✨K-pop dreams✨

🌸 Soft kpop fics, cozy nights, and tiny sparkles for your heart 🌸💖 | ENHYPEN, Stray Kids & Cortis stan 💌✨

[biased-and-broke]

About Me

Hi! I’m Moka💖

Welcome to my little corner of tumblr 🫶

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🌙 Fandoms — ENHYPEN — Stray Kids — Cortis

💙 Biases — Sunghoon — Ni-ki — Juhoon — Lee Know — I.N

✍️ What I write — imagines — fluff — comfort — light angst — x reader fics

📬 Requests — open (for now!) — feel free to send ideas

⚠️ Boundaries — no smut — no hate — please be kind

Thank you for being here 💖 I hope you enjoy my writing 💫

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💬 feedback is always appreciated!💖

[hoonguin]

polka dots‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ✿‎ ‎ ⁠. ۫ ·‎ ‎ 西村力

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊

✷ nishimura riki spends an entire luxury fashion event forcing himself to stay composed while watching another man flirt with you, his oblivious fiancée, only to completely lose the battle against his jealousy the second you guys get home !

pairings ⸝⸝ fiancée‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎!riki ✿ oblivious!f!rea ‎ ‎ ✉️‎ ‎ ‎ wc ⸝⸝ 10.0k

🗯️ 内容‎ ‎ ‎  ‎ explicit sexual content ♫ 18+ ⸝⸝ intended for mature audiences | minors do not interact ᯓ established relationship, public event tension, lots of emotional intimacy and domestic moments, jealousy, reassurance, possessive behavior, markings, praise kink, edging, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), face fucking, tipsy sex, unprotected p in v, dacryphilia, creampie !

EL’S ✷ BUBBLE : again, i got a bit carried away with this one so oops ! this may lowkenuinely be one of my most favorite fics i’ve written for this event >< if it wasn’t already obvious, i’m a complete sucker for fashion, polka dots (swear on my life i loved them before they became a trend everywhere), and anything nishimura riki 😚 requested by my one and only @vmpiricou, of course! aaand technically this isn’t even an event request, but a request that’s been rotting in my brain and inbox for forever now, so i thought it’d be the perfect addition to the lineup . . . basically a two-in-one request fic hehe ! enjoooooy <33 mwehehehehe with much love

The invitation had come in the mail three weeks prior, thick, cream-coloured cardstock with the Prada logo embossed in matte black foil, the kind of paper that felt like money between your fingertips. 

A winter showcase. 

An outdoor installation that merged fashion and architecture, held on the grounds of a privately owned estate just outside the city, where hedges were trimmed into geometric shapes and the fountains had been drained for the season so they wouldn't crack under the frost. 

You'd been on the guest list before, your brand had collaborated with half the houses present tonight alone, but this year felt different. 

This year, you weren't just a designer in attendance. You were the fiancée of one of Prada's youngest ambassadors, and the whole world knew it.

You'd spent the entire morning preparing. Not because you needed the time, you could throw together a look in twenty minutes flat, a skill honed from years of running your own label, but because the outfit required precision. 

Every detail was deliberate, every accessory a statement, and if there was one thing you refused to do, it was to show up to a Prada event looking anything less than editorial.

The fuzzy grey high-neck winter jacket was your own design, a prototype from your upcoming fall-winter collection that you'd finished stitching at two in the morning the night before. 

The thick scarf wrapped around your neck was a mix of blue, white, grey, and brown plaid patterns, hand-woven by a small atelier that was run by the sister of your online friend in Scotland that you'd been supporting since your brand first turned a profit. 

The black mini-skirt was deceptively simple, a high-waisted silhouette that hugged your hips just right, the hem hitting mid-thigh. 

Your brown winter boots were lined with shearling, practical but polished, the kind of footwear that said you understood the assignment: fashion first, frostbite second.

But the highlight, the pièce de résistance, was the tights.

Black polka dot tights. 

