𖦹 in which heeseung has spent the last few years listening to other people’s hearts. yet he fails to listen to the one of the person who’s closest to him
🫀- doctor!heeseung x fem!reader - very very angsty - kinda dramatic - mentions of injuries + hospitals - eventual fluff - this is purely a work of fiction - wc: ~2.6k
notes!!- hellooo, this is based off a req so firstly thank you for that!! i can’t lie guys as creative as the title of the fic is it is absolutely not my doing so creds to elle for this!! anyways quick definition the title basically is like the technical term for listening to someone’s heart using a stethoscope soooo yeah, hope you enjoy!! likes + reblogs or anything appreciated!!
You knew the risks that came with dating a doctor when you and Heeseung had first gotten together. Sure it was amazing dating someone as intelligent and dedicated to career as him but sometimes that came at the expense of your relationship.
Heeseung was very committed to his job despite all the things that came as a consequence of it. Although he was frequently overworked, burnt out or simply just exhausted, he would always push through when it came to work, determined to still provide his patients with the best care possible.
However, at times it felt as though he took his anger, which was truly a culmination of all his stresses from work, out on you even though it wasn’t your fault. At first, he was better at expressing his emotions, better at telling you when he had a rough day at work and needed some alone time which you would always respect. But as of recently it felt like this wasn’t happening as much anymore.
Instead of actually having a conversation and allowing you to comfort and console him, he’d lash out at you when it all got too much. Obviously he never meant to direct his anger towards you but now because of this the two of you argued often.
Tonight didn’t seem to be an exception to this.
You’re in the kitchen preparing a dinner for you and Heeseung to share before he goes to work, when he walks in dawning his hospital attire. “Hee, I thought you weren’t at work until 7 tonight??” You look down at your watch confirming that it’s in fact still five o’clock and that you aren’t running late.
“Sorry sweetheart, i got called in early because of a massive influx of patients,” he gives you a sincere, apologetic look sensing that you’re upset about the rare time the two of you can spend together being interrupted.
“B-but I thought you said tonight we could finally have a few hours of peace to ourselves…just me and you. No work.”
Heeseung sighs, pulling you into his arms. He knows he isn’t the best at expressing his emotions but his heart breaks every time it feels like he’s sacrificing you for his job. “I know sweetheart, I know. But unfortunately the circumstances changed and these people could be really sick. They need me right now.”
That was true, but you also needed him right now. “God why did I have to end up dating someone more dedicated to their career than me. It’s annoying,” you swear it’s supposed to come off as a joke, that you said it in a sarcastic tone. But it doesn’t seem to land that way, instead it sounds more like a criticism or insult.
Immediately you feel Heeseung pull away slightly causing you to miss his warmth as the atmosphere shifts to a much colder one. “W-wait Hee I didn’t…I didn’t mean to say that. I-I’m so sorry…I-i don’t know…”
“You seriously think it’s annoying that I actually care about my job?! Y/N do you know how much effort to get where I am today??” No ‘sweetheart’, no other form of stupid name. You’d royally screwed up here. “You know how much of my life I gave up to go to medical school. So yeah I’d say I am pretty damn dedicated to this job, I’m sorry that’s an inconvenience to you.”
He begins to walk towards the door about to leave but you grab onto his wrist trying to stop him from doing so. “I-I’m sorry Hee…I am so sorry. I-I didnt mean it…I-“
“Y/N, I don’t have the time for an apology right now. I know you might not mean it but I have to go. There are patients who need me.”
Reluctantly, you let go of him and he walks out of the house, the door slamming coldly behind him. Leaving you and your tears of frustration alone in the now tense apartment.
🫀
Heeseung doesn’t let your argument get to him too much once he arrives at the hospital. Like he’d already stressed to you multiple times, there were patients who needed him and he couldn’t let something so silly affect the standard of care they received. So he pushed any thought about you or that incident out his mind, fully switching into professional mode.
He doesn’t bother to check up on you during his break despite the fact deep down he does feel rather guilty for leaving you at home alone in such an upset state. He knows that you never truly meant to hurt him. Sure this job was mentally draining for him but also for those close to him, sometimes because of it they were pushed to the side even when Heeseung wanted them to be close.
He’s quickly snapped out of his thoughts by the voice of his colleague next to him, “Heeseung we need you. Some idiot ran a red light a few blocks away, a pedestrian got hit. They’re being brought here now.”
Within seconds Heeseung shifts from worried boyfriend back into doctor mode. “What’s the ETA??” He asks, voice firm.
“When I last heard it was 5 minutes but that was around 3 minutes ago so they’ll be here any moment now.”
True to his colleagues prediction barely a minute later, the doors to the ER burst open and a gurney is wheeled in. “Female, early to mid twenties, multiple injuries but vitals are stable for now!!” The paramedic shouts over the chaos of doctors and nurses.
To most people for now would’ve been good, it meant nothing bad had happened just yet. But here it almost always meant something would happen shortly afterwards.
That’s when Heeseung catches a glimpse of it. The promise ring he’d bought you a few months ago for your birthday. The tiny, gold ring catches in the glint of the fluorescent hospital lights and that’s when it well and truly hits him.
The woman lying on this hospital bed right now, the one who he has to treat, it’s you. His girlfriend. The one who he hadn’t bothered to check up on even though he knew you were upset. But now here you were, fate had brought you back together in a cruel way rather than the reconciliation that Heeseung would’ve liked.
He shakes that thought away, pulling himself back into the present. ‘Just another patient’ he tries to tell himself. Except this wasn’t just another patient, this was his love, his sweetheart and now her life rests in his hands.
Normally you’d hate him for being this dedicated to his job, but now he has to, for you.
Again, he switches back into doctor mode again. “What’s her BP now??” He asks a nearby nurse as he moves to take control of the room.
“Dropping slightly but still stable.”
Heeseung nods and leans down by your head in the name of ‘standards checks’ before speaking to you, his voice inaudible to everyone else but your unconscious body. “Sweetheart I know you’re probably mad at me right now but do not pull anything stupid on me right now. For me to apologise I need you to be conscious and alive not in this state.”
God he feels like such an idiot. He imagines that if you could see him right now you’d probably start laughing at him for turning into such a big softie.
“Why would someone even go out at night in such dark clothes…” one of the interns comments to another. “Surely she must’ve had a death wish, there was no way anyone would be able to see her.”
Heeseung’s expression darkens, “Are you seriously blaming the victim rather than the imbecile who decided to run a red light and hit her?!” He snaps at them, “The both of you can get out. Evidently you’re here to gossip, not help people.”
“Are you sure you want them out of here?? They could be of use if we need more hands later on??” A nurse whispers, trying to reason with him.
He promptly shakes his head, “If we need more hands we’ll find capable ones instead of ones who do not take the care of our patients seriously.”
He promptly shakes his head, “If we need more hands we’ll find capable ones instead of ones who do not take the care of our patients seriously.”
“Possible internal bleeding…someone page surgery and tell them they need an OR.”
As you’re wheeled towards the operating room, Heeseung stays by your side for as long as physically possible until his credentials can’t allow him to proceed any further. He slides down the wall, face in his hands as the doors slam shut behind you.
🫀
It’s not until a couple hours later when someone finally emerges from the doors. Heeseung has been sitting there, waiting, the entire time. His colleagues don’t bother to question his disappearance—they could already tell from how protective he was being, that there was something between the two of you.
His friend, Jungwon, who also happens to be a surgeon approaches him. “Something up with you Hee?? You know that girl??”
Heeseung looks at him with teary eyes before nodding. “Yeah um…” he pauses trying to think of the correct way to phrase it. After all, your relationship had pretty much been a secret from everyone apart from your families. “Yeah um she’s my girlfriend.”
Jungwon’s eyes widen, “Shit man…I’m sorry. What even happened??”
“I-I don’t know…I got called into work again early today even though I’d promised we could finally have a bit of time to ourselves. We got into an argument because of it but…I had to be here and then I-I don’t know what happened after.”
“Guess the universe made you spend time together after all,” Jungwon murmurs before realising that’s probably not what Heeseung needs to hear at this moment.
The two of them sit in silence for a little while, only the sounds of the busy hospital occasionally breaking it before Jungwon speaks up again. “Well you didn’t hear this from me but…I heard they were taking her to room 203. The nurses up there like you so maybe they’ll let you stay up there even though it’s technically past visiting hours.”
For a second hope glimmers in Heeseung’s eyes as he pushes himself off the wall. “Thanks Jungwon!! I owe you one!!” He says before rushing off towards room 203.
When he finally reaches the room you’re supposedly in he pushes the door open cautiously, just in case Jungwon overheard the wrong room number. But luckily for Heeseung, Jungwon was in fact correct and the nurse who was checking on you swiftly moves aside once she realises your relationship.
Heeseung sinks down into the chair beside your bed. He takes your hand gently into his as though you're something delicate he’s scared to break. Carefully he adjusts his grip to make sure he doesn’t disturb any of the IV tubes in order to help you recover.
The entire situation felt unknown to him. Sure he was accustomed to seeing patients in this condition by now but not the one whom he loves most, you.
He sits there for hours and hours, tears silently falling from his eyes as he waits for you to finally awaken.
It’s not until around the middle of the night when you start to stir, the medication beginning to wear off is causing you to become increasingly uncomfortable and irritable. Before you’re fully awake and able to process where you are Heeseung has pressed the call button for a nurse.
“She needs some more pain meds…” he murmurs to the nurse who nods understandingly.
Despite the pain surging through your body you decide to make an attempt at sitting up instead of laying down. You feel a large, strong hand give you a small push back down onto the bed. “Sweetheart, it's me. Lie back down for me,” he soothes.
“Heeee?? That youuu?? I thought you were mad at meeee??” You slur, only slightly delirious from the pain medication.
He shakes his head, letting out a shaky breath as another tear rolls down his cheek. “No sweetheart I’m not mad…we can have this talk in the morning when you aren’t high out of your mind yeah??”
You gasp in offense, “I can’t be highhh!! You knowww I don’t do stuff like that silly!!”
His hand strokes your cheek tenderly, he manages to let out a watery chuckle at the fact you still have the same humour even in this state. “Right, silly me.”
The combination of the medication and just general exhaustion soon drags you back under into a deep, peaceful sleep. The nurse, who had been adjusting your medication, gives Heeseung a final sympathetic glance before exiting the room.
🫀
The next morning when you properly awaken for the first time since the accident, your entire body aches. It’s not the same sharp, stabbing pain that you vaguely remember being awoken by in the night but it still hurts.
Regardless of the pain you turn your head to see Heeseung slumped in the chair next to you. Still wearing his scrubs from the previous day, still clutching your hand in his.
You gingerly tap his hand wanting to wake him but also not startle him. When it doesn’t work after the first few tries you resort to making noise. “Heeeee,” you groan, your voice hoarse.
At the sound of your weak voice he wakes up almost instantly, scooting to the edge of his chair to be even closer with you. “Oh sweetheart…” he says, his voice already shaky again. Right now he wants nothing more than to embrace you in his arms.
“Hee,” you cough. “W-water please.”
Heeseung grabs the water bottle that one of the nurses had given him earlier on when they realised he had no intention to move from that seat until he had ensured you were okay. He tilts the water bottle up slightly, allowing you to drink easily without having to move too much. “Here. Take small sips, it should help your throat.”
Once your throat feels satisfied with the amount of water it’s received, Heeseung pulls the bottle away, placing it on a small table within your reach. “Never ever do anything like that ever again sweetheart. It scared the life out of me recognising your ring on that bloody gurney.”
“Sorryyyy. But then again I intended on going out for a walk to clear my head not to get hit by a car,” you defend.
“One of the interns said something about you and I genuinely almost lost it at them. I was so so scared of losing you sweetheart.”
You give a partially puzzled look, “So you aren’t mad at me anymore??”
Heeseung shakes his head, “Sweetheart seeing you like that it would be impossible to stay mad at you. Besides I eventually realised that you’d never mean it that way…and I get that work does take up a lot of my time but I would never ever put it over our relationship. I value that more than anything else in the world.”
“I guess I managed to find a loophole. You’re at work and now I’ve become your work aka your patient.”
“You’re unbelievable sweetheart.”
“Maybe,” you say with a shrug. “But I’m also yours.”
extra notes: can’t tell whether i love or hate this but leaning more towards love…
say it back! - not saying 'ily' back to ot7!enhypen
엔하이픈 ⋮ SMAU ˑ fluff ˑ comedy(?) ˑ x reader ˑ ot7 ˑ reader loves to prank her bf ˑ 14 photos ˑ taglist ˑ masterlist
just say i love you back!
a/n⋮ sorry this is kinda lateee i got home from work, ate dinner and bed rotted for a bit lowkey.. but we're here now! im flopping so bad recently idk why tumblr hates me but its okay ig😔
now playing ▶︎ ─•───── awkward silence...!⋮ stray kids ♫
written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊
𝓦𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐍⠀ ✶ ⠀ nothing prepared you for translating for enhypen on an eight-month world tour, especially their leader, yang jungwon, who starts speaking to you like it means more than it should, how exactly are you supposed to keep translating everything correctly when even your own thoughts start coming in a language you can’t quite control?
𝟲𝟱𝟱𝟱 🗯️ ✽ ─── ⏾ 𝗶𝗱𝗼𝗹 yang jungwon⠀x ⠀ 𝓯 ! rea ´ ꒳ ` 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : soft romance ˒ mutual pining ˒ longing ˒ fluff with a side of emotional yearning ˒ slow burn 𝓯 𝐭 。 ENHYPEN as their chaotic selves ❤︎
𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 ⠀ ✶ ⠀ 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁
🎐 。 𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 new format, who is THIS !!? thought this idea was super duper cute but i’m 50/50 on how i played it out ˙◠˙ but it’s okay !!! i <33 mi jungwon fluff
Your parents were the kind of people who treated childhood like a launchpad.
Every hobby was a potential career, every interest a future résumé line, every after-school activity an investment in something they could brag about at dinner parties.
It wasn't malice. It was just their way of loving you, through expectations, through achievement, through the quiet satisfaction of watching their kid do something impressive.
Dancing lasted two months. Your body moved like it was being operated by a very determined committee that had never met each other. Your instructor, a gentle woman named Ms. Kang who had probably seen it all, suggested maybe you'd find more joy in something that didn't require your limbs to cooperate. You were seven. You agreed wholeheartedly.
Singing lasted three weeks. You loved music, truly, but the moment you stood in front of even a small group, your throat sealed itself shut like a vault. Your voice came out as something between a whisper and a dog whining for dinner. The stage and you were simply not on speaking terms.
Painting stuck around longer. A year, maybe. You loved the smell of acrylic and the way colors looked before they got mixed into something muddy. You loved smearing blue into white and watching it become a sky that only existed on cheap canvas. But your mother watched you paint one afternoon and said, gently, "It's pretty, sweetheart. But you don't love it the way you need to love something to be great at it." And she was right, annoyingly. You liked painting. You didn't live for it.
Languages, though. Languages were different.
It started the way most things in your life started: your parents decided your family should travel. A lot. Your mother was convinced that raising globally-minded children required exposure, and your father, who had the kind of job that made frequent international trips possible, agreed enthusiastically. By the time you were ten, you had been to fourteen countries, and your siblings handled it the way most kids handle constant uprooting: with a mix of excitement and exhaustion. They collected keychains from airports and fell asleep on long-haul flights.
You collected phrases.
It wasn't deliberate at first. You'd land in a new place and find yourself listening, really listening, to the rhythm of the language being spoken around you. The cadence of it, the way certain sounds rolled or clicked or hummed. In Madrid, you learned to order orange juice before you learned the word for bathroom. In Tokyo, you mastered the art of bowing and apologizing before you could count to ten. In São Paulo, a woman at a fruit stall taught you how to say "this is the best mango you'll ever eat" and she was right, and the phrase lived in your mouth like a song you didn't want to forget.
Your parents noticed. Of course they did. They noticed the way you'd come back from a trip speaking fragments of a new language, the way you'd write down words in a notebook you carried everywhere, the way you'd consume foreign films without subtitles just to see how much you could understand. And for once, for the very first time, their investment and your passion aligned perfectly.
They hired tutors. They bought software. They enrolled you in immersion programs that had you spending summers in cities where no one spoke your native language. You devoured all of it. You weren't learning because you were supposed to. You were learning because every new language felt like being handed a key to a room you didn't know existed, and inside that room were millions of people you could suddenly talk to.
By the time you were twenty-two, you spoke seven languages with varying degrees of fluency. Korean, Japanese, English, Mandarin, Spanish, Portuguese, and French. The first three were near-native. The rest were more than functional and getting better every day. You could switch between them the way some people switch between apps on their phone, quickly, thoughtlessly, and with the casual confidence of someone who genuinely didn't think it was that impressive.
Other people did, though. Other people thought it was very impressive.
That was how you ended up in this industry. A translating agency recruited you straight out of university after a professor mentioned you in a professional context, and within a year, you had built a reputation that most people took a decade to achieve. You were requested by name. Companies specified you in contracts. Managers called your agency not to ask for a translator but to ask for you. You were fast, accurate, and most importantly, you understood that translation wasn't just about converting words. It was about carrying feeling across a border without dropping it.
Jokes were your specialty, which sounded trivial until you saw how many translators butchered them. Humor didn't translate literally. Puns collapsed. Sarcasm evaporated. Timing warped. But you had a gift for finding the emotional equivalent, the phrase in the target language that made someone laugh at the same moment the original speaker intended. You treated every joke like a small bridge and built it carefully, and artists loved you for it.
So when a company reached out about an eight-month world tour for ENHYPEN, a group that was actively conquering markets in Japan, the Americas, Europe, and Southeast Asia, your agency didn't hesitate. They sent you.
You packed your bags, reviewed your terminology glossaries, and showed up at the first tour meeting with a notebook, three pens, and the quiet certainty that you were about to spend the better part of a year living out of suitcases alongside seven boys you'd never met.
The first day was chaos, but the good kind.
You arrived at the agency building early, which was a habit you couldn't break even if you wanted to. The meeting room was large and mostly empty, with a long table covered in printed schedules that already looked overwhelming. A tour coordinator was setting up a presentation, and the staff was drifting in with the slow energy of people who knew the real work hadn't started yet.
ENHYPEN filed in a few minutes later, and you observed them the way you always observed new clients, not to judge, but to read. You needed to understand their group dynamic, their communication styles, who was the talker, who was the listener, who needed space, who needed reassurance. It was part of the job, even if nobody had ever put it on your official responsibilities list.
Heeseung walked in first, loose and easy, the kind of person who made any room feel slightly more relaxed just by being in it. Jay followed, already mid-sentence about something, talking to Jake, who was nodding along with the enthusiastic attentiveness of a golden retriever being told about a walk. Sunghoon entered with the practiced calm of someone who knew people were looking at him and had made peace with it. Sunoo was close behind, bright-eyed and already scanning the room with a warmth that felt almost tactile. Riki, tall, relaxed, radiating the specific confidence of someone who was young and knew exactly how good he was, strolled in last but somehow commanded attention anyway.
And then there was Jungwon.
He came in somewhere in the middle of the group, not leading and not trailing, just naturally positioned in a way that suggested he was the center they orbited around without realizing it.
He was younger than you expected a leader to be, with a face that people probably mistook for soft until they heard him speak. There was something steady about him. Not loud, not aggressive, just present. The way he glanced around the room, checking that everyone was settling in, clocking each member's position without making it obvious. It was instinct. You recognized it because it was the same instinct you had, the one that made you scan a room for what was needed before anyone had to ask.
He noticed you almost immediately. You were sitting off to the side, clearly not staff but not a manager either, and his eyes lingered for a beat longer than casual observation before he smiled, polite, professional, the kind of smile he probably gave to everyone he was introduced to in a work setting.
"Hi," he said, stepping over. "You're the translator?"
You nodded, standing up. "Y/N. Nice to meet you."
"Jungwon." He extended his hand, and you shook it. His grip was firm but not performative. "We've had translators before, but never one for the whole tour. We're excited."
"I'll try to make your lives easier, not harder."
"You already are," he said, and the way he said it, simple, like it was a fact rather than a compliment, caught you slightly off guard. You were used to people being polite. You weren't used to people being sincere this quickly.
The other members drifted over one by one, and the introductions escalated in energy the way they always did with groups of young men who spent too much time together.
Jake shook your hand and immediately said, "Please tell me you'll be at the Japan stops. I have so many things I want to say to fans that I can't say in Japanese and it's killing me."
"You'll be fine," you said. "I've got you."
He clasped his hands together like he was praying. "You're already my favorite person on this tour."
Sunghoon gave you a composed nod and said, "I heard you speak seven languages," with the tone of someone who was impressed but refusing to show it.
"Seven and a half," you said. "I'm working on Italian."
He raised an eyebrow. "And a half," he repeated, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Sunoo introduced himself with a smile that could probably end wars and immediately asked what languages you spoke, then proceeded to test you by saying hello in four of them in rapid succession. You responded to all four without pause, and his face split into the most delighted grin you'd seen from anyone in your professional life.
"That's so cool," he said, and he meant it, and it was impossible not to smile back.
Riki, who had been leaning against the wall observing the whole thing, pushed off and strolled over. "What about slang?" he asked. "Can you translate slang?"
"Depends on the slang," you said. "Try me."
He said something in Korean that was absolutely not appropriate for a first meeting, and you laughed, genuinely surprised, before translating it into Japanese and then English, both versions equally incorrect for a professional setting. Jay, who had been listening from his chair, let out a startled laugh.
"She didn't even hesitate," Jay said, looking at Riki. "You're going to have to try harder than that."
Riki looked delighted. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
Heeseung, the last to come over, gave you a warm, easy greeting and then said, very kindly, "Ignore them. They're going to test you constantly. It means they like you."
"I can handle it," you said.
"Yeah," Heeseung said, smiling. "I think you can."
Jungwon was watching the whole exchange from his seat, and when your eyes met his, he gave you a small nod, not a smile, not words, just that nod. It felt like an acknowledgment. Like he'd already decided something about you, and the decision was good.
The tour began, and your life became a blur of airport codes and hotel keycards.
You learned the rhythm of a world tour faster than you expected. The cycle was always some version of the same: fly, arrive, check in, rehearsals, press, perform, pack, fly again. The countries changed but the schedule didn't, and you adapted to it the way you adapted to everything, by paying attention and finding your place in the machine.
Your actual job was straightforward in theory. You translated during interviews, press conferences, fan interactions, and any event where language barriers existed. You relayed questions from international journalists, converted the members' answers in real time, and helped them navigate meet-and-greets with fans who spoke languages they didn't. But the job grew. It always grew.
Within the first two weeks, you were also helping them order food in restaurants where the menu was entirely in Portuguese. By week three, you were the person they came to when they needed to understand a customs form in France. By week four, you had somehow become the unofficial guide for navigating public transit in cities where even the GPS looked confused. You didn't mind. This was the part of the job nobody wrote into contracts but was the reason you were good at it, you didn't just translate. You had a way of making foreign places less foreign.
And somewhere in those first few weeks, you noticed something small.
Jungwon always said good morning to you first.
Not in a group way. Not as part of a general greeting he threw at everyone in the room. He specifically found you. Sometimes it was in the hotel lobby at 6 AM when the group was assembled for departure, and he'd break away from the members to walk over. Sometimes it was in the green room before a show, and he'd catch your eye across the chaos and mouth it. Sometimes it was a text — simple, no pretense:
Jungwon [7:16 AM]: Good morning. Ready for today?
It was such a small thing. You didn't overthink it. Leaders were considerate; that was part of the job description. But then the small things started adding up, and the sum was harder to ignore.
He remembered that you put exactly one sugar in your coffee and would silently slide one toward you when the catering setup ran out. He remembered that your least favorite part of the job was simultaneous translation during loud events because the noise gave you headaches, and he started keeping earplugs in his bag, not for himself, because you'd never seen him use them, and would place them on the table next to you before press conferences in venues with terrible acoustics. He remembered that you were studying Italian, and one day, completely out of nowhere, he said "Come stai?" in a pronunciation so earnestly incorrect that you had to take a second to recover before answering.
"Your accent," you said, pressing your lips together to stop the smile.
"What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. It's very—charming."
"I'll take charming," he said, and you watched him walk away with the expression of someone who had just filed that word away somewhere safe.
The other members noticed his behavior before you did, because of course they did. They lived in each other's pockets and had the observational skills of a surveillance team.
"Jungwon-hyung keeps finding reasons to talk to you," Riki said one afternoon, casual as anything, while you were sitting backstage waiting for a radio interview to start. He was sprawled across a couch with his phone held above his face, not even looking at you.
"He's the leader," you said. "He talks to everyone, no?"
"Yeah, but nah, not like this." Riki's thumbs were moving rapidly on his screen. "He asked me yesterday if I knew any good memes. Me? Memes! He hasn't asked me about memes since we debuted."
"Maybe he's just expanding his interests."
"He said he needed one you'd understand." Riki flipped his phone down and looked at you with the specific, unblinking stare of a twenty-year-old who had just delivered what he considered to be devastating evidence. "He's googling memes in languages he doesn't speak so you'll explain them to him."
"Hopelessly obvious? I was going to say dedicated."
"Same thing," he said, and went back to his phone.
The months blurred together, and you became a constant.
Not a guest. Not a temp. Not a contractor who showed up for the work portion and disappeared during the downtime. You were there. You were in the airport terminals at 4 AM when everyone was too exhausted to function properly, holding coffee orders in your head because you'd memorized what each member preferred. You were in the hotel lobbies at midnight, still awake because someone needed help with a live broadcast that had international fans asking questions in three different languages. You were in the backstage rooms, the dressing areas, the tour bus, the weird gaps of time between events where everyone was too tired to entertain but too wired to sleep.
You became the person they turned toward without thinking.
Jake raised his hand for you during a Japanese interview when he forgot the word he wanted to use, and you supplied it without missing a beat, and he kept talking as if nothing had happened, because to him, nothing had. Your presence was that seamless. Jay started including you in conversations without translating first, then catching himself and laughing, saying "Sorry, I forgot not everyone in the room speaks Korean" even though you did, in fact, speak Korean. Heeseung asked you to help him write a birthday message for a staff member in Mandarin and was so genuinely grateful that he brought you snacks for the rest of the week. Sunghoon, who communicated primarily through glances and the occasional comment, started directing his comments at you specifically, and the fact that you always caught them and returned fire with equal precision made something warm flicker in his expression. Sunoo texted you in every language he knew, which was two and a half, just to practice, and you corrected his grammar with such dedication that he started calling you his language unni, even though you weren't strictly older.
Riki kept pushing your boundaries in the best way, and you kept pushing back, and somewhere along the line, the two of you developed a rapport built on mutual chaos. He would toss out slang in Korean just to see if you'd catch the nuance, and you would translate it into something equally irreverent in whatever language was required, and the two of you would share a look of pure satisfaction while the adults in the room sighed.
And Jungwon.
Jungwon, who somehow managed to be everywhere you were without making it obvious. Jungwon, who sat next to you on the bus more often than probability could justify. Jungwon, who asked about your day with a level of sincerity that made the question feel like it actually meant something. Jungwon, who fell asleep on your shoulder once during an overnight flight and woke up mortified, apologizing so many times that you finally said "If you apologize one more time, I'm going to translate your apology into six languages so everyone on this plane can hear it," and he stopped immediately, pressing his lips together, ears pink.
You saw the things he didn't show the crowds.
You saw him sitting alone before shows, running through setlists in his head with the intensity of someone who couldn't afford to make a mistake. You saw the way he checked on each member individually, a hand on Heeseung's shoulder, a quiet word to Jake, a nudge for Riki, adjusting, supporting, leading without ever calling attention to the fact that he was doing it. You saw the exhausted version of him, the one who pushed through a three-city day on four hours of sleep and still managed to perform like the weight of the group was something he carried willingly, not something that was crushing him.
You also saw the moments when it almost was.
Late one night in Berlin, after a day so long it had stretched across two calendar dates, you found him in the hallway outside the hotel rooms. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, phone dark in his lap, staring at nothing. Not sad, exactly. Just drained in a way that went deeper than physical tiredness.
You lowered yourself onto the floor beside him. You didn't say anything. You'd learned by now that Jungwon didn't always need words, which was almost funny, given your profession.
A minute passed. Then he exhaled, slow and heavy.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing enough," he said quietly. Not to you, exactly. More into the space between you. "For them. For the team. Everyone works so hard, and I'm supposed to—don't know. Hold it together. Make sure nobody falls through the cracks."
"You do," you said.
"You don't know that. You haven't been here long enough to know if I'm—"
"Jungwon." Your voice was gentle but firm. "I've been here for five months. I've watched you check on every single member before every single show. I've watched you stay late to go over choreography with Riki. I've watched you make sure Sunoo eats when he's nervous. I've watched you include Heeseung in decisions even though he's older than you and you don't have to. I've watched you apologize to staff when schedules run over even though it's not your fault." You paused. "You're doing enough. You're doing more than enough. And the fact that you're sitting in a hallway at 1 AM worrying about whether you're doing enough is, honestly, proof that you are."
He didn't respond right away. He turned his head to look at you, and in the dim light of the hotel corridor, his expression was open in a way you'd never seen during work hours. Unguarded. Young, almost.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me. I'm just the translator."
He almost smiled. Almost. "You're not just the translator."
A beat.
You let that sit there for a moment. Then you nudged his shoulder with yours, lightly.
"Come on. You need to sleep. We have a 5 AM call tomorrow."
"We always have a 5 AM call tomorrow."
"I know. That's why you need to sleep."
He got up, and when he offered you his hand to help you up, you took it, and he held on for maybe one second longer than necessary before letting go.
That night, in your room, you stared at the ceiling for a long time.
The tour wound through Southeast Asia, then back to Japan, then across to the Americas. Eight months shrank into what felt like eight weeks, and by the time the European leg was drawing to a close, you had translated in twenty-three countries and lost count of how many interviews, fan signs, and press conferences you'd navigated. Your languages had gotten sharper, your instincts faster, your bond with the members deeper.
You knew their speech patterns. You knew that Heeseung tended to trail off at the end of sentences when he was being thoughtful, and you'd learned to hold the translation for a beat longer to make sure he was truly finished. You knew that Jay was precise and deliberate, and you matched his clarity in every target language. You knew that Jake spoke quickly when he was excited and that his enthusiasm was its own kind of punctuation, and you made sure the translation carried that warmth. You knew that Sunghoon was economical with words and that every word he chose mattered, so you translated him with the same careful weight. You knew that Sunoo's brightness was genuine and that making it land in another language required not just accuracy but tenderness. You knew that Riki's playfulness was sharp and smart, and you never softened the edge because he didn't want it softened.
And you knew Jungwon. You knew his cadence better than any language you spoke. The way he built an argument, the way he softened a criticism, the way he gave praise, quiet, specific, never empty. You could translate him in your sleep. You almost had, once, during a 6 AM live interview in Madrid where you'd been running on two hours of rest and pure adrenaline.
You also knew that somewhere in those eight months, the feeling in your chest when he said good morning had stopped being simple and started being complicated.
But you were good at your job. You were professional. You did not let complicated feelings leak into your translations, and you did not let the warmth in his voice when he said your name change the way you did your work, and you did not, absolutely did not, let yourself think about the fact that he had started sitting close enough that your shoulders touched during press conferences, or that he'd started saying your name differently than everyone else's, softer at the edges, like it was something he wanted to hold carefully.
You were fine. You were completely, entirely, absolutely fine.
The press conference in London was the second-to-last event of the tour.
It was a big one, a room full of international journalists, cameras, and the specific buzz that came with the end of a long run. The members were seated in a row at a long table, microphones in front of them, the ENHYPEN logo glowing on the backdrop behind them. You were positioned off to the side, close enough to hear everything, close enough to be called upon, with your earpiece in and your voice ready.
The questions started predictably. What was the highlight of the tour? What was the hardest part? Which city surprised them the most? The members took turns answering, and you translated smoothly, shifting between English, Japanese, and Mandarin depending on the journalist who'd asked. It was mechanical by now. Second nature. You could do this in your sleep, and some days it felt like you were.
Then a journalist toward the back raised her hand. She stood up when called on, and her question was delivered in English with a slight German accent.
"This tour has taken you through so many different countries and cultures. What has helped you adapt to all of those changes throughout the year? What's been the constant?"
A nice question. A predictable question. The kind of question that usually got answers like "each other" or "the fans" or "our passion for performing." You expected Heeseung or Jay to take it, deliver something polished and sincere, and move on.
Jungwon reached for his microphone.
The other members glanced at him, not surprised, he often took the bigger-picture questions, but watchful. Jungwon had a way of answering that was never rehearsed but always felt deliberate, like he'd been thinking about it for longer than the moment allowed.
He started in Korean, and you began translating simultaneously, your voice layering over his in English for the room.
"I want to thank someone," he said, and you translated it, and the room's attention sharpened.
"Our translator."
You kept translating. Your voice didn't waver. Your pace didn't change. But something in your chest pulled tight, because he was looking at you when he said it, not at the journalist, not at the cameras, and you were already a third of a second behind, which never happened.
"She makes unfamiliar places feel less intimidating," Jungwon continued, and you translated each phrase almost as quickly as he spoke it, your professional voice steady, even as the words he was choosing made your breath come shorter. "She notices when we're struggling before anyone else does. She explains things before we even have to ask. She works harder than most people realize."
A ripple went through the room. The journalist who'd asked the question smiled, clearly charmed, but also clearly expecting this to be a brief, polite acknowledgment. Jungwon wasn't done.
"She translates jokes," he said, and his voice was lighter now, almost warm. "Not just the words. The actual feeling of the joke. Do you know how hard that is?" He looked at the audience. "She makes like, what? Six? Seven? Eight? Languages sound effortless. And she does it every single day, in every country, without ever making it seem like it's difficult. She makes it seem like the most natural thing in the world. And it's not. I know it's not."
You were translating. You were still translating. Your voice was level and clear and professional, and the words coming out of your mouth were his words, and every single one of them was landing somewhere behind your ribs.
"I want to say that the reason we were able to adapt to so many countries this year, the reason we never felt lost, the reason we always felt like we could handle whatever came next, is because she was there. She was always there."
He paused. The room was quiet. The other journalists had stopped shuffling. The cameras had stopped clicking. Even the members beside him had gone still, and you could feel the weight of their attention shifting between Jungwon and you without having to look.
"So thank you," he said, and his voice was steady and sincere and full of something that you could name but wouldn't, not here, not now. "Thank you for making the world smaller."
You translated the last sentence. Your voice held. Your hands, resting on the table in front of you, were trembling slightly, but nobody could see that, and your voice, your voice was perfect.
The room broke into applause. The journalist sat down with a pleased expression, already writing. The moment passed, and the press conference resumed, and you went back to doing your job the way you'd done it for eight months: flawlessly, consistently, as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened, and both of you knew it.
The clip hit the internet within an hour.
By the time the group was back at the hotel, it was everywhere. Fan accounts had clipped the moment, subtitled it in five languages, and captioned it with variations of "i’m tweaking the hell out" and "jungwon thanking their translator is the sweetest thing i’ve ever seen 🥹." Media outlets had picked it up too, with headlines calling it "the most thoughtful moment of the tour" and "ENHYPEN's leader credits their translator as the group's anchor."
You were sitting in the common area of the hotel suite they'd commandeered, pretending to review tomorrow's schedule on your phone, when the teasing started.
It started, predictably, with Sunghoon.
He walked into the room with his phone held up, playing the clip at a volume that was absolutely intentional, and sat down across from you with the serene expression of someone who was about to cause problems and enjoy every second of it.
"That sounded a lot like a confession," he said.
You didn't look up from your phone. "It sounded like a thank-you speech."
"It sounded like a confession," Sunghoon repeated, louder this time, making sure the others in the room heard.
Jay, who was sprawled on the couch with a bottle of water, looked up from his own phone. "He's right. I just watched it again. You spent three straight minutes listing her accomplishments, Jungwon. It was like you were introducing a distinguished guest speaker at an award ceremony."
Jungwon, who had been standing near the window with the specific body language of someone trying very hard to appear casual, turned around. "I was answering the question?"
"The question was about what helped you adapt," Jay said. "You gave a TED Talk about one person."
"I answered thoroughly."
"You answered personally," Sunghoon corrected.
Jake, who had been quiet until now, raised his hand from his spot on the floor where he was stretching. "Can I say something?"
"You're going to say something anyway," Riki called from the adjacent room.
"I've known Jungwon for years," Jake said, sitting up. "Years. I have never—and I mean never—been spoken about with the level of admiration he just used for our translator. I'm not offended. I'm just stating a fact, you know? That was unprecedented."
"You're offended," Riki said, wandering in.
"I'm not—okay, maybe a little. He's never called me the reason the world feels smaller."
"Nobody's ever called you that," Sunoo said, emerging from the hallway with a bag of chips. "Because nobody would."
Jake gasped. "Wow."
Sunoo sat down next to you, unaffected, and popped a chip into his mouth. Then he turned to Jungwon with an expression of pure, angelic innocence. "You've never talked about anyone that way before, though. Have you, Jungwon?"
Jungwon's jaw tightened. "I was being sincere. She deserves to be recognized."
"She does," Sunoo agreed. "And you recognized her. Very thoroughly. Very specifically. Very—what's the word—"
"Romantically," Riki supplied.
"I was going to say elaborately, but romantically works too," Sunoo said.
Riki pulled out his phone. "I've been rereading the translated snippets," he announced, and then cleared his throat with theatrical importance. "She notices when we're struggling before anyone else does." He said it in an exaggeratedly emotional voice, clutching his chest, his pronunciation deliberately dramatic. "She explains things before we even have to ask."
"Stop," Jungwon said.
"She makes the world feel smaller," Riki continued, now genuinely acting, one hand raised to the ceiling like he was in a drama. "She works harder than most people realize—"
"Dude, I’m gonna throw salt in your coffee tomorrow," Jungwon said.
"—and I just want to say, the reason we were able to adapt is because she was there." Riki placed his hand over his heart. "She was always there."
The room erupted. Jay was laughing with his head thrown back. Jake had collapsed sideways onto the floor. Sunoo was grinning so wide it probably hurt. Sunghoon was watching the whole thing with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had lit the match and was now enjoying the fire. Heeseung, who had been in the bathroom, emerged mid-scene, assessed the situation in two seconds, and leaned against the doorframe with a knowing smile.
"That's enough," Jungwon said, and his voice was firm but his ears were bright red, and the room could see it, and the room was not letting it go.
"You essentially wrote her a love letter," Jay said, recovering. "In front of the entire international press corps."
"Hey, that wasn’t a love letter—"
"You said she makes unfamiliar places feel less intimidating," Sunghoon said. "That’s practically close enough to count as a confession."
"You said she works harder than most people realize," Jake added. "That's a love letter with—whatchamacallit—citations."
"You said thank you for making the world smaller," Sunoo said, calm and devastating. "That's a love letter, a poem, and a confession at the same time."
Jungwon looked at you. For one brief, unguarded second, his eyes met yours, and in them you could see everything, the frustration, the embarrassment, the warmth underneath both. Then he looked away.
"I was being professional," he said.
"You made her translate her own compliment in real time," Heeseung said from the doorframe, arms crossed. "Quit playing."
That got another wave of laughter, and you felt your face heat up, because — yes. You had translated every word. You had stood there and converted his words into English and Japanese and Mandarin while he said them directly to you, and your voice had stayed professional, but your heart had been doing something very unprofessional the entire time.
"Actually, now that I think about it," Sunghoon said, leaning forward with the glint of someone delivering a closing argument, "this is the first time all tour that she stumbled over a translation."
Every head turned to you.
"I didn't stumble," you said.
"You paused," Sunoo said.
"I paused for half a second? That's not stumbling, if so, I was probably just catching my breath."
"That's stumbling for you," Jay said. "You've been flawless for eight months. Jungwon says something nice about you and suddenly you're half a second behind?"
"I was adjusting for his sentence structure."
"His sentence structure?" Riki repeated, delighted. "You've translated his sentence structure perfectly for eight months!"
"Silly, you're translating his emotions, not his grammar!" Jake added, pointing at you like a lawyer who'd just found a contradiction.
The room dissolved again. You pressed your lips together and stared at your phone and absolutely did not smile, because if you smiled, they would never let either of you live.
Jungwon, to his credit, held out longer than expected. He denied it twice more, with increasingly flimsy justifications, and each denial only dug him deeper because every excuse he gave was more personal than the last. "I was just being thoughtful" became "She's important to the team" became "I notice things about her because I—" and then he stopped, and the room held its breath, and he said "because I pay attention to the people around me," and the room exhaled in a collective noise of disappointment and amusement.
Later, after the noise had died down and the members had scattered to their rooms and the hotel had gone quiet, you were sitting on the edge of your bed with your earpiece out, your work bag unpacked, and your heart was still doing something it had no business doing at this hour.
Your phone buzzed.
A message from Jungwon.
Jungwon [9:13 PM]: Did you translate everything correctly?
You stared at it. Typed back.
You [9:14 PM] Yup! Every single word ☺️
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Jungwon [9:14 PM]: Good :)
A pause. Then:
Jungwon [9:15 PM]: I wanted to make sure you heard it exactly the way I meant it
God damn it, Jungwon.
You read the message four times. Then a fifth. Then you set the phone down on the bed beside you and stared at the ceiling, and the ceiling offered no help whatsoever, because the ceiling was a ceiling and you were a person who had just received a text that was not a confession except that it absolutely was, in every way that mattered, in every language you spoke.
Your phone buzzed again.
Jungwon [9:18 PM]: Goodnight 😊
You picked it up. Your thumbs hovered. Your heart was loud and insistent and thoroughly unprofessional.
You [9:19 PM]: Sweet dreams, Jungwon :-)
You sent it. You set the phone down. You pulled the blanket up to your chin and lay there in the dark of a London hotel room, in a country that wasn't yours, in a language that was, and you thought about a boy who had spent eight months learning how to say good morning in Italian just to hear you correct his accent, and who searched up memes he didn't understand just to give you a reason to explain them, and who sat on hotel floors and let you see the parts of him that the spotlights didn't reach, and who stood in front of an entire press corps and said your name like it was the most important word in the whole entire dictionary.
You thought about the fact that he wanted to make sure you heard it exactly the way he meant it.
You thought about the fact that you had. You had heard every word, in every language, in the only one that mattered.
And somewhere down the hall, in a room of the same hotel, Jungwon was probably staring at his own ceiling, phone on his chest, replaying your yes, every word on loop, holding onto it the way he held onto everything, quietly, carefully, and with the kind of sincerity that definitely did make the whole world feel smaller.
Not because the distances shrank.
But because someone had crossed them for you.
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🎹 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ഒ glue song by beabadoobee
✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !
soobin lets you slide onto him while he’s soft so you can feel him slowly grow hard inside you.
❛ content 2.8k words, 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, power bottom!male reader, nerd!soobin, getting hard while inside, big dick!soobin, unprotected sex (p in a), cockwarming kinda, riding, creampie, praise, lots of kisses.
"can we put it in soft and feel it grow together?"
the question hangs in the air of soobin's dimly lit room, completely severing the comfortable silence that had settled over them like a well-worn blanket.
soobin's pen freezes mid-annotation over his biology textbook, and for a solid three seconds, or maybe just a little more, his brain — usually so quick, so sharp when it came to memorizing diagrams and reciting historical dates — completely short-circuits.
he hears your words, processes each one individually, but putting them together into a coherent concept feels like trying to solve a calculus problem underwater.
beside him, you're already wiggling with barely contained excitement, your phone abandoned face-down on the mattress. you're watching your boyfriend with those eager eyes, waiting, practically vibrating.
soobin slowly turns his head, and he can feel the heat creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks. his glasses have slid down his pretty nose slightly, and he pushes them up with one finger, a nervous habit.
"what?!"
but you're already leaning into him, your hand finding his knee through the soft gray fabric of his sweatpants.
"i'm serious! think about it, babe."
your voice is that special kind of excited, the one soobin usually hears when you're explaining a new game you're completely obsessed with or suggesting a takeout place you've been dying to try.
"we've never done it like that. it's always, you know... we're both already hard, and it's kind of rushed and intense. but this..." you squeeze his knee, your thumb tracing a small circle. "this would be different. slower. we could just... be together. and feel everything."
soobin's heart is doing something erratic in his chest.
he's still holding his pen, still surrounded by highlighters and flashcards, and his ridiculously attractive boyfriend is sitting on his bed, talking about his dick like it's the most natural thing in the world. which, okay, it is, they've been together for eight months, they're past the awkward stage. but this is... new.
"you want to..." soobin swallows, his throat suddenly dry. he glances down at his own lap, then back at you, his cheeks impossibly pinker. "you want to sit on it? while it's... you know?"
"soft, yeah."
you nod enthusiastically, scooting closer, and your thigh presses against his.
"i just keep thinking about what it would feel like. the sensation of it... waking up inside me. getting harder because of me, because of us," your voice drops a little, losing some of its excited energy and gaining something warmer, something more intimate. "i think it would feel really good, babe. really close."
and that's the thing.
soobin has never been able to deny you anything when you look at him like that, when your voice goes soft and you say his name like it means something more than just letters strung together. he's completely, utterly gone for you, and you know it. you use that power sometimes, but never cruelly. always like this — to pull him closer, to bring him into a moment with you.
he sets his pen down carefully, marking his place in the textbook with a sticky note; a small, practical gesture that's so distinctly him that it makes your heart clench.
"you really want to?" soobin asks softly, his voice quieter now, a little shy.
"yeah, more than anything right now," you admit, and it's the truth.
the textbook, the phone, the outside world — it's all completely faded away. there is just soobin, in his ridiculously soft-looking oversized white t-shirt and those grey sweatpants that you've told him a hundred times should be illegal, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his glasses framing those warm, curious eyes that are currently fixed entirely on you.
soobin bites his lower lip, a telltale sign that he's thinking, he's considering. then, slowly, he shifts on the bed, putting his textbook on the nightstand. he leans back against the headboard, the wood creaking softly, and his long legs stretch out, then bend slightly, creating a space for you, an invitation.
"okay," he breathes out, the word carrying a mix of nervousness and genuine curiosity. "let's... let's try."
and oh, you don't need to be told twice.
you're moving immediately, crawling over the messy comforter to settle between your boyfriend’s legs. soobin watches you, his hands coming up to softly rest on your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs.
you're face to face now, close enough to see the tiny mole under his eye, the way his eyelashes flutter.
"hi," you whisper, a stupid, giddy smile spreading across your face.
a matching smile tugs at soobin's lips, despite his obvious embarrassment.
"hi," he whispers back. his hands are warm through the thin fabric of your pajama pants. "this is so weird."
"good weird or bad weird?"
"just... weird. different."
soobin ducks his head slightly, looking at where your bodies meet, at the tentatively interested bulge in his own pants that's nowhere near full attention.
"are you sure you're gonna be comfortable? what if—"
you cut him off with a kiss; it's soft, just a brush of lips, simply meant to soothe.
"we'll go slow. if it's weird or uncomfortable, we can just stop. okay?"
soobin nods against your mouth. "okay."
you kiss him again, deeper this time, and you feel his huge hands tighten on your hips. you rock forward experimentally, just a small shift of weight, and soobin makes a tiny sound against your lips.
you break the kiss to sit back slightly, your hands finding the hem of his oversized t-shirt. "can i?"
soobin lifts his arms without a word, and you pull the shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind you, and your breath catches, like it always does.
you've already seen him naked countless times, but the sight of his pretty bare chest, the smooth expanse of pale skin, the subtle definition of muscle from carrying heavy books and the occasional gym session with his friends — it never gets old. he's beautiful in a way that feels accidental, unassuming.
soobin doesn't seem to fully realize how hot he is, and that, somehow, makes him even hotter.
your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants, and you look at him for permission. once again, soobin gives a small, shy nod. you tug them down, along with his boxers, just enough. his cock lies soft against his thigh, and you feel a fresh wave of heat pool in your stomach. it's still him, still soobin, still the part of him that makes you feel so incredibly full and complete.
it's just... resting.
you shimmy out of your own pajama pants and boxers quickly, not wanting to break the moment. when you settle back on his lap, it's skin-to-skin, his soft length pressed against the curve of your ass. soobin hisses in a breath, his fingers digging into your hips.
you position yourself carefully, one hand on soobin’s shoulder for balance, the other reaching down to guide him. your eyes meet his.
"ready?"
he looks terrified and thrilled in equal measure.
"ready."
you shift your weight, lowering yourself slowly. the head of soobin’s soft cock presses against your entrance, and for a moment, it just... sits there. it's an odd sensation, really — the familiar pressure, but without the familiar hardness. it feels almost impossibly soft, pliable.
you take a breath and push down gently.
the slide is different; way slower. there is no resistance in the same way, because he's soft, but your body still has to accommodate his size. even soft, soobin is... well, considerable. you feel yourself stretching around him, taking him in inch by inch, and the sensation is so unique, so new, that a shaky moan escapes your lips.
soobin's eyes are wide.
"oh," he breathes. "oh, wow."
"you okay?" you manage to ask, pausing when you're about halfway seated.
soobin nods frantically, his hands softly stroking up and down your sides.
"y-yeah. it's just... it feels so warm, and so tight. but it's also different. it's like... i can feel everything. i can feel every part of you."
you lower yourself the rest of the way, and then you're fully seated, his soft cock buried completely inside you. you sit there for a moment, just breathing, just feeling; the weight of him, the fullness, the strange, intimate knowledge that he's inside you but not hard inside you.
it's like a secret, a moment stolen from time.
you're both still for a long, breathless moment. soobin's hands are splayed across your lower back, warm and grounding, and you can feel his heartbeat, or maybe it's yours — it's hard to tell anymore when you're this close.
"how does it feel?" you whisper, your forehead resting against his.
"warm," he repeats, his voice soft with wonder. "and... tight. but it's like..." he struggles for words, his brow furrowing adorably. "it's like i can feel you holding me. not like... fucking. just holding."
you smile, pressing a gentle kiss to soobin’s lips.
"yeah. that's what i wanted."
you start to move, but not in any real rhythm.
just small, subtle shifts of your hips. you were rocking, more than anything, simply testing the sensation. with each tiny movement, you feel him, soft and pliant, moving inside you, and it's incredibly intimate in a way you hadn't tully anticipated.
soobin's hands roam your back, your sides, his touch full of reverence. your boyfriend is looking at you like you're something so precious, something he can't quite believe is real. his cheeks are still flushed that pretty pink you love so much, his lips slightly parted.
"you're so beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.
you feel a flutter of warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with where you're connected.
"so are you."
you kiss him again, deeper this time. your tongue slides against his, slow and exploratory, and soobin’s hands come up to cup your face, holding you close. the kiss deepens, becomes more urgent, more hungry. you feel his hips twitch beneath you, a small, unconscious thrust.
and then, finally, you feel it — the slightest change; a thickening, a growing weight inside you. you gasp against his mouth at the very new sensation, pulling back just enough to look at him.
soobin’s eyes are hazy, his pupils blown wide.
"soobin," you breathe. "i can feel you."
he looks down, as if he could see through both your bodies to where they're joined.
"it's you," soobin whispers, his voice wrecked. "it's because of you. you feel so good."
another small, unconscious thrust. another surge of growth. soobin’s cock is filling out inside you, pressing against your walls in a way it couldn't when it was soft. the sensation is really overwhelming — the gradual stretch, the increasing fullness… you can feel every ridge, every vein as they become more pronounced.
you can feel soobin getting harder because of you, because of the way your body is wrapped around him, because of the kisses, because of the closeness.
"oh—my god," soobin pathetically whimpers, his head falling back against the headboard. his hands grip your hips tighter, his knuckles white. "oh my god, that feels... that feels so..."
"i know," you groan, and you start to move with more purpose now, rolling your hips in a slow circle. each movement seems to encourage him, to draw more blood, more hardness. "i can feel every second of it. you're getting so hard inside me, babe."
soobin makes a sound that's somewhere between a moan and a whine, high-pitched and desperate.
"d-don't stop. please don't stop."
you don't. you keep moving, keep kissing him, keep whispering praise against his lips.
"feel how good you feel. feel how perfectly you fit."
"i can't—" soobin cuts himself off with another whine, his hips starting to thrust up in small, jerky movements that meet your rolls. "it's too much. it feels too good."
"it's not too much," you assure him, your hand coming up to card through his soft hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "you're doing so well. just feel it. feel me."
soobin is fully hard now, thick and heavy inside you, and the transition from soft to hard has left you both breathless and shaking. you've never experienced anything like it — the gradual, inexorable filling, the knowledge that his arousal is a direct response to you, to this moment. it's really intoxicating.
"i wanna move," soobin begs, his voice cracking. "please, baby, please can i move? i need—i need to—"
you simply nod, unable to form words properly. you lift yourself slightly, and soobin thrusts up, a real thrust this time, deep and sure. you both moan, the sound mingling in the small space between you.
"y-yeah," you gasp. "like that. just like that—"
soobin sets a rhythm, slow at first, still overwhelmed by the newness of it all. his thrusts are deep, deliberate, each one punching a soft sound from your lips, and his hands are everywhere — your hips, your back, your face.
he can't stop touching you, can't stop looking at you.
"you're so perfect," soobin babbles, his words tumbling out between kisses and pretty moans. "so perfect for me. i love you so much. i love being inside you. i love—ah!—i love feeling you."
you capture his mouth with yours, swallowing his words, his every sounds. you simply love him like this — open, vulnerable, completely undone by you. the pretty nerd who annotates his textbooks and makes color-coded study guides, reduced to a whining, desperate mess because of how you feel around him.
you start to meet his thrusts, matching his rhythm, making it deeper and harder. the bed creaks beneath you, the sound joining the wet, obscene noises of your bodies coming together.
"i'm close," soobin warns, his voice tight.
he's gripping you so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow, and you can't bring yourself to care.
"i'm so close, baby, where do you want—"
"inside," you moans. "stay inside—wanna feel you come inside me."
soobin’s eyes roll back slightly at your words, and his thrusts become erratic, losing their rhythm. he's chasing his release, but he's also watching you, making sure you're with him. your boyfriend’s hand snakes down between your bodies, finding your cock, stroking you in time with his thrusts.
it only takes a few more strokes; you come with a broken cry of his name, your body clenching around him, and that's all it takes to push soobin over the edge. he follows with a desperate, high-pitched moan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and deep.
for a long moment, neither of you moves.
you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same humid air. soobin's hands are still on you, but they've gone soft, just resting.
right now, you can feel him softening inside you, the reverse of the sensation from before, and it's just as incredible in its own way.
finally, you shift, wincing slightly at the oversensitivity, and soobin's hands immediately try to hold you still.
"wait," he murmurs. "just... wait a second. i'm not ready to not be inside you yet."
you smile, pressing a kiss to his nose.
"okay."
you simply stay like that for a long time, connected, breathing together. soobin’s thumbs trace absent patterns on your skin, and your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck.
the room slowly cools around you, but you're both warm, wrapped up in each other.
"that was..." he trails off, searching for the right word.
"incredible?" you offer.
"yeah," soobin laughs softly, a little puff of air against your lips. "incredible. you always have the best ideas."
"i know," you tease, but you're smiling too.
eventually, you have to move.
the practicalities of cleanup, of bodily functions, of reality intruding on the perfect bubble you've created. but even as you disentangle yourselves, even as soobin disappears into his attached bathroom and returns with a warm, damp washcloth to clean you both with gentle, careful hands, the intimacy doesn't break.
when you finally settle back into bed, both of you having pulled on fresh boxers, soobin immediately pulls you against his chest. he's warm and solid, and you can feel his heartbeat, still slightly elevated, against your cheek.
"so," you mumble against his skin. "worth interrupting your study session?"
soobin laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest.
"my biology textbook can wait. this was..." he pauses, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. "this was the best kind of practical application."
you snort, elbowing him gently. "such a nerd."
the room falls into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes after moments of profound intimacy.
outside, the city continues its endless hum.
inside, in soobin's small, cluttered bedroom, there's just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, sated and sleepy and utterly, completely in love.
includes: age gap, established relationship, use of “pretty” as a pet name, shady but oblivious sunghoon, mentions drinking and drunk sunghoon, arguing, I think I wrote bullshit once but overall no cursing, rushed ending bc idk how to write endings,
rant: the more posts I make, the better they’re starting to look visually —once I figure out how to use pretty colors on text I will be insufferable
continuation of olderbf!sunghoon but not necessarily a part 2
♱⋆ཐི˚₊‧⁺⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱𓆩^._.^𓆪♱⋆ཐི˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱
It was naive of you to think it would only happen once.
If she was so comfortable doing it in front of you that one night, either she’d been doing it long before that or she’d start doing it more now that she knew she could.
You wanted to trust Sunghoon, especially since he’d done so much to reassure you after you’d admitted how she made you feel, but it’s like he didn’t understand just how serious this was for you.
The amount of issues this has caused is almost comical considering it keeps happening over the same things.
If she isn’t texting and calling at odd hours of the day, you’re hearing stories about her from Sunghoon because of how much time they actually spend together.
How he doesn’t find her behavior weird is probably why this affected you the most.
They were supposed to be studying—all 8 of them—but then Sunghoon called you, asking if you could pick him up from a bar near campus, and one of the many voices in the background was hers.
You nearly said no and hung up on him then, but now that you lived together, there was no ignoring him.
So you went; the drive was short because of both the distance but also how fast you were driving—really, you just wanted to get back home as soon as you could.
And by the time you pulled around the entrance of the bar, there they were; with about two other people you could recognize as their friends, but it was Sunghoon who she chose to cling onto as she stumbled a little too dramatically for it to be genuine.
What really upset you was how close he was to her; maybe he was holding on for his own balance, but he was letting her hold onto him the way only you should.
When he recognized your car, his expression shifted a little, hesitation maybe? But his arms didn’t move, and he stood still like he needed confirmation.
You had to get off and help him inside.
He rambled about why you brought your car and not his since yours only fit two people, but you’d done this intentionally, so you ignored his words and covered it up by suggesting he say bye to his friends.
They were all too drunk to really care that they couldn’t be taken home, but she was furious—you could see it in the way she was looking at you now that Sunghoon was clinging onto you.
Once he’s in the car, Sunghoon’s mind is nowhere else.
He’s beside you after a whole day of classes and intense studying, and that’s all he cares about despite having been upset with you five seconds ago for bringing the wrong car.
You found no point in arguing or talking with him in this state.
Sunghoon could recognize that you were upset, but he genuinely didn’t believe or know that he’d done anything wrong and assumed it had nothing to do with him.
At least, not until the morning after.
Not until he woke up with a horrible headache and you weren’t waking him up with soup or even just a pill to help.
Instead, he found you lying beside him, your back turned to him as you kept to your side of the bed only.
He didn’t want to look into the wrong things; you aren’t obligated to take care of him, especially not during a hangover he caused himself.
So he tried to ignore it a little, just enough that he would still address it only indirectly if it came up.
Except it never did.
Not when you finally woke up; not while you had breakfast; and not before you left for work.
You sent one text in the entire day and it was just to let him know you’d be home late because you were asked to close.
He tried to open up a conversation by asking if you’d want to eat out today, but you never responded.
And now you’re back home; about as distant as you were before you left only now showered and in the kitchen looking for something to eat.
He only let it drag on a little longer, just to see if you’d say anything when he’s close by.
And when you ignored him as he stood in the kitchen clearly doing nothing else but waiting for you, he sighed softly and walked up to your side.
“You’re upset.” He states.
“You could be psychic with your intuition.” You scoff, focusing more on your hands as you wash some rice in a bowl.
“Come on, talk to me,” he encourages, his hand sliding up your back before it settles on your shoulder.
You relax a little.
He hopes it means you’re going to fold soon and tell him what he needs to know to either explain or excuse whatever he did.
“I just don’t get how studying turns into going out for drinks with—” you begin, and you nearly say her name because that’s where the real issue is, but you think he’ll write you off as jealous and that isn’t the case.
“Whatever. I don’t care.” You add dismissively, shaking your head slightly, as if it would clear the thought in your head.
But as you walk away, he just follows behind you.
“Is that it?…” He asks softly, coming up behind you.
You don’t respond, partially ignoring him as you start the rice cooker even as his hands slide around your waist from behind.
If he does this right, you can’t hold this out much longer.
“Should I have called? Told you I was going to a bar after?” He asks, leaning his head against yours as he speaks into your ear.
“If you want more transparency, I can give you that. But not if you don’t ask for it.”
You stand there, almost letting him make you forget why you were upset in the first place with how “healthy” and “good” of a boyfriend he is.
“I want you to stop talking to her.” You say softly, a little suddenly since it’s not what you’re talking about right now.
“Hmm? Who?” Sunghoon asks, straightening up slightly and leaning over your shoulder to try and look at you.
You do him one better and turn in your place to face him properly.
“You know who,” you point out, sulking a little.
“Why? What happened?” He asked, trying to remember a time where she had the chance to talk to you and what it was this time.
“Does it matter? I shouldn’t have to explain why I don’t like someone to my boyfriend for him to believe me.” You say, crossing your arms.
“You can’t just ask me to stop being friends with someone and not tell me why.” He says, backing up slightly to put some space between you both.
Now he was taking this more seriously; it doesn’t go unnoticed that he’s being defensive and was acting differently moments ago when he thought it was something you took too personally.
“Fine.”
“Let’s start with the fact that she’s calling and texting you all day even on the days you’re supposed to be “studying” with her and the others.” You point out.
“Is it so wrong that she’s asking me for lecture notes or the time we’re meeting at the library? She’s in the same classes as me— and we’re friends.” He says, trying to emphasize the “friend” part now that you’ve made it seem like he’s lying to you about where he goes.
“So it’s because you two are such good friends that she just needs to be clinging onto you—that every time you go out with them, she’s the most prominent person in whatever you do tell me.”
“Okay— whatever you think is going on, isn’t happening.” He began.
“The fact that you’d think I’d do any of that when we’ve been together longer than I’ve known her is insane—”
“Then you should have no problem deleting her number and limiting how much you talk to her.” You shrugged, firm on your ask because you really don’t want to go through this again.
“You’re being unreasonable.” He says, not fully thinking about the words before they slip.
“Believe whatever you want to believe, I’m not going to make this a big deal when it could be solved with you trusting me more.”
“So you’re not going to do it?” You ask.
“No.”
And with that, you deem the conversation over and you walk away.
He tries getting you to stay, maybe he wanted to resolve the situation completely his way, but you don’t see why you’d stay and go back and forth some more when he already knows what you want him to do.
And since Sunghoon can’t take hints, you force him away by locking yourself in your shared room.
None of this is like you—if anything, the fact that he called you unreasonable is working to make you feel like you’re throwing a fit now that you’ve done this.
But you need the time to yourself, especially right now that you can’t tell if you’re going to cry or yell at him the next time you see him.
You won’t do it now that you’re alone though; you’re too angry to cry and too upset to be fully angry.
Unlike you, Sunghoon doesn’t mind and has the friends to confide in when he doesn’t know what to do.
These aren’t his med school friends—talking to them would have given him more problems—these are people like Jake and Sunoo who he’s met overtime and not because of a shared interest.
And it’s Jake who he trusts to talk to about this; Jake might not be the best boyfriend in his own relationships, but he’d tell Sunghoon if he were wrong.
And that’s exactly what happens.
Jake doesn’t even let Sunghoon tell him the entire thing before he’s asking if Sunghoon is really still talking to this girl even after the first incident between the two of you.
Sunghoon tries to make excuses, but they fall short now that there’s one other person telling him they’re bullshit.
Only now does he feel guilty for arguing with you about it.
Not because he values Jake’s opinion more than yours, but because he’s realizing slowly that he was previously being ignorant.
All he can think to do then is to give you your space.
Until you come looking for him or make it clear you want to talk to him, he’ll just have to bite his tongue and wait it out.
And while he waits for that to happen, he slowly pulls away from the girl; his main worry before and now was that it would cause unnecessary drama in his friend group, so he tries to do it in a way that makes it clear she can still text him, but only if it’s related to school or else he won’t answer.
Even when it is related to school, he doesn’t answer as quickly as he did before.
And after a few days of this where you aren’t talking to him and he isn’t trying to do the most for these people, he’s realizing that he’s been evenly dividing his time for you with them when he shouldn’t have been.
When he realizes you’re holding out longer than he’d like you to, he tries to get you to open up again with a gesture.
Flowers in the morning to start.
But you come back to find Sunghoon trying to make dinner himself.
When he sees you, he looks a little upset that you’d gotten home and he still wasn’t done, but he tries to buy himself some time by asking you to go shower and change clothes.
It doesn’t give him much; you come back and he still has to wait for a pot to boil over.
You recognize that he’s sulking as he waits near it with his arms crossed.
And this, plus the amount of time that’s passed where he’s given you your space, plus the gestures—they’re helping to soften you up.
“I don’t like this…” you say first, standing just a few feet away while you mimic his position.
For a moment, he believes you’re talking about the food, but he understands quickly that you mean the fight now that he’s looking at you.
“Couples fight, it’ll happen again…” he says; he means for it to sound reassuring—that you two can and will fight again for whatever reason and you’ll be okay.
But he gives up pretty quickly on that angle when he sees how little it does to make things better.
“N-not for the same reason though—“ he quickly adds, pushing off the counter he was leaning on.
“I haven’t stopped talking to her, but the way things are now…she just doesn’t text or call as much.” He explains.
“I know it isn’t what you want, but please understand that I just don’t want to cause any drama.”
You hear him out, and you appreciate that he’s doing something more than he thinks you do.
“Just one more thing, and then we will never talk about this again.” You say, and he nods a little eagerly like he really wants to put this behind you both.
“It’s not that I didn’t trust you. But it’s clear that she likes you, and I didn’t like that she was taking advantage of the fact that you’re a nice person to try and get something out of you.”
This isn’t something Sunghoon ever considered; but no matter how much he doesn’t believe that this is the case, he’s more than willing to leave it at that because it doesn’t affect his perspective.
“I might be stupid, but I’m not an idiot…” he sighs, making his way to you now that he feels he can.
“Do you know how hard it would be to make me look at anyone but you?” He asks, softer now that he’s closer to you.
“I don’t know…she seemed to get pretty close.” You shrugged, mostly just wanting to hear him reassure you some more.
“You and her seem to think so…but I don’t actually think about anything else but you during the day and just before I fall asleep at night.” He says, arms snaking around your waist as he leans forward slightly to put you both on the same level.
“Promise?”
“C’mon, pretty…what do you think is getting me through med school?”
“If it weren’t for what I get to come home to, I probably would have dropped out by now.”
I’M NOT A PARK ANYMORE, I TOOK MY WIFE’S NAME … ❤︎ park sunghoon
PART 1 ─── bored of your life, you go on tinder and match with a hot guy named park sunghoon, who in his bio, states that he’s “date to marry.” but he offers you a deal: fake a marriage with him to annoy his obnoxious family and he’ll pay you for it.
or you’re in a fake marriage with sunghoon and he takes your last name to piss his relatives off. oh and did i tell you that he’s lowkey obsessed with you? even though he’s just your “fake husband.”
contains husband!sunghoon x wife!reader. smau, romcom, strangers to lovers, fake marriage au. obsessed!sunghoon. sunghoon comes from a rich fam. use of y/n. yn is lowk easy. opposite of slowburn but dw their relationship actually progresses
( 🪽 ) —— first enha smau >< hope u guys like it :P likes, comments, & reblogs r appreciated <3 btw i have never used tinder so i js edited shi .. also there's a videocall part that'll take a few seconds to load.. also pls their texts gets funnier, its still pt1!
( 🪽 ) —— TY FOR READING! worked on this baby for a WHILE... finally posting it FAHH. do comment if u wanna be tagged in the next part :P i'll try my best to post the next part asap (as i literally have 3 ongoing smaus rn..)
content tags: established relationship, sub!jake&reader, jay cameo, explicit content (smut) unprotected sex, multiple sex position: 69, doggy style, mating press. squirting, overstimulation. lots of whining and moaning, they fuck like rabbits :) MDNI. WC:2.4k
note: this is a request from an anon, hope u like it!
Who the fuck decided that two soft, submissive people in bed are automatically boring?
"Too vanilla," they say with wrinkled noses and half-laughs, like they know what happens when the lights go out.
