying attention to how long it actually is. You’re more focused on the way Sohee keeps avoiding everyone’s gaze, staring into his cup like it suddenly got interesting.
He looks up and accidentally locks eyes with you.
You grin.
He quickly looks away, the tips of his ears going pink.
Cute.
The door finally opens. Hana emerges first, hair slightly mussed, lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth. Jihoon follows, looking dazed and trying—and failing—not to grin.
“Well?” Minjae demands.
Hana just winks. “Trade secret.”
There’s more noise, more laughter, people calling them disgusting. You tip your head back and laugh with them, but your attention sharpens when Hana’s gaze sweeps the room and lands squarely on you.
Oh.
You see it then—the quick, conspiratorial look she shares with Jisoo. The way Minjae’s smirk grows just a little too smug.
This is a setup.
“Okay,” Hana says sweetly. “Next…” She pretends to think about it, tapping her lip with one finger. “Y/N.”
You blink, then huff a soundless laugh as everyone turns to look at you. “Me?”
“Don’t act so surprised,” someone snorts. “You’re always talking big.”
“Yeah, time to put your money where your mouth is,” Minjae adds.
You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. “Fine, fine. And my lucky partner is…?”
You already know the answer before Hana turns her head.
“…Sohee,” she finishes, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
The room collectively reacts. A handful of your friends howl in approval. Someone whistles. Another person gasps loudly just for effect.
Across from you, Sohee goes completely still.
His eyes widen, his hand tightening around his cup. You watch his throat bob as he swallows, like he’s trying to force down his surprise.
You’re shocked too—but only for a second. Then you’re grinning.
“Seriously?” you ask, though it’s more amused than protesting. “You guys are shameless.”
Jisoo leans closer to Hana, stage-whispering loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’re welcome.”
Your heart thumps once, hard. You’re not about to let them see that.
You slide off the arm of the couch and smooth your clothes down in a deliberately unhurried motion, then glance over at Sohee again. He’s staring at you with a look that could only be described as mortified.
“Come on,” you say, offering your hand as you approach him. “Rules are rules.”
He hesitates for half a second before putting his cup down and taking your hand. His palm is warm and a little damp, his grip careful like he’s worried about holding on too tight.
“Yah, Sohee, don’t die in there,” Jihoon calls out, grinning.
“Don’t break him,” Hana adds to you, smirking.
You wink over your shoulder. “No promises.”
That earns another round of laughter and teasing. You tug gently on Sohee’s hand, and he follows you down the short hallway like he’s heading toward his execution rather than a tiny laundry room.
The hall is quieter. The loud music and chatter of your friends dampen behind you, replaced by the hum of the refrigerator and the slightly echoing sound of your footsteps on the wooden floor.
You reach the laundry room door and push it open. The space is small: a washer and dryer stacked to one side, a narrow shelf lined with detergent and cleaning supplies, and a low, slightly sagging twin bed shoved against the wall—probably there to serve as a makeshift guest bed when needed.
You flick on the light. The room brightens with an almost too-harsh glow.
Then you turn to him.
“So,” you say, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe. “Do you want the lights on… or off?”
His eyes flick up to the lamp, then back to your face. You can see the debate happening in real time.
“Uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “We’re… really doing this?”
You tilt your head, watching him. “What, did you want to fake it?” you tease. “Tell them we kissed and then just stare at each other for seven minutes?”
Color floods his cheeks. “No, I just—” He fumbles for words, shoulders hunching slightly. “I mean, it’s—this is kind of… manufactured, right? Like they set this up.”
“Obviously.” You step closer, closing some of the distance between you. “But that just means we have an excuse. We might as well take advantage of it.”
His breath catches, eyes widening just a little.
“Unless,” you add lightly, watching his reaction carefully, “you don’t want to kiss me?”
The panic that flashes across his face is immediate and almost comical.
“No! I mean—” He winces at his own volume and lowers his voice. “I do. I… I want to.” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging it back from his forehead. “It’s just… weird, that they… forced it like this. That’s all.”
Your chest warms.
He’s not denying wanting you. He’s just awkward about the context.
You offer him a softer smile. “I get it,” you say. “But honestly? I’m not going to overthink it if you aren’t.”
He swallows. “Okay,” he says quietly.
You reach past him and flip the light switch off.
The room plunges into darkness, only the faint glow from the hallway sneaking in around the edges of the closed door.
“Better?” you ask.
He lets out a short, breathy laugh. “A little.”
You guide him toward the bed, your hand still wrapped around his wrist, fingers sliding down until you’re loosely holding his hand again. The mattress dips as you sit on the edge and tug gently.
He sits beside you, stiff as a board.
You can’t see his face clearly, but you can feel the tension radiating off of him. His hands are planted on his knees, fingers curled into the fabric of his jeans. Even in the dimness, you can see the way his knuckles stand out sharp and white.
“Nervous?” you ask softly.
He exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah.” There’s no point in him lying; it’s obvious.
You smile, even though he can barely see it. “Relax, Sohee. It’s just a kiss. We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”
“Easy for you to say,” he mutters.
You chuckle. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that?” you tease.
His head snaps toward you, even though the darkness hides his expression. “Don’t say things like that,” he mumbles, voice tight. “You’re just making it worse.”
You bite back a laugh. “Alright, alright. I’ll be nice.”
You shift closer, the side of your thigh brushing his. He goes rigid again.
“Sohee,” you say quietly.
“Mm?”
“Look at me.”
There’s a heartbeat of hesitation. Then he turns his head, and even without seeing him clearly, you can feel his attention on you.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmur. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers.
You feel him brace. His shoulders square. His hands press even more firmly into his knees. You can practically feel him squeezing his eyes shut.
You lean in slowly, giving him time to hear your breath getting closer. Your nose almost brushes his, your mouth hovering above his.
You pause just long enough to feel his breath hitch.
Then you close the distance.
Your lips touch his.
He goes completely still.
His mouth is soft and warm beneath yours, the faint taste of beer and something sweet lingering on his lips. You press gently at first, testing, the kiss slow and deliberate, intending to coax rather than rush.
He does not move.
His breath stutters, his whole body tensing like he’s afraid to do anything wrong. His hands are still glued to his knees. You feel the hammering of his heartbeat more than hear it, the way his chest rises and falls in a shallow pattern.
You pull back after a few seconds, your lips tingling.
He makes a small, involuntary sound—almost a whimper, surprised and unhappy at the sudden loss.
You can’t help it: you smile.
He blinks his eyes open, turning to you in the dark. You’re close enough that you can make out the faint lines of his face, the outline of his lips parted slightly.
“Why’d you stop?” he asks, genuine confusion threading through his voice. There’s a faint, almost petulant note under it, like he isn’t even aware how he sounds.
You huff out a quiet laugh.
“Because you weren’t responding,” you say, amusement clear. “Aren’t you going to kiss me back? Or do you not want to?”
He makes a strangled sound. “I—no, I do. I really do.” You can hear the mortification crawling up his throat. “I just… froze. Sorry. I…”
You shift closer, your knee pressing more firmly against his. “Don’t apologize,” you murmur. “Just… kiss me like you mean it. Okay?”
There’s a moment of silence. You can feel the weight of it, his decision hanging there.
“Okay,” he says finally, voice soft but sure.
You don’t move this time.
You let him.
You feel him inhale slowly, like he’s gathering courage. His hands unclench from his knees, fingers flexing in the empty air between you.
Then he leans in.
He moves carefully at first, like he’s afraid of bumping noses. His breath ghosts over your lips before his mouth finds yours again.
This time, he’s not frozen.
He presses in, firmer, lips moving tentatively against yours. He tilts his head just enough to fit better, the awkwardness giving way to something smoother as instinct kicks in.
You keep your eyes open to watch him until the very last second, a thrill sparking in your chest at how focused he looks even in the dimness. Then you let your eyes slide shut, hands resting loosely on your thighs as you meet him halfway.
He kisses you again, a little more confident this time. Your lips part slightly in response, and his breath stutters. You feel the tiny hitch, the way he hesitates but doesn’t pull away.
“See?” you murmur against his mouth. “You’re good at this.”
He makes a soft, embarrassed sound that could be a laugh.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, the word muffled by your lips.
You smile into the kiss, then lift your hands.
Your fingers find his face, palms cupping the angles of his jaw. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and you feel him jolt slightly at the contact, a tiny shiver running through him.
“Relax,” you whisper.
Then you deepen the kiss.