Tiny white dots scattered across the sheer black fabric, close enough together to form a pattern but far enough apart that you could still see skin underneath. The dots caught the light differently depending on the angle, shifting from stark white to almost pearlescent when you crossed your legs. You'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deliberating over them, holding up pair after pair in front of your full-length mirror until Riki had finally wandered into your studio, chin resting on your shoulder, arms looping around your waist, and murmured, "The polka dots. Obviously."

You were also wearing a pair of black-framed glasses, rounded, slightly oversized, with thin metal arms, that Riki had gifted you on your six-month anniversary. He'd picked them up from a vintage shop in Harajuku during a tour stop, tucked them into his carry-on between his passport and a half-eaten pack of melon bread, and presented them to you in the back of a van with his manager yelling at him to hurry up. 

The frames suited you in a way that made his chest tight every time you put them on, which was precisely why he'd bought them. Your hair was curled at the ends, soft waves framing your face, and your bangs were clipped back with two small silver clips, half-moon shaped, another one of your designs. White fuzzy earmuffs sat over your ears, the kind that looked like they belonged on a snow bunny in a 1960s ski film.

When you finally emerged from the bedroom, Riki was leaning against the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone with a glass of water in his other hand. He glanced up, did a full double-take, and then just — stopped.

His phone slipped. Not all the way, not dramatically, but enough that he fumbled to catch it, his fingers closing around it a second too late, and it clattered against the marble countertop with a sound that made you wince.

"Riki—"

"Don't move."

"Huh?"

"I said don't move." He set his glass down carefully, deliberately, like he was afraid any sudden movement would shatter the image in front of him. His eyes dragged over you slowly, from the earmuffs perched on your head to the glasses sitting on the bridge of your nose, down the column of your neck wrapped in plaid, the grey jacket, the mini-skirt, the polka dot tights, the boots, and something in his expression shifted. His lips parted. His throat worked. He looked, for a moment, like a man who had just realised he was thoroughly, devastatingly out of his depth.

"You look," he started, and then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "You look unreal."

"You already said that when I tried on the jacket last week."

"I meant it then and I mean it now." He pushed off the counter and crossed the kitchen in three long strides, his hands finding your waist like they were magnetised to the spot. He dipped his head, pressing his forehead to yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips. "The tights," he said, voice low. His fingers skimmed down your side, over your hip, settling at the bare strip of thigh between your skirt hem and the top of your boots. "The tights are going to be a problem."

"Ow, you don't like them?"

"I like them too much." He kissed you then, soft and slow, his thumb tracing circles on the outside of your thigh where the polka dots pressed against your skin. When he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded and there was a faint smudge of your lip gloss on his bottom lip. "We're going to be late."

"You started it."

"I'm aware." He smiled, the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed the slight overlap of his front teeth. "Come on, baby. Car's waiting."

Riki's outfit was, by his own admission, "an attempt at restraint." A black puffer jacket with a fur-trimmed hood that made him look like he'd stepped out of a streetwear lookbook, a white sweater peeking out from underneath the hem and collar, baggy denim jeans that sat low on his hips in that effortlessly cool way that only he could pull off, and his trusty pair of winter boots, the same ones he'd worn to three different fashion weeks and refused to replace because, in his words, "they're broken in perfectly." Around his neck was a striped blue scarf that you were eighty percent sure he'd stolen from your dad's closet last Christmas, but you didn't have the heart to call him out on it because he looked so damn cozy wearing it.

The estate was beautiful in the way that only places with old money could be, ivory walls and wrought-iron gates, gravel paths that crunched underfoot, and a sprawling garden that had been transformed for the event. 

Heaters stood at intervals along the walkways, glowing orange against the early evening dark, and sheer tents had been erected over the main areas, their fabric catching the golden light of the chandeliers suspended within. 

The air smelled like pine and expensive perfume, and everywhere you looked, someone was wearing something that cost more than a semester of tuition.

You and Riki entered together, his hand resting on the small of your back, and the cameras erupted. Flash after flash after flash, a wall of white light that made your glasses reflect like mirrors, and Riki's grip on you tightened, not out of possessiveness, but out of practice. He'd learned to guide you through crowds like this, his body angling to shield you from the worst of the surge, his hand a steady anchor against the chaos.