You and Jake have been together for nearly five years—since the final months of high school, when you stumbled into something that felt a little too gentle to be real, too safe to be intense. Most people around you just don’t get it. They whisper that your relationship is sweet, sure, but stale. Predictable. Lifeless, even.
But they don’t know a damn thing.
They don’t know that you and Jake don’t need dominance or power games to melt each other down into quivering pieces. You don’t play roles. You don’t lead or follow. You move, he moves. You're both responsive, both hungry, both gentle in ways that burn just as deep. It’s not about who takes control—it's about how far you’re both willing to unravel for each other.
If those assholes could see what actually happens behind closed doors, they'd choke on their smug assumptions.
"Nghh—baby..." Jake's voice is slurred, barely even speech anymore. His face is buried between your legs, the heat of his breath searing against you, tongue dragging slow as he works you over.
And fuck, you are gone, head thrown back, hips twitching, thighs trembling around his ears.
The only soundtrack is the obscene wetness of his mouth on you, your choked moans, and the blaring growl of an electric guitar seeping through the wall, his room mate, Jay’s latest desperate attempt to drown out the symphony of you and Jake destroying each other.
It doesn’t work.
Your ears are ringing. Your vision blurs every time your spine arches off the mattress. Your legs are shaking so hard they barely stay hooked around his shoulders. Your body is covered in bruises and teeth marks. Jake’s arms are clawed raw, red streaks down to his elbows from where you grabbed and dug in, helpless under the waves he pulled from you again and again and again.
You’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you come, how many times you’ve done the same to him. It's a haze. A loop. An exchange of pleasure until your bones feel hollow.
You barely catch your breath before his fingers are inside you again, curling just right, his mouth crashing into yours, swallowing your moans as you clench around him and cum hard enough to see stars. Your hand slips between you, wrapping around him, stroking with messy urgency until he gasps into your mouth and spills across your stomach.
Then comes the slow grind of hips in missionary, Jake above you, eyes glassy, sweat dripping down his temple. He pushes in deep, moaning into your throat while you clutch at his back, legs locked around his waist, and both of you fall together again.
Vanilla, their ass.
The aftershocks haven’t even stopped vibrating through your bones when Jake rolls off of you, chest heaving, lips parted. He sprawls across the sheets, flushed and trembling.
Without a word, you swing a leg over him, straddling his face. He groans like a man starved as your thighs settle against the sides of his head, and your gaze lowers to his cock. thick, flushed, and still rock hard despite having cum four fucking times already.
You lean down, tongue flicking out to tease the head, your breath warm over his slick skin. His hips twitch instantly, a soft, choked whine escaping from under you.
“F-fuck,” he gasps, voice muffled between your thighs.
You take him into your mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him, the way his whole body tenses beneath you. At the same time, you feel his tongue drag through your folds.
You moan around his cock, the vibration making him jerk. You grind back against his mouth, and he groans right into your cunt, tongue sliding in and curling upward. He hardens it, fucking you with it, slow and deep, as your hips begin to roll.
It’s a filthy rhythm—your mouth stretching around him, sucking harder, faster, your spit dripping down his shaft while he licks and licks and licks, tongue relentless, hands gripping your ass as he pulls you tighter against his face. Your thighs clamp down on instinct, not letting him breathe, not letting him stop.
You feel the familiar pulse in your core and the slight twitch of his cock against your tongue, he’s close, again. You squeeze him tighter with your lips, hollow your cheeks, and the sound he makes is damn near ruined. His whine hits a high pitch, hips jerking once, twice and then he spills into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.
Jake latches onto your clit now, sucking, and you are barely holding on, every nerve burning. Your whole body is tensed, arms braced against his thighs, cunt pulsing uncontrollably around his tongue. Your thighs clamp even tighter, grinding down until he can’t even moan, just hums and licks and loses himself.
Jake loves it—loves how wet you get, how you suffocate him with your thighs like it’s nothing, how your pussy clenches around his tongue. He loves the little tremble in your legs, the broken cries you try to stifle, the taste of your arousal dripping down his chin.
"Jake, fuck! I'm gonna cum!" you squeal, your voice shaking, one hand fisting around his softening cock, feeling it twitch, swell, harden again.
Your hips grind down one last time, helpless, chasing that final drag of his tongue as your orgasm hits. You cry out, body shaking above him, pussy spasming around his mouth. Your forehead presses to his thigh, gasping, and you barely manage to keep sucking him as your world shatters again.
Jake lets out a high whine, hips twitching upward into your mouth. He’s still so fucking hard, again. You can feel it, thick and throbbing between your lips.
He moves again as another orgasm crashes into the both of you.
Another orgasm.
And another.
And another.
You lose count. Time folds. The two of you are always going at it like rabbits, bodies slick and tangled, pleasure drawn out like it might never end. At some point you’re flat on your back again, back arched off the wet bed, sheets soaked with sweat and everything else, Jake’s mouth between your legs for what feels like the hundredth time.
You’re delirious, you feel like you are floating.
He pulls back, lips shiny, chin drenched. You barely get the chance to breathe before he’s kneeling between your thighs, jerking himself off with quick, rough strokes. His eyes are locked on your chest, on the rise and fall of your breath, on your wrecked body twitching with aftershocks. He grits his teeth, then pulls his cock free, aiming it at you.
You're hypnotized.
By the way it twitches. By the way his jaw clenches. By the way his abs tighten and he throws his head back with a broken moan as hot ropes of cum spill across your chest, painting your skin with another climax that somehow hits just as hard as the first.
And still, he's not done.
Jake leans forward, one hand smearing the mess across your breasts, mouth crashing into yours with wild hunger. His cock presses against your thigh, still hard and leaking.
"You want more?" he pants against your lips, voice hoarse, almost disbelieving at how far you both keep falling.
You nod, eyes wide, lips parted. Jake flips you over in one smooth motion, pushing you onto your hands and knees, body trembling beneath him. His hands grip your hips, pushing inside again, deep, slow, a stretch that feels impossibly full despite how soaked you are.
You both moan at once. And then he starts to move, hips snapping into you, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room, drowning out even Jay’s music, which is now thundering through the walls in one last futile attempt to ignore what’s happening just a few feet away.
“Ahh, fuck, Jake, baby!” you cry out, fingers clawing at the twisted sheets as the rhythm builds.
Jake groans behind you, bracing himself with both hands on yours, pinning you to the mattress as he drives deeper, rougher. You love this position—God, how you love it. He finds every spot, angles his hips just right until you’re gasping, sobbing into the mattress.
“We’re so fucking good together,” Jake pants into your ear, his voice shaking with need, “Fuck.” His lips find your neck, kissing everywhere he can reach, hot, sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate to mark.
You tilt your head back blindly, catching his mouth in a messy kiss over your shoulder, tongues tangling, moans swallowed between breathless gasps as he starts to thrust harder, deeper, your bodies slamming together.
You’re clenching around him so hard, you can feel every ridge, every twitch of his cock. The orgasm hits, your breath catching, head lolling forward as heat floods you from the inside out. "Fuck!"
Jake keeps going through it, keeps thrusting through your high, refusing it to end. Your hips instinctively push back against him, your eyes roll back, jaw slack, pleasure crackling through every nerve.
“F-fuck, I—shit,” Jake chokes out, repositioning behind you with a sharp slap to your ass that makes your whole body jolt. He watches it jiggle with a low groan, hips snapping forward again and again. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, and your arms finally give out.
You collapse forward, face buried in the soaked mattress, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, your body slack and trembling. Completely, utterly fucked out.
“B-b-baby,” Jake stammers, leaning over you again, his chest slick and warm against your back.
You feel his arms slide beneath you, one curling tightly around your waist, the other slipping under your body to knead your breast in slow, circular motions. He’s still thrusting, slower now, but no less intense. You feel every inch, every grind of his hips, his cock dragging against your overstimulated walls as he pants against your ear.
“You can take another one for me?” he whines, voice cracking into a whisper. “P-please? Pretty—pretty please?”
You moan weakly, unable to find words, only nodding as your fingers twitch into the sheets. You’re half-asleep, fucked so deep into the mattress your limbs barely move but Jake’s still moving, still inside you.
“Don’t s-sleep, nghh, baby, fuck,” he breathes, nuzzling into your nape, teeth grazing the sweat-slick skin there before sinking in gently, biting down as his hips start to pick up again.
The pleasure's too much now, tangled with pain and pressure until your body doesn’t know the difference. You're a trembling mess, whimpering, twitching, your muscles weak from everything he's already wrung out of you.
You don't know how he's still strong enough to shift your limp body, but suddenly you're on your back, legs pushed up and pinned high beside your shoulders. His hands curl behind your knees, holding you wide open as he sinks into you again with no warning.
He grunts as he slides home, balls-deep, moaning loudly, eyes locked onto your face, drinking every twitch, every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. His hips start pounding again, relentless, slapping into your soaked cunt with wet, brutal rhythm.
Your mouth falls open, lips slack, eyes half-lidded. You can't even speak.
“Baby! L-love you—ahhh!” Jake cries out. One of his hands slips down, thumb pressing to your clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles.
You twitch violently beneath him, chest heaving, body barely holding together.
Even with your consciousness slipping—your mind half-blacked out from pleasure and fatigue—you feel it again. That same heat blooming low in your belly. Your legs are burning in the mating press, your lungs clawing for air, your head spinning.
“J-Jake, w-wait!” you sob, shaking your head from side to side, voice cracked, but his thrusts only get harder, his thumb moving faster, and ruthless.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop—just one more,” he begs, almost delirious.
“FUCK!” you scream, fingers twisting the sheets, your body shaking as it hits you. “Fuckfuckfuck!” you shriek as your entire core contracts violently. Your back arches. Your vision whites out. You feel the gush of hot liquid pulsing from your cunt, soaking the sheets, his pelvis, everything.
Jake groans loud and deep. But he doesn't stop. He keeps moving, keeps rubbing, his thumb grinding your clit as you cry out and shake under him. Your legs jerk in his grip, body trying to retreat, but he doesn’t let go.
Your voice cracks—"No! No more!"—but it's lost in the noise.
“O-one more, baby, please,” he moans as he leans over you again, his body trembling, lips brushing your ear.
Your scream rises again as his cock drags through your soaked walls, now slick with your release. You’re squeezing him so tight he’s nearly frozen in place. His eyes roll back, mouth dropping open.
“Jesus Christ, people! Tone it down!” Jay roars from the other side of the wall, banging his fist hard against it, rattling the drywall. His voice is muffled, furious, but distant and irrelevant.
Jake doesn’t even blink. He’s too far gone. His hands tighten around your thighs as he slams forward, again and again, slick friction loud and obscene, the slap of your bodies echoing through the room.
“Last one,” he gasps. “Fuuuuck, baby, fuck—!”
You scream again, nails digging into his wrists as your body explodes for the final time—another hot gush forced from your cunt, a violent surge that splashes his abdomen and thighs. Jake throws his head back and howls, the tension in his spine snapping as you clamp down so hard around his cock it punches the orgasm straight out of him.
He cums inside you, trembling, moaning, his voice broken and high as he spills deep, cock twitching wildly, over and over. His whole body quakes as he presses into you, emptying himself in ragged pulses that stretch on and on.
By the time it ends, you're both shaking. The room is thick with heat and the sharp, musky scent of sex, every surface damp with sweat, slick, and release.
Jake pulls out slowly, carefully, and even that soft withdrawal makes you both moan. The two of you are oversensitive.
Jake collapses beside you, arms immediately wrapping around your waist, pulling you in close. His face buries in the crook of your neck, lips pressing the faintest kiss to your skin.
You curl into him instinctively, legs tangled, your body heavy and sore but warm in the aftermath, without another word, you both drift under—naked, tangled in each other’s arms, unconscious on a mattress you’ve completely wet the bed in.
ꕤ ⋆˚꩜｡⋆˙⟡ MY KIND OF WOMAN (oneshot smau, implied playboy sunghoon. friends to lovers-ish.)
ꕤ ݁⋆. VISUAL REASONS ˚.⋆ || 박성훈 x fem!reader || smau (fluff, romance, suggestive, smau, est. relationship, non-idol!sunghoon x fem!reader)
sunghoon wants to be a gentleman and drive you home from work, but clearly telling you to stop by the gym was a mistake .. or maybe not
timestamps/drabbles
ꕤ Symbolize (Fluffy, a little bit of angst?, A man who yearns is a man who earns!!!, Soft Smut)
Sunghoon has never been good with words, but he wants to be for the girl that works at the flower shop. So he communicates in a way she'll understand, with flowers.
in which you agree to the jail guards offer for a small fee, you.
ꕤ ౨ৎ chokehold ! ft. park sunghoon .✦ ݁˖ (choking , spanking , ‘daddy’ , creampie)
in which you put sunghoon’s biceps to work, doggy style!
ꕤ 𓏼̶̥̥ one touch, she's in-love (brattamer!hoon x bratty!reader)
your boss likes to put you in your place... especially in his office _ _
ꕤ LOVER BOY (non-idol!sunghoon x fem!reader, est. relationship)
sunghoon is often seen as rude and cold, people can't imagine how you keep up with him but only if they know what goes behind closed doors, those questions would leave their head
ꕤ ᥫ᭡ drabble. sunghoon carrying y/n home after a late night out. (established relationship, just fluff tbh.)
ꕤ ⧼ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰᴇᴅ & ᴅɪᴢᴢʏ⧽ ─── 박성훈 (SMUT, reader gets put in a headlock, bicep chocking, backshots)
backshots with your boyfriend after his gym session.
ꕤ Side to side — Park Sunghoon (established!relationship, smut MDNI, oneshot)
Sunghoon convinced you to go to the gym with him and since you wanted to get closer to him, you accepted. And without surprise, you suck at it. But, you tried hard and were determined to keep going to impress him. Who would have thought that he had a kink for that?
ꕤ 𝄂𝄂—𝄂𝄂 ── BIG DUDE ⋆ PARK SUNGHOON (smut (mdni)、condescending dom!sunghoon、sub!reader、established relationship、degradation/humiliation)
who are you if not sunghoon's favourite kind of cardio?
oneshots
ꕤ IN SICKNESS & IN HEALTH. ✩ PSH. (smut. downbad!hoon & bf!hoon)
where love pours out of an extra-emotional and extra-clingy sunghoon when he realizes just how far you'd go to take care of him, and how lucky he is to have you by his side when his body has given up.
ꕤ Mr. Good Guy —sunghoon x f!reader (smut, college au, cheater!Hoon x sidechick!reader, sub!reader, mean dom!Sunghoon)
Unlike his friends, Sunghoon is a good guy. He would never, ever dare to look at another woman... until you came along
ꕤ ˋ 𑁍 ⨾ A CON FOR A HEART (𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗍)
when an elusive man known as “the curator” hires you under his organization of con artists, you know it’s for more than just your skill set. you accept his offer with motives on your own—find out just what his name is and expose it to his enemies to put yourself on top of the chain. but, as the two of you play a game of cat and mouse, you realize that that’s much easier said than done.
ꕤ as it turns out, i got reincarnated into park sunghoon’s gold-digging fiancée! (18+ MDNI, f!reader, isekai/transmigration, angst, fluff, drama, slow-ish burn)
after a truck sends you spiraling out of your old life, you wake in silk sheets and a diamond ring, trapped inside the body of cha y/n: the shallow, borderline-evil fiancée of ceo park sunghoon, fated to be discarded in popular webnovel melting the cold ceo’s heart. you know exactly how this ends: with sunghoon choosing your sweet wedding planner, lee soojin, on your wedding day while you stand alone, humiliated. so, of course, the most logical course of action is not to fight the plot. in fact, you’ll be the most pleasant, agreeable, and completely forgettable fiancée possible. but there’s just one problem with changing the storyline: it forces sunghoon to notice you. and the more you try to push him toward the love he is destined for, the more he pulls toward you instead. fate is one thing. desire is another. and when the man who was never supposed to even like you looks at you like you’re his world, walking away may cost far more than losing ever would.
ꕤ HEAR ME OUT 🧠 (Sunghoon/Fem!Reader, Fluff, Reader can hear thoughts, Bestie!Sunghoon, Sunghoon acts nonchalant, His thoughts tell a different story, SMUT)
AITA for using my best friends inner thoughts to fuck with him throughout the week until he is forced to admit his feelings for me out loud?
always and forever, l.h. ⭑.ᐟ
⤷ part 2 of baby, baby, baby 𓂃🧸۶ৎ ˚ʚɞ˚ (read here.)
exboyf idol!heeseung x youngmom!reader
length: 13.7k
contains: angst, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, protective heeseung, protective ot7, abandonment issues, co-parenting, heeseung genuinely throws hands, enha has your back, group confrontation, happy ending
warnings: toxic ex-relationship, threats/intimidation, light violence (pushing and grabbing), fighting, implied trauma, toxic parent dynamic, slut-shaming, your ex is the acc worst
synopsis: you and heeseung finally have things figured out and, yes, it's everything you hoped it would be. but things get complicated when your ex-boyfriend (and the father of your child) appears at your home, demanding you make space for him in your daughter's life.
with a threat against heeseung and an unfortunate miscommunication, the trust he's been working so hard to build with you is put to the final test.
⤷ chuu's 💌 ── .✦ wowwowoww this took SUCH a long time but i was not done with y/n and heeseung. genuinely the most dramatic and indulgent angst i have ever written but, what can i say? i'm a sucker for a man who's willing to defend what's his.
——
“Heeseung!” You called, cursing lightly as Hana wriggled out of your grasp and tore off towards the car.
Heeseung looked up, eyes locking onto the small child barreling towards him as he closed the trunk of your car. His feet were covered in sand, hair sticking up, the dark strands stiff with sea water.
Your daughter looked the same—sandy, saltwatered, and windswept as she attempted to dodge him, her hands outstretched towards the fading light of the beach.
Heeseung caught her with an arm around the waist and hoisted her, kicking legs and all, to his chest.
“Come on, supergirl,” He said, using a free hand to brush the sand off her feet. “Time to go home.”
“No!”
Her new favorite word.
“No?” He said, bringing her around to the backseat. “You don’t want to go home and eat all this candy we got?”
“No!”
“No, you don’t want to put on your new pjs that Uncle Jay bought you?”
“No!”
He hummed while he wrestled her into her car seat, strapping her in with practiced ease. “No, you don’t want to get mommy all wet while she gives you your bath?”
“No!!”
He grinned. “I see. Guess I’ll have to take care of that one, then.”
You slapped him on the shoulder. "You're gross."
Hana laughed at that, mimicking you with a few light slaps to his hands.
"What do you think, baby, am I gross?" He asked, brushing her wet hair back from her forehead.
She rammed her little fists into his arm, squealing in delight. "No!"
"That's what I thought," He said, closing her door and climbing into the front seat.
There was a time when Heeseung thought co-parenting would be a challenge—that the demands of caring for a toddler might strain your relationship, make things overly complicated. Tense. The way they had been between you and your ex.
He used to lie awake in his room, eyes heavy, chest tight with the fear that he’d mess it all up. That he didn’t have what it took, and that he’d hurt you worse than he ever had before.
But—like most things about the two of you—he’d been wrong.
You and Heeseung had slipped into a rhythm so tender, so natural, it was hard to believe there’d ever been a time without it.
He still lived at the dorm with the other guys, but he spent most nights at your house. During the day, he attended recording sessions and rehearsals, filmed content, and planned for upcoming tour dates as they prepared for their album release.
But he found his way back to you every night. To the contained chaos of your house, the sound of your daughter's laughter, to the warmth of you beside him.
"Hey," He'd say, kicking his shoes off at the door. "How're my two favorite girls?"
"Fussy. And tired," You'd answer, relishing the feeling of his lips on your temple, and his hand on your back.
For every night he’d spent tangled in doubt, there was one you’d spent the same—lying awake with old fears rattling in your head. That you were getting yourself into something you might regret, and all the hours you spent together would one day come to an end.
But it was getting easier and easier to push these thoughts away.
Heeseung was intentional with you. Direct. Clear. All the things you’d wished for years ago during your first time together. When he made promises, he followed through. When he saw you having a hard time, he took over.
It seemed instinctual, the way he could tell what you needed when things were overwhelming. You weren’t used to it. Asking for help had never been your strong suit, and sometimes the discomfort of it brought you to tears.
But Heeseung guided you through this new territory with ease, never once making you feel like you were too much.
He fit into your life like a puzzle piece, something that had been a part of you even before you knew it was missing. It had only been three months, but Heeseung had quickly become an irreplaceable part of your life.
——
The car was quiet. Hana's babbling had grown softer as the day caught up to her. The radio was on the lowest setting, a song you could barely make out mixing with the sound of your daughter’s tired muttering.
Heeseung’s hand rested gently on your knee as he drove, his other wrist draped over the steering wheel while he traced absent-minded patterns over your skin.
By the time you were parked in your driveway, Hana was out, cheeks pink from the sun, head lolling against her car seat.
You reached back to brush a curl away from her face, your heart spinning at the feeling of her skin beneath your fingers. Heeseung's touch was equally gentle, thumbing over your knee as he watched you in the mirror.
"I think a bath will have to wait until tomorrow," You said quietly. "We should just get her to bed." You turned around in your seat as Heeseung moved his hand to rest on the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair.
"Hm, an early night with no responsibilities. Whatever will we do with all the extra time?" He said teasingly, leaning forward to kiss you.
Your heart still fluttered when he did that.
"Get your mind out of the gutter, Lee," You muttered against his lips. "Come on."
Hana's body was heavy in your arms as you carried her up your steps, her diaper bag dangling from your fingers. The house was quiet, still warm from the summer heat as you pushed the door open, trying not to wake the sleeping toddler on your hip.
But as you stepped into the living room, your breath caught. The diaper bag slipped from your grasp, thudding against the ground.
"Babe, have you seen her water bottle—" Heeseung's voice trailed off as he came in behind you. You felt him tense.
He was there. In your house. Leaning against the kitchen counter like he owned the place.
Jace.
Looking at him now, it was so obvious that you'd started dating him all those years ago to get your mind off of Heeseung's absence. The two couldn't have been more different.
Jace's face was carefully guarded, eyes darting between the three of you with cold calculation. His gaze lingered on Hana, her head resting on your shoulder, hand curled around your hair.
His lip curled lightly at the sight of her, that same look that he used to give every time you'd ask him for help, every time you'd beg him to spend time with her. It wasn't hatred. It wasn't even disgust.
It was inconvenience.
Like simply being in the same room as you two was exhausting for him.
Heeseung moved closer behind you, silent. His presence eased some of the panic that was bubbling up your throat. The shift in his posture was unmistakable—tense, protective, itching to step in if you needed him.
His shoulder brushed yours, a silent reassurance. I'm right here, it said.
Something shifted in Jace's expression as his gaze flicked to Heeseung, taking in the man standing in his place. His face hardened, eyes narrowing, knuckles white as he crossed his arms.
"Long day?" He said finally, voice far too casual for how tense the air around you had become.
You tightened your hold on Hana, shifting her higher against your chest. “What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice wavering slightly.
Jace shrugged, as if there was nothing unusual about the situation at all. The tightness in your throat said otherwise.
"You've been ignoring my calls. Thought I'd stop by in person. I wanted to see my daughter."
The way he said it, my daughter, sent a shiver down the back of your neck. Heeseung let out a low breath, his brows furrowed.
"You can't just—" You swallowed, your throat dry. "You can't just let yourself in."
"Funny, I'm pretty sure my name's still on the lease. My key still fits in the door. Should've done something about that if you didn't want me coming home."
Heeseung stepped forward, dropping the bag he was holding with a thump. "You need to leave," He said, voice low and even. There was an edge to it that you'd never heard before. Wary. Defensive.
"Oh, right. The boyfriend." Jace pushed away from the counter, crossing the room until he was uncomfortably close. "Heeseung, right? So you're the one who hit the road all those years ago?" His face twisted disdainfully. "Surprised she let you back in the door. Maybe my odds are better than I thought."
Heeseung didn't budge. "You're not wanted here," He said steadily.
"You like playing house with someone else's kid?"
"If that's what you wanna call it, then yeah, I do." He retorted, eyes darkening. "You need to go."
"That's my daughter," Jace said, pointing at Hana. He looked at you then, eyes darting around your face. "Our daughter."
Your heart twisted painfully at that—our daughter—the words you used to pray to hear. The ones he used to spit at you, like she was some kind of disease you'd brought him.
“Figured it was time I start being a part of her life,” He said, fingers twitching like he was thinking about reaching out, touching her.
You took a step backward, your grip on Hana tightening. Heeseung’s hand was at your back instantly, steadying you.
"Why are you really here?" You asked. "You could have shown up any time before this."
Jace's face changed, that look of forced regret that you'd come to know so well settling over his sharp features. "I didn't know if you wanted me here, y/n. You said some harsh things last time we saw each other."
You frowned. “You didn’t know if... Jace, I called you— I..." You bit your lip, trying to focus on the feeling of Heeseung's thumb smoothing over your lower back.
"I know. And I know I should have been there..." He rubbed at the back of his head. "You know how hard it was for me. I wasn't... I wasn't ready."
"And you want me to believe that suddenly you are?"
He frowned. "Why are you acting like I was never there for you?"
"Because you weren't."
Your heart beat wildly in your chest. Jace had this way of making you feel small. You’d been through it before—his ability to twist every conversation, to make you question your own instincts.
You hated how easily he was doing it now.
"You know, I remember what it was like.” His voice was careful, measured. “When you were alone. When he was gone. I’m surprised you’ve forgiven him so quickly."
Your face hardened.
“Does he know what a mess he left behind when he took off to go prancing around onstage for a bunch of teenage girls?”
“Stop it, Jace.”
You saw what he was trying to do—force himself between you and Heeseung so he could wedge back into your life. You weren’t going to let him do it.
"What? You don't want him to know what a mess you were? How I had to pick up the pieces after he tossed you aside like you were nothing? Don’t act like I wasn’t there for you, y/n. We both know that’s not true.”
Your looked away, heat rising to your face. His words were dredging up memories you’d tried hard to forget. Moments that filled you with shame and disappointment: the nights you’d spent crying into his chest—long before the pregnancy, before the distance grew between you—begging him to help you forget about Heeseung.
The way you’d let him slip back in even after he'd left you and Hana, just for the help, just for the comfort of not being completely alone. Moments that you swore you'd never repeat.
"I was the one you'd call when you were scared and alone. I was the one who came over when you felt like you were doing everything wrong." He looked at Heeseung then. “You know she still calls me? Every time something’s up with Hana, I get a message. Did she tell you that?”
Heeseung’s face was hard, the edge of his jaw sharp as he ground his teeth. You hadn’t told him that.
It wasn’t like you were talking to Jace all the time, and the number of texts you sent him went down significantly when Heeseung reentered your life, but… he was the father of your child.
A part of you still clung to the idea that Hana would get to grow up knowing her dad. Could anyone fault you for trying to include him when it mattered?
“You think I’m gonna feel threatened by a few text messages?” Heeseung said, though you could hear the tension in his voice.
You glanced at him. This wasn’t how you’d imagined this conversation going. Still, Heeseung never wavered. He glared at Jace, who crossed his arms and shrugged.
“I just want to make sure you know who y/n’s going to when it really counts.”
You shook your head, as if clearing his words from your ears. "That's bullshit and you know it. I can’t rely on you for anything. You hated being here. You hated me.”
“Come on, y/n, is that really how you remember me?”
You laughed humorlessly. “It’s exactly how I remember you. You didn't mind it when things were easy—when I was the one carrying all the responsibilities, but when things got hard, you left. You gave up."
"And you think he won't do the same?"
Heeseung bristled beside you.
"You think he won't get sick of you, too? The sad single mom act gets old after a while, believe me."
"Fuck you," You snarled, pressing Hana to your chest as she stirred, letting out a whine at the volume of your voice.
His face twisted, the facade of concern vanishing behind one of anger, and there was the man you knew so well. The one who made you feel trapped, out of control, threatened. The one who couldn't stand being told no.
"I'm the reason you have a place to live," He spat back. "I'm the reason you have a kid to call your own. Why are you acting like I'm the bad guy? You used to love it when I'd come around like this."
Your chest tightened. "I'm taking care of my child."
"You're ungrateful."
Heeseung's fingers closed around the back of your shirt. His voice was sharp, dangerous. "Don't. Don't talk to her like that."
"Why the fuck are you still here?" Jace said, exasperated. "Have I not made myself clear? I've got it. You can run off like you did before. It shouldn't be very hard for you. The way she explained it, it sounded like leaving was the easiest thing you'd ever done."
"Jace," You said, voice low.
"No, we've spent enough time talking about me. How about him? Where were you while y/n was going through all this? If you're so great, why did she need me to pick up the pieces after you tossed her aside?” He looked at you. “What did he say? That things would be different this time around? You’re a smart girl, y/n, I find it hard to believe you’d fall for something like that.”
“You don’t know anything about us.”
Jace’s voice was steady. “I know he doesn’t know you half as well as I do.”
“Bullshit,” Heeseung said.
“Yeah? Try having a kid with someone first, maybe then you’ll get it.”
He scoffed. "Are you an idiot? You left her."
"So did you."
"I'm here now."
Jace held his arms out. "And what do you think I'm trying to do?"
Heeseung balled his fists, clearly trying to contain himself. Hana lifted her head slowly, blinking up at you tiredly.
Jace's eyes were locked on you. "Come on, baby. You're not really gonna kick me out, are you?"
Your throat tightened.
"That's my kid, y/n."
"I want you to go," You said firmly, digging your fingers into your daughter's shirt. "Now."
Jace sighed, dropping his hands to his sides. "You're not really giving me much of a choice here."
"Did you not hear what she said?! Get the fuck out!"
He narrowed his eyes at Heeseung, jaw tightening. That infuriatingly calm demeanor that always used to send you spiraling. He held his hands up.
"Look, I don't want to make your life harder. Especially you, man," He nodded at Heeseung. "I know you have a reputation to keep up. I'd hate for your fans to catch wind that their fav is too busy hanging around another guy's kid to keep singing his little songs."
You inhaled sharply. Heeseung tensed
The threat hung between them, crackling with energy. Heesueng kept his eyes on Jace as he made his way towards the door, his jaw set.
"I'll let you two think about that. See you soon, y/n."
The door closed behind him, plunging the room into an almost suffocating silence. Hana whimpered softly against your shoulder, and you rocked her gently, though you hardly realized you were doing it. Your pulse thundered in your ears.
Heeseung hovered beside you, his expression taut. He was breathing hard, the adrenaline of the interaction still fresh in the clench of his fists, the rigid line of his jaw.
His thumb brushed lightly against your shoulder, a wordless reassurance that he was there, he wasn’t going anywhere. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes—doubt, hurt—something you could see him trying to swallow.
“Are you okay?” He asked softly.
You nodded, your breath shallow. "I'm sorry you had to see that," You said, meeting his gaze hesitantly.
He was staring at the counter, where Jace had been leaning when you first walked in. You could practically see his mind racing, the thoughts flying behind his eyes as he worked his way through his emotions.
“I didn’t know you still talked to him,” He said flatly, not meeting your eyes. His voice was calm, neutral, but you knew that look on his face.
He was trying not to care. And he was failing miserably.
“I…” You started. “I don’t, Heeseung. Not really. It’s been weeks—”
“Weeks?” He looked at you.
The hurt was plain on his face. He’d been with you for three months—Hana had started walking, learned how to say your names—and the news that you’d been talking to your ex during that time seemed to crash over him, his expression falling.
You felt your throat tighten, defensiveness creeping up the back of your tongue. Jace was the father of your child. The man responsible for giving you your daughter. Did it really bother Heeseung that bad? That you had a one-off exchange every now and then to check in about your kid?
Of course, it did.
“I wasn’t trying to keep it from you,” You managed, searching his face. “It’s just… it’s complicated.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
His tone made you wince. Not because it was loud, or angry, but because he sounded genuinely hurt.
“I wasn’t trying to lie to you, I just— Look, nothing’s going on between us, Heeseung. I would never do that to you—”
“God, no, y/n,” He said, stepping away as he ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what’s the big deal?” You asked defensively, fidgeting with the edge of Hana’s shirt. She had her fingers on your necklace, blissfully unaware of the tension growing between you and Heeseung.
“It is a big deal, y/n. Not because I think something is going on— I would never—” He huffed, frustrated. “I’m trying to be here for you. For both of you. I wish you would let me.”
“I am! That’s her dad, Heeseung! Are you really angry with me for trying to involve him in her life?”
“Yes! I am, actually.” He put his hands on his hips, his soft features hardened by the frown on his face. “What the hell could he possibly bring to her life but pain and confusion? Do you really want him around her, y/n? Really?”
You flushed. “I want her to be able to make that choice when she’s—”
He cut you off. “No. You have to make that choice for her. You’re her mom. You’re supposed to keep her safe.”
You tensed, anger rising up your chest. “You don’t get to talk about what being her mom means.”
“I don’t understand why you’d go to him for anything—especially about Hana,” He said angrily.
“It’s not for you to understand! You don’t know what it’s like—”
“He practically broke into your house, y/n! He threatened you—he threatened her.”
“He threatened you,” You snapped. “God, I knew this would happen!”
That shut him up for a second.
His jaw clenched. “Knew what would happen?”
“This!” You gestured at him. “That it was going to be too much, trying to balance your career and being here with us. You were going to have to choose eventually.”
His expression broke, actually broke. He looked away as his face cracked, eyes glassy. Hanna began to fuss against your chest, glancing between you with an upset expression on her face.
The sight of both of them broke your heart.
“You know what happens if people find out, Heeseung. You know.”
He shook his head. “I don’t care.”
“They’ll tear her apart. They’ll tear me apart.”
“I won’t let that happen!” He snapped. Then he looked at you, brows furrowed, the pain written across his face. “How could you say that to me? That I’d have to choose? You know I— You know that I choose this. Choose you.”
“Then what do you want from me!?”
“I want you to choose me back.” He stared at you, his lip trembling like he was a second away from breaking down completely. “I want you to rely on me. You think I can’t handle it, and I’m trying to show you that I can!”
“You heard what Jace said.”
“You think I give a fuck what he says? I’ll protect you, y/n— We’ll protect you.”
“And if he really does it?”
He paused, his gaze flickering uncertainly.
“If he leaks our relationship and people find out. Your fans get pissed off. They come for me and my daughter, they tear us apart. Threaten your future. What then? Are you still gonna be choosing me when that happens?”
He stared at you. “I don’t understand why you’re pushing me away.”
The words kept coming, bitter and breathless, like they were choking you. Tears welled behind your eyes. “Because, Heeseung. You don’t know what it’s like, to be left again and again and still try to believe someone when they say they’ll stay.”
You swallowed, voice trembling. “I’m sorry that you’re angry at me. I’m sorry that I text Hana’s dad sometimes, but—” You bit your lip, your vision blurring. “—I don’t know what I’m doing. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I— I’m making it up as I go along, and I just—I just got used to you being here.”
Heeseung’s hand twitched by his side.
“So, if you’re going to go, do it. Now,” You spat, though your voice was weak. You were shaking, clinging to Hana like she was a lifeline, the only thing you could truly rely on. “Just get it over with.”
You felt your throat burn as he stepped towards you. You were used to the aftermath of a fight like this. The insults, the accusations. The days of silence that followed, that left you broken and scared.
And god, you were scared. Scared that you’d pushed him too far. That he was going to turn and get his things, slam the door closed behind him like Jace was always doing.
You whimpered as his hands went to your arms, fingers gripping your sleeves. Not harsh—sure. Steady.
You braced for the sting. The familiar recoil of being pulled away from. The snapping words, the withdrawal, the rejection. But they never came.
Heeseung’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Why do you have so little faith in me?”
Your chest seized.
He looked pained. “I don’t know how else to show you that I’m here, but I’m trying.”
You couldn’t help it—you started to cry.
His voice was quiet, earnest. “You can trust me. I want you to trust me.” He said it firmly, pulling you to his chest as if he just said it the right way, said it enough times, the words might sink into your skin. Might finally stick.
The moment you were in your arms, that you realized he wasn’t leaving, the weight of it all came crashing down. Your breath caught in your throat, your hands shaking.
“I’m sorry,” You gasped out. “I’m sorry I said that. Heeseung—”
He pulled you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair. “I know. It’s okay.”
Smushed between you, Hana began to squirm, her voice rising in protest. Heeseung pulled away enough to look down at her.
You watched as he brushed her hair out of the way, his face soft, and sorry, and scared. It was written all over him—the way he had one hand wrapped around you, the other thumbing gently at Hana’s cheek—he was scared of losing you.
The same way you were about him.
“We’re okay, aren’t we?” Heeseung said, leaning down to look at Hana. The words were meant for her, but they sank into your heart all the same.
We’re okay.
You pressed your face to the top of her head and closed your eyes, allowing the lingering scent of salt and sunscreen to soothe the last of your unease.
We’re okay. If you could believe in nothing else, you believed in that.
You fell asleep that night with your face pressed against Heeseung’s neck, his heart thrumming gently against your cheek. Lying there with his arms around your shoulders, it was hard to remember that you’d fought at all, or that there had been anything to fight about in the first place.
Jace seemed a world away. The words you’d thrown out of fear and defensiveness seemed a world away. For that blissful night, you believed what he’d said: that he would protect you, and that as long as you were together, nothing was going to get between you and your family.
But it was never going to be that simple.
——
Things were tense for the next few days. There was no outright evidence to point to—no tone, no passive aggressive comments, no real change in behavior. They were just… different.
Heeseung seemed to be treading more carefully around you. He no longer stepped in to help you with Hana where he saw fit, like she was just as much his responsibility as she was yours.
You’d never minded when he did that. His instincts were usually right, and you liked that he felt a sense of entitlement to caring for her. It was a wordless sort of reassurance that you’d come to rely on.
Now, he waited for you to ask him for help, as if scared of overstepping a boundary that you couldn’t remember ever placing. He hovered. He was there the moment you needed him, but that sense of belonging, of being a single unit, it seemed to get smaller and smaller.
You tried not to read too much into it. He wanted you to trust him.
That’s what he had said.
That he wanted you to rely on him, that he wasn’t going anywhere, that your days of second-guessing yourself and your relationship could finally be over.
But it was hard for you. Of course, it was. You really did try, but it wasn’t easy when he seemed quieter than usual. It wasn’t easy when his once steady hand around Hana’s waist became hesitant, unsure.
And it wasn’t easy when he got a phone call Sunday afternoon, and stepped into the hallway to take it.
“Hey Heeseung, can you come back to the dorm? Management is here.”
Jungwon’s voice was casual, but there was an underlying that edge that made Heeseung’s stomach twist uncertainly.
“Sure. Is everything okay?” He asked, glancing back at you and Hana playing on the carpet.
“It’s fine. Just get here when you can.”
You looked up from the living room floor as he hung up the phone.
“Was that Jungwon?”
He nodded, grabbing his jacket from the couch. “Yeah, management is at the dorm. I guess they’re calling everyone in.”
You didn’t miss the flicker of uncertainty that crossed his face, the interaction with Jace still fresh in both your minds. But Hana was climbing across your legs, her hands grabbing at the strands of hair falling out of your braid, and the look was gone as soon as it came, replaced by one of soft encouragement at your daughter’s venturing.
Heeseung squatted down, brushing the hair out of her face and giving you a kiss on your temple. “I’ll be back later, okay? I’ll text you.”
“Okay,” You said, your throat tightening as he got up, the smell of his cologne lingering as the door shut behind him.
An uneasy feeling settled in your stomach in the silence that followed, but you did your best to push it away. We’re okay. Heeseung’s words echoed in your mind, and despite the age-old insecurities that still lingered in you, you chose to believe him.
He’d be back later. He’d text you. You’d fall asleep the same way you had for the past few months, wrapped within his protective embrace and comforted by the fact that no matter what happened, you had each other.
Only, he didn’t text you later that night.
In fact, he didn’t come back at all.
——
“This is bullshit.”
Heeseung stood in the middle of his dorm’s living room, jacket in his hands, shoes still on as if ready to bolt out the door at any moment. And he wanted to.
He was furious.
He’d told you he’d be back. That he would text you when he was on his way, but his phone—along with everyone else’s—now resided inside a cardboard box that was tucked securely under the arm of their manager, Sejin.
“It’s just while we figure out how serious this guy is,” Sejin reminded him for what was probably the tenth time that night.
Heeseung wasn’t having any of it. “That’s bullshit!” He repeated, looking to the others for backup.
They were scattered around the living room, looking equally annoyed at the news, but not very eager to chime in.
The email had come that morning. An vague threat from an unfamiliar contact that Heeseung had no trouble identifying as Jace. The members had been gathered back at the dorm to discuss the next step in dealing with this, and the plan that was proposed made Heeseung want to throw something at the wall.
Instead, he huffed at his groupmates’ silence, and shook his head. “You can’t keep us here,” He said angrily.
Sejin was exasperated. “I’m not changing my mind.”
“Give me my phone back.”
“We can’t risk it, Heeseung. You know that.”
“At least let me call her!”
“Heeseung, stop it!”
Sejin’s voice bounced off the walls. He pointed a finger, knuckles white.
“You are the reason that we’re in this situation in the first place. I told you restarting this relationship was a mistake, and now we have threats—serious threats—that someone is going to go public with this information.”
Heeseung ground his jaw, fists clenching by his side.
“Do you even understand what happens if this leaks?” Sejin stared him down, wearing a look Heeseung hadn’t seen since he was a trainee. The one that said he was in charge, and that Heeseung would do well to remember it.
It made his hair stand on end.
“If this story breaks, you can say goodbye to the comeback. To the tour. Your MNET nomination—any nominations. This won’t just tank your name, it’ll drag the whole group down with it.”
Heeseung’s gaze flicked toward the others, who sat silently, watching.
“None of them asked to be part of this,” Sejin went on, his tone sharp. “And now you’ve made them targets for a potentially career-ending scandal.”
Heeseung could hardly speak, he was so angry, “I’m not saying it’s not a big deal, but dating scandals come out all the time! We’ve survived worse, I don’t understand—”
Sejin slammed his hand on the table, causing everyone to flinch. “It’s not a dating scandal, Heeseung! She has a kid. That changes everything. You know it does.”
Heeseung bit his lip, so furious that his hands were trembling. He felt his rage contort into something else, something worse. Shame. Helplessness. Guilt.
Of course, he knew that this was serious, that he’d put the others at risk for something that didn’t involve them, but that wasn’t what he wanted to hear from his manager. Not even close.
Sure, he could comfort you. He could tell you everything would be alright until he was blue in the face, and he’d mean every word of it. But what he wanted—god, he felt so stupid—what he needed was for someone to say the same to him.
To tell him it would be okay.
That this would blow over. That someone was handling it. That he didn’t have to fix everything himself.
Because the honest truth was that Heeseung was scared.
The interaction with Jace had shaken him more than he could admit. He wanted to be strong for you, to protect you and Hana from whatever complications might come with your being together, but he felt powerless now.
He wanted someone to tell him that it was going to be okay. And Sejin wasn’t giving him that. Not even close.
“Stop thinking about yourself for one second and think about what happens if your name becomes associated with this kid,” He continued. “She’ll be the first thing that comes up when people look up anything related to you. Yours or not, she’ll be your headline. Your scandal. Your mistake.”
Heeseung glared, his voice low. “She’s not a mistake.”
Sejin didn’t budge. “It doesn’t matter what she is to you. She’s a liability to everyone else.”
“This isn’t fair.”
He held a hand up. Final. “No phone. No calls. No leaving this dorm until we hear back from our lawyers.”
“Sejin—”
“I’m not asking, Heeseung.” His voice was low. Dangerous.
The other looked between them nervously. Jungwon was perched on the arm of the couch, looking as though he wanted to say something but feared he might receive the same treatment Heeseung had.
He hesitated. “I think y/n should know what’s going on.”
Sejin sighed. “Jungwon, you heard what I—”
“I’m not saying Heeseung should be the one to do it,” He said quickly. “I just think you should tell her what’s happening. She’s going to wonder why Heeseung isn’t messaging her, and she might come here. It’ll be even worse if someone gets a picture of her outside the dorm.”
Sejin paused, considering his words. “Fine. We’ll get in touch with her. But that’s it,” He said seriously, eyeing Heeseung.
Heeseung bit back everything he wanted to say, everything he should have said, as the team shuffled out of the dorm. He kept his fists clenched by his side as the door slammed shut, leaving them all in silence.
For a moment, no one moved. Then, Heeseung collapsed into a chair and ran a hand through his hair. He sighed.
“I’m sorry,” He managed, struggling to look at the others.
Sunghoon shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”
The others murmured in agreement.
“You didn’t ask this guy to go sharing your personal life with the public.”
“No, but I should have known better,” He insisted, bouncing his leg restlessly. “God, I told y/n I’d be back tonight. She’s probably freaking out right now.”
Jake moved in, pulling a chair out from the table and sitting down. “What happened anyways?”
“Yeah, how did this guy even find out about you?” Jay came to join them at the table, the others following suit.
Heeseung broke into a long-winded explanation of how the evening had unfolded—getting home from the beach, seeing Jace there in the kitchen. The way he had spoken to you, like he was responsible for every good thing in your life.
Like he was the reason you had anything to call your own. Like he was the reason Hana was growing up so well. Like you weren’t the one who had fought tooth and nail to give your daughter a good life.
Just thinking about it made Heeseung’s hands ball in his lap.
“So he, like, broke in?” Jake asked incredulously. “Like, was just waiting for her to get home?”
“Yup.”
“I’m glad you were there with her,” Sunghoon said. “Who knows what would’ve happened if she was alone.”
Jungwon was quiet for a while before he glanced at Heeseung. “I can’t imagine how overwhelming this must be.”
“It’s fine… I just wish we were together right now, you know?” Heeseung sighed.
“Not for you. For y/n.”
He looked up.
“Maybe…” Jungwon said, speaking slowly, “Maybe this is good. The space, I mean.”
Everyone looked at him.
He held his hands up. “I’m just saying—this is a lot, right? The press, her ex, Hana..”
Heeseung blinked. “What are you trying to say?”
Jungwon hesitated. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, because it’s not. It’s just…” His voice softened. “Y/n’s had a really hard time. And I don’t think we’re making things any easier for her.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even wrong. But it hit Heeseung like a blow to the stomach.
Not we, he thought. Me.
Sunoo looked between them, watching the emotions that passed over Heeseung’s face—the way his shoulders dropped, how quiet he became.
He half-laughed, clapping his hand on Jungwon’s shoulder. “Oh, come on, I don’t think that’s true,” He said lightly. “I mean, you might be right, the space might be good—but she loves you, Heeseung. And she’s tough. She can handle more than we give her credit for.”
Heeseung nodded, suddenly wishing that he was alone.
He didn’t say anything. Not when the others chimed in to agree, not when the conversation began to shift, not even when they dispersed to hang out in their rooms or go back to gaming on the couch.
He just sat there, Jungwon’s words replaying in his mind.
I don’t think we’re making things any easier for her.
It looped in his head like a chorus, burning at the back of his throat like a pill he couldn’t quite swallow. Jungwon hadn’t meant it to be harsh, but Heeseung couldn’t let go of it.
You’d had a hard time. He wasn’t making it any easier. You didn’t ask for this.
The worst part? It was the truth.
You hadn’t asked for any of this. Hadn’t asked Heeseung to come back into your world. Hadn’t asked him to help you. Hadn’t wanted to complicate your daughter’s life. You’d only started opening up because Heeseung had practically begged you to let him in.
Because he swore he could handle it. Because he thought loving you would be enough.
He pushed away from the table, biting back all his anger and frustration. In his room, he paced, sat down on his chair, got back up again. When he collapsed onto his bed, he reached for his phone on instinct, only to remember that it wasn’t there.
He sighed.
He just hoped that Sejin had messaged you already. That he’d made it clear Heeseung wasn’t blowing you off, and that everything would be alright.
That wouldn’t be long before you’d hear from him again.
——
Hello,
Due to internal circumstances, Heeseung is no longer available for contact. Please do not attempt to reach out to him or any other member of this team.
The buzz of your phone made you jolt, disturbing the momentary spell of shallow, restless sleep you’d managed to slip into.
It had been a rough night.
Hana had cried, and cried, and cried. She’d gotten used to Heeseung being there to put her down for the night, to the sound of his voice as he read—sometimes even sang—her to sleep. He was good at getting her to settle, even when she was at her most agitated.
But he hadn’t done either of those things.
He hadn’t even come home.
You sat up as you read the message, blinking at your screen. You read it again.
And again.
And again.
Heeseung is no longer available for contact. Please do not attempt to reach out.
Your body tensed, clutching your phone in your hand as if to make sure that it was real. That your mind wasn’t playing a cruel joke, taking advantage of your lack of sleep and weakened emotional state to recreate your worst nightmare.
But no. The text stared back at you from your screen. Incredibly real.
Heeseung is no longer available for contact.
Do not attempt to reach out.
You felt your resolve snap, the poorly constructed sense of calm and rational you’d been clinging to splintering into a thousand tiny pieces.
You let out a laugh. Sharp. Humorless. Half in shock and half at the irony of the situation.
Above the text, was another grey message bubble. The only other message you’d ever received from this number, date stamped to three years ago, glaring up at you with a sick glow that still made your stomach twist when you looked at it.
Hi Y/N,
As you know, ENHYPEN will be departing for their debut tour soon. After thorough consideration, it’s been decided that Heeseung and the rest of the group’s attention should lie solely on preparing for this major step in their careers. We thank you for your understanding and ask that you do not join us at the airport tomorrow. We wish you the best.
HYBE Management
You curled forward, gripping your phone so tightly your knuckles went white.
Everything came back.
Everything you’d been trying so hard to forget over the past three months. Heeseung’s silent departure from your life, the wordless goodbye, the way you didn’t even get to ask any questions. The decision had been made for you, just like it was being made now.
Were you really here again? Stuck in the same situation that had haunted you for months on end? Eyes glazed as you read and reread a message sent as carelessly as if you were some stranger on the street?
It wasn’t just the content of the message that stung; it was the method.
After everything—the laughter in the kitchen, the soft, stolen moments in the hallway, the promises Heeseung had whispered against your skin like they were prayers—you got this?
A text. Faceless and clinical, like you were inconsequential. Insignificant. Nothing. Your eyes burned with a kind of pain that was older than your relationship, older than your daughter, older than you.
The kind that came with realizing you’d ended up exactly where you swore you wouldn’t. Exactly where Heeseung had promised you’d never be again.
It was hard not to panic. Not to sink to the floor and fall apart, the way you had the first time you felt the stinging slap of reality hand-delivered by a text message just like this.
Your mind replayed a thousand moments of comfort—his fingers wrapped around yours, his protective hand on your back, the jokes, the reassurances, the I’m right here’s—clinging to the possibility that you were misunderstanding something.
Things were different now, weren’t they? Heeseung had made a promise—he’d promised—that he was going to be there. Didn’t that mean anything?
You took a breath. Steeled yourself.
There had to be an explanation for this. Something had to have happened—no way he would do this to you again.
You closed out of the contactless chat and opened your texts with him. Your face reflected back at you from your most recent exchange: a photo of you and Hana ankle-deep in the ocean, the surf bubbling around her feet.
You clenched your jaw as you typed.
Y/N
Management just texted me
What’s going on?
Call me please
When no reply came, you tried Jungwon. And Sunoo. And even Jake, who’d only ever texted you to get the password for your Netflix account and to ask if you wanted anything from the convenience store.
No one answered.
The day passed long and torturous, with no words of comfort from any of the people who had become so central to your life.
You sent an embarrassing number of texts to Heeseung, each met with stark, painful silence.
Y/N
Can you just tell me what’s going on
Y/N
Are we really doing this again?
Y/N
I don’t understand.
And every hour that went by seemed to bring on a new set of emotions, each more turbulent and frantic than the last.
Y/N
You couldn’t even spare the time to talk to me face-to-face?
Y/N
I can’t believe we’re back here again.
Exactly where we started.
Y/N
You make me feel so fucking stupid Heeseung
I never should’ve believed a word out of your mouth
You typed out a hundred different things: long-winded paragraphs explaining that he wasn’t welcome anymore, that he’d never be welcome around you or your daughter again. Cruel, curse-filled insults that stung the back of your throat as you typed them. Rambling sentences that barely made any sense, begging him to just talk to you. To explain what had gone wrong.
You didn’t send them. You deleted everything you wrote almost as soon as you were done writing it. Your thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button before moving up, your heart thundering at the base of your throat.
Blocked.
For now.
Let the silence swallow him instead, you thought angrily, throwing your phone across your bed.
You focused on Hana, clothing and feeding and playing with her, trying to ignore the way Heeseung’s presence seemed to linger around your house like a ghost.
A hint of his cologne as you walked into the room, like he’d been there only moments before. A glimpse of his silhouette in the corner of your eye, as if he were still there, leaned against the wall, watching you with that half-smile on the corner of his lips.
Your daughter sensed your shift in mood and became inconsolable herself, pushing your hand away as you fed her, turning her head when you went to kiss her cheek.
“Hee?” She said, frowning at you from her chair at the table.
It would have killed him, the softness in her voice, the way she stumbled over the syllables of his name. She’d been asking for him all day. You had no way to explain to her why he wasn’t the one feeding her dinner or playing with her on the couch.
“No, baby,” You said firmly, bringing her water bottle from the kitchen.
Hana glared at you. “Hee,” She said stubbornly, smacking her spoon against the table.
“He’s not here,” You repeated, trying to keep the edge from your voice.
“No,” She said angrily.
“Believe me, I’m upset, too.”
“No!” Her spoon clattered to the floor, spraying bits of food across the floor.
You frowned. “Hana, stop it.”
“No!” She screeched, straining against the safety belt at her lap.
You tried to get her bowl out of the way, but she was quicker than you, smacking it off the table with a sharp scream. “No!” She screamed, kicking her feet furiously.
You felt tears prick behind your eyes—hot, angry. Her wailing pierced your ears painfully, sending a wave of helpless frustration over you.
Where was your tantrum? Why couldn’t you scream and cry until someone came to comfort you? Your vision blurred as you picked the spoon and bowl up from the floor, dropping them into the sink.
You braced against the counter, trying to steady the wave of emotion that you’d been struggling to contain. Trying even just to breathe. Heeseung would have been offering to wash the dishes for you by now, or finding some way to distract Hana while you caught a moment to yourself.
Instead, you were alone, flinching every time her voice rose, wishing that he were there to help you. The fact that you missed it—missed him—made you feel pathetic. Weak. Like you were the same stupid girl who was still hoping someone else would come and save you.
Hadn’t you learned anything at all?
The sound of Hana’s screaming kept rising, rough and confused. You looked at her, all red and blotchy from crying, her tiny body fighting to escape her highchair into a pair of arms that weren’t even there to hold her.
The tears that had threatened you all day finally spilled over, dripping down your cheeks and onto the backs of your hands as you pushed away from the counter, exhausted.
“I know,” You choked out, voice wavering. “I know you want him. I know, I know. I don’t know what to tell you.”
You pulled at the belt around her lap, and she lunged toward you, arms outstretched. You lifted her gently, careful not to catch her legs on the table as you pulled her into your chest, rubbing her back in a fruitless attempt to ease her distress.
Her face was wet against your neck, voice vibrating against you, feet digging into your stomach. You held her tightly, unable to stop yourself from crying with her.
You felt so angry. So betrayed. So ashamed.
How many times had you told yourself not to listen to him? Not to trust what he was offering, which had always sounded too good to be true.
A stable presence in your life? Someone to help you navigate the uncertainty of raising your daughter? Even just a pair of arms to crawl into at the end of the day?
Your own child’s father couldn’t offer you that. Why on earth did you think Heeseung would?
Because he told you he would, your heart said stubbornly. Because he begged you to let him.
You shook your head, carrying Hana down the hall to the bathroom. That excuse wasn’t good enough. Not for you. The sun set behind the trees, casting your house into a second night of empty silence, and all you could think was:
I knew better. I should have known better.
——
The next day, Hana woke with a fever.
You stayed home from work, called off the babysitter, prayed that if you kept giving her water and dressing her in her lightest clothes that it’d burn off on its own.
It didn’t.
Hana’s voice grew hoarse from crying as the day passed by, her temperature continuing to rise and fall long into the night.
You tried to remain calm about it, but you couldn’t help the twinge of unease that crept into the back of your mind as you watched the hours tick by. The sun set as you rubbed a gentle hand on her back. You were still there when it began to rise again the next morning.
Hana fussed in her crib, too tired to cry, too uncomfortable to sleep, as you grew more and more anxious.
Before you knew it, you were googling symptoms, trying not to catastrophize over every horrible disease and illness the internet suggested she might have.
Mommy forums debated over potential diagnoses and treatments. Some posts offered encouragement, others words of warning. You read story after story of people who’d brushed fevers off as cold symptoms, only to discover their child was experiencing a life-threatening infection.
DO NOT WAIT!! I made the mistake of waiting to take my daughter to the doctor for a fever and we ended up spending the weekend in the emergency room. Please don’t make my mistake!
Fevers aren’t really something to worry about unless it reaches above 102°F. If they last longer than 24 hours—at ANY temp—go to the doctor immediately.
You looked at the clock. It was pushing 6am. Your stomach twisted uneasily, a million horrible scenarios spinning through your mind.
You called your mom, apologizing for waking her up so early as you watched Hana squirm in her sleep, her hair damp with sweat.
“She’s still burning. It’s been almost a full day.” Your voice cracked as you spoke. You didn’t want her to know how overwhelmed you were. You couldn’t bare the shame that would come with her concern.
“I keep telling myself it’s just a fever, but what if it’s not? What if I’m waiting too long? God, I don’t even know if I can take her in. I had to call out yesterday—my boss is already pissed. If I lose this job...”
“Isn’t Heeseung with you? Can’t he take her?”
Your eyes burned.
You knew telling your parents about him was a mistake. It had only been a few weeks of being back together, but you hadn’t been able to keep it to yourself.
You’d been too excited, too happy about being with him to keep it a secret. Now, it only reminded you how foolish you’d been.
“He’s busy,” You lied, throat dry. “Work stuff. You know how it is for them.”
You heard your mom sigh over the phone. “I don’t like that he leaves you alone so often, y/n. Having a kid is a full-time job.”
Your jaw clenched. “Well, she’s not his kid.”
“No, I suppose not. Can you call Jace? I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a hand with her. At the very least, a ride to urgent care.”
Your grip tightened on your phone. “I guess. I’ll try. Thanks, mom. Sorry for waking you.”
“That’s okay, honey. Let me know if things get any worse, alright?”
You hummed, settling back into silence as you hung up.
Can you call Jace?
The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. After your interaction earlier that week, talking to your ex was the last thing you wanted to do.
If you called him now, everything he said about you would be right. That you still needed him. That you were an idiot for trusting Heeseung.
You’re a smart girl, y/n, I find it hard to believe you’d fall for something like that. His words burned at the back of your throat.
You could see it now: his smug, gloating face, as he realized that he had you exactly where he wanted you. Alone. Desperate. Nowhere else to go.
But looking at Hana, you struggled to weigh your resentments toward him against her well-being. If your daughter was in danger, was there anything you wouldn’t do to help her?
Seeing her now, sweating in her crib, cheeks raw from all the crying, you realized that might have to include swallowing your pride.
You opened your phone again, avoiding the mommy blogs and tabs of medical advice, and found your text messages.
Heeseung’s name was at the top of the list.
You hesitated.
Thumb hovering over his name, you considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe, this could be an alternative to calling Jace. One you’d been too stubborn to entertain before. One that would likely result in nothing but an answering machine and the bitter taste of disappointment in your mouth.
But was it worth the try?
You clicked on his name, swallowing the lump in your throat as you unblocked his number and called it.
At first, you were surprised that it even rang. You’d figured Heeseung would have blocked you right back after discovering his texts weren’t sending. But then, you didn’t have any new messages coming in, and he probably didn’t care enough to even realize you’d blocked him in the first place.
The phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
Unanswered.
You weren’t sure why you stayed on the line. Maybe you didn’t want to believe that this was really over. That his phone was receiving your call and he was actively choosing not to pick up.
Maybe you just wanted to hear the sound of his voice.
It came out the speaker into your ear, warm and bright, absent-minded, like he had recorded the message in the middle of doing something else.
“Hey, sorry I missed you. Leave a message or shoot me a text. Talk to ya later. Bye.”
You clutched your phone, breath trembling slightly.
“Hey…” You began, suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that this was the stupidest thing you’d ever done. “Sorry—this is… Hana’s sick. Um, she’s got a pretty bad fever, and I think she needs to see a doctor…” You trailed off, staring at the wall numbly. “Sorry, you clearly don’t want to be a part of this anymore. I guess I just—”
Your chest tightened, voice faltering.
“You told me to trust you. You said that I didn’t need to rely on Jace anymore. You got mad at me for relying on him, actually, because you wanted me to rely on you.”
You let out a tired laugh, rubbing a hand over your face. It was hard to believe you were back here. Leaving messages for people who couldn’t care less about you or your problems.
But who were you kidding? Heeseung was never going to listen to this. Your stream of unanswered texts told you as much.
“I guess I’m just confused. Confused because I was ready to do it, to stop pushing you away, and then you just… disappeared. And the funny thing is, I’m not even surprised. I mean, this was what I figured would happen all along, right?”
Your gaze fell, throat burning with a mix of embarrassment and regret. “You’re not even going to listen to this. I’m just gonna… I’m gonna call Jace and see if he can take us to urgent care. Hana’s fever isn’t breaking, and I’m worried it could be something serious. I guess I just thought you might want to know. Anyways… Goodbye, Heeseung.”
Your voice cracked as you hung up, hurrying to find Jace’s contact buried under your other texts. You feared that if you hesitated, even for a second, you wouldn’t do it.
The line rang twice before he answered. Your throat felt tight, like you wanted to scream, or cry, or throw up. Probably all three.
“Y/n?” He sounded groggy. It was barely 7am, after all. He was probably just waking up.
“Jace,” You answered, tensing. “It’s Hana.”
——
The ride to urgent care was quiet. Jace rested his elbow on the middle console between you, hand close enough that you could have taken it, if you wanted.
You didn’t.
He sat with you in the waiting room. Listened as the doctor quelled your fears about Hana’s fever. Nodded through the medication explanation and what to do if the fever wasn’t breaking—all as if he was the one who’d be taking care of her.
He managed to convince you to call your boss, who was gracious enough to give you the next few days off. Probably because you sounded half-dead, running on a few measly hours of sleep from two days ago.
Hana slept the whole time, waking only to protest as the doctor took her temperature, and falling back asleep before you’d even made it out of the building.
Jace watched the two of you carefully, as if waiting for the right moment to bring up what he’d said before. That he wanted to be a part of your lives. You desperately hoped that he wouldn’t. You were exhausted. And you weren’t sure if you had it in you to fight him off this time.
He waited until he was pulling into your driveway, his voice carefully even.
“I meant what I said, you know. About wanting to be around.”
“Jace,” You said quietly, the warning already in your tone.
“I’m not trying to make things harder,” He insisted. “I just—look at her. She deserves to know who her dad is.”
You closed your eyes, sighing. Your head was pounding. “She deserves stability. Not confusion. We can’t—” You took a breath. “I can’t keep letting people into her life who are only going to leave.”
“Come on, y/n. I’m here now.”
You clenched your jaw. “Where were you last month? Or the month before that? She turned two, did you know that?”
“I’m here now,” He repeated, like that was a reasonable answer to your questions.
“You don’t just get to drop in when you feel like it, Jace,” You said harshly, unbuckling your seatbelt and getting out of the car.
He followed, coming around the other side to stop you. He put a hand out as you opened Hana’s door, pushing it closed.
“Jace.”
“No, I’m not letting you do this anymore,” He hissed, eyes bright and angry. “You think you can just call me when you need something and then toss me aside once you get what you want? What is this, y/n? Why did you call me?”
“Because our daughter is sick! Because I’ve been awake for the past 48 hours, and I didn’t think it was a very good idea for me to get behind the wheel of a car.”
“Our daughter.” He repeated. “So you can admit that I’m her father but you won’t let me actually be a part of her life?”
“She might be your daughter,” You hissed, “But you will never be her father.” You glared at him, yanking the door handle open again.
He slammed it shut with more force this time, stepping closer.
“Don’t act like this is just about her,” He spat. “You needed someone, and he wasn’t there. So now you need me, right? The backup plan?”
Your mouth fell open. “Is that what you think this is?” Your voice was shaking. “You think I dragged myself out of bed, begged you to come, waited in that doctor’s office for forty-five minutes because I missed you?”
“You always do this,” He snapped. “You call when things are falling apart and then blame me for showing up.”
You shoved past him to open the door, unbuckling Hana with trembling fingers. She stirred, letting out a soft cry. “She doesn’t even know who you are.”
“Because you won’t let her!”
“Because you’re not what she needs!” You snapped back, pulling her to your chest. Her body was still hot. The medication from the doctor rattled in your bag as you adjusted her in your arms. “She doesn’t need people who only show up when I’m out of options—she needs people who are here. Every day. Who don’t disappear when they get tired of playing house.”
“Oh, you mean like Heeseung?”
The words hit like a slap to the face.
Jace’s lip curled at your shock. “Why isn’t he the one driving you to urgent care? Don’t tell me, I was right, wasn’t I? He finally figured out what a drag it is dealing with someone else’s kid and hit the road. Right?”
You ground your jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? Then where is he, huh? Why’d you call me and not him?”
“Shut up, Jace. Go home.”
He stepped in again, hands flexing by his sides, like he knew he’d upset you. Like he was enjoying it. “You wanna play dumb with me? It’s written all over your face, y/n. He’s long gone. Couldn’t even pretend long enough to stick around.”
Your grip on Hana tightened, stomach twisting. “I want you to leave. Now.”
“Right, because you're still holding out hope he'll come crawling back?” Jace scoffed. “I’m her father. I have a right to see her.”
“She doesn't know you!” You were yelling now. Both of you.
“You can’t just keep her from me—”
“She’s not a thing to be kept, Jace, she’s a child!” You shouted, your voice trembling with rage. “And I won’t let you confuse her just because you’re feeling left out.”
“So, what? You’re just gonna sit around hoping he comes back? Or maybe you already have another guy lined up. Is that it? Found someone else to burden with your issues? God, you’re so desperate, it’s pathetic.”
“Fuck you,” You hissed, turning to leave.
“Don’t you walk away from me.” He grabbed your shoulder, forcing you back around.
You gasped, shoving his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me, Jace.”
“I’ll do what the fuck I want—”
“Jace—”
But he wasn’t listening. He pushed you. Hard. Shoved his hands into your shoulders like he was testing you, daring you to stand up to him again. Your grip tightened on Hana, panic rising up the back of your throat. He sneered, stepping towards you again. And then—
“Get your fucking hands off of her.”
Heeseung’s voice. So sharp and furious it didn’t even sound like him. Your breath caught as you turned to see him rushing towards you.
Your voice cracked, half surprise, half disbelief. “Heeseung—”
He shoved Jace back hard—both hands against his chest, slamming him away from you. “Leave. Now. Fucking get out of here, or I swear to god—”
Jace made a noise of surprise, stumbling back slightly. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to show up—”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?!” Heeseung was shouting. Frantic. His chest was heaving like he’d run there. His phone was clutched in his hand, your texts flashing from his screen. “If you touch her again, I will ruin your life.”
“You really think you’re going to scare me off?” Jace retorted. “You think you can walk in here and tell me what to do?”
His voice was sharp. “You put your hands on her.”
Jace scoffed. “I didn’t hurt her—”
“You grabbed her.” Heeseung stepped forward. “You raised your voice. You pushed her with a baby in her arms.”
“I’m her father,” Jace snapped.
“You’re a piece of shit,” Heeseung spat, hands shaking by his sides.
“You gonna hit me?” Jace taunted, folding his arms over his chest. “Real classy. Real dad material.”
“You wouldn’t know the first thing about what it takes to be a father.”
“Oh, and you do?”
“Know more than you? Yes. I’d say I do.” Heeseung’s breath came in sharp bursts. “I’ve been here. Every day that you weren’t. Your daughter turned two last month—where the fuck were you? Gone. As usual. The only reason you’re here right now is because I couldn’t be.”