You angle his head with gentle pressure from your hands, slotting your mouth more firmly against his. Your lips move more deliberately, pulling, teasing, tasting.
He lets out a low, surprised noise into your mouth—half-groan, half-breath. You can feel his focus narrow to just this: your hands on his face, your mouth on his, the darkness pressing close around you.
He leans into you without meaning to, his body’s weight shifting your way. Your thumbs brush up along his cheekbones, and he inhales sharply, returning the kiss with a growing urgency that makes your pulse race.
The bed creaks when you both shift, the old frame complaining under the movement.
You break away just long enough to murmur, a little breathless, “Can I get on your lap?”
Silence. You can almost hear his brain short-circuiting.
“Y-yeah,” he finally says, voice a little strangled. “Yeah. Okay.”
You bite back a smile.
You push yourself up, feeling the mattress dip and shift. Your knees brush his as you move, fingers sliding from his jaw to his shoulders for balance. Then, slowly, you swing one leg over his lap and lower yourself down.
His breath catches audibly.
His thighs are solid under you, tense, every muscle tight like he’s trying desperately not to move in the wrong way. Your knees settle on either side of his hips, and the proximity makes your head spin for a second.
You’re close enough now that you can feel every shallow rise and fall of his chest against yours.
Your hands trail from his shoulders up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. The strands are soft and slightly damp from nervous sweat. He shivers when your nails graze his scalp.
“Sohee,” you say softly, your forehead nearly touching his.
“Mm?” His voice comes out hoarse.
“You can touch me, you know.”
It takes him a second.
Then his hands, which have been planted like anchors beside his thighs this entire time, finally move.
Slowly, cautiously, his fingers lift and find your thighs.
His touch is feather-light at first, barely there. His fingertips trace the outline where your clothes meet skin, then press a little more firmly, testing the weight, the warmth.
You smile, unseen in the dark.
Your chest brushes his with every breath. You can feel his heart pounding wildly beneath his ribs, the rhythm erratic, like it’s trying to beat its way out.
The way he’s trembling slightly under your touch sends a thrill down your spine.
You tilt your head and lean in again, capturing his mouth with yours.
This time, you don’t hold back.
You kiss him deeper, your lips moving with more insistence. You part your lips and let your tongue just barely slide along his lower lip.
He shudders.
For a second, he freezes again, caught off guard. Then something in him loosens. His fingers flex against your thighs and tighten, pulling you just a fraction closer.
You take that as permission.
Your tongue slips past his lips, brushing against his. The contact is light, a question more than a demand.
He answers.
Sohee exhales a hot, shaky breath into your mouth and responds shyly, his tongue meeting yours with a hesitance that melts quickly into curiosity. The kiss turns slow and searching, the awkwardness replaced by something more natural, more him.
You feel your own heartbeat climb, your body warming where it’s pressed against his. Your fingers curl tighter in his hair, and you tilt your hips just enough to feel him suck in a breath.
He groans quietly into the kiss, the sound low and involuntary.
You smile against his lips.
Your hands slide down from his hair to the back of his neck, thumbs brushing the line of his jaw. You can feel the tension there, the way he’s trying so hard to keep himself in check.
“God,” you murmur against his mouth, pulling back the tiniest bit to breathe, your lips still brushing his, “you really are good at this.”
He laughs once, weak and breathless. “You’re just saying that.”
“I’m really not.” You nip lightly at his lower lip. He inhales sharply. “You’re… surprising me.”
“I’m surprising myself,” he admits, voice low.
You slip your tongue over his again, slower this time, savoring the way he follows your lead. His fingers, once tentative on your thighs, grow bolder. His thumbs make small, nervous circles against your skin, like he can’t decide if he’s allowed to roam further.
Each small movement sends a little flare of heat up your spine.
His other hand edges from your outer thigh inward just a fraction. He swallows hard, as if he can feel every millimeter.
The room feels smaller, tighter, filled with the sound of your uneven breaths and the soft, wet slide of your mouths moving together. The rest of the world—the party, the music, the drunken laughter—fades to a distant, muffled blur.
It’s just you and him.
You’re not sure how long you stay like that—time stretches, loses shape. It could be a minute. It could be five. All you know is the way his mouth moves against yours, the way his hands slowly grow more assured, the way your chest presses to his every time you inhale.
Then there’s a sharp knock on the door.
You both jolt.
“Times up!” Minjae’s voice singsongs from the other side. “No extra credit!”
You pull back, breathing hard, your forehead resting against Sohee’s for a second as you catch your breath. You can feel his lungs working overtime.
Slowly, you straighten up.
He reluctantly drops his hands from your thighs, like he has to force them to let go. You lift yourself off his lap, the mattress creaking in protest as your weight shifts.
In the darkness, you can’t see the full extent of his expression, but you can see enough: the flushed cheeks, the swollen lips, the wide eyes that won’t quite look away from you.
You smile, though your own heart is still racing.
“Guess that’s our cue,” you say lightly.
He reaches up and rakes his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it back into place. It’s pointless; you’ve thoroughly messed it up. His hand shakes faintly.
You find the light switch and flip it on. The sudden brightness makes both of you squint.
You take him in properly now—the disheveled hair, the parted lips, the dazed look. The sight sends a little rush of satisfaction through you.
You offer him a cheeky shrug. “We should probably go before they start making up stories worse than what actually happened.”
His mouth opens, then closes again. He nods, slowly, and stands on slightly shaky legs.
You reach for the doorknob.
He falls into step behind you.
As you pull the door open, the noise from the living room rushes back in: loud music, laughter, the unmistakable sound of your friends getting way too invested in a game that really should have stayed in middle school.
You step out first, schooling your expression into something breezy.
Sohee emerges a second later, one hand still hurriedly smoothing his hair, the other hanging stiffly at his side. His cheeks are still a little red.
The room erupts.
“Oooh!”
“Look at them!”
“Damn, you two took your time.”
“Rate it out of ten!”
Hana leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Well?” she asks, gaze flicking between you and Sohee. “Did you enjoy your seven minutes?”
You glance at him.
He’s looking everywhere but at the group, but his eyes flick to you for a split second.
You catch his gaze.
You smile.
“Yeah,” you say lightly, turning back to the others. “We really did.”
There’s another wave of shouts and laughter, people demanding details you have no intention of giving them. You throw a teasing remark back at Hana, something about her setting a high standard to live up to, before letting the subject drift to the next pair of victims.
In the middle of the chaos, you feel a light brush against your elbow.
You glance to the side.
Sohee is there, closer than before, voice low enough that only you can hear.
“Um,” he says, cheeks still pink but eyes steadier now. “About earlier.” He swallows. “I… meant it.”
You blink. “Meant what?”
“That I wanted to,” he says, looking at you directly this time. “Kiss you. It wasn’t just because of the game.”
Your pulse skips.
You let a slow smile curve your mouth. “Good,” you murmur. “Because we don’t need a game next time.”
His breath catches.
“Next time?” he echoes.
You bump your shoulder lightly against his. “If you want there to be.”
For a second, the noise of the party seems to fade, just a little.
Then, slowly, that soft, shy smile you’ve always liked spreads across his face.
“I do,” he says quietly.
And you decide—without overthinking it—that seven minutes in a cramped laundry room was nowhere near enough.
Synopsis: Y/n has spent her entire life orbiting her radiant best friend, Yeonseo—content to be “Yeonseo’s friend” and nothing more. When Yeonseo starts dating Jungwon, a quietly observant basketball player, Y/n is pulled into their shared circle and discovers, for the first time, what it feels like to be seen for herself. As Jungwon and Yeonseo’s relationship fractures over mismatched ideas of love, Y/n’s bond with Jungwon deepens into something dangerous: secret feelings, a stolen kiss, and a web of half truths meant to protect everyone that instead end up hurting them all.
“I can’t pretend anymore.”
That sentence had been looping in my head so long it no longer sounded like words. It was just a pressure behind my eyes as I stood in the middle of the crowded hallway, pressed up against a line of lockers like I could disappear into the metal.
Ahead of me, the hall seemed to curve around a center that wasn’t me.
I watched Yeonseo laugh at something Jungwon said, her head tipping back, ponytail swishing. Her laugh carried above the general noise—that kind of easy, bright sound people turned toward without meaning to. Around them, the flow of students split and reformed as if they were a rock in a river: classmates, teammates, random kids from other grades who didn’t know them but knew of them.
I hugged my books tighter and looked away.