"Over here, Mr. Nishimura!"

"Miss! Miss, over here! The tights—who designed them?"

"Are those your own brand? Can you confirm—"

You smiled, tilted your chin, let the cameras capture the outfit from every angle. Riki did the same beside you, effortless, practiced, the product of years in an industry that demanded you be both accessible and untouchable. But just before you stepped past the photo wall and into the venue proper, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your temple, and the resulting shutter sound was deafening.

"You're killing me," he muttered against your hair.

"Behave."

"No."

The event was the kind of thing that looked effortless but required an exhausting amount of social choreography. You and Riki had been seated at different tables, his as Prada's ambassador, yours as the founder of your label, and while the tables were only about twenty feet apart, the distance felt insurmountable in a room where every conversation was a negotiation and every smile was a calculated move.

You handled your end with the ease of someone who'd been doing this since she was nineteen, when your grandmother's old sewing machine had been your only investment and your kitchen table had been your cutting room. 

You shook hands with buyers, charmed editors, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, and somehow managed to compliment someone's shoes without lying. 

Your grandmother had raised you to be warm, to hug people when you met them, to touch their arm when you laughed, to lean in close when they spoke so they knew you were listening. It was second nature to you, as automatic as breathing, and in the fashion industry, where everyone was accustomed to a certain degree of frostiness, your affection was disarming.

Which was how you found yourself in conversation with a man whose name you hadn't quite caught, something French, maybe, or Belgian, who had apparently designed the installation's centrepiece and was very keen to tell you about it.

"Your work is extraordinary," he was saying, his accent rounding out the consonants in a way that made everything sound like a compliment. "The way you construct silhouettes—it's architectural. Structural. I see a lot of myself in it."

"Oh, thank you!" You beamed at him, genuine and bright, because you appreciated any kind of comparison to architecture. Your grandmother had been a seamstress, yes, but she'd also been the daughter of a carpenter, and she'd always told you that building a garment was no different from building a house, you needed a strong frame, good materials, and a steady hand. "That means a lot coming from you. The centrepiece is incredible, by the way. The use of negative space—"

He stepped closer. You didn't notice. You were too busy gesturing at the installation, your hands painting shapes in the air the way they always did when you were excited about something. He reached up and adjusted the clip in your bangs, his fingers brushing against your hairline, and said, "This was falling. I fixed it."

"Oh! Thank you," you said, smiling. "These clips are tricky, they slip sometimes—"

"Your glasses too. May I?" And before you could respond, he was sliding them further up the bridge of your nose, his fingertips grazing your cheek, and you blinked at the proximity but didn't pull away because why would you? He was being helpful. He was being nice. That was a thing people did — they helped each other. Your grandmother had always said that kindness was free and should be given freely, and you'd lived your whole life by that philosophy.

Across the venue, Riki was in the middle of a conversation with a Prada executive about an upcoming campaign, and he was doing an admirable job of appearing engaged. 

He was nodding at the right moments, asking the right follow-up questions, even managing a convincing laugh when the executive made a joke about a rival house. But his attention was divided. It had been divided since the moment you'd separated, his eyes tracking you across the room like a compass needle finding north, and right now, that needle was spinning wildly.

He saw it all.

He saw the man lean in too close — close enough that his breath was probably visible in the cold air between your faces. He saw the hand that reached up to fix your clip, fingers lingering a beat too long against your hair. He saw the way the man adjusted your glasses, his touch drifting from the frame to your cheek like it belonged there. He saw the way you smiled up at the man, bright and completely, heartbreakingly oblivious, because you were you, and you assumed the best in everyone, and it had never once occurred to you that someone might be using the excuse of helpfulness to touch you in ways that made Riki's blood pressure spike.

His grip on his champagne flute tightened. The glass was sturdy, Prada didn't skimp on glassware, but he could feel the tension in his knuckles, the fine tremor of restraint running through his forearm.