You inhaled sharply. Couldn’t be? What was that supposed to mean? Your heart hammered against your chest as Heeseung snapped at Jace, half a mind to just take Hana and leave. To lock your door and ignore them both. But Heeseung kept going, his voice harsh. Accusing.
“I would have been here today,” He said. “If my manager hadn’t taken my phone because of the threat that you sent in.”
You stiffened.
“And I’m not going to stand here and let you make them feel unsafe.” He finished. “Not now. Not ever again.”
Your head spun.
Jace had done it? He’d threatened Heeseung’s managers? And they’d reacted by… taking Heeseung’s phone. Of course. Keeping him offline until they could figure out how to handle it.
Your heart stuttered as the realization sank in. You felt sick.
Jace’s face twisted, his knuckles turning white. “Whatever. Keep acting like you’re better than me. This little fantasy you guys have? Not gonna last.” He looked at you. “Don’t forget who you called for help.”
“She called me,” Heeseung snarled. “How many times does she have to reject you before you get it through your head?”
Jace closed his fists, his voice lowering. “You really want to do this?”
Heeseung hissed, “I fucking dare you.”
You tensed, taking a step back. For a moment, it looked like he might really do it. Might really step forward.
Then, Hana whimpered against your neck, too tired to fully take in the scene unfolding before her. She reached a hand towards Heeseung, her voice cutting through the air that crackled between them.
“Hee,” She cooed, pouting tiredly at him.
Heeseung froze.
You watched his entire body shift. He turned, breath hitching, shoulders dropping, eyes darting between the two of you. You saw it written all over his face—the regret, the apology. He stepped towards you, hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure you even wanted him to.
And for a moment, you weren’t sure either. You were still processing what he’d said, what it meant. That he hadn’t ignored you, or disappeared. That Jace was the reason you’d spent the past two days drowning in self-doubt. It took a moment for this to become real, for your mind to catch up to what your heart already knew.
But Hana was insistent, squirming towards him with surprising strength. You brought her closer, chest aching as you watched her latch onto his hand with her own.
“Hey, supergirl,” He whispered, leaning down to look at her.
Jace let out a sharp breath behind him. “Unbelievable. You let him—”
“Shut up,” You snapped, your voice low, lethal.
You looked back at Heeseung, heart racing. He brushed his thumb over Hana’s knuckles and you felt something in you give. Loosen. Like a weight finally falling off your shoulders.
It took one look at the two of them to confirm what you’d been clinging to all along: Heeseung hadn’t lied to you. He’d meant every word he’d said. About being there. About protecting what was his. And looking at him now, you realized how serious he was.
But Jace wasn’t done. He was never done. You came to this realization as he growled angrily, balling his fists. He would never be done bothering you, not until you cut him out of your life for good.
He stared at the three of you disdainfully. “I really do care about her, you know. That’s the funny thing. It’s just a shame that her mom is such a bitch.”
Heeseung’s face changed. Livid.
He dropped Hana’s hand and turned—shoulders coiled, fists clenched—like he was ready to swing this time. But the commotion of a group of people stopped him, their voices carrying over from the street.
Before you could even register it, they were there. All of them—Jake, Jungwon, Sunghoon, Jay, Sunoo, and Niki—and they’d heard him.
Sunghoon surged forward and shoved Jace, hard. “Say that again.”
The others stepped around you defensively as Jace grunted, hands flexing like he wanted to shove back. But Sunghoon was tall, taller than Heeseung even, and his expression faltered slightly as he took him in.
“Great. There’s more of you,” He said, eyes darting around as the rest of them approached.
You felt a twinge of satisfaction at the way he looked between them, counting how many of them there were. Second-guessing his chances.
“What’s going on?” Jungwon asked, stepping between you.
“I just said what everyone’s already thinking,” Jace snapped, posture shifting like he was trying to ground himself. “She’s got you all wrapped around her finger, doesn’t she? Playing house with seven different guys. She open her legs for all of you or—?”
He didn’t get to finish.
Heeseung lunged first.
The shove was violent, sending Jace stumbling back into the side of his car with a loud thud. You flinched, turning your body to shield Hana as chaos erupted around you.
“Heeseung—” You started, but Jake was already grabbing him by the shirt, hauling him back.
“Let go,” Heeseung snarled. Breath heavy, teeth bared. Vicious. “Let go of me.”
“Not here,” Jake gritted out, struggling to keep hold of him.
“What the hell is going on?” Sejin snapped, storming up to the group, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of Jace scoffing—bitter, mean. Like a dog backed into a corner; snapping at whatever was within reach.
“Did I hit a nerve?” He spat, wiping his mouth. “You know what? I should be thanking you for taking her off my hands. That bitch’ll turn on you the second she loses interest.”
Sunoo moved fast, stepping in between Jace and the others before Heeseung could break free. “Get the fuck out of here,” He said sharply, his usual sweetness replaced by something colder, more lethal. “Now. Before we make you.”
“You’re not gonna do shit,” Jace sneered. But there was hesitation in his voice. He was outnumbered. Everyone knew it.
Jungwon’s voice was hard. “You’re not welcome here. You show up again and you won’t be walking away.”
That made him pause. You could see the cracks forming in his confidence. His eyes skirted over the wall of people between you, and for the first time, he looked scared.
Sejin shoved his way through the group. He wasn’t the tallest person there—not by a long shot—but his presence was sturdy. Protective. Not just of his team, but of you, and your daughter.
“Jace Mitchell.” The name was sharp on his tongue.
Jace’s eyes darted over him. “What.”
“I’m glad we get to meet. You’ll be receiving contact from our legal team by tomorrow morning,” Sejin said, holding a hand out to steady Heeseung, who was shaking, fists clenched, brows taut.
Sejin’s voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even angry. It was critical. Deathly serious. “The email you sent earlier this week contains a documented threat of blackmail. One that we are taking very seriously.”
Jace scoffed. “That wasn’t—“
“It was,” Sejin interrupted. “You threatened to disclose private information about an individual and a minor, along with a member of our company. A highly protected member of our company. We have the message and we have your contact information with it. I'm sure a lawyer—which I strongly suggest you get in touch with—can explain the gravity of that.”
“You think I care about your stupid company?”
“I think you care about your job. And being within fifty feet of your daughter.”
Jace’s smile faltered.
“We take our employee’s safety very seriously. If you make contact again in any form—text, phone, email, in person—without y/n’s explicit consent, I will have a restraining order filed within twenty-four hours. You will never see that little girl again.”
Jace’s jaw ticked.
He looked around them before his eyes landed on you. Cold, accusing, full of hate.
He raised his hands. Surrendering. “I tried. You remember that. When this—” He pointed at Heeseung. “—doesn’t work out, don’t come crawling back to me.”
You glared back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
His gaze swept over you, at your daughter asleep against your chest, at the way Heeseung was murmuring to the both of you, making sure you were alright.
“Whatever,” He muttered. “More trouble than you’re fucking worth.”
You watched him turn towards his car, fist shaking around his keys. Then, like he couldn’t help himself—
”Fucking slut.” He hissed under his breath.
Heeseung rounded, the others exclaiming as he stepped towards Jace. Jungwon grabbed him by the arm roughly, yanking him back, as Jace ducked into his car.
Jungwon slammed the door shut behind him, cursing as Jace's car pulled out of your drive.
For a moment, no one moved. The others were breathing heavily, their faces sharp with disgust.
Then, the exhaustion hit. Full force. The emotional wreckage of the past forty-eight hours crashed over your body, dragging you under. Your arms weakened, struggling to support Hana’s weight as she fussed against your hold.
“Y/n,” Heeseung said, already moving towards you.
Someone—Niki, you determined tiredly—took Hana from your arms as you stepped into Heeseung’s embrace, collapsing against his chest. In relief or exhaustion, you weren’t quite sure.
“I’m so sorry,” He breathed. “I’m so sorry— I tried to call you. They took my phone, they wouldn’t let me. I got your messages when they gave it back, and your voicemail, I— Are you okay?”
You shook your head, whimpering lightly. You could feel the heat of his heart at the base of his throat, pounding against your cheek. “No,” You said weakly. “Heeseung— I thought—“
You couldn’t even get the words out. Your brain was practically mush, spent from the emotional whiplash of everything that had happened. His grip on you tightened, fingers digging into you like he feared you might pull away.
“I know. I’m so sorry. I swear, if I could’ve been here—”
He pulled away, letting you go just enough to reach behind Niki to where Sejin was standing, yanking him towards you by the jacket.
“Well?” Heeseung said, frowning at his manager.
Sejin gave him a sideways look before rolling his eyes and sighing. He looked at you apologetically. “I’m sorry, y/n. I was the one that texted you. I admit it wasn’t the most informative message—“
“It wasn’t informative at all,” Heeseung interrupted. “Like, not even a little.”
Sejin pursed his lips. “Yes. It was poorly done on my part. I apologize for any distress I caused. Our focus was on keeping our team safe, I hope you can understand.”
You nodded, dazed, struggling to even remember what the text had said. All you knew was that Jace was gone. Heeseung was here. And you needed to rest. Immediately. Or you wouldn’t be standing much longer.
The others recounted the story of getting there as you went inside. Of how Heeseung had reacted after getting his phone back, reading all of your texts, listening to your voicemail.
How he’d demanded that Sejin show him the message he’d sent you, and then insisted that they come straight here.
“He was freaking out,” Jake said, bouncing Hana gently on his lap.
“We got stuck in traffic, and he literally got out of the car. That’s why he got here first. He ran the rest of the way,” Jungwon laughed.
Heeseung’s ears turned slightly pink but he didn’t deny it.
“I was scared,” He reasoned, frowning as they continued to tease him. “You said Hana was sick, I didn’t know if she was okay— You said goodbye!! Like we were breaking up or something!”
“Yeah, Heeseung’s worst nightmare,” Niki laughed.
Heeseung shot him a glare but didn’t move his arm from behind you. If anything, he pulled you closer, like he couldn’t stand to be apart from you again, not even for a moment.
“I was scared, too,” You sighed, letting your head rest against his shoulder. “I’m sorry that he caused so much trouble for you. And that you had to see all of that. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t—“
“No way,” Jake said immediately, voice firm. “None of this is your fault, y/n.”
“We’re just sorry that we didn’t communicate with you better,” Sunghoon agreed. “Sejin is…”
“Blunt.”
“Good when you need to smack someone’s crazy ex down. Not so much when you need to deliver sensitive information,” Jay said.
A laugh escaped you, quiet, tired, but genuine. You felt your shoulders begin to drop, days worth of anxiety melting away. Being there with them—Heeseung’s sturdy presence beside you, the softness in the others’ voices as they cooed at Hana—healed something in you that, for a few days, you were sure might never heal again.
Your attention drifted back to your daughter, to the way she was beginning to droop against Jake’s chest, her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. Her lashes fluttered, torn between watching the toys in his hands and giving in to how tired she was.
Yours felt similarly, your head growing heavier and heavier against Heeseung’s shoulder.
He pressed his lips to the top of your hair. “Time to go?” He murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.
You nodded, grateful as he straightened to usher the others out. God, how you’d missed him. The soft attentiveness in his voice, how he always had his eye on what you needed. How he made sure you were the priority. Every single time.
Part of you wondered how you’d doubted him in the first place.
“Alright guys, time to head out,” He said. He clasped Jay’s hand, pulling him for a hug. “Thank you. For being here. Backing us up.”
“Always,” Jake said, lifting Hana carefully from his chest and handing her to you. “If you need anything, we’re here.”
“See you later, y/n,” Jungwon said, rubbing your back affectionately.
You hugged him, chest tight with emotion. You’d never be able to explain what their presence meant to you. How grateful you were to have them—all of them—in your life.
They grabbed their things and slipped their shoes back on, shuffling out the door.
“Dinner this weekend? Same old-same old?”
You nodded, grinning. “Of course.”
You wished you could say you and Heeseung had some kind of heartfelt, emotional reunion when it was just the two of you. Filled with tears and happy kisses, mumbled apologies and promises.
But you didn’t.
You were out. Immediately. The second your body hit the mattress, shoulders curled into Heeseung’s chest, your head tucked beneath his, you were asleep.
He stayed up for a while, unable to tear his eyes from your face, or keep his heart from racing at the feeling of finally having you in his arms again.
His chest ached at the memory of your voice through the phone. How broken you sounded. How sure you were that he’d left you. You’d really believed he was gone. That you were alone again.
He would never forgive himself for that.
And if he hadn’t been sure before, he certainly was now: he was never letting you out of his sight again. At least, not for a while.
He still had tours to think about. There were obligations he couldn’t avoid, stretches of time when the distance would be real, and difficult. But he wasn’t afraid of it anymore. Didn’t worry that it would create space between you.
He wanted to keep going. To do well. Not just because you’d always been proud of him—celebrated every success like it was your own—but to support you. To make sure you never had to worry about caring for your daughter again.
Heeseung was serious about you. As serious as a person could be about someone else.
And he was going to make sure you never doubted it again.
ꫂ᭪݁ SUMMARY. Across seven lifetimes you and Jungwon find each other again and again. Every time, the pull is undeniable. Every time, he promises that he’ll find you in the next life. But the moon has watched you love and lose each other over and over for centuries. This time, can you finally break the cycle? Or is your love destined to be eternal and heartbreaking in equal measure in every sense of the world?
ꫂ᭪݁ WORD COUNT. 30.6k
ꫂ᭪݁ WARNINGS. explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), penetrative sex, oral sex (m and f), praise, first time, loss of virginity (m and f), major character death multiple times, war and military themes, depictions of violence, descriptions of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, tuberculosis, cancer, drowning, war, building collapse, themes of grief, car accident and hospitalization, terminal illness, strong language, emotional distress, references historical traumas
ꫂ᭪݁ PLAYLIST. What The Moon Remembers
ꫂ᭪݁ LAC4YGAL NOTE. this broke me to write them loosing each other over and over but the final life is so precious. it took me ages to figure out how I wanted to go about this idea but I think I maybe nailed it??!! listen to the playlist as you read; it adds so much more! reblogs, likes, comments and feedback are always appreciated and keep me writing. I hope you love this as much as I did writing it, enjoy!🤍
ꫂ᭪݁ TAGLIST. @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips (just ask to be added to perm taglist lovelies)
ꫂ᭪݁ MY MASTERLIST.
1770 — Jungwon’s POV
The pain is what wakes him. It’s everywhere— his chest, his side, his leg— a white-hot burning that makes breathing feel like dragging shards of glass through his lungs. Jungwon tries to move and immediately regrets it, a groan escaping through clenched teeth.
“Easy.” A voice cuts through the haze, soft but firm. “Don’t try to sit up yet.” He forces his eyes open, squinting against the dim candlelight. The ceiling above him is canvas, stained and sagging. A medical tent, he realizes slowly. The smell hits him next— blood, infection, unwashed bodies, death. He’s in a field hospital.
The battle. Right. There was a battle. He remembers musket fire, smoke so thick he couldn’t see three feet ahead, the screaming of men and horses. He remembers pain exploding in his chest, the ground rushing up to meet him, thinking this is it as the world went dark. But he’s not dead. Apparently.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, soldier.” Jungwon turns his head— slowly, because even that hurts— and sees her for the first time.
She’s young, probably close to his age, with tired eyes and capable hands currently wringing out a cloth in a basin of water. Her dress is simple, stained with blood that he hopes isn’t all his, and her hair is pulled back in a practical bun with loose strands escaping around her face. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “How bad is it?” he manages, his voice rough and unfamiliar.
She glances at him, and something flickers in her expression— pity, maybe, or resignation. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. Musket ball to the chest, missed your heart by maybe an inch. Another in your leg. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“But I’ll live?” He tries for a smile. “You’re not just keeping me comfortable while I die, are you?”
“That depends entirely on whether infection sets in.” She wrings out the cloth and moves closer, pressing it gently to his forehead. It’s blessedly cool. “And on whether you follow my instructions and rest instead of trying to be charming.”
“I can’t help being charming,” Jungwon says. “It’s a curse.”
Despite herself, she almost smiles. Almost. “Save your energy. You’re going to need it.”
Over the next few days, Jungwon learns three things. One: Getting shot hurts significantly worse than he’d imagined, and he’d imagined it would be pretty terrible.
Two: Field hospitals are hell on earth— the sounds of men dying, the smell of rot and gunpowder, the constant stream of new wounded being carried in on stretchers.
Three: The nurse— he learns her name eventually, after asking three times because she keeps deflecting— is the only good thing about being here.
She tends to his wounds twice a day, changing bandages with gentle efficiency, checking for signs of infection. She brings him water when he asks, broth when he can stomach it, and occasionally reads to him from a battered copy of poetry she keeps in her apron pocket when the nights are long and he can’t sleep through the pain. “You don’t have to do that,” he says one night, when she’s been reading for nearly an hour.
She looks up from the book, candlelight catching in her eyes. “Do what?”
“Stay with me. I know you have other patients.”
“The others are sleeping.” She marks her place with one finger. “And you’re the only one who actually appreciates poetry. Most of the men just want me to write letters to their wives.”
“Do you do that?”
“When they ask.” Her voice softens. “When they can still speak clearly enough to dictate.” The implication hangs heavy between them. When they’re not too far gone.
“Will you write a letter for me?” Jungwon asks. “If it comes to that?”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “It won’t come to that. You’re going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. I’ve been doing this for two years. I know who makes it and who doesn’t.” She meets his eyes, fierce and certain. “You’re going to make it.”
He wants to believe her. God, he wants to believe her. “When I do,” he says, emboldened by fever or stupidity or both, “I’m going to take you on a date. Dinner, dancing, the whole thing.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now— a real smile that transforms her whole face. “You don’t even know me.”
“I’d like to.” He reaches for her hand, and after a brief hesitation, she lets him take it. Her fingers are cool and steady against his. “I’d like to know everything about you.”
“You’re delirious.”
“Maybe. But I still mean it.” She squeezes his hand gently before pulling away to return to her rounds. But the next night, she comes back. And the night after that.
They talk, in those stolen moments between her duties. He learns that she’s a farmer’s daughter, that she learned nursing from her mother, that she came to the war because her brother was fighting and she wanted to help. He tells her about his life before— the apprenticeship he left behind, the family he hasn’t seen in months, the future he’d planned that seems impossibly distant now. “What will you do?” she asks one night. “After the war?”
“If we win? I don’t know. Go home, I suppose. Try to remember what peace feels like.” He shifts carefully, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. “What about you?”
“The same, I think. Go home. Try to forget all of this.” She gestures vaguely at the tent, the rows of wounded men, the ever-present specter of death.
“I won’t forget you,” Jungwon says quietly.
She looks at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. “You should. It would be easier.”
“I don’t want easier. I want—” He stops, unsure how to finish that sentence.
“What do you want?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
You, he thinks but doesn’t say. I want you. I want to survive this. I want to take you dancing like I promised. I want a future where we’re not surrounded by death and blood and the smell of gunpowder.
“I want to see you smile again,” he says instead. “Like you did the other night. A real smile, not the one you give the patients.”
She does smile then, soft and sad. “You’re a foolish man, soldier.”
“Jungwon,” he corrects. “My name is Jungwon.”
“I know.” She stands, smoothing her apron. “Get some rest, Jungwon. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“Close enough.”
The days blur together. Jungwon’s strength slowly returns— he can sit up without help now, can eat solid food, can even stand for a few minutes at a time with support. The wounds are healing, she tells him, better than expected. No infection. He’s lucky. He doesn’t feel lucky. He feels like he’s been given a second chance and doesn’t know what to do with it. “When can I leave?” he asks one morning.
She’s changing his bandages, her touch gentle but impersonal. “When you can walk unassisted. When the doctor clears you. When there’s somewhere for you to go.”
“Will you miss me?” He’s only half-joking.
“Terribly,” she says, but there’s something true underneath the sarcasm. “Who else will I read poetry to at midnight?”
“You could read to the other patients.”
“They don’t listen like you do.” She finishes with the bandage and sits back. “There. You’re healing well. Another week, maybe two, and you’ll be back to fighting shape.” The thought of going back to battle makes his stomach turn. Going back to the killing, the chaos, the constant fear. But what choice does he have? The war isn’t over. His unit will want him back.
“What if I don’t go back?” he asks quietly.
She looks at him sharply. “They’d call that desertion.”
“What if I don’t care?”
“Jungwon—”
“I could stay here. Help with the wounded. I’m no good as a soldier anyway— I got myself shot in the first real battle.”
“You’re talking nonsense.” But her voice is gentler now. “The fever—”
“I’m not feverish. I’m just…” He trails off, struggling to articulate the feeling. “I’m tired. I’m tired of war. I’m tired of watching boys die. I’m tired of pretending I’m brave when all I want is to go home.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches out and takes his hand, holding it between both of hers. “You are brave,” she says firmly. “Being afraid doesn’t make you a coward. It makes you human.”
“I don’t feel brave.”
“No one ever does.” She squeezes his hand. “But you’re still here. You’re still fighting. That takes courage.”
He looks down at their joined hands, her fingers small and delicate against his calloused palms. He wants to tell her that she’s the reason he’s still fighting, that the thought of seeing her each day is the only thing that makes the pain bearable, that he’s started imagining a future that includes her in it. But before he can find the words, she pulls away and stands.
“Rest,” she says. “I’ll check on you later.” He watches her move through the tent, stopping at each bedside, offering water or adjusting bandages or simply sitting with the men who have no one else. She’s good at this, he realizes. Good at offering comfort in a place where there’s so little of it to be found. He wonders if she knows how extraordinary she is.
That night, she comes to his bedside with her book of poetry, like she has every night for the past two weeks. “Can’t sleep?” she asks, settling into the chair beside him.
“Hurts less when I’m distracted,” he admits. “And your voice helps.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“It got you to stay, didn’t it?”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she opens the book. “Where did we leave off?”
“The one about the soldier and his love,” Jungwon says. “The sad one.”
“They’re all sad.”
“Read it anyway.” She does, her voice low and melodic in the quiet tent. Around them, men sleep or moan in pain or whisper prayers to gods who seem very far away. But in this small circle of candlelight, it’s just the two of them.
When she finishes, Jungwon doesn’t want her to leave. “Stay,” he says. “Just a little longer.” She should say no. She should check on the other patients, get some sleep herself, maintain the professional distance she’s supposed to keep. Instead, she stays.
“Tell me something,” he says. “Something real. Not about the war or medicine or any of this. Tell me about you.”
She’s quiet for a moment, considering. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Anything. What makes you happy?”
“Small things,” she says eventually. “The first warm day of spring. Fresh bread. The sound of rain on the roof.” She pauses. “My mother’s garden. She grows roses, and in summer the whole house smells like them.”
“That sounds beautiful.”
“It is. Was.” Her voice catches slightly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see it again.”
“You will,” Jungwon says with more confidence than he feels. “This war will end. You’ll go home to your mother’s roses. You’ll—” He stops, because he doesn’t know what her future holds. He barely knows what his own does.
“What about you?” she asks. “What makes you happy?”
He thinks about it. “Music. My sister plays the pianoforte, and sometimes in the evenings we’d sing together. And stargazing. There’s something about looking up at the stars that makes everything else feel smaller, more manageable.”
“I like that,” she murmurs. “The idea that we’re small. That all of this—” she gestures vaguely “—is small in the grand scheme of things.”
“Do you think the stars care about our little human wars?”
“I doubt it.” She tilts her head, considering. “But maybe the moon does. It’s closer, more personal. Maybe it watches us and remembers.”
Something about those words sends a shiver through him, though he couldn’t say why. “The moon remembers,” he repeats softly. “I like that.”
She stands then, and he feels the loss of her presence acutely. “Where are you going?”
“Just to the window,” she says. “I want to show you something.” She crosses to the side of the tent and opens the canvas flap that serves as a window, tying it back to let in the night air. Cool autumn wind rushes in, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and distant rain.
And there, hanging low in the sky, is the moon. Full and bright and impossibly beautiful. “Oh,” Jungwon breathes. She returns to his bedside, and together they look out at the moon in silence. “It’s lovely,” he says finally.
“It is.” She’s still gazing at it, her face soft in the silvery light. “When I was young, my mother used to tell me that the moon was a guardian. That it watched over travelers and lovers and anyone who needed guidance in the dark.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know. But I like the idea of it. That something up there is watching. That we’re not alone.”
Jungwon reaches for her hand again, and this time she doesn’t pull away. They sit like that for a long moment, hands clasped, looking at the moon. “Do you think the moon remembers us?” he asks suddenly.
She turns to look at him, confused. “What?”
“The moon. Do you think it remembers us? All the people who have looked up at it, throughout all of history?”
“That’s…” She trails off, searching for words. “That’s a strange question.”
“I know. But do you think it does?”
She considers it seriously. “Maybe. Maybe it keeps track of all the stories. All the lovers and soldiers and lost souls who’ve ever gazed up at it.”
“Then it will remember this,” Jungwon says quietly. “Remember us. This moment.”
“Why would this moment matter?”
“Because I want it to.” He squeezes her hand gently. “Because someday, when this is all over, I want to believe that something in the universe will remember that we were here. That we mattered.”
She’s looking at him with such tenderness that his breath catches. “You matter,” she whispers. “To me, you matter.”
And then she leans down and kisses him. It’s soft, gentle, over almost before it begins. But when she pulls back, they’re both trembling. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she says.
“I’m glad you did.”
“Jungwon—”
“When I’m better,” he interrupts, “I’m going to take you dancing. Like I promised. And I’m going to kiss you properly, somewhere that isn’t a hospital tent that smells like death.”
She laughs, and it sounds like tears. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m in love with you.” The words hang in the air between them, bold and terrifying and true. She doesn’t say it back. But she doesn’t let go of his hand either.
“Rest,” she says eventually, her voice unsteady. “You need to rest.”
“Will you stay?”
“For a little while.” She stays until he falls asleep, her hand in his, the moon watching through the open window.
For three more days, things are good. Better than good. She still maintains her professional distance during the day, but at night she comes to him with her book and her gentle hands and occasionally, when they’re alone, her lips.
He’s getting stronger. Can walk the length of the tent with only minimal pain. The doctor says another week, maybe two, and he’ll be fit enough to rejoin his unit. Neither of them talks about what happens then.
On the fourth night, something changes. Jungwon wakes in the middle of the night to find her beside him, like always. But something’s different. He feels… off. Feverish, maybe, though his skin is cool to the touch. “You should be sleeping,” she murmurs, noticing he’s awake.
“Couldn’t.” He shifts, and pain lances through his chest. “Feels different tonight.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere. Nowhere. I don’t know.” He tries to sit up and finds he can’t. “I think… I think I’m more tired than I realized.”
Concern flashes across her face. She places her hand on his forehead, checking for fever. “You’re not warm.”
“I know. I just…” He trails off, struggling to explain the feeling. Like something inside him is winding down. Like a clock running out of time. “Stay with me?”
“I’m here.” She takes his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good. That’s good.” He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. “Can you open the window? I want to see the moon.” She does, and the silvery light spills across his bed.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just like before.”
“Just like before,” she agrees, but her voice is strained.
“I want you to know,” Jungwon says slowly, each word taking effort, “that these past few weeks have been the happiest of my life.”
“Don’t.” Her voice breaks. “Don’t talk like that.”
“I mean it. Getting shot was the best thing that ever happened to me, because it brought me to you.”
Tears are streaming down her face now. “Jungwon, please—”
“Listen.” He squeezes her hand with what strength he has left. “If I don’t make it—”
“You’re going to make it. You have to make it. You promised me a dance, remember?”
“I remember.” He smiles, and it costs him. “But if I don’t… if something happens…”
“Nothing is going to happen.”
“But if it does.” He’s fading, he can feel it, like sand slipping through fingers. “I need you to know that I’ll find you in the next life.”
She’s sobbing now. “What are you talking about? There is no next life, there’s only this one, and you’re going to be fine—”
“I’ll find you,” he says again, and he means it with every fiber of his being. “However long it takes. Whatever it costs. I’ll find you.”
“Jungwon—”
“Promise me you’ll remember. Promise me you’ll look for me too.”
“I promise,” she chokes out, even though she doesn’t understand, even though she thinks he’s delirious. “I promise.”
“Good.” His eyes are getting heavy. “That’s good. I’m just going to rest for a minute. Just… just a minute…”
“No, stay awake. Please stay awake. I need to get the doctor—“ But she can’t bring herself to let go of his hand. Can’t bring herself to leave him, even to get help.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not afraid.”
“I’m terrified,” she admits.
“Don’t be. I’ll see you again. I know I will.” He looks at her one more time, trying to memorize her face. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Did I tell you that?”
“No.”
“Well, you are. And I love you. I’ll always love you.”
“I love you too,” she sobs. “I love you, please don’t go—” But his eyes are already closing, his hand going slack in hers. “Jungwon? Jungwon!” She’s screaming for the doctor, for anyone, but she knows it’s too late. She can see it in the stillness of his chest, the absence of breath. He’s gone.
She collapses over him, sobbing, and outside the moon continues its silent vigil, remembering everything, bearing witness to yet another story of love and loss.
In the morning, they’ll take his body away. They’ll bury him in an unmarked grave with dozens of other soldiers whose names will be forgotten.
But she’ll remember. She’ll remember his smile, his promises, the way he looked at the moon and asked if it remembered them. She’ll remember for the rest of her life. And somewhere, somehow, the moon remembers too.
1850 — Your POV
The wedding is beautiful in the way that expensive things often are— beautiful and cold and utterly devoid of warmth.
You stand at the altar in a dress that cost more than most people earn in a year, ivory silk and French lace that weighs you down like chains. The church is full of people you barely know, friends of your father’s mostly, society figures who’ve come to witness the union of two respectable families. You don’t look at the man beside you. Your husband. The word feels foreign, wrong.
The ceremony passes in a blur. You say the words when prompted, mechanical and hollow. I do. I will. Till death do us part. Death seems very far away.
When it’s over, when you’ve signed the papers that make you his property in the eyes of God and the law, you’re ushered into a carriage for the journey to his— your— estate. And you still haven’t looked at him properly.
“Are you well?” he asks quietly as the carriage lurches into motion.It’s the first time he’s spoken directly to you all day. His voice is pleasant enough, polite, carefully neutral.
“Quite well, thank you.” Your own voice sounds distant to your ears. “And you?”
“Well enough.” Silence descends again. You stare out the window at the countryside rolling past, green and lush and utterly indifferent to your misery.
This is your life now. Mrs. Yang Jungwon. Wife to a man you’ve met exactly three times before today— once at the engagement announcement, once at a chaperoned dinner, and once in passing at a social function where you’d exchanged perhaps a dozen words.
You know almost nothing about him except what your father told you: good family, substantial fortune, respectable reputation. A suitable match. No one asked if you wanted to be suitably matched.
The estate, when you arrive, is massive and imposing. Gray stone, manicured gardens, the kind of old money grandeur that’s meant to intimidate. It works. “Welcome home,” Jungwon says as he helps you down from the carriage. Home. The word rings hollow.
The staff is assembled to greet you— housekeeper, butler, lady’s maid, cook, and various others whose names you immediately forget. They curtsy and bow, welcoming the new lady of the house, and you smile because it’s expected.
“Mrs. Choi will show you to your rooms,” Jungwon says. “I imagine you’ll want to rest after the journey.” Your rooms. Separate rooms. Of course.
“Thank you,” you murmur. Mrs. Choi, the housekeeper, is a stern-faced woman in her fifties who leads you up a grand staircase and down a long hallway to a suite of rooms that will be yours. Bedroom, dressing room, private sitting room. All decorated in shades of cream and gold, elegant and expensive and utterly impersonal.
“Dinner is at eight,” Mrs. Choi informs you. “Ring if you need anything.”
And then you’re alone. You sink onto the bed— your bed— and stare at the ceiling. This is it. This is your life now. You’ll live in this house with this stranger, produce heirs if you can manage it, and grow old in separate bedrooms. You don’t cry. You’re too numb for tears.
The first weeks of marriage establish a pattern. You see Jungwon at breakfast and dinner. The meals are formal, served in a dining room far too large for two people. Conversation is stilted and polite. He asks about your day. You ask about his. Neither of you says anything of substance.
At night, you retire to your separate rooms. He’s made no move to consummate the marriage, and you’re grateful for it. The thought of that kind of intimacy with a stranger makes your skin crawl.
You fill your days with the expected activities of a lady of the house— consulting with the cook about menus, reviewing household accounts, receiving calls from neighbors who want to inspect the new bride. It’s all terribly boring.
Jungwon seems equally miserable, though he’s better at hiding it. He spends most of his time in his study, managing the estate or whatever it is men do in their studies. Sometimes you hear him playing the pianoforte in the music room late at night, melancholy pieces that drift through the halls like ghosts. You don’t disturb him.
A month passes. Then two. You’re reading in the library one afternoon when he finds you there. “I’m sorry,” he says, hovering in the doorway. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“It’s your library.” You close the book. “You can hardly intrude.”
“I suppose.” But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he moves closer, looking at the spines on the shelves with genuine interest. “What are you reading?”
You show him the cover. “Byron.”
His eyebrows rise. “Not the usual choice for a lady.”
“I’m not the usual lady.”
“Clearly.” And for the first time since the wedding, he almost smiles. “I like Byron too. Though I prefer Wordsworth.”
“Wordsworth is lovely, but Byron has more passion.”
“Passion is overrated. Give me quiet reflection any day.”
“That sounds desperately boring.”
“Perhaps I am desperately boring.”You study him properly for the first time. He’s handsome, you suppose, in a classical way. Dark hair, serious eyes, the kind of refined features that look good in portraits. But there’s something sad about him too, a resigned quality that mirrors your own feelings.
“Why did you agree to this?” you ask suddenly. “The marriage. If you didn’t want it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “How do you know I didn’t want it?”
“Because you’re as miserable as I am.”
He doesn’t deny it. “My father arranged it. Said it was time I settled down, secured the family line. I’m the only son, so…” He trails off with a shrug.
“So you had no more choice than I did.”
“No.” He meets your eyes. “I’m sorry. For both of us.” It’s the most honest conversation you’ve had.
“We’re rather pathetic, aren’t we?” you say. “Two people with everything anyone could want, absolutely miserable.”
“Quite pathetic,” he agrees. And then he does smile, small and wry. “But at least we have good taste in poetry.” It’s not much. But it’s something.
After that, things shift slightly. You start having breakfast together in the smaller morning room instead of the formal dining room. The conversation is still careful, but less strained. You discover he has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard. He discovers you have opinions about things women aren’t supposed to have opinions about— politics, philosophy, the appalling state of labor conditions in the factories. “You’re very radical,” he observes one morning over tea.
“And you’re very traditional.”
“Not by choice.”
“None of us are anything by choice, apparently.” He laughs at that, and the sound surprises both of you.
You start spending time together outside of meals. Reading in the library simultaneously, taking walks around the grounds, playing cards in the evening. It’s not romance, but it’s companionship. Friendship, almost.
You learn things about him. That he wanted to be a physician but his father forbade it, said it was beneath their station. That he plays the pianoforte to calm his mind when he can’t sleep. That he has nightmares sometimes, though he won’t say about what.
He learns things about you too. That you wanted to attend university but of course that was impossible. That you’re terrified of thunderstorms. That you once punched a boy who tried to kiss you without permission, and your father was furious but your mother was secretly proud. “I would have liked to meet your mother,” Jungwon says one evening.
“She would have liked you.” You pause. “I think she would have been glad I ended up with someone kind, at least.”
“Kind seems like damning with faint praise.”
“It’s more than most women get.” He can’t argue with that.
Three months into the marriage, something changes. You’re coming back from a walk in the gardens when a thunderstorm rolls in suddenly, violent and loud. You make it to the house but you’re soaked through, trembling not from cold but from fear.
Jungwon finds you in the entrance hall, dripping water onto the marble. “Are you alright?” He’s at your side immediately, concerned.
“Fine. Just— the storm—” Thunder cracks overhead and you flinch badly. Without thinking, he pulls you against him, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. It’s just noise.” You bury your face against his shoulder, embarrassed by your fear but unable to help it. He’s warm and solid and he smells like sandalwood and old books.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his waistcoat.
“Don’t be.” His hand moves in soothing circles on your back. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”
You stay like that until the worst of the storm passes, wrapped in his arms, feeling his heartbeat steady against your cheek. When you finally pull back, you’re both acutely aware of how close you are. His hands are still on your waist. Your fingers are twisted in his shirt. “I should change,” you say quietly. “Before I catch cold.”
“Yes. Of course.” But he doesn’t let go immediately.
“Jungwon—”
“I know.” He steps back, dropping his hands. “I’ll have Mrs. Choi draw you a bath.”
That night, you can’t stop thinking about how it felt to be held by him. How natural it seemed. How much you didn’t want him to let go. This is dangerous territory even though you’re married to him. But you can feel yourself falling.
After the storm, you can’t seem to go back to polite distance. You start sitting closer together when you read. Hands brushing when you pass the teapot. Long looks across the dinner table that make your pulse race.
One evening, you’re playing the pianoforte— badly, you’re the first to admit— and he comes to sit beside you on the bench. “May I?” he asks.
You slide over to make room. He begins to play, something soft and lovely that you don’t recognize. His hands move over the keys with practiced ease. “That’s beautiful,” you murmur.
“It’s Chopin. Nocturne in E-flat major.”
“Play it again?” He does, and this time you watch his hands instead of the keys. Beautiful hands, long fingers, careful and precise.
When he finishes, he doesn’t move away. “You’re staring,” he says softly.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He turns to look at you, and his face is very close to yours. “I stare at you all the time.”
Your breath catches. “You do?”
“Constantly. I thought you’d noticed.”
“I… no. I didn’t.”
“Well. Now you know.”
The air between you feels electric. You’re very aware of his thigh pressed against yours on the bench, the warmth of his body, the way his eyes drop to your lips. “We should—” you start.
“Yes,” he agrees. Neither of you moves.
“This is madness,” you whisper.
“Probably.”
“We barely know each other.”
“I know.” His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “But I’d like to. Know you, I mean. If you’ll let me.”
“Yes.” The word comes out breathless. “Yes, I—”
He kisses you. It’s soft at first, tentative, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, and the kiss deepens. When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
“I should go,” you say, even though you don’t want to.
“Stay.” His forehead rests against yours. “Please stay. I know we didn’t choose this. I know we started as strangers. But I…” He pulls back to look at you. “I’m falling in love with you. Is that insane?”
Your heart is pounding. “If it is, then I’m insane too.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel something unlock in your chest. Permission to feel this. Permission to want. “Come with me,” he murmurs against your lips.
“Where?”
“To my room. If you want. We don’t have to— I just want to be near you.” You should say no. This is too fast, too sudden, even though you’re married and have every right. But you take his hand.
His bedroom is larger than yours, decorated in deep greens and dark wood. Masculine and elegant. The bed is massive, four-poster, imposing. “Second thoughts?” he asks, seeing you hesitate.
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” You laugh nervously. “I’ve never… that is, I don’t know what I’m supposed to…”
Understanding dawns on his face. “Ah. Your mother didn’t—”
“She died before we could have that conversation.”
“I see.” He moves closer, taking both your hands. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
“I want to.” And you do. God help you, you do. “I just… don’t know how.”
“Neither do I, really.” At your surprised look, he shrugs. “I’ve had opportunities, but I never… it didn’t feel right. With anyone else.”
“And this feels right? With me?”
“Everything feels right with you.” He kisses you again, slow and sweet, walking you backwards until your legs hit the bed. You sit, and he kneels in front of you, looking up with such tenderness it makes you ache. “We’ll figure it out together,” he promises. “And if you want to stop at any point—”
“I won’t.” You cup his face. “I trust you.”
What follows is gentle and awkward and lovely. He helps you out of your dress with shaking hands, fumbling with buttons and laces until you’re both laughing. You help him with his waistcoat, his shirt, until you’re both down to undergarments and the laughter has faded into something heavier. “You’re beautiful,” he breathes, looking at you in your chemise.
“So are you.” He’s all lean muscle and smooth skin when he strips off his undershirt. You reach out to touch his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm.
“Nervous?” you ask.
“Terrified.” But he’s smiling. “You?”
“Same.”
He lays you back on the bed, covering your body with his, and for a moment you just look at each other. “I love you,” you whisper.
“I love you too.”
The first touch of his skin against yours makes you gasp. He’s warm and solid and careful, so careful with you. “Tell me what feels good,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along your jaw, your neck.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then we’ll find out.” His hands are gentle as they explore your body over the thin chemise. Learning the shape of you, the places that make you shiver. When he brushes over your breast, you arch into the touch.
“There?” he asks.
“Yes. There.” He does it again, more deliberately this time, and pleasure sparks through you. His mouth follows his hands, kissing across your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts still covered by fabric.
“Can I…?” He tugs at the hem of your chemise. You sit up enough to let him pull it over your head, and then you’re bare before him. For a moment, he just looks.
“Stop staring,” you mumble, fighting the urge to cover yourself.
“Can’t help it.” His voice is rough. “You’re perfect.” His mouth finds your breast, tongue swirling around your nipple, and you cry out at the sensation. He takes his time, lavishing attention on both breasts until you’re squirming beneath him.
“Please,” you gasp, though you’re not sure what you’re asking for.
“I’ve got you.” His hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, coming to rest on your thigh. He pauses there, giving you time to object. You spread your legs instead. “God,” he breathes. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
His fingers find you, exploring carefully. You’re wet, embarrassingly so, and he makes a sound low in his throat. “Is this alright?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
He strokes through your folds, learning what makes you gasp and moan. When he finds that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex, you nearly come off the bed. “There,” you pant. “Right there, please—”
He circles your clit with careful pressure, watching your face as pleasure builds. His other hand is braced beside your head, supporting his weight, and you can see how much this is affecting him too— the flush on his cheeks, the way his pupils have blown wide.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “So responsive.”
One finger slides inside you and you clench around the intrusion. It’s strange but not unpleasant, a fullness you’ve never felt before. “Okay?” he asks.
“More. Please, more.”
He adds a second finger, working them in and out while his thumb continues its maddening circles on your clit. The pleasure builds and builds, tension coiling low in your belly. “I think—” you gasp. “I think something’s happening—”
“Let it happen. I’ve got you.”
His fingers curl inside you, hitting some spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and you shatter. Your back arches, a cry torn from your throat as your cunt pulses around his fingers. He works you through it, gentle and steady, until you collapse back against the bed.
“That was—” You can’t find words. “What was that?”
“Pleasure.” He’s grinning now, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “Did you like it?”
“I think I might die if we never do that again.” He laughs and kisses you, and you can taste your own arousal on his lips.
“Your turn,” you say when you can speak again.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” You reach for the fastenings of his trousers. “Show me?” He helps you strip him of the last of his clothing, and then he’s bare before you. His cock is hard, flushed and leaking, and you’re struck by how vulnerable he looks like this. You wrap your hand around him experimentally, and he hisses. “Too much?”
“No. Perfect. You’re perfect.”
You stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him in your hand, the way his hips buck when you twist your wrist just so.
“I want—” He breaks off, breathing hard. “Can I be inside you?”
“Yes.” You’ve never wanted anything more. “Please.”
He positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. He’s shaking. “This might hurt,” he warns. “I’ll go slow.”
He pushes in gradually, giving you time to adjust. There’s a pinch of pain as he breaches you, and you grip his shoulders.
“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just breathe.” He goes deeper, inch by careful inch, until he’s fully seated inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, bordering on too much, but underneath the discomfort is something else. Something that feels right.
“Okay?” he grits out, clearly struggling to hold still.
“Okay. You can move.”
He does, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. The pain fades with each stroke, replaced by a building pleasure. You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, and he hits something inside you that makes you moan.
“There,” you gasp. “Just like that.”
He finds a rhythm, steady and deep, his hips rolling against yours. One hand slides between your bodies to find your clit again, and the combined sensations are almost too much. “You feel so good,” he pants. “So perfect. Like you were made for me.”
“Maybe I was.” You’re babbling now, lost in pleasure. “Maybe we were made for each other.”
“Yes. God, yes.” His thrusts become more urgent, less controlled. You can feel him getting close, his cock swelling inside you, and you clench down deliberately. “Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m—I’m going to—”
“Do it. Inside me.”
He does with a broken moan, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you. The feeling of his cock pulsing, the warmth flooding you, pushes you over the edge again. Your cunt clenches around him as you come, milking him through his orgasm. He collapses beside you, pulling out carefully, and gathers you into his arms.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there, sweaty and satisfied and stunned by what just happened. “That was—” he starts.
“Incredible,” you finish.
“I was going to say ‘better than I imagined’ but incredible works too.”
You laugh and press a kiss to his chest. “You imagined it?”
“Constantly. For weeks. I was going mad with wanting you.”
“You could have said something.”
“And risk you thinking I was some beast who only wanted you for that?” He strokes your hair. “I wanted you to choose me. To want me back.”
“I do.” You look up at him. “Want you, I mean. All of you. Not just the physical parts, though those are very nice.”
He grins. “Very nice?”
“Exceptional. Earth-shattering. Is that better?”
“Much.”
You settle against him, content in a way you’ve never been before. This wasn’t what you expected when you walked down that aisle three months ago. You thought you’d be trapped in a loveless marriage, going through the motions for the rest of your life. Instead, you’ve found this. Found him.
“I love you,” you whisper.
“I love you too.” He kisses the top of your head. “My wife.” The word doesn’t sound wrong anymore.
The next few months are the happiest of your life.
You and Jungwon are inseparable. You spend your days together— riding, reading, walking the grounds. The nights are for other things, learning each other’s bodies with increasing confidence and creativity. You make love in his bed, in your bed, once daringly in the library. He learns all the ways to make you fall apart, and you learn what makes him lose control. It’s intoxicating, this intimacy. This partnership.
“I can’t believe I thought I’d be miserable,” you tell him one morning, wrapped in his arms after a particularly energetic session.
“I can’t believe I almost let you sleep in separate bedrooms for the rest of our lives.”
“What changed your mind?”
“That storm. Holding you.” He pulls you closer. “I couldn’t pretend anymore that I didn’t want this. Want you.”
“I’m glad you stopped pretending.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Do you think we would have found this eventually? If not for the storm?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe we would have stayed strangers forever.” You trace patterns on his chest. “I’m grateful we didn’t have to find out.”
Winter arrives, bringing cold rain and early darkness. Jungwon has been coughing more lately, but you don’t think much of it. Everyone gets sick in winter. But it doesn’t get better.
One morning in late December, you wake to find blood on his handkerchief. “It’s nothing,” he insists when you confront him. “Just a cough.”
“That’s not just a cough.”
“I’ll see the physician if it makes you feel better.” It doesn’t make you feel better. Especially when the physician comes and takes one look at Jungwon and his face goes carefully blank.
“Tuberculosis,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.” The word hits like a physical blow.
“How long?” you ask, because Jungwon seems incapable of speech.
“Impossible to say. Months, perhaps. Maybe a year with rest and good care.” A year. Maybe.
After the physician leaves, you find Jungwon in the library, staring out the window at nothing. “We’ll get through this,” you say, taking his hand.
“Don’t.” His voice is hollow. “Don’t pretend this is something we can fix.”
“I’m not pretending. I’m fighting.”
“There’s nothing to fight.” He turns to look at you, and there are tears on his face. “I’m dying. And I finally—” His voice breaks. “I finally found something worth living for.” You pull him into your arms and let him cry.
The next months are a cruel inversion of your happiness. You care for him as he weakens, watching helplessly as the vibrant man you love fades into someone pale and frail.
He tries to stay strong for you. Jokes when he can manage it, reads to you when he has the breath, makes love to you when his body allows it though you tell him he doesn’t have to.
“I want to,” he insists. “While I still can. While I can still make you feel good.” Those moments are bittersweet. Tender and desperate, both of you trying to memorize every touch, every sound.
By spring, he’s confined to bed most days. You spend hours sitting with him, reading or just holding his hand. One night in April, you open the window to let in the fresh air. The moon is full and bright, hanging low in the sky. “Beautiful,” Jungwon murmurs from the bed.
You return to his side. “The moon?”
“Everything.” He’s looking at you, not the sky. “You’re beautiful. This life we built, however brief. Beautiful.” You take his hand, fighting back tears.
He turns his gaze to the moon, a small smile on his lips. “Do you think the moon remembers us?”
The question is strange, out of place. “What?”
“The moon. Do you think it remembers us? All the people who’ve looked up at it throughout time?”
You don’t understand why he’s asking this, but you answer honestly. “I’d like to think so. That all our stories, all our love, is remembered somewhere.”
“Good.” He squeezes your hand weakly. “Then it will remember this. Remember us. How much I love you.”
“Don’t.” Your voice breaks. “Don’t talk like you’re saying goodbye.”
“I have to.” He’s struggling to breathe now, each word an effort. “Have to tell you. In case… in case there’s something after this.”
“Jungwon—”
“I’ll find you.” He says it with utter conviction. “In the next life, if there is one. I’ll find you. However long it takes.”
Tears are streaming down your face. “Don’t leave me.”
“I don’t want to.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “But I don’t think I have a choice.”
You climb into the bed beside him, careful of his fragile body, and hold him as gently as you can. “I love you,” you whisper. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” His breathing is getting shallower. “Thank you. For making me happy. For letting me love you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.” He’s fading, you can feel it. “You saved me. From a life of duty and emptiness. You gave me joy.”
“You gave me the same.”
He smiles, peaceful despite the pain. “Then we’re even.” His eyes close.
“Jungwon?” Panic claws at your throat. “Jungwon, don’t—”
“Just resting,” he murmurs. “So tired.”
“I know. But stay with me. Please stay with me.”
“Always.” His grip on your hand is so weak now. “Every life. Every lifetime. I’ll find you.” Those are the last words he speaks.
He dies as the sun rises, the moon fading into daylight, and you’re left holding an empty shell of the man who taught you what love could be. You don’t leave his side for hours. Can’t bring yourself to let go.
When they finally take him away, you return to the window. The moon is gone now, but you look up at the sky anyway.
“Remember us,” you whisper. “Please remember us.” Somewhere in the vast indifference of the universe, maybe it does.
1912 — Jungwon’s POV
The ship is bigger than anything Jungwon has ever seen. He stands on the dock in Southampton, neck craned back to take in the sheer scale of the RMS Titanic, and feels impossibly small. Four massive funnels reach toward the sky, the hull gleaming white and black in the April sun. Unsinkable, they’re calling it. The ship that even God himself couldn’t sink.
Jungwon doesn’t believe in unsinkable ships, but he believes in new beginnings. America. That’s where this floating palace is headed, and Jungwon along with it. He’s got a third-class ticket, everything he owns in a single worn suitcase, and hopes for a job in New York that might actually pay enough to live on.
England has nothing left for him— no family, no prospects, no future worth staying for. So: America. And the Titanic to get him there.
The third-class gangway is crowded with people like him— immigrants, workers, dreamers. The smell of unwashed bodies and cheap tobacco mingles with salt air. Jungwon shoulders his suitcase and joins the queue, shuffling forward slowly.
“Papers,” the officer barks when Jungwon reaches the front. He hands them over— passport, ticket, health certificate. Everything in order. The officer barely glances at them before waving him through. And then he’s aboard.
The third-class accommodations are exactly what he expected— cramped quarters, narrow bunks stacked three high, thin blankets that smell of mothballs. He’s sharing the cabin with five other men, none of whom speak English. They communicate in gestures and broken phrases, sorting out who gets which bunk. Jungwon ends up with a middle one. It’ll do. It’s only four days to New York.
He leaves his suitcase on the bunk and goes exploring. Third-class passengers aren’t supposed to wander into the upper decks, but the ship is massive and the crew can’t be everywhere. Jungwon has never been good at following rules.
He climbs stairs, follows hallways, nods politely at stewards who eye him suspiciously but don’t actually stop him. The ship is a maze of opulence and machinery— plush carpets giving way to metal floors, crystal chandeliers to bare electric bulbs.
He finds his way to the Boat Deck, where the lifeboats hang in their davits and the ocean stretches endless in every direction. The ship has pulled away from port now, Southampton shrinking behind them. The coast of England is a gray line on the horizon. Goodbye, he thinks. Good riddance.
He’s leaning against the railing, breathing in cold salt air, when he sees her. She’s first class— that much is obvious from the dress alone. Pale blue silk, cinched waist, a hat that probably cost more than his ticket. She’s standing near the stern with a man in an expensive suit, and even from a distance Jungwon can tell she doesn’t want to be there.
Her posture is stiff, uncomfortable. The man— her husband? fiancé?— has his hand possessively on her elbow, gesturing at the horizon like he owns it. She nods along, dutiful and detached.
And then she turns her head, just slightly, and her eyes meet Jungwon’s across the deck. The world stops. It’s not love at first sight— Jungwon doesn’t believe in that. But it’s something. Recognition, maybe, though he’s never seen her before in his life. A pull, deep in his chest, like a hook catching and refusing to let go.
She holds his gaze for three heartbeats. Four. Five. Then the man says something and she looks away, the moment broken. Jungwon should leave. Should go back to third class where he belongs, forget about the beautiful woman in the blue dress. He doesn’t.
He sees her again that evening in the third-class general room. Which is impossible, because first-class passengers don’t come down to third class. Ever. It’s practically a law.
But there she is, hovering in the doorway, looking around with wide eyes at the crowded, noisy space. Someone’s playing an accordion, children are running underfoot, people are drinking and laughing and speaking in a dozen different languages. She looks completely out of place and utterly enchanted. Jungwon makes his way through the crowd toward her.
“Lost?” he asks. She startles, turning to look at him. Up close, she’s even more beautiful— dark eyes, delicate features, a strand of hair escaping from beneath her hat.
“I—” She glances behind her, nervous. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Probably not. Want to stay anyway?”
A smile tugs at her lips. “Maybe. Just for a moment.”
“Come on.” He offers his hand. “I’ll give you the grand tour. It’ll take about thirty seconds.” She laughs and takes his hand.
He shows her the general room, the modest dining area, the stairs leading down to the berths. She asks questions— where is he from, where is he going, what does he hope to find in America. He answers honestly, charmed by her genuine interest. “What about you?” he asks. “What brings you to third class?”
“Curiosity. And…” She hesitates. “Escape, I suppose.”
“From what?”
“A man with too much money and not enough imagination.” She says it lightly, but there’s bitterness underneath. “My fiancé. He thinks he owns me.”
“Does he?”
“Not yet. The wedding isn’t until we reach New York.”
Something cold settles in Jungwon’s stomach. “You don’t want to marry him.”
“No. But I don’t have much choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
“Not for women like me.” She pulls her hand from his, wrapping her arms around herself. “I should go. He’ll notice I’m gone.”
“Wait.” Jungwon doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that he can’t let her leave yet. “What’s your name?” She shouldn’t tell him. It’s improper, dangerous even. But she does anyway. And Jungwon commits it to memory like a prayer.
They keep running into each other. Or rather, she keeps finding excuses to slip away from her fiancé and come find Jungwon. It’s reckless and stupid and neither of them can stop.
She comes down to third class when she can, staying for stolen minutes in hallways and quiet corners. They talk about everything— books, dreams, the lives they wish they could have. She tells him about growing up in a gilded cage, groomed from birth to marry well and look pretty. He tells her about growing up with nothing, fighting for every scrap.
“I envy you,” she says one night. They’re on the aft deck, hidden from view behind a lifeboat. It’s late, most passengers asleep. The stars are brilliant overhead.
“Envy me?” Jungwon laughs. “I have nothing.”
“You have freedom. You can go anywhere, be anyone. I’ve never had that.”
“You could. Come to America with me. Really with me, not with him.”
“Don’t.” But she doesn’t move away when he steps closer. “Don’t give me hope for things that can’t happen.”
“Why can’t they?”
“Because I’m engaged. Because he’d ruin you if he found out. Because—” Jungwon kisses her. It’s impulsive and foolish and she should push him away, should slap him, should run back to her fiancé and forget this ever happened. She kisses him back instead.
It’s desperate and messy and perfect. His hands in her hair, her fingers clutching his shirt. Four days they’ve been on this ship and it feels like a lifetime, feels like they’ve known each other forever.
When they break apart, they’re both breathing hard. “Come to my cabin,” he says. “Please.”
“I can’t—”
“I know. But please. Just tonight. Let me have tonight.”
She should say no. She should walk away while she still can. “Yes,” she whispers instead. “Yes.”
His cabin is empty— his bunkmates still in the general room, drinking and playing cards. Jungwon locks the door behind them, and for a moment they just stand there, looking at each other. “We don’t have to,” he says. “If you don’t want—”
“I want.” She’s already working at the buttons of her dress. “Help me?”
His hands shake as he helps her undress, revealing layers of silk and lace and finally, skin. She’s beautiful, all soft curves and pale flesh, and he can’t believe this is real.
She undresses him too, fingers fumbling with buttons and buckles until they’re both bare. The cabin is cramped and cold, but neither of them cares. “Have you—” he starts.
“No. Have you?”
“No.” They laugh, nervous and giddy, and then he’s guiding her to the narrow bunk, covering her body with his.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmurs, kissing her neck.
“You won’t.”
He takes his time, exploring her body with hands and mouth. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her arch into his touch. When he slides his hand between her thighs and finds her wet, she moans. “Jungwon—”
“I know. I’ve got you.”
He strokes her clit, watching her face as pleasure builds. She’s gorgeous like this— flushed and wanting, all artifice stripped away. When she comes apart under his fingers, he feels like he’s witnessing something holy.
“Inside me,” she pants. “Please, I need—”
He positions himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her wetness. “This might hurt,” he warns.
“I don’t care.” He pushes in slowly, feeling her stretch around him. She winces and he freezes.
“Don’t stop,” she grits out. “Keep going.” He does, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside her. The feeling is overwhelming— tight and hot and perfect. He has to hold still for a moment, fighting the urge to move.
“Okay?” he manages.
“Okay. More than okay. Move, please—” He does, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. Finding a rhythm, careful and deep. Her legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back.
“Yes,” she gasps. “Like that, just like that—”
The bunk creaks beneath them, the sound embarrassingly loud in the small cabin. But Jungwon can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is this— her body beneath his, the way she’s looking at him like he’s everything.
“I’m close,” he warns. “I need to—”
“Inside me. Don’t pull out.”
“But—”
“I don’t care. I want to feel you.” That’s all it takes. He buries himself deep and comes with a groan, spilling inside her. The feeling of his cock pulsing, of his release filling her, pushes her over the edge. She comes around him with a cry, her cunt clenching and fluttering. They collapse together in the narrow bunk, sweaty and satisfied and stunned by what just happened. “I love you,” she whispers against his chest.
“I love you too.” He kisses the top of her head. “Come with me. To New York. Leave him and come with me.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. We’ll—”
“Shh.” She presses a finger to his lips. “Let’s not think about tomorrow yet. Let’s just have tonight.”
So they do. They make love again, slower this time. Learning each other, memorizing every touch. And afterward, they lie tangled together, talking in whispers about impossible futures.
Through the porthole, the moon hangs low over the water, full and bright. “Look,” she says, pointing. “The moon.”
Jungwon follows her gaze. “It’s beautiful.”
“Do you think the moon remembers us?” she asks suddenly. “All the people who’ve looked up at it throughout time?”
The question is strange, but somehow it doesn’t feel strange. “I don’t know. Why?”
“I just… I want something to remember this. Remember us. In case—” She stops, shaking her head. “Never mind. I’m being foolish.”
“You’re not.” He pulls her closer. “And yes. I think the moon remembers. I think it’s watched a million love stories just like ours.”
“This isn’t a love story. Love stories have happy endings.”
“Ours will too.” He says it with conviction he doesn’t quite feel. “We’ll make it work. We’ll—”
She kisses him, cutting off the words. They make love once more, desperate and clinging, like they’re trying to fight off the dawn.
When she finally leaves, slipping back to first class before sunrise, Jungwon lies in the bunk that still smells like her and tries not to think about losing her.
The next day, April 14th, dawns cold and clear. Jungwon doesn’t see her all morning, all afternoon. He walks the decks, hoping for a glimpse, but third class and first class might as well be different worlds.
By evening, he’s restless and frustrated. He shouldn’t have let her go. Should have convinced her to stay, to run away with him right then.
He’s in the general room after dinner, nursing a beer and trying not to think about her, when the ship shudders. It’s subtle— a grinding sensation, a slight lurch. Most people don’t even notice. But Jungwon feels it in his bones, a wrongness that makes his skin prickle. Around him, the conversation continues. The accordion plays. Children laugh. But something is wrong.
It’s another twenty minutes before the crew starts coming through, telling everyone to put on life belts and head to the Boat Deck. Their voices are calm, almost casual. Just a precaution. Nothing to worry about. Jungwon doesn’t believe them.
He grabs his coat and joins the stream of people heading upstairs. The corridors are crowded, confused. Why are they doing this? It’s freezing outside. The ship is fine. But when Jungwon reaches the deck, he sees the ice. Chunks of it, scattered across the forward deck like broken glass. And the ship— the unsinkable ship— is listing. Tilting forward, just barely, but
Crew members are uncovering lifeboats, their movements quick and efficient. Women and children are being loaded first, separating families, causing chaos. Jungwon scans the crowd frantically, looking for her. There are hundreds of people on deck now, maybe thousands. First class mixing with second and third, all the careful social hierarchies breaking down in the face of disaster.
He pushes through the crowd, searching. She has to be here somewhere. She has to— there. She’s near one of the lifeboats, her fiancé gripping her arm. She’s arguing with him, trying to pull away, and Jungwon’s heart seizes. He fights his way toward her.
“—not getting in without you!” she’s saying, tears streaming down her face.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her fiancé snaps. “The ship is sinking. Get in the boat.”
“I won’t leave you—”
“You will if I tell you to—”
“Let her go.” Jungwon doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s hard, angry, nothing like the gentle tone he used with her last night.
The fiancé turns, sees him, and his face twists with contempt. “Who the hell are you?”
“Someone who actually cares about her. Let. Her. Go.”
“You’re that third-class rat she’s been sneaking off to see.” The fiancé’s grip tightens on her arm and she winces. “I should have known. Guards!”
“Stop it!” She wrenches free, stumbling toward Jungwon. “Stop it, both of you!”
Jungwon catches her, steadying her. Up close, he can see the terror in her eyes. “The ship,” she whispers. “It’s really sinking, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then we need to— we have to—“ She looks around wildly at the chaos, the lifeboats being lowered, the growing tilt of the deck.
“Get on a boat,” Jungwon says. “Now. While there’s still room.”
“Not without you.”
“There’s no room for me. Women and children only.” He cups her face, memorizing her features. “Please. Get on the boat.”
“No. No, I won’t—” Her fiancé grabs her again, and this time he’s stronger, more forceful. He drags her toward the lifeboat despite her struggles.
“Jungwon!” she screams. He tries to follow but a crew member blocks his way.
“Back, sir. Women and children only.”
“That’s my—” But what is she? Not his wife. Not even really his lover, except for one stolen night. “Please, she needs me—”
“Step back or I’ll have you removed.”
Through the crowd, Jungwon watches helplessly as her fiancé forces her into the lifeboat. She’s fighting, crying, calling Jungwon’s name. Their eyes meet across the distance. I love you, he mouths. The lifeboat starts to lower.
“NO!” She’s leaning over the edge, reaching for him. “Jungwon, please! PLEASE!” But the boat drops away, down toward the black water, and she’s gone.
Jungwon stands frozen, watching the lifeboat pull away from the dying ship. She’s safe. That’s what matters. She’s safe.
The Titanic groans beneath his feet, the bow sinking lower. Around him, people are screaming now, the reality of the situation setting in. Not enough boats. Not enough time. He’s going to die here. The thought is strangely calm.
He makes his way to the stern, which is rising now as the bow sinks. The deck is tilting at a dangerous angle, people clinging to railings, crying and praying. Jungwon finds a spot near the back and looks up at the sky. The stars are brilliant, the moon nearly full. Beautiful.
He thinks about last night. Her body beneath his, the way she said his name. The plans they made that will never happen now. “I’ll find you in the next life,” he whispers to the moon, to the stars, to whatever might be listening.
The ship shudders violently. Somewhere below, something breaks with a sound like thunder. The stern is rising higher now, nearly vertical.
People are jumping, falling, screaming as they plummet into the icy water. Jungwon holds on, watching it all with strange detachment.
This is how he dies. Not in a fight, not of old age, but here on a ship that was supposed to be unsinkable, thinking about a woman he knew for four days. The ship breaks. He feels it— the hull splitting, metal screaming as the bow tears away and sinks. The stern bobs for a moment, and Jungwon thinks maybe, maybe—
Then it goes down. The water is so cold it stops his heart. He tries to swim but his limbs won’t cooperate, the freezing temperature shutting down his body piece by piece. Around him, people are screaming, thrashing, dying. He stops fighting.
As the water closes over his head, his last thought is of her. Of dark eyes and soft skin and a single night that felt like forever. I’ll find you, he thinks again. I promise. I’ll find you. The moon watches as he drowns.
In the lifeboat, she’s still screaming his name. Her fiancé tries to restrain her, tries to calm her down, but she’s hysterical. She saw the ship break. Saw it go down. Saw hundreds of people disappear into the black water. Including Jungwon. “He’s gone,” her fiancé says, not unkindly. “I’m sorry, but he’s gone.”
“No.” She’s shaking her head, denial and grief warring in her chest. “No, he can’t be. He promised. He said—” But she can’t remember what he said. Only that it felt important. That it felt true.
They’re rescued hours later by the Carpathia. She and her fiancé are wrapped in blankets, given hot soup, processed like cargo. She goes through the motions, numb and hollow.
Her fiancé tries to comfort her, tries to pretend the last four days didn’t happen. They’ll still marry when they reach New York, he says. Put this tragedy behind them. Move forward. She nods because she doesn’t have the energy to argue. But she knows the truth. She died on that ship too. The woman she was, the woman Jungwon made her feel like she could be— that woman drowned in the Atlantic. What’s left is just a shell.
On the Carpathia’s deck that night, she looks up at the moon. The same moon that watched them make love, that heard her ask if it would remember.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please remember him. Remember us.” The moon offers no answer. But somewhere, somehow, she thinks it heard.
1969 — Your POV
June 15, 1969 Dear Diary, I hate that I’m starting this like some teenage girl, but Mom gave me this journal and said writing might help. Help with what, I’m not sure. The fear? The waiting? The bone-deep terror that comes with loving someone who’s about to go to war? Jungwon got his draft notice today. He came home from the post office with this look on his face— not surprised, exactly, but resigned. Like he’d been waiting for this moment and now it’s finally here. First son. That’s what the letter said, like that explains everything. Like being born first means you’re obligated to die first too. We’ve been together for two years. Two perfect, beautiful years. We met at a protest, of all places— both of us marching against this stupid war, and now he has to go fight in it. The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking tragic. He leaves in eight weeks. Sixty days. That’s all we have left. I don’t know how to do this. How to count down the days until I lose him. How to smile and be strong when all I want to do is scream. But I’ll try. For him, I’ll try.
You remember the day you met him with perfect clarity. August 1967. Washington D.C. The March on the Pentagon. You’d gone with friends from college, piled into someone’s beat-up Volkswagen van with hand-painted peace signs on the sides. The whole drive down you’d sung protest songs and shared joints and felt like you were part of something important.
The crowd was massive— thousands of people, maybe tens of thousands. You’d never seen anything like it. Everyone young and angry and alive, waving signs and chanting. “Hell no, we won’t go!” “Make love, not war!” The energy was electric.
You’d lost your friends somewhere in the chaos. Didn’t matter— you were swept up in the crowd, moving with the mass of bodies toward the Pentagon. The police were there in riot gear, a wall of shields and batons, and the crowd pressed forward anyway.
That’s when you saw him. He was near the front, dark hair falling in his eyes, wearing a denim jacket covered in pins and patches. He was shouting something at the police line, passionate and fearless, and you thought: I want to know him.
When the police charged, everything descended into chaos. People running, screaming, tear gas filling the air. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Someone grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the worst of it. It was him.
“Come on!” he shouted over the noise, tugging you through the crowd. You ran together, lungs burning, until you were several blocks away. Safe. You collapsed against a building, coughing and laughing and high on adrenaline.
“You okay?” he asked, looking you over with genuine concern.
“I think so. Thank you. For—” You gestured vaguely back toward the chaos.