I was used to being on the outside of circles like that. It had always been that way: me at the edge, watching her in the middle. I’d been in Yeonseo’s shadow for as long as I could remember. It never used to bother me. If anything, her brightness shielded me. I could follow a few steps behind, walk in the outline of her shape, and quietly exist. I told myself that was enough.
Lately, though, the space between us felt less like a shadow and more like an actual gap—one that kept stretching, day by day.
“Y/n!”
My name pulled me back. I glanced up.
Yeonseo was waving me over, eyes warm, face still flushed from laughing. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other in the air like a tiny sun I’d been invited into. Beside her, Jungwon leaned against the lockers, tall and relaxed, his basketball bag slung over one shoulder.
“There you are,” she said when I reached them, like I’d been missing for hours instead of minutes. “You always vanish between classes. We should just tie a string around you or something so I don’t lose you.”
I managed a small smile. “I don’t think that’s allowed. Pretty sure the school handbook says no human leashes.”
She laughed and, in one smooth motion, slipped her arm through mine and pulled me closer. I could feel a faint sheen of sweat on her skin from rushing between periods. She smelled like citrus shampoo and the cafeteria’s over‑buttered toast.
“You remember Jungwon, right?” she asked.
Jungwon nodded politely. “Hey.” His voice was lower than I remembered from the times I’d heard him shouting on the court.
“Hi,” I murmured, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
I remembered him, of course. We’d been in the same year for a while, and I’d seen him around—mostly on the basketball court, or surrounded by teammates, or asleep on his desk before homeroom. He’d been around our classroom more often recently. At first, I thought it was just because there was a practice room nearby or because he had some project with another classmate.
Then I realized: Yeonseo was dating him now.
The athlete everyone liked. The one people stopped to watch when he played; the one girls whispered about in the bathroom mirror, trading rumors about his last game or who he might like.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
Over the next few weeks, school began to feel like one long, empty stretch of time with a few bright interruptions I wasn’t sure I belonged in.
When the final bell rang, I walked home alone more often than not. It wasn’t that Yeonseo had suddenly abandoned me. Sometimes she had committee meetings or practice. Sometimes she wanted to stay behind and talk with her new friends. Sometimes she and Jungwon left together, shoulders brushing as they disappeared down the hallway.
In our group chats, the familiar back‑and‑forth that used to be just the two of us was now layered with names I didn’t recognize and inside jokes I hadn’t been present for. Messages scrolled by faster, full of stickers and emojis and references to places I hadn’t gone, conversations I hadn’t heard.
I told myself it was fine. People grow. People date. People get busier. I was just being childish.
But one afternoon, as we sat on a bench under the cherry trees behind the gym, petals gathering in the folds of my skirt, even Yeonseo seemed to notice.
“You’ve been weird lately,” she said.
She was peeling the label off her bottle of orange juice, edges of paper piling in her hand. Her brows had that tiny pinched line they got whenever she was thinking too hard about something.
“Did I do something?” she asked.
A breeze pushed a strand of hair into my face. I tucked it behind my ear, staring at the cracks in the pavement. There was a loose thread on my skirt hem, and I picked at it like I could pull my restlessness all the way out through that single thread.
“No,” I said. “I’m fine.”
She frowned. “That’s exactly what people say when they’re not fine.” She straightened up, turning fully toward me, knee bumping mine. “Seriously. Tell me. I can’t fix something if I don’t know it’s broken.”
The words sat in my throat, heavy and jagged. I didn’t want to sound clingy or pathetic. I didn’t want to sound like I couldn’t survive without her.
But pretending hurt more.
“I just…” I stared at the ground until the shapes blurred. “I miss you.”
She blinked. “You see me every day.”
“Yeah, but not really.” I swallowed. My voice felt too big for my mouth. “You’re always with other people now. With him. With his friends. I know that makes me sound selfish, but I don’t know how to…fit anywhere else.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. I could hear shouts from the gym behind us, the thud of balls, and a whistle blowing. A petal landed on the toe of my shoe and trembled there.
Then I felt her hand cover mine.
“Y/n,” she said softly. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
“Because it’s stupid.” I huffed out a laugh that didn’t sound like one.
“It’s not,” she said, squeezing my fingers. “I don’t want you to feel left out. Actually, I was thinking about this. I could introduce you to my other friends properly. To Jungwon’s friends. You always just stand at the edge like you’re about to run away.”
“That’s because I am about to run away,” I muttered.
She laughed, bumping her shoulder against mine. “You won’t have to if they’re your friends too. Let’s fix this, okay? I don’t want you to feel lonely.”
Her certainty settled into me like warmth I wasn’t sure I deserved.
Being introduced to Jungwon’s friend group felt like being placed in the middle of a circle I hadn’t asked to stand in.
“This is Y/n,” Yeonseo said at lunch one day, her voice bright. “My best friend since forever.”
We were at one of the bigger tables in the cafeteria. Trays crowded the surface: half‑eaten rice, bowls of soup, the inevitable pile of kimchi on someone’s tray that they never touched. Sunlight from the high windows pooled on the scratched plastic.
A few of the boys nodded. One of them, I remembered vaguely from seeing him on the court, grinned and jerked his chin at the empty space. “Sit.”
I slipped into the seat beside Yeonseo, directly across from Jungwon. Up close, without the stage of the court between us, he seemed strangely normal—tired eyes, slightly messy hair, a faint red line on his arm where a ball had probably smacked him.
He didn’t talk much at first. Neither did I.
Around us, loud voices overlapped—arguments over which teacher was the worst, jokes only they understood, someone complaining about extra laps in practice. Every now and then, one of the guys would nudge another and say, “Hey, pass the kimchi, idiot,” and they’d start mock arguing again.
I listened. I nodded when it felt appropriate. I answered questions when someone asked me directly: what class I was in, whether I liked this teacher, whether I watched their games. I was quiet, but they didn’t push.
It surprised me how, little by little, the typical silence between me and Jungwon stopped feeling as heavy.
He’d ask how my classes went. I’d ask about his upcoming games. Sometimes he’d complain about his coach; sometimes I’d complain about group projects where I ended up doing everything.
And sometimes, after school, the three of us would go to a café or the convenience store by the bus stop or just wander aimlessly until we reached someone’s neighborhood. It always started with “I’ll walk with you,” and ended with, “Oh, I guess I kept going,” until our routes split and we realized how far we’d gone without noticing.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” he said once as we walked home, plastic bags swinging at our sides. Yeonseo was a few steps ahead on a phone call, gesturing wildly as she talked.
I glanced at him, suddenly nervous. “Is that…bad?”
He shook his head. “Nah. It’s just different. Everyone around here shouts over each other. It’s kind of nice that you don’t.”
I wasn’t sure what to do with that, so I just smiled faintly and looked back at the road.
One evening, a message from Jungwon popped up on my phone.
Jungwon: hey, do you have a sec?
Me: yeah?
Jungwon: i want to do something for yeonseo’s birthday
Jungwon: like a surprise
Jungwon: but i’m bad at that kinda stuff lol
Jungwon: can you help??
My stomach tightened with nerves, but my fingers were steadier than my heartbeat.
Me: sure. what were you thinking?
We ended up meeting at a small bakery near the station to plan. The place smelled like warm bread and sugar. The display case glowed with rows of cakes and tarts. Watching him agonize over which cake flavor she’d like best made me realize how much I knew about her.
“She doesn’t like overly sweet things,” I said automatically. “Strawberry shortcake is safe. But if there’s too much cream, she’ll scrape some off. So this one.” I pointed.
“Right,” he said, nodding like I’d given him secret intel. “You’d know better than me.”
Hearing that should have made me feel secure, like I had a permanent, irreplaceable place in her life. Instead, something jittery moved under my ribs.
We bought decorations from the discount store down the street, argued over which playlist she’d like, reserved a table at her favorite restaurant, and spent hours texting her other friends to coordinate who would arrive first.
Somewhere between carrying bags of streamers and choosing between two nearly identical gift bags, I found myself talking.
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know who I am without her,” I admitted as we walked to the bus stop, arms full of party supplies. The plastic bags bit faintly into my fingers. “We’ve always just…been together. People know me as ‘Yeonseo’s friend.’ Not as…anything on my own.”
He glanced at me, his expression softer than usual. “Is that why you were upset before?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged, my shoulders curling in. “It’s not her fault. I just don’t know how to be any other way.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being close to someone. Or depending on them sometimes. But…it would suck if you thought you were nothing without them.”
“I don’t think I’m nothing,” I said quickly, then faltered. “I just don’t know who I am outside of ‘with her.’”