"Nishimura?" The executive's voice cut through. "You had thoughts on the Milan venue?"

"Sorry, yeah." He dragged his gaze back to the conversation, forced his expression into something neutral. "The Milan venue is great. The lighting is the main thing—we need to make sure the—"

The man had his hand on your shoulder now. Your shoulder. He was leaning down to say something near your ear, his thumb rubbing small circles against the wool of your jacket, and you were nodding along, completely unaware of the way his eyes were tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, the dip of your collarbone visible above the high neck of your jacket.

Riki smiled through it. He smiled through the next conversation too, and the one after that, and the one after that. He smiled when a photographer asked for a solo shot, and he smiled when a stylist complimented his scarf, and he smiled when a fellow ambassador asked about the ring on your finger, visible now that you'd taken your gloves off to accept a drink, because what the hell could he say? That he wanted to cross the room, slide his arm around your waist, and tell every man within a ten-foot radius to back the fuck off? That he wanted to bite the spot where that stranger's thumb had touched your shoulder? That he was actively restraining himself from doing something that would end up on every gossip account by midnight?

He could practically see the tweets already. 

Oh my god.

PRADA’S NISHIMURA RIKI CAUSES SCENE AT PRADA EVENT—JEALOUS BOYFRIEND OR JUST BAD TEMPER? followed by a thread of clips taken from unflattering angles and captioned with takes so hot they could melt the ice on the garden paths. 

He could see the think pieces, the psychoanalysis, the stan Twitter wars between people who thought he was justified and people who thought he was toxic, and neither side would be right because neither side knew the truth — they didn't know that you were the most oblivious person on the planet, that you thought everyone was just being friendly, that if someone flirted with you using the subtlety of a sledgehammer you'd probably just think they had great posture.

So Riki stayed where he was. He smiled. He networked. He kept his grip on his champagne flute tight enough that the tendons in his hand stood out like cords, and he watched, and he waited, and every time the man touched your shoulder, three times, he counted them, three goddamn times, he filed the number away like a brand seared into his memory.

By the time the event wound down, Riki had shaken approximately forty hands, smiled through approximately sixty conversations, and consumed approximately four glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. 

He was tipsy, not sloppy, not sloppy enough for anyone to notice, but just enough that the edges of things had gone soft and warm and his tongue felt loose behind his teeth. The buzz was pleasant, distracting, a buffer between his brain and the image of that man's hand on your shoulder that he kept replaying like a scene he couldn't stop watching.

You found him near the exit, adjusting his scarf with one hand and his phone with the other, and you slipped your arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Ready to go, baby?"

"Yeah." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, let's go."

The car was waiting — a sleek black sedan with tinted windows, booked privately through the service Riki always used when he didn't want the company van's driver to overhear whatever half-coherent conversation would inevitably happen on the ride home. You climbed in first, pulling your earmuffs off and shaking out your hair, and Riki followed, immediately reaching for the partition button to close off the driver's compartment.

Then you were on him.

Not in a sexual way, not consciously, but in the way you always were when you'd been apart from him for more than an hour. You pressed yourself against his side, your cheek finding the curve of his shoulder, your fingers walking up the front of his puffer jacket to fiddle with the zipper pull. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, then another to the spot just below his ear, and you could feel the way his pulse jumped under your lips even though his posture remained carefully, deliberately relaxed.

"I missed you," you murmured against his skin. "The event was so, so long, baby. I kept looking over at you."

"Did you?" His arm came up around your shoulders, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against the curve of your arm. The gesture was affectionate, automatic, but there was something in the rhythm of it that felt… off. Like a metronome that was slightly out of time. "I was watching you too."

"Were you?" You smiled against his neck, your nose brushing the collar of his sweater. "Did you like how I handled the Barneys buyer? I think I got them to commit to the spring line—"

"You seemed pretty busy." The words were casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that was constructed, deliberate, a mask placed over something sharper. "With that guy."