“Couldn’t leave a fellow revolutionary to get trampled.” He grinned, and it transformed his whole face. “I’m Jungwon.” You told him your name, and he repeated it like he was memorizing it.
You spent the rest of the day together. Found your respective friends eventually, but kept gravitating back to each other. Talking about the war, about politics, about music and books and dreams for a better world. He was smart and funny and so passionate about everything he believed in. By the time you had to leave, you’d given him your number. He called three days later.
Your first date was at a coffee shop in Greenwich Village, the kind of place with poetry readings and folk music and cigarette smoke thick in the air. You talked for six hours straight, until the owner kicked you out at closing.
Your second date was a concert in Central Park. Simon and Garfunkel. You sat on a blanket and he held your hand and you thought you might be falling in love.
Your third date ended in his tiny apartment in the East Village, with his hands in your hair and your legs wrapped around his waist and the certainty that this was it. This was everything.
Two years later, you’ve built a life together. It’s not much— a small apartment, mismatched furniture, more books than shelf space— but it’s yours. You work at a bookstore. He’s in his second year of college, studying literature because he loves it even though his parents think it’s impractical.
You go to protests together, make love to Motown records, cook dinners that are more ambition than skill. You talk about the future— maybe moving to San Francisco, maybe joining a commune, maybe just existing in this little bubble of happiness forever.
And then the draft notice came.
June 20, 1969. We went to the recruitment office today to see if there was any way out of this. Deferment, conscientious objector status, anything. There isn’t. The officer— this smug asshole with a crew cut and a flag pin— looked at Jungwon like he was dirt. Said being a first son means he has a duty to serve. Said if he tries to dodge, they’ll find him. Said a lot of boys would be grateful for the opportunity to serve their country. Jungwon didn’t say anything. Just nodded and took the papers and walked out. I wanted to scream at that officer. Wanted to tell him that this isn’t service, it’s murder. That we’re sending boys to die in a jungle halfway around the world for a war nobody even understands anymore. That Jungwon has already served— served the cause of peace, served humanity by refusing to hate people he’s never met. But I didn’t say anything either. On the way home, Jungwon finally spoke. He said he was scared. That’s all. Just those two words. And then he started crying, right there on the subway, and I held him while strangers pretended not to notice. I’m scared too. Terrified. But I can’t let him see that. Only fifty-two days left.
July 4, 1969 Independence Day. The irony isn’t lost on us. We went to a protest in the park instead of watching fireworks. Smaller crowd than usual— a lot of people are getting tired, I think. Tired of marching and shouting and nothing changing. The war keeps grinding on. Boys keep dying. But we went anyway. Held our signs. Chanted until our throats were raw. Afterward, we walked home through the city. It was late, past midnight, and the streets were mostly empty. Jungwon stopped suddenly and pulled me into an alley. He said he wants to remember this. Us. Me. Before everything changes. And then he kissed me, deep and desperate, and we made love right there against a brick wall. It was reckless and uncomfortable and perfect. When we got home, we stayed up until dawn making love again, slower this time. Memorizing each other. Thirty-eight days.
The countdown is torture. Every morning you wake up and think: one day less. One day closer to losing him.
You try to make the most of the time you have left. You go to all your favorite places— the coffee shop where you had your first date, the record store where you spent hours flipping through albums, the park where you’ve had a hundred picnics. You take pictures, filling up two whole rolls of film. You cook elaborate dinners and stay up late talking about everything and nothing.
And you make love constantly. In your bed, on the couch, in the shower. Sometimes slow and tender, sometimes urgent and desperate. Like you’re trying to fit a lifetime of intimacy into a handful of weeks.
Jungwon is quieter now. More withdrawn. You catch him staring at nothing sometimes, lost in thoughts he won’t share. “Talk to me,” you beg one night after he’s been silent through dinner.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Anything. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I keep thinking about all the things I’m going to miss. Stupid things, like… the way you hum when you’re cooking. Or how you always steal my coffee even though you have your own. Or the sound of rain on the window when we’re in bed.”
“You’ll come back.” You say it fiercely, like conviction can make it true. “You’ll come back and we’ll have all of that again.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Don’t say that—”
“We have to talk about it.” His voice is gentle but firm. “We have to acknowledge that I might not come home.”
“I can’t.” Tears are streaming down your face now. “I can’t think about that. If I think about that, I’ll fall apart.”
He pulls you into his arms, holding you while you sob. “Then don’t think about it. Just… remember that I love you. That I’ll always love you. No matter what happens.”
“I love you too. So much.” You make love that night with tears on both your faces, holding each other like you can physically stop time if you just hold tight enough.
July 28, 1969 Two weeks. That’s all we have left. Jungwon is trying to act normal. Going to classes, seeing friends, pretending like everything is fine. But I see the cracks. The way his hands shake sometimes. The nightmares that wake him up gasping. I asked him last night what he’s afraid of. He said dying but also coming back as someone else. If he comes back at all. I said you don’t die, you’ll come back and you’ll be exactly who you are now. But honestly, I don’t know if that’s true. How could anyone go through war and come back unchanged? We had sex three times today. I’m getting sore but I don’t care. Every time feels like it might be the last time, so we keep reaching for each other. This morning he went down on me for what felt like hours, making me come twice before he even took his cock out. Then he fucked me slow and deep, whispering how much he loves me, how beautiful I am, how he’s going to remember every second of this. I rode him after, taking my time, watching his face as he fell apart beneath me. He came inside me and I thought: let me get pregnant. Let there be some piece of him that stays even if he doesn’t come back. I didn’t say that out loud. It would terrify him. Fourteen days.
August 7, 1969 Five days. I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t think about anything except the calendar counting down. We went to Woodstock yesterday. Or tried to— the traffic was so bad we only made it halfway before turning back. But we could hear the music in the distance, see the crowds. It felt important somehow. All these people gathering to celebrate peace and love while the world burns down around us. Tonight we’re staying in. Just the two of us. I don’t want to share him with anyone else. Not now.
You spend the last five days in bed. Not the whole time, obviously— you have to eat, use the bathroom, occasionally answer the door when friends come by to say goodbye. But mostly, you stay in bed. Making love. Talking. Sleeping tangled together. Trying to memorize the feeling of his body against yours.
“Tell me about after,” Jungwon says on the third-to-last night. “When I come back. What are we going to do?”
“Everything.” You trace patterns on his bare chest. “We’re going to do everything we’ve always talked about. Move to California. Live in a commune. Grow our own food. Make art and music and love every single day.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“We’ll get married. Nothing fancy— just us and a few friends and maybe some wildflowers. I’ll wear a white dress and you’ll wear your denim jacket with all the pins.”
He laughs. “Very traditional.”
“We’ll have kids someday. Two or three. We’ll teach them to question everything and fight for what’s right and love fiercely.”
“I want that.” His voice cracks. “I want all of that with you.”
“Then come back to me. Promise me you’ll come back.”
“I promise I’ll try.” It’s not the same as promising to come back, but it’s all he can give.
You make love again, slow and reverent. He worships your body with his hands and mouth, making you come on his tongue before sliding inside you. You move together in perfect rhythm, years of practice making you instinctively know what the other needs. When you both finish, you lie there in the afterglow, holding each other. “I love you,” he whispers. “More than anything in this world.”
“I love you too. Come back to me.”
“I will. I swear I will.”
August 11, 1969 Tomorrow. He leaves tomorrow. I don’t know how to write this. Don’t know what to say that won’t sound trite or desperate or completely inadequate. We spent today doing normal things. Had breakfast at our favorite diner. Walked through the park. Went to the record store and bought the new Dylan album even though we can’t really afford it. Tonight we went up to the roof of our building. It’s illegal but no one cares. We brought a blanket and a bottle of wine and lay there looking at the stars. The moon was almost full. So bright I could see every detail of his face. Do you think the moon remembers us? Is what he’d asked me. I didn’t fully understand the question. He continued with how all the people who’ve looked at it, do you think the moons remember them and their stories? I said I didn’t know. He said how he wants it to remember us, remember this moment incase he doesn’t come back. I told him that it will, and I will, how could I forget him? We made love on that roof under the moonlight. It was cold and uncomfortable and the most beautiful thing we’ve ever done. Afterward, lying in his arms, he said it: if he doesn’t make it back that I should know that he’ll find me in the next life, no matter how long it take, no matter the cost. I told him he’s coming back to me in this one. He kissed me instead of arguing. And we made love again, desperate and clinging. We didn’t sleep. Stayed up all night holding each other, watching the moon travel across the sky. He leaves in six hours. I don’t know how to let him go.
The morning is gray and cold, unseasonably cool for August. You help him pack, though there’s not much to take. A small duffel bag with some clothes, toiletries, a few photos. He tucks the pictures carefully into the side pocket— one of the two of you at that first protest, one from a party last year where you’re both laughing at something, one from last week where you’re just looking at each other. “So I don’t forget,” he says quietly.
“You won’t forget.”
“No. But just in case.”
The bus station is crowded with other boys shipping out, their families crying and saying goodbye. You see mothers clutching sons, girlfriends sobbing into boyfriends’ shoulders. Everyone trying to be brave and failing. Jungwon holds you until the very last second. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too. Come back to me.”
“I will. I promise.” He pulls back to look at you, memorizing your face. “Wait for me?”
“Always. Forever. I’ll wait forever if I have to.” One last kiss. Deep and desperate and tasting of salt from tears— yours, his, both. And then he’s boarding the bus with all the other boys in their too-new uniforms, and you’re standing on the platform watching it pull away.
He’s at the window. You can see him pressed against the glass, one hand flat against it like he’s reaching for you. You raise your hand in a wave. And then the bus turns the corner and he’s gone. You stand there for a long time after, staring at the empty street.
Someone touches your shoulder— another girl who just said goodbye to her boyfriend. She’s crying too. “They’ll come back,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. “They have to come back.” You nod because you can’t speak. But you’re not sure you believe it.
August 15, 1969 I’m at Woodstock. Finally made it. I came alone. Couldn’t stand being in the apartment without him. Everything there reminds me of Jungwon— his books still on the shelf, his jacket hanging by the door, the sheets that still smell like him. The festival is chaos. Mud everywhere, people as far as I can see, music blasting from the stage. It’s overwhelming and beautiful and exactly what I need. I’m not really here, though. Part of me is still on that bus station platform. Part of me is wherever Jungwon is right now— boot camp, probably. Learning how to kill people. I hate this. I hate all of it. But I’m here, in the mud and the music, because he would want me to be. Because this is what we believe in— peace, love, community. All the things we’re trying to build while the government tears them down. I’m going to survive this. I’m going to wait for him, and when he comes home, we’re going to build the life we talked about. I have to believe that.
September 3, 1969 First letter from Jungwon arrived today. I was so excited I almost ripped it opening the envelope. ‘My love, Boot camp is hell. They wake us up at 4 AM and work us until we drop. Everything is shouting and pushups and running until I want to puke. They’re trying to break us down, turn us into soldiers. Turn us into killers. I don’t know if I can do this. But I think about you every night. About your smile, your laugh, the way you look when you first wake up. About making love on our roof under the moon. Those memories are the only thing keeping me sane. I miss you so much it physically hurts. Miss your voice, your touch, the way you steal my coffee. Miss everything. I’ll write as often as I can. Tell me about your life. What you’re reading, where you’re going, who you’re seeing. I need to know that the world I’m fighting for (even though I don’t believe in this war) still exists. I love you. More than words can say. Forever yours, Jungwon’ I read it five times. Then I went into the bedroom and cried into his pillow.
September 20, 1969 I’m writing letters every day. Sometimes twice a day. I tell him about everything— the bookstore, protests I go to, albums I buy, books I read. Stupid mundane things that probably bore him, but he asked for them so I write. His letters come sporadically. Sometimes I get three in one week, sometimes nothing for two weeks. When they arrive, I devour them. He’s trying to stay positive, I can tell. But I read between the lines. The exhaustion. The fear. The slow erosion of the person he was. He finishes boot camp next month. Then he ships out. To Vietnam. I can’t think about it. If I think about it, I’ll lose my mind.
October 12, 1969 He called today. Five minutes on a pay phone before shipping out. His voice sounded different. Harder. Older. He told me he loves me, and that no matter what happens I need to remember that. I said I love him too and to be safe, to please be safe. And then the line went dead. That was eight hours ago and I can’t stop crying.
October 30, 1969 Letter from Vietnam. ‘My love, I’m here. In the jungle. In the war. I can’t tell you where exactly (they censor that) or what we’re doing (they censor that too). I can tell you it’s hot and wet and everything smells like rot and fear. I can tell you I think about you constantly. That your letters are the only good thing in this place. That I keep your photo in my pocket over my heart. I can tell you I’m terrified. Not of dying— though I am scared of that— but of becoming someone you won’t recognize when I come home. If I come home. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t write things like that. You need hope, not my fear. I love you. I love you. I love you. Stay safe. Live your life. Don’t put it on hold waiting for me. All my love, Jungwon’ I wrote back immediately: My love, I will always wait for you. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what you’ve seen or done or become. You’re mine and I’m yours and nothing changes that. Come home to me. All my love, forever.
The letters continue. Back and forth across an ocean, across a war. Sometimes they’re full of mundane details— what he ate, what you did that day. Sometimes they’re deeper— fears, hopes, dreams for the future. You live for those letters. They’re proof he’s still alive, still him, still yours.
November 15, 1969 Haven’t heard from him in three weeks. I tell myself it’s fine. Mail is slow. He’s busy. He’s in the jungle where there’s no way to send letters. But the silence is deafening.
December 1, 1969 Five weeks now. I called his parents. They haven’t heard anything either. I’m trying not to panic.
December 10, 1969 Letter arrived today. Thank god. Thank god. ‘My love, I’m sorry for the silence. We were in the field— weeks in the jungle, no communication with the outside world. I wrote you letters every night but couldn’t send them. I’ll mail them all now so you’ll get a flood at once. I saw combat. Real combat. I can’t describe it. Won’t describe it. Just know that I’m okay. Physically okay, at least. The guys in my unit are good men. We take care of each other. That helps. I miss you so much I dream about you every night. Dream about being home, about holding you, about a life where there’s no war. Soon. I’ll be home soon. I love you endlessly, Jungwon’ Six more letters arrived over the next week. All written in the jungle, some barely legible, all filled with love and longing. I’m holding onto them like lifelines.
January 1, 1970 New year. New decade. I spent it alone in our apartment, drinking cheap wine and reading his letters. This year, he comes home. He has to.
The months blur together. Winter turns to spring. Letters arrive sporadically, sometimes cheerful, sometimes dark. You write back religiously, filling page after page with your life, your love, your hope.
You go to protests but your heart’s not in it anymore. You work at the bookstore. You see friends. You exist in a state of suspended animation, waiting.
The nightmares start in March. You dream of jungles and gunfire and blood. You dream of Jungwon dying in a thousand different ways. You wake up screaming, reaching for him, finding only empty sheets. You stop sleeping well.
April 20, 1970 Eight months since he left. I saw a news report today about casualties. The numbers are staggering. Thousands dead. Thousands more wounded. I couldn’t watch. His last letter said his unit was moving to a new position. He couldn’t say where. Couldn’t say what they’d be doing. I haven’t heard from him since. It’s been two weeks.
May 5, 1970 Three weeks. I’m trying not to think about what that might mean.
May 12, 1970 Four weeks. I called his parents again. Still nothing. I’m losing my mind.
May 20, 1970 Letter arrived today. But it’s not from him. It’s from his commanding officer. ‘Dear Miss, It is my duty to inform you that Private Yang Jungwon was killed in action on April 28, 1970, during combat operations in [REDACTED]. Private Yang died bravely, serving his country with honor. He was well-liked by his unit and will be deeply missed. Please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss. Respectfully, Captain Haruma, United States Army’ I don’t remember the rest of that day. I don’t remember screaming. Don’t remember collapsing. Don’t remember the neighbors breaking down the door because they heard me and thought someone was being murdered. I remember waking up in a hospital. Sedated. Numb. I remember his mother crying on the phone saying that he’s coming home. But he’s not coming home. Not really. Just a body in a box.
May 25, 1970 They buried him today. Military funeral. Flag-draped coffin. Gun salute. The whole terrible ceremony. I couldn’t look at the coffin. Couldn’t accept that he was in there. That the man I loved, love— vibrant and alive and so full of passion— was reduced to a body in a box in the ground. They gave me the flag. Folded into a perfect triangle. I wanted to scream at them. Wanted to throw the flag back in their faces and demand they give me Jungwon instead. But I just stood there, numb, while they lowered him into the ground. After, I went home and found a letter. Tucked into my mailbox. From him. Dated April 27. The day before he died. ‘My love, If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I wrote this just in case. Just in case the worst happens and I don’t get to say goodbye. First: I love you. I love you more than I knew it was possible to love another person. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. The brightest light in my life. Every moment with you was a gift. Second: This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. Don’t torture yourself with what-ifs. We had no control over this. Third: Live. Please, live your life. Don’t spend it mourning me. Find love again if you can. Be happy. Make art. Change the world. Do all the things we talked about doing together. And finally: I’ll find you in the next life. I don’t know if there is a next life, but if there is, I’ll find you. I’ll find you in every lifetime. This isn’t the end. It can’t be. I love you forever, Jungwon P.S. - Remember the moon? How I asked if it remembers us? I hope it does. I hope something in this universe remembers that we existed, that we loved each other. That our love was real and true and worth something, even if it was brief.’
I can’t write anymore. Can’t see through the tears. He’s gone. The love of my life is gone. And I don’t know how to survive this.
The journal entries stop after that. The pages remain blank for months, then years. You keep the journal, but you can’t bring yourself to write in it. Can’t put into words the emptiness, the grief that never quite fades.
You do what he asked. You live. You finish school, get a job, move to San Francisco like you always planned. You go to protests, make art, try to change the world in small ways. You even date again, eventually. Nice men who try to understand why you sometimes go quiet and distant, why you can’t quite let them all the way in. None of them are him.
On the anniversary of his death, you go to the cemetery. Place flowers on his grave. Tell him about your year. “I’m trying,” you whisper to the headstone. “I’m trying to live like you asked. But god, I miss you. Every single day, I miss you.”
The wind rustles the leaves overhead. The sun shines. The world keeps turning. And you keep living. Because that’s what he wanted.
But part of you— the best part— died in a jungle halfway around the world on April 28, 1970. And you’ll never get it back.
2001 — Your POV
September 11, 8:32 AM
Jungwon kisses you goodbye at the elevator, quick and chaste because you’re at work and even though everyone knows you’re married, PDA in the office is frowned upon. “See you at lunch?” you ask, adjusting his tie even though it’s perfectly straight. It’s just an excuse to touch him.
“Can’t. Meeting with the Lehman team goes until two.”
“Dinner then. I’ll cook.”
He grins. “You mean you’ll order takeout and pretend you cooked.”
“I resent that. I’m an excellent chef.”
“You burned water last week.”
“That was one time!” You swat his arm, laughing. “Okay, fine. I’ll order from that Thai place you like.”
“Perfect.” He kisses you again, properly this time, not caring who sees. “I love you.”
“Love you too. Don’t work too hard.” The elevator dings and you step inside, waving as the doors close. Jungwon watches you disappear, then heads back to his desk on the 101st floor of the North Tower.
You and Jungwon have been married for three years, together for five. You met at Cantor Fitzgerald— both of you ambitious young traders trying to make a name for yourselves in the cutthroat world of finance.
The attraction was immediate. The love took a bit longer, but not much. He proposed after a year and a half, on the roof of your apartment building under a full moon. You were married three months later in a small ceremony in Central Park, just family and close friends.
Working together has its challenges— you’re competitive by nature, and sometimes that bleeds into your relationship. But mostly it’s good. You understand the demands of each other’s jobs. You can decompress together about difficult clients. You commute together, have lunch together when schedules allow, go home together. Your entire lives are intertwined. You love it.
You step out of the elevator on the 96th floor— your department is a few floors below his— and head to your desk. The morning is already chaotic, phones ringing, traders shouting, the energy that makes you love this job. You’re reviewing overnight reports when your phone rings. “Trading desk.”
“Mrs. Yang, it’s David from IT. We’re having some issues with your workstation remotely. Would you mind coming down to the 78th floor so we can take a look?”
You glance at your computer. It seems fine, but IT knows better than you. “Sure. Give me five minutes?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” You grab your phone and ID badge, tell your supervisor you’ll be back in fifteen, and head for the elevators.
The elevator ride down takes less than a minute. You step out onto the 78th floor— it’s quieter here, mostly administrative offices and IT. David meets you in the lobby. “Thanks for coming down. This should only take a minute. Just need to check something in the server room.”
You follow him down the hall, chatting about weekend plans, completely unaware that you have eight minutes left in the world as you know it.
8:46 AM
Jungwon is on a conference call when the building shakes. No— not shakes. Lurches. Like the entire structure has been hit by something massive. The lights flicker. Someone screams. The windows on the north side explode inward in a spray of glass and fire.
The conference call drops. Alarms start blaring. People are shouting, running, diving under desks. Jungwon’s brain struggles to catch up. What the hell just happened?
“Everyone stay calm!” His manager is shouting to be heard over the chaos. “Proceed to the stairwells! Don’t use the elevators!”
Jungwon grabs his phone and jacket on autopilot, joining the stream of people heading for the stairs. The office is in chaos— papers everywhere, computers sparked and smoking, the smell of jet fuel and burning. Jet fuel. Oh god.
He dials your number as he’s moving, pressed against a hundred other bodies trying to evacuate. It rings once. Twice. Three times. “Jungwon?” You sound confused. “What’s happening? We felt something down here—”
“Where are you?” His voice is urgent. “What floor?”
“78th. I’m with IT, they needed to—”
“Get out. Right now. Don’t go back to your desk, don’t grab anything, just get to the stairs and get out of the building.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Something hit the building. High up. There’s fire and—” He’s being pushed into the stairwell now, the crowd surging around him. “Just get out. Please.”
“I will. Where are you?”
“101st floor. I’m in the stairwell. I’m coming down.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll meet you outside.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Be careful.” The line cuts out as he enters the stairwell. No signal.
The descent is a nightmare. Hundreds of people packed into a narrow concrete shaft, everyone trying to move at once. It’s hot and dark and the smoke is getting thicker with every floor.
Jungwon tries to stay calm. Tries to breathe through his shirt. Tries not to think about what happened, about the fire above him, about the fact that he’s 101 floors up and the only way out is down. He tries your number again when he hits the 95th floor and gets signal for a moment. No answer. Again at the 90th floor. No answer.
The stairwell is moving so slowly. People are crying, praying, helping those who can’t move as fast. The woman in front of Jungwon is heavily pregnant and struggling. He helps support her weight as they descend. “My baby,” she keeps saying. “I can’t—my baby—”
“You’re going to be fine,” Jungwon tells her. “We’re all going to be fine. Just keep moving.” He doesn’t know if he believes it.
At the 85th floor, his phone rings.“Jungwon!” You’re crying. “Oh god, Jungwon—”
“I’m here. I’m okay. Where are you?”
“I’m outside. I got out. But Jungwon, they’re saying—” Your voice breaks. “They’re saying a plane hit the building. A passenger plane. It flew right into the tower.”
His blood runs cold. “What?”
“It’s on the news. It’s everywhere. And—” You’re sobbing now. “Another plane just hit the South Tower. Jungwon, this isn’t an accident. This is—”
“I know. I know. Listen to me—I need you to get away from here. As far away as you can. Go to Brooklyn. Go to your sister’s. Just get away from Manhattan.”
“I’m not leaving without you.”
“You have to—”
“NO.” Your voice is fierce through the tears. “I’m not leaving you. I’m staying right here until you come out.”
“Baby, please—”
“Don’t. Don’t ask me to leave you. I won’t do it.” He wants to argue but he knows it’s pointless. You’re the most stubborn person he’s ever met. It’s one of the things he loves about you.
“Okay. Okay. I’m at the 85th floor. I’m coming down as fast as I can.”
“How fast is that?”
“Slow. There’s a lot of people. But I’m moving. I’m going to make it out.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” He stays on the phone with you as he descends. 80th floor. 75th. 70th. You talk to him the whole time. Telling him about what you’re seeing outside— the smoke, the emergency responders, the crowds. Telling him you love him. Begging him to hurry.
“I’m trying,” he says. “I’m trying.”65th floor. The building shudders. Different from before. More structural. The stairwell sways and people scream.
“What was that?” You sound terrified. “Jungwon, what was that?”
“I don’t know. The building just— it felt wrong.”
“You need to move faster.”
“I am. We all are. It’s just— there’s so many people—” 60th floor. The smoke is getting worse. People are coughing, struggling to breathe. Some are collapsing. Other people are helping them, but it’s slowing everything down.
Jungwon’s legs are burning. His lungs hurt. But he keeps moving. “Talk to me,” he says to you. “Tell me about something good. Distract me.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Our honeymoon. Our first date. Anything that isn’t this.”
You’re quiet for a moment, and when you speak, your voice is steadier. “Remember our honeymoon? In Italy, that night in Venice? We got lost trying to find the hotel and ended up at that little square with the fountain?” He does remember. The moon reflecting off the water. Your hand in his. The way the whole city felt like a dream.
“And you asked me if I thought the moon remembered us,” you continue. “All the lovers who’d stood in that square over the centuries.”
“Did I say that?”
“You did. You said you wanted the moon to remember us. To remember our love story.”
55th floor. Jungwon is crying now, though he’s not sure when that started. “I still want that.”
“It will. The moon will remember us. I know it will.”
“Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“If I don’t make it—”
“Don’t say that—”
“Listen. Please. If I don’t make it, I need you to promise me you’ll keep living. You’ll find happiness again. You won’t spend the rest of your life mourning me.”
“Jungwon—”
“Promise me.”
“I can’t. I can’t promise that. You’re my whole life. You’re everything.”
“Then promise me you’ll try. That you’ll at least try.”
You’re sobbing. “Okay. Okay, I promise. But you ARE going to make it. You have to make it.”
50th floor. He’s halfway. He’s actually halfway. Maybe he will make it out. “I love you,” he says. “More than anything in this world. You know that, right?”
“I know. I love you too. So much. So much.”
45th floor. The woman in front of him collapses. Jungwon and another man help her up, support her weight between them. She’s gasping for air, barely conscious. “Keep going,” Jungwon tells her. “We’re almost there.” 40th floor.
“I’m at 40,” he tells you. “Less than halfway now.”
“You’re doing so good. You’re almost out.”
“How’s it look out there?”
“Bad. Both towers are burning. There’s debris everywhere. But the firefighters are here. They’re going in to help people.”
“Good. That’s good.” 35th floor.
His phone is dying. Battery at 15%. “My phone’s almost dead,” he tells you.
“No. No, you have to keep talking to me.”
“I will. As long as I can. But if we get cut off—”
“We won’t.”
“But if we do, I need you to know—”
“I already know. I know you love me. I know we’re going to grow old together. I know we’re going to have babies and a house in the suburbs and a dog. I know all of it because you promised me.”
“I did promise you that.”
“So you have to keep that promise. You have to get out of there and come home to me.”
30th floor. Battery at 10%. “Do you remember our wedding vows?” he asks. “I meant every word. Every promise. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”
“Me too.”
25th floor. “I can see the end,” he says. “I can actually see the bottom of the stairwell. Maybe ten more floors.”
“Oh thank god. Thank god.”
20th floor. Battery at 5%. The building shudders again. Violently this time. The stairwell groans.
“Jungwon? JUNGWON?”
“I’m here. I’m still here. Something’s wrong. The building—it doesn’t feel stable.”
“You need to run. Right now. Run as fast as you can.”
“I am. We all are.”
15th floor. The lights go out. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing everything in red. People are screaming, pushing, panicking.
“Stay calm!” Someone is shouting. “Everyone stay calm!” But no one is calm. Everyone can feel it— the building is dying. 10th floor.
“I’m at ten,” Jungwon gasps into the phone. “Almost there. Almost—” The building lurches. Metal screaming. Concrete cracking.
“JUNGWON!”
“I’m okay. I’m still moving. Five more floors.”
5th floor. “I can see the lobby. I can see the exit. I’m going to make it. I’m actually going to make it.”
“Run. Don’t stop. Just run.” He does. The last few floors are a blur— feet pounding stairs, people streaming into the lobby, firefighters directing everyone outside.
Jungwon bursts out onto the street and the sight is apocalyptic. Both towers burning. Debris everywhere. Ash falling like snow. But he’s out. He’s alive. “I’m outside,” he gasps into the phone. “I made it. I’m out.”
“Where? Where are you?”
“West side, I think. Near—” The sound drowns out everything else. A roar like the end of the world. Jungwon turns and looks up. The South Tower is collapsing. “Oh my god,” he breathes.
“What? What’s happening?”
“The South Tower. It’s— it’s coming down.”
And then the cloud hits. Debris and dust and smoke racing down the street like a tsunami. People screaming, running, diving into buildings. Jungwon runs.
He doesn’t know where he’s going, just away from the cloud, away from the collapse. His phone is still clutched in his hand, your voice tinny and distant.“Jungwon! JUNGWON!”
“I’m here! I’m still here!” He ducks into a building— a store, doors standing open. The cloud follows him in, filling the space with choking dust.
He can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except hold the phone and hope. And then, gradually, the worst passes. He’s alive. Covered in dust, coughing up gray ash, but alive. “I’m okay,” he says into the phone. “I’m okay. The South Tower collapsed but I’m okay.”
“Oh thank god. Thank god. Where are you?”
“I don’t know. Some store. I can’t see anything. There’s dust everywhere.”
“Stay there. Stay inside until the dust clears. I’m coming to find you.”
“No. Don’t. It’s not safe.”
“I don’t care. Tell me where you are.”
“I don’t KNOW where I am—” His phone dies. “No. No no no—” He tries to turn it back on but it’s dead. Completely dead. He has no way to reach you. No way to tell you he’s alive. All he can do is wait for the dust to clear and try to find you.
You’re running. Your phone went dead ten seconds after his did, and now you’re sprinting through the chaos toward where you last heard him— west side of the North Tower. The South Tower is gone. Just gone. A pile of rubble and smoke where a building used to be.
And the North Tower is still burning. Jungwon’s tower. He made it out. He told you he made it out. He’s alive somewhere in this nightmare and you’re going to find him.
You’re pushing through crowds, screaming his name, looking for his face in a sea of ash-covered people who all look the same. “JUNGWON!” No answer. “JUNGWON!” The dust is thick. You can barely see ten feet ahead. But you keep moving, keep searching.
You’re maybe three blocks from the tower when you hear it. That sound again. Metal and concrete and the world ending. You look up. The North Tower is collapsing. “No,” you whisper. And then you’re screaming. “JUNGWON! JUNGWON!”
The tower comes down in a cascade of destruction, floor after floor pancaking, the cloud of debris exploding outward. You’re too far away. The cloud won’t reach you here. You’re safe. But Jungwon. He said he was on the west side. Near the tower. He was right there.
“No. No no no no no—” You’re calling his phone but it’s going straight to voicemail. Again and again and again. “JUNGWON! PLEASE! JUNGWON!”
People are grabbing you, trying to pull you back, away from the disaster. You fight them. “My husband! My husband was there! I need to— I have to—”
But there’s nowhere to go. The entire area where the towers stood is gone. Just smoke and rubble and death. You collapse on the pavement, screaming into your dead phone. He was right there. He made it out and he was right there and now— now the building is gone. And so is he.
They find Jungwon’s body three days later. He’d made it out of the building. Made it almost two blocks away. But when the tower collapsed, the debris cloud caught him. A piece of falling concrete, the medical examiner says. He died instantly. You identify him at the morgue. His face is peaceful, covered in dust. Like he’s sleeping. You don’t cry. You can’t. You’re too empty.
At the funeral, they play the voicemail you left him after the towers fell. The one where you’re screaming into the phone, begging him to answer, telling him you love him. You don’t remember leaving it.
You don’t remember much of anything from those first few days. The city buries thousands. You bury your husband. And then you have to figure out how to keep living.
Ten years pass. You never remarry. Never even date. How could you? Jungwon was your whole life. Your whole heart. You move out of New York. Can’t stand to be in the city where you lost him. You end up in a small town in Vermont, working at a library, living a quiet life.
Every year on September 11th, you visit the memorial. Stand at the reflecting pool where the North Tower used to be, looking at his name etched in bronze. YANG JUNGWON. You trace the letters with your fingers and remember.
Remember his laugh. His smile. The way he kissed you goodbye that last morning. Remember the phone call. His voice getting weaker as he descended. The way he said “I love you” one last time before his phone died. Remember standing in the street, watching the tower collapse, knowing he was gone.
At night, you look at the moon and think about what he said. About the moon remembering love stories. “Do you remember us?” you whisper to the sky.
The moon doesn’t answer. But you hope it does. Hope that somewhere in the universe, someone remembers that you loved him. That he loved you. That what you had was real and beautiful and worth something, even though it ended too soon.
You survive twenty more years. Never stop missing him. Never stop loving him. When you die at 65— heart attack, quick and painless— your last thought is of him. I’m coming, you think. Finally, I’m coming to find you. And maybe, somewhere, the moon remembers.
2026 — split POV
Jungwons POV
Jungwon is running late. He overslept— stayed up too late studying for his anatomy exam, his alarm didn’t go off, and now he’s sprinting across campus with his backpack half-open and his shirt probably on inside out.
Pre-med is killing him. Everyone said it would be hard, but no one mentioned it would be “survive on three hours of sleep and questionable dining hall coffee” hard. He rounds the corner by the library at a full run, checking his phone to see just how late he is to his 9 AM lecture—
And crashes directly into someone. The impact is total. Books go flying. Papers scatter. And Jungwon’s coffee— his precious, desperately-needed coffee— explodes all over the person he just barreled into. “Oh my god,” he gasps, stumbling back. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry—” He looks up and his brain short-circuits.
It’s a girl. A beautiful girl in a white shirt that is now completely drenched in his coffee. Dark hair falling around her face, wide eyes, an expression of pure shock. And the second their eyes meet, something in Jungwon’s chest cracks open. He knows her.
He doesn’t know her— he’s never seen her before in his life— but he knows her. Knows her the way he knows his own heartbeat. Knows her in a way that makes no logical sense but feels more real than anything he’s ever experienced. “I—” His voice doesn’t work. He tries again. “I’m so sorry. Your shirt—”
She’s just staring at him. Not angry, not upset. Just staring like she’s seeing a ghost. “It’s okay,” she says finally, but her voice is shaky. “It’s fine. I just—”
They’re both still frozen, standing in the middle of the path while other students flow around them. Jungwon forces himself to move. He shrugs out of his hoodie— thankfully he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath— and holds it out to her. “Here. Please. I’m so sorry. Take this.”
She looks at the hoodie, then back at him. “I can’t—”
“Please. I ruined your shirt. It’s the least I can do.” Slowly, she takes it. Their fingers brush and Jungwon feels electricity shoot up his arm. What the hell is happening?
She pulls on the hoodie— it’s too big on her, sleeves hanging past her hands— and something about seeing her in his clothes makes his heart do a weird flip. “Thank you,” she says softly. “I’m— uh. I have a class. I should—”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “Can I get your number? So I can pay for dry cleaning. Or replace the shirt. Or—”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. Please. I feel terrible.”She hesitates, then rattles off her number. He types it in with shaking hands. “I’m Jungwon, by the way.”
“I know.” Then her eyes widen. “I mean— I don’t know. You just— you look like a Jungwon.”
That doesn’t make any sense, but he smiles anyway. “And you are?”She tells him her name, and Jungwon commits it to memory like a prayer.
“I really am sorry,” he says again. “About the coffee.”
“It’s okay. Really.” She’s backing away now, but she keeps looking at him. Like she can’t quite make herself leave. “I should go. I’m late.”
“Me too. But—” He doesn’t want her to go. Can’t explain why, but the thought of her walking away makes him feel panicky. “Can I text you? About the shirt?”
“Sure. Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Okay. Good. I’ll— I’ll text you.”
“Okay.” She finally turns and walks away, and Jungwon stands there watching her go, his heart pounding for reasons he can’t explain. He’s never believed in love at first sight. Thought it was bullshit, something made up for movies and romance novels. But something just happened. Something big and important and completely inexplicable.
He doesn’t know what. But he knows, with absolute certainty, that he just met someone who’s going to change his life.
Your POV
You make it to class five minutes late, wearing a stranger’s hoodie, your heart racing. What the hell was that? You’ve never believed in fate or destiny or any of that romantic nonsense. You’re a history major, you deal in facts and evidence and things that can be proven.
But when you locked eyes with that boy— Jungwon— something shifted in the universe. You knew him. Know him. Even though you’ve never seen him before in your life. And the way he looked at you— like he knew you too. Like he’d been waiting for you.
You slide into your seat in the lecture hall and your best friend Mina immediately notices the hoodie. “Whose is that?” she whispers.
“Some guy’s. He spilled coffee on me.”
“And gave you his hoodie? That’s very chivalrous. Is he cute?”
You think about dark eyes and messy hair and the way his hands shook when he typed your number into his phone. “Yeah,” you admit. “Really cute.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Your phone buzzes. Unknown number: Hi, this is Jungwon. The coffee disaster guy. Just wanted to make sure I got your number right. And to apologize again. I really am sorry about your shirt.
You smile despite yourself and type back: It’s fine. Really. The hoodie is very comfortable.
Keep it. It looks better on you anyway.
Your heart does a stupid flutter: I should probably return it at some point.
How about tomorrow? I could buy you coffee. To replace the shirt.
You shouldn’t. You don’t know this guy. He could be anyone. But you’re already typing back: Tomorrow sounds good.
Perfect. I’ll text you details. And again— really sorry.
Stop apologizing. It was an accident.
Still feel bad.
Don’t. I’m fine. Great, even. I got a free hoodie out of it.
Ha. Fair point. See you tomorrow?
See you tomorrow.
You put your phone away and try to focus on the lecture. But all you can think about is tomorrow. About seeing him again. About why the thought of it makes you feel like you’re coming home.
Jungwon’s POV
Jungwon changes his outfit three times before leaving his dorm. “You’re being ridiculous,” his roommate Jake says, sprawled on his bed playing video games. “It’s just coffee.”
“It’s not just coffee.”
“It’s literally just coffee. You’re meeting a girl you spilled coffee on to buy her coffee to apologize for the coffee. It’s coffee inception.”
“Shut up.”
Jake grins. “You like her.”
“I don’t know her.”
“But you like her.”
Jungwon doesn’t answer because the truth is yes, he does like her. Has been thinking about her non-stop since yesterday. Can’t explain it, can’t rationalize it, but it’s true. He settles on jeans and a simple black shirt, checks his hair one more time, and heads out.
They agreed to meet at the campus coffee shop— ironic, given the circumstances— at 2 PM. Jungwon arrives ten minutes early and immediately regrets it because now he has to stand around looking awkward.
He’s checking his phone for the third time when he sees her walking up. She’s wearing casual clothes— jeans and a sweater— and she’s carrying his hoodie, neatly folded. Her hair is down today, falling past her shoulders, and Jungwon’s brain goes momentarily offline. “Hi,” she says, smiling.
“Hi.” He sounds like an idiot. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Get it together, Yang. “Should we go in?”
They order coffee— she gets a vanilla latte, he gets an americano— and find a table by the window. For a moment, they just sit there, both suddenly shy. “So,” you say finally. “Pre-med, right? I saw your anatomy textbook when you dropped everything.”
“Yeah. First year. It’s brutal.”
“I can imagine. I’m history. Much less brutal.”
“History’s cool. What kind of history?”
“All kinds. But I’m focusing on American history right now. Specifically the 20th century.”
Something flickers in Jungwon’s chest at that. He doesn’t know why. “That’s really interesting,” he says. “Any particular reason?”
You shrug. “I like understanding how we got here. How the past shapes the present. Plus the 20th century was just… a lot. Wars, social movements, technological revolution. It’s fascinating.”
“Do you think the past matters? Like, do you think we’re shaped by history or do we shape ourselves?” The question comes out more philosophical than he intended, but you don’t seem to mind.
“Both, probably. We’re products of our time, but we also have agency. We can make choices that change the trajectory.” You pause. “Why? Do you think the past matters?”
“I think…” He’s not sure how to articulate this. “I think sometimes the past isn’t really past. I think sometimes it echoes forward. Into the present.”
You’re looking at him with this intense focus, like he’s said something profound instead of just vaguely poetic nonsense. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I think that too.”
The conversation flows easily after that. You talk about classes, about campus life, about your respective hometowns. Jungwon tells you about wanting to be a doctor since he was a kid, about the pressure from his parents but also his genuine love for medicine. You tell him about your love of research, about wanting to be a professor someday, maybe write books.
Two hours pass without either of you noticing. “I should probably go,” you say reluctantly, checking your phone. “I have a study group at five.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Jungwon stands when you do, not ready for this to end. “Can I walk you?”
“Sure.” You walk across campus together, the conversation never stopping. It’s easy with you. Comfortable. Like you’ve done this a thousand times before.
When you reach your building, you turn to face him. “Thanks for the coffee. And for not being a serial killer.”
He laughs. “Thanks for giving a clumsy pre-med student a chance to apologize.”
“It was a good apology.” There’s a moment where you’re just looking at each other, and Jungwon feels that pull again. That inexplicable sense of knowing you.
“Can I see you again?” he asks. “Not as an apology. Just… because I want to.”
You smile. “I’d like that.”
“Friday? There’s a film festival on campus. Foreign films. Probably boring to most people but—”
“I love foreign films.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
His heart is going to beat out of his chest. “It’s a date then?”
“It’s a date.”
He walks away grinning like an idiot, and when he checks his phone later, there’s a text from you: Had fun today. See you Friday :)
He stares at the smiley face for an embarrassingly long time before responding: Me too. Can’t wait. And he means it. He genuinely can’t wait to see you again. Which is crazy. He barely knows you. But it doesn’t feel like barely knowing you. It feels like coming home.
Your POV
You and Jungwon are dating. It’s not official-official— you haven’t had the “what are we” conversation— but you’re together constantly. Study dates that turn into actual dates. Late-night conversations that stretch until 3 AM. Stolen kisses between classes. It’s fast. You know it’s fast. Mina keeps asking if you’re sure about this, if you’re not rushing into things. But it doesn’t feel fast. It feels exactly right.
You learn things about him: that he’s terrible at cooking but makes excellent coffee. That he stress-cleans before exams. That he has nightmares sometimes and won’t talk about them. That he looks at the moon when he’s thinking.
He learns things about you: that you hum when you’re concentrating. That you steal his coffee even though you have your own. That you’re afraid of thunderstorms. That you’ve always felt like you’re searching for something you can’t name.
Tonight, you’re in his dorm room— Jake is conveniently gone for the weekend— sprawled on his bed while he attempts to study for biochemistry. “This is impossible,” he groans, throwing his highlighter at the textbook. “Why do I need to know the Krebs cycle? When will I ever use this as a doctor?”
“When you’re explaining cellular respiration to a patient, obviously.”
“That will definitely happen. Constantly.” You laugh and roll onto your stomach, watching him.
He’s wearing glasses tonight— he usually wears contacts but he ran out— and they make him look unfairly adorable. “You’re staring,” he says without looking up from his notes.
“You’re pretty.”
“I’m not pretty. I’m ruggedly handsome.”
“You’re pretty.”
He looks up, grinning, and tackles you onto the bed. You shriek with laughter as he pins you down, his weight warm and solid above you. “Take it back,” he demands.
“Never. You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”
“Terrible. The worst.” But he’s smiling as he says it, and then he’s kissing you, and your brain shuts off. You’ve kissed before— many times over the past six weeks— but it still feels new every time. Still makes your heart race and your stomach flip.
His hand slides under your shirt, fingers skimming your ribs, and you arch into the touch. “Is this okay?” he murmurs against your lips.
“Yeah. Yes. More than okay.”
Things heat up quickly after that. Clothes coming off, hands exploring, breathless whispers in the dark. You’ve fooled around before— heavy petting, getting each other off— but you haven’t gone all the way yet. Tonight feels different. “Do you want to?” Jungwon asks, pulling back to look at you. “We don’t have to. There’s no pressure. I just—”
“I want to.” You cup his face. “I want you.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He kisses you deeply and reaches for his nightstand, pulling out a condom. “I’ve, uh. I’ve never actually done this before.”
“Me neither.”
“So we’ll figure it out together?”
“Together,” you agree. What follows is awkward and sweet and perfect. He’s gentle, careful, constantly checking if you’re okay. There’s fumbling and nervous laughter and moments where you have to adjust and try again.
But when he finally slides inside you, when you’re joined completely, it feels right. It feels like coming home. “God,” he breathes, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel amazing.”
He moves slowly at first, finding a rhythm, and the pleasure builds gradually. It’s not earth-shattering— first times rarely are— but it’s intimate and meaningful and when you both finish (you first, then him shortly after), you feel closer to him than you’ve ever felt to anyone.
After, you lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied and happy. “That was…” Jungwon trails off.
“Yeah.”
“We should probably do that again sometime.”
“Definitely.” He laughs and pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You settle against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling utterly content.
“Hey,” he says after a while. “Can I ask you something weird?”
“Always.”
“Do you ever feel like… like we’ve done this before? Not the sex,” he clarifies quickly. “Just… this. Us. Being together. Like we’ve been here before.”
Your heart skips. “Yeah. All the time.”
“Really?”
“Really. I can’t explain it. But from the moment we met, I felt like I knew you. Like we were supposed to find each other.”
“Me too.” He’s quiet for a moment. “My roommate thinks I’m crazy.”
“My roommate thinks I’m rushing into things.”
“Are we? Rushing?”
You think about it. Six weeks is fast. But it doesn’t feel fast. It feels inevitable. “I don’t think so,” you say. “I think… I think sometimes you just know. When something’s right.”
“Yeah.” He tightens his arms around you. “I think you’re right.”
You fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, and you dream of things you can’t quite remember when you wake. Battles and hospitals and sinking ships. A jungle. A burning building. And through it all, his face. Always his face.
You’re officially together by December. Boyfriend and girlfriend. You changed your relationship status on social media and everything.
Mina has stopped asking if you’re sure and started asking when you’re getting married, which is ridiculous because you’re only twenty-one, but sometimes you look at Jungwon and think yes, that one, forever. Which is insane. You’ve only known him for three months. But it doesn’t feel like three months. It feels like always.
It’s winter break now. Most students have gone home, but you and Jungwon both stayed on campus— you have a research project, he has lab work. Which means you basically have the whole university to yourselves.
Tonight, you’re at his apartment (he moved off-campus this semester) cooking dinner together. Or rather, you’re cooking while he sits on the counter and provides commentary. “You’re going to burn the chicken,” he observes.
“I’m not going to burn the chicken.”
“The pan is smoking.”
“That’s just—” You check the pan. It’s definitely smoking. “Okay, fine. You do it.” He laughs and hops down, gently moving you aside to take over. Within minutes, he’s rescued the chicken and gotten everything under control.
“I thought you said you couldn’t cook,” you accuse.
“I said I’m terrible at cooking. Doesn’t mean I can’t do basic stuff. I just prefer not to.”
“So you’ve been letting me struggle this whole time?”
“I like watching you try.”
You swat him with a dish towel and he catches your wrist, pulling you against him. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi yourself.” He kisses you, slow and sweet, and you melt into him. Three months in and he still makes your knees weak.
Dinner is actually good— turns out Jungwon can cook when properly motivated. You eat on his tiny balcony despite the cold, wrapped in blankets, watching the city lights. “I have something for you,” Jungwon says when you’re both finished eating.
“It’s not Christmas yet.”
“I know. But I saw this and thought of you and I couldn’t wait.” He pulls out a small wrapped box from his pocket.
“Jungwon—”
“Just open it.”
You unwrap it carefully. Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a tiny moon pendant. “Oh,” you breathe. “It’s beautiful.”
“I know you love looking at the moon. You always point it out when we’re walking at night. And I just… I wanted you to have something that reminded you of…” He trails off, looking embarrassed. “This is cheesy, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect.” You kiss him. “Help me put it on?” He fastens the necklace around your neck, his fingers gentle on your skin. The pendant rests just below your collarbone, catching the light.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, but he’s looking at you, not the necklace.
That night, you make love in his bed, slow and tender. You’ve gotten better at it over the past few months— learned what each other likes, how to move together, how to make it good for both of you. When you’re both satisfied and drowsy, you curl up against his chest.
“I love you,” you say. It’s the first time either of you have said it. You’ve been thinking it for weeks, but you weren’t sure if it was too soon, if it would scare him off.
Jungwon goes very still. Then he tips your chin up so he can see your face. “You do?”
“Yeah. I do. I love you.”
“I love you too.” He says it like a revelation, like he’s just discovered something amazing. “I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Scared. Didn’t want to freak you out.”
“You could never freak me out.”
“Good to know.” He kisses you again. “I love you. So much. More than I knew was possible.” You fall asleep in his arms, the moon pendant warm against your skin, and everything feels perfect.
Your POV
Spring semester is brutal. You’re both drowning in work— your senior thesis is due in two months, Jungwon is applying to medical schools and studying for the MCAT. You still see each other every day, but it’s different now. Stressed. Tired. Neither of you sleeping enough.
One evening in late March, you’re both in the library, sitting at the same table but working on separate things. You’ve been here for six hours. Your eyes are burning, your back hurts, and you’re pretty sure you’ve read the same paragraph seventeen times without retaining any information.
You glance at Jungwon. He’s hunched over his biochemistry textbook, highlighter in hand, looking exhausted. “Break?” you suggest.
“Can’t. This exam is in two days and I’m nowhere near ready.”
“You’ve been studying for weeks. You’re ready.”
“I’m not. There’s still three chapters I haven’t reviewed and—”
“Jungwon.” You reach across the table to take his hand. “Take a break. Ten minutes. Please.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but then he sees your face and sighs. “Okay. Ten minutes.”
You both step outside into the cool spring air. The campus is quiet— it’s almost midnight, most people are asleep or partying. You find a bench and sit, and Jungwon immediately slumps against you. “I’m so tired,” he mumbles.
“I know. Me too.”
“When does it get easier?”
“I don’t think it does. I think we just get better at handling hard.”
He laughs weakly. “Philosophical.”
“I’m a history major. We’re all secretly philosophers.” You sit in comfortable silence for a while. The moon is visible through the trees, nearly full.
“Look,” you say, pointing. “The moon.”
Jungwon looks up, and something crosses his face. Something you can’t quite read. “It’s beautiful,” he says quietly.
“Makes me think of the necklace you gave me.” You touch the pendant, which you wear every day. “Do you ever wonder if the moon gets lonely? Just hanging up there, watching everyone?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it’s comforting. Being able to witness everything. All the love stories, all the lives, all the history.” There’s something strange in his voice. Something distant.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Yeah. Just… sometimes I get this feeling. Like I’m supposed to remember something important but I can’t quite grasp it.” He shakes his head. “Ignore me. I’m sleep-deprived and saying weird things.”
“I get that feeling too sometimes.”
He turns to look at you. “You do?”
“Yeah. Especially when I’m with you. Like there’s something just out of reach. Something I should know.” You’re both quiet, staring at each other, and the moment feels heavy with meaning you can’t articulate.
“Weird,” Jungwon says finally.
“Yeah. Weird.” You go back to studying, but the feeling lingers.
—
It happens on a Tuesday.
You’re driving back from the library— late night, you stayed to finish a research paper. You’re tired, ready to collapse into bed. The light is green. You’re sure it’s green. You start through the intersection and— impact.
The car hits yours from the side, metal crunching, glass shattering. The world spins. Your head slams against something. And then everything goes dark.
Jungwon’s POV
Jungwon is in his apartment, half-asleep on the couch with a textbook on his chest, when his phone rings. Unknown number. He almost doesn’t answer. “Hello?”
“Is this Yang Jungwon?” A woman’s voice, professional and careful.
“Yes?”
“This is Mercy General Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for—”
His blood turns to ice. “What happened? Is she okay? What happened?”
“There’s been an accident. A car accident. She’s alive, but she’s unconscious. You should come to the hospital as soon as possible.”
Jungwon doesn’t remember the drive. One minute he’s in his apartment, the next he’s running through the hospital corridors, demanding to know where you are. They lead him to a room in the ICU. You’re there, lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. Your face is pale, bruised. There’s a bandage around your head.
“Oh god,” he breathes.
A doctor intercepts him before he can reach you. “Mr. Yang?”
“How is she? What happened?”
“She was hit by another vehicle. Traumatic brain injury, some internal bleeding. We’ve stabilized her, but she’s in a coma.”
“A coma.”
“Her brain is swelling. We’re monitoring closely. The next 24-48 hours are critical.”
Jungwon sinks into a chair, his legs giving out. “Can I—can I sit with her?”
“Of course.”
He pulls a chair to your bedside and takes your hand. It’s cold. “I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. You have to be okay.”
The machines beep steadily. Your chest rises and falls. But you don’t respond. Jungwon sits there for hours. Days. He leaves only when forced, only for bathroom breaks and when the nurses make him eat something.
He talks to you. Tells you about his day, about stupid things happening in his classes, about how much he misses you. Begs you to wake up. On the third day, your eyes open.
Your POV
You wake up slowly, consciousness returning in pieces. White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. Beeping sounds. The smell of antiseptic. Hospital. You try to sit up and pain lances through your head.
“Hey, hey, don’t move.” A familiar voice. Warm hands gently pushing you back down. “You’re okay. You’re in the hospital. You were in an accident.”
You turn your head— slowly, because it hurts— and see Jungwon. And suddenly, you remember everything. Not just this life. Not just Jungwon the pre-med student you’ve been dating for nine months. You remember everything.
1770. A field hospital, a dying soldier, promises whispered under candlelight. 1850s. An arranged marriage that became real love, tuberculosis stealing him away. 1912. The Titanic, stolen moments, his face disappearing into chaos. 1969. Vietnam, journal entries, a letter written the day before he died. 2001. September 11th, a phone call, watching towers fall.
Five lifetimes. Five times you’ve found each other. Five times you’ve lost each other. And now this. Now here. You gasp, tears streaming down your face. “You,” you sob. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”
He looks confused and worried. “What? Hey, it’s okay, you’re probably disoriented—”
“I remember,” you say desperately. “I remember all of it. The hospital in 1770. Our wedding in 1850. The ship. The war. The towers. I remember, Jungwon. I remember everything.”
He goes very still. “What did you just say?”
“I remember. All the lifetimes. All the times we found each other and lost each other. The moon— you always asked if the moon remembers us. And you always said you’d find me in the next life. And you did. You always did.”
Jungwon is staring at you, his face white. “How do you—” His voice breaks. “How do you know about that?”
“Because I was there. I was there every time. And so were you.”
“I thought I was crazy,” he whispers. “I’ve been having these dreams since I was a kid. Different times, different lives, but always you. Always the same person. I thought they were just dreams. Just my brain making up stories.”
“They weren’t dreams. They were memories.” You’re both crying now, holding onto each other like you’re drowning.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Jungwon says. “My whole life, I’ve been looking for you. And when I saw you that day on campus, I knew. I knew it was you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it sounded insane! How do you tell someone you just met that you’ve loved them for centuries? That you remember dying in their arms in a field hospital in 1770?”
“You remember that?”
“I remember all of it. Every lifetime. Every death. Every promise I made to find you again.” He cups your face. “And here you are. You’re finally here and you remember me.”
“I almost died,” you realize. “That’s why I remember now. Being so close to death triggered the memories.”
“I don’t care why. I’m just glad you do.” He kisses you desperately. “I love you. I’ve loved you for lifetimes. Literal lifetimes.”
“I love you too. In every life, I’ve loved you.” You hold each other, crying and laughing and trying to process the impossible truth: you’ve lived before. Multiple times. And every single time, you’ve found each other. And every single time, you’ve lost each other.
“Not this time,” Jungwon says fiercely, like he can read your thoughts. “This time we’re not losing each other. This time we get our happy ending.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I’m not letting you go. Not for anything. We’ve waited too long. Suffered too much. This time, we’re keeping each other.” You want to believe him. God, you want to believe him. But you’ve believed before. And it’s never been enough.
Six Months Later - Your POV
You recover from the accident slowly but completely. The doctors call it a miracle— the brain injury should have had lasting effects, but somehow you’re fine. You know it’s not a miracle. It’s something else. Something to do with the lifetimes, with the universe giving you another chance.
You and Jungwon are inseparable now. Not in the cute couple way— in the “we’ve literally died and been reborn six times to find each other” way. You talk about the past lives constantly. Comparing memories, filling in gaps. He remembers things you don’t. You remember things he doesn’t. Together, you piece together the full story.
“In 1770, you promised me a dance,” you tell him one night.
“Did I?”
“You said when you were healed, you’d take me dancing. But you died before you could.”
“Then I owe you a dance.” He stands, offering his hand. “May I have this dance?”
There’s no music, but he pulls you into his arms anyway, swaying with you in the middle of his living room. You rest your head on his chest and close your eyes. “This is nice,” you murmur.
“Better late than never.”
“Only about 250 years late.”
He laughs. “I’m nothing if not punctual.”
You dance until you’re both tired, then collapse on the couch together. “Do you think it will happen again?” you ask quietly. “Do you think we’ll lose each other?”
“I don’t know.” His arm tightens around you. “But even if we do, I’ll find you again. I always do.”
“That’s not comforting. I don’t want to lose you again. I don’t want to go through that pain.”
“Me neither. But if I had to choose between loving you and losing you, or never loving you at all? I’d choose loving you every time.”
You know he means it. Across five lifetimes, through wars and sickness and disasters, he’s chosen to love you every single time. “Marry me,” you say suddenly. “We’ve wasted enough time across enough lifetimes. Let’s not waste any more.”
“Are you serious?”
“Completely serious. I love you. You love me. We’ve loved each other for centuries. Why wait?”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Okay. Yes. Let’s get married. Let’s do it right this time. Let’s build the life we’ve never gotten to have.”
You kiss him, laughing and crying at the same time. “When?”
“Now. Tomorrow. Next week. I don’t care. Whenever you want.”
“Next month,” you decide. “Small ceremony. Just us and a few friends. Nothing fancy.”
“Perfect.”
You get married in October, in a small ceremony in Central Park. You wear a simple white dress. He wears a suit. Mina and Jake are there, along with a handful of other friends. The officiant asks if you have your own vows.
“I do,” Jungwon says, taking your hands. “I’ve loved you in more lifetimes than most people get to experience. I’ve died loving you. I’ve been reborn to find you. And every single time, choosing you has been the easiest decision I’ve ever made. This time, I’m choosing you for the rest of this life. However long that is. I’m choosing you every day, in every way. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I will always love you.”
You’re crying. “I promise to love you for the rest of this life and whatever comes after. I promise to remember. I promise to choose you, just like you’ve chosen me, across time and space and whatever separates us. You’re my home. You always have been.”
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He kisses you, and it tastes like forever.
Fifteen Years Later
You’re both in your fifties now. Jungwon is a successful cardiologist. You’re a tenured professor with three published books. You never have kids. It’s a choice you make together— you’ve lost each other too many times, you can’t imagine bringing children into that uncertainty.
Instead, you pour your love into each other, into your careers, into making the world a little bit better. Jungwon volunteers at free clinics. You mentor graduate students. You both donate to causes you believe in. Your lives are full and meaningful and happy.
One evening, you’re both at a gala for Jungwon’s hospital. Fancy clothes, fancy food, schmoozing with donors. It’s not your favorite thing, but you do it for him. During the dancing portion of the evening, he pulls you onto the floor. “Remember when I promised you a dance in 1770?” he says, one hand on your waist, the other holding yours.
“You mean the dance we had in your apartment about twenty years ago?”
“That was a down payment. This is the real thing.”
You laugh and let him lead you around the floor. He’s a good dancer— you both are, after years of these events. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask quietly. “Choosing me? Building a life with someone who carries all this history?”
“Never. Not for a single second.” He pulls you closer. “Do you?”
“No. But sometimes I wonder what it would have been like. If we’d been normal people. If we’d met in just this lifetime and didn’t carry all that weight.”
“We wouldn’t be us. All those lifetimes, all that loss— it made us who we are. It taught us to appreciate what we have. To not take a single moment for granted.”
“That’s true.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “I love you.”
“I love you too. In this life and every other.”
You’re not sure what the future holds. You’re not sure if the two of you broke the cycle. But right here, in 2026, is all that matters. You found eachother after seven lifetimes.
And no matter what, the moon will be watching. The moon always watches. And the moon always remembers.
↳ summary ── the art & science of parenting 101 (PSY1009): in this interactive course, students will explore the psychological, social, and biological foundations of parenthood. through a mix of theory and hands-on practice, you'll master the art of raising a simulated baby—aka the 'robot child'. late-night feedings, tantrum taming, and crisis control are all part of the deal.
what you didn't expect to be part of the deal? getting paired with jay park—the last person you'd trust to raise, well, anything. you’re pretty sure he couldn’t even take care of a pet rock. now, you’re stuck co-parenting this robot baby together for 40% of your final grade.
warning: sleep deprivation is guaranteed. and maybe, just maybe, some unexpected feelings for your disaster of a partner. good luck!
↳ ✎ᝰ. 20.5k [ONCE AGAIN -- this was not intentional..if you know me i just have too much fun writing sometimes & get too attached to the characters...]
↳ contains ── mentions of parenting & parental neglect (sorta, only a smidge of like five words), crack! bc if you know me i self indulge in crack whoops, jay & y/n being opposites & school rivals, jay's annoying smirk like a million times, reader & jay are psych majors, jay's also a photographer, cheesy ass kisses, jay & reader are awkward! so awkward! there’s SO much tension . but in a cute awkward crush way
↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── omg it’s finally done. tell me why it took me so long to finish, i promise i didn’t mean to but life’s been busier lately :’) aNyways! ugh i luv writing e2l!jay for some reason,,,he fits the trope so well in my eyes heh but i hope you all like him & the characters as much as i enjoyed writing them !!! as busy as i am i love indulging in my crack x enha writes :P hope u enjoy & tell me what you think <333
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・
Welcome to PSY1009, The Art & Science of Parenting 101! Throughout the next 12 weeks, we’re going to dive deep into the wondrous world of parenting—dirty diapers and all. To kick off our course, we’re starting with our campus-famous project: raising your very own robot baby for the first half of the semester (with the help of your assigned partner, of course). Before our first class, we ask that you complete this pre-project questionnaire on your current views and opinions about parenting. No pressure—there are no right or wrong answers (maybe only judgements from your future robot offspring)!
Q1 – The Art & Science of Parenting 101 aims to apply different psychological approaches to parenting. What theories and methods do you believe are important to parenting?
Y/N's Submission [8:25AM, September 18th]:
"I strongly believe that effective parenting revolves around a strict routine, which can be reinforced through the principles of operant conditioning, as developed by B.F. Skinner. Proper feeding schedules, consistent nap times, and regular development check-ins are essential—I think a structured timetable would ensure a baby's needs are met efficiently and consistently. With a set schedule and a focus on developmental milestones, I believe we can maximize a child's growth potential, even if it's just a robot baby.”
Q2 – What do you expect to learn and gain out of this co-parenting experience?
Y/N's Submission [8:29AM, September 18th]:
"I expect to confirm that a well-organized system is the key to successful parenting. I want to test my hypothesis that if you follow a set structure, yes, even with a robot baby, things will run smoothly. I am hoping that this experience runs smoothly with no unnecessary surprises.”
✭・.・✫
Satisfied with your answers, you click 'submit' and close your laptop, feeling a wave of satisfaction as you settle into your seat—center of the second row—as you wait for the 9AM lecture to start.
It's 8:30AM.
You're the only one in the room.
Yeah, you're a little early. So what? One can never be too prepared. You've waited for this course forever, and you're determined to not only ace it (like you do with every class) but to dominate. So yes, coming early is characteristic of you, as you want to ensure you get the best seat in the classroom: center of the second row—center to get the best view of the professor's podium, and second row to be close enough to show you're engaged, but not close enough that it screams, Look at me, I'm a tryhard!
It's clear you've come prepared. Plus, this class isn't just any ordinary elective—it's the elective to take. Only the top students majoring in psychology get in, available only through direct invite by the professor. If you were invited to PSY1009, it meant you were the crème de la crème of psychology students. The best of the best. The elite. The—
Your train of thought is derailed when an all-too-familiar figure strolls into the room with that signature smirk. Backpack slung lazily over one (1) shoulder (as if two straps are too much effort), hair clearly still bedhead status, wearing whatever clothes he fished off The Chair (you know, the one—where all questionable, semi-clean laundry lives).
He strolls past you—of course—and plops down right in front of you.
Front row.
Try-hard.
"Y/N, fancy seeing you here," Jay Park spins around, a knowing look plastered on his face, eyes gleaming. "I missed seeing that frown of yours all summer."
"What are you doing here, Jay?" You roll your eyes and scoff at his comment. "Don't tell me you got into this class. It's for serious students."
Jay's grin only widens to your despair. "Contrary to your deeply misinformed opinion, Professor Kim actually loves me. I'm a great student."
“I don’t believe it,” you deadpan back. “You never turn your assignments in on time, and quite frankly, I'm surprised you were even able to find this classroom."
Jay shrugs, unfazed. "What can I say? Professor Kim doesn't just look at deadlines, she looks at talent. Guess that says a lot about me, huh?"
You mumble something under your breath about ‘talent for procrastination’ but before he can fire back, Professor Kim walks into the room, cuing the silence of all the students who've filled up the class.
"Good morning, class! I'm so happy to see so many familiar faces."
Jay turns his head back towards the front of the room, as you instantly straighten up, flashing your favorite professor a smile. This is officially the fifth course you've taken with Professor Kim. It's no secret you’re one of her biggest fans—the countless early mornings you've spent waiting at your computer, finger hovering over the ‘enroll’ button the second registration opens so you can be one of the first students to sign up for her classes have proven that. Challenging but rewarding, her classes are always worth the effort.
And yet, for reasons beyond your comprehension, Jay Park—Jay Freaking Park—somehow always ends up in the same classes. Every. Single. Time. It’s like a curse.
A loud, messy, procrastinating curse…
…that just so happens to have a side profile almost as annoyingly good that it only pisses you off more.
You wonder if he’s actually here to learn or if he’s just here to spite you. Because, honestly, the amount of classes you’ve shared with him is no longer a coincidence. Five semesters in a row? Suspicious.
But realistically, and unfortunately, Jay does study the same major as you, which means those last five semesters? Oh, those were five long semesters of endless debates on discussion boards, in-class duels over psychological theories, and the infamous showdown for the TA position in Professor Kim's Intro to Psychology course. And the worst part? Neither of you got the job because Professor Kim—in a diplomatic twist that made zero sense to you—deemed you both 'equally qualified.' So, the job went to the third best candidate instead. Tough luck.
You open up your laptop again, opening a perfectly organized Google Doc, ready to take notes on whatever pearls of wisdom Professor Kim is currently bestowing about your upcoming project—which, in hindsight, you should really be paying attention to. You should be. But something so ridiculous, so blood-boiling, pulls your attention elsewhere.
Jay's desk is completely...empty.
No laptop. No notebook. Not even a measly little pencil. Did he bring an empty backpack? Or did he just walk in here like he's casually waiting for someone to present him his grade on a silver platter? He's just sitting there like this is a casual hangout—probably expecting his robot baby to parent itself while he simply supervises.
Before your self-induced inner monologue spirals into complete rage, you suddenly hear your professor's voice cut through the class, breaking you out of your mental rant.
"Y/N and Jay."
Wait. What?
Your head snaps up so fast it's a miracle it didn't pop off your neck and roll away.
You blink. You must have misheard.
"Y/N and Jay," Professor Kim repeats as if she could read your confused expression, voice too nonchalant for the life-wrecking news she's about to deliver: "You two are partners."
The words hit you like a bus. No, not even. The words hit you like a bus driven by a T-Rex that flips over, crashes into a building, and explodes into a million ashy pieces. And there you are—standing right in the middle of the wreckage, somehow (and unfortunately) still alive to suffer through every second of it—while Jay, smug as ever, whips around in his seat to face you.
And of course, there it is: that look of his that screams 'This is going to be so much fun for me, and so much pain for you.'