He didn’t push. His words stuck with me the rest of the night, even as we messaged back and forth about candle colors.
When the surprise finally unfolded—lights flicking on as Yeonseo walked into the decorated room, everyone shouting “Happy birthday!”—her eyes went wide, then wet. The room was a blur of balloons, laughter, and the smell of food.
“Did you do all this?” she asked later, pulling me aside, her voice thick.
“Jungwon did,” I said. “I just helped.”
She hugged me so suddenly I almost dropped the cup in my hand.
“I don’t deserve you,” she murmured into my shoulder.
I didn’t know then how much I’d cling to those words later, turning them over and over like a charm I’d eventually crack.
After most people had gone home, Jungwon found me outside, leaning against the railing. The night was cool; the music inside was muffled by the door.
“Hey,” he said. “Thank you. Really. I couldn’t have done that alone.”
“It was nothing,” I said automatically
“It wasn’t.” He studied me for a long moment, as if trying to see past my shrug. “You always know what she needs.”
I looked down at my shoes. “I grew up learning it.”
He smiled a little. “You did good today, Y/n.”
Something warm flickered in my chest, small but insistent.
The three of us were closer after that. At least, that’s how it looked from the outside.
We ate lunch together almost every day. We shared stupid memes in a group chat, the notifications lighting up my screen late into the night. I watched as people teased Yeonseo and Jungwon for being “disgustingly cute” and rolled my eyes when she pretended to be offended but leaned into his side anyway.
One afternoon, while we were eating in the courtyard, a girl from another class leaned over from the next table.
“Yeonseo,” she said, smirking, “how’s it going with your boyfriend?”
“Do you love him?” someone else asked, half‑teasing, half‑serious.
She hesitated—just long enough that even I noticed.
“I…maybe?” she said finally. “I really like him. A lot.”
The table erupted.
“Whoa, love!”
“Already?”
“Have you guys kissed yet?”
Yeonseo flushed, pressing her palm to her cheek. “That’s private.”
“C’mon, just tell us!” someone whined.
She peeked at Jungwon, who scratched his cheek, looking vaguely embarrassed but not exactly protesting. Then she sighed.
“Fine. We kissed before we even started dating,” she admitted.
That set off a whole new round of squealing.
They demanded details. Yeonseo gave in, telling them about the day she and Jungwon ran into each other at a festival game booth—how he’d helped her win a stuffed toy because the stall owner was clearly cheating her, how they’d ended up walking around together after that, how, after moments of private feelings, one thing had led to another at the edge of the fireworks crowd.
As she described the moment—how nervous she’d been, how he’d leaned in, how their friends had yelled in the background—I felt everything slow down around me.
In my head, I rewound the memory I didn’t have.
I imagined standing where she had been, feeling his breath ghost over my lips, hearing the noise around us fade. I imagined being the one he looked at that way.
And then I hated myself for it.
A few days later, Yeonseo stayed late after school to help decorate for an upcoming event.
“Go ahead without me,” she told us, wiping her hands on a roll of tape, streaks of marker on her fingers. “I’ll be here forever if I don’t finish this.”
“You sure?” Jungwon asked, lingering near the doorway.
“Yeah. You two can walk home together.” She winked. “Keep each other company. Make sure Y/n doesn’t get lost in her thoughts.”
Her joke lodged in my throat like a stone.
As we left the school gates, the evening light was soft and gold. Our footsteps echoed in sync on the pavement. Usually, if it was just the two of us, either one of us filled the silence quickly with small talk. That day, the quiet stretched, taut and humming.
I thought about that first kiss she’d described, wondering if I would’ve had a chance with him if I’d been braver the day we first met—if I’d talked more, smiled more, been more like her.
“Should I be worried?” he asked suddenly.
I blinked. “About what?”
“You’ve been quiet,” he said. “Quieter than usual.”
“I’m always quiet,” I deflected.
“Yeah, but this feels like a different quiet.” His tone was light, but his eyes were searching my face.
“I was just thinking,” I lied. “About exams.”
He studied me for a second longer, then nodded. “Makes sense. They’re coming up fast.” He didn’t push. I was grateful—and annoyed at myself for wishing he would.
Still, that night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, all I could think about was him. The way he listened when I spoke. The way he remembered small details I’d mentioned once. The way my chest tightened uncomfortably whenever he smiled at me.
Guilt pooled in my stomach like lead.
I knew it was wrong. He was my best friend’s boyfriend. There were rules—unspoken but understood. I’d always believed I would never be that kind of person.
And yet, whenever I tried to remind myself of that, my mind slipped back into daydreams where he looked at me like I mattered the way she did.
When Jungwon’s big basketball game rolled around, the gym buzzed with noise. Banners waved from the bleachers, sneakers squeaked on the polished floor, whistles shrilled every few seconds. The air smelled like sweat, floor polish, and the faint tang of the cheap snacks they sold at the entrance.
I stood near the back of the bleachers, clutching a plastic bottle of water and scanning the crowd for a familiar ponytail.
Yeonseo wasn’t there.
She hadn’t wanted to come.
Earlier that day, her voice had cracked when she told me why.
“I told him I loved him,” she said, perched on the edge of my bed, twisting the hem of my pillowcase. “And he just…couldn’t say it back. He said he still wanted to date, but he wasn’t sure yet. Like love is some exam he hasn’t studied for.”
I’d struggled for words. Part of me ached for her—for how brave she’d been, for how hard it must’ve been to hear that. Another part of me felt an ugly, invisible relief I couldn’t admit to anyone.
“That’s not…wrong of him,” I said slowly. “It’s honest. You can’t make someone feel something before they’re ready.”
Her eyes flashed. “You’re taking his side?”
“I’m not. I just—”
“You are,” she snapped, standing up so quickly the bed creaked. “You always think I’m the one overreacting. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
Later, she texted that she wasn’t going to the game. I can’t cheer for someone who made me feel that stupid, she’d added, then unsent it.
So I went alone.
When the final whistle blew and the team huddled in the center of the court, Jungwon’s eyes scanned the crowd. For a second, I could see the hope on his face—searching for someone who wasn’t there.
When he saw me, his shoulders relaxed, but there was a flicker of something else too: resignation.
He jogged over, still catching his breath, his hair damp with sweat.
“Where’s Yeonseo?” he panted.
“She…” I hesitated. “She didn’t want to be around either of us. I told her I understood where you were coming from.”
His expression shifted, a quick flash of disappointment and guilt. “Figures,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, though I wasn’t sure who I was apologizing for.
He shook his head, forcing a small smile. “Not your fault. Thanks for coming, though. Want to grab food? My treat. As a thank‑you for cheering.”
I knew I should have said no—for her, for me, for the thin line we were already walking.
But I was tired of being guided only by what I should do.
“Okay,” I said.
The restaurant was mostly empty: humming fluorescent lights, the faint echo of the TV playing some variety show in the corner. We sat in a worn red booth, steam rising from bowls of noodles between us.
“She’s really upset, huh,” he said, prodding his food.
“She feels…rejected,” I said. “Like she was risking everything by saying it, and she wanted you to jump with her. When you didn’t, it felt like she jumped alone.”
He sighed, chopsticks stilling. “I know. I just…can’t fake something like that. I tried to explain, but it came out wrong. It always does.”
“Have you ever been in love before?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He looked up, startled, then nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I have,” he said. “With my ex. She was my first love. We thought we could handle the distance when she transferred, but it fell apart. I tried so hard to keep it together. It still ended anyway.”
He stared at his soup like it might give him a different answer.
“After that, I didn’t know what love was supposed to look like anymore. Or if I even wanted it,” he continued. “With Yeonseo…it’s not that I don’t care. I like being with her. She’s fun and warm and everyone likes her. But when she said she loved me, I felt like I was back there again—about to promise something I didn’t fully understand. I don’t want to hurt her like that.”
“You’re not a bad person for being careful,” I said quietly.
He studied my face, searching for judgment and finding none.
“You always say the right thing,” he said.
“I don’t think she’d agree with that.”
“Maybe not,” he conceded, “but I do.”
On the way home, he walked me to my door even though it meant doubling back from his usual route. The street was still damp from an earlier drizzle; the pavement glistened under the streetlights.
“Can you not tell her everything I said?” he asked, stopping just short of my gate. “About my ex and all.”
“I won’t,” I said. “It’s your story.”
He nodded, looking oddly relieved. “Thanks. And…thanks for tonight. You made it easier to breathe.”
He left before I could answer.