"What guy?" You pulled back just enough to look at him, your brow furrowed. Your glasses had slipped down your nose again, and you pushed them up absently. "Oh—you mean the installation designer? He was super sweet, Ki! He helped me fix my clip, and he had really interesting things to say about textile architecture. Did you know he studied under—"

"He was flirting with you."

The car took a turn, and the glow of a streetlight swept across Riki's face, illuminating the hard set of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his eyes were fixed on the window instead of on you. You stared at him, blinking.

"He was what?"

"Flirting. With you." Each word was clipped, precise, like he was biting them in half before they could escape. "He touched your hair. Your face. Your shoulder—three times. He was leaning in so close I could practically see his dental work."

"Oh." You sat back slightly, processing this information the way you processed most social cues with a delay long enough to be endearing and a little bit tragic. "He was... flirting? With me? But he was just being nice. He fixed my glasses, Riki. Who fixes someone's glasses if they're not being nice?"

"Someone who wants an excuse to touch your face," Riki said flatly. "Someone who sees an opening and takes it because you're too sweet to notice that he's not being nice, he's being interested, and there's a difference, and you—"

He stopped himself. Exhaled through his nose. His jaw worked, the muscle there jumping, and you watched the tension ride through his frame like a current, shoulders rigid, fingers flexing against your arm, the tendons in his neck taut. He looked like he was physically holding something back, and the realisation hit you like cold water.

"Baby," you said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "Hey. Look at me."

He did. His eyes were dark in the low light of the car, the amber of the passing streetlamps catching in them intermittently, and there was something raw there, something unguarded that made your chest ache. You'd seen Riki walk for ten thousand people. You'd seen him navigate boardrooms and red carpets and interviews with the ease of someone who'd been trained to be likable since he was fourteen. 

But this — this was different. 

This was your Riki, the one who got sulky when you ate the last mochi, the one who practiced his confession in the mirror for three days before actually saying it, the one who was sitting in the back of a black sedan with champagne-warmth in his veins and jealousy sitting heavy and obvious in his chest.

"I'm sorry," you said, and you meant it. You were sorry — not for being friendly, because that was who you were and he'd never ask you to change, but for not noticing, for making him sit through that, for being the kind of person who could have a man practically draw her a map to his intentions and still think he was just being polite. "I didn't realize. I would've—I should have—"

"It's not your fault." He said it quietly, firmly, and his hand came up to cover yours on his cheek, pressing your palm against his skin like he needed the warmth. "I know that's just how you are. I know you don't see it. That's not—you're not the problem, okay? That bitch is the problem. I just—" He exhaled again, sharper this time, and his eyes fluttered shut. "It drove me insane. Standing there, watching him touch you like that, and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't just walk over there without it being a whole thing, and I knew if I said something it'd be everywhere, and—"

"Ki."

"—and he just kept touching you, and you were smiling at him, fuck, and I know you didn't mean anything by it, but you're mine, and—"

"Riki."

He stopped. Opened his eyes. Looked at you with that expression you'd only ever seen in the privacy of your shared spaces, hungry and soft and a little bit desperate, like he was standing at the edge of something and needed permission to fall.

"I'm yours," you said simply. "You know that."

"I know." His voice was rough. The champagne had loosened something in him, stripped away the careful composure, and what was left was raw and wanting. "I know. I just—need to remind myself."

The rest of the drive was quiet, but it wasn't the comfortable kind. 

It was the kind of quiet that hummed with tension, that filled the space between your bodies like static electricity, that made every point of contact, his hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder, his thumb tracing absent patterns on the inside of your wrist, feel charged and significant. 

You pressed more kisses to his cheek, leaving faint traces of lipstick like signatures, and he let you, his eyes half-closed and his jaw still tight, and the offness you'd sensed earlier crystallised into something you could finally name.

He was jealous. He was jealous, and he was tipsy, and he was holding himself together with the kind of restraint that was fraying at the edges.

The house was warm when you walked in, you'd left the smart thermostat on before you left, and the heat had been cranking for the past four hours, turning the space into a cocoon against the winter chill outside. 