"Guess we're parents now, Y/N!" Jay chimes, his voice dripping with so much sarcastic enthusiasm you swear he just got handed an Oscar for Most Annoying Human. If that tone were a substance, you'd bottle it up and use it as insect repellent. On him. Repeatedly.
You blink at him, you're sure—you're praying—this has to be some elaborate prank. Maybe Jay bribed Professor Kim with his rare attempt at turning in an assignment on time just to mess with you. Or maybe the universe just hates you and this is your karma for stealing your roommate's last ramen packet that one time a year ago.
But no, Professor Kim keeps rattling off other pairs like it's business as usual, as if your entire academic career and sanity isn't currently being flushed down a metaphorical toilet, while you sit there, paralyzed, your brain rapidly melting into a useless puddle from the sheer thought of being paired with him.
"What's wrong, Y/N?" Jay teases as he leans over the back of his chair towards you, puppy dog eyes on display. "You don't want to play house with me?"
You narrow your eyes at him, mentally wielding your imaginary bug spray like it's a holy weapon.
"I don’t," you reply flatly. "In fact, I’d rather perform open-heart surgery on myself with a plastic spoon than co-parent with you."
Jay’s eyes light up as his hand goes to his heart. "Aw, you really know how to make a guy feel special. This is why I like our little relationship, you know?"
"Relationship?" You scoff loud enough to make the people sitting three rows behind you to glance in your direction.
You bring your voice down to a whisper, leaning towards him. "The only thing we have in common is a shared oxygen supply."
"See, that’s the spirit," he says, turning back to face the front like he didn't just ruin your life.
And somehow, that pisses you off even more. Is it his voice? His stupidly perfect hair? The fact that he has the audacity to breathe in your general direction? At this point, he could literally sneeze, and it would still feel like a personal attack.
Is it too late to switch majors? Or schools? Maybe even countries? Surely, restarting your entire college career as a super senior would be better than spending the next six weeks parenting with Jay. Jay Park, who has probably never held anything more fragile than a Red Solo Cup.
Jay Park, who is just sitting there, all calm and collected, clearly loving every second of your misery.
While you're frozen in pure, unadulterated horror.
Your grade? Plummeting as we speak. Your robot baby? Probably going to need therapy by day two. And you?
You're screwed.
Q1 – The Art & Science of Parenting 101 aims to apply different psychological approaches to parenting. What are your current theories and methods that you believe are important to parenting?
Jay’s Submission [10:09AM, September 18th]:
"I think babies need more freedom to explore and make their own choices, even if that just means grabbing random things. Bowlby's attachment theory leans towards a secure attachment, but I don't think that means hovering over them 24/7. It's about being there when they really need you, not scheduling every second of the day. I also believe letting babies learn through their own experiences is key. Strict behaviorism, such as Skinner's, sounds exhausting and I don't think a rigid system is what makes a good parent. Babies are messy, and that's okay."
Q2 – What do you expect to learn and gain from this experience?
Jay's Submission [10:12AM, September 18th]:
"I'm hoping to learn how to be a responsive, yet flexible parent without overcomplicating it. The goal is to find balance between being hands-on without hovering. And, I think this whole robot baby thing will teach me how to handle unpredictable situations—because no matter how much you plan, life is going to surprise you. And also, being able to say I know how to change a diaper under 30 seconds sounds pretty cool :)"
✭・.・✫
Jay's screwed.
Like, completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed.
He was already kinda skeptical he’d make it past his 40s if he kept living the way he does, but now? Now, he’s not even sure he’ll survive the next 24 hours. Why? Well, today’s the first official meeting with you—as co-parents—at the campus coffee shop at 12PM sharp.
It's 12:17PM.
He's late.
Seventeen whole minutes late. To your meeting. And you're basically the human embodiment of an atomic clock. You’re probably sitting there, checking your watch every few seconds, calculating his absence down to the millisecond. Jay can practically feel the murderous vibes you’re radiating from halfway across campus.
And while Jay sometimes finds your need for punctuality weirdly endearing (but don't tell anyone that), he also values not getting scolded on a Saturday morning (12PM is still morning to him, don't judge), especially when he could be sleeping in.
As the café comes into view, Jay considers just throwing the towel in. Maybe he could fake a sudden illness, or better yet, skip town and maybe fake his own death or something.
There's no point. Knowing you, you'd probably hunt him down for sport.
With a sigh, Jay pushes open the door to the café, bracing himself for impact.
And there you are. Exactly how he imagined.
Seated at a small table by the window, papers perfectly aligned, laptop open, and two different colored highlighters placed meticulously side by side. Your foot taps in perfect sync with the café's background music, your eyebrows knitted together in focus, and your teeth chewing your bottom lip as if you're about to crack the Krabby Patty secret formula. The window next to you allows the afternoon sunlight to spill through and reflect off of you, making you look...dare he say it...almost pretty.
If Jay wasn't fearing for his life, he might have actually stopped to admire the view. Might have.
When Jay finally reaches your table—17 minutes and 46 seconds late (but who's counting)—you look up, meeting his gaze with a look that's somewhere between not surprised but definitely not impressed.
"Well, well," you say, quirking your mouth up ever so slightly that Jay thinks he might see you smile for the first time in, like, ever. "Look who finally decided to join us! Must be nice living on Jay Standard Time."
Jay flashes his usual, unbothered smile as he pulls out the chair across from you.
"Oh, c'mon, Y/N. Seventeen minutes is nothing in the grand scheme of life."
"Yeah? Tell that to our future robot baby when you're seventeen minutes late to feed it and its batteries die."
"Yikes. That got dark quick," Jay's mutters, grin wavering. "But hey, glad to see you're finally accepting the fact that it's our future baby!"
"Future robot baby," you peer your eyes at him from above your laptop. "Anyways, did you read the guidelines?"
Jay rubs the back of his neck as he leans back into his chair. "Uh, define 'read'."
Without missing a beat, you slap a packet of papers down on the table.
"Here's the breakdown. Feeding schedules, emotional development tracker, diaper changes, mood swings—the whole shebang. We're going to have to approach this strategically."
"Woah, okay," Jay's eyebrows shoot up, his brain trying to catch up with the words you just spewed at him. "First, how the heck is a robot going to develop emotionally—that's a little scary if you ask me. Like, dystopian, Black Mirror, scary. And second, since when is parenting just following a spreadsheet? Isn't part of it, you know, winging it?"
At the words 'winging it', your eye twitches so violently, Jay half-expects you to reach across the table and strangle him with his own hoodie strings.
"Winging it?" You shut your laptop and lean forward. "Winging it is exactly how we end up with a malfunctioning robot baby that starts a fire and fails us. Parenting is all about structure, consistency—"
"—and having a little fun," Jay cuts in, mouth quirked with mischief. "I mean, what's parenting without some chaos?"
"Chaos," you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him, "is what you bring into my life on a daily basis."
"Yeah, and yet you secretly love it," Jay shoots back, leaning in to meet you, as if daring you to disagree.
You stare at him, unblinking. It's either you're plotting his slow and painful demise or seriously considering what he just said. No in-between.
And yet, somehow, Jay almost finds it endearing how you can look like the world's most innocent golden retriever while also simultaneously sending him six feet under with just one agonizing glare. Almost.
Finally, you sigh, "This isn't a joke, Jay. This is 40% of our grade."
"And I'm 100% ready!" Jay shoots back with a wink, to which you respond with a full-body eye roll.
"Oh yeah? Alright, Mr. Ready-for-Anything, what's your brilliant plan?"
"Hmm," Jay leans back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head as if he's got it all figured out (he doesn't). "Well, for one, I was thinking maybe...shifts. We split responsibilities based on our schedules. I'll take the baby on certain hours, you take it other hours, and we'll spend our free days together. And if we're not together and there's a baby crisis, we stay on call."
In complete honesty, that came from out of nowhere. Jay didn't even know any ideas were subconsciously cooking up within him until the words tumbled out of his mouth before he realized it. But there's no way he was going to tell you that, not when you don't immediately tear his idea to shreds. In fact, you actually look...impressed?
Or so he thinks. Jay definitely needs to get better at this whole 'reading your expressions' thing.
"Huh," you murmur to yourself, fingers tapping against the table. "That's...not the worst idea you've ever had."
Jay feels elated. Validation? From you? Phew, this means his life is spared. Thank god.
Jay flashes you a satisfied smile and while you don't return it, he hopes you're secretly softening. Just a little. Behind that straight face, you're probably low-key impressed, but no way are you letting him see that.
"Don't get too excited," you say, as if you've got some sixth sense for whenever Jay throws a mental victory parade. "This is only day one. Of, like, 42. We've got a long way to go."
"Okay, okay," Jay raises his hands in surrender, though there's no hiding the smirk on his face as he still mentally takes the win. "Message received. Let's just figure out our schedules?"
You nod, pushing your laptop aside to make space for a sheet of paper you've already prepared—because of course you're prepared. It's like you're about to whip up some elaborate high-stakes legal contract that probably involves blood signatures.
"Okay," you say, clicking your pen, picking a bright blue that basically stabs Jay's eyes by simply existing, but whatever makes you happy, I guess.
You write 'Jay's Schedule' at the top, neatly highlighting it with a pink highlighter that somehow hurts even more. Jay wonders if this is a secret ploy to blind him into submission. He wouldn't put it past you.
"What's your typical weekly schedule like?"
Jay squints, clearly thinking hard, as he tries to remember what a 'typical' week looks like for him. Mostly it's a mix of spontaneous decisions, power naps, and gym sessions sprinkled between classes.
"Uh...well," Jay rubs the back of his neck. "I usually sleep in until like 11...sometimes noon, depends on the vibe, you know? Classes after that, gym a couple times a week, maybe? And, um, naps are non-negotiable. Make sure you pencil those in too."
Your pen freezes mid-air, hovering like you're considering whether to throw it at his face or not.
"Naps? Non-negotiable? For someone who wakes up at 11AM? We're raising a child, Jay, this requires commitment!"
Jay raises a calm eyebrow. "Hey, sleep is very important for brain function! You wouldn't want me underperforming as a parent, right?"
Your eye twitches. "No, Jay. That's already my biggest fear."
But instead of escalating the snark, you bite your lip, clearly restraining yourself from unleashing a full lecture on time management. Jay struggles to stifle his own laugh at your reaction. If looks could kill, you'd have him buried under six feet of color-coded charts and to-do lists by now.
Finally, you sigh, accepting your fate and jotting down ‘Jay’s naps: apparently crucial for survival’ in your notes with a frown drawn next to it, while Jay gives you an approving nod from across the table.
"Alright, my turn," you flip the page over with dramatic flair, carefully writing 'Y/N's Schedule' in the same stab-your-eyes-blue and pink highlight combo as Jay mentally braces himself for what's to come.
"So," you continue, starting with that no-nonsense tone that's clearly meant to be serious—but to Jay, there's something almost charming about how strict you are. "I wake up at 6."
You blink back at him, as if he's the one saying something ridiculous.
"Yes, Jay. On purpose."
His mind reels, purely amazed, yet utterly horrified at the thought. 6AM? Who does that? He's seen 6AM before, sure, but only when he's stayed up all night, probably cramming for an exam. His mornings start at 10AM at best, and that's very, very rarely. There are birds chirping at 6AM. Who wants to live in a world where birds chirp you awake?
When he doesn't respond—still in pure shock—you keep going, undeterred by his obvious existential crisis.
"I usually have class at 8AM until 1PM, then I try to pick up a shift here," you gesture around the very café you two are in, "and then—"
"Wait, wait," Jay holds up a hand, needing a mental pause button. "You work here?"
"Yeah," you nod, like it's the most casual thing ever. "Why, is that surprising?"
Jay squints at you. He's never considered the idea of you pulling espresso shots and dealing with caffeine-deprived college students—he's always pegged you more as a 'quiet math tutor for third-graders' type. Or maybe someone who sells cute stationery at the campus bookstore, organizing pens in rainbow order or something. But now that he's picturing it, yeah, it kind of makes sense. Maybe that's why you're so uptight all the time—too much exposure to coffee fumes. Or, more likely (and evidently), you're just an insanely busy person.
He likes the coffee fumes theory better.
"I guess not," he admits, then surprises even himself by adding, "that's kind of impressive, though."
He gives you a genuine smile, and you blink back, as if searching for the hidden jab that's usually lurking beneath his words. But it's not there this time...oddly. Slowly, your expression softens, and you give him the tiniest of smiles.
"Thanks? It's alright, I guess."
It's nothing big—no, not at all—but Jay feels a weird sense of accomplishment at your reaction. Better than nothing.
He leans in over the table, all faux-innocence—eyebrows raises, large puppy eyes and all.
"Does this mean you can get me a free coffee?"
You lean in too, mirroring him, and he's not sure why his heart skips a beat at the close proximity.
"Yeah...no. Nice try."
Jay groans, throwing himself back in his chair dramatically. Worth a shot.
"Anyway," you continue, totally unfazed, "I usually work here until 5, then Mondays I have a study group for Econ 301, and club meetings scattered throughout the week."
Jay's head spins for maybe the nth time since he's sat down. Honestly, you lost him way back at 'class until 1PM.' Your schedule is like some kind of twisted Sudoku puzzle, except much more intimidating.
"So...you're, like, busy...all the time?" he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth as his brain tries to process how anyone can function like this.
You give him a look that almost convinces Jay himself that he's the crazy one here.
"Yes, Jay. I am."
"Wow, okay. So why did you even take this class? What happened to being committed? You don't even have time to breathe."
You narrow your eyes, and he swears you're about to launch into some motivational TedTalk.
"It's called efficiency, Jay. Also, I like to challenge myself. That's what parenthood is about, after all."
Jay stares at you like you've just self-declared yourself a cyborg.
"Oookayyy," he drawls, dragging out the word because, honestly, he's 99% sure you've completely lost it. The remaining 1%?
It's slightly impressed by your sheer, terrifying level of commitment. He's over here winging life, including this conversation, while you've practically mapped out the rest of your entire existence.
"Do you even, like, sleep? Or is that optional for you?"
"Sleep is for the weak," you shoot him an amused glance, half-joking, half-serious.
Jay raises an eyebrow. "Good to know I'm weak, then."
You stifle a laugh, but Jay catches the brief twitch of your lips before you quickly compose yourself. He’s known you for so long, and yet, this might be the first time he’s seen even a hint of your guard slipping. It’s subtle, barely there, but he notices. And for some reason, it makes him smile. You’re always so put together, so serious—but this small crack in your armor? Jay can’t help but appreciate it.
Maybe, just maybe, he could get you to soften up more if he tried hard enough.
And yeah, he’s definitely going to try.
But before he can try to tease you more, you snap back into business mode, instantly scribbling down more notes.
"Alright, so let’s just split the baby's care based on my work schedule and your...nap schedule, apparently."
Jay leans back in his chair, catching that flicker of amusement in your voice—despite the serious look on your face—and he fights the urge to push a little more. There's something about that side of you—not the one behind the cold wall you've built of color-coded schedules and deadlines—that he wants to see more of. Somehow.
"Works for me,” he shrugs and grins at you, “but if the baby's anything like me, it'll nap a lot. You might have it easy."
"And if it’s anything like me,” you mutter, barely pausing, “then it’ll easily get annoyed by you.”
Jay catches the ghost of a smile on your face, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it—which he definitely is. It’s enough to keep him intrigued. He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand like he’s watching some fascinating show.
You don’t notice him staring—or maybe you do, but you’re too busy pretending you don’t. Either way, there’s a small, almost imperceptible shift in your body language that Jay senses. Your shoulders aren’t as tense, and you don’t look like you’re mentally calculating how many minutes you have left before you can escape this meeting.
Jay decides to take advantage of the moment. “So…do you think our robot baby is also going to be a superhuman genius? Like in a you way?”
You finally let out a laugh, to his surprise, and he feels so satisfied he has to bite his lip to hold back a smile. “Definitely, but also part crazy. Like in a you way.”
Jay chuckles, mentally declaring this conversation a victory. Your laugh fades but for a split second, he catches you studying his face like you’re trying to figure out what his deal is. And he doesn’t mind it at all—because, for once, you’re not giving him the usual death glare that sometimes seems permanently reserved for him.
Then, just as he starts to settle into this very rare, almost… pleasant vibe between you two, you suddenly snap back to reality, capping your pen and standing up.
Jay frowns as he watches as you turn towards the coffee bar, not ready for this conversation to end just yet.
"Wait, where are you going?" he blurts out, sounding more tragic than intended.
You pause, turning back with a look that sends his pulse tripping.
"Do you want a free coffee or not?"
The following Monday, at exactly 9:55AM, you and Jay are handed your robot baby—Jisoo, as Jay somehow convinces you to name it after his favorite celebrity—at the end of your class.
You didn't even try to put up a fight. The moment Jay's eyes lit up at the idea, you knew you'd already lost. After three whole minutes of bickering and one PowerPoint titled 'Why Our Baby Deserves to be Named After Star Quality,' you realized there was no saving it. He had arguments. He had fan chants memorized. For a robot baby. Your robot baby.
"Admit it, Jisoo has star quality," Jay beams, proudly looking down at the robotic baby in the baby carrier that came with her.
You look from Jisoo to Jay, then back to Jisoo, unimpressed. "It's a robot, Jay. Not your bias."
"Bias or not, she deserves only the best," Jay just shrugs, unbothered.
He glances down at the robot, which blinks its eyes open and closed with a soft whirring noise, its chubby plastic arms flopping lifelessly by its sides.
There's a beat of silence as you both stare down at it, unsure of what to do next.
"It's kind of creepy, right?" you finally mutter, breaking the knowing silence between you two.
Jay snorts. "Not even 'kind of.' A lot."
He leans in to inspect it, his brows furrowed, "So, does it just…sit there?”
"No, it's on schedule. It says here it won't eat for another three hours and it has a clean diaper, so everything should be fine. Babies are predictable once you understand their needs, Jay," you huff, already pulling out the meticulously detailed notes you took during class.
Jay lifts an eyebrow as he turns to face you, "Right...because in real life, babies are totally like robots and are totally predictable. Got it."
You open your mouth to respond, probably with something unnecessarily snarky (you don't know what yet though, you haven't gotten to that part yet), when a loud, high-pitched wail shatters the air, cutting through the now-empty classroom you two are in. The robot baby's face contorts into an exaggerated crying expression, its mechanical arms flailing (which you didn't even know was possible) like it's preparing for takeoff.
"What the—" Jay instinctively jumps back like Jisoo is a grenade on her last few seconds.
"Why's it doing that? What did you do?"
"I didn’t do anything!" You snap, panic slowly rising as you flip through your notes quickly. "It's not supposed to be crying! It shouldn't be hungry, and it's definitely not tired yet!"
The wailing intensifies, vibrating through the room as the cries echo louder and louder, Jisoo clearly not caring about your carefully crafted timeline. You glance down at your schedule. Why is it crying?
You groan and snatch Jisoo out of the carrier, awkwardly holding her in a way that's probably not safe for any life form, real or otherwise. The wailing doesn't stop. In fact, it gets louder, as if Jisoo's personally offended by your existence.
"Hold her!" You quickly thrust her into Jay's arms, a horrified expression written all over his face. "You deal with it."
"Deal with what? It's a robot!" Jay stares at the baby in his arms like it's going to explode. "Oh god, are we even sure this is safe?"
"Yes, Jay! It's a baby!"
You're sure you're borderline going insane from the combination of the screeching baby and Jay's apparent lack of brain cells.
Jay's eyes widen as Jisoo practically vibrates with the force of its cries. He tries to mimic the way you were holding her, cradling her against his chest like she's made of glass. It doesn't help. Jisoo keeps wailing, and now Jay looks genuinely distressed.
"Uh, shh, little buddy, it's okay...Should I, like, burp it? Sing to it?"
“Sing?” You give him a look like he’s completely lost it, but Jay’s already humming off-key under his breath.
The baby, predictably, continues screeching.
You both just stand there, staring at the baby, then at each other, the panic palpable in the room. Jay continues bouncing it lightly, as if this will magically solve everything.
“Does it have an off switch?” he asks, glancing at you like you've parented a robot baby before.
You continue to frantically flip through your notes, pages rustling in a blur. “No, Jay! We can’t just turn off our baby!”
“Well, I don’t know, Y/N, but I’m pretty sure babies aren’t supposed to sound like they’re summoning a demon!” Jay retorts, his tone climbing the ladder of panic. "Maybe she's hungry or something."
“It can’t be hungry, it's not supposed to be!" You’re still too busy scanning your notes as you shake your head in disagreement.
Jay just shakes his head, gently cradling the baby even though he's sure it's about to lift off into space from how much it was shaking right now.
“Sometimes you can’t schedule everything, Y/N. Maybe it just needs a bottle, like, right now.”
The idea frustrates you. “But it’s not time yet. If we feed it off-schedule, it’ll mess everything up for the day.”
The baby’s cries reach a shrill pitch, like it’s protesting your protest. Jay looks at you, then back at the crying baby, then back at you again.
“I think it’s already messed up, so maybe we just... feed it?” he says, half-grinning, half-exasperated.
You hesitate. It feels wrong. Babies are supposed to follow patterns, stick to a routine...or so you thought. You let out a frustrated sigh, your brain bleeding from the sheer sound of the glass-breaking screams.
“Fine,” you mutter, grabbing the bottle from the supply bag. “But if this throws off the whole schedule, it’s your fault.”
Jay grins, but there’s something softer in his expression behind it as he watches you struggle with the bottle...and your need for control.
“Deal.”
You hand the bottle to him, and he places the nipple into the baby’s mouth. The wailing stops almost instantly. The sudden silence is deafening, and both of you are stunned for a moment, looking down at the baby who’s now peacefully drinking.
You let out a small gasp of relief and turn your head up to look at Jay, who's widened eyes meet yours.
Jay lets out a held breath. “Well. That was traumatic.”
You roll your eyes, though there’s a slight twitch at the corner of your lips as you mutter, “I think I just lost three years of my life."
Jay watches as you carefully take Jisoo from his arms and place her back into the carrier, making sure everything is in order. He’s still catching his breath, but he glances at you—relaxed, for once, after the panic—and it makes him feel something weird. He almost laughs.
“I dunno,” he says, a little teasingly. “I think we handled that pretty well.”
“Great, now just five weeks and six days of this left." You give him a look, but there’s a tiny, fleeting smile this time. "I just don't understand why it was crying. It's not supposed to need food until—"
Jay cuts you off with a chuckle. “Y/N, it’s a baby. Real ones don’t run on algorithms. They just... cry when they need something. Like this little gal. I mean, you can't exactly schedule crying, right?”
The silence stretches for a moment as you watch him, realization dawning a little slower than you’d like to admit. “I guess,” you mutter reluctantly, earning yourself a content-looking Jay.
"Look at us—team effort," Jay says, as he beams a smile to you before glancing at Jisoo. "We're naturals at this whole parenting thing."
"Yeah, okay," you roll your eyes, but the smile on your face says differently as you reach out to unnecessarily fuss with the small blanket in Jisoo's carrier.
Jay's eyes light up at your response.
"A smile? The Y/N gave me a smile? Admit it, we make a great team, huh?"
You scoff, but the look on your face proves there's no bite to it—Jay knows there's no bite to it.
Maybe, just maybe, he has a point.
You'd never admit it to him, though.
Not yet.
To your pleasant surprise, the past two weeks have been...weirdly smooth. Like, suspiciously smooth. You and Jay have somehow managed to fall into an actual routine—dropping off and picking up Jisoo like two semi-functional adults who almost know what they’re doing. You still wouldn’t call it 'seamless', as Jay himself struggled with having a consistent schedule for once in his life, but at least you’ve gotten through the weeks without major incidents or spontaneous combustion. So far.
That doesn't mean you'll admit to anyone—least of all yourself—that you and Jay might actually make a decent team. His parenting methods are still objectively abysmal...to you, at least. I mean, just the other day, he almost put Jisoo's diaper on upside down. Upside down. You didn't even know that was possible, but leave it to Jay to surprise you more and more.
Despite his questionable approach to baby care, Jisoo's still alive (you think), and somehow you've managed not to explode at him yet (key word: yet). So, that's...something, I guess.
Today, though. Today is a different beast entirely.
It's Sunday, and miraculously, you've managed to give yourself the evening off. No café shift, no emergency club meetings. The stars have aligned, and for once, you have free time. And what did you decide to do with this rare gift from the universe?
Spend it with Jay. Parenting. Together. In his apartment.
You blame Professor Kim for this cruel twist of fate. Something about submitting photographic evidence of co-parenting. After all, this is a partner project.
Teamwork, she called it.
You like to call it pure suffering.
Which brings you here, standing outside Jay's apartment with a tote bag of baby supplies on one shoulder, Jisoo's carrier on the other, and a silent prayer on your lips. If this apartment is even half the disaster you're imagining—frat house, landfill, or some unholy combination of both—you're fully prepared to turn around and run for the hills.
You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for whatever horrors await behind the door, and knock three times.
Precisely five seconds later, the door swings open, and...yep, there's Jay. His hair is a mess, his clothes are rumpled, and you can't tell if he's been a) napping, b) playing video games, or c) all of the above.
"Hey," he greets you with a lazy grin, eyes half-lidded like he's still half-asleep.
It's 6PM.
You stare at him, deadpan.
"You look like you've been hit by a truck."
Jay snorts as he raises an eyebrow.
"You should see the truck."
Before you can fire back with something equally sarcastic, you catch a glimpse of his apartment over his shoulder, and—you blink, confused. Wait. Wait.
Well this can't be right.
You were expecting a disaster. Maybe a few pizza boxes, a stray sock on the floor, some suspicious stains on the couch. But no.
Instead...it's clean. Like, really clean.
The floors are spotless, there's a shelf with neatly stacked books, and are those...framed photos on the walls? Like, actual art? Your own apartment doesn't even have actual art, just print outs from Walgreens of photos you thought were cute on Pinterest and your Justin Bieber posters you got from a magazine back in high-school. Now you're starting to feel ashamed.
You do a double-take, your brain struggling to process what's happening, as Jay still stands in front of you, confused at your gawking.
"Y/N? You good?"
You snap your mouth shut, as you spot a vacuum neatly tucked in the corner of the living room.
"I...I'm just surprised you even know what a vacuum is."
"You'll learn I'm full of surprises, Miss Y/N," he says, casually leaning against the doorframe as he looks down at you, his gaze making you shift in your stance in front of him. "Come on in."
You step inside cautiously, like you're waiting for something to jump out at you—maybe a camera with someone saying 'You've been pranked, this isn't Jay's actual apartment!'
But nope. His apartment is just...nice. It smells like eucalyptus and citrus, for crying out loud.
You set Jisoo's carrier down on the couch, the robot itself still fast asleep, as your eyes scan the room, still half-expecting to find a hidden mess somewhere. But instead, something else catches your attention.
On the wall, next to his kitchen, there's a collection of professional-looking photographs, all framed neatly. This is what caught your eye earlier from the doorway. You find yourself slowly walking closer to get a closer look: landscapes, city stresses, a few candid shots of people—all in the same style, same camera quality, same angles. You tilt your head, intrigued.
Jay comes up behind you to see what you're looking at and you turn to him, "Are these...yours?"
"Oh," he scratches the back of his neck, looking almost shy. "Yeah. I do some photography sometimes. Just a hobby."
You blink up at him. Jay Park? A photographer? This was not on your Jay Park Bingo card.
"Huh," you say, before realizing how dumb you sound. "I didn't know you were into that."
"Well, there's a lot you don't know about me, Y/N. Full of surprises, remember?" Jay replies, his head tilting to match yours with a cocky smile, which—ugh, okay fine—makes you feel just the tiniest bit flustered. Not that you'll admit it.
"Oh, really?" You raise an eyebrow. "And here I thought your only hobbies were napping and showing up late."
"That's just the surface level," he says with a wink, walking over to his coffee table and grabbing his laptop. "I was actually editing photos before you showed up."
Intrigued, you follow him to the couch and sit beside him as he flips open the laptop. You squint at the editing software on the screen—full of layers, sliders, and all sorts of professional-looking tools that immediately make your head hurt. Jay scrolls through the images, and honestly?
They’re good. Really good. Like, if you didn’t know better, you’d think some of them could be in a magazine. And not the kind of magazine you got your Bieber Fever posters in.
"Wow," you say, nodding, genuinely impressed. "That’s… actually really cool."
Jay freezes, his head snapping toward you with a look of disbelief. He stares at you, eyes narrowing like you’ve just broken some unspoken rule.
"It's been ten seconds...you just gave me an actual compliment without a sarcastic follow-up."
You let out a small giggle, "Geez, you always make me sound like some soulless witch or something."
"I mean… soulless witch might be a bit much. But, like… emotionally unavailable overlord? Hmm, maybe," Jay grins, leaning back in mock thought.
You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself, the sound catching Jay off guard. He looks at you, wide-eyed, like he’s just witnessed a rare phenomenon. And maybe he has—because even you can’t remember the last time you laughed this freely.
"Wow. I should annoy you more often," Jay smirks, clearly way too satisfied with himself. You’re not entirely sure if he meant it to sound that smooth, but your brain certainly processed it that way. Heat rises to your cheeks before you can stop it, and you quickly clear your throat, a small, flustered smile playing at your lips.
You try to gather yourself, praying your voice doesn’t betray you.
"Don’t push your luck, Park," you manage, but the teasing edge in your voice is softer than usual—way softer. And, of course, Jay knows it. You know it. You’re still smiling, and—unfortunately for you—so is he.
Jay suddenly clears his throat as he shifts in his seat, "So...should we order like a pizza or something? Are you hungry?"
And because lately the universe apparently has a personal vendetta against you, your stomach chooses that exact moment to let out a sound—one that resembles between a whale’s mating call and a frog being strangled.
Jay stifles a laugh, trying to act casual but failing miserably, "Okay… pizza it is."
“Shut up,” you mutter, giving him a playful shove that’s just enough to make him fall back into the couch cushions.
"No, you tell your stomach to shut up," Jay snickers, grabbing his phone to place the order.
You’re about to fire back with something—anything—but a soft wail interrupts you from the baby carrier.
"Someone needs attention," you say, scooping Jisoo up and cradling her in your arms. “It’s about time for her to eat anyway.”
As you juggle Jisoo with one hand and dig through the baby bag for her fake bottle of milk with the other, Jay watches you from his spot on the couch, a curious look in his eyes.
“While you feed her, I’ll take care of the pizza. I’m guessing you’re more of a plain cheese type, huh?”
You freeze for a second, then whip your head around to give him a mock-offended look.
“First, you think I’m a soulless witch, and now boring? I at least add pepperoni and sausage. Give me some credit.”
"Okay, okay, noted," Jay lifts his hands up in surrender, "So adventurous. I'll remember that next time you call me irresponsible."
You roll your eyes at him as you adjust Jisoo in your arms, holding the bottle steady at her mouth. It’s quiet for a few moments, the only sounds being the soft hum of your fake baby and Jay tapping on his phone.
Suddenly Jay puts his phone down, turning to you with an unreadable expression. “You’re really serious about this whole parenting thing, huh?”
You blink, still rocking Jisoo in your arms. You're thrown off by the sudden shift and sincerity in his tone.
“Well… yeah. I think it’s important, you know? Responsibility, structure… that’s what makes people feel safe. Especially kids. They need to know they’re taken care of.”
Jay’s expression shifts as he listens, a more thoughtful look settling on his face.
“You're a strong believer of that, aren't you? Structure and schedules and all that?"
His voice is a lot quieter now, lower, and you realize you've never really had a serious conversation (that wasn't a class debate) with him before—at least not long enough to hear this version of Jay. The serious Jay. And if you're being honest, it's making you a bit flustered. You hesitate, hoping your voice doesn't crack or something equally embarrassing.
“I mean… I guess so. I was raised that way. My parents always had everything planned out. It was like...nothing ever went wrong because there was always a system, a backup plan.”
Jay raises an eyebrow, leaning forward a little in his seat.
“But didn’t that feel, I don’t know... suffocating? Like, what if things don’t go according to plan? You can’t control everything.”
Your first instinct is to scoff, but something stops you. It's a valid question, and for some reason, you don’t feel the need to throw up your usual defenses for once. That's new.
“Maybe sometimes,” you admit. “But I don’t know any other way. It just feels like if you’re not prepared, things fall apart. And that’s the worst feeling—like watching everything crumble because you weren’t ready for it.”
Jay is quiet, studying you with an intensity that feels new. His teasing smirk is gone, replaced with something more serious.
“Yeah, I get that. I didn’t have a lot of structure growing up. Parents were kinda… there, but not really. I think that’s why I don’t plan much. Life happens whether you’re ready or not.”
You blink as you sit back in your seat, absorbing his words. It’s the first time you’ve really thought about Jay outside of his 'laid-back' image of him you've had in your head, and honestly, you’re surprised by how heavy his words feel.
“But…you’re actually good with Jisoo,” you say, almost cautiously, unsure if you’re diving into uncharted territory. “You’ve been handling this project better than I thought you would.”
Jay laughs softly, shaking his head as he looks at Jisoo in your arms.
“It’s just a robot baby, Y/N. No big deal if I mess up.”
"It’s not just about the robot baby,” you counter, realizing you're saying more than you intended. “You actually care. You’re not graded on how well you change diapers or keep her entertained, but you’re still putting in effort. You’re trying. And that matters.”
There's a beat of silence as you see Jay pause. For once, he doesn't have a comeback. Instead, he's just looking at you—really looking at you—like he's trying to figure something out, and you feel the heat slowly creeping back onto your face. You're sure you're turning an unflattering shade of red under his gaze on you, and part of you, no, all of you, is begging for him to say something immediately before you combust.
Then, with a suddenness that almost makes you jump, he leans over and nudges your arm lightly.
“Okay, Dr. Phil. Don't go getting all soft on me now."
You let out a playful scoff to mask your relief, thankful for the release of tension in the air. But something about the conversation lingers in the air, hanging like a question neither of you is ready to ask. And despite the teasing, your mind can’t help but circle back to how Jay had looked at you—serious, curious… something else.
Before you can dwell on it too long, the doorbell rings. Saved by the pizza gods. Jay springs up from the couch to answer the door, and you gently place the now-snoozing Jisoo back in her carrier. The conversation still swirls in your head as you watch Jay grab the pizza, too caught up in your thoughts to not even question how suspiciously fast it arrived.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, watching Jay at the door from your spot on the couch, your thoughts too heavy for someone who is literally holding a pizza box.
For someone who sure likes to plan everything out, you definitely weren’t prepared for Jay Park—and how he's quickly becoming the exception to every rule you've ever made.
✭・.・✫
The first thing that jars you awake is a piercing scream—Jisoo's, of course. Your eyes shoot open as you squint into the dim light, your eyes adjusting and blinking your way out of the accidental nap you fell into. You're trying to make sense of your surroundings through your blurry vision when...it hits you.
This isn't your room. You're still at Jay's apartment, wedged into the corner of his couch, and apparently, you fell asleep. Post-pizza-food-coma style. And also apparently, your mutual robot child has decided now was a perfect time for a meltdown.
The second thing you notice is the faint background noise of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire still playing on Jay's TV in front of you. Your memory jogs back to when you two finally came to a consensus on which movie to watch over dinner, and naturally, the deciding factor ended up being 'young Robert Pattinson,' and no, it wasn't your deciding factor. You didn't expect Jay to even have an opinion on this, but apparently, his love for Cedric Diggory is a hill he's willing to die on.
And then...that brings us to the third thing. A sound from the other end of the couch—Jay's soft snores. You two must have dozed off at some point during the movie somehow and of course, he's still passed out cold, totally oblivious to the screams of robotic despair coming from the baby carrier seated between you two. You glance over at him, out cold with his head tilted back, looking completely unbothered by Jisoo's increasingly offended screams.
But even through all these realizations, what really slaps you awake, more than Jisoo or Jay or Cedric Diggory, is the smell. It hits you like a rogue sock to the face, and for a moment, you're convinced that Jay definitely has some biological-grade garbage decomposing somewhere in the apartment after all. The smell is like a powerful, radioactive wave, and all you can think is, What in the world is this guy hiding in here? And why is it now coming to life?
You sit up from your spot, still half-asleep, and follow the foul scent in horror until you realize the source.
Jisoo.
Sure, you have changed Jisoo's diapers plenty of times over the last two weeks, but before? There was no smell. At most, you get these weird, vaguely sticky robotic poops in her diaper that barely registered. Now? Now it’s like Professor Kim somehow remotely gave Jisoo a software update and coded her to emit a scent so pungent that it feels borderline illegal. You're convinced this is Jisoo’s final boss form—peak realism unlocked—solely just to spite you and your nostrils.
While you’re here on one end of the couch, one button away from confirming an Amazon Prime order to ship over a bottle of bleach for you to dip your nose into, Jay is still in blissful dreamland, not even flinching. You stare at him in disbelief, hoping your sheer mental outage might magically wake him up. No such luck.
You grab the throw pillow that's wedged under you and chuck in right at his face.
"Jay!" You're still half-asleep, so your voice comes out like a strangled whisper, somewhere between pleading and passive-aggressive murder.
Jay jolts, sitting up with a sleepy yelp, blinking in confusion.
"Huh? What happened? Is Cedric okay?" His panicked gaze darts around the room wildly before they finally settle on you, across the couch.
"What happened?" You raise a finger to the screaming, stinky, betrayal-machine between you two. "That happened, Jay. Jisoo happened."
Jay blinks slowly, squinting at Jisoo, his brain clearly struggling to boot up, and then makes the fatal mistake of sniffing the air. The realization suddenly dawns slowly, and you can see the look of horror hit.
"Oh my god, how is she even capable of...of that?!" His voice breaks three octaves as his hand shoots up to pinch his nose.
"I don't know!" You squawk, equally traumatized. "She's never done this before—I didn't even know she could!"
Jay groans and rubs his eyes, hoping this is all a bad, bad dream. No such luck, yet again. He glances around helplessly. "So, uh, who's changing her?"
You shoot him a glare as you get up from the couch and start looking for the baby bag.
"We're changing her, Jay."
"We?" Jay winces, inching towards Jisoo with all the enthusiasm one has when approaching a radioactive waste barrel. He slowly reaches down to take Jisoo out from the carrier and he starts muttering to himself.
"Great. Fine, this is fine. Just another bonding moment with our adorable robo-daughter." He finally picks her up, reluctantly holding her at arm's length like she's a ticking time bomb. It's so ridiculous that, despite the war-crime-level smell permeating the room, you can't help the small laugh that you let out.
"What?" Jay glares at you, though a look of amusement tugs at his lips. "You think this is funny?"
"No," you say, barely stifling your giggles. "It's just—you're holding her like she's about to explode."
Jay gives you a doubtful look, "Y/N, I'm not convinced she's not about to explode."
You shake your head, still giggling as you shuffle the carrier off the couch and lay out a blanket, turning Jay's couch surface into a makeshift changing station.
"Alright, c'mon. Lay her down and hold her legs up. I'll handle clean-up duty. And maybe...brace yourself."
Jay exhales like a man about to face his greatest fear. He gently lays Jisoo down and lifts her legs up with the tips of his fingers, his face still contorted as if you're both dealing with a toxic hazard. At this point, it probably is.
"Oh my god," he breathes. "This is it. This is how I die."
You crouch down in position so you're at level with the couch and say a mental prayer before you pull open the tiny diaper. The moment you do, the both of you immediately recoil as a scent that should not even be allowed to exist wafts up and fills the room.
“Oh god.”
The scent is so ungodly it feels like it came from the depths of hell itself and punched you both right in the face. It doesn’t just waft up—it attacks. You’re pretty sure you lost at least another three years off your life from one breath alone.
"That's not legal," Jay chokes as he flings himself back at the sight, dropping Jisoo’s little toes in the process, flailing around as if the air itself betrayed him. "There's no way that's legal."
You freeze in sheer horror, staring at the scene before you: Jisoo’s somehow realistic poop smeared across every surface of her bottom it possibly could spread to, the stench intensifying with every passing second.
Jay starts pacing the room, spiraling into an existential crisis.
“No, no, no, this isn’t normal. This is—this is a crime scene! This can’t be right.”
“Jay,” your voice is muffled as a hand tries to cover both your nose and mouth from the contaminated air, “Jay, focus!”
Jay looks at you from across the living room, wide-eyed and pale, like a deer caught in headlights.
“You expect me to—in this economy—”
“Grab. The. Wipes.”
Jay groans and he stumbles back towards you, hesitantly rifling through the baby bag. His hands finally find the pack of wipes and he peers over your shoulder from behind you, as if you’re his shield.
“Are you just gonna stand there, or are you going to help?”
“I am helping,” Jay protests weakly, waving the pack of wipes like they’re a magic wand that might save you both.
You roll your eyes and turn back to Jisoo, “Okay, grab her legs again. I’ll wipe.”
His eyes watch in horror as he reaches over you to take hold of the robot’s feet. With a deep breath, you start furiously scrubbing Jisoo’s little body, trying your best to breathe as minimally as possible, sticking your hand out towards Jay whenever you need a new wipe.
“I signed up for fake parenting, not surviving a biohazard. This isn’t bonding; this is trauma,” Jay incoherently mumbles, placing a wipe in your hand.
"I think this trauma is exactly what we're supposed to be learning and 'bonding' from," you retort, carefully tossing a soiled wipe into the designated waste bag.
"Oh, so Professor Kim is forcing us to bond over mutual suffering? Very sweet," Jay deadpans as he hands you another wipe.
"Exactly. Parenting at its finest."
Finally, after you definitely lost three years of your life, the horror show is over. Jisoo is cleaned, diapered, and—somehow—actually looks peaceful for once. Like she didn't just commit a crime against humanity.
Jay exhales, looking at her with a newfound joy. "Well. She's definitely...less terrifying when she's not screaming and emitting toxic fumes."
You plop yourself on the couch and cradle Jisoo like she's a tiny, innocent angel instead of the cause of your collective suffering.
“I’m genuinely afraid to know what they put in her system for this to happen.”
Jay collapses onto the couch beside you, visibly relieved, "Whatever it was, we did it. We survived. We did that."
You can't help but laugh, still a bit punch-drunk from the adrenaline and exhaustion of it all, "We better get an A+ on this project."
Jay chuckles, leaning his head back against the couch. The room falls into a brief silence, just the two of you sitting there, basking in the weird accomplishment of it all. Then, as if on cue, you both start laughing—a deep, exhausting kind of laugh that two people only share after a 'you had to be there' type moment. There's something about the whole ordeal—how ridiculous, how hilariously awful it was—that just makes it impossible to not laugh.
"Now do you think we make a pretty good team?" Jay grins, nudging your shoulder with his.
You roll your eyes at him, "I don't know...depends."
Jay raises an eyebrow, "Depends on what?"
"Depends on whether you can make it through the rest of the project without crying again," you quip, lips twitching into an amused grin.
Jay gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. "Excuse you, I did not cry. My eyes were sweating from Jisoo's toxic fumes. A completely normal biological response, thank you very much."
"Sure, Jay," you deadpan, shaking your head.
"Besides," he continues, leaning back smugly, "I did all the heavy lifting. Literally. I held the live grenade."
You snort, glancing down at Jisoo in your arms before handing her off to Jay, "You're unbelievable."
"And you're stuck with me, partner," he grins back, rocking Jisoo in his arms. "You too, Jisoo."
You lean back into the couch, watching Jay coo at the now-peaceful baby. Somewhere between his flair for over-the-top dramatics, his secret love for young Robert Pattinson, and (for some reason) endearing passion for photography, you realize…maybe Jay Park isn’t the complete disaster you thought he was.
"Yeah," you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I guess I really am stuck with you."
And for the first time since this ridiculous project started, you don't mind that as much as you thought you would.
Jay would like to make a few things clear.
First of all, none of this is his fault.
He hopes you understand that, as his thumbs fly over the keyboard of his phone like his life depends on it.
Because, in a way, it does.
Jay [11:32 AM]: “i swear it’s not my fault, but my friend, jake, his entire load of laundry is now the color of strawberry milk. and apparently i’m the only one that can help him. can i drop jisoo off with you for like… an hour? tops?”
He stares at his phone, waiting for your response like you hold the key to his survival.
Because, in a way, you do.
He hears Jisoo coo from her carrier, like even she knows how dire this situation is. Finally, his phone lights up with a buzz.
Y/N [11:33 AM]: “i’m volunteering at a dog adoption event on campus, but sure, drop her off here :)”
Jay blinks at his phone. A dog adoption event. Of course, you'd be saving puppies on a Saturday. Of course. Like some kind of unreasonably perfect human. And here he is, about to save a fully grown man from having to wear solely pink t-shirts for the next week.
Fantastic.
With a sigh, Jay turns to Jisoo, who blinks back a stare that can only be described as the (robot) baby equivalent of good luck, bro.
By the time Jay reaches campus, he's bombarded with the sight and sound of...dogs. Dogs everywhere. It's as if he's entered the chaotic lovechild of a Disney movie and a petting zoo, complete with wags, barks, and the smell of kibble. And then he sees you.
You're smack in the middle of a fenced playpen, laughing, surrounded by every breed of fluffy chaos imaginable and passersby cooing 'aww' at the sight. And what a sight it is.
You look ridiculously happy, and for some reason, that makes something in Jay's chest feel weirdly tight. He wonders what it must feel like to be able to make you smile that widely, that brightly. It's unnerving. He's not used to seeing you so relaxed, so content—or maybe he's just not used to noticing how good you look when you're not glaring at him.
"Y/N!" a voice calls from the volunteer tent, snapping Jay out of his daydream. Jay watches from the distance as you haul a golden retriever pup into your arms and walk over to the tent, naturally falling into conversation with your friend and immediately organizing papers. Meanwhile, Jay stands there, dumbfounded at your unbothered, graceful rhythm that you seem to fall into like second nature.
Jay thought he had you figured out, filed neatly in his mental drawer of uptight-control-freaks-that-happen-to-smell-like-roses-and-have-perfect-smiles, but now? Something about the way you look—so confident, so caring, so...natural—catches him off guard.
Now, you're like some serene multitasking goddess in the middle of pure chaos.
That brings us to the second thing Jay would like to clarify (more so to himself): he definitely doesn't think you look good in, like, an attractive sense, or anything insane like that. Absolutely not. He just is simply impressed at how you seem to manage and carry yourself quite elegantly. This is pure admiration. Admiration, okay?
But...while he's here, staring in 'admiration', it suddenly hits him—you're not just good at taking care of Jisoo. You're good at taking care of everything.
And that makes his heart do a weird flip.
The realization that he's been staring for way too long jolts him back to the present. Focus, Jay. There's a Jake somewhere out there, lost in a sea of pink underwear.
Jisoo carrier in hand, Jay manages to push his way through the dog-packed crowds until he reaches you, but the second you turn around, flashing him that wide, carefree smile that he's still not used to, he's back to stumbling over himself.
He’s 99% sure he audibly gulps.
“Oh, Jay, you made it!” you say, shifting the puppy to one side of your arms to free a hand to grab Jisoo's carrier immediately. Your smile is disarmingly genuine. Jay thinks he may need to sit down.
“Uh, yeah—um, thanks for taking Jisoo," he swallows, his voice barely steady as he's unsure what this feeling is that came over him. He doesn't know if it's the fact that he's seeing you in a completely different light right now, carrying both a live, adorable puppy, and a (not-so-live) baby, but something is different, and he's at a loss for words. "You look pretty—uh…busy.”
He curses himself. Busy? Really?
“Oh, no biggie,” you give him an easy, encouraging grin, one so casual that it really shouldn't make his knees feel like Jell-O. "Honestly, I'd be out here every weekend if I could. But you of all people know my schedule."
Of course, you'd say something like that. Jay tries to think of a normal response, but his brain is spinning with all sorts of not-normal things about you—like how you look so aggressively pretty right now.
And it’s a little infuriating.
"Yeah, no, totally," Jay clears his throat, scratching the back of his head. "Because who doesn't want to be covered in dog hair and slobber for fun?"
You roll your eyes, smiling. "Says the guy who's about to be knee-deep in a laundry crisis. Isn't that a little messy, too?"
Jay huffs, feeling himself return just a little bit back to normal. “Listen, Jake’s a special case, okay? You can’t just leave him in that pink laundry disaster and expect him to survive.”
"Right..," you laugh, rocking back and forth on your feet, your smile lingering as a comfortable silence falls between you.
Maybe it's the way you're looking up at him, or the fact that a literal golden retriever is currently nuzzling into your neck, but Jay is doing everything in his power to keep his cool. You're looking at him in a way that isn't remotely judgmental (for once), and it's throwing him completely off-balance.
Before Jay can pull it together and say something else, another voice calls your name, waving you over to a different table. You turn back to Jay, giving him an apologetic glance.
"Do you mind watching Jisoo—and, um, this puppy—for a sec?"
Before he can answer, or even process your words, he's standing there with an actual puppy in one arm, and Jisoo in her carrier in the other, and his life has become a circus he never auditioned for.
"Sorry! They just need me real quick!" You say with a grateful smile as you hurry off.
As you rush off with another apologetic smile, Jay's brain, for better or for worse, decides that grin of yours is now his mental screensaver. He watches you go, dumbly smiling before he catches himself.
Not attraction, he reminds himself. Totally not attraction.
He looks down at his arms—one occupied by a carrier with a robot baby, the other holding a wriggly puppy.
"Bet no one's ever been in this situation before," he mutters, awkwardly standing there as he waits for your return. Honestly, Jay has never felt so awkward or nervous before. Right now, he feels like the epitome of the standing emoji, just simply existing and there, waiting for your next command and hoping he doesn't screw it up.
Jay tries to hype himself up. You can do this, Park. It's just a dog. And a baby. And you. You've got this. You totally have everything und—
Before he can finish his mental pep talk, the sound of your laughter rings from across the event, making Jay's head snap over in record time. He tries not to look—he really does—but the sound is too angelic to not. But right when he does look over, he immediately wishes he didn't.
You're standing there between two of your friends, and you're giggling. With some guy he's never seen before. And this guy, is nudging your shoulder and making you laugh so hard you're practically doubling over. He feels a distinct twist in his chest.
Jay’s definitely not jealous. Nope. Not even a little. It's just...curiosity. Pure, innocent curiosity about what that guy could possibly be saying to make you laugh so hard. Because Jay has never seen you laugh like that with him—ever.
And suddenly, the longer you continue laughing with that guy, Jay feels something hot and uncomfortable bubbling up inside.
Fine, it’s jealousy.
Definitely jealousy.
He scowls at himself. Now he’s basically a bitter standing emoji, clinging to Jisoo and a puppy while glaring from afar.
And there Jay stands, bitterness levels maxed, holding both a puppy and a robot baby, while across the way, your roommate Esther gives you a knowing smirk while you're recovering from your giggling fit. Your giggling fit which was caused by Heeseung making a comment about how he stepped in dog poop more times than the average human-being accidentally should.
“You didn’t tell me that was Jay Park,” Esther says, trying not-so-subtly to sneak a glance at the bitter standing emoji himself, awkwardly shifting his feet in the distance, avoiding to look in your direction. “You said he was annoying, lazy, and a pain to be around. You didn’t mention he’s a total cutie.”
“He was annoying, lazy, and a pain to be around,” you scoff, though you're clearly not thinking that right now as you catch a glance of him trying to balance both the puppy and Jisoo. "But...I don't think he's so bad anymore."
You definitely don't add that he's a total cutie. Okay, maybe you think it, but saying it out loud is a whole other thing.
“Oh, so you totally like him,” Heeseung snickers from your other side, nudging you again.
You make a sound that's half out-of-tune trumpet, half hiccup, before breaking into a laugh to cover your sudden panic.
"No, I don't!" You clear your throat, trying to stay cool. "We're just—look, we're just stuck together for this project. That's all. Even if I did like him, which I don't, he definitely doesn't like me back. We're probably just going to go back to bickering with each other to no end."
“Right,” Heeseung chimes in, giving you a look that says he's clearly unconvinced. “Just saying, though—someone who doesn’t like you wouldn’t be staring at you like that, and looking at me like I just committed a first-degree crime just for breathing in your direction."
You follow Heeseung’s gaze and, sure enough, you catch Jay trying to look casual while bouncing the puppy and acting like he totally didn’t just get caught. Your eyes meet, and he does a 180 so fast he nearly launches Jisoo into orbit.
You quickly turn back to your friends, heat rising to your face as you catch Esther and Heeseung giving each other a knowing look before smirking at you. You roll your eyes and grab the both of them by the back of their shirts, turning them in the direction of the event, "Okay, okay, enough with the delusions. Shouldn't you guys be signing off some puppies or something?"
"Don't say we didn't tell you so!" Esther calls after you as you turn on your heels towards Jay, furiously convincing yourself that they're so wrong.
There's no universe in which Jay Park, the Jay Park, would ever be into you. The Jay Park, who can get any girl he wants, the Jay Park who's just too different from you, the Jay Park who you proclaimed your school rival (self-proclaimed). Absolutely not.
When you get back to him, Jay’s desperately trying to look natural—so, naturally, he’s scratching the puppy’s belly while Jisoo clings to his chest like a tiny koala. Your heart gives a little traitorous squeeze, but you ignore it. Get a hold of yourself, Y/N.
“Looks like he likes you,” you say, trying to sound casual as you nod to the puppy, who's squirming excitedly under Jay's attention.
“He’s adorable,” Jay replies, blushing faintly as he shifts the puppy around.
“So, uh, everything okay over there?” he asks, totally not imagining a deep, romantic conversation to explain your laughter.
You’re caught off-guard, blinking, wondering if Jay somehow became psychic and caught onto your previous train of thoughts about him, until you realize what he meant.
“Oh! Yeah, they just… needed help with paperwork.”
Jay’s expression hardens ever so slightly as he tries to imagine a world where paperwork could possibly be that funny.
“Cool, cool,” he nods stiffly, side-eyeing Heeseung in the distance who’s still chatting with Esther.
"Well," Jay shifts awkwardly as clears his throat, "I should get going to Jake. He's probably in tears by now, honestly."
You frown at that, and Jay instantly self-identifies himself as the worst person on the planet. He barely resists the urge to apologize for everything he's ever done, from breathing in your direction to any other crime against humanity he's committed in your eyes.
"Aw, come on," you say, teasingly, though even you're not sure why. It's just...fun having him around. "Stay a little longer. For the puppies!"
Jay opens his mouth, fully ready to decline when he catches sight of your expression—those big, pleading eyes that make it impossible to say no.
And that's it. He's doomed. Right then and there, Jay knows he's doomed.
Is Jay currently surrounded by more puppies than he ever thought could physically exist in one place?
Yes.
Does he think your puppy eyes are somehow cuter than all the puppies combined?
Annoyingly, also yes.
And so, Jay would like to make some new things clear, for the record:
First, there is no way any of this is his fault. If Jake ends up crying over outfit choices and demands to know why Jay ditched him for puppies, Jay has a rock-solid explanation. He’ll explain the situation, which obviously couldn’t be helped. Hanging out with you? Totally justified. Perfectly valid.
And second, well—Jay would like to clarify that it's official now. Whatever he was feeling before?
Yeah, definitely attraction.
Your fingers drum against your blanket. You stare blankly at your bedroom ceiling. You let out another deep sigh. You toss and turn, adjusting your position for maybe the hundredth time. It's no use.
You're bored.
And that, in itself, is a shocking revelation. You're never bored. Your schedule is usually packed to the brim—between assignments, club meetings, work shifts, and impromptu Save the Puppies campaigns, there's hardly room for boredom. But today?
Today, life has gifted you a rare stretch of free time. No assignments to finish, no midterms to study for, no dog adoption events or café shifts. And apparently, you have no idea how to handle that.
You turn to look at Jisoo, who's chilling in her spot on your bed next to you, not having a single ounce of consciousness for you to share your boredom with.
With another sigh, you grab your phone and scroll aimlessly through your apps. You eventually land in your Photos app and swipe through mindlessly until a recent picture stops you in your tracks.
It's a selfie Jay took of the two of you, Jisoo sandwiched between your faces. The infamous day of the pizza-night-turned-accidental-nap-turned-godforsaken-poop-incident. You'd submitted the photo to Professor Kim as proof of your co-parenting efforts, but now, looking at it again, you can't help but smile.
It's strange. The memory should be traumatic—okay, it is traumatic—but in hindsight, it's also...kind of fun. The chaos, the banter, the way Jay somehow managed to make everything feel less overwhelming just by being there.
Funny enough, that day was also the last time you remember having any sort of free time, and you remember complaining that you had to spend the day with Jay of all people. But now, looking back at it, you honestly did have fun. Being with Jay was...fun.
Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before it unconsciously drifts towards the Phone app. You hesitate, realizing with a jolt that you're one tap away from calling Jay. It's like your brain suddenly shut off and something took over you. What's gotten into you?
You blink at Jay's contact on your phone, your thumb still hovering over his name.
No. Bad idea.
You don't need Jay to entertain you just because you're bored. You're perfectly capable of having fun on your own...obviously. Obviously, even though the last hour of groaning and ceiling-staring suggests otherwise.
Besides, Jay's probably busy doing...whatever it is Jay does at 4PM on a Saturday. Napping, probably.
And what would you even say? Let's hang out? Like some middle schooler asking out their crush? Not to mention, you already have your 'Jisoo' plans in two days, so it's not like you have an excuse to see him.
You sit up abruptly, shaking your head as if to clear the fog of ridiculous thoughts. Seriously, do you even hear yourself right now? Looking for an excuse to see him? Since when did you need excuses for anything, let alone something as absurd as spending more time than necessary with Jay Park?
This has to be some kind of stress-induced meltdown. It's the only logical explanation. All those late-night study sessions, midterm panic attacks, Jisoo diaper changes, and endless extracurriculars must've finally fried your brain. And now, here you are, teetering on the edge of reason, actually wanting to see Jay Park.
Great. Now you have a new problem.
Because as much as you try to convince yourself otherwise, the truth is glaringly obvious: you want to see him. And that, more than any amount of free time or boredom, is the real problem.
You've officially lost it.
I've officially lost it, you chant in your head as your thumb hovers dangerously close to Jay's name on your screen again.
I've officially lost it, the words grow louder, taunting you, as you hover over the call button.
I've officially lost it, your thoughts scream as you give in, pressing down and watching in horror as your screen shifts to Calling Jay Park.
And now, your heartbeat picks up with every ring. You can't decide what's worse—him answering or him ignoring the call. Maybe if he doesn't pick up, it'll be a sign from above that you're better off leaving this madness alone. Maybe—
"Hello?"
Your train of thought screeches to a halt.
"Y/N? Are you there?"
"I'm here!" You blurt out, your voice jumping two octaves higher than usual. Real smooth, Y/N.
"Hi...what's up? Are you okay? Is something wrong?" His voice is soft over the phone, a little concerned, like you're about to tell him Jisoo had another diaper emergency.
You falter for a moment, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written there.
"No! Nothing's wrong! I just—uh–" Quick, think of something normal!
"I was wondering what you're up to."
"Me?" He sounds genuinely surprised, and you can practically hear the smile in this voice. At least, you think. Or, once again, you've officially lost it. "I'm at the campus gallery, setting up for my photography showcase. It's tonight."
The campus gallery. His photography.
You blink, this is news to you. You vaguely remember Jay asking if you could watch Jisoo tonight, and he hadn't given you a reason back then, but this is why he couldn't be on Jisoo duty today. Because of his showcase.
"Wait, really?" You ask, hoping the interest in your voice doesn't show too much.
"Yeah. I didn't mention it? Guess I forgot," he chuckles lightly. "It's not a big deal, just a student showcase. I'm just setting up now, making sure my pieces are hung straight and stuff."
You swallow, a sudden wave of curiosity washing over you. You find yourself smiling to yourself, feeling a wave of endearment wash over you for some reason. The idea of Jay being completely focused and serious about a passion of his is...it's nice. It’s hard to reconcile the carefree, sarcastic guy you know with the thoughtful perspective he must have to capture the kinds of photos he does.
"You should come by," he says suddenly, breaking you out of your thoughts. His voice is casual, but you think you catch a small, hopeful note in it. "If you're free, I mean. No pressure."
You hesitate, your mind racing. Go? Don't go? It's just a showcase. It's not like it means anything. Right?
"I'll think about it," you manage, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Cool." There's a smile in his voice again. "Let me know. I'll save you a front-row seat."
"Front row seat? For a gallery?" You deadpan, rolling your eyes as if he can see if over the phone.
"Hey, I'm just being a good host."
"Hmmm," you smile to yourself again. "Maybe. We'll see."
But your decision was made the second he suggested that you should come.
It doesn't mean anything. Friends come support each other all the time, right? Wait—
Are you and Jay even friends? You shake your head, trying to dismiss the warmth starting to spread in your chest.
It's just photography.
It's just Jay.
Nothing to overthink here.
✭・.・✫
“Okay, Jisoo, in and out,” you whisper to the robot baby in the carrier that's perched in your arms as you stand frozen outside the campus gallery doors. "We're just stopping by to say hi. Two minutes max. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Nothing dramatic."
Jisoo stares back at you, wide-eyed and unhelpfully silent, which you take as strong moral support.
"Thanks, Jisoo," you mutter, like a lunatic seeking validation from a robot.
Maybe you shouldn't even go in. It's basically the end of the event anyway—what are the odds he'd even notice you didn't show?
Slim. Probably. Right?
It's not like you didn't have a valid excuse for your lateness. You did have to change Jisoo’s diaper before you left, and that was a whole thing. But let's be real.
The real delay?
The real delay was you standing in front of your closet for a solid half hour like a contestant on America's Next Top Existential Crisis. What do you even wear to casually drop by someone's photography showcase? Something that says, Hey, I'm effortlessly supportive, but I totally don't care if you notice me (yes I do).
Spoiler alert: that outfit does not exist.
And then—because clearly, you love to torture yourself—you spent another thirty minutes pacing around your room trying to figure out why you cared so much in the first place.
It's Jay. Jay. The guy who thought sticking googly eyes on Jisoo's bottle would make her drink faster. Why are you stressed? Why are your palms sweaty?
But despite all that, you somehow made it here, standing outside the gallery with your stomach doing flips like you're about to walk into your own trial. You made it all the way here, so might as well go in, right?
You swallow hard, adjust your grip on your emotional support robot baby, and push the door open.
And there he is.
Center stage, right where he belongs—or at least where he seems to thrive. Standing in front of a massive wall of his framed photographs, the studio lights catch his profile just right. It's almost unfair, like he's been personally photoshopped by the gods themselves. He's surrounded by a small crowd, gesturing animatedly with his hands as he speaks, his smile so bright you're convinced it's starting to hurt your eyes.
But his eyes? There's this sparkle in them. Not the usual playful glint you've grown used to, but something deeper, softer. You've never seen him look so alive, so utterly in his element, and it's doing weird things to your chest.
You can't help but wonder—what does it feel like to make him look that happy? Not that it matters, obviously.
It's just a thought.
A completely useless, irrelevant, go-away-right-now kind of thought.
If you weren't busy trying not to trip over your own feet and accidentally drop Jisoo, you might have stopped to take it all in. To admire the way he looks standing there, talking about something he clearly loves, like he's found this magical pocket of the universe where nothing else matters. Might have.
But instead, your thoughts screech in a halt, jolting you out of your daydream.
Abort mission. This was a terrible idea.
Why did you come here? Why is your face hot? Can Jisoo smell fear?
Before you can think of a single coherent reason to not turn around and bolt, Jay glances up. And he spots you.
His eyes light up even more—if that's even physically possible. "Y/N?" He calls out, grinning widely.
Great. Now you're here. He's happy to see you. You're standing in the middle of his gallery with a robot baby that can most definitely smell your fear.
Fantastic. Just fantastic.
Jay's voice cuts through your existential spiral, "Y/N!" He's waving you over as he calls out your name again, like you're a long-lost friend who's just returned from war.
Well, to be fair, you are fighting a war—against your own dumb feelings.
"Hey!" You croak, trying to sound casual but ending up somewhere between a dog's favorite squeaky toy and a rusty car horn. You internally flinch at your own voice.
"Wow, you came," he says, his sweet smile still on display as you shuffle over to where he's standing. "And you brought Jisoo! My biggest fan."
He reaches out to cup Jisoo's cheeks, and you almost smack yourself in the head for feeling jealous over your own robot baby.
"Yeah, well," you start, trying to sound nonchalant. "I figured, you know, project partners should support each other...teamwork and all that."
Jay raises an eyebrow, clearly trying to stifle a laugh, "Right. Teamwork. Totally."
You shift your weight from one leg to another, awkwardly looking up, eventually landing your eyes on the wall behind him, scanning the photos on display. Each photo is so him—a little chaotic, a little bold, but somehow...strikingly beautiful. There's a photo of a rainy city street, the light catching every droplet; a close-up of a sunflower against a brilliant sky; a candid of a kid laughing, his face tilted up toward the sun.
You suddenly feel a weird, warm pull in your chest. It’s one thing to see Jay cracking jokes and making sarcastic comments during late-night baby meltdowns. But this? This is a side of him you’ve never seen before—one that’s thoughtful, intentional, passionate.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring until Jay speaks up, his voice softer now. “Do you like them?”
You blink, startled, and then nod a little too quickly. You hope he doesn't notice (he does).
"Yeah. I mean...these are really good, Jay. You're–" you cut yourself off, realizing you're about to say something embarrassing.
''–talented," you finish lamely.
"Thanks," Jay tilts his head, looking almost shy. "That means a lot, actually."
His voice is so genuine that it throws you off. You weren't prepared for this level of sincerity. It makes your stomach flip in a way that's both exciting and mildly terrifying.
Jay gestures toward the wall, his hands shoved into his pockets like he's trying not to fidget.
"I wasn't sure if this was your kind of thing, thought you'd be busy and stuff, but I'm glad you came. I, uh..," he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, "I was kind of hoping you would."
Oh.
Oh?
OH.
Your brain immediately short-circuits. He hoped you'd come? Like...in a we're-in-this-together-as-project-partners way, or in a please-let-this-mean-something-more-than-project-partners way? Is this what cardiac arrest feels like? Should you call someone? Should you call him? No, wait, you're already talking to him—focus!
You clear your throat and try to channel every ounce of chill you simply do not possess.
"Well," you say, attempting to keep your voice steady and failing miserably, "I'm here."
It comes out barely louder than a whisper, and you immediately regret every life decision that's led you to this moment. But then Jay smiles—soft, something smaller, more private—and it's like the world shifts slightly off its axis.
"Yeah," he says quietly, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that makes you forget how to breathe. "You are."
And just like that, the noise of the environment dissolves, and the rest of the world shrinks to nothing but the space between you and him. The moment feels impossibly big like it might swallow you whole, and yet so small it could shatter with the slightest breath.
You're pretty sure you're about to combust. Explode. Turn into a human firework fueled entirely by sheer tension and whatever it is that's happening right now. God, why does he have to look at you like that? Like you're not standing here internally unraveling?
You break eye contact to glance down at Jisoo, and you're positive she's giving you a look that screams, Stop being weird, you two.
"Anyway!" You blurt out, desperate to break the tension.
"Which one's your favorite?" You gesture to the photos, your eyes darting anywhere but his own.
He laughs, and the sound is warm and unguarded, "C'mon, I'll show you."
He grabs your free hand without thinking, tugging you toward the far end of the wall. And just like that, you're helplessly following him, heart racing again, wondering how the hell you got here—and why you never want to leave.
So much for in and out.
Jay pulls you towards the far end of the gallery, his hand wrapped around yours like it's the most natural thing in the world.
It's not.
Your brain is in full-blown meltdown mode. Red alerts, sirens blaring, a voice screaming, "WE'RE HOLDING HANDS, PEOPLE!"
But there's no way you're about to let him see how much this is affecting you, so you shove the chaos down, pretending like your hand isn't currently experiencing the touch equivalent of fireworks...and hoping that it isn't sweaty.
"This one," Jay says, stopping in front of a photo that's somehow both ordinary and magical. It's a simple shot of your campus football field, taken from the bleacher stands. You've stood in those very bleachers too many times to count—for school events, games, the occasional half-hearted attempt to pretend you like sports. But somehow, in this shot, the field looks...different.
The grass glows like it's soaked in liquid gold under a sky caught between dusk and twilight. The field is empty, yet it doesn't feel lonely. There's something about it that Jay managed to capture—like it holds a thousand stories and secrets, quietly hopeful in its stillness.