The next day, Yeonseo cornered me by my locker, her eyes still slightly swollen from crying.
“I went to see him last night,” she said.
My heart sped up. We hadn’t talked much since the argument.
“We talked,” she continued. “I apologized. I realized I was kind of…forcing something. We’re still young. Maybe I don’t even know what love is yet.” She tried to smile. “All I know is that I like being with him. I don’t want to lose that because I’m impatient.”
“Did he forgive you?” I asked.
She nodded. “He said he’s been hurt before because of love, but he didn’t say much about that. Just that being with me reminds him he deserves to be loved. He wants to make me happy.”
Her voice wobbled. “Still…it feels a little different now. Like there’s a crack we’re both ignoring. But I’m scared that if I keep pushing, it’ll break completely.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. How could I tell her that from the outside, I could see both of their fears like a thin film neither of them could quite peel away?
Later, as we walked home together with Jungwon, I watched them from the corner of my eye. On the surface, they looked the same—teasing, bumping shoulders, stealing glances. But I could see the stiffness in Yeonseo’s smile, the way Jungwon’s laugh didn’t reach his eyes.
When we reached her house, she waved and left us at the corner.
“I’m glad you guys made up,” I told him as we continued down the street.
He frowned faintly. “Is she really okay? It didn’t feel like she was.”
“She’s…trying,” I said. “But she wasn’t satisfied with your answer.”
“I figured.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wish she could be more like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yeah. You understand that I’m still figuring things out. You don’t make me feel like I’m failing some test.”
“She just wants to be loved,” I said quietly. “She feels like she has everything else. She doesn’t see why she shouldn’t.”
“And what if I can’t give her that?” he asked.
“Then it’s not fair to either of you,” I said.
He fell quiet until we reached my house.
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” he asked suddenly.
I shook my head. “No. I think you’re just scared. And that you don’t want to repeat your past.”
He looked strangely moved. “I’m surprised you can still be this kind to me. I’m not exactly being fair to your best friend.”
“I care about her,” I said. “But I care about you too. You’re my friend now. I don’t want to choose between you.”
He let out a soft huff, something like a laugh. “You have a big heart, you know that?”
No one had ever told me that before. I wasn’t sure I believed it.
Weeks later, the inevitable happened.
“We broke up,” Yeonseo said one afternoon, her voice flat like all the emotion had drained out and left only the outline.
We were sitting on the swings at the park where we used to go as kids. The chains squeaked every time we shifted our weight. Little kids ran across the sand, their shouts carrying easily in the late afternoon air.
“He said we were both being selfish,” she continued. “That there was no point in pretending. I was willing to wait for him, but he said that would only burden him. That I deserved someone ready to love me now.” She scoffed. “He also said he couldn’t risk getting his heart broken again. As if I was about to stomp on it.”
I thought of how tense he’d been each time the word love came up, how careful he was not to step on what he couldn’t yet name. I didn’t know if he was wrong or right. I only knew that whatever line they’d been tiptoeing along had finally snapped.
“What did you say?” I asked quietly.
She dug the toe of her shoe into the dirt. “I told him he was a coward. That he wasn’t even giving us a chance. I said I wished I’d never tried so hard.”
The words hung between us, heavy.
Later that day, I got a message from him.
Jungwon: can we talk?
We met at the park, under the same tree where we’d once waited for Yeonseo to finish buying snacks.
“I told her it was for her sake,” he said, staring at the ground. “That she deserved better. But…honestly, I couldn’t take the pressure anymore. Everyone expecting us to be this perfect couple. Her expecting me to catch up to her feelings. Every time we hung out, I could feel how much she loved me, and I felt like a villain.”
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I broke up because I was overwhelmed. That’s the truth. Not because I was being noble.”
“You were still brave,” I said. “You chose what you could handle instead of lying and dragging it out. That doesn’t make you good or bad. Just honest.”
“Yeah, and now she hates me. And you’ll probably have to stop talking to me too, since she needs someone on her side.”
“No,” I said quickly. “You’re both my friends.”
He shook his head. “You can’t have it both ways forever.”
I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to believe that if I tried hard enough, I could hold everything together—her, him, myself.
I didn’t understand yet that trying to hold everything sometimes meant crushing it in your hands.
We started meeting more often after that.
At first, it was accidental run‑ins—at the riverbank, near the convenience store, on the walk home when our routes just happened to overlap.
Then it became…less accidental.
“Yeonseo knows we’re hanging out, right?” he asked me one evening as the sky turned orange over the water.
“Yes,” I lied. “She doesn’t mind.”
In reality, I’d barely mentioned him. The breakup sat like a sore spot I was afraid to bump.
“She doesn’t think it’s weird?” he pressed.
“She’s…okay with it,” I said, the lie scraping my tongue on the way out. “We’re all just friends.”
He sighed in obvious relief. “I wish we could all hang out together again,” he said. “But I guess that’s not happening.”
“Do you still have feelings for her?” I asked.
He thought for a long moment. “I’m not sure. I think about her sometimes. She made me laugh a lot. It hurts when she walks past me like I’m no one. But when I imagine getting back together, I just feel…tired.”
Something in my chest twisted.
“I’m scared that would happen to me,” I said before I could stop myself.
“To you?”
“If she ever stopped being my friend,” I said, eyes on the river. “I don’t think anyone would miss me like that. I’m not…special like she is.”
He turned fully toward me.
“That’s not true,” he said firmly.
I shrugged, trying to make it a joke. “It’s fine. I’m used to being the background character.”
“Y/n.” His voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it. “You’re not anyone’s background.”
I swallowed.
“You helped me when I couldn’t even understand myself,” he said. “You’ve been there when I felt like I was the worst person alive. You see things other people don’t. And you don’t do it to get attention. You just…see. That’s special.”
I felt my throat close up.
“I didn’t know who I was without her either,” I admitted quietly. “But with you, I started to feel…like I could be a person on my own. Not just her shadow.”
He smiled, soft and a little sad. “I’m glad. There was never anything pathetic about you, you know. So what if you’re quiet? That just makes getting to know you feel like a privilege.”
Something inside me cracked open then.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
We sat in silence for a while, the air between us warm and buzzing with something I was too scared to name.
Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed me.
I froze. My mind went utterly blank, like someone had wiped the slate clean. His lips were soft and hesitant, tasting faintly of the soda we’d shared earlier. For a heartbeat, my world shrank to just that feeling—the surprising rightness of it, the dizziness of being wanted.
When he pulled back, his eyes were wide with the same shock I felt.
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Is that…okay?”
My heart was pounding so loudly I almost couldn’t hear my own voice.
“Yes,” I breathed. “But…why?”
He exhaled shakily. “I just…followed my heart. Like you told me to.”
The worst part was, I knew exactly which conversation he meant. Months ago, when he’d agonized over whether to keep dating Yeonseo despite his fears, I’d said the words like some kind of advice: You have to follow your heart. Otherwise you’ll always wonder.
He kissed me again, and this time, I let myself respond.
For a moment, there was no Yeonseo. No rules. No guilt.
Just us.
Guilt returned quickly.
It started as a cold spot beneath my ribs, then spread into a steady ache I couldn’t ignore.
A few days later, he asked to see me again.
We met at the river, in the same place we’d kissed. The water looked exactly the same. I didn’t.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he said, staring at the ground. “It was the heat of the moment. I don’t want to hurt you. Or Yeonseo.”
The words stung, even though a part of me had been expecting something like them.
“It’s okay,” I said, forcing a little laugh that scraped my throat. “We can just…pretend it never happened.”
“I like being your friend,” he said earnestly. “I don’t want to destroy that. Friends mean more to me than…than whatever that was, if it’s just going to blow everything up.”
“Me too,” I lied.
A classmate biked past us then, slowing down.
“Hey, Jungwon. Y/n,” she said, eyeing us curiously. “What are you two doing?”
“We’re just hanging out,” he said easily, the practiced nonchalance making the lie feel bigger.
She nodded slowly, then pedaled away.
Something cold settled in my stomach.
People were watching.
People would talk.
I realized then: no matter how careful we were, there was no version of this where no one got hurt. We could pretend the kiss meant nothing, but we couldn’t un‑mean it.
The next day at school, the same classmate approached me near the lockers.
“So…what were you doing with Jungwon yesterday?” she asked, her tone light but probing.
“He was asking about Yeonseo,” I said quickly. The lie slid out so smoothly it scared me. “He still cares about her, you know.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Does he want to get back together?”