"It's beautiful," you murmur, the words slipping out before you can catch them.
"Yeah," Jay lets out a breath. "It's my favorite spot on campus. I go there a lot when I need to think or just...get away a bit."
You glance at him, startled at the sudden vulnerability in his voice. Jay never strikes you as someone who gets lost in his head; he always seemed too confident, too effortlessly sure of himself. But right now, he's not looking at you—he's staring at the photo, like he's seeing something beyond it.
"I took it on one of those days—I was just overthinking a lot about life. About who I am, I guess," he continues. "I didn't think it'd turn out good or anything, but...I don't know. It felt right."
Your chest tightens. There's something so raw in the way he's speaking, like he's letting you see a side of him he usually keeps hidden. It makes you wonder how many other layers Jay Park has, and why it feels so important to uncover them all.
The silence between you stretches as you watch Jay continue to study his own photograph. There's a softness in his gaze, a quiet vulnerability that makes you feel like you're seeing him a way few people ever do.
But then he blinks, breaking the moment, and suddenly he's looking at you. You stiffen, panic bubbling up at the possibility that he might've noticed you staring at him.
"Sorry," he says, his voice carrying a self-deprecating chuckle. "It's really cheesy and stupid."
You find yourself shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence.
"No! Not at all, really," you blurt out, the words stumbling over themselves in their rush to escape. You feel the heat creeping up your neck, mortified at your sudden intensity.
Jay raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn't say anything, so you clear your throat and try again, softer this time, "I mean it. You have a good eye, Jay."
You mean it more than you've meant anything in a while, and you hope he knows that.
For a second, he just looks at you, like he's taking note of something, his head tilted ever so slightly. And then, slowly, his lips curve into that small, genuine smile that makes your chest feel annoyingly warm.
"Thanks, Y/N."
Your heart does a little somersault. Oh great. There it goes again.
And as if Jisoo can sense the moment might be getting too serious, she lets out a cry. You stumble back, jump scared enough by the loud and sudden sound, and Jay reacts instantly, steadying you with his hands on your shoulders.
"You okay?" He asks, his face so close that you can now confirm there are literal, actual flecks of gold in his eyes. Of course there are.
You blink. I've officially lost it. Completely, utterly, hopelessly, lost it.
You nod, your voice stuck in your throat. Am I okay? No. No, you are not okay. You are decidedly not okay.
Jay clears his throat, stepping back—though his hands linger a beat longer than they probably need to, but still a second too short than you should probably want to.
You want to scream into the void.
"Looks like it's time for Jisoo's dinner," he says lightly with a small chuckle.
You fumble for words, your brain still offline.
"Uh—yeah. I left her bottle at my place, and I should probably get going anyways," you manage, your voice a little too breathless for comfort.
Jay glances at his watch, pausing for a moment before looking back at you, something hopeful flicking in his eyes.
"I'm pretty much done here," he says, tilting his head towards the door. "It's late. Let me walk you home."
You hesitate, torn between insisting you're perfectly fine on your own (you're not) and letting him (you want to). But the way he's looking at you—like it's no big deal, like he simply wants to—makes the decision for you.
"Okay," you say, quieter than you mean to, and before you can second-guess yourself, Jay's already taking Jisoo's carrier from your arms, effortlessly shifting it onto his own.
"Let's go," he says, flashing you a small smile that feels like a punch to your stomach in the best way possible.
And just like that, you're walking side by side into the cool night air, your breaths visible in the chill, easily falling into a comfortable rhythm as you walk through the quiet campus, the streetlights above casting long shadows ahead of you.
There’s something easy about walking with him like this. It shouldn’t feel this natural—your heart’s doing somersaults and pirouettes like it’s auditioning for a circus—but it does. You steal a glance at him, and he’s focused on the path ahead, his profile calm and soft in the glow of the lights.
"So," Jay breaks the quiet as he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, "Can you believe the project's almost over?"
You let out a small laugh, tilting your head, "Honestly, no. Feels like just yesterday I was praying you'd drop the class."
Jay laughs, a sound that seems to echo in the quiet environment.
"Wow, Y/N. I thought we were bonding."
"We were," you tease, turning to him with a barely concealed smirk. "I just also thought you were going to be a disaster of a partner."
He scoffs, giving you a mock-offended look, "I proved you wrong, right? I was amazing since day one."
"You handed Jisoo to me like she was a bomb, Jay," you remind him, unable to stop yourself from laughing.
"I was assessing the danger!" Jay protests, his grin widening. "And excuse me, I've stepped up. I've made bottles, I've cleaned her, I even know how to put on a diaper the right side up!"
"Jay, the fact that you had to learn which way was right side up is concerning in itself," you manage to let out with a giggle.
"Details, details," he waves a dismissive hand. "Point is, I'm practically father of the year."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. A sharp breeze suddenly hits the both of you, and you visibly shiver from the lack of warmth your outfit provides. All that time choosing an outfit, and you still couldn't pick a weather-appropriate one. Stellar, Y/N.
And of course, Jay notices immediately. Before you can so much as form a protest, he's shrugging his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders, your body immediately stiffening as his hands brush against you lightly in the process.
You open your mouth to say something—anything, even just a whispered thank you—but Jay beats you to it, sparing you the effort of finding actual, coherent words.
“So,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just sent your brain spiraling, “what do you think you’ll do when it’s over?”
"Uh," you blink, still needing a second to reorient yourself. "Sleep, for once."
Jay laughs again. "Fair. You deserve it. But you'll miss me, right?"
"Not even for a second," you deadpan without hesitation.
"Liar," he teases, bumping your shoulder lightly.
You reach your building all too soon, the doors looming in front of you like an unwelcome reminder that this walk, this moment, is about to end. You stop just before the steps and turn to face him, rocking on your heels.
"Okay, maybe a little," you admit, shrugging. "But only because you make me look like the competent one by comparison."
"Wow," Jay shakes his head, but there it is again. The smile—the small, amused one that makes his eyes crinkle just enough to be unfairly attractive.
You glance up at him, wishing the walk had been just a few blocks longer. Or a few miles.
"Well," you say finally, forcing your gaze away from his own. "Thanks for walking me. And for carrying Jisoo."
You reach for Jisoo's carrier, and Jay hands it over without hesitation, but not before shrugging like it's no big deal.
"No problem," he says. Then, as you're adjusting the carrier on your arm, he adds, "And thanks again, Y/N. For coming tonight. It really meant a lot."
Your heart does that stupid fluttery thing again it's been doing all night, and you're starting to think you need a medical consultation.
"Yeah, well," you clear your throat. "Partner support, you know?" You sound dumb, Y/N. Dumb.
Jay smirks, but there's something gentler in his expression now, a flicker of something you can't quite name.
"Goodnight, Y/N. And goodnight, Jisoo," he says, giving a small wave to the baby carrier, making you giggle slightly.
He takes a few steps back, his hands slipping into his pockets, and gives you one last smile before turning to walk away. But before he gets too far, something bursts out of you, unwarned.
"Jay!"
He stops, turning on his heels, his brows lifting in surprise. "Yeah?"
You step forward, closing a bit of the distance between you, suddenly hyper-aware of how your voice wavers.
"Um, I was wrong. You're...not all that bad." Why am I doing this? "I'm sorry if I've been...you know, intense. These past few years."
Jay blinks at you, his surprise turning into something softer. You take a deep breath, pushing through the self-inflicted awkwardness.
"You've been a really good partner," you add, offering a small, genuinely smile. "And well...you're pretty cool."
His studies your face for a moment, the look longing and careful, like he's piecing together something fragile. A faint smile tugs at his lips, and there's a warmth in his expression that sends heat rushing to your cheeks.
For a moment, the two of you just stand here, caught in the glow of the streetlamp. The world around you feels distant, like someone's hit the mute button on everything but the sound of your heartbeat.
Jay's smile widens ever so slightly, and he nods, his voice quiet but firm, "I'll see you around, Y/N."
He takes a few steps backward, his gaze holding yours until he finally turns and starts walking away. You watch him disappear into the night, the outline of his figure fading with the streetlights, and only then do you realize you've been holding your breath.
As you step into your building and climb the stairs to your apartment, the night replays in your head on a loop—his laugh, his smile, his everything.
When you finally reach your door, you lean against it for a moment, his large jacket still wrapped around you. Your thoughts crash into you all at once, and two things become alarmingly clear:
You are completely, utterly, hopelessly in like with Jay Park.
You're in so much trouble.
“Congratulations, everyone!” Professor Kim clasps her hands together at the front of the classroom, a wide smile on her face. “You’ve survived six weeks of parenting. Hopefully, you’ve learned something useful—and that it hasn’t scared you off from actual parenthood one day. Each baby had a monitor tracking its status, so I’ll be extracting that data, combining it with your progress reports, and factoring it into your grade.”
Jay leans toward you from his seat next to you, his breath warm against your ear.
“That’s a little creepy…she’s going to take Jisoo apart? The poor thing.” His smirk is half-guilty, half-amused, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from laughing out loud.
This is new. Six weeks ago, he was Mr. Front-Row Enthusiast, and sometime between then and now, you’ve somehow managed to convert him into your next-row-back partner. He’d grumbled at first when you insisted about your theory that the front row screamed try-hard, but since then, he doesn’t even glance at the seats up front anymore.
“Grades will be out soon! I’ll see you all next week,” Professor Kim announces. “And don’t forget to submit your reflection posts!”
The shuffle of bags and jackets fills the room as students thank her on their way out. Slowly, the lecture hall empties, until it’s just you and Jay lingering at your seats.
“Well,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you stand. “That’s it. No more parenting lessons for us.”
Jay heaves a dramatic sigh, his lips pulling into a pout that’s far too endearing for your peace of mind, “I can’t believe it. I already miss Jisoo.”
You chuckle lightly but feel an odd tug in your chest, “Right? I got so used to carrying her and her baby bag everywhere. It’s weird not having her around.”
And it is weird. You never thought you’d feel this way about a glorified hunk of plastic and wires, but now, without Jisoo, something feels…off.
Or maybe it’s not just Jisoo. Maybe it’s the fact that this project, unexpectedly enough, turned into an excuse—a reason to spend so much time with Jay. Now that it’s over, what happens next?
The thought hangs between you as the two of you head out of the building. The campus is alive with the hum of students, the energy buzzing around you as everyone heads to their afternoon classes. You both stop outside, standing awkwardly side by side as the silence stretches.
No more 'Jisoo days' to plan for. No more excuses to text. No more shared tasks or inside jokes.
Will he go back to his front-row seat, forgetting these last few weeks? Or will he—will you—pretend none of this ever happened?
Jay shifts beside you, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicker to yours, then away again, as if he’s waiting for you to say something first.
“Well,” you finally say, breaking the quiet because it’s just too heavy to bear. “I have to head to my next class.”
“Right. Yeah,” Jay says quickly, too quickly, his hands both fidgeting with the straps of his backpack. “Makes sense.”
He hesitates, his mouth opening like he’s about to add something, but then he stops. You notice the way he’s looking at you, like there’s a thousand things he wants to say but can’t figure out how to start. You feel that familiar heat creep up your neck, the same one you tend to get whenever you’re around him nowadays.
“Alright,” you finally say, shifting on your feet. “See you around, then?”
Jay’s lips turn up in a small, almost longing, smile, “Yeah. See you.”
He doesn’t move, though. Neither do you. It’s like both of you are waiting for the other to take a step away first, and the pause grows longer and longer until you can practically hear the universe screaming at you to just go already. It’s getting unbearably uncomfortable for all of us, Y/N.
And when you finally start to turn, before you can even take three steps, his voice stops you.
“Hey.”
You glance back over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
Jay scratches the back of his neck, looking like he’s fighting some kind of internal battle.
“Uh, you were also a really good partner. You know, with Jisoo. I mean, you were kinda terrifying at first with all your color-coded schedules and spreadsheets, but…”
His smile softens, and his voice drops a little, “You were great. Really. I think I learned a thing or two from you.”
Your stomach flips in a way that’s both infuriating and addictive.
“Thanks,” you say, trying to sound casual even though your brain is short-circuiting. “Means a lot from someone who had to Google which way a diaper goes.”
He laughs, the sound bright and warm in the cool air, “Okay, one time, Y/N. Let it go.”
“Nope.” You grin, turning fully toward him now, your nerves settling under the familiarity of teasing. “You’ll never live it down. It’s my parting gift to you.”
Jay presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt, “Wow. I pour my heart out, and this is what I get in return?”
“Exactly.”
He chuckles again, shaking his head before finally stepping back, breaking the invisible bubble that’s been holding you both in place.
“Alright. I’ll see you, Y/N.”
“Bye, Jay,” you say, forcing yourself to turn and start walking away.
You make it a few steps before you hear his voice a second time, softer this time, almost hesitant.
“Y/N.”
You glance back, your heart skipping a beat.
Jay looks at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before his lips curve into a small, lopsided smile.
“Text me when you get home later tonight, okay? After your day is done.”
You blink, caught off guard.
“What?”
“Just…so I know you got there safe,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. But the way his voice dips at the end betrays him.
Your chest tightens in a way that officially feels dangerous. But you know you never want to get enough of this feeling.
“Okay,” you manage to say, the word quieter than you meant, but it was the most you could muster up with the bubble stuck in your throat.
Jay nods, his smile widening just a little.
“Good.”
And this time, when you turn away, you can’t stop the smile that sneaks onto your face.
✭・.・✫
By the time you get home, it’s late, and the apartment is quiet. Esther is nowhere to be found—probably out with Heeseung or at the library pretending to study. You toe off your shoes and drop your bag by the door, the routine feeling strangely empty without Jisoo’s carrier on your arm and her baby bag strapped to the other.
With a sigh, you find your way to your room and collapse onto your bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Jay’s parting words have been echoing in your head all day, barely letting you focus during the rest of your classes—“Text me when you get home.”
You hover over your messages for a second longer than necessary, typing and deleting a draft once, then twice, then a third time, before finally hitting send:
Y/N [8:52PM]: home safe 👍
You stare at the screen for exactly three seconds before flinging your phone across your bed. You roll over, face buried in your pillow, half hoping he doesn’t reply so you don’t have to overanalyze the significance of a thumbs-up emoji.
But, of course, your phone buzzes almost instantly.
Jay [8:53PM]: good 👍 sleep well.
A small, ridiculous smile tugs at your lips. You really shouldn’t be this giddy over such a mundane exchange, over a thumbs up emoji, but somehow, here you are.
And that’s when you start going insane. You shoot up from your spot in bed.
Why did he tell you to text him? Does he say that to everyone? Or was it just…you? And why does he keep looking at you like that? You’ve never been the kind of person to spiral like this, but lately, everything about Jay has you unraveling in ways you don’t know how to handle.
Clearly.
You groan, flailing your arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
“Get it together, Y/N,” you mutter to yourself, but it’s no use. Every little interaction from the past six weeks replays in your head on a loop—his laughter, his stupid jokes, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a sharp buzz from your phone. You glance over, half expecting a random notification (the other half hoping Jay double texted you) but instead, it’s the one you’ve been waiting for without realizing it:
Professor Kim: Final grades are posted!
Your heart leaps. Practically fumbling with your phone, you open the grading portal, scanning the page with a held breath. And there it is, staring back at you in bold letters:
Semester Project Grade: 100%
“YES!” you exclaim, punching the air like a successful cartoon character. You’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt, practically bouncing in bed. It’s the kind of happiness that makes you feel like you’re going to burst if you don’t share it with someone.
And there’s only one person you want to share it with.
Before you know what you’re doing, your closet doors are wide open, your hands rifling through. Your hands land on his jacket—the one he lent you after the showcase—and something about it feels right. You shrug it on, ignoring the way it smells faintly like him (and comfort), and grab your keys without a second thought.
By the time you realize what you’re doing, you’re already halfway to Jay’s apartment. It’s not like you had a plan—just this overwhelming need to see him.
Because somehow, he’s become the first person you want to share everything with, want to experience every moment with, want to feel every feeling with, and that thought is both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
But you’ve never been so sure of anything else before.
Your breath hitches as you reach his familiar door, hand raised to knock. You hesitate for a moment, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this is. Who shows up at someone’s place at this hour, unannounced, just to tell them about a grade? What if he already saw it and didn’t even think twice? You look insane, Y/N. Insane.
But then you think about the way he looked at you earlier, the way he smiled when he said “good job.”
And you knock.
✭・.・✫
Jay doesn’t know what’s happening. One second, he’s on his couch editing photos, and the next, someone’s trying to break down his door. At least, that’s what it sounds like. The pounding is so aggressive it makes his mug of tea tremble slightly on the table.
Heart racing, Jay tosses his laptop aside and scans the room for a weapon. Nothing. Great. In a flash of panic, he grabs the TV remote because, sure, it’s sleek, ergonomic, and maybe intimidating in the right light.
Bracing himself for certain doom, he yanks the door open—
“Oh.”
It’s you.
At his doorstep.
Unannounced.
In his jacket.
Jay flatlines. All he can do is stare at you in the oversized jacket—his oversized jacket—looking like you walked straight out of one of his dream scenarios. The rational part of him is trying to keep it together, but the feral part of his brain is screaming She’s in my clothes. Marriage now.
You tilt your head, studying his expression.
“Jay? Are you…okay?”
He blinks, realizing he’s been standing there for a good five seconds with his mouth slightly open.
“Uh. Yeah. Totally. Uh—what’s up?”
“Well first, why are you wielding a TV remote like it’s a sword?”
Jay glances down at the remote in his hand, then back at you.
“…I thought you were a robber.”
“A robber?” you repeat, struggling not to laugh. “What kind of robber knocks?”
“I don’t know, maybe a polite one!”
You let out a giggle and shrug, “Fair enough. But anyway, I’m here because—did you see?”
“See what?” He frowns, confused, and still recovering from his adrenaline rush.
“Professor Kim posted our grades! We got a 100%!”
Jay stares at you for a second before the words sink in.
“Wait—what? We got a hundred?”
“Yes!” You’re practically bouncing, a bright smile lighting up your face. “A perfect score, Jay!”
He laughs and steps forward, grabbing your shoulders in his hands.
“No way. We actually did it?!”
“We did it!” You beam back, jumping up and down. “We crushed it!”
Jay’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, but he doesn’t care. There’s something about seeing you this happy, standing in his doorway like a whirlwind of energy, that makes his chest feel way too full, too complete.
And for a moment, the two of you are just standing there, caught up in the moment, smiling at each other like idiots.
When the excitement dies down, Jay notices the way you’re still slightly breathless, like you’d run all the way here.
“Wait,” he squints. “You could’ve just texted me, you know.”
“Oh,” you shift your weight, suddenly looking a little shy. “Yeah. But I just…wanted to see you.”
Jay blinks. His brain is once again malfunctioning.
“Oh.”
Oh?
OH.
“Yeah. So…here I am,” you add, failing miserably to conceal the wobble in your voice.
“Here you are,” he repeats, his voice back to that soft tone that knows how to make your heart go into overdrive.
His eyes flicker to yours and stay there as the air between you suddenly feels heavier. Charged.
“Is that all?” Jay asks, his lips twitching into a teasing smile.
“Uh,” you clear your throat, looking anywhere but at him. “I guess.”
Jay leans against the doorframe, studying you with that stupidly charming smirk of his, “Well, then.”
“Well, then,” you echo, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever encountered (spoiler: it’s not. That would be Jay’s face. But we’re not admitting that just yet).
Neither of you moves. Not even a millimeter. The silence stretches so long that you’re pretty sure somewhere in the world, a Netflix show just autoplayed its next episode.
Then, suddenly, Jay watches as your face cycles through the emotional Olympics: panic, resolve, regret, and whatever it is that makes your eyebrows do that cute scrunch thing he secretly loves.
“I should go,” you say, finally breaking the silence, your voice quieter now. “Sorry for barging in like this.”
You look down at your feet, hands still mindlessly playing with the sleeve of his jacket. Jay’s stomach twists at the sight—at the quiet, unsure way you’re suddenly retreating.
No. Absolutely not. He doesn’t know where his bravery is coming from (he suspects it’s sheer desperation), but he refuses to let you leave like this.
Before you can fully turn away, Jay reaches out and gently grabs your sleeve, tugging you back like you’re his favorite person in the world—which, spoiler again, you totally are.
“Wait,” he says, pulling you close enough that you bump into his chest. Both his hands find their way to your waist, steadying you with an ease that feels practiced. Like it’s where his hands were always meant to be.
And that's when Jay knows for sure: he likes you. He likes you bad. Painful highlighters, confusing spreadsheets, and all. He likes the way you carry your stubbornness like a badge of honor. He likes the way you chew on your pen when you're deep in thought. The way you turn his every sarcastic comment into a competition he's somehow thrilled to lose.
“You forgot something,” he murmurs, his voice soft and low as his eyes search yours, then your lips, then your entire face.
Your heart stumbles, your brain short-circuits, and you’re pretty sure your face is now the color of a stop sign.
“Oh, uh, the jacket?” you stammer, looking down at where he grabbed your sleeve, grasping for any logical explanation. “You’re right. Sorry, I almost—”
But before you can finish, Jay does something both incredibly bold and incredibly reckless. He leans in and presses his lips to yours.
For a moment, you freeze. This isn’t real. Is this an alternate universe where Jay kisses you instead of just driving you insane?
But then, the realization sinks in—Jay is kissing you. Like, actually kissing you. And wow.
The first touch of his lips sends a rush through your entire body, like every nerve has suddenly woken up all at once. He’s hesitant at first, almost like he’s giving you the chance to pull away, but when you don’t—when you finally let go of all the confusion, overthinking, and denial—you lean into him, your hands both instinctively reaching up, gripping the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself as you kiss him back, now realizing how much you desperately wanted this.
And that’s all the encouragement Jay needs.
His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his fingers brushing the hem of the jacket you’re wearing—his jacket, you remember with a strange, fluttering thrill. The kiss deepens, gentle but insistent, a slow, breathtaking unraveling of all the tension that’s been simmering between you for weeks.
It’s like the air shifts around you, the space between you collapsing into nothing. You feel his breath, warm against your skin, and the faintest hitch in it when your hand moves up to lightly curl against the back of his neck.
He’s so close, and everything about this moment feels right—his familiar scent, the steady warmth of his hands on your waist, the way he tilts his head slightly to meet yours like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
Your heart pounds, the world spinning just a little too fast and too slow all at once. It’s electric, and dizzying, and somehow everything and nothing like you imagined (because, yes, you’ve imagined it—so what?).
Jay pulls back just slightly, his forehead brushing yours as he grins, his voice a playful mumble against your lips, not wanting to break the kiss, “You can keep the jacket.”
Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it, your forehead dropping to his shoulder as you clutch at his arms for balance.
“Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“I’m a multi-tasker,” he replies, deadpan, his lips turning into a teasing smirk as he leans in and steals another quick kiss. He starts to pull back again, but you don't let him—your hand catches his sleeve as you dart up and chase his lips for one more peck, light and fleeting, but enough to make him smile like a fool.
You're completely, utterly, hopelessly obsessed with him.
"Besides," he adds, the words smug as his arms tighten around you, "I've already sacrificed my jacket. Might as well give up my dignity too."
You roll your eyes, “You’re still an idiot.”
“And yet, I’m the idiot you kissed back,” Jay fires back, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
You shake your head, your voice soft and teasing, “You’re so—”
The words trail off as you meet his gaze again, and before you can even think about stopping yourself, you tilt your head up, close the remaining distance between you, and kiss him first this time.
Jay freezes for a second, caught off guard, before he fully melts into the kiss again, one hand instinctively curling around your waist to keep you as close as possible. There's no hesitation now, no teasing, no holding back—just the two of you in the quiet of his doorway, and the overwhelming certainty that neither of you wants to let this—this moment, this feeling—to end.
When you finally pull back, Jay’s eyes are sparkling, his gaze holding an undeniable warmth.
“You know,” he starts, voice light but tinged with something deeper, “if you keep doing that, I might start thinking you actually like me or something.”
You raise an eyebrow, leaning in just close enough to make him squirm, your smirk playful.
“And if you keep talking,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing, “I might change my mind.”
Jay blinks, momentarily stunned, before letting out a breathless laugh, his arms instinctively circling your waist again, pulling you just a little closer.
“Noted. Say less. I’ll shut up forever. You’re stuck with me now.”
Stuck with Jay? As in a more-than-project-partners kind of way?
Yeah, you think, meeting the smile he’s giving you.
You don’t mind that idea one bit.
Now that the six weeks of parenthood is over, we ask that you write a reflection post in response to your pre-questionnaire answers we asked you at the beginning of the project. Were your expectations met? Exceeded? Any surprises along the way?
Y/N’s Submission [11:15AM, October 30th]:
Parenting, even with a robot baby, turned out to be nothing like I expected. I’ve learned that no matter how much you plan, babies (and life) have a way of completely ignoring your carefully crafted schedules. It was frustrating at times, but it also made things…unexpectedly fun.
Speaking of unexpected—let’s just say my partnership for this project caught me completely off guard, in the best way possible. Turns out, some surprises are worth breaking the plan for :)
Jay’s Submission [11:30AM, October 30th]:
Honestly? I expected surprises, but I wasn’t ready to lose three years of my life over a diaper change—or nearly go deaf from tantrums. Safe to say, I learned the hard way that being a little prepared isn’t such a bad idea.
But here’s the thing: turns out, babies (and certain project partners) have a way of growing on you. Who knew spreadsheets and sleepless nights could actually be…kinda great? I guess what I’m saying is, sometimes the best things aren’t planned. And also, I know how to change a diaper in 30 seconds now. The right side up :)
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・
the end! let me know what you think °ʚ(*´꒳`*)ɞ°
m. list here!
tag list (tenk u for all the luv): @neozon3nha @duckling-niki @somuchdard @jkslvsnella @jjongstar111
bsf!jungwon × fem!reader.⠀⠀⠀ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⠀⠀⠀you're jungwon's favorite headache—a fact that he can't bring himself to admit, and you can't bring your dense self to realize.
MASTERLIST. ┆ CONTAINS ➤ SMAU. college!au. to be loved is to be known type shi. ACTS-OF-SERVICE!WON!!!!! he's a lil dry and nonchalant but still pathetic. reader's a bit oblivious and dumb. usage of faceclaims. fluff. profanity. comedy, maybe. petnames (princess, baby, etc.) ignore timestamps & typos. ✮ cameos from enhypen's ni-ki, riize's anton, &team's maki, illit, and other idols.
𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨.ᐟ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 ♡
RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP┆𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗩𝗜𝗢𝗨𝗦 ─ 𝗡𝗘𝗫𝗧
FROM YAN 🐰 ➤ skullpanda + hirono = peak popmart straightship. tell me i'm wrong. also i feel bad for sooha LMASDKASDASD;LKA. free my girl PLEASEEEE.
— DILF!hongjoong x fem!reader in which you thought you already had the best relationship you could ever have. until one day you found you boyfroend fucking another girl on his bed, and so what could be a better and appropriate revenge than to fuck his very handsome father.
content warnings: this fic includes detailed nsfw scenes that may be too much for some readers. includes penetrative sex, mention of cheating, dilf!hongjoong, 20 years age gap, fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasm, video taping, and other scenes that might be uncomfortable for some readers. please consume what you can, and separate fiction from reality. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!
a/n: HI SO YEAH HAPPY 2K FOLLOWERS AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME. So as a gift to everyone, here's a dilf!joong to all my fellow atiny's in my followers list. I hope you guys enjoy this delicious fic. ACK. I LOVE YOU ALL. <333
word count: 9k words
You were a catch. A fucking catch.
Everyone on campus knew it. Jaehyun, the guy you'd been dating for the past few months, was constantly called the luckiest man alive. You heard the whispers in the hallways, the envious glances in the cafeteria, the not-so-subtle comments from his friends. But you never really paid much attention to it. You already knew your worth.
After all, you were the drum major of the university's marching band—the one who commanded an entire field with nothing but a raised hand and a sharp look. You carried yourself with a natural, domineering aura that turned heads wherever you went. Tall posture, sharp eyes, and an unshakable confidence that made people straighten up when you walked by. Most of your friends secretly envy you for it.
Your relationship with Jaehyun was far from perfect, but it was still one of the healthiest ones you'd ever had. Or at least... that's what you kept telling yourself.
He was caring in his own way. Attentive on most days, always making sure you ate before long band practices and sending you good luck texts before every game. Jaehyun wasn't the most popular guy on campus compared to you, but as a star football jock, he wasn't exactly unknown either. You two shared the same friend group, which made everything feel easy and comfortable.
It wasn't unusual for Jaehyun to go a day or two without texting. You both had busy lives, you with band rehearsals and him with football practice, so you understood. Whenever he had time, he always came back to you. That was how your relationship worked: comfortable, intact, and especially intimate when you finally got to be alone together.
You never doubted him. He always reassured you so well.
Until now.
It had been a full week since the last time you actually spoke to him in person. No late-night visits to your dorm, no sneaking in through your window with that boyish grin. Just short, dry texts. And every time you tried calling him, he would pick up only to say he was "too busy with practice" and hang up after a minute.
Something felt... off.
You tried to shrug it off at first. Jaehyun was probably just exhausted from practice. You told yourself he'd text soon, that he just needed some time to himself. Three days ago, he had sent a short message saying he was going back to his father's house for a while and wouldn't be around campus. You understand.
But that was three days ago.
Now it had been two full weeks since you last saw him in person. Two weeks of dry, replies and calls that ended within a minute. The uneasy feeling in your chest grew heavier, tightening around your throat like a chokehold.
You weren't used to this. You weren't used to doubting him.
Lucky for you, you actually knew his father—Kim Hongjoong.
He was a genuine, warm man. A single father of three who somehow still looked like he belonged on a magazine cover. At 42, Hongjoong could easily pass for someone in his early thirties. Tall, muscular, with sharp, refined features and that same devastating smile Jaehyun inherited. He was kind, attentive, and had a quiet confidence that always made the air feel a little thicker whenever he was around.
If he wasn't your boyfriend's father... well, you wouldn't have let yourself think about it.
But right now, worry was winning over everything else.
You pulled out your phone and quickly typed a message to him.
You: Hi, Mr. Kim. Sorry to bother you. I haven't heard from Jaehyun properly in almost two weeks. He mentioned he was going home a few days ago. Is everything okay? Do you know where he is?
You hit send and stared at the screen, nerves twisting in your stomach. The party noise faded into the background as you waited.
Not even a minute later, your phone vibrated.
Hongjoong: Hey sweetheart. Jaehyun isn't home right now. He said he'll be coming next week. I'm not sure why he told you he was already here...
Your stomach dropped.
He lied.
Jaehyun lied to you.
He never lied to you. Does he?
But now the doubt was creeping in, loud and ugly. Jaehyun had lied. He told you he was going home when he clearly wasn't. Why? The question twisted uncomfortably in your chest, and the fact that you couldn't even confront him made it worse. He was completely missing in action. You typed back with slightly shaky fingers.
You: Oh. I see. Thank you, Mr. Kim. If he comes home, please tell him to message me. Thank you.
Hongjoong: Of course, darling. Take care of yourself, yeah? And visit here sometimes, whenever you can.
You couldn't help but smile softly at his reply. Even through text, Hongjoong's warmth came through so easily. He really was such a sweet man, a genuinely good father. The kind of man who made you feel cared for with just a few words. For a moment, the heavy weight in your chest felt a little lighter.
You slipped your phone back into your pocket and let out a long breath, trying to push the uncomfortable thoughts about Jaehyun to the back of your mind.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady the uneasy feeling twisting in your chest.
If Jaehyun wasn't at his father's house like he claimed, then he was probably just hiding in his dorm. That had to be it. Tomorrow, you decided, you would go see him. You'd look him in the eyes and ask what the fuck was actually going on.
The next day came by so quickly.
You baked his favorite cake. Chocolate with extra frosting, hoping it would soften whatever conversation was about to happen. With the cake box in one hand and your spare key in the other, you stood in front of Jaehyun's dorm door, heart beating heavily.
You took a deep breath and unlocked the door quietly.
The moment you stepped inside, your stomach dropped. Loud, breathy female moans filled the entire dorm. The sound was unmistakable. High-pitched, needy, and very real.
He's probably just watching porn, you told yourself, trying to stay calm. He does that sometimes when he's stressed...
But something felt wrong. You walked down the short hallway, cake still in your hands, and slowly pushed open the door to his bedroom.
The sight hit you like a truck.
Jaehyun was lying on his back in the middle of the bed, completely naked. A girl you didn't recognize was on top of him, riding him hard, her head thrown back in pleasure as she moaned loudly. His hands were gripping her ass, guiding her movements while he groaned beneath her.
For a few painful seconds, you just stood there frozen, cake box trembling slightly in your hands.
Jaehyun's eyes suddenly snapped open and locked onto yours. His face went pale.
"Baby—?!" he choked out, voice hoarse. The girl on top of him let out a startled yelp and quickly tried to cover herself, but it was too late. You had already seen everything.
The cake suddenly felt heavy in your arms. The sweet smell that used to comfort you now turned your stomach. All the late replies. All the sudden "practices." All the lies about going home.
This is why.
"Kim Jaehyun! What the fuck!?"
The cake box slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. For a split second, everything was silent except for the girl's heavy breathing. Then your blood boils.
You didn't scream. You didn't cry. Instead, you strode forward with long, confident steps, that signature domineering aura radiating off you like ice.
The girl barely had time to react before your hand shot out. You grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her off Jaehyun with one powerful pull. She screamed as she tumbled sideways onto the mattress.
"Get the fuck off him," you said coldly, voice low but sharp enough to cut glass. She scrambled away from you, eyes wide with shock, trying to cover her naked body with her hands. Jaehyun sat up quickly, face pale and panicked.
"Babe— wait, it's not— I can explain—"
"Explain?" You let out a bitter laugh, still holding the girl's hair tightly in your grip as you glared down at him. "You lied to me for two weeks just so you could fuck someone behind my back?"
The girl whimpered as you finally released her hair with a rough shove. She quickly grabbed her clothes and ran out of the room like her life depended on it, slamming the door behind her.
Now it was just you and Jaehyun. He looked pathetic, naked, flushed, dick still hard and glistening from another girl's pussy. The sight made your stomach turn.
You stood tall at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, looking down at him like he was nothing more than a disappointing subordinate who just ruined the entire performance.
"Two weeks, Jaehyun," you said, voice dangerously calm. "Two fucking weeks of 'I'm busy' and 'I'm at my dad's'. And this is what you were doing?"
Jaehyun's eyes widened in panic. He scrambled off the bed, still naked, and lunged forward, grabbing your wrist tightly.
"Babe, wait— please, just listen to me! It's not what it looks like, I swear! She doesn't mean anything, it was just— fuck, it was a mistake—"
You felt his grip on your wrist like fire.
With a sharp, powerful yank, you shoved him off you. Jaehyun stumbled back, nearly losing his balance.
"Don't you fucking lay your filthy hands on me!" you hissed, voice dripping with venom. "A mistake? You lied to me for two whole weeks so you could fuck some random bitch behind my back and you call that a mistake?!"
Your chest heaved with rage. Your eyes blurred as tears pooled on your eyelids, making Jaehyun shrink under your glare.
"We're done," you said coldly, staring straight into his eyes. "Don't ever call me. Don't text me. Don't even look at me. Fuck off, Jaehyun."
You turned on your heels, not even sparing the fallen chocolate cake on the floor a second glance, and walked out of his room. The sound of your footsteps echoed down the hallway as you slammed the dorm door behind you with a loud bang.
Tears burned in your eyes the moment you stepped outside, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not for him. You were done.
For the next week, Jaehyun wouldn't leave you alone.
He texted and called nonstop, even after you blocked him on everything. He showed up outside your classes, your band practice, and your dorm. Every time he tried to approach you, your friends were right there, ready to throw punches and shield you like bodyguards. They cursed him out and dragged you away before he could get close.
You stayed strong on the outside, but the betrayal still stung.
By the start of the second week, you thought it was finally dying down. Until one afternoon.
You had just finished band practice and were walking out of the campus gate when a girl stepped in front of you. It was her. The girl you had pulled off Jaehyun that day. She looked nervous, eyes red like she'd been crying.
"Can we talk?" she asked quietly. "Please... just for a minute."
You almost walked past her, but something in her expression made you stop. You crossed your arms, staring her down.
"Fine. Talk."
She took a shaky breath.
"I'm so sorry... I had no idea you existed. Jaehyun told me he was single the entire time. We'd been seeing each other for almost a month. He said he didn't have a girlfriend, that he was too focused on football to date anyone seriously." Her voice cracked. "If I had known about you... I would never have touched him. I swear."
She looked genuinely devastated.
"I feel sick knowing I was the other woman. I'm really, really sorry. You didn't deserve any of this."
For a moment, you didn't know what to say. The anger you'd been carrying suddenly felt heavier. Jaehyun didn't just cheat on you. He had played both of you.
You let out a bitter laugh and ran a hand through your hair.
"...Thanks for telling me," you said coldly. "At least now I know how much of a lying piece of shit he really is."
The girl nodded, looking ashamed, before quietly walking away. You stood there at the gate for a long time, the evening sun casting long shadows on the pavement. The betrayal felt even deeper now.
For the next month, you drowned yourself in studies and band practice.
You threw everything you had into rehearsals, perfecting every count, every movement, every command on the field. At night, you buried yourself in books and assignments until your eyes burned. You barely slept, barely ate, and barely gave yourself time to think.
The whole campus knew what happened. The cheating scandal spread like wildfire. People whispered when you walked by, gave you pitiful looks in the hallways, and sent sympathetic messages. But you kept your chin up high, shoulders back, and that signature domineering aura firmly in place. You refuse to let anyone see you break. You were the drum major. You didn't fall apart in public.
Two months had passed since that awful day. You were in your dorm, surrounded by notes and textbooks, when your phone buzzed. You glanced at the screen.
Hongjoong: Hey sweetheart. It's been a while. How have you been? It's already been two months since I last heard from you. I didn't even know you and Jaehyun broke up until recently... Are you okay?
Your chest tightened. You stared at the message for a long time before replying.
You: Oh. Hello, Mr. Kim. Yeah, we broke up. I'm fine though, thank you for checking me up.
Hongjoong: I'm really sorry to hear that. If you're free this weekend, why don't you come over for dinner? I'll cook. You can talk about what happened if you want to... or we can just eat and you can forget everything for a while. No pressure. I just hate the thought of you dealing with this alone, besides I know for sure whatever the reason is, it could have been my stupid son's fault.
You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the screen. Part of you wanted to say no and keep burying yourself in work. But another part, the tired, angry, emotionally drained part, desperately needed to let it all out.
You: Okay. I'll come. Thank you, Mr. Kim.
Hongjoong: Great. Come by Saturday at 6? Can't wait to see you, sweetheart.
Saturday came faster than you expected. By 6:30 PM, you were standing in front of Hongjoong's house, heart beating a little faster than usual. You had chosen one of your favorite Sunday dresses. A soft, off-shoulder cream-colored dress that hugged your figure nicely but still looked modest enough. You tugged at the hem nervously, suddenly wondering if it was too much. Too pretty. Too revealing for a dinner with your ex-boyfriend's father.
You took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
A few seconds later, the door opened. Kim Hongjoong stood there, looking unfairly good in a simple black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing toned muscles. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and when he saw you, his face lit up with a warm, genuine smile.
"You're here," he said softly, voice rich and comforting. His eyes quickly scanned you from head to toe before he caught himself and looked back at your face.
"You look great. Come in, sweetheart."
He stepped aside, letting you enter. The house smelled amazing, Garlic, herbs, and something savory that made your stomach rumble.
"I'm sorry I'm a little late," you murmured.
"Don't apologize. I'm just glad you came." He closed the door behind you, then gently placed a hand on your lower back to guide you towards the dining area. The light touch sent a small, unexpected shiver up your spine. "I made carbonara and grilled steak. Hope you're hungry."
As you followed him, the reality of the situation settled in. This was the first time you'd been here since the breakup. No Jaehyun. Just you and Hongjoong.
He pulled out a chair for you like a gentleman, then disappeared into the kitchen for a moment before returning with two glasses of wine. Hongjoong sat across from you, his warm gaze never leaving your face.
"So..." he started gently, voice low and careful. "Do you want to eat first and relax... or do you want to tell me what really happened between you and my son?"
He leaned forward slightly, eyes full of quiet concern and something deeper you couldn't quite name.
"I'm here to listen to everything. No judgment."
You sat quietly for a moment, staring at the glass of wine in your hands. The warmth of Hongjoong's home and his gentle presence made the walls you'd built over the past two months feel dangerously thin.
"I... I'll tell you," you whispered. Hongjoong nodded, giving you his full attention. He stayed silent, patient, as you started talking.
You told him everything.
How Jaehyun had been distant for weeks. The constant excuses. The lies about being at his house. How you baked his favorite cake and went to his dorm with a spare key, hoping to fix things. How you walked in on him fucking another girl. How he had the audacity to lie and say it was a mistake.
The more you spoke, the more your voice shook.
"I kept myself busy for two months straight," you continued, tears already blurring your vision. "Studies, practice, rehearsals... anything just to stop thinking about it. The whole campus knew. Everyone was looking at me with pity and I hated it. I'm supposed to be strong, supposed to be in control... but he made me feel so stupid."
Your throat tightened painfully.
"I trusted him. I never doubted him even once. And he played me like I was nothing. He told that girl he was single the whole time. He lied to both of us."
The dam finally broke. A sob ripped from your chest. Tears streamed down your face as all the anger, humiliation, and pain you'd been holding in came rushing out at once.
"I feel so pathetic..." you cried, covering your face with both hands. "I'm supposed to be better than this. I hate that he still has this much power over me."
You couldn't stop sobbing.
Suddenly, you felt strong, warm arms wrapped around you. Hongjoong had moved from his seat and pulled you into a tight, comforting hug. One hand gently rubbed your back while the other cradled the back of your head.
"Shhh... it's okay," he whispered softly against your hair, voice deep and soothing. "Let it all out, sweetheart. You don't have to be strong right now. Not here."
He held you closer, letting you cry into his chest as your body shook with heavy sobs.
"You're not pathetic," he murmured firmly. "You're incredible. My son is the idiot who couldn't see what he had."
Hongjoong didn't let go. He kept holding you, rocking you gently, his warmth and steady heartbeat slowly calming you down as you cried out months of pent-up pain.
"Just so you know," Hongjoong said softly, still holding you close, "I didn't raise my son to be like that. I thought I taught him well."
His voice was low and heavy with disappointment. One of his hands kept rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back while the other gently cradled the back of your head.
"I don't know where he got the idea that cheating is okay," he continued, almost to himself. "I'm really sorry, sweetheart. You didn't deserve any of this. Not a single second."
You stayed buried against his chest, your sobs slowly quieting into shaky breaths. His shirt was damp with your tears, but he didn't seem to mind. He smelled comforting, like warm cologne, fresh laundry, and something distinctly him.
Hongjoong pulled back just enough to look at your tear-streaked face. His thumb gently wiped away the tears still clinging to your cheeks, his touch incredibly tender.
"Well..." you whispered shakily against his chest, voice still thick with tears, "just by how you're treating me right now... maybe it's only the looks that Jaehyun inherited from you."
Hongjoong let out a soft, surprised chuckle, the sound vibrating warmly through his chest. He pulled back slightly so he could look at you properly, his hand still gently cupping your cheek.
"Is that so?" he murmured, a small, handsome smile tugging at his lips. His thumb brushed another stray tear from your skin. "I'll take that as a compliment then."
Hongjoong watched you with quiet intensity, his dark eyes never leaving your face as you pushed the pasta around your plate. The warm lighting in the dining room cast soft shadows across his sharp jawline and the open collar of his black shirt.
He set his wine glass down slowly, the quiet clink breaking the silence.
"What do you want to do with Jaehyun now?" he asked, voice low and velvety.You stared at your plate for a long moment, the hurt and rage you'd buried for two months rising back to the surface like poison.
"I want him to learn his lesson," you said bitterly, your voice cracking. "I want it to hurt. I want him to feel even a fraction of the humiliation and betrayal he made me feel."A heavy silence filled the room.
Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, studying you carefully. Then the corner of his mouth slowly lifted into a dark, dangerous smile. He stood up and walked around the table until he was standing right beside you. His tall frame towered over you as he gently tilted your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"Then let me help you teach him," he murmured, his thumb brushing slowly across your bottom lip. "We can film ourselves in bed. You and me. I'll fuck you the way you deserved. I'll make you moan my name so loudly the camera catches every desperate sound."
Your breath hitched.
Hongjoong leaned down closer, his lips hovering near your ear as his voice dropped into a husky whisper.
"Imagine it, sweetheart... My hands all over this beautiful body. My cock buried deep inside you while you're falling apart. And then we send that video straight to Jaehyun. Let him watch his own father ruining the girl he was stupid enough to cheat on." He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own burning with lust and something dangerously possessive.
"You'll be screaming for me... and he'll be forced to watch every second of it."
His fingers slid from your chin down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of heat on your skin."It's your decision," he said softly, but his eyes were anything but soft. "If you want real revenge... I'll give it to you tonight. I'll make sure my son never forgets what he lost."
You stared at Hongjoong, heart hammering wildly in your chest.
He was undeniably attractive. The way his black shirt stretched across his broad chest and muscular arms, the sharp line of his jaw, and those intense eyes that seemed to see right through you. At 42, he looked better than most men half his age. But this... this was crossing a dangerous line.
"I... I don't know," you whispered, voice shaky. You looked down at your hands, fingers twisting together nervously. "Mr. Kim, he's still your son. This feels... wrong."
Hongjoong gave you a warm, understanding smile, the kind that made the corners of his eyes crinkle gently. His hand slid from your thigh to your back, giving you a soft, comforting pat as if he could sense the storm of emotions inside you.
"It's okay," he said softly, voice gentle and reassuring. "I don't like pushing things on people, sweetheart. Especially not you."
He straightened up and moved back to his seat across from you, though his eyes never really left your face. The tension in the air slowly eased, but the heat of his earlier words still lingered.
"Go ahead and eat," he added with a small nod toward your plate. "Then you can rest if you want. No pressure at all. I'm just happy you're here."
You nodded quietly and picked up your fork again, though your appetite had mostly vanished. The carbonara tasted amazing, but your mind kept replaying his proposal, the image of you and Hongjoong in bed, filming everything, sending it to Jaehyun.
For the next few weeks, Hongjoong's offer refused to leave your mind.
It lingered like a parasite burrowing deeper every quiet moment. Late at night while you tried to study. During band practice when your mind should've been focused on counts and formations. Even in your dreams, his low voice would whisper the filthy promise again and again.
You told yourself it was wrong. Disgusting, even. He was your ex-boyfriend's father for heaven's sake. But no matter how hard you tried to push the thought away, it always crawled back, hotter and more tempting each time.You decided to ignore it. Bury it. Move on.
Until one sunny afternoon.
You were walking past the football field when you saw them.
Jaehyun was sitting on the bleachers with the same girl, the one you had dragged off his cock that day. She was laughing at something he said, leaning into his side while his arm was casually draped around her shoulders. He looked... completely unbothered. Like he hadn't shattered your trust and humiliated you in front of the entire campus.
Something ugly and sharp twisted violently in your chest.Your feet stopped moving. Your fists clenched tightly at your sides.All the pain, the anger, and the humiliation came rushing back in full force. And right behind it, Hongjoong's voice echoed clearly in your head.
"If you want real revenge... I'll give it to you."
That's when you stopped hesitating.
The sight of Jaehyun laughing with that girl on the bleachers had ignited something feral inside you. No more crying. No more burying the pain. Tonight, you were going to make him regret ever laying eyes on anyone else.
Later that evening, you stood in front of the his father's house with fire in your eyes and steel in your spine. Your fist knocked firmly on the wooden door.
The door opened, and there was Hongjoong.
He looked devastatingly attractive in a simple black button-up with the top few buttons undone, revealing a hint of his toned chest. His dark hair was slightly messy, and the moment his eyes landed on you. Standing there with flushed cheeks, furrowed brows, and clenched fists.
Before he could even speak, you looked him dead in the eyes and said with absolute conviction. "Let's do it."
The air between you instantly thickened. Hongjoong's gaze darkened with raw hunger as he stepped aside, silently inviting you in. The moment the door closed behind you with a soft click, it felt like the outside world had been shut out completely.
Your head started to spin.You didn't know if it was because of Hongjoong's strong, woody perfume, deep, masculine, and intoxicating, that kept flooding your senses with every breath, or if it was the sudden wave of nervousness crashing over you all at once.Your heart hammered violently in your chest. Your palms felt clammy. The reality of what you just agreed to hit you like a freight train.
"Come with me," he said softly.
His hand slid down to yours, at the flat as he guided you upstairs. The house was quiet except for the sound of your own heartbeat echoing in your ears. Every step up the stairs made your stomach flutter harder.He led you down the hallway and pushed open the door to the master bedroom. The room was spacious and masculine, dark wood furniture, a large king-sized bed with crisp black sheets, and soft ambient lighting from the bedside lamps. The air smelled faintly of his cologne, the same intoxicating scent that had made your head spin earlier.
Hongjoong gently pulled you inside and closed the door behind you with a soft click. Without saying a word, he guided you toward the bed, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.
"Sit down, sweetheart," he murmured.You obeyed, lowering yourself to sit at the edge of the large bed. The mattress dipped slightly under your weight. Hongjoong stood in front of you, tall and commanding, looking down at you with dark, hungry eyes.He reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly tender.
"Nervous?" Hongjoong asked softly, his voice low and gentle as he stayed crouched between your parted thighs.You could only nod, not trusting your voice. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, but you couldn't deny it. Your heart was racing so fast you felt lightheaded, and the way he was looking at you, so intense, so patient, yet so hungry, made everything feel overwhelming.
Hongjoong gave you a small, understanding smile. He rose slowly from his crouch and sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his thigh pressing warmly against yours. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to his side while his other hand came up to gently cup your face.
"It's okay to be nervous, sweetheart," he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek. "This is a big step. But I promise... I'll take care of you."
He leaned in and pressed a slow, tender kiss to your forehead, then another on your temple, letting his lips linger there. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you again, making your head spin in the best way.
"I'm not going to rush you," he whispered against your skin. "We can go slow."
His hand slid down from your face to your neck, then lower, tracing the line of your collarbone with feather-light fingers. He tilted your chin up so your eyes met his again.
"Tell me what you want," he said softly, eyes dark but patient. "Do you want me to kiss you? Touch you? Or do you just want me to hold you until the nerves settle down?" His thumb brushed slowly over your bottom lip as he waited, giving you full control even while his body radiated heat and barely contained desire.
The sigh that left your lips was soft and shaky the moment Hongjoong's lips met yours.It wasn't rushed or demanding. It was slow, warm, and devastatingly gentle, like he was savoring the first taste of something he had wanted for a long time. Your head instinctively leaned into him, eyes fluttering shut as a rush of heat spread through your body.
Hongjoong hummed approvingly against your mouth, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other stayed firmly on your waist, pulling you closer. His lips moved against yours with experience, deepening the kiss gradually until you parted your lips for him. When his tongue slipped inside, tasting you, a quiet whimper escaped your throat.He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, deep, sensual, and thorough. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your thighs press together instinctively.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to let you breathe, his forehead rested against yours. His breathing was slightly heavier, eyes half-lidded and dark with desire as he looked at you.
"Still nervous?" he whispered, voice husky. His thumb brushed tenderly over your now slightly swollen bottom lip.You barely managed a small shake of your head.
"There we go." Hongjoong smiled, slow and predatory, before capturing your lips again, this time with more hunger. His hand slid down your side, gripping your hip as he guided you further onto the bed until your back gently met the soft mattress.
He hovered over you for a moment, drinking in the sight of you lying in his bed, flushed cheeks, parted lips, and eyes hazy with nerves and arousal. Then, without breaking eye contact, he sat back on his knees and reached for the buttons of his black shirt.
One by one, he undid them slowly, deliberately, revealing his toned chest and defined abs inch by inch. The shirt slid off his broad shoulders and strong arms, exposing his muscular upper body. He was even more impressive than you had imagined, years of quiet discipline showing in every line of his torso. He tossed the shirt aside without care.
Your breath caught.
Hongjoong leaned down again, capturing your lips in another slow, heated kiss. His bare skin radiated warmth as he pressed closer, one hand sliding up your side.
His fingers found the hem of your sundress. He sat up slightly and gently tugged the fabric upward, eyes locked on yours the entire time, giving you every chance to stop him. You lifted your hips instinctively, and he pulled the dress up and over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you in just your bra and panties.
Hongjoong let out a low, appreciative groan as his gaze roamed over your body.
"Fuck... look at you," he murmured, voice rough with desire. His hands traced your waist, then moved up to cup your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over the fabric. He leaned down and pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, then lower, between the valley of your breasts. His fingers skillfully unclasped your bra and slid the straps down your shoulders, freeing your breasts.
"Perfect," he breathed, eyes dark.He tossed your bra aside and returned to kissing you — deeper this time, while his hands explored your now mostly bare body with slow, reverent touches.
Hongjoong kissed you like he was starving for you, his mouth claiming yours in deep, slow strokes while his hands explored your body with growing hunger. He trailed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and lower, until his lips wrapped around one of your nipples, sucking gently.
A soft moan slipped from your lips.
He continued downward, pressing wet kisses along your stomach until he reached the waistband of your panties. Without hesitation, he hooked his fingers into the thin fabric and started slowly pulling them down your thighs, exposing you completely to his hungry gaze.
As the lace slid down your legs, Hongjoong looked up at you, eyes dark with lust. His voice came out low and rough, slightly breathless.
"Where's your phone, sweetheart?" His hands never stopped moving. He finished pulling your panties off and tossed them aside, then ran his palms up your bare thighs, gently spreading them wider so he could settle between them.You could barely think straight, head spinning from the sensation of being completely naked under him.
"In... in my bag," you managed to whisper, voice shaky. "By the door..."
Hongjoong hummed in acknowledgment. He leaned down and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right above your mound, dangerously close to where you were already aching for him.
"Stay right here," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. "Don't move."
He stood up for a moment, giving you a full view of his sculpted torso and the obvious bulge straining against his pants. He walked over to your bag, retrieved your phone, and returned to the bed.
Hongjoong gave you one last deep kiss before pulling back, then handed you your phone with a dark, heated look in his eyes.
"Here, sweetheart," he said, voice low and commanding. "You're going to record this."
He helped you sit up and lean back against the plush headboard, propping pillows behind you so you were comfortable. Then he moved down the bed, settling his broad shoulders between your spread thighs. His large hands gripped the back of your knees and pushed your legs wider apart, fully exposing your glistening pussy to him.
Your hands trembled slightly as you opened the camera app on of your phone and switched it to video mode. You hit record.
Hongjoong looked straight into the lens for a moment, a wicked smirk on his lips, before his gaze dropped back to your dripping core. Without another word, he leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your slit in one long, filthy stroke. A broken moan immediately spilled from your lips.
"Oh my god..." you whimpered, hips twitching.
Hongjoong groaned at your taste, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He licked you again, slower this time, savoring every drop before wrapping his lips around your swollen clit and sucking gently.
"Fuck—!" you cried out, your free hand flying down to grip his hair.
He ate you out like a man possessed, slow and deliberate at first, then faster, more hungry. His tongue circled your clit, flicked it, then dipped down to push inside you. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on your pussy filled the room, clearly captured by the camera.
You struggled to keep the phone steady, your hand shaking as pleasure coursed through you. "Joong— ahh!" you moaned loudly, eyes rolling back. "It feels so good..."
He looked up at the camera again, eyes almost rolling at the back of his head, while you watched his face contort through the screen of your phone. He then slid two thick fingers deep inside you, curling them perfectly against that sensitive spot. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, as you tried your best to keep recording, legs trembling around his head, hips grinding against his talented tongue.
His tongue worked your swollen clit with expert precision, licking, sucking, and flicking in perfect rhythm while two thick fingers pumped deep inside your soaked pussy. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the room, all of it being captured clearly on the phone you were desperately trying to hold steady.
"Ahh—! Hongjoong... fuck!" you moaned loudly, your voice cracking.
Your head fell back against the headboard, but you forced your eyes to stay on the camera. Your thighs trembled violently around his shoulders. The pleasure was building fast, coiling tight and hot in your lower belly.
Hongjoong groaned against your pussy, the vibration making your back arch sharply.
"You taste so fucking good, baby," he growled, lips shiny with your juices. He curled his fingers harder, stroking that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. "So wet for me already."
"I— I can't—" you whimpered, hips grinding desperately against his face. "It's too good... I'm— I'm so close!"
He sucked harder on your clit, flicking his tongue rapidly while his fingers fucked you faster, deeper. Your whole body started shaking uncontrollably. Hongjoong pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes dark and commanding.
"Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my tongue." He dove back in, sucking your clit into his mouth with intense pressure while his fingers curled relentlessly against your g-spot. The coil inside you snapped.
"Oh my god— Hongjoong!" you screamed, your back arching violently off the bed. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your thighs clamped around his head as you came hard, pussy pulsing and gushing around his fingers. Wave after wave of intense pleasure ripped through your body, making your vision blur and your legs shake uncontrollably. You kept moaning his name brokenly, loud and shameless, as the orgasm went on and on. You didn't even know if you properly recorded the way he made you cum. It was too much for you to think about it.
Hongjoong didn't stop. He kept licking and fingering you through every pulse, milking every last drop of pleasure until you were a trembling, whimpering mess against the headboard. Only when your moans turned into weak, oversensitive whimpers did he finally slow down. He pressed one last gentle kiss to your throbbing clit before pulling his fingers out and looking up at you with a satisfied, predatory smirk.
Hongjoong huffed a heavy, shaky breath against your soaked pussy, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. Your orgasm had clearly affected him just as much. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust, and his lips glistened with your release.
He slowly crawled up your body like a predator, hovering over you on his forearms. His muscular frame caged you in completely, his hard cock pressing hot and heavy against your inner thigh through his pants.
Without a word, he snatched the phone from your trembling hands. He quickly tapped the screen a few times, saving the video with a satisfied hum, then tossed the phone onto the far side of the bed where it landed safely on the pillows.
Now there was nothing between you two. Hongjoong looked down at you with pure hunger, his dark hair falling slightly over his eyes. His bare chest brushed against your breasts with every breath he took.
"Enough recording for now," he rasped, voice thick and rough. "I want to feel you properly."
He leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, messy kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. One of his hands gripped your thigh, pulling it up around his waist as he ground his clothed erection against your bare, sensitive pussy. You moaned into his mouth, still twitching from your orgasm. Hongjoong broke the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing heavily.
"Are you ready for me, sweetheart?" he asked, voice low and husky, barely holding back his hunger. You didn't answer with words. Instead, you looked straight up into his eyes, fiery, determined, and needy all at once, and slowly wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Your fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of his neck as you gave him the clearest answer you could.
Hongjoong's eyes darkened even more. A low, pleased groan rumbled from deep in his chest.
"That's my good girl." He reached down between your bodies and quickly freed himself from his pants. His hard cock sprang out, thick, heavy, and flushed. He wrapped a hand around the base and rubbed the swollen head up and down your soaked slit, coating himself in your wetness.
You gasped softly at the feeling, your arms tightening around his neck.
Hongjoong pressed his forehead against yours, breathing heavily as he lined himself up with your entrance.
"Eyes on me, baby," he whispered roughly. Then, with one slow but firm thrust, he pushed the thick head of his cock inside you.
A broken moan escaped your lips as he stretched you open. Inch by inch, he sank deeper, groaning at how tightly your walls gripped him.
"Fuck... so tight," he hissed through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to slam all the way in. "You feel even better than I imagined." He buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking on your skin as he gave you time to adjust to his size, his hips twitching with the effort of holding back.
The moment you wrapped your arms around his neck and looked him in the eyes, something in Hongjoong snapped.
He didn't hold back anymore.
With a deep, guttural groan, he thrust forward hard, burying his thick cock deep inside you in one powerful stroke. A loud, broken cry tore from your throat as he stretched you wide open, filling you completely.
"Fuck—!" Hongjoong growled, voice raw with years of pent-up desire. "Finally..."
He didn't give you time to adjust. He pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, setting a brutal, desperate pace right away. The bed creaked loudly beneath you as he fucked you like a man who had been starving for this moment for years.
"Been waiting so fucking long for this," he rasped against your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he pounded into you. "You have no idea how many nights I imagined fucking you raw in my bed."
Every thrust was deep and punishing, his hips snapping against yours with raw power. The sound of skin slapping skin mixed with your loud moans and his heavy grunts filled the room.
Hongjoong grabbed one of your legs and hooked it over his waist, driving even deeper. His rhythm was relentless, almost animalistic, like he was claiming you completely.
"Mine now," he groaned, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks while the other braced beside your head. "This pussy is mine."
He kissed you messily, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your moans as he fucked you harder. His hips rolled with every thrust, making sure you felt every inch of him dragging against your walls.You could barely think, only feel the way he was ruining you so perfectly. Hongjoong buried his face in your neck again, sucking hard on your skin as he growled.
He fucked you like a man possessed, hips slamming against yours with raw, years-long hunger.
He suddenly shifted his angle, hooking your leg higher around his waist and driving deeper. He thrust hard a few times, searching, adjusting, until he found it. Your whole body jerked violently.
"Ahh—! There—!" you screamed, nails digging into his shoulders.
Hongjoong's lips curled into a feral smirk against your neck.
"Right here?" he growled, voice dark and satisfied. He immediately started targeting that sweet spot mercilessly. Every thrust was precise, deep, and devastatingly fast, slamming directly into the spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. The wet, filthy sound of his cock pounding into your soaked pussy echoed loudly in the room.
"Fuck yes— take it, baby," he groaned, eyes half-lidded with pleasure as he railed you without mercy. "This is what you needed, isn't it? A real man who knows how to fuck you properly."
His pace was brutal now, deep, fast, and relentless. The headboard banged loudly against the wall with every powerful thrust. Your breasts bounced wildly between your bodies as he drove into you again and again, hitting that perfect spot over and over.
You were moaning shamelessly, almost sobbing with pleasure, your arms locked tight around his neck.
Hongjoong buried his face in your neck, biting and sucking on your skin while he fucked you even harder, hips snapping with pure desperation.
"That's it," he panted, voice rough. He angled his hips again, making sure every thrust dragged perfectly against your g-spot, pushing you closer and closer to the edge at an overwhelming speed.
"You're getting so fucking tight again," he groaned, almost snarling. "Gonna cum for me already, sweetheart? Cum all over my cock like the good girl you are."
Hongjoong kept slamming into that perfect spot with ruthless precision, his hips moving in a fast, deep rhythm that left you completely undone. Your eyes suddenly rolled to the back of your head, mouth hanging open in a silent cry as the overwhelming pleasure reached its peak. Your entire body tensed violently beneath him.
"I'm— I'm cumming—!" you sobbed brokenly, voice cracking.
Your walls clamped down around his thick cock like a vice, pulsing and fluttering wildly as your second orgasm crashed through you even harder than the first. A loud, shameless moan tore from your throat, your back arching sharply off the bed while your legs shook uncontrollably around his waist.
The way your pussy squeezed him so tightly, almost begging him to cum with you, finally pushed Hongjoong over the edge.
"Fuck— baby!" he growled loudly, his thrusts turning erratic and desperate. With a deep, guttural moan, he buried himself as deep as possible inside you and came hard. Thick, hot spurts of cum flooded your spasming pussy, filling you up completely as he kept grinding into you, riding out both of your orgasms.
His body trembled above yours, hips twitching with every pulse as he emptied himself inside you, groaning your name against your neck like a prayer. For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your heavy breathing and the faint creak of the bed. Hongjoong stayed buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting and covered in sweat.
"Shit..." he whispered hoarsely, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips. "You feel so fucking good milking my cock like that." He gave one last slow thrust, pushing his cum deeper into you, then stayed there, savoring the warmth of your body wrapped around him.
Both of you stayed locked together, breathing heavily in the quiet aftermath.
He let out a long, satisfied sigh and gently collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you with his weight. His face nestled into the crook of your neck, lips brushing softly against your damp skin as he tried to catch his breath.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your mingled breathing and the faint beating of his heart against your chest.
Hongjoong was the first to move. He pressed slow, lazy kisses along your neck and jawline, then finally lifted his head to look at you. His hair was messy, cheeks flushed, and his eyes were softer now, warm, almost tender.
"You okay, sweetheart?" he whispered, voice hoarse from exertion. One of his hands came up to gently brush strands of hair away from your sweaty forehead.
You could only nod weakly, still dazed and trembling from the intensity of your orgasms. Your arms remained loosely wrapped around his neck, fingers playing with the hair at his nape.
Hongjoong smiled softly, a small, genuine smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He leaned down and kissed you, slow, deep, and full of affection this time, completely different from the raw hunger earlier.
Hongjoong stayed buried inside you for a few more moments, savoring the warmth and the way your walls still fluttered around him. He pressed one last lingering kiss to your lips before slowly pulling out with a low groan.
A thick trickle of his cum immediately leaked from your swollen pussy onto the sheets. He watched it for a second with dark satisfaction before looking back at your face.
"Stay still, sweetheart," he murmured softly, brushing a kiss on your forehead. "Don't move. I'll get you a glass of water."
You nodded hazily, still floating in a blissful, post-orgasm daze. Your body felt heavy and boneless against the mattress.
As Hongjoong got up and walked out of the room, completely naked, you reached over to the other side of the bed where he had thrown your phone. Your fingers trembled slightly as you picked it up.
The video was still there.
Without giving yourself time to overthink, you opened your messaging app, found Jaehyun's contact, and attached the video. Your thumb hovered for only a second before you hit send.The message delivered.
You stared at the screen, heart pounding. A few seconds later, the typing bubble appeared... then stopped. Then appeared again.
Finally, a message came through.
Jaehyun: What the fuck is this?
Another message followed almost immediately, his panic clear even through text.
Jaehyun: Is that... my fucking dad?!
Jaehyun: Are you seriously fucking my DAD?!
You didn't reply. You smiled .A slow, satisfied, almost wicked smile spread across your lips as you scrolled through the flood of texts Jaehyun had sent in the last few minutes.
Jaehyun: What the actual fuck is wrong with you?!
Jaehyun: You're seriously fucking my DAD just because I made one mistake?!
Jaehyun: This is so fucked up. You're disgusting.
Jaehyun: Delete that shit right now. I can't believe you'd stoop this low.
Jaehyun: Answer me you fucking bitch.
Every angry, desperate message made the smile on your face grow wider. You could practically hear him shouting through the screen, the panic, the rage, the disbelief.
You were still smiling when Hongjoong returned with a glass of cold water in his hand. He paused at the doorway for a second, taking in the sight of you, naked, flushed, and glowing, sitting up in his bed while scrolling through your phone with a satisfied little smirk on your face.
Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Did you already send it?" he asked, walking over to the bed. You looked up at him and nodded slowly, biting your lip to suppress the grin threatening to spread across your face.
Hongjoong let out a low, rich chuckle, clearly pleased. He sat on the edge of the bed beside you and handed you the glass.
"Here, drink up," he said softly.
You took the glass and drank the rest of the water slowly while he watched you with dark, affectionate eyes. When you finished, he took the empty glass from your hand and set it on the nightstand.
He leaned in, cupping your jaw gently as he pressed a slow kiss to your lips.
"Good girl," he whispered against your mouth, voice laced with satisfaction. "Now come here."
Hongjoong pulled you back down onto the bed, wrapping his strong arms around your body and tucking you against his chest. He kissed the top of your head, one hand lazily stroking your back.