“I don’t know,” I lied again. “Maybe he still has feelings for her. I was going to talk to her about it after school.”
That afternoon, as I walked home with Yeonseo, my pulse thudded in my ears.
“Have you talked to him since the breakup?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
She shook her head. “No. Why would I?”
“I ran into him by the river,” I said. “He…asked me about you. Said he misses spending time with us. The three of us.”
Her steps faltered.
“He asked you that?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, staring straight ahead. “I told him it wouldn’t be a good idea. That it would just drag things out for you.”
She scoffed. “It’s strange,” she muttered. “The only reason we hung out was because I was dating him. Now that we’re not, there’s no point in us all being friends. That’s what you told him, right?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice small.
“Good,” she said curtly. “If he has something to say to me, he can say it to my face. I don’t need you to be the messenger.”
My chest burned.
That night, I went to the river alone and found him already there, sitting on the low wall and tossing pebbles into the water.
“Hey,” he said, looking up in surprise. “We keep running into each other here.”
I sat beside him and told him about the nosy classmate, about what I’d said.
“They don’t know we kissed,” he said. “So it’s fine.”
“Do you regret it?” I asked, the question like a splinter I couldn’t stop poking.
He stared at the water for a long moment.
“No,” he said finally. “I don’t regret feeling what I felt. But I know it’s not…right.”
“Why isn’t it right if you followed your heart?” I asked, frustration threading through my voice. “You tell me that’s what I should do, too.”
He sighed. “I followed my heart with my ex. It still ended, and I felt stupid. I followed it with Yeonseo. We both got hurt. Following my heart doesn’t mean I get to be selfish.”
“Do you have feelings for me?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
He froze.
After a long pause, he said softly, “Maybe I do. But I can’t act on them. You’re her best friend. It would make everything worse. For you. For her. For me.”
Something inside me crumpled.
I thought about telling him the whole truth—that I’d fallen for him quietly, piece by piece. That every kind word and shared secret had stitched him into my ribs. That the kiss had only confirmed what I’d been too afraid to admit.
But if I did, what then? Would he think I’d only been there for him because I liked him? Would he pull away completely to protect me, or himself, or her?
“I get it,” I said instead. “You’re right.”
I hated myself for agreeing. I hated that I’d pushed him to follow his heart only to flinch when it led him to me.
When I got home, Yeonseo was sitting on my bed.
“Your mom let me in. I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “Where were you?”
“Just walking,” I said, heart racing. “By myself.”
Her eyes searched my face, catching on things I hadn’t hidden well enough.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “We barely hang out these days.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just…don’t feel as lonely when I’m by myself anymore.”
Her brows knit. “Why?”
“Because I’ve made more friends,” I said. “At school.”
“My friends?” she asked slowly. “You barely talk to them when I’m not around.”
I bristled. Shame and defensiveness tangled in my chest.
“What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I just…never see you with anyone else. That’s all.”
“Do you think I’m incapable of making friends?” I snapped before I could stop myself. “Do you honestly think I’m that pathetic?”
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t say that. I’ve just…never seen you do it. That’s why I was surprised. Why are you so defensive? Do you have a problem with me?”
“Yes,” I said, the word cracking out of me before I could tame it.
Silence crashed between us.
“I’m tired of everyone acting like I need you to survive,” I continued, the dam broken. “Maybe that used to be true, but it’s not anymore. Instead of telling me to be myself, you’re always telling me how to act, like I’m some extension of you.”
“That’s not fair,” she shot back. “The only reason we’re so close is because we’re similar. You were always too scared to take initiative. I just pushed you a little. If you’ve been thinking this way the whole time, you don’t know me at all.”
Frustration boiled over.
“You always have to be right,” I said. “If things don’t go your way, everyone else is the villain. Just because Jungwon wasn’t ready to love you, you threw him away completely.”
Her eyes flashed. “Why are you defending him? I didn’t do anything wrong by expecting my boyfriend to love me. And why would I stay friends with someone I still liked? I’d only get led on. You wouldn’t understand any of this anyway. You’ve never been in a relationship.”
“Maybe I understand more than you think,” I said quietly. “He hurt you. You hurt him. You’re the one keeping that hurt alive.”
“If he’s still hurt, that’s his problem,” she snapped. “Love is unfair, Y/n. That’s what you don’t know.”
“I know exactly how unfair it is,” I said, my voice shaking.
She stared at me for a long moment, her gaze sharp and wounded.
“You’re hiding something from me,” she said finally. “I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it. And it hurts that you don’t trust me enough to be honest.”
Her words hit exactly where they were aimed. Because she was right.
“Just leave,” I whispered. “Please.”
She left.
I collapsed onto my bed and cried until my chest ached, not just from what I’d said but from what I still couldn’t.
It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her. It was that the truth would shatter whatever was left between us. I wasn’t ready to watch that happen.
For the first time, I started to hate the version of myself who thought silence was kindness.
That night, I called Jungwon.
“Do you think love is unfair?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He was quiet for a long time.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I think it can be. A lot of the time.”
“Your ex,” I said. “If she had to move away because of her parents, that must have been unfair for her too. Maybe she didn’t want to end things. If you forgave her, maybe you’d finally let go.”
“Why are you worrying about that now?” he asked softly. “Did something happen with Yeonseo?”
“We fought,” I admitted. “Because I’m a coward. Because I couldn’t tell her the truth.”
“About the kiss?”
The word sat like a stone in my throat.
“Yes,” I forced out. “About you. About me.”
He sighed. “Do you want me to get back together with her?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I just want you to be happy.”
Silence stretched between us, full of things we understood but still refused to say.
“I want you to be happy too,” he said finally.
I looked at my reflection in the dark window and barely recognized the person staring back.
The next day, as we walked home together, my chest felt heavy with the decision I kept postponing.
“I have to tell her,” I said. “I can’t keep lying.”
He nodded, though his jaw tightened. “Whatever happens…that’s between you and her,” he said. “I don’t want to be the reason you lose your best friend.”
“You’re not the reason,” I said. “I am.”
“Still,” he said. “If she hates me more, I’ll live. If she hates you…that’s different.”
I didn’t answer.
I found Yeonseo after school the day after, near the shoe lockers.
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
She crossed her arms. “About what?”
“About Jungwon,” I said. “And about me.”
On the walk home, my words stumbled out in halves and starts. I didn’t tell her about the kiss. I told myself I was protecting her from more pain. I knew, even as I spoke, that I was also protecting myself.
“After we became friends, I started to like him,” I said quietly. “More than a friend.”
She stopped walking.
“Keep going,” she said, her voice low, controlled.
“After you broke up, we kept hanging out,” I confessed. “I hid it from you. I told myself I just liked being his friend, that it wasn’t about wanting him. But I was wrong. I should have told you sooner.”
Her eyes shone with something brittle.
“Does he know?” she asked.
“No,” I lied about that part. “And I’m not going to tell him. I just…want things to go back to how they were.”
“They can’t,” she said flatly. “You wanted him for yourself. Even if you didn’t date, you built something with him that I didn’t get to see. You chose him over me and then lied about it.”
“That’s not—”
“I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” she said, cutting me off. “I don’t trust you. Do whatever you want with him. I don’t care.”
It was only later, turning her words over in my head, that I understood: she cared too much. That was the point.
I watched her walk away, my heart splintering in slow motion.
I didn’t chase her. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t think I deserved to.
When I told Jungwon, his face fell.
“She doesn’t want to fix it?” he asked.
I shook my head. “She said she can’t forgive me.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
“I’m still your friend,” he said softly.
“I don’t feel like I’ve been a very good one,” I said. The truth about the kiss pressed against my teeth. “She didn’t know about us. About…any of it. I lied to both of you.”
“You said you’d never choose,” he said quietly. “But you did. You chose me.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why choose me?”
Because I loved you, I thought.
“I developed feelings for you,” I said instead. “But that’s not why I stayed. I wanted to be your friend because you made me feel seen. I lied because I was scared of losing that. Of going back to being just…someone’s shadow.”
He exhaled slowly. “I understand why you did it,” he said. “I just wish you hadn’t. I know you’re trustworthy, but right now…I don’t know how to give you that trust again.”
“If I’d told you sooner how I felt,” I said bitterly, “would you have still kissed me?”
“No,” he said immediately. “I wouldn’t have wanted to confuse you like that. None of this would have happened if I’d controlled myself.”
He looked away, jaw clenched.
“I’m sorry too,” he added quietly. “I knew how complicated it was with Yeonseo. You trusted me not to cross that line, and I did. I put you in an impossible position. That’s on me.”
“This is my fault,” I said. “I tried to have everything and ended up with nothing.”
He didn’t argue. Maybe because we both knew the truth was somewhere in between.
The next few days passed with no words from either of them. I felt like I was being punished, so I accepted it.
Yeonseo now walked past me in the hallway without a glance.
At lunch, a few classmates approached my table, where I sat alone with my untouched food.
“Did something happen between you and Yeonseo?” one of them asked. Everyone had started noticing the tension between us.
I stared at my tray. “I made a mistake,” I said. “I’m dealing with the consequences.”
They tried to pry, but I shook my head.
“It’s between us,” I said. “I just…hope she forgives me someday.”
To my surprise, one of them sat beside me and nudged my shoulder.
“You can sit with us,” she said. “So you don’t have to eat alone.”
“Yeah,” another chimed in. “You look like you’re about to cry.”
I almost laughed.
Their kindness felt strange and new, like a pair of shoes I hadn’t broken in yet—stiff, a little uncomfortable, but warming my feet anyway.
During PE, I saw Jungwon across the gym. To my surprise, he waved. My new friends glanced between us.
“Are you guys close?” one of them asked.
“We were,” I said. “When he was dating Yeonseo.”
Later, as we rested by the bleachers, I asked them about his ex.
“Oh, her,” one girl said. “She was smart. Quiet. A nerd, kind of like you. They started dating when she tutored him. Her parents were strict, though. They didn’t like her dating. I heard she got transferred to an all‑girls school when they found out.”
“So it wasn’t just the distance,” I murmured.
They shrugged. “Guess not. Parents like that…what can you do?”
I thought of what I’d told him, about forgiveness and unfairness.
Maybe his ex hadn’t wanted to leave him at all. Maybe she’d been trapped by something bigger than them. Maybe they’d both spent years blaming themselves for a choice that had never really been theirs.
On the walk back to class, my classmates giggled about seeing me with him at the river before.
“Sorry I told everyone,” the girl with the bike said, grinning. “But you two looked like you were on a date. You kind of suit each other.”
My face burned.
“I wouldn’t date him,” I said quickly. “He’s Yeonseo’s ex.”
“They don’t talk anymore,” one of them pointed out. “Why does it matter?”
“Because it’s still wrong,” I said. “And he wouldn’t go for it either.”
They traded looks.
“Doesn’t look like he minds walking with you,” someone muttered.
I changed the subject.
After school, Jungwon caught up to me near the gates.
“Hey,” he said. “Want to walk together?”
I hesitated. It was surprising that he wanted anything to do with me. Walking with him felt like sliding back into a familiar rhythm I wasn’t sure I deserved.
Then I nodded.
“Why aren’t you avoiding me?” I asked bluntly once we’d fallen into step.
“I thought about what you said,” he replied. “About honesty being brave. You told me the truth even though it cost you everything. I respect that. It would be stupid of me to punish you for the thing I always say I want.”
He glanced down the road, where Yeonseo had just passed us earlier without a glance.
“When I saw her ignore you,” he said quietly, “I remembered how it felt when my ex moved away. Like I’d been erased. You don’t deserve that.”
My throat tightened. “I hurt her.”
“You lied to protect her feelings,” he said. “If I were you, I might’ve done the same. It was a mistake, sure. But not evil.”
I exhaled shakily. “I asked my classmates about your ex,” I said. “I hope that’s okay.”
He shrugged. “What did they say?”
I told him everything.
He looked stunned. “I knew her parents were strict. She always wanted to keep us a secret. At some point, I thought she was embarrassed by me. That I cared more than she did.”
He laughed bitterly. “Then she agreed to let people know. Took that risk. And I thought, ‘Okay, she really loves me.’ I never knew that might be what got her sent away.”
“She might not have had a choice,” I said softly.
“Maybe,” he said. “But that just means I should be with someone who’s free to follow their heart. No restrictions. No secrets forced on them.”
I thought of Yeonseo. Of the invisible tether between us. Of how it tied my heart to hers even now, when we weren’t speaking.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m still restricted,” I admitted. “By her. By what I did. Even when she’s not around, I’m measuring every step against what she’d think.”
He glanced at me. “I know. And I hate that for you.”
We walked in silence for a while.
“I told my teammates we’re friends,” he said suddenly. “They were cool with it, actually. Said you seemed chill.”
A small smile tugged at my lips. “That’s…good?”
“It means we don’t have to hide,” he said. “We’re not doing anything wrong by hanging out. Yeonseo clearly doesn’t care what we do anymore, so why should we?”
“She cares,” I said quietly. “That’s why it hurts her so much. If she didn’t, none of this would matter.”
He sighed. “You’re still defending her.”
“I always will,” I said. “Even if we’re not friends. I’m still grateful to her.”
“For what?”
“For helping me meet you,” I said.
He looked away, ears turning pink.
Exams approached, and our afternoons filled with notes and highlighters.
“Are you good at studying?” he asked one day.
“It’s the one thing I’m confident in,” I said.
“Then help me,” he grinned. “I’ll pay you back somehow.”
We met by the river to study, our textbooks spread out on a blanket, pages fluttering in the breeze. My friends teased me about “tutoring my almost‑boyfriend,” but I ignored them. I told myself this was practical: he needed help, and I could give it. That was all.
Sometimes, when he leaned over my notebook to ask a question, our shoulders brushed. My heart would stutter, then settle into a rhythm that felt like both too much and exactly right.
Over time, the sharp ache of my earlier guilt dulled into something softer, like a bruise fading from purple to yellow. I still liked him. Maybe I always would. But I started to accept that what we had—a friendship built on shared confessions, quiet afternoons, and mutual trust—was something I didn’t want to risk for a label.
After exams, he stretched his arms behind his head and smiled.
“I think I did okay,” he said. “If I pass, I’m treating you to dinner.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I said.
“I want to,” he insisted.
He also wanted to play basketball with me.
“You’ve never played with me,” he pointed out one afternoon.
“Because I suck,” I said.
“That’s okay. I’ll go easy.”
We played at a nearby park until the sun dipped low. I missed shots; he exaggerated his reactions when I actually scored. At some point, I realized I was laughing, loudly, without worrying about who might be listening.
Later, we went to see a movie I’d been wanting to watch, and he endured my whispered commentary with exaggerated patience.
As we left the theatre and headed toward a small restaurant, we ran into one of Yeonseo’s friends.
She took in our proximity, the easy way we stood side by side, and her eyes narrowed.
“Are you two…dating?” she asked bluntly.
“No,” Jungwon said, expression sharpening. “We’re friends. Why do you care?”
“You know why,” she said coolly. “Just remember she exists.”
She left before either of us could respond.
“Why does everyone assume we’re together?” Jungwon muttered. “Do we look that good together?”
My face heated. “Apparently.”
He glanced at me, more serious now.
“Do you still like me?” he asked.
The question knocked the air out of my lungs. For a second, I considered lying. It would have been easier.
“Maybe,” I admitted. “A little. But our friendship matters more to me. I don’t want to ruin it. I already ruined enough.”
He nodded slowly.
“I definitely had feelings for you at some point,” he said. “Maybe I still do. But I don’t think I’m ready to date anyone. And you’ve never even dated before. It’s…a lot.”
“I know,” I said.
“I’m just glad we can say this out loud,” he added. “I’ve never had that with anyone. With my ex, with Yeonseo…there was always something I kept back.”
He hesitated.
“If you started dating someone else…would we still be this close?” he asked.
I thought about it. About all the ways I’d already chosen him, silently, in the space between options.
“I’d want us to be,” I said. “But I don’t know. I’d probably still pick you, if I had to choose. I already did once.”
He smiled sadly. “If I end up loving someone someday, I hope they understand why I care about you. I wouldn’t want them to make me choose.”
I bumped his shoulder lightly. “Did you just say you love me?”
He flushed. “Not like that.”
“Sure,” I said, grinning.
He laughed. “We’ve come a long way, huh.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “We have.”
A few weeks later, our class went on a trip—hiking, sightseeing, pretending to pay attention to a guide who talked about history while everyone secretly took photos instead.
I spent most of the time with my new friends and some of his teammates. We took pictures with mountains in the background, shared snacks, complained about the uphill sections.
Yeonseo was there too, always just far enough away that I could see her but not reach her. Sometimes our eyes met for a fraction of a second. She always looked away first.
At one point, one of Jungwon’s friends jokingly draped an arm over my shoulders.