"Rest now, sweetheart," he murmured, holding you close. As you drifted off in his warm embrace, your phone buzzed one last time on the nightstand. You smiled against Hongjoong's chest and closed your eyes. Revenge had never felt so good.
summary: every girl has had that exhilarating little crush on their teacher, it’s not unheard of by any means. it almost always amounts to nothing, a small little motivation that keeps you awake in class. most girls don’t get hired by their professors to be a babysitter, and most girls don’t end up entwined in a situation so wrong that it eats them alive at night. not the guilt, or the shame. but the hunger, and the need. and most professors certainly don’t play into those little infatuations, and find themselves chasing that chance to absolutely ruin them. so why are you trying to play house and take on a role that wasn’t meant for you?
warnings: age gap(reader is in her 20’s, mingi is in his 40’s), this is nasty, DILF!mingi, lowkey salt & pepper!mingi, tension, power dynamics, emotional turmoil, girl dad mingi, manipulation, corruption, teasing, condescending!mdom, pet names(sweetheart, pretty baby, darling, slut etc), size kink, voice kink, praise, mating press, oral(f!receiving), countdown, biting, fingering, lowkey breeding kink, choking, overstimulation, dirty talk, eye contact, messy sex, mouth covering, hold the moan, creampie
wc: 18.1k (I am SO sorry)
notes: hiii… my dear @linearities, it’s me your secret admirer! you put down dilf Mingi and I was SAT. and then you mentioned prof!teez, so I just thought why not combine the two? you don’t understand how much I got into this while I was writing it’s kind of insane, god I hope you like it. all the love in the world… thank you @everyonewooeverywhere for hosting such a fun event
- your secret admirer <3
tracklist: million dollar man, strange candy, baby one more time
You weren’t stupid. You weren’t dumb, quite the opposite. You were intelligent, cunning. A smart woman who sometimes made foolish decisions. This would be one of them, one of the stupidest you've ever made.
And you would still do it again if ever given a second chance.
It nearly frightened you, the effect he had on you; it was embarrassing enough. It felt like an unattainable crush, a fleeting little infatuation that was bound to pass with time.
But it was so hard to get over it when you saw him nearly every day of the week. And even so, it was still not enough, and far too much all at once.
If it had to be described as anything, the word would be taboo. When he was introducing himself to his class of the year, he started with something that made your stomach do a flip.
“Y’know I have tattoos older than most of you in here, so if you ever question my teaching methods, think long and hard about how much longer I’ve been on earth than you.”
You thought long and hard, alright, and it certainly didn't help your little girly infatuation with your professor.
Professor Song Mingi, a literary instructor at your college. Students clamored during open season to squeeze into his class, which always filled up so quickly during enrollment. His teaching was sound and effective, and it didn’t hurt that he was way too easy on the eyes.
A low, flowing voice that was easy to grip onto and follow, gentle handwriting, and a pristine way with words. Dark tresses that framed his soft yet angular face, pink, puffy lips that wrapped around his syllables like a glove. His pretty, sharp nose beckoned for a rider. His meaty arms that always seemed to be struggling beneath his rolled-up white blazers, the buttons on the cuffs mere seconds from popping off.
His class was always dimly lit, a comfortable aura that made it easy to ease into learning. You could write a 20-page essay on why you enjoyed his class.
He was never dismissive, always listened to his students attentively, and truly valued their thoughts and opinions. He enjoyed shaping young folks' minds and helping them through their way, assisting them in growing and becoming respective, creative individuals.
You never struggled in his class, never had to ask for tutoring sessions. And to be honest, you probably wouldn’t be able to handle a one-on-one with him either way. He was too intimidating, too suffocating.
Whenever he asked the class a question, and you were able to gather your bearings to answer, you could hardly keep yourself from tripping over your words with how intense his gaze was.
Like he was clinging onto every word like a lifeline, his eyebrows raising now and then when your response flowed from your lips, his tongue would poke out the corner of his mouth, nodding along as he listened.
He’d always smile when you finally stumbled through your response, pointing his pen in your direction with a sly grin.
“Smart girl.” That stupid voice that made your brain dissolve into a useless puddle.
It was never good for your nerves.
But recently, you felt like his material has been getting more difficult. Maybe it was because finals for the semester were approaching, and the work started to get more grueling? Or maybe you were just tired, but his lectures started to blend into watercolor, and the readings he assigned the class started to sound like pig Latin.
Luckily, you weren’t the only one confused, when a girl who sat next to you leaned over while he was talking and whispered to you.
“Is he speaking English right now?”
Today was no different; the stress started to weigh on you as more finals began to close in. Recently, you’d been a bit tight on money, trying your best to save up from the barista job you’d been managing for the past year, but it was starting to fall short.
You had set up a job portfolio the night before in a fit of desperation in hopes of snagging a gig on the side in childcare, just to push you through the last few months of the year.
The winter chill nipped at your bones, and you always felt demotivated in the cold. The class dragged on, and you could barely keep your thoughts in a straight line as Professor Song droned on. You tried to cling to every word, retain every piece of information, but it all just seemed to slip away like you had butter fingers.
Your notes became sloppy, and your doodles in the margins became more frequent. Everyone in your immediate vicinity seemed just as hopeless, and this must have caught your professors' attention.
He turned from the board, and his face fell from concentrated to a soft sort of concern. He sighed softly and set his pen on the desk, a quiet clatter on the wood surface. This caught your attention, and you raised your head slowly.
Your eyes locked with his immediately, almost as if he was already trained on you before you raised your gaze. Your eyes dance with one another for a fleeting moment, and something flashes across his face, subtle yet electrifying. Then he’s clearing his throat, ripping his eyes from yours, and swimming over the rest of the lecture room.
He moves away from the board, lifting himself to sit on his desk, crossing his legs, and clasping his hands on his lap.
“Alright, guys, I get it.” The class directs its scattered attention to its professor sitting on his desk, his foot shaking back and forth softly. “It's the end of the semester, we’re all tired. Believe me, I’m in the same boat.”
He turns his head to a framed picture on his desk, a candid photo of him and his young daughter celebrating her birthday at the aquarium. “My daughter keeps whining at me about how hard her coloring sheets are. She can’t for the life of her understand the difference between indigo and violet.”
This pulls a warm laugh out of everyone, and you can’t help but join in. Professor Song never stops talking about his daughter; he loves her with all his heart. He has her many scribbled arts around his lecture room, photos of her on his desk, and her pipe cleaner flowers displayed proudly in the far right corner.
You tap your pen against your notebook rhythmically, and you don’t catch the way his eyes sweep over your face while the laughter dies down. “Everyone’s running on fumes, and I’m sure you’ve heard it a thousand times, but this is important. We’ll pull through this last month, and we’ll have a few weeks off to laze away, and it’ll be well earned. Right?”
The class nods in agreement, and Professor Song smiles in acknowledgment. “So, do me a beautiful favor, and stay with me a little longer while we get through this, okay? You all have been doing phenomenal this year, let's keep it up til the end, yeah?”
Everyone perks up at the encouraging words, and you find your energy slowly creeping its way back into your blood. Just enough to get through the day, but not enough to prepare for the shitshow that was to come.
Two thousand weekly.
You rubbed your eyes, blinking a few times and drinking some water to be sure you weren’t hallucinating the mail in your inbox.
You had arrived back home after dragging yourself through the last bits of Professor Song’s class, leaving with mostly full note pages and a renewed vigor to pull through this last semester.
The portfolio you had set up on the nanny website already had a response, and quite an unexpected one. A generous offer for pay, a part-time position as a babysitter for a young girl, age 6. Two thousand per week for 6 months, free meals provided, flexible schedule. It was almost too good to be true. The email didn’t go into too much detail, only offering further information if you shot back a response expressing your interest.
It was everything you needed and more, but one thing was making you hesitant. One small, coincidental detail.
Regards, M. Song.
Signed at the bottom of the email, like colorful barbed wire.
It had to be a coincidence. There was no way it was him.
Song is a common last name; you were sure it had to be somebody else. No matter, it was too good to pass up, and you found yourself drafting your email before you gave it any more rational thought. If it were him, it would be dangerous. You’d be deep in enemy territory.
You sent the email expressing enthusiastic interest in the position, and slammed your laptop shut so hard you thought you heard a key fly off. You buried your face in your hands and groaned aloud into the darkness of your bedroom, trying to shake the weird feeling blossoming in your chest.
It had to be a coincidence. There’s no way your literary professor saw the hundreds of capable babysitting portfolios to choose from and decided to pick yours. There’s no way you posted it yesterday, and he just so happens upon a day later and immediately makes his decision.
There was no way he was offering so much money for something as simple as babysitting.
There was no way you’d be able to go through this and maintain a professional, normal attitude.
Not even 10 minutes later, your phone chimes, the blinding light illuminating your dark room, therefore sealing your fate. You hadn’t even clicked the notification, skimming over the email banner before mentally checking out.
Dear Miss L/N,
Thank you for expressing your interest in the position. I would be delighted-
And that was it. You eventually gathered enough courage to open the email. It gave you all the information you needed, a scheduled time to meet at his home to set up the payroll, and introduced you to his daughter. Work out kinks and settle into the position.
Mr. Song doesn’t return home until after dark, well after 9 pm. Your shifts start at 3 pm every day for the next six months. Sundays are guaranteed days off, and he shall keep you posted on future days off if available. You had mentioned in your email that you were a student, so availability might fluctuate depending on school.
His response?
“You mentioned you were a student; I am well aware of this fact. Do not worry, I will ensure that your studies will remain unaffected.”
An insane thing to say, by the way.
It was definitely him. Regardless, you would find out in due time when you finally meet him at his home, and solidify what was to come, which can only be described as unmentionable.
-
His big warm hand encased yours, swallowing it whole so effortlessly. Calloused fingertips brush against the pulse that bounces in your wrist, and you barely keep your breath from hitching. His thumb runs over your knuckles, and you swallow a weird noise.
“Thank you for taking the position, darling. You’re saving me a hell of a lot of time.” That's stupid, grin, toothy, and wide. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the crows' feet making their grand appearance. The streaks of silver that flow through his dark hair like a wave you’ve never noticed until now, so close it was hard to miss.
“Of course… Mr. Song, thank you for considering me.” You weren’t sure whether you should call him professor or a different honorific outside of the lecture room, but he did not correct you, so you assumed it was the right choice.
You caught yourself that Saturday morning paying extra attention to your hair, curling your lashes a little higher, reapplying layers of lip gloss until it looked like you’d been making out with honeycomb.
Throwing together a cute outfit to make a good “first impression.” You couldn’t believe yourself, but once you were out the door and in your car, it was too late to worry about it now.
Your nerves were alight as you made your way to his address. You nearly saw him every goddamn day, but of course, this was different.
His residence was a rustic western style house, furnished with well-kept gardens in the front yards and a freshly painted porch and patio. A cute, homey place that somehow just made him all the more attractive.
You pulled into his driveway, taking your keys out of the ignition and giving your body a moment to relax. A few deep breaths and one life saver mint later, and you were stepping out with your purse in your clutches and your anxiety written all over your poor face.
You hadn’t even noticed until you raised your gaze from your feet, but there he stood. On his front porch, that white blazer with his rolled-up sleeves, no tie today. Black slacks and his glasses low on the bridge of his nose. His eyes are leering at you.
You stopped in place when you saw him, and his expression never changed. A sort of scrutiny on his brow as he watched you step out of your car, dare you say borderline predatory, but you certainly wouldn’t want to set anything into motion by manifestation. Surely not.
You lift your hand and give a curt, polite wave. Then his brows are falling, his lips are curling, and he’s offering a warm, gentle smile.
“(Name.) Good to see you, I’m glad you could make it.” Mingi’s own voice booms over his front yard to your ears, and you force your feet to unstick from the driveway pavement and continue to walk to his home.
You walk up the steps with only slightly shaky legs, face-to-face with him. “Of course, sorry if I’m a bit early.”
He smiles wider, yet softer. “It’s perfectly fine, I’d prefer you be early rather than late. I admire your punctuality; you’ve always been like that.”
You’ve always been like that.
You try not to let the praise get to your head, and you barely miss the way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip as he catches the way your shoulders hunch slightly at his words, and your fingers squeeze the straps of your purse just a little tighter.
“Well, let’s not just stand around. She’s excited to meet you.” Mr. Song turns and pushes open his front door, standing in front of it to hold it open. “After you.”
You smile nervously and slowly walk inside. He watches every step you take as you brush past him, your shoulder just barely grazing his lower chest, there not quite being enough room between him and the door frame to give you a spacious entry. His cologne hits your nose as you walk by, and you stop yourself from inhaling deeply as you plant your feet on his foyer floor, listening as he shuts the door and clicks the lock.
You were in enemy territory, and you had never felt more vulnerable in your life.
Immediately, you were tripping over toys, and you nearly fell backwards as a little girl came running up you, picking up one of the dolls you nearly busted your ass on and handed it to you.
“Okay and scene!” You can’t help the smile that breaks on your face, the confusion of being suddenly thrown into a scene, evident.
“Wait, what’s happening-“
The little girl is carrying another doll, and she shakes it back and forth as she begins to speak. “Where have you been? You’re late again!” She pouts furiously as she points to the doll in your hand, and you know that's your time to shine.
“I’m not late,” you speak through the doll in your grasp, kneeling to sit at eye level with the girl. “In fact, I’m right on time!” You motion the doll’s arm to point at an invisible watch on her plastic wrist, and you practically see the girl light up over you playing along with her.
You pay no attention to Mingi, who stands behind you, watching you interact with his daughter, a small smile on his face. You play along happily, and he can see how much his daughter has already taken a liking to you. But before she can drag you into another scene, Mingi is clearing his throat.
He crouches down and with his strong arms he scoops her up, and little giggles flow from her as he lifts her into his hold. “You little monster!” He grumbles playfully, the sweetest smile on his lips as litters her face in fleeting kisses, an exaggerated ‘mwah’ punctuating each one he landed.
He swings her back and forth like she was on a carnival ride and he laughs morph into joyous squeals, the smile on Mingi’s face nothing short of beautiful.
You watch in awe and admiration, how sweet he is with her and it makes something in your heart twist.
When she reaches her little hand out and pulls on some of his hair, his smile drops a little and hers only widens.
“Ouch- okay, no hair pulling sweetpea we know this.” He gently sets her down, not without the theatrics akin to a landing airplane.
Once her feet touch the ground she mumbles out an adorable sorry, and you swear you see Mingi’s heart melt.
“Alright, lovebug, you can give her more acting lessons later. Daddy needs to talk to her for a second, okay?”
The little girl frowns as you sheepishly hand her back her doll. “Don’t worry, we can play a lot more once I’m all settled in. I promise.” You smile, and she returns it, taking her doll back and bounding away to the couch in the living room, resuming her little roleplay on her own.
You stand up slowly and watch her skip away, somewhat avoiding turning around to see Mr. Song. When you finally turn, his back is to you as he’s begun walking to the kitchen. You follow, nearly tripping over toy cars and plush animals again.
He stops in front of the kitchen island, pouring you and himself a small glass of water out of a filter. He sets the cup on the countertop with a clink, sliding towards you as you stand a few feet away from him, trying to keep as much distance as is deemed appropriate.
When the silence stretches for much too long, you pick up your cup and take a big sip, hoping the cool water will calm your nerves. You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it.
“She likes you a lot already.” He states, raising his eyes over and glancing at the back of the couch.
A shy smile graces your face as you take another sip. “You could tell that from such a small interaction, Professor?” You glance up at him over the rim of your glass, and you don’t miss the way his eyebrows raise, and his face shows nothing short of amusement.
“Well, she is my kid after all, and I know her pretty well.” He takes a sip from his own glass, tapping his metal-clad fingers against the checkered walls of the cup. “And I don’t see why she wouldn’t like you.”
Of course, you were going to ask, what the hell does he mean by that? You smile, more confident now, setting your glass on the countertop and crossing your arms over your chest.
“Do tell, what's there to like?” Something about the entire conversation just felt… informal. You’ve never spoken to him outside of the lines of education or questions about exams. This type of talk was far beyond your teacher-student boundaries, even if it can be considered as fleeting small talk.
This makes him laugh, and you feel your lips twitch at the melodic sound. You try not to smile any harder than you already are.
“Asking for lip service now, are we (Name)?” His playful tone of voice carried a much lighter cadence than the authoritative tone he held in the classroom. You tried not to notice that tattoo that was peeking through his sheer white dress shirt.
“No, Mingi.” You reply just as playfully, and you find yourself rubbing your lips together, grounding yourself with the feeling of the layer of lip gloss on your lips.
His eyes linger on your mouth for just a fraction of a second, hardly noticeable. They trail up the side of your face, and his gaze stops on your eyes. Something in his eyes changes, a kind of shift that makes your heart stop for a moment. His jaw flexes and fingers twitch as he moves to cross his own arms.
“That’s Mr. Song, or 'sir' to you, young lady.” His eyebrows set hard, and you feel your stomach drop at the sudden change in attitude. He looks down at you like you’re small, like you don’t deserve his respect. As much as you’d like to push it, he controls your grades and ultimately your future. And passing up on such a gratuitous opportunity with this job simply to act a little too familiar with your professor would be borderline idiotic.
His eyebrows raise, and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, urging your confirmation of his command. “Understand?”
You swallow and nod your head politely. “Yes, sir.” You quickly grab your glass again and down the rest of the water, taking a moment to gather yourself, because as depraved as it was. That entire interaction made you god-awful wet.
“We may not be in class, but I’m still your elder.” He turns around and walks past you, a trail of his cologne passing beneath your nose and fogging your brain. You have to crane your neck to watch the back of his head as he walks away, the sheer size of him dizzying.
“If you don’t mind me asking.” You force from your throat, keeping your eyes on the floor as you speak. “Was there any reason you chose me specifically?”
He snorts, endearingly so. “Do I need a reason?” Like it was a dumb question, even though there are no such things in his words. “I just decided to hire you. Nothing more and nothing less.”
“Well, there were plenty of people who were just as capable, if not more so-“
He interrupts you with a whistle and a loud snap of his fingers. “What did I say?” He leans his head backward like he was annoyed, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips as he speaks under a low breath. “God, always so inquisitive.”
You stop from letting your mouth drop open in surprise. “If you have any implications swimming around that pretty brain of yours, forget it. You’re a capable girl, aren’t you?” He lowers his gaze to you, waiting expectantly for you to reply.
You nod and pick a piece of dust off your shirt. “Of course.” You reply in a small voice, but Mingi clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
“Say it out loud. C’mon.” You take a small breath and sigh quietly.
“I am capable.”
Mingi smiles and turns away from you once more. “Beautiful. Save the rest of the questions after we set up your payroll.”
He finishes, and he raises his hand and brings up his middle and ring finger, motioning to you in a “come hither” motion, a movement so slow that it seemed dizzyingly suggestive.
“Come now, while we’re still young.” You force your feet to move and follow him further into the house, passing his daughter as she plays on her own world on the couch, completely oblivious to the strange tension that lingered between her father and her new babysitter.
Mingi was intense, authoritative. He knew how he wanted things to be and made sure everyone else stayed in their lane. And you had a weird lingering feeling that nothing good was to come out of stepping that home privacy boundary.
But hey, two thousand was two thousand. And maybe you were being greedy, but something much more than money was keeping you from using your fucking brain and getting out of dodge.
He was not good for you, and god he knew it. You both knew it. But if the heat you felt in your lower belly and the racing of your heart were anything to go by, the gut instinct that told you not to walk into the wolf’s den was for sure one that was meant to be ignored.
After a smooth process of connecting your bank account, printing you a house key, and an extensive tour of the home, he sent you home with a thank-you bonus of a few hundred dollars and your schedule for the following week. Monday through Friday, at 3 pm, you would arrive at the Song residence. You would see Mingi off for his night classes and tend to his daughter until he arrived home at 10 pm.
He never mentioned a wife, or any kind of spouse. You had assumed they had most likely divorced, you never saw any picture of a woman around the house, and his daughter never mentioned a mother.
You had considered asking him about it, but something inside of you said that would be overstepping a grand boundary that should not be touched.
While you had Mingi’s morning class, he would only be on campus for those two hours before returning home to spend the rest of his day with his daughter, before the evening whisked him away to work once again. So, of course, you would still see him in class.
And it is so much worse now.
And you couldn’t help but feel that he found the whole thing amusing.
Teaching the class like normal, writing down key points on the board, reading through articles and poems, and helping everyone pick the words apart. You never called him sir in class; it was always Mr. Song or Professor. He asked you to call him sir, no, demanded that you refer to him as such when you visited his home.
So with a slow raise of your hand, to ask a question that truly meant nothing. He paused his writing to look at you, and he moved back around to continue his writing once you had been acknowledged. “Yes, ma’am?” He asks, while he finishes the cursive curl of his letter y.
“You say that symbolism in poetry is entirely up to the reader’s perception, and that we can choose to decipher it any way we see fit. Is that maybe a little too loose in terms of freedom, considering some people might extend their reach of understanding too far to be deemed within the author’s original intentions?”
It was an innocent question, a good one, maybe perhaps a little random. Mingi turns away from the board, ending the sentence he wrote with a heavy period, a loud thunk against the whiteboard. The edges of the blue ink splatter around the punctuation.
“It's as I said,” he begins, eyebrows relaxed as he finds you easily at your desk, rolling your pencil eraser over your bottom lip, a curious glaze of intrigue shadowing your eyes. “While it is entirely up to the reader, most people are smart enough to gather what the poet is trying to convey. Readers can come up with similar conclusions, but maybe with different rounded edges. There will be similarities, but there can also be differences, all because we perceive everything differently as humans.” He quietly adjusts the knot of his tie, the veins in his hand flushing as he moves.
You find your eyes falling to watch his arm move, his biceps struggling under his sleeves. You smile and nod, bringing your pencil down to your chin and tapping it lightly. “Thank you, sir.”
Nobody else catches it; it was so subtle that it wouldn’t have mattered to anyone even if they did. But his hand froze around his necktie, and his fingers twitched. His nose scrunched only slightly, and a sharp, quiet inhale made your skin prickle.
He nods quietly and turns back to the board to continue teaching. “Always with the smart questions.” He murmurs under his breath, and you both clearly knew that the question was about much more than just poetry.
The first day went surprisingly smooth. You arrived at his home early, of course, using your new key to unlock the door and welcome yourself in. His daughter was the first to greet you, running to you and enveloping your legs in a tight hug, her little nails digging into your skin with how hard she held you.
You said hi, all warm smiles and soft tones, only raising your eyes when you feel another pair on you. Standing at the end of the hallway was Mingi, leaning against a doorframe with relaxed ease, his tie loosened and his hair astray. He leaned his head against the white frame, his eyes low as he paid no attention to anything but you. You couldn’t read the expression on his face, and all you could feel was pinned. Like he was holding your body down with just his gaze, and it makes your heart kick up.
Then he smirked, a ghost of one if anything. A knowing, small smile that would be easy to ignore if it simply wasn’t him. Before you could say or do anything else, the little girl, whose name you learned was Ami, was dragging you away from the foyer, spewing phrases about new toys and complimenting your punctuality.
Mingi watches you walk away with his daughter, clasping your hand tight, and your sweet little warm smile returns as you respond to her words with enthusiastic earnestness.
She leads you to the couch, grabs the remote, and asks you to switch on a movie for her.
“Can I borrow your new friend for a second, sweetheart?” Mingi appears behind the back of the couch, his sudden presence nearly startling you out of your skin. He looks down at his daughter with nothing short of pure love, his gaze soft and his tone low and sweet. Ami pouts dramatically and crosses her arms.
Mingi pouts in turn, giving her playful puppy eyes. Then you feel his fingers gently brush the nape of your neck, a slow, gentle caress that was so light it could have been mistaken for a breeze. But it was too warm, too calloused.
“Please?” he whines with a smile, and his daughter rolls her eyes, setting down the remote with a clatter.
“Okay, Daddy, but bring her back.” Her little voice warms your heart, happy that she's taking a great liking to you. You swallow as you feel his fingers slip away from your nape, and you're standing on wobbly legs to follow him as he begins to walk away.
“I promise I will,” he says, blowing her a little kiss, to which she returns with a bright smile. Mingi is leading you away from the living room, and you follow behind with a sort of muted apprehension, and it feels like you are in school again. Like you were being led away by your teacher to talk about poor behavior.
Once you’re back in the foyer, he turns to you, and his soft, parental smile has fallen into something unrecognizable.
He pulls a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and hands it to you. “This is your list of things that should be maintained and done while watching her. Keeping the place clean, making sure she eats well. Everything we’ve already discussed.” You take the list and give it a swift once-over, mentally noting the most important things.
You slip it into your own pocket, raising your head to look at him once more, and for just a split second, you swear you caught his gaze lingering on your neck. “If you have any questions, my number is also on that piece of paper. Do not call me, but you can message me.”
You nod silently, and he sighs. “Can we work on your verbal confirmation? Use your words, please.” You can’t help the almost sour look that flashes across your face, and you quickly gather yourself before exaggeratedly dropping into a flashy curtsy.
“Yes, boss, I understand.” You say in a dramatic prim accent, but before you could stand back up straight, you feel his warm, large hand slip beneath your chin, gripping your lower jaw firmly.
He’s lifting you back up, leaning his head down so close that you feel his breath on your neck, his nose just shy of brushing against your ear. Your breath catches, and his sweet scent clouds your senses, and you could feel your knees start to buckle beneath you. Mingi’s hand keeps its firm hold on your chin as he lowers his voice to a heavy, throaty whisper that makes the skin on your temple tingle.
“Try again, and lose the attitude, gorgeous. You know better.” His breath fans over your ear, and you could physically feel the skin of the back of your neck flare warmly. He squeezes the pads of his fingers against the soft flesh of your cheek a little harder, and the heat blooms across your lower jaw at his tense hold, and you nearly melt into his hand. Your own voice drops to a nervous, shaky whisper, and you exhale slowly out of your nose. It was so quiet you could hear the wristwatch on his hand ticking by your ear.
“Yes… Sir.” You correct yourself quietly, and his hand still doesn’t move. Instead, his thumb gently runs over your cheek, a repeated soothing path like he’s trying to lull you to sleep with his caresses. He leans away from your ear, coming face to face with you once more, his nose mere inches from brushing with yours. So close you can see every strand of silver in his hair, every wrinkle at the corners of his eyes, every freckle, and the remaining five o'clock shadow from where he shaved earlier that morning. He smelled of faded cologne and wintergreen mints, and you could hardly stop your eyelids from fluttering.
His thumb moves over your bottom lip, gently pressing down on it like he was admiring how soft you were, taking a mental note of how easy you melt under him. How all he needed to do to get you to act right was to pet you like you were some kind of puppy.
It felt like an eternal standstill by the time he slipped his hand away from your face, and you could still feel the heat of it across your face. It felt so wrong. And god did you want to feel it again.
He turns and fixes his loose tie, slipping his blazer on and adjusting his watch. He walks away, leaving you standing like a dumb fawn, grinning as he opens the front door, his keys jingling in his hand. “Do behave yourself, while rewards and punishments are not handed out in class, my home is an entirely different story.”
And with that final note, the door shuts behind him with a click, and you are left in Mingi’s foyer with your heart in your throat and warmth in your stomach, and your entire body thrumming with what can only be described as anticipation.
-
You and Ami got along well, playing with toys and watching television. There was a small spat when you tried to get her to eat her veggies, but after some bribery with a promise of a packet of gummies, she offered up no more fight.
Putting her to bed was no easy feat either, her only surrendering at the promise of a bedtime story. You sent her off to go pick a book, and she came into her bedroom, trotting proudly with the first installment of the Narnia series.
When you dared to question her lengthy decision, she responded with, “Daddy has been reading this to me every night, we’re on chapter 6, he said you could continue reading it to me.”
You quietly roll your eyes, mumbling to yourself as she begins to tuck herself into bed. “Did he now?”
You didn’t complain, and you did find yourself easing into the storytelling, reading with a soft, slow tone to help lull her off to sleep, which didn’t take long, especially after a long day of play.
When her breathing evened, and her head went lazy on her neck, you switched off her lamp and set her stuffed zebra next to her arms and left her room, making sure her rainbow night light in the outlet was on.
You shut her door with a quiet click and sighed to yourself. First night done, now all that was left to do was wait for Mingi to arrive home. You pulled your phone out of your back pocket to check the time.
9:03
He was sure to be home anytime soon, so you decided to take the book you were reading with you downstairs. It had pulled you in enough just by that one chapter alone, and you found yourself wanting to read it from the beginning.
Your bare feet padded against the tile floors of the kitchen, the house asleep and silent as you picked a small mandarin out of the fridge. You sat at the kitchen island, gently peeling the citrus fruit as you held the book open with one hand, and began to read.
You found your fingers nimbly peeling the white veins of the orange and dropping them onto the napkin. Engrossed in the book, you slipped slice after slice of mandarin past your lips as you continued to read.
The quiet of his home was so different in comparison to your own. Tucked further towards the countryside, absent from the honking of horns and the screeches of tires. Just the tranquil sound of whistling trees and the occasional creak of the house settling. It was nice, something you could see yourself getting used to.
You weren’t sure how long you had been reading for, and it wasn’t until you heard the front door shut that you were ripped from your own little world. You hadn’t even noticed the jingle of keys in the lock. Your orange was long gone; only the shredded peel remained as he walked past the foyer, straight into the kitchen to see you.
He paused for a moment, taking in your peaceful little moment, then smiling to himself as he began to shed his coat and drape it over the kitchen table chair. “You look comfy.” He murmurs, loosening his tie.
You swallow a dry patch in your throat, the whole moment reeking of something inappropriately domestic. The low, warm lighting of the overhead oven light. Mingi quietly gets unready after a long day of work, your eyes catching on the way his muscles flex with every movement he makes.
Unclipping his watch and dropping it into the small wooden bowl on the edge of the counter, uncuffing his dress shirt and rolling his sleeves up once again, the hints of a tattoo you’ve never had the pleasure of fully seeing peeking underneath the white linen.
Running a large hand through his silver streaked hair, the strands falling around his face in an organized mess as he sighs, a deep and heavy sound that makes your thighs clench underneath the island.
You close the book absentmindedly, dropping your gaze to the counter just as he raises his eyes to look at you, and you clear your throat as you move to stand.
“I see you’re reading Narnia. Ami asked you to read it to her?” His voice was so quiet, so lofty, it made your brain fizz.
You nod. “She ate dinner well, told me she had fun playing with me today. She asked me to read to her, and she was out like a light by the fourth page. It intrigued me, so I decided to give it a gander.”
You raise your head again, gathering your orange peels in your hand and crossing over to the trash can in the corner. Once dropped in the waste, you turned to hand the book back to him. Your arm outstretched, to which he only stood and stared back at you, his eyes dropping over your body in a less than subtle once over.
He finally reaches out and takes the book from you, not without letting his long fingers brush against your knuckles. His two middle fingers slip between the pages, bookmarking the place that you had stopped at. You swallow as he puppy dog ears the page with one hand, before closing the book and setting it on the island.
The muted glow of the oven light shadowed his face in a soft yellow, the rest of him swallowed in the darkness of the home. He was so tall, his body big enough to stand in front of you and effectively block you from being seen by anyone.
“Well, I should be going.” You mutter, nervously wrinkling the corner of your shirt over and over again. “Thank you again.” You nod your head respectfully, and yet neither one of you makes any move.
Mingi doesn’t move; instead, he lifts his head, lowering his eyes to a half-lidded kind of gaze that makes you feel like you were being preyed on. He sees the tension in your shoulders, the unevenness of your breath, the uncertainty in your eyes, the curiosity in the way your fingers twitch at your side.
The unconscious way your tongue wets your bottom lip, the little vein in your neck that only he could notice.
Then he’s stepping forward, slowly, just enough to have you closer. Smell you, smell him. Not too inappropriate, but maybe not professional.
“I should be thanking you, darling.” His hand reaches out, oh so slowly, just enough to give you time to back away if you want. You don’t. His index finger finds a curl at the front of your head, gently twirling it around the tip of his finger, his eyes on yours.
A gaze so warm, so mistakenly hungry, you swore you were hallucinating. He watched you visibly melt, your lip forming into a parted pout, a beckon. A silent ask.
His finger moves away from the curl of your hair, dances along the side of your neck, brushes down with featherlight gentleness against the side of your throat, a tickling sensation that has your body shivering.
His eyebrows knotted together like he was conflicted, like he was battling an inner ache, one that he was holding himself back from showing.
You couldn’t take it. You simply couldn’t.
Your brain hadn’t caught up to your body, but before you could second-guess yourself, your hands shot out and gripped the collar of his dress shirt, dragging his head down and crashing your lips into his.
No words, no gasp, just a wanton moan that slips past your lips and against his.
Mingi growls from the back of his throat, a sound of sheer surprise, nearly losing his footing underneath him. He rips his head back, his eyes wide and his breathing coming labored.
You freeze, your hands holding nothing but air as he pulls himself away from you. Your heart dropped to your stomach. A look of pure fear on your face as you realized he didn’t reciprocate.
Fuck. Fuck.
A conflicted look flashes across your professor’s face, and he looked like he was about to give you what for. You screwed up.
You immediately open your mouth, ready to spew pathetic attempts at apologies and pleas for forgiveness. But he beats you to it.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” His gravely voice comes out strained and low, and a painful silence begins to stretch between you two.
Then, he bites his inner cheek, his hand lifts and slips his glasses off his face, all but letting them fall onto the counter, groaning low and sonorous, and he’s on you before you could breathe.
His hands slip around and grip either side of your waist, a tight, possessive hold as he slots his lips with yours, melting against your mouth like you tasted like a heaven he’d never get into.
His hands roam up and down your waist, his mouth opening and closing against yours, sliding his tongue over yours, and running it over your teeth. Moaning, sighing into your mouth, his eyebrows knit together in nothing short of pure bliss.
Your hands find his shoulders, your neck beginning to hurt from having to crane your head up to kiss him. All heat behind your tongues, warmth and wetness against each other as you feel a thin trail of drool slipping down the corner of your mouth.
Then he’s lifting you, picking you up off the ground, and dropping you on your ass on the kitchen island. Merely eye level with him, he kisses you deeper, shoving his tongue further down your throat, tilting his head to the side to completely devour you.
Your hands drag down the front of him, your palms flat against his chest, whimpering against his lips in tandem with his starved movements. A quiet “baby” is murmured around your tongue, and your entire body erupts into consuming flames.
His hands slip down and find either of your thighs, spreading them pretty and wide as he slots his lower body between them, pushing his body closer to your between your legs.
His hand moves back up and cups the back of your head, the other trailing up the front of your body and finding a grounding home at the base of your neck, pulling your head further into him as he takes like the greedy man he was.
Kissing the college girl on the counter as she tasted like bourbon, squeezing your flesh like it was keeping him sane, melting at the soft, needy moans that flowed down his throat from your reactions to his touch.
It was a breathless, taboo kind of lust that only people sick in the head can get a kick out of. And if this makes Mingi a sick man, then so fucking be it. He finds himself lost in the sweetness of your lips, the arch in your back. His hand trails down the side of your waist, warm and big as he finds the flesh of your thigh again, squeezing and pressing the softness, moaning at how smooth your skin feels in comparison to his rough hands.
His hand slips up the leg of your shorts, and warmth blooms on your skin, your body shivers as you lean further into him, your kisses turning needy, dangerously feral.
It’s your whiny, low moan that nearly undoes him. And the way your hands slide up to help further loosen his tie. But while he may not be a good man, he’s not a bad one either. With a type of restraint only a soldier could have, Mingi pulls away from your shiny, swollen lips, a thin trail of saliva between you both snapping silently.
Your heavy breaths mingle together, and he rests his forehead against yours, the hand on your neck slowly sliding away, and his other hand moving from your bare thigh to firmly place them flat on either side of your spread thighs, loosely caging your body against the island.
You say nothing, only fighting to catch your breath as your dizzy brain struggles to catch up. He looks down at the floor, the bulge in his pants loud and proud and fucking painful.
With a deep sigh, he turns away, wiping his mouth with the palm of his hand as he mutters a deep “fuck” beneath his breath.
You slowly crawl off the counter, realizing that you need to go. Now.
“I-I’ll see you tomorrow, Min- uh... Professor Song. Sir-“You stutter over your words, a foggy layer of need clouding your mind after having been kissed like he was trying to eat you alive.
Mingi seethes, inhaling sharply as he raises a hand to get you to keep quiet.
“Stop- goddamnit. Sweetheart, don’t call me ‘sir’ right now unless- unless you want me to fuck you against that wall.” You swallow, and it takes everything in your power not to get on your knees and beg for just that.
He could practically smell your hesitation, and it nearly made his entire body erupt into a muted shiver. You nibble on your bottom lip, he could see the way you nervously shake, and you open your mouth to respond, but he just knew what you were going to say, and he did not need to hear it right now.
“Oh, babygirl, you shouldn’t want that.” He ignores your pretty little glazed-over eyes and your frizzy hair that he messed up with his own two hands.
The addicting way you held onto him with your smaller hands, arching your back into him and keening into his touch, crying out as it hurt for every second he let you breathe.
“And neither should I.” He mumbles like he was trying to convince himself too.
Mingi massages his upper jaw, exhaling heavily out of his nose before he turns away from you again, truly believing that if he looked at you one more time, he wouldn’t be able to compose himself. Forty-something years old, and one of his students is making him feel things he hasn’t felt since high school.
“Go home.” He commands, his bassy, breathless voice sending a shockwave straight between your legs. When you don’t immediately move, Mingi clenches his jaw and slightly turns his neck, giving you a glimpse of the turmoil on his face.
“Now.” He bites out, and before you could form another thought, your body was moving.
You grab your things off the living room coffee table and slip out of the house, speeding off to your car and pulling off into the cricket-filled night, confused, turned on, and conflicted.
It was only the first day, and the walls were already crumbling.
-
The following week was torture. Dragging yourself out of bed after being kept up all night with ludicrous dreams, dreams of what could’ve happened if you two didn’t stop. Panties sticky and eyes heavy, you crawl out of bed and dread having to face him every day.
It went the same every day; you arrived, maybe a little later than usual. You avoided every look he shot your way, and you never asked any questions. Just listened and took notes, silently. And when it was time to watch his daughter, he’d be out the front door by the time your car pulled into the driveway, walking past you in silence as you effectively traded places.
You both knew it was for your own good, to keep whatever had been brewing between you two at bay, even if it was never explicitly stated. You had hardly said a word to your professor since that first day. But your eyes said everything.
His, too, god if you both couldn’t be subtle. He’d sit at his desk, watching you click away at your laptop, your leg bouncing beneath the table as you nibbled on your nail. He imagined things about you, things that made him have to adjust his pants before he stood to continue teaching.
And when he arrived home early? Fuck it was even worse. He’d quietly sneak in the front door and catch you and Ami on the couch, her head lying on her lap with her blanket tight in her grasp.
You read to her in a soothing, quiet voice, and gently, your hand stroked the top of her head, playfully brushing your fingers over her face like you were trying to convince her to close her eyes, all with a beautiful smile on your face.
Your pretty pout, your mothering voice, your frizzy hair, and your soft body. God, it makes him so hard it hurts. That night, he announced himself and offered to take Ami off to bed himself, and by the time he made it downstairs, you were already in your car and pulling out of the driveway. It was better this way anyway, Mingi would tell himself. But better for whom? And for what?
Why was this so wrong?
His morale was beginning to chip away, and with each passing hour, each passing day, it was getting harder and harder to keep his hands off of you. And he could tell you felt the same. Your lingering looks and the way your thighs would clench when your gazes met in the lecture room.
Saturday night. You did not go to class that day; therefore, you did not see him. But you would have to later. He always travels to campus on Saturday night to get any extra work done. A workaholic, you called him once. And it was true.
So when you arrived at his front door once again, you tried with every bone in your body to act normal. Unlocking the entrance, you walked inside the now familiar home and stopped in your tracks when you noticed him. Standing in the hallway entrance, like he was waiting for you.
His eyes are low, and his body seems tense. Wearing a form-fitting black dress shirt today, the top two buttons undone. Something more casual for the weekend. A small silver necklace with a dog tag pendant disappeared beneath the collar, and you could see the print of the tag through his shirt. His hair was messier, and his glasses were clasped loosely in his hand.
You breathe quietly, then he's walking towards you. Just as you think he’s going to stop, he walks right past you and reaches for his watch in the little brown bowl. “Ami is down for a nap; if she’s not up by five, go ahead and rouse her.”
He slips on the timepiece, then slides his glasses onto his face, letting them sit low on the bridge of his nose. You nod in acknowledgment, and he's already made his way to the front door, his car keys jingling on his fingers.
Just as you think he’s going to leave, he pauses, his hand hovering above the knob.
“And keep your hands out of my liquor cabinet, young lady.” Now that makes your heart stop. You may have indulged one night after you put Ami to bed, just a couple shots, nothing too concerning. But he had noticed, of course, he had.
When you don't reply, he turns back to you and raises his eyebrows in a scrutinizing question. “Next time, have enough manners to ask. That stuff is not cheap, sweetheart.” The pet name had a bite to it, and you can’t help but want to bite back.
He turns, opens the door, and takes one step outside.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll ask politely next time.” You speak the words with a ghost of a moan enveloping them, and you could see the way his shoulders tense and his hands squeeze the doorknob harder.
Mingi inhales sharply and keeps his head forward. The silence stretches so long and thin you think time might have frozen. And when he speaks next, it sends electricity through your blood, and you can't deny the way you feel your skin tingle.
He laughs, a slow, soft chuckle. “Keep that shit up, (Name),” he challenges, adjusting the straps of his watch in one swift movement. “I can be a bad man if you need me to.” Then the door is shutting behind him, a loud click that rivals the pounding of your heart in your ears.
The house is silent once again, and you are left alone with your racing thoughts and a really, really stupid fantasy in your mind that makes you feel like the nastiest bitch on earth.
-
The bottoms of your feet felt like they were burning, and the floors of his house were frigid. The heat of your body rivaled the still quiet of the house, Ami put to bed, leaving you as the only soul awake inside.
Mingi would be home any minute. And it was at this moment that you needed to make a decision. You weren’t sure what you were going to do, or rather, you weren’t sure what he was going to do.
Or what he wanted to do.
You felt trapped in a home with no lock, like there was no escape. The windows were unbreakable, and the walls were too thick. You were a trapped animal who did not want to leave in the first place.
You could argue that you were a dumb, naive little girl who didn’t know her way in the world, who couldn’t pick up on the signs that her professor wanted to fold her in half and show her what it felt like to be ruined by a real man.
You’d be such a liar, because that’s the one thing that you wanted. You were stupid for wanting this. And Mingi wholeheartedly believed that.
He believed that your wanting him was complete ignorance of consequences, turning a blind eye to plenty of boys who were perfect for a sweet girl such as yourself.
Choosing a man, one that would not care how much you cried those pretty tears, a man that would fuck you until you weren’t able to tell where you ended and he began.
And it was taking everything in his power as he climbed into his car after work that night to not drive himself off the bridge as he drove. Because that would be the sole and only way to stop himself from pouncing on you as soon as he stepped through the front door.
You lie on his bed. In his room. Invading his space without a care in the world as you took in his abode. Neat, clean-smelling, suffocating. Being in there felt like you couldn’t move a muscle without the walls closing in on you.
He strictly told you his room was off limits, that you had no business in there. He would come home, and he would find you in there, the doe on the wrong edge of the forest. And he would hunt you then and there, because you stepped into his territory, and the rules were painted in red on his sheets.
When Mingi first stepped foot into the house that night, he was surprised to find you missing from your usual place at the kitchen island. Reading a book, having a snack. Waiting for him so politely.
You weren’t in the living room, you weren’t in Ami’s room. The guest room, either. Were you hiding from him? He sighed and set his briefcase on the kitchen table, loosening his tie with a groan and setting his watch in the wooden bowl.
You could hear him from upstairs, the familiar sounds of him getting unready. You shifted in his sheets and sat up straight, straining your ears to listen for him.
Footsteps, the clack of the metal plates beneath his shoes, resonated throughout the house like gunfire. The sounds of them ascending the stairs, before the silence of his footfalls as he hit the carpet. He was upstairs.
Immediately, you began to second-guess your decision to be in here. Your choice to take this job. Hell, your choice to take his class to begin with. It was all too risky, too grey.
Silence again, and you could only feel your heart beating in your ears.
“I sure hope you’re not in there, doll.” His voice was so much closer that you could see his shadow through the crack beneath the door. His voice penetrated the walls of his room like a dark kind of fire, and it rattled your bones.
He could hear you. Hear you shift your weight on his sheets after he addressed you. He could hear you stand, hear you walk to the door, and stop in front of it like you were scared to walk any further.
“You’re not supposed to be in my room, you know better.” His tone was tinged with a disappointed, disciplinary note. Mingi teases you by lightly shaking the doorknob, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Why were you so nervous? You had no idea.
You know better. One of his favorite things to say to you. It was true after all. You do know better, but it doesn’t mean you acted like it.
Mingi wouldn’t admit it. Not to you, not to himself either. But he was having so much fun with you. You awakened this dangerous excitement in him that made him want to make all the wrong choices.
He wanted to bend you over his knee and punish you for affecting him the way you did. He wanted to bury his fingers deep in your hair and pull like he was trying to steer you about at his discretion while he worked you inside and out.
Mingi wanted to lay your body out and make you cum so many times you’d have to drop out of his class because every time you laid eyes on him, you would still feel him in your belly.
You made him feel alive, and at his age, that was a dangerous thing.
When you didn’t respond to him, he lowered his voice to a small, gentle coax, like he was trying to convince you he was no threat. “Listen, sweetheart, you’re not in trouble.” It was like he was using his dad voice on you, and you hated that it made you freeze and your heart flutter.
“I just want to talk to you. So are you going to come out of my room? Or am I going to have to come get you myself?”
Your hand hovered over the knob, and just as you dropped it to twist it open, you stopped. Your brain reeled in your skull, and you backed away from the door with small, quiet steps.
When Mingi realized you wouldn’t be opening the door, he couldn’t help but smile. So typical of someone so young and fresh-blooded like you.
You wanted to be found, you wanted to be desired, you wanted to be chased. You wanted Mingi to open that door and make you regret your decision not to listen to him.
You didn’t use your manners and ask with your big girl words, but don’t worry, he’d come in there and set you straight.
Just as you were starting to second-guess yourself, the knob twists, and the door makes no sound. No creak, no squeal on the hinges. Just a silent, slow invitation. The warm light of the stairwell flooded the floor of the dark bedroom, like a spill of orange oil. He stepped in, reached back, and shut the door closed once more with a muted click, and darkness shrouded the room again.
The silence stretched as he stalked towards you; with every step he took, you took one back.
With every step he removed something. His shoes came first, then he reached up and slipped his glasses off his nose, setting them on the dresser he passed by.
His tie was next, his big veiny hands untying it gracefully and wrapping it around the palm of his hand like a leash, teasingly, before he let it hit the floor.
One by one until you were backed against the wall by his headboard. His smell surrounded you like mustard gas, his body shadowed over you like a monster, and his eyes pierced through the dark like a hunter. You barely contained your trembling once he was close enough to touch, close enough to melt into.
His big, rough hands find your wrists, gently gripping them and sliding his palms up your inner arms, over your shoulders, to the back of your neck. He cupped your nape like he was trying to cradle your head from injury, so gentle and so loving.
He squeezed softly, stepping further into you, pressing his body against yours, molding your front with his. His head craned down, and he maneuvered your neck to train your eyes on him. In the dark, everything felt more intense. His touch on your neck burned, the way his thumbs stroked along the edges of your jaw, and his blunt fingernails scraped against your nape.
He inhaled deeply, like he was trying to calm himself.
“Asking for permission really isn’t your style is it?” He spits out the words like a reprimand, and he could feel you shiver under his touch when he said it. You had tears in your eyes, you looked like you had just dropped your lollipop, and you wanted to cry. You were so pretty.
You felt him everywhere, in your ribcage and in your head; he smelled so good. The silver in his hair glimmered from the lamp in the far corner. You heard a roll of thunder in the distance that sounded like Mingi’s moans. The onpour of rain that hit the roof like a broken television.
He looked so beautiful in the dark.
“We can fix that.”
While one hand remained on your neck, the other slid away, along your jaw, up the front of your throat, until you felt his fingers prod against your pouted lips. You opened with zero hesitation, and he slid his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, laying them flat on your tongue.
Oh, so slowly, he glides his fingers in and out of your pretty little mouth, pushing just far enough against the back of your tongue to make the tears in your eyes finally fall. “Such a nasty, pretty baby.” His eyes fell like he was entranced by you, your compliance, and the way you shook like a deer. His eyebrows knit together like he was trying to memorize you, everything about you.
He presses his fingers up, and your canines gently sink into the flesh, and it makes his skin tingle. Back down across your tongue, breaching the back of your mouth, gagging around him with a sad little choke.
He slips his fingers out of your mouth, and you hardly notice the saliva that connected to him, with how you could not pull your eyes away from his face. With a patience that drives you both mad, he trails his hand down the front of your body, over the swell of your breasts beneath your shirt, down to the waistband of your shorts.
He presses his hand at the back of your neck harder, forcing your forehead to collide with his. Nowhere to run as he slips his hand into your shorts.
“You wanna be nasty?” he whispers against your lips, and you catch yourself nodding. You didn’t even mean to, but he finds it so amusing.
Your entire body jerks when you feel his wet fingertips slide beneath your panties and brush over your lips, lifting the slightest bit, finding your clit with such quick ease you could hardly believe it.
Your hands shoot up and fist the front of his shirt, and your eyelids widen then flutter as he presses against that sensitive bundle of nerves, a gentle press and prod as he circles against your clit with teasing intent.
When Mingi watched you practically melt at the simplest of his touches, he felt the confessions start to rear at the backs of his teeth. The urge to tell you everything you may or may not want to hear.
His breath ghosts over your parted lips, his fingers making mind-numbing work of your clit, rotating movement and pressurized strokes that made your thighs shake around his wrist. With a deep breath, he pressed his lips to yours, slipping his thick tongue into your mouth and groaning down your throat.
His fingers claw at the back of your neck, tracing intimate patterns into your mouth, as his fingers dance away from your clit, and gently he prods at your dripping entrance. He coats his fingers in your arousal, and he presses his thigh between your legs to spread you further for him.
“You’re such a pretty little thing.” He whispers into your mouth, and you gasp against him when he slowly fills your soaked cunt with one thick finger, and you feel your eyes roll when he presses so deep and curls up just right. He circles the pad of his finger against that spongy spot, and he purrs into your mouth when your hands on his shirt tighten even more.
“I drive myself crazy thinking about you at night.” Slow, deep come-hither motions inside of you that had your breath coming in broken shudders. “I’d think about kissing you silly, holding you down, playing with you, having that smart mouth of yours moaning for me instead of giving me lip.”
You shiver as he slips a second finger inside of you, a slight stretch that had your knees buckling, but he kept you up by the back of your neck, fully pushing his body against yours and holding you still against his bedroom wall. You moan whiny and pathetic as he slips his thumb up and gently circles it against your clit, all the while his fingers keep curling nice and deep inside you.
“Would you like that?” He murmurs, pulling away from your lips and gently kissing below your ear, breathing lowly against the side of your neck. Your skin shivers as his voice brushes over your ear, and you can hardly control the way your body responds to him so effortlessly, like he has an invisible leash on you.
You nod, muttering out a pathetic ‘yes.’ Mingi pressed the tip of his nose against your neck and pressed his lips against your skin so you could feel them move when he talked. “Words, sweet girl. Haven’t I already told you this?”
It was hard to form words while he was fingerfucking you so well, so deep it was making your stomach cave in, but the need for more outweighed everything else. “Y-yes, sir.” You whimpered, and you felt your chest flutter when he groaned lowly against your ear, a guttural, primal sound that had you clenching around his fingers.
He leans away from your neck with a fleeting kiss, moving his hand from the back of your neck around to the front. Squeezing at the base of your throat, his fingers pressing on those sensitive, soft spots on the side that started making your eyes darken at the corners. His fingers pressed harder, deeper, coaxing inside of you with purpose that was making you go insane with bliss.
Your hands frantically grasped at anything you could, his wrist, his shirt, his belt, anything you could to ground yourself as he pushed you towards that orgasm. He held your throat nice and tight, and you were choking on moans as he fucked you with his thick fingers, and he breathed heavily against your lips. The grip on your neck kept your head in place for him, and as your eyes began to roll to the back of your head, he pressed against those soft spots a little harder.
“Eyes, darling, eyes,” he commands in a breathless moan, and you tear your eyes from the back of your head to look at him, and it nearly undoes you. His fingers are relentlessly curling deep in your pussy, his big warm hand squeezing your throat just tight enough to make your body feel all fuzzy. His dark, begging eyes make your stomach clench, his guiding, baritone voice making your whimpers slip out involuntarily.
“You wanna cum?” He whines against your lips, just lightly loosening his grip on your neck to allow you to respond. “Ask me nicely.”
“Yes, fuck- please…” You moan hoarsely, and Mingi takes his bottom lip between his teeth.
“So you do have manners.” He teases, his thumb brushing upwards against your clit as the grip on your throat tightens once more. “Cum then, baby. Let it go, make a mess for me.” The corners of your vision bleed into something dark, and he lowers his mouth to take your lips with his again, moaning softly into your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Come on, come on….” he barely whispers into the kiss, and you cannot deny him even if you tried. His fingers never cease, only slowing as he does his very best to prolong your orgasm like some kind of torture method. His fingers curl and prod, rolling inside of you as your orgasm rocks your body, a feeling so intense you feel like you are shattering from the inside out.
“Thats it, that's it. Don’t stop.” He keeps kissing you, fucking your cunt with his fingers, squeezing your throat just hard enough you feel like you might have been on the brink of passing out.
Mingi rides you through it, the restraint in his movements starting to slip away the more he sees of you. His hand on your throat moves away and slips beneath your shirt, up and over your smooth stomach, around to the warm skin of your waist. Up until his hand slips beneath your bra and cups the swell of your breast. So soft beneath his calloused palms, he finds that he can’t stop his fingers inside of you, massaging your chest and continuing to fingerfuck you through the overstimulation.
“Wait-” you whine out, interrupted by your own moans. Mingi reaches behind your back and finds the clasp of your bra with more surprising ease. It falls loose beneath your shirt, and he maneuvers your shirt over your head. He catches your surprise, and it only makes his cock twitch at your sweet expression.
“I’m a grown man, (Name).” He speaks against your cheek, slipping the straps of your bra down your arms until it falls onto his floor. “None of this is new to me, baby.” Finally, he slips his fingers out of your cunt, and the slick sound it made was embarrassing. He gives you no time to quell on it as he slides his fingers into his mouth and cleans your mess off him with a hungry moan.
His other hand makes quick work of the buttons of his shirt. One by one, unclipping the silver buttons until it's completely open. As he reaches for his belt, the clank of the metal makes your thighs clench. He cocks his head to the side, running his tongue over his bottom lip.
“Lie down,” he instructs, as he undoes his belt. The dark of the room shrouds his face, and a loud rumble of thunder rolls, much closer this time. You can hardly move at first, your eyes trailing down his body. Toned, the grey and black happy trail that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants is tantalizing.
You swallow and slowly sit on the edge of the bed, but Mingi doesn’t give you the chance to lie back on your own. Once he loosens his belt, he’s leaning over you and caging you in. His hands find your waist as he inches you further up the bed and pushes you onto your back. You stare at the dog tag on his necklace that swings back and forth as he sets you up how he wants.
His thighs, thick and strong, cage either side of your legs as he leans down, his hands massaging up your sides like he was trying to soothe you to sleep. He kisses between the valley of your breasts, down your chest, and along your stomach, all the while his hands make their way further down to the waistband of your shorts, teasing you with his fingers slipping beneath them as he worships your body.
“So soft.” He mumbles between kisses as he slips your shorts down your legs and off onto his floor. “So pretty, so sweet.”
When his fingers hook on your panties, he moans and nibbles on the flesh of your stomach, and your entire body tenses as he slips off the final piece of clothing.
Down your legs, off your feet, and onto the floor. He’s quick to sink to his knees at the edge of the bed, hooking his big, strong arms around your lower waist and pulling you to the edge of the bed, just enough to where your ass nearly hangs off.
He signals you with his hands, making a grabbing motion. You watch and slowly give your hands to him, and he laces his fingers with yours and holds your hands down against your abdomen.
Your thighs hang over his broad shoulders, his face inches away from your dripping cunt, and Mingi’s eyes bore into yours as he places a soft, gentle kiss against your mound.
You whimper in anticipation, and his hands squeeze yours harder, your limbs twitching at his pinning gaze.
“You want my mouth, honey?” He teases, blowing a stream of cold air against you, your thighs twitching around his head.
“Fuck… please?” You beg lowly, and he gently lets his tongue loll out of his mouth, splitting your lips with a low laugh. When you jerk at the feel of his warm tongue, he tugs your hands harder against your stomach and trails his tongue up to circle your clit.
“Stop squirming, and take it for me.” He opens his mouth and takes your sensitive nub into his mouth, running his tongue over it and sucking it like he’s been deprived for months. Which technically wasn’t a lie. He had dreams of your taste, dreamed of the reactions he could drag out of you with his mouth.
Your moans come out high-pitched and cracked, his warm mouth working your poor pussy out like his favorite meal. Obscene, sloppy noises as he fucks you open with his mouth. Detaching from your clit and burying himself between your thighs even further. His nose nudges the nerves while his tongue slips inside of you. Tasting you, drinking you, making you cry like a baby while he ruins you.
“F-fuck… too much-!” You were so sensitive after his fingers fucking you stupid just mere minutes before, and now his thick tongue is filling you like no other, his pretty big nose pressing up against your clit so perfectly it was insane.
He lets go of your hands, just to take both your wrists in one hand while the other flattens against your stomach, trailing down along your inner thigh, before gently sliding between your slick pussy lips.
“Fuck, you taste incredible, such a wet mess.” He wraps his lips around your clit and slides his coated fingers inside of you once again, and your voice shatters when she curls them perfectly. The stimulation of his mouth and the feel of his fingers pressing and kneading, your wrists twist and turn in his grasp, but he makes no move to let you go. He only squeezes tighter. He groans around your clit, and your mouth falls open as the vibrations of his voice send sparks flying in your brain.
Moaning like he could feel it himself, slow, coaxing motions of his fingers against your walls that had your eyes rolling, the tip of his tongue circling your clit just enough to have you tethering that edge.
“Good girl… good girl…” he coos, his voice muffled as he focuses on getting you to cum again. “Feel me, focus on me, pretty baby. God…”
He was getting off on your frantic movements, your endless amounts of arousal that seemed to gush from you. The way you clenched around his fingers when his voice vibrated around your clit.
“You’re right there.” He encourages, shaking his head back and forth against your cunt, your arousal slipping down his chin and coating his lips, the wet slurping sounds so nasty and vile.
“Keep working for me, you're so close.” Mingi talks you through it, pulling away from your clit and littering wet kisses against your tummy. “Rock your hips, tell me what feels good, let me hear you.”
You choke out a broken cry, and he’s tempted to let up just so you can quiet down, but he’s addicted to you, and he couldn’t stop even if he tried.
“U-up..” you stutter out, and he wastes no time. Gently, he moves his fingers inside of you, nudging them upwards a little more. He feels it, your body tense and your cunt clench, and you let out a low groan.
“There… right there…” You exhale, and he presses up against that spot, circling the tip of his fingers against it repeatedly, instead of thrusting them. A constant, mind-numbing pressure that feels so good it hurts.
“Yeah, there we go.” He grits out, bringing his tongue down and flicking it up against your clit in soft kitten licks, a slow light, warm pressure that makes your hips jerk to chase it more.
You try to cry out, beg for more, but the harder his fingers pressed, the less you could remember English. Your breaths were whiny, and your voice kept cracking, and you were so close to cumming again.
“I'm going to count you down, darling.” His low voice pulls a low wail from your chest, and you try to move your hands to grab his head to push him further against you, just to remember he had you restrained.
“You can cum your brains out when I get to one, okay? Can you do that for me?”
You nod your head frantically, your hips bucking against his tongue that oh so gently teases your clit. Mingi smiles and nibbles your sensitive nerves playfully, and then he starts to increase the pressure of his fingertips against your G-spot.
“10.” You cry out when he runs his tongue along your inner thigh, up and down, a teasing motion against the sensitive skin that makes your entire body flare with heat. “9… 8… 7…”
With every number he bites you. Sinking his teeth into your thigh, your stomach, your clit, anything his mouth could reach between your legs. And all the while, his fingers never stop curling.
“6… 5… uh uh. C’mon, baby, get a hold of yourself, not yet.” He feels you clench hard, your moans getting breathy. He knows you’re so close, he can hear it in your tears. But he gave you a command, and he expects you to follow it.
“You can do it… 4.” He wraps his lips around your clit one more time, and this time he lets out long, drawn-out groans that come from deep in his chest, the quiver of his voice stimulating your clit so perfectly you thought you wouldn’t make it.
“3…2… c'mon baby, make it good. Cum yourself stupid for me, okay? For me… please?”
God, when he whines. It hurts your head. You force yourself to breathe, the knot in your stomach tighter than ever. He lets go of your wrists, and immediately, your hands fly and bury themselves in his soft hair. His now free hand snakes underneath your thigh and hikes it further up his shoulder, prying you open as your legs begin to close around his skull.
His tough fingers sink into the soft flesh, and he drags his tongue over your clit in repeated, pressured waves.
“1… go ahead, baby, cum for me. Don’t hold back, give it to me. Let me have you.” You shatter, instantaneously. It hurt, it felt amazing. Your entire body locks up, his hand on your thigh, squeezing so hard it was sure to bruise, his fingers coax and prod, dragging you through it.
He moans around your clit, and you feel like you’ve been shocked with volts of electricity. Your fingers grip his hair at his scalp, the intensity of your orgasm nearly knocking you out.
He laps at your pussy, drinking up the slick that spills from you, and you find yourself limp beneath him, regaining your breath as he cleans you up greedily during the aftershocks. Purely for his own enjoyment, it seems. He could watch you do that all day. He finds himself wondering if you’ve ever squirted before.
He rests back on his haunches, taking in your body below him. Squirming and soaked, begging for his hands and for his mouth.
“You’re so fucking bad for me.” Mingi breathes out in barely controlled disbelief, like your very being was something unhealthy while he was on a diet.
He’s leaning back over you and letting one hand slip around your body, pressing against your lower back to arch you a bit, his other hand unbuttoning his pants with hurried precision.
His lips swallow yours in a hungry moan, tilting his head and kissing you long and deep and frantic, your heavy breaths brushing against each other, his warm tongue running over yours in a cannibalistic kind of hunger.
“You’re making me such a bad, bad man, baby.” Mingi coos into the kiss, and while he’s kissing you into a fever, you feel something warm and heavy press against your stomach. Slowly, he grinds his hips against you, humping his cock against your belly.
You can tell two things immediately. Number one. Mingi was feral. The kiss was all teeth and drool, not giving you one second to breathe. The hand on your back is moving back up and gripping the back of your neck to help maneuver your head in the best way to kiss you as deep as possible.
And two. He felt so fucking huge.
Not to mention the mere size of him as he is, his broad shoulders shielding you from even being able to see the ceiling of his bedroom itself. But you can feel his cock twitch against your flesh. Long, so much so it reaches past your belly button, thick, hot. He was gonna split you in half, there was no doubt about it.
When he finally gives you a moment to breathe, he’s taking his other hand and grabbing the underside of your thigh, lifting it and maneuvering your leg over his shoulder, your ankle resting next to his head.
Spreading you nice and pretty, he reaches back down and grabs the base of his cock, setting it between your drooling lips, twitching against your clit, and you groan loudly into the space.
He gently moves his hips through your folds, a slow, slick glide as he lubes himself up with your arousal, moaning low and deep as he coats himself with you. His hand drags up your body, grabbing every inch of flesh he can before his hand is cupping over your mouth, pressing down nice and hard.
Your eyes widen as his hips never cease their movement, only gliding even smoother the wetter the length of his cock gets. He leans down to press his lips against your ear, and he kisses it lightly, his shaky breath fanning over you.
“Shh…shh.” he coos, and he cock jumps when he feels your moans vibrate beneath his palm. He litters the side of your neck with wet kisses, and your entire body shivers as you realize that no matter what you do, you cannot move.
He has you pinned against his mattress with the strength of his own body, holding you down with his weight. He feels you shake, and he swears he feels your cunt get even wetter, and he’s barely holding back the primal urge to pound you into his bed until you cry for him to stop.
“Not gonna use a condom with you, baby, I’m going to give it to you raw, maybe fuck some manners into your head while I’m at it.” Mingi groans nice and low against your ear, and then he’s finally sinking his cock into you, nice and slow. Stretching your pretty little pussy out as torturously as he can manage.
When you squeal beneath his hand, he shakes his head and leans back, his eyes lock with your watery ones as he clicks his tongue.
“No baby no….” He purrs, but he doesn’t stop sinking into you, pressing his hand further against your drooling mouth. “You have to be quiet, okay? Please?” He begs in a low, whiny tone. You can feel every vein of him graze against your pulsing walls, your tears spill down your cheeks and flow over his knuckles, and he whispers sweet nothings to you as he seems to sink into you endlessly.
“Such a pretty crier, darling.”
“Almost there, just a little more, beautiful slutty girl, taking me so well.”
His fingers are wet with your tears, and he can’t quite bottom out yet; he has to fuck himself deeper into you.
“Alright, I need you to be a good girl for me and keep that pretty mouth shut, I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?” You whine with a broken cry, and he’s pulling his hips back, sliding the length of him out of you, and then sliding right back in with a moan you can feel in your chest. Your legs shake as he pushes himself just a little deeper this time, and your belly feels full of him.
“Yeah, you've been wanting me to mess this pussy up, huh, baby?” Mingi’s free hand finds the base of your throat once more, helping keep you quiet by limiting your airflow. And you tighten around him so much that he has to pause because he physically cannot move any further.
He laughs lowly, and he peeps the way your eyelids flutter, and you seem to have drunk haze over your eyes. One hand over your mouth, so large he practically has your entire jaw in his grip. The other with a grounding hold on your throat, just tight enough to make you a little dumb. His entire body presses down against yours, pinned beneath him, so helpless.
His cock thick, heavy, and deep in your guts, slow, mean strokes that make your drool pool in the back of your throat.
He grins, and then he’s pressing himself deeper into your cunt, and you moan gutturally against his palm.
“Nasty little girl. You like not being able to breathe when I fuck you? Huh?” You don’t answer, of course, just moan and whine as he fucks his cock into you, deep and slow.
Your muscles start to tense from the pressure, your leg straightening over Mingi’s shoulder as the pleasure absolutely sweeps you away beneath his warm body.
“Your legs are locking up, baby.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply. “C’mon, relax, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” He teases you, even while drilling his cock into you like he was insatiable.
Then he’s slipping his hand underneath your knee, bending your leg forward, and pressing it against your chest. You cry out, and suddenly he’s sinking in ever deeper, and you feel so incredibly full. His hand slips away from your mouth for just a moment to hook beneath your other knee, and pushes it up to your chest as well, folded underneath your professor like some kind of doll.
You choke out an overstimulated sob, and once he’s able to hold both your legs down against your body with his chest, his hand is back on your mouth to keep your noises down.
He stops moving his hips and shivers, the new angle having you so much tighter around his cock, and with your knees up to your shoulders, making you look so small, he’s seconds away from losing it.
“S-Sir…” you whine beneath his palm, your cries muffled and your breath hot against his skin. Mingi’s cock jumps inside of you when he feels your voice against his hand, and he drops his head by your neck with a shaky, low moan.
“I’m sorry, pretty baby.” He murmurs in your ear, and then he starts to move again. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
This time, he’s kissing spots so deep you feel him in your ribcage. His tip scraping that perfect spot that makes your muscles cramp, and your throat catches.
“Am I too big for you?” He smiles against the flared skin of your throat, pulling his hips all the way back, tantalizingly slow enough to force you to feel every thick inch of him stroke in and out of your walls.
He leans away from your neck and looks at you, your eyes fluttering and your nose flaring as he slowly eases into a meaner pace, nearly pounding your cunt like he couldn’t control himself.
“Look at me, baby,” Mingi mumbles softly, and when you don’t respond, he squeezes your jaw harder, and your eyes shoot open. “I said, look at me, right here.” His voice is rougher this time, commanding. Like how he talks to the class when he wants their undivided attention, but this time it’s laced with pure primal need.
Your eyes lock with his, and everything starts to crumble. Your whines break into breathless, sad whimpers, your legs shake even when he’s got them pressed to your chest, your pussy gushes around him as he finds a relentless, deep rhythm, drilling his fat cock into you.
“Holy shit, you’re soaked.” He breathes out, pressing his lips against the back of his hand that covers your mouth. His hips smack against yours, a wet slap of skin with every drag of his hips; you could hardly hear yourself think.
“Good slut… fuckkk- my baby is so needy, hm? Such a selfish pussy.” He’s bullying you now, his swollen lips shiny and wet, then finally he’s taking his hand off your mouth and immediately replacing it with his lips.
Kissing you slow and deep, muffling your cries with his own mouth. His tongue fills your mouth, and your moans vibrate against him, and you feel as he starts to fuck up into you faster, the slaps of skin louder and the pleasure scraping up your spine and rendering you cockdrunk.
“Such a crybaby.” He groans down your throat, his warm chest pressed against your own like a heated cage, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
“Mm, just wanna- fuck… just wanna make you feel good.” He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip and almost growls, and you notice he’s starting to get rougher, get meaner. Losing control.
He started to ramble in cracked moans under his breath. “Better than her… p-prettier than her… fuck-! Softer than h-her…”
You hadn’t had half the mind to dwell on his words, but you just knew he must have been talking about his wife. Whether she was in the picture or not, he was still thinking about her. And you hated to admit it, but it sent your ego soaring.
His hands grip the underside of your thighs, pushing your legs harder against your body, then he’s dragging his hips back with a heady growl and pounding you.
Hard, deep thrusts that have you sliding up the mattress, he’s careful enough not to send the headboard flying against the wall, but it’s still enough that it sends your poor little brain into a frenzy.
“Shouldn’t be letting me do this to you.” He breathes through gritted teeth, his messy salt and pepper hair falling over his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak again, but interrupted himself with a broken moan. You felt so fucking good around him, he couldn’t believe it.
A wet, blissful mess under him. Such a smart girl who risked everything she had just to be ruined by a man old enough to be her father. There was no redeeming himself now. And he wasn’t sure that he’d want to.
“Does it feel good? Does my baby feel good here?” His hand gently presses against your lower stomach, where he’s buried inside of you, teasing you with heated questions he knows you don’t have the capacity to answer. You shake and shiver every time his tip kisses that sweet spot.
You’re doing so well, keeping your voice down, struggling to breathe as you try to keep your noises to yourself. And in all honesty, all he wants to do is hear you. He wants to hear you squeal and cry for him, but not while his daughter is home.
“P-please…!” You weep, your hands scrambling to grab something, anything. He doesn’t let you, grabbing both your wrists in his huge hand and lifting your hands above your head.
“Wrap your legs around me.” He bites out, sliding his hand from under your thigh and covering your mouth once again. Your muffled whines flow through his hand as you follow his command, wrapping your shaky legs around his waist as he adjusts the position of his hips so he can put as much force as he can behind his thrusts.
With your wrists pinned above you and your mouth beneath his palm, his gaze burns through your skull, and his eyebrows knit together like he’s focusing. “Shh. Be still, be quiet.”
You whine loudly, and he presses his hand harder against your mouth, shaking his head like he was disappointed.
“No ma’am, you know better.” He groans, sinking his teeth into your shoulder to muffle his own noises as he starts to fuck you so hard it’s like he is trying to force your cunt to mold to his shape.
Resolute, deep, cruel, Mingi uses your body like he is burning from the inside out. Angling his hips upward with every thrust to perfectly graze against your G-spot in a way that had you spiraling forward to your orgasm in record time. Your neck involuntarily cranes backward, and his hand follows your movements, keeping a tight grip on your jaw to muffle you.
Your wrists wiggle in his grasp, your hands shaking and spasming as all you feel is white-hot bliss. Like your entire being was pleasure embodied, and Mingi was working you out so perfectly.
The wet slaps were impossible to mask, the creak of the bed rivaling Mingi’s only thought that swam around his brain.
Break her. Break her. Break her.
You sobbed quietly, and you couldn’t believe this was happening. It all felt too good, and Mingi was way too good at this. It would be easy to get addicted, and it would ultimately be the downfall for you both. But you were too lost in it to care; all you wanted was to cum, and Mingi was getting you there no problem.
“I know baby, I know.” He growls under his breath, and your stomach lurches.
Mingi whines out broken and low curses, dropping his forehead against yours, his body jerking when he feels you tighten around him.
He lifts his eyes to your fucked out ones and kisses the tip of your nose, such a soft gesture, all the while he pounds your pussy to death.
“You cumming beautiful?” He exhales, and you nod frantically beneath his hand. There’s a conflict in his eyes, then he’s leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“I’m gonna move my hand, but you have to be quiet, darling. I want this to be good for you, but you have to breathe through it.”
You weren’t really listening, too focused on your orgasm, the more it coiled in your lower stomach. You nodded, anything to let you cum. Mingi wasn’t buying your eagerness, and he shook his head.
“Look me in the eyes and say you understand.” You force your eyes to lock with his, his hips slowing to a deep grind, your shuddering breaths warming his hand.
Your pleading gaze has him crumbling, and slowly he slips his hand away and grips the front of your throat loose enough you can breathe, but enough to assert control.
“I u-understand!” You cry, your voice a low whimper. “Please, Mingi, I’ll b-be good! I promise…”
Your sweet voice, it makes his cock twitch inside of you, and he grinds so deep into you that your lungs shake.
“Beg.” He snarls, forming his lips into a mocking pout. “Say, ‘Please let me cum, please fuck me through it, please.’ Make it pretty, use your manners.”
Your nose flares, and your cheeks are wet with tears make Mingi’s heart pound.
“Please… let me c-cum.” You whimper, your bottom lip wobbling, every word a drunken slur. “Please, wan’ it so bad… please.”
He smiles greedily, your pleas trailing off into quiet, mindless babbles, while he slips his hand between your melded bodies and finds your clit.
You feel his fingertips press up against it, and a gasp tears from your lungs, your legs tightening around him enough to force his hips to sink his cock deeper into you. Mingi tucks his bottom lip between his teeth drunkenly, circling your clit and grinding his hips into you each time he bottoms out with every powerful thrust.
“Yes. Yes…” You weep pathetically, and with every clench of your cunt, every sweet noise from your mouth, Mingi finds it very hard to push the thought of fucking a baby into you to the back of his mind.
His body craves it, his soul screams at him to fill you up, his cock twitches from the sensitivity of holding himself back. He knows that it would be bad for both of you. Once he lets go like that, he’s going to want to fill you up again, again, again. Until the results are satisfactory and you are round with his child.
He doesn’t want that. He’s sure you don’t want that. His body craves it, his instincts pick up on your young, palpable fertility like he was some kind of animal.
Your legs lock up around him, and your back arches off the bed, so close to that blinding edge. Your hands reach around his claw at his broad back, your nails scratching him up, dragging a wince from his lips.
“M-Mingi-! Oh my god… right there- right there…”
The authoritative honorific long abandoned, your brain clouds over as your orgasm creeps up your neck.
“You got it, sweetheart…” he praises, never stopping the repetitive strokes of his fingers, the filthy grind of his hips. “Cum for me, all over me, please baby…”
He kisses the front of your throat, sucking dark marks into your soft skin and running his tongue flat over them. Repeated begs for you to fall apart on his cock, begging for you to let go.
Your entire body tenses, and then it washes over you in waves; they seem to never stop. He doesn’t stop moving his hips; he starts to fuck you faster. Dragging your orgasm out and taking advantage of how tight you’ve gotten, you cry out and shake violently. Mingi gives you no room to breathe, every slick sound of his cock slipping in and out of you so smoothly, only seeming to help you cum harder.
“That’s it… yeah… c’mon babygirl. Don’t stop. Cum until it hurts.” He smashes his lips with yours and moans loudly down your throat, his tongue invading your mouth with a greedy hunger, fucking you with renewed vigor. His hands slide up and cup your jaw, holding your head still as he kisses you stupid.
Then, your legs tighten around him, you tilt your head, and kiss him deeper. You force his hips against yours, and he sinks deeper into you.
“Inside.” You moan around his tongue, and you could feel his low, gravelly whine against your teeth. “Please.”
“Fuck…” he growls, and the hands on your jaw slip up and splay against either side of your face, holding you like you might try and run from him. “Don’t say that.”
But you double down. “Please, sir. Need you to fuck me full of you… get me all messy.”
Mingi gives you a warning look, his thumb slipping down and pushing against your chin, opening your mouth for him. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, and you watch as a string of spit falls down the tip of his tongue and into your mouth, and your entire body erupts into an uncontrollable shiver.
“You want it?”He grunts, molding his lips with yours and kissing you so nastily, so dirty, you swear you were cumming again. You whisper pleading ‘yes’s’ and whimpering begs for him to fill you up, and you could practically feel the resolve crack in hips. “Gonna make this pussy a fucking mess.”
How could he resist? Mingi’s hips stutter, and his mouth opens against yours, breathing heavily, exhales broken with whines and groans. His pretty eyes half lidded, and his eyebrows pulled together as he shoves himself deep in your cunt one last time before he’s cumming, rolling his hips into you as he shakily moans against your lips, filling your pussy up with him.
Warmth spreads throughout your body, and Mingi’s entire body presses down heavily against yours, his hips grinding against you in slow, repeated motions, making sure not a single drop of him slips out of you.
Your heavy breaths fill the quiet of his room that has fallen, and realization begins to set in. There was no coming back from this.
You weren’t going to drop his class. You weren’t going to quit the babysitting job. You needed both, and Mingi could do without you, no matter what you decide to do.
He could find a new babysitter. It would be one less paper to grade.
But he doesn’t think he would be able to go one day without craving you like some kind of drug.
Slowly, he crawls off of you, his heart still racing. You sit up on your elbows, and immediately you move to gather your clothes, but his hand on your wrist stops you.
“Whoa, whoa, wait. What are you doing?” His gentle, kind voice has returned, and your eyes widen as you freeze in place.
“I’m- I’m getting my stuff…?” You’re confused, and he shakes his head like he was disappointed. He stands up and guides you to stand with him. He towers over you, and his hands, which were so rough with you earlier, caress the sides of your arms.
Up your shoulders and along the marks he littered along your neck. He presses his lips to the top of your head and kisses you softly, inhaling the smell of your shampoo. “Let me take care of you.” He murmurs into your hair, and you exhale shakily.
“Why?” You answer, and he rolls his eyes and scoffs.
“What a stupid question.” He laughs, massaging your shoulders and maneuvering you to walk towards his bathroom.
“I thought you said there was no such thing.” You tease, and he opens the bathroom door before picking you up and setting you on the counter.
“I can be wrong sometimes.” He shrugs, turning around and opening the sliding glass door of the shower. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
While he’s adjusting the temperature of the water, you turn and look at yourself in the mirror. You were an awful wreck. Frizzy hair, sweaty skin, dark marks on every inch of your body. He really did a number on you.
“I am still a gentleman after all.” He smiles and turns to fetch you once again, scooping you up and setting you inside the tub.
“You weren’t acting like one earlier.” You mumble, and he scoops some water in his hand and splashes it on your face. Your mouth falls open in shock, and he raises a warning eyebrow at you.
“Manners, young lady.”
Mingi cleans you up with a soft rag, gently washing you clean with a soap that smells like him. You nearly fall asleep in his arms, strong and grounding as held your body up.
He’s careful with you, like you’re made of glass. Attentive to your sensitive spots. He dries you off like a baby duck, avoiding your hair to not mess it up any further.
Once he’s got you cleaned up, he ushers you downstairs and urges you to eat something while he takes a shower of his own. He ever generously cuts you up a bowl of fruit, wearing nothing but a loose towel around his waist.
That strange domesticity from the first night he had hired you returned tenfold. And you couldn’t pull your eyes away from him while he worked. His damp hair clinging to his skin, his skin shiny and freckled. The tattoos on his body faded and turned green from the years of existence.
He lay you on the couch, gently massaging your ankles while you ate the fruit, a comfortable quiet settling over both.
“You can sleep here, if you want.” He whispers, massaging your calves. His glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, and he glances at you over them. You avoid his gaze, very interested in the pieces of kiwi sprinkled about your bowl.
“I shouldn’t.” You mumble, and you could feel his grip on your calf loosen. You turn and lock eyes with him, and he thinks he would do anything for those pretty eyes you give him.
“We shouldn’t.” You finish, and you move to stand, but he follows you. His hands cup your elbows and pull you close, flush to his chest. His fingers caress the fragile bone in your arms, and he leans his head down to kiss your forehead.
“Just for tonight, you shouldn’t be driving. You can hardly keep your eyes open.”
He kisses your eyelid, trailing chaste smooches down the side of your face until he melts against your lips, breathing deeply as you lean into him.
His hands slide down from your elbows to gently envelop either side of your waist, tilting his head to greedily kiss you deeper.
You sigh into his mouth, and he could feel you relax in his arms. Your hands reach up and wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him further against you.
“Okay.” You whisper, pulling away from his lips. He smiles, the smile lines making your heart flutter in your chest. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then he’s leading you away once again, the half-empty bowl of fruit abandoned on the side table. “Just this once.”
Of course, once would turn into twice. And before you know it, you have a routine with him.
Moments that were spent together in the privacy of his own home gradually transitioned into fleeting touches in the campus library, pushing you up against secluded bookshelves and eating you out to high heaven.
Dragging you to his office after class and bending you over his desk and having you then and there like some kind of animal.
You even went so far as to have him over at your home, riding on the hope that your parents wouldn’t decide to come home early from their date nights.
If the board found out, he’d be terminated effective immediately. If your parents found out? God knows how they would feel.
So you agreed to keep this little secret between you two. His daughter was none the wiser, and she never questioned whenever you chose to stay the night, it only made her happier.
You and Mingi had something. Something good? Something bad? You weren’t sure just yet.
For now, you were having fun. Something someone your age should prioritize. You act like strangers in class, only fleeting looks that were silent promises for what was to come later in the privacy of his home.
These kinds of things were always bound to end in a disaster, and god you prayed it wouldn’t. Just this one time.
You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t his wife. You were a placeholder of sorts, a ghost to fill the empty shadow left in the home. You had no place there, but the longer you stayed the more you began to burn your imprint into the floorboards.
The wolf can keep that fawn as a pet for a little while, but its instinct to consume will always outshine later down the road.
And the fawn’s instinct to flee will always be there; it never disappears. However long it chooses to ignore it, will only prolong the pain that will destroy it when it is finally devoured.
ᯓ pairing : best friend's brother!heeseung x f!reader
ᯓ synopsis : you never expected a simple sleepover at your best friend’s house to turn into something dangerous. heeseung — jena’s older brother, known for his effortless charm and terrible habit of flirting — was supposed to be off-limits. but stolen glances turn into lingering touches and teasing grows bolder. every visit makes it harder to pretend nothing is happening, and every almost-moment leaves you wanting more.
ᯓ wc : 11.5k
ᯓ warnings (MINORS DNI) : heeseung is around 26 here and reader is 21, smut, softdom!hee, little bit of sub!hee at the end, piv, unprotected sex (don't!!!), tit play, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, pet names (pretty, baby, seungie, hee calls reader good girl like two times...?), bigdick!hee, riding, missionary, hee is lowk vocal here....
ᯓ author's note : first smut here,, pls bare w me, i am not good :c
the hallway was loud after class, but you and jena had already slipped into your own little bubble — walking side by side, sharing a bag of chips, trying to decide where to spend tomorrow's sleepover.
"your place?" jena offered, kicking a pebble across the pavement. you shook your head, "my room's a mess... and i don't feel like cleaning," you admitted. "same," she sighed dramatically. "i haven't done laundry in, like, a week." you both paused at the entrance steps, staring at each other with the same defeated expression before you burst out laughing.
"so where do we even go, then?" you asked. "hm..." jena tapped her chin, "we could go to a 24 hour cafe and pull an all-nighter."
you wrinkled your nose. "uh— no. i just wanna curl up somewhere comfy."
"hotel?" she inquired.
you responded, "we are literally broke."
jena looked down before replying, "true."
and there was a moment of silence, then jena snapped her fingers. "okay, then we'll do it at my place," she announced. "it's okay, i'll beat my laziness and tidy my room. plus, my fridge is full, and we can be loud without anyone yelling at us because my parents are on a business trip."
"perfect, i'll bring snacks," you grinned.
you bumped shoulders with her as you headed toward the bus stop, already imagining the pile of blankets, the stupid romcoms, and the late-night gossips.
at least, that was until jena added, almost too casually, "oh, by the way... my brother's home."
you turned your head to look at her, "your brother? the one everybody talks about?"
she blinked furiously, "uh, well— yeah, him."
you'd heard of him, of course. everyone had.
lee heeseung.
a campus legend without even trying to be. the tall, effortlessly attractive engineering alumni who people pointed out from afar but never approached.
jena once showed you a candid photo of him grabbing coffee, and even in the blurry shot, he looked unfairly good — messy golden brown hair, long fingers wrapped around a cup, and that stupidly sharp jawline.
apparently, he kept to himself, didn't go out of his way to talk to anyone, and yet every time he showed up on campus to pick jena up, people whispered like he was some celebrity.
you'd never met him. he was just a myth contained inside jena's stories.
you opened your mouth to ask something, but jena cut in immediately, holding up a finger. "and before you say anything, stay away from him," she stated firmly.
you squinted, "what?"
"i'm serious," she stopped walking, turning to face you with the most dramatic older-sister energy ever. "he's annoying, and he's a flirt when he's bored. and you—" she poked your arm, "—are off limits."
you chuckled. "off limits? why? we haven't even met."
"exactly, and i'd like to keep it that way. i know my brother. he sees someone cute or easy to approach, and he starts... teasing," she rolled her eyes.
"teasing?" you frowned.
"yeah. like, annoying-you-into-liking-him teasing. it's disgusting," she shivered. you shook your head, laughing again. "jena, relax. i'm not gonna fall for your brother."
"good," she huffed, "and he better not fall for you."
that same day, at the lee house, jena pushed open the front door with her hip. the house was quiet except for the soft hum of music coming from the living room.
heeseung was there, sprawled on the couch in a loose white tee and grey sweats. his hair a little messy from a nap and his eyes were glued to his phone.
he didn't even look up when she walked in.
"hey," she greeted, dropping her stuff on the floor. "i have news, but don't get too comfy," she added. heeseung hummed without interest. "what, you finally decided to move out?"
"i wish."
she kicked his foot, and only then did he look up, one brow raised lazily. "what is it?"
jena crossed her arms dramatically, "i'm having a sleepover tonight," she declared. heeseung blinked. "okay? you do that all the time."
"yeah, but it's at our place this time."
he put his phone down for that, eyes narrowing slightly like he was already suspicious of where this conversation was going. "who's coming?"
"yn."
the famous yn.
the best friend jena talked about literally every week. the girl who showed up in photos on jena's phone. the one with the bright smile, soft eyes, and pretty laugh he always heard stories about but never in person.
heeseung sat up slowly, stretching an arm over the back of the couch.
"oh," he responded, pretending to be casual, "choi yn?"
"yeah. why'd you say it like that?" jena's eyebrows scrunched together. "like what?" heeseung frowned back.
"like you recognized her."
he shrugged, "you talk about her a lot. and i've seen pics."
jena paused, squinting at him, "don't."
he was taken aback, "don't what?"
she pointed a finger at him, threating him. "don't mess with her. she's my best friend and she is off-limits. she's immune to your bullshit."
"why are you acting like i'm some kind of menace?"
"you are," she deadpanned. he lifted his hands in surrender, "i'm not gonna do anything."
"promise?"
he nodded, "promise."
jena narrowed her eyes even more. "you know how you get when someone cute comes over."
"i don't 'get' any type of way," he said, rolling his eyes. "i'm not a dog."
"yes, you are, heeseung," she snapped. "and yn is adorable, so stay. away."
heeseung's jaw tightened a little — barely noticable, but enough for jena to crack. her eyes widened, "oh my god. you think she's cute, don't you?"
he raised two hands in defense, "i didn't say that."
"you didn't have to."
heeseung sighed deeply, rubbing his face. "look, it's just..." his sentence dragged as he looked at jena.
"one night," jena answered. he inhaled sharply before continuing, "exactly! one night. i'll be normal. i'n not gonna tease her or whatever."
jena narrowed her eyes one last time, like she was scanning for the lies. "good, i'm trusting you," she said. he nodded, but as she walked away, he finally let his thoughts wander. to the girl in jena's photos, the one who apparently was going to be here tomorrow.
and for the first time in a while, he felt a tiny spark of curiosity. nothing dangerous. just enough to make him wonder :
"what's she like in person?"
the evening came faster than expected, but you were ready nonetheless.
your backpack felt way too heavy for a simple sleepover — stuffed with snacks, pajamas, and the blanket you refused to share.
by the time you reached jena’s front door, the sun was already starting to dip, painting the house warm and soft. you knocked once, and before you could lift your hand again, the door swung open.
“finally,” jena said, grabbing your wrist and tugging you inside. “i’ve been waiting forever. i already set up the living room, snacks, blankets, everything.”
“you act like we’re preparing for war,” you laughed, kicking your shoes off.
“a sleepover is war,” she argued. “against boredom.”
you rolled your eyes, already feeling that warm comfort settle in your chest. you loved being there — the smell of laundry softener lingering in the hallway, the messy pile of shoes, the faint hum of the fridge.
you set your bag down just as a soft door clicked open deeper inside the hallway, followed by slow, heavy footsteps.
you turned, and whatever you were planning to say disappeared.
heeseung stepped out of his room like he hadn’t fully decided to be awake yet. his hair was sticking up in every direction, shirt too big, and his sweatpants hung low enough to make your breath catch for a second. he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking himself into focus.
he blinked at you once, then twice.
and suddenly, he was wide awake.
he stared. not in surprise, more like he was trying to understand why someone like you was standing in his house looking the way you did. his eyes trailed over you slowly, like he forgot to hide it.
you stood perfectly still.
jena muttered something like, “oh, come on,” under her breath.
heeseung pushed off the doorframe, straightening slightly. the sleepiness faded, replaced by something sharper. he walked closer, his steps unhurried, gaze never leaving yours.
“you must be yn,” he said quietly, voice rough with sleep. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”
your pulse jumped.
you nodded, hoping your face wasn’t betraying you. “yeah... that’s me.”
he smiled. it was small, lopsided, and he looked too confident for someone who clearly woke up three minutes ago. “do you know my sister never shuts up about you?” he asked, tilting his head a little.
jena slapped his arm so fast it echoed, “heeseung. don’t start.”
“i’m not starting anything. i’m just saying hi,” he protested, though he didn’t take his eyes off you. not even once.
jena shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “don’t mess with her,” she said firmly. “i mean it.”
you were definitely blushing. you could feel it spreading across your cheeks, your ears, your neck. and of course, heeseung noticed.
heeseung lifted both hands in surrender, “i won’t,” he promised, even though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips said otherwise.
“i’ll be good.”
jena grabbed your wrist again and pulled you toward the living room, muttering complaints the entire way.
the rest of the sleepover settled into that easy rhythm — snacks everywhere, a movie paused at the first minute because neither you nor jena could agree on what to watch, and the warm atmosphere of the house.
you were in the kitchen, pouring drinks, when you heard the slow footsteps approaching. you didn't need to turn to know who it was.
his presence felt different, like the air shifted whenever he walked in.
you kept your attention on the cups, pretending not to notice him leaning against the counter behind you. at least not until he moved.
the touch was small, barely anything, but enough to make you freeze. he brushed behind you as he reached for the fridge, his hand grazing the small of your back, feather-light. maybe accidental, maybe not.
his voice came right after, "excuse me."
you swallowed, "you could've gotten to the fridge without passing me."
"yeah," he said, opening the fridge door, the cold light spilling across his face. "but i wanted to get past you, so..."
you shot him a look and he just smiled. you stepped aside quickly, hoping he didn't notice the warmth creeping up your neck (he definitely noticed).
a few minutes later, something similar happened again.
this time, you were reaching for a bowl on the kitchen shelf, stretching on your toes. you almost got it. your fingertips brushed the rim of the bowl, but you lost your focus when a hand rested lightly on your hip.
not pulling, not holding. just settling there.
"careful," he murmured behind you.
before you could turn around, his other hand reached over your shoulder, long fingers effortlessly plucking the bowl from the shelf you were struggling with.
the closeness made your breath hitch — his chest brushing your back, his chin almost dipping toward your neck. he handed you the bowl, eyes innocent but mouth curved into that stupid, slow smirk.
"you look like you needed help," he said softly. you swallowed, "thanks."
"anything for you," he smiled, letting his hand slide away from your hip much slower than necessary.
your heart was doing somersaults, and he looked far too pleased with himself. you walked back toward the living room, trying to act unaffected. but from behind you, you heard him chuckle once under his breath. the kind that said he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
the movie had finally started. well, it played in the background while you and jena kept pausing it every five minutes. she eventually got up with a stretch. "i'm gonna shower real quick," she announced. "don't eat all the snacks without me."
"no promises," you joked.
she rolled her eyes and tapped your forehead before dissapearing down the hall.
once again, you heard those quiet footsteps somewhere behind the couch, that same lazy pace he always walked with, like nothing ever rushed. then, he appeared, towering over you.
"this seat taken?" he asked, pretending innocence terribly.
you squinted your eyes at him, "you have your own room."
before you could argue more, he sat down. close. closer than anyone needed to be on a whole empty couch.
heeseung leaned back, stretching an arm across the backrest behind you. he wasn't touching, but it was close enough that you could feel a tingle.
"yeah," he replied, tilting his head, "but i like it better here."
your breath caught. his eyes flicked down, catching your reaction before you could hide it. his mouth twitched like he had to stop himself from smiling too wide.
you turned your attention to the movie, trying to act unbothered, but heeseung didn't make that easy.
every few seconds, he shifted, just a little, though. just enough for his knee to bump yours, for his fingers to brush your arm whenever he reached for popcorn, for his thigh to press against yours like it belonged.
and every time you reacted, even the smallest ones, he noticed.
you felt his gaze, heavy and amused, watching you more than the screen.
finally, he leaned in a little closer, voice barely above a whisper. "you're easy to read, you know," he teased. "no, i'm not," you stated, eyes still on the screen
he let out a soft, warm laugh, "then stop looking so cute every time i move."
you froze. he didn't.
he just kept watching you, chin propped on his hand, like you were more entertaining than the movie playing in the background.
the bathroom door finally opened, steam drifting into the hall. jena stepped out, towel around her neck, and immediately narrowed her eyes when she saw him. "heeseung. what are you doing here?"
he shrugged, "sitting," he said smoothly.
she gave a tight smile, "on the couch. next to my friend," she shot a glare towards her brother. "i just wanna join," he replied, completely unfazed.
jena stared at him for a long, suspicious moment, then sighed. "fine, whatever. but stop bothering her."
"i'm not," he said, though the smirk on his lips said the opposite.
jena dropped onto the other side of you, grabbing a blanket and draping it over your legs.
you truly offered your best to focus on the screen again. but heeseung, he shifted closer once more, just enough for his knee to press into yours again. and when he felt you tense for half a second, he didn't comment. he just smiled to himself like he'd found a new favorite way to entertain himself.
the night crept in quietly, and jena didn't make it past the second movie. she barely lasted then minutes before her head dropped onto your shoulder.
"i'm... awake," she mumbled, already asleep.
you and heeseung exhanged a look, him amused and you stifling a laugh. eventually, you nudged her up and helped her to her room. she collapsed drmatically onto the bed, mumbling incoherent threats about snoring.
you tucked the blanket around her and finally stepped back, exhaling quietly.
heeseung didn't join you. he disappeared somewhere down the hall as soon as you closed jena's door. and you told yourself you were relieved by that.
you needed distance. your heart needed distance.
but lying there next to jena, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, house too warm, the blankets too heavy, your brain refusing to shut up — sleep didn't come.
after minutes of tossing around, you sat up carefully, not trying to wake her. you slipped out of the room, padding toward the kitchen for milk while keeping your steps light.
but when you turned the corner, he was already there.
heeseung leaned against the counter beside the sink, lit only by the small under-cabinet light that cast a warm, gold glow across his face. his hair was slightly messy again, his hoodie handing loose on his frame.
he looked up the second you appeared, eyes catching yours like he'd been waiting without admitting it.
for a moment, neither of you spoke.
"i didn't know you were still awake," you started the conversation.
"couldn't sleep," he murmured.
you nodded and glanced toward the fridge, trying to act normal. "me too."
he nodded once, slow, like he understood exactly why you couldn't.
you walked toward the fridge, your fingers brushing the island lightly to avoid making noise. the quiet made everything feel sharper — your breathing, the distance between you, the weight of his gaze you could feel even as you looked away.
the fridge whirred softly as you opened it, cool light spilling out onto the dimly lit area.
when you grabbed a juice box and closed it, he was still looking at you. not teasing, not smirking, just watching.
you cleared your throat, gripping the box a little too lightly. "i'm just gonna— go back after this."
he tilted his head, voice dropping to a whisper that wrapped around you like a warm breath.
"you look cute when you're tired."
your heart stuttered. your fingers tightened around the small box. you looked away instantly, maybe a bit too fast, as heat crept up your neck. "don't say stuff like that."
his lips curved into a knowing smirk, "why not?"
and gosh, you needed a second to breathe. so you stepped past him, your heart thudding loud in your chest, the juice box cold in your hand as you walked away.
he moved, just a slow push off the counter, hands in his hoodie pockets, steps soft on the floor as he followed you out of the kitchen. "going back already?" he asked quietly.
you stopped in your tracks, not daring to turn around. "i said i would, didn't i?"
the house felt even quieter out here. the only light came from the kitchen, warm and low, spilling just enough to outline his figure as he stepped closer.
he moved, now in front of you, yet you still didn't look at him.
"you didn't have to run away," he said.
you breathed in too sharply, "i wasn't running."
"right, you were just walking really fast for someone who wasn't."
his voice dipped into something gentle. the kind of teasing that didn't poke, just brushed softly over your nerves, warm enough to make you feel it everywhere.
you finally glanced up at him.
big mistake.
he was looking down at you with that same quiet focus from the kitchen. he wasn't smirking, wasn't smiling, but studying you like you were something he wasn't expecting to be this drawn to.
he stepped a little closer, still slow, still giving you room to move away if you wanted. but you didn't.
his gaze slipped down to your lips for half a second before lifting again.
"come here," he whispered.
you didn't move, but your body leaned in the tiniest bit, like gravity had opinions of its own. and maybe that was all he needed.
because his hand lifted slowly, fingers burshing lightly along your cheek before drifting to your hair. he hesitated for a breath, giving you a chance to pull away.
but you didn't, so he kept going.
his fingers slid a strand of hair from your face and tucked it gently behind your ear, his touch barely-there, warm anough to melt something in your chest.
you froze completely.
and that was when his mouth curved — soft first, then sharper, settling into a full, knowing smirk. "there it is."
"what?" you breathed, barely able to get the word out.
his eyes softened, but the smirk stayed. "that little reaction you keep trying to hide."
you wanted to say something back, something smart and confident, but nothing came out. your throat was too tight, your heartbeat too loud, your skin tingling where his fingers had been.
he stepped back half a step, giving you space again, hands sliding back into his pockets as if he hadn't just short-circuited you on purpose. "you should get some sleep."
and then, like he hadn't just ruined your entire nervous system, he walked away, leaving you alone and speechless in the dark hallway.
you barely got any sleep that night. when you entered the room and hopped back on the bed, you couldn't bring yourself to feel comfortable or cozy. you finished your juice in five minutes, staring blank into the wall, thoughts filling your head.
"what the fuck just happened?" you whispered to yourself.
when morning came, you sat up on the bed.
the room was cold, the curtains were thin enough for the sunlight to seep through in soft stripes. jena was still curled up beside you, snoring a little. you blinked slowly, still half-asleep, and the first thing in your mind wasn't the brightness or the aching stretch in your back.
it was heeseung.
the kitchen last night, his voice low, his fingers brushing your hair, and the way he looked at you like he already knew you better than he should.
your heart did that annoying little kick again.
you slipped out of bed carefully, tiptoeing so you wouldn't wake jena, smoothing down your shirt as you left the room. you walked down the hallway, rubbing your eyes.
as soon as you stepped into the living room, you heard a faint clatter of something metal, the sound of a pan being moved, the fridge opening and closing.
of course he was awake.
you took a step into the kitchen and there he was, standing at the stove with his back to you. his hair was still messy from just waking up, sleeves pushed up in a way that was unfair for so early in the day. the morning light hit him in patches, outlining his shoulders, his jaw, the slope of his neck.
he glanced over his shoulder the second he sensed movement.
"good morning," he greeted.
you tensed for a beat, "morning."
he smiled, slow and small, the kind that makes your stomach flip because it means he's really looking at you. "jena's still asleep?"
you frowned, "you're really asking that?"
he let out a tiny laugh under his breath and turned back to the stove, flipping something in the pan with a practiced ease.
and then, he looked over at you again. he observed you — the way you rubbed your arm because you were cold, the way you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the way your hair was tousled.
you felt your face warm instantly and tried to pretend you were just looking around the kitchen, anywhere but at him, but he didn't stop. he didn't even pretend to.
he leaned one elbow on the counter, still holding the spatula loosely in his hand.
"why are you looking at me like that?" you whispered, unable to keep the shyness out of your voice.
"just checking if your awake."
and he didn't say another word. he just kept watching you every now and then like you were the most interesting part of the morning.
suddenly, like a miracle, jena entered the kitchen with her hair sticking out in every direction, squinting like the lights offeneded her. "morning," she mumbled.
you let out a tiny breath of relief, like her presence grounded you a bit. but heeseung? his attention was still on you, but it just shifted in a slower, more deliberate way now that jena was here.
"you're up early," she said to him suspiciously as she grabbed a cup of water.
he raised his eyebrows, "i couldn't sleep."
your eyes flicked to him. liar. he slept fine. you knew that because you could hear his loud snoring through half the night. he caught your reaction, the tiny twitch at the corner of your mouth, and his lips curved upward just barely.
he slid a pancake onto a plate, turned off the stove, and without missing a beat, he handed the plate directly to you.
not to his sister. not on the table.
you.
"eat before it gets cold."
jena blinked between the two of you like she walked in on something, then frowned, "why are you guys being weird?"
you almost choked on air. "we're not," you insisted a little too quickly.
you sat and tried to focus on your food, ignoring the way heeseung sat across from you, elbows resting casually on the table — and also how his eyes kept lifting every few seconds to look at your expressions, your movements, your everything.
and then, he started. not the obvious flirting from last night, but something softer.
"did you sleep okay?" he asked you, tone light enough that jena wouldn't notice anything. you nodded slowly, "yeah."
"you always wake up this early?" his voice dipped just a fraction, gentle and curious like he was storing the information. you sighed before answering, "sometimes..."
"hm," he leaned back slightly, looking at you in that innocent way he only used when someone else was in the room —totally different from the way he looked at you earlier.
and then, a final, subtle question slipped out. "what do you usually eat for breakfast?" it was simple, guiltfree even. but his eyes told a different story, almost like he wanted to know more, wanted to know you, piece by piece.
you opened your mouth to answer, but the sound of jena clearing her throat cut between you.
"seriously. what the fuck is happening right now?"
you tensed, but heeseung just took another bite of his food like what jena had just asked was nothing. "we're literally just talking," he answered.
jena's suspicion didn't go away. if anything, it sharpened as she chewed on her food, eyes bouncing between the two of you like she was trying to solve some puzzle.
but then, her phone buzzed. she glanced at the screen, groaned, and stood up from the table.
"ugh, mom's calling. i'll be right back."
you nodded while the man in front of you just hummed. you didn't realize how tense you were until jena walked out of the kitchen and down the hall, her voice fading away.
you felt it immediately. the shift, the awareness, the silence that wasn't really silent.
heeseung let out a slow breath like he'd been waiting for that exact moment. his eyes lifted to you, "she's always so dramatic," he complained.
you tried to laugh, but it came out soft and nervous. "she's not dramatic."
he raised a brow, "really? because she acts like i'm a criminal for talking to you," he rolled his eyes. you fiddled with your fork, "maybe because you're a flirt."
he smiled teasingly. "only when i want to be."
you didn't breathe for a second. he let the words sit there, let you process them, let the warmth rise in your cheeks again.
you looked down at your plate, not able to hold his gaze any longer, but he wasn't having it. not when he had you cornered in the sweetest, quietest way possible.
his foot nudged yours under the table. you glanced at him, eyes wide, and he smiled. it was genuine.
"you're cute when you're all flustered like this."
your fingers tightened around your fork, "stop—"
"why?" he cut you off, tilting his head, eyes warm. "you don't like it?"
you opened your mouth to respond — you didn't even know what you were about to say — but he leaned forward a little, resting his chin on his hand, staring at you like you were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.
"i'm just being honest. you don't want honesty?" he added.
your heart pounded, and right when the moment grew warm enough to melt you, jena's footsteps echoed toward the kitchen.
heeseung didn't look away. you did.
he just leaned back casually, picking up his fork like nothing happened at all.
but when jena reentered the kitchen, rambling about their mom, he flashed you the tiniest smile. like the two of you were sharing a secret she almost walked in on.
the rest of the day moved in a blur, and suddenly, it was already afternoon.
you and jena were stuffing blankets back into her closet, laughing at how the room somehow looked messier after cleaning. she talked nonstop — about school, about next weekend, about a new café she wanted to try.
you nodded along, but the whole time, you felt him.
heeseung didn’t make himself obvious. he never did. he just appeared in the edges of things, like walking down the hallway, opening the fridge, or passing by the doorway. he was just always in your line of vision for just long enough to make your heart hitch.
by the time you had your bag zipped and slung over your shoulder, the sun was dipping, warm and golden through the windows. “come here again next week! i promise i’ll stay up for the movie marathon next time,” she beamed in excitement.
you barely got the chance to respond because the moment she stepped back, you sensed someone else behind you. you turned, and there he was, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. jena didn’t even notice him for she was rummaging for her jacket.
heeseung’s eyes flicked down to your bag, then back up to you. “you’re heading out already?” he asked, voice low in a way that felt like it filled the entire hallway.
you gulped, “yeah. um… i’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
and just for a mere second, you saw a tiny, little pout show up on his lips. “shame,” he said softly, “thought you’d stick around a little longer.”
your cheeks warmed immediately. jena cut in while putting on her jacket. “don’t bother her, hee. she has a life,” she muttered. heeseung didn’t look away from you when he replied, “i’m not bothering her. right, yn?”
you didn’t know what to say.
jena sighed dramatically and pulled open the front door. “okay, let’s go before he starts being weird.”
you stepped into your shoes, and jena headed down the steps first while talking about some assignment you both had to finish.
and then you felt it. he’d followed you to the doorway.
“hey,” he said quietly. you turned, heart tight. he stood much closer now. close enough that you could see the faint sleep-crease still pressed into his cheek.
“thanks for… hanging around the house,” he said, scratching lightly behind his ear. “it was… nice.”
it wasn’t only what he said. it was also how he said it — soft, careful, and honest in a way that made your stomach twist.
you nodded once. “yeah. it was,” you gave him a smile. he huffed a little laugh, eyes dropping to the floor then lifting back to you. “maybe next time i’ll actually see you more.”
before you could even process that, jena called from the bottom of the steps. “yn! let’s go!”
you turned to leave, but heeseung moved one step closer, lowering his voice just for you.
“bye, yn.”
you swallowed, whispering, “bye, heeseung,” your voice barely audible, but enough for him to smile like he heard it perfectly.
you followed jena down the stairs, trying to keep your breathing normal. but halfway down, you glanced back. he was still standing in the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other resting against the frame, watching only you.
and his eyes stayed on you, all the way until you turned the corner.
you started coming to the lee house more often after that weekend. partly because jena kept dragging you over for study sessions and movie nights, but also because something about that house pulles you in.
every time you stepped onto the porch, your stomach did that little flip, the one you pretend not to acknowledge. and somehow, every single time you arrived, heeseung was already there, present in a way that felt too intentional to be a coincidence.
the first afternoon you showed up again, jena shouted from the kitchen, "oh, hey! you're early," while rummaging for snacks. you slipped off your shoes quietly, smoothing your hair, trying to act normal.
and then the one and only, heeseung, appeared.
he didn't say anything at first. he just leaned against his doorframe with that stupid half-amused expression he always wore around you now, arms crossed like he'd been expecting this exact moment.
"back again?" he asked, teasing curling around every syllable.
you blinked, trying to your steady your breathing, "jena invited me."
"mm," he hummed, slow like he didn't believe that was the whole reason. then, he eyed you before adding, "you nervous?"
you froze for half a second — just long enough for him to catch it. his smile deepened, lazy and knowing.
"don't worry. i'll be good." he very much would not be.
the next visit wasn't much different.
you walked in with jena, laughing about something trivial. jena went to her room to grab something when you heard thumps coming your way. heeseung appeared again, hair damp form a shower, tank top hugging his figure.
"oh," he said, eyes dragging over you for a beat too long. "hey, pretty."
your eyes widened slightly, "huh?"
he shrugged like it was nothing, wiping at his wet hair, "i said, hey, pretty."
your face went warm immediately, and saw it. of course he saw it, his grin grew full of satisfaction, like he said it just to watch you unravel. this time though, you didn't fully shy away. you nudged him slightly as you passed, muttering, "you look like you just woke up."
his reaction was instant. his eyebrows lifted, smile spreaded, and a spark lit behind his eyes. "oh? she teases back now, huh?"
the teasing only got worse — or better. it depends.
the next time you came over, jena ran upstairs to grab something she forgot, leaving you in the living room alone. you were scrolling on your phone when you felt a presence behind you.
"you really don't get tired of coming here, do you?"
you didn't flinch this time. you didn't step back. you just turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. "maybe i like the company," you said, soft and careful, but bold enough to make his eyebrows rise.
"jena's company?" he took a step closer.
you hummed, pretending to think, then let your eyes drop to the exposed skin at his collarbone before looking back up.
"hm... sometimes."
his breath caught. actually caught. and the smile he gave you wasn't the usual lazy smirk. it was something darker, warmer. something that showed how he hadn't expected you to push back like that.
"careful," he leaned in closer, mouth close to your ear now. "you're starting to sound like you're flirting, pretty."
you tilted your head, letting your hair fall to one side — and god, the way he looked at your neck made heat crawl up your spine. "maybe i am," you whispered back.
he inhaled slow, like he had to steady himself, and you felt his fingers lightly graze your shoulder.
"don't start something you can't finish."
and for some reason, you knew he wanted you to start it.
later that day, jena forced you and heeseung into the living room to pick a movie. she sat on the floor, legs spread out, scrolling through titles. you and heeseung ended up on the couch behind her. no, not touching, but the two of you were close enough that you could feel the heat of him.
he leaned back, spreading his arm over the back of the couch. "you're being quiet," he said softly, eyes lowering to your lips for a split second.
you didn't look back at him. "maybe i behave when you're around."
he scoffed out a laugh, leaning forward. "pretty, you behave the least when i'm around."
you nudged his thigh with you knee without even thinking, just a little, just enough for him to feel it. he froze, then exhaled a quiet curse under his breath. "fuck, you're gonna kill me."
the teasing should've stopped there, but it didn't. because for the first time since all of this started, you didn't want it to stop even the tiniest bit.
this time, jena had gone to her room again, said she was gonna go look for her charger, leaving you and heeseung alone in the living room with the abandoned movie credits on the screen.
heeseung sat back on the couch, pretending to scroll on his phone, but he wasn't truly paying attention. he kept glancing up at you, admiring you.
you reached to pick up a blanket jena had handed you earlier. you shifted from your position and the sight you created nearly made heeseung lose his mind.
your hair fell over your shoulder, and your shirt slipped just a little off the shoulder. and his eyes dragged up your arm, your neck, your profile, slowly like he was afraid to blink and miss something.
"so, you always stare that much or is it just for me?" you asked.
his phone stopped moving completely. he blinked once, "i wasn't—"
you cut him off. "it's fine," you mumbled, eyes on the tv instead of him. "you're not very subtle."
he inhaled sharply, all the air suddenly punched out of his lungs. "what are you doing?" his voice lowered.
you turned your head just slightly, meeting his eyes for only a second before looking away again. "nothing," you chuckled. "just noticing things."
his smile cracked. "you're really doing this to me?" he whispered.
you hummed and stretched your leg, the movement making your knee slide against his again. "why? is it working?" your eyes met his this time.
he set his phone down without breaking eye contact. you felt the air shift — warm. charged, pulled tight between you. "you have no idea, pretty," he breathed.
you bit back a smile, leaning back like you were perfectly calm depsite the hear between you.
and then you teased him one final time. slowly and knowingly, you reached out and brushed a crumb off his shirt with your fingers, letting them stay just a second too long on his chest before pulling back. "there, thought i'd help."
he actually had to close his eyes for a moment, composing himself. he took a slow breath, frocing it out through his nose. "you know, if you keep doing stuff like that... i'm not gonna able to play nice anymore."
you cocked an eyebrow, "maybe i don't want you to."
his jaw clenched. and right when he was about to say something back—
"hey! i found it!" you heard jena yell from a distance.
heeseung exhaled, leaning back and running a hand over his face. he looked at you like you were about to ruin his entire life.
but deep inside, he loved every second of it.
the week after, you and jena planned yet another sleepover. where? the lee house, of course.
that evening, the sun was already setting when you walked up the familiar path to the house, your tote bag bouncing against your hip. you didn't think twice as you punched in the gate code jena gave you a few weeks ago.
you didn't text to confirm, didn't worry about timing. you had come over dozens of times lately and jena always swung the door open with some chaotic greeting. and today felt no different.
but when you stepped inside, the house was quiet. "jena?" you called out softly.
no answer.
you stepped further in, and a voice sounded from the hallway. "she's not home."
heeseung stood there, leaning against the wall with a lazy tilt plastered on his face. his eyes were already fixed on you as if you were the exact thing he wanted to see.
"extended dance practice," he pushed off the railing and walked down the last step, "she texted me."
you frowned, "she didn't text me."
"yeah," he said, "figured."
there was a pause before he continued, "you can wait here if you want—" he cut himself off. then, almost too casually, he said, "actually... i needed help with something."
you raised a brow, "with what?"
"come with me, pretty," he replied without answering, already heading toward his room. you hesitated for a second, but you followed anyway.
the air grew warmer the closer you got to his room. he pushed the door open and stepped inside, leaving it half-open behind him for you. his room smelled like him — clean laundry, faint cologne, something warm and boyish that settled too easily in your chest. the lighting was soft, the curtains half-drawn, the sunset bleeding inside.
he motioned toward his desk. "was trying to fix something with my speaker, but it keeps glitching. maybe you're good luck," he said.
you stared at him, squinting your eyes. "you should just call a technician, 'cause i cannot do this."
he turned to you, leaning one hand on the dask. "i don't want a technician, though," he said, gaze fixed on you. you looked at him, confused.
he continued, "i want you."
your breath caught. your fingers actually curled against your sides, grounding yourself.
you stepped closer intentionally and he noticed instantly. then, the room felt too warm, too small. "so what's really wrong with the speaker?" you questioned, trying to focus on the object instead of the way he was watching you.
he stepped closer and whispered, "nothing."
he let the silence settle for a beat, then leaned in just a little more.
"you know you're driving me crazy, right, pretty?"
your chest rose with a small breath you couldn't swallow and your heart thudded so loud you swore he could've heard it. "i know," you answered.
the room went still.
heeseung's eyes dropped to your lips and stayed there like he'd been holding himself back for god knows how long. he leaned in a fraction, enough for you to feel the warmth of him and make your breath stutter.
the air between you felt thin and fragile. his fingers twitched at his side, fighting every instinct telling him to close the distance.
you whispered, barely audible, "heeseung..."
he leaned in again, slowly and carefully, wanting to savor the moment before he gave in, his nose brushed yours, just the lightest nudge. you felt his hand lift, hesitating in the air like he was deciding whether to cup your jaw or hold your waist.
but then, a sharp, mettalic clang echoed from outside.
the gates.
heeseung froze, and you too.
the moment snapped like overstretched rubber. "shit," he breathed, stepping back a tiny inch.
your hands had subconsciously curled into his shirt. you didn't realize until he gently eased them off with a soft, shaky laugh — the kind of laugh someone lets out when they're both frustrated and trying not to look too affected.
"she got here faster than i expected," he dragged a hand through his hair.
"i— we should—" you stammered, heat still blooming across your neck.
"yeah," he gulped. "yeah, we should go."
but neither of you moved. not immediately. the room was still thick with what almost happened. he finally forced himself to step away, grabbing a hoodie off his chair and tossing it on like it would somehow conceal the fact he looked breathless.
"act normal," he said, voice low.
"normal," you repeated, "right."
he gave you a glance. he held it a beat too long, biting down a smile he absolutely didn't want you to see.
then, he nodded toward the door, "come on."
you followed him, both of you silently trying to erase the tension from your bodies, smoothing your expressions, straightening your clothes. but every step felt charged, like you could still feel the ghost of ihs breath brushing your lips.
as you stepped outside onto the porch, the gates rattled again.
heeseung nudged your shoulder subtly, a tiny push to remind you to keep it together.
you forced a smile just as jena spotted you. "oh, yn! you're here already."
"yeah. thought practice would end as usual," you said, voice maybe too normal.
"nope," jena laughed. "we got extended today. heeseung told you, right?" she nodded. you opened your mouth, but before you could answer, heeseung spoke, "yeah, she just got here. i told her like— two minutes ago."
you glanced at him. he didn't look at you. but his hand brushed yours for half a second — a touch so subtle that jena didn't notice, but enough to send your heart spiraling.
soon, the three of you sat in the living room like always, but everything felt different. you could feel his gaze the entire time and made your skin prickle.
whenever jena spoke, you nodded along, but every few seconds, you caught heeseung watching you from across the couch. his knee bounced slightly, his thumb dragging slow circled on his own palm.
but slowly and surely, you could feel his self control lessen.
that midnight, the house was silent. again, you laid awake in jena's room for almost an hour, eyes wide open in the dark, replaying the moment over and over again — the way he looked at you, the way you leaned in without thinking, the way your lips hovered so close, your breath mingled with his.
it was impossible to sleep after that.
so you slipped out of bed, careful not to wake jena, and tip-toed outside toward the kitchen hoping a glass of water would calm your heartbeat.
yet the moment you stepped inside, you saw him leaning against the counter, hair messy like he ran his hands through it. he looked up at the sound of your footsteps, and the faintest smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
none of you dared to speak first. there was just a thick, charged silence.
his gaze followed you as you walked to the sink, as you reached for a glass, as you tried not to shake.
finally, he broke the silence, "couldn't sleep again?"
you didn't look at him, "not really."
there was a pause, a long one, and then he hummed like he already knew why. you could feel his eyes, your fingers tightening around the glass.
"you keep thinking about it?"
you gulped and placed your glass down., "thinking about what?"
his quiet laugh came from right behind you. "don't do that, pretty. you know exactly what i'm talking about."
you turned to face him, heart doing that stupid jump it always did around him. he was closer than you thought. his chest almost brushed yours.
"it was nothing," you said, even though the both of you knew it was the biggest like you had ever told.
he tilted his head, seeing straight through the act. "you sure?" he asked. he stepped in the tiniest bit, but it pulled the air right out of your lungs. "cause it didn't feel like nothing."
you were nervous, crazy nervous. and the first thing you could let out your mouth was, "you leaned in first."
that made his smirk change, "but you did too. so we both wanted it."
you didn't deny it, you couldn't.
he moved then, carefully like he didn't want to spook you. his hands lifted, brushing your hip before landing on the counter behind you.
"i'd make you tell me to stop," he murmured, eyes on your lips.
he added, "but i don't think you want me to, pretty."
your heartbeat felt loud in the quiet kitchen. you didn't push him away, didn't say stop. and he understood.
he dipped his head slowly, giving you every second to move or pull back, but you didn't. his nose brushed yours and you felt his smile when you inhaled sharply.
impatient, you spent no time closing the gap between you two. his lips finally connected with yours. he placed his hands on your waist, pulling you flush into him. his lips danced with yours slowly, softly, passionately, and it made your mind spiral.
you pulled away to catch your breath, and he looked at you with a smile, a genuine one.
"i've wanted to do that since the moment i met you," he confessed.
you chuckled, "me too."
you leaned in, meeting your lips with his again. you grasped his shoulders, moaning into the kiss. hearing the sound you made, heeseung groaned and deepened the kiss. it soon became hotter and rougher, full of need.
his tongue traced your bottom lip, asking for access. without thinking twice, you opened your mouth just the slightest bit, and he spent no time shoving his tongue inside your mouth. the kiss became messier, your spit and his mixing.
his palms moved to the back of your thigh. you took in the signal, jumping into his arms. heeseung picked you up like you weighed nothing.
eventually, his legs moved without letting go. he brought the two of you to his room, shutting the door once inside. he placed you on the bed gently, breaking the kiss.
his lips moved to your jaw, then your neck. he planted soft kisses on them, then sucked on the skin and you hissed at the feeling.
he looked up at you, eyes pleading. his hands were on the rim of your tshirt, "may i?" he asked for permission. you couldn't form words, too caught up in the moment. you nodded and he took your tshirt off gently, throwing them carelessly.
and you swore you saw his eyes light up when he figured you didn't wear anything underneath it.
easy access.
he licked his lips before sticking his tongue out and flicked it on one of your buds. you squirmed, "fuck, heeseung—" you cut yourself off with a gasp when he sucked on it.
he let go of it with a pop and he chuckled to himself. "you like that, pretty?" he asked. but before you could even respond, he moved to the other, suckling on it. you moaned at the feeling of his warm mouth around your nipple.
"such perfect tits, baby," he praised as he landed pecks all over your breasts. he fondled them and nibbled on your soft skin, groaning, "could play with them all night."
you felt his calloused fingers run over the rim of your pajama shorts. he slipped his hand inside. and when he left a feather-light touch on your panties, your breath got caught in your throat.
"but your pussy's so wet, it's practically begging for me."
you visibly shivered at his words. "heeseung— please," you cried. his smirk widened, "please what baby? i need you to be specific," he mumbled as he peppered kisses on your stomach. you groaned, acknowledging the fact that he was teasing you.
"please. touch me."
he planted one last kiss right above the waistband of your shorts, "good girl."
he slid them off you, leaving you in your underwear. he spread your legs apart, enough for him to slide his figure between them. "you're soaking through, pretty."
he circled his thumb around your the wet patch, making you throb more underneath his touch. soon after what felt like hours to you, he finally took your underwear off.
"your cunt's so fucking pretty," he complimented, eyes looking at it in awe. he was face to face with it, close enough that you could feel his hot breath fanning over it. without any hesitation, he licked one a long stripe. you arched your back, hand reaching to grip his hair. not pull, not push, just to get a hold.
"so sweet," he murmured, before enveloping your pussy with his mouth.
and god, were you on cloud nine.
you'd never felt a mouth so skilled, he made you see stars. his tongue was lapping you up so messily, his lips now covered in both your slick and his spit.
you tugged on his hair, making him let out a groan, and the sound only made you reel more. "feels so fucking good, seungie!" you whimpered at the feel of his mouth.
he grunted, pulling you closer by the thighs, but also burying his face more deeper. "can't get enough of this pussy, fuck—" his voice was mumbled as he continued to swallow your juices.
you bit your lip to quiet yourself when you remembered jena, your best friend, his sister, wasn't far away.
"don't hide your pretty moans, baby, please," he begged, looking up at you with his doe eyes. you moaned at the sight, satisfying him. as he continued his penetration on you, you quivered and shuddered.
it was rather difficult for heeseung as well. his cock was throbbing, only grazing the material of his sweatpants every now and then. craving pleasure, he started grinding into nothing — into the air. it was little, but he was aching and anything would help.
i mean, you were so good for him, all naked and sprawled on his bed. how could he resist?
soon enough, you could feel a familiar knot in your stomach. "shiitt— i'm so close," you said, legs starting to twitch in his hold.
you started to shake, pleasure now unbearable. but heeseung, he only made it worse (better).
he let go of one of your plush thighs, two fingers slamming inside you in one swift movement as he sucked on your clit.
your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you received immense pleasure. his fingers curled inside you, hitting a spot you didn't even know exist. everything he did — the feel of his warm mouth engulfing your cunt, his digits shoving in and out, his other hand holding you open for him — it was too much.
but at the same time, it was too good.
your pulse quickened as you felt the need to release, "fuck—! i'm gonna cum— please let me cum," you cried, hips now grinding against his face.
"mmh, shit— cum on my face, baby. please, i need it—"
you cut him off with the most pornographic moan he'd ever heard. you arched your back and pulled his hair as you climaxed. your hips jerked whilst heeseung's hold on you tightened.
he lapped up all your juices, swallowing and not wasting a drop. "taste so good, pretty. best pussy ever," he smirked, standing back up, fingers leaving your cunt. he looked disheveled — his chin was glistening, eyes shining with need, hair messy.
you were too blissed out to respond to him. your breath was heavy, chest rising up and down from the extreme shockwaves you felt.
heeseung bent down to capture his lips with yours again, and you could taste yourself in his mouth.
you pulled away from his mouth, "i wanna make you feel good, too, seung," you mumbled, words unclear but he heard it all. he chuckled at your state. "you can do that next time, pretty, i wanna focus on you tonight."
you nodded at his words, making his smile widen. "do you have a condom, baby?" he asked, suddenly remembering. you stirred, "i'm on the pill," you reassured which made his eyes shine. he quickly straightened and took off his top, along with his other garments. you nearly drooled at the sight — his abs were toned, and his cock was thick, long, and flushed at the tip.
he caught you staring, "like what you see?" he laughed lightly. you blinked, pulling you out of your thoughts. you breathed, "i—i don't think it'll fit..." you bit your lip.
"i'll make it fit."
his firm voice made you gulp. he caressed your hip, "i want you to ride me, baby. can you do that?" he asked for consent.
you were unsure of yourself, but you imagined him under you, and you answered, "mhm."
without further ado, he sat beside you and pulled you to sit atop him. you lined him up against your entrance, still hesitant. heeseung noticed, "you okay, pretty?" he held onto your waist, massaging it. "'m a bit scared," you mumbled.
"you can do it, just take it slowly, mkay?" his voice was gentle. you nodded at his words.
you started sinking down on him. the stretch was intense, making you whimper. "mm, fuck—" you whispered as he split you open.
he hissed at the feeling of your hole enveloping him, even though it was barely halfway. you continued to take him in, his cock going deeper than you thought it'd be.
when he was finally buried to the hilt, you moaned along with him. you could feel him in your stomach, twitching. "so tight, pretty—fuck," he voice was strained.
you took a moment to breath before starting to grind slowly. and almost immediately, heeseung's grip on your waist tightened. your breath hitched at the depth of his cock. "eungh— so deep—!" you sped up your movements.
heeseung threw his head back onto the headboard, starting to pant. he then lifted his hands off your waist and grasped your tits. he launched forward and stimulated your breasts, kneading and suckling on them. you gasped and clenched around him, making him let go of your tits with a loud moan.
"do that again," he ordered.
and just like he told you, you tightened around him again, earning a groan from him, "good fucking girl." you bit your bottom lip at the look at him — messy and full of pleasure under you.
just how you imagined.
you started bouncing on him, hands on his chest to keep balance. heeseung clenched his teeth at the feeling of your tight cunt around his length. he started to buck upwards himself, searching for further pleasure.
his room began feeling hotter from the heat of both your bodies. you held onto his shoulders for support. "shit—" heeseung cut himself off with a gasp.
you swallowed a lump in your throat, thighs now aching. your movements slowed, "my legs hurt, seungie," you whined at the pain. heeseung pouted, making eye contact with you, "aw, is my pretty girl tired?" he questioned. you nodded and he continued, "let me do the work for you, then."
without letting go and sliding out of you, he flipped you over. you laid on your back now as he hovered above you, splitting your legs open.
he thrusted in and out of you in a slow pace at first, "feels better, baby?" he cocked an eyebrow. "so much better," you moaned, and heeseung took that as a sign that he could go faster.
he started to move quicker, making you whimper uncontrollably. "seungie— so big!" you said, making him smirk at the boost of confidence.
"i know, baby. i can see my cock right here," he placed a hand on your stomach. you looked down to see the outline of his cock right under your belly button, which made you dizzy.
he continued to pound himself into you, the angle resulting in him being deeper than before. you nearly shouted as his tip hit your crevix. you pulled him down by the back of his neck, and pressed a kiss against his lips.
he kissed you back, sliding his tongue inside your mouth with ease. this time, the kiss was filthier. the two of you let go, a string of saliva connecting your lips.
"ngh— faster, please," you moaned out, making heeseung raise an eyebrow. "you sure, baby?" he questioned in concern. "please," you whined desperately, glancing up at him with the most pleading eyes he's ever seen.
"fuck, you're gonna be the death of me."
he propped himself up and pulled you closer by your thighs. he held them open and started to drive himself into you relentlessly. you bit your lip to compress your sounds, but they ended up falling out anyway. "you make the prettiest sounds ever, baby," he whispered.
"heeseung—" you gasped, jerking under him. "feels too good!"
"yeah? such a good girl taking my big cock," he said. his head was thrown back and his abs tensed every time he pushed into you. he looked tousled, yet so attractive.
heeseung scrunched his eyebrows as he let out a groan, "'m close, pretty. you there with me?" he said, out of breath. you couldn't form words, "mhm," you mumbled.
the room was hot, the sounds of your skin slapping onto his covering it. "gonna cum, seungie—!" you ragged, fingers grasping onto the sheets beside you for dear life.
"shit, cum for me, pretty. cum all over my cock," his dirty words sent you over the edge. you arched your back and let out a loud moan as you came. heeseung continued sliding in and out of you, reaching his own orgasm.
"mm... fuck, i'm gonna cum— can i cum inside you, pretty? shit! pleasepleaseplease," he started whimpering, and you decided to play with him.
"you wanna shoot your load in me, seungie?" your voice was seductive, practically asking him for it. he nodded quickly as his legs started to shake, "yeah, fuck— wanna fill you up."
you didn't answer, and it only made him less patient. "shit—" he took a long breath, "ngh! please, baby, pleaaaaseee!" he bit his bottom lip.
"go ahead, baby," you allowed him.
when he felt you clench around his shaft, he lost it. he groaned, "thankyouthankyouthankyou— yn, fuuckkk!" as he shot his load inside you with one last thrust. you sighed when you felt his cock twitch and released its liquid, filling your insides. both your chests were heaving after the release.
he limped, let go of your thighs, and landed on top of you. your pulled him in and hugged him. "thank you, seungie," you said. he gave a nod and circled his arms around your waist, returning the hug.
after composing himself, heeseung propped himself up on his hands, body hovering yours. you looked at your body and whined, "so sticky."
he blinked, "oh— let me clean you up, pretty." he stood and walked over to a cabinet, grabbing a towel. he cleaned your body from sweat, wiped your cunt, and landed a kiss on your cheek. he put on his clothes and grabbed extra for you to use, putting them on you.
you'd never felt so much care from a man.
afterwards, he laid beside you, engulfing you in a hug. you were tucked against him, your head resting on his chest, his arm curved securely around your waist. his heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.
for a while, neither of you said anything.
his thumb traced absent, lazy circles along your arm. his breathing gradually evened out, deep and steady, and you matched it without realizing.
"hey," he murmured eventually, voice softer than you'd ever heard it. you shifted just enough to look up at him. his eyes were half-lidded, watching you like he was making sure you were real.
"are you okay?" he asked.
you nodded, the smallest smile tugging at your lips. "yeah, i am. are you?"
he let out a short breath that sounded like a laugh, but wasn't quite one. "yeah, just... didn't expect tonight to end like this," he said. you hummed, nestling closer to him, "me neither."
his arm tightened around you a little, protective without trying. "not in a bad way, though," he added quickly. "just thought i'd spend another night messing with you."
that made your chest ache.
you traced a slow line along his collarboone, not seductive, but thoughtful. "well, you weren't very good at pretending," you joked. he smiled at that, eyes dropping to your face, "yeah, neither were you."
another quiet stretch passed. he shifted slightly, propping himself up just enough to look at you properly. his expression changed.
"yn," the way he said your name made your breath get caught in your throat. "can i say something?" and you nodded, signalling him to go ahead.
he swallowed, thumb stilling on your arm like he was gathering courage. "i've liked you since the first time you walked into this house." he let out a quiet breath, "and yeah, i flirted, and teased, and pushed. but it wasn't just because it was fun."
your heart started pounding again, slower but deeper.
"i kept thinking i'd get over it," he continued. "that it'd pass. that you were just jena's best friend. off limits, like she said," his jaw tightened brifely, then softened. "but every time you came over, it got worse. the way you looked at me, the way you started teasing back. i couldn't stop thinking about you."
you felt heat behind your eyes, unexpected and overwhelming.
he brushed his forehead against yours. "i don't know what this would turn into. but i know i don't want to pretend anymore. i like you. a lot," he admitted quietly.
you lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes, your hand resting over his chest where his heart beat steady and sure.
"i've liked you too," you said softly. "i just didn't think you'd feel the same."
his smile was small but genuine, relief washing over his face like something finally unclenched. "yeah?"
you nodded lightly, "yeah."
he then pulled you back into him, tighter this time, like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn't hold on. you fit against him easily, naturally, like the teasing and tension had been leading here all along.
"guess we're in trouble," he mumbled into your hair.
you chuckled, closing your eyes. "maybe."
that night, you and heeseung fell asleep without meaning to.
sometime after the room went quiet and the adrenaline finally drained from your body, your eyes started feeling heavy. he murmured something half-asleep that you couldn't quite catch, and pressed a lazy kiss into your hair before drifting off too.
by the time the morning crept in through the curtains, the two of you were tangled together.
you smiled before you could stop yourself.
and then, the door creaked open.
"oh."
you froze. your eyes turned just in time to see jena standing in the doorway, still half-asleep, hair a mess, wearing one of her oversized hoodied. her gaze dropped from your face, to the arm around you, and to the very obvious way you were curled into her brother.
your body went cold. "jena—" you whispered, scrambling slightly, trying to sit up.
heeseung didn't let go. if anything, his arm tightened around your waist, anchoring you against him. he lifted his head lazily from the pillow, blinking once before looking at his sister.
"morning," he mumbled calmly.
you stared at him like he lost his mind. jena, on the other hand, corssed her arms and sighed, completely unimpressed. "i knew it, you two couldn't behave for one more night," she said flatly.
your face burned, "it's not—"
heeseung shifted beside you, chin resting on your shoulder now, voice low and reassuring. "relax, pretty. she's not surprised."
jena shot him a look, "don't act smug. i warned you."
then, her gaze softened slightly as it moved back to you. "i... wanted to see if you're okay," she gave a little smile. you nodded, "yeah. i um— i didn't expect—"
"me neither," she cut in, then huffed. "but honestly? i saw this coming from a mile away."
she stepped into the room, "just don't let him mess around with you, okay? he's insufferable."
before you could respond, heeseung spoke up, tone firm but calm. "i'm not playing, jen," he confessed. that got her attention. jena looked at him properly now, eyebrows lifting, "oh?"
he tightened his hold on you slightly, thumb brushing slow, grounding circled into your side. "i like yn. genuinely."
there was a beat of silence.
then, jena rolled her eyes, "gross." she turned toward the door, "whatever, i'm gonna go make coffee and pretend i didn't see any of this. don't be loud," and the door closed behind her.
you let out the breath you'd been holding, collapsing back against him. "i thought i was gonna pass out," you sighed. he laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your back, "you did great."
you turned in his arms to face him, eyes still wide. "you were way too calm about that," you rolled your eyes. he shrugged, smiling you in that soft, unguarded way he only used now. "why wouldn't i be?"
he brushed his thumb along you cheek. "can i ask you someting?" he murmured. "mhm," you hummed.
"can i do this properly now?" he asked. "like— actually call you mine? take you on dates and stuff, not playing around at my house."
your heart swelled, warmth blooming in your chest.
"yeah," you answered. "i want that."
his smile was immediate — bright and relieved. he leaned in and kissed you slowly, tender and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world. it wasn't heated or rushed. it was lips fitting together easily, a promise that anything else.
"i heard that!" jena shouted from the living room.
you both let go and burst into laughter, forehead dropping against his as he groaned dramatically. "she's never going to let us live this down," you said. he kissed your cheek, smile still wider than ever.
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