“Careful,” he teased Jungwon. “I might steal her.”
“Cut it out,” Jungwon snapped, a little too quickly. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”
I laughed nervously, cheeks burning, aware of several phones pointed in our direction.
Later, I slipped away to walk by a small creek, needing air that wasn’t shared with laughter and half‑truths.
He found me there, hands in his pockets.
“Sorry about my friend,” he said. “He’s an idiot.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I was just…embarrassed. No one’s ever flirted with me before.”
He blinked. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
“If we weren’t friends,” he said lightly, “I probably would’ve flirted with you by now.”
I snorted. “I could use the practice.”
He considered this.
“Okay. You’re pretty,” he said. “And I like how mysterious you are.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve said that before.”
“Maybe I was flirting then too,” he said. “Without realizing.”
“No one’s ever told me I’m pretty,” I admitted. “Not seriously.”
“Then they’re blind,” he said.
For once, I didn’t automatically argue.
A few weeks after the trip, he told me he’d run into his ex while visiting relatives.
“I always wondered what I’d feel if I saw her again,” he said as we sat by the river, feet dangling above the water. “Turns out…it was like seeing an old classmate. I was…fine. I think that means I’m over her.”
“I’m happy for you,” I said. And I was. It meant one ghost had finally let go of his throat.
“She asked if I was seeing anyone,” he continued. “Even asked me out. She said she didn’t want her parents to control her life anymore. That she regretted what happened. But I wasn’t interested. Which…surprised me.”
He scratched his head.
“She asked if there was someone else,” he said. “I told her…maybe.”
“Who?” I asked, heart pounding.
“You,” he said simply.
My brain short‑circuited.
“As a friend,” he added quickly, seeing the panic in my eyes. “Like…Valentine’s as friends. It’s normal, right? People do that.”
“No,” I said flatly. “It’s not.”
“Why not?”
“Because everyone already thinks we’re dating,” I said. “And my friends would never shut up about it. And Yeonseo—”
“There it is,” he said, a little sharply. “Why do you still care so much about what she thinks? Do you really think you’ll be friends again?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I haven’t forgiven myself yet. Maybe that’s why I can’t let go. It feels wrong to be happy when I’m the one who broke us.”
“The only thing you did wrong was lie to protect her feelings,” he said. “And like I said, I would’ve done the same. What’s the point of regretting the past? All we can do is be honest now.”
He was right about one thing: regretting hadn’t changed anything. All it had done was keep me stuck.
“Then honestly,” I said, “I can’t be your Valentine.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “Then we’ll just spend the day alone. Together. No labels.”
“How is that any different?” I asked.
“It’s not,” he said quietly. “Just like how what we have isn’t that different from dating. We do everything a couple does. We just don’t call it that.”
I stared at him.
“You’re the one who said we should never kiss again. For Yeonseo’s sake,” I reminded him. “Now you’re saying it doesn’t matter?”
He grimaced. “You’re right. I’m contradicting myself. I keep pretending that as long as we don’t name this, it’s harmless. Maybe there’s no point pretending anymore.”
The air between us felt heavier than it had in a long time.
“We both know our feelings didn’t just disappear,” he said softly. “We just buried them to protect what we had. Maybe…we don’t have to anymore.”
“Are you saying we should date?” I asked.
He held my gaze.
“I’m saying…we could try,” he said. “If you want to. If you are ready to stop pretending this is nothing.”
Fear fluttered in my chest, quick and wild.
“We might ruin everything,” I whispered. “What if it ends? What if you leave too? I don’t think I can lose you as a friend.”
“I trust you more than anyone,” he said. “I’m not scared of you hurting me. And if something feels off, we can talk about it. Actually talk. That’s more than I’ve had with anyone.”
“It’s too sudden,” I said. “We’ve spent so long building this version of us. Are we really going to throw it away in one conversation?”
“We’re not throwing it away,” he said. “We’re just…calling it what it’s becoming. But if the timing feels wrong to you, I’ll wait. I’m not in a rush to be with anyone else.”
“Let me think,” I whispered. “I don’t want to have regrets. Not again.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
That night, I went to Yeonseo’s house.
She opened the door, surprise flickering across her face, quickly replaced by wariness.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“To talk,” I said. “Please.”
We sat in the small park near her house, where we’d played as kids. The swings creaked; the slide’s metal was cold under my hand.
“I’m…happy that you seem okay,” I began lamely.
She shrugged. “I’m not. But I’ll live.”
I took a deep breath.
“I still see Jungwon,” I said. “A lot. We’re…close. Closer than I ever expected. He asked if we should try dating.”
Her expression darkened immediately.
“And you came to ask my permission?” she said. “Do you feel no shame at all?”
“I do,” I said quickly. “I feel ashamed all the time. I know I hurt you. I know I lied. I’m not asking you to approve. I just…don’t want to keep holding myself back for your sake without you knowing why. That feels like another lie.”
She looked away.
“Do you still like him?” I asked carefully.
“No,” she said. “Not like that. I’m hurt, not heartbroken. I’m hurt that you chose his side. That you saw him struggling and decided he needed your sympathy more than I needed your loyalty. You say you care about me, but when it came down to it, you picked him.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “I was selfish,” I said. “I wanted both of you. I wanted to be the person he confided in and the person you trusted. I tried to be both and failed at both.”
“Yeah,” she said. “You were selfish. And so was I. And so was he. That’s why everything fell apart. I resented both of you. That’s why I cut you off.”
She exhaled, long and shaky.
“But I’m tired,” she said. “If being with him makes you happy…then be with him. I won’t pretend I’ll ever be okay with it. If you date him, we’re not going to be friends again. I can’t imagine that right now. Maybe that’ll change someday, I don’t know. But for a long time…it’ll be over.”
My chest ached.
“You have a big heart,” I said quietly. “Bigger than I gave you credit for. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest sooner.”
She snorted. “You don’t get to say that.”
She stood.
“If you said everything you needed to say,” she said, “then I’m going home.”
I watched her walk away without looking back.
For the first time, I let myself accept that our story—hers and mine—might have reached its ending, at least for now.
I hated that my choices had helped bring us here. But for once, I wasn’t going to pretend they hadn’t.
That night, I called Jungwon.
“I talked to her,” I said.
“And?”
“She said if we date, she and I will probably never be friends again,” I replied. “At least not for a long time. But she won’t stop us. She doesn’t want to be the reason I’m unhappy. Even if she can’t forgive me yet.”
“And what do you want?” he asked.
I closed my eyes.
“I want you,” I said. “And it hurts that I can’t have both. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way. I’ve been pretending for so long, I don’t know who I am when I stop. I’m tired of hiding—from you, from her, from myself.”
There was a pause. Then I heard him exhale, like he’d been holding his breath for months.
“Then let’s stop pretending,” he said. “Let’s try. We don’t have to promise forever. Just…honesty. If something feels wrong, we say it. If we’re scared, we say it. No more lying to protect each other from the truth. No more lying to ourselves.”
“I’m scared,” I admitted. “Not just of losing you. Of becoming the kind of person who hurts people and doesn’t care.”
“You’re not that person,” he said immediately. “You care too much. That’s why this hurts so much. That’s why you told her, even when you could’ve kept quiet and had things easier. You’re allowed to move forward, even if you made mistakes.”
Tears slid down my cheeks.
“Will you be happy?” he asked softly. “If we’re together?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think I’d be happier than I’ve ever been. Even if it hurts too.”
“Then that’s enough for me,” he said.
I wiped my eyes and nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s try.”
For the first time in a long time, the words didn’t feel like a lie.
I couldn’t change what I’d done. I couldn’t undo the hurt I’d caused or the friendship I’d cracked. But I could stop pretending I was someone who didn’t want anything. I could stop hiding behind other people’s expectations and start living with the consequences of my choices.
In little ways, I tried to do better. When classmates asked nosy questions, I didn’t lie. When Jungwon’s teammates teased us, I didn’t dodge the truth—I just said, “We’re figuring it out,” and let that be enough. When my new friends invited me to lunch, I didn’t wait to see who else was going. I said yes because I wanted to.
Maybe one day, Yeonseo would forgive me. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe our paths would cross in some distant future where we’d both grown into different versions of ourselves. If that day came, I wanted to be able to look her in the eye and say I’d at least learned from the way I hurt her.
Either way, I’d finally said the thing I’d been swallowing for months:
I can’t pretend anymore.
And somehow, that felt less like an ending and more like the beginning of something honest.