You kicked off your boots in the entryway, your feet finding the hardwood in just your tights, and you were reaching for the zipper of your jacket when Riki's hands found you.

Not your jacket. 

You. 

His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his face pressing into the curve of your neck, and his entire body folded into yours like a building collapsing in slow motion. 

He was heavy, taller than you by nearly a head, broader across the shoulders, all long limbs and lean muscle, and when he let go, he let go, his weight sagging against your back until you staggered slightly under the pressure.

"Whoa, hey—"

"You're mine." The words were muffled against your neck, damp and warm, and his arms tightened around your waist like he was trying to press you into himself, eliminate any space between your bodies. "You're mine, and he was touching you, and I couldn't—I wanted to—"

"I know, baby. I know." You turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cradle his face, and he looked at you with eyes that were glassy and dark and so painfully honest that it made your heart crack open. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've noticed, I should've—"

"Don't apologize." He shook his head, his hair falling across his forehead in that way that always made you want to push it back. "Don't. It's not—it's not your fault. You're too good. You're too good and people take advantage of it and it makes me—"

He broke off, his throat working, and something shifted in his expression. 

The whine was still there, the babyish, I-need-complaint pout that he wore when he was feeling small and wanted to be coddled, but underneath it, something else was surfacing. 

Something harder. Hotter. The jealousy that had been simmering all evening was reaching its boiling point, and the warmth from the champagne was fanning the flames.

"Enough." His voice dropped. Not angry, never angry with you, but firm, decided, the kind of firm that brokered no argument. "I've been patient all night. I've been good. I've smiled and shaken hands and let that man put his hands on what's mine without saying a word, and I'm done being patient."

Your breath caught. "Riki—"

"I need to mark you." He said it like a confession, like something he'd been holding behind his teeth all evening and could finally release. "I need to mark you, doll. I need to see my marks on you so that the next time someone thinks they can touch you, they'll see them and know."

He kissed you then, not the soft, reverent kisses from the car but something deeper, harder, his teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging until you gasped into his mouth. 

His hands were everywhere: cupping your jaw, tangling in your hair, sliding down your back to grip your hips and pull you flush against him. You could feel the heat of him even through the layers of your jacket and his puffer, the hard line of his body pressing against yours, and the champagne on his tongue was sweet and sharp and made your head spin.

"Up," he muttered against your lips, and then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and held on as he carried you down the hallway to your bedroom.

He kicked the door open, not hard enough to damage it, but hard enough that it bounced off the wall, and laid you down on the bed with a care that contradicted the urgency of his movements. You sank into the duvet, your hair fanning out across the pillows, and he stood over you for a moment, chest heaving, eyes dragging down your body like he was committing every detail to memory.

"Keep the tights on," he said, and his voice was hoarse.

You blinked up at him. "What?"

"The tights." He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands finding your ankles and sliding up reverently over the smooth fabric dotted with tiny white polka dots. "Keep them on, baby. I have... plans."

His fingers traced the pattern, pressing gently into the sheer fabric, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath. The polka dots were like Braille under his fingertips, tiny raised dots that he read like a language only he knew. 

He pushed your mini-skirt up, baring the expanse of your thighs, and the sound he made, low, guttural, somewhere between a groan and a growl, sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"God, these tights." He pressed his lips to your knee, then to the soft skin above it, the fabric of the tights a whisper-thin barrier between his mouth and your skin. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me tonight? Walking around in these—looking like that—and then letting some other man put his hands on you—"

"I didn't know—"

"I know you didn't, doll. That's what makes it worse." He kissed the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed and hot, and your breath hitched. "You're so trusting. So sweet. You think everyone's just being nice, and meanwhile I'm standing across the room watching some guy memorize the shape of your body through these—" He bit down. Not hard enough to hurt, not yet, but hard enough that you felt the pressure of his teeth through the thin fabric, and you let out a startled, breathy sound that was half gasp and half moan.

"Riki—"

"He touched your shoulder three times." He bit down again, harder this time, and this time there was no mistaking it, he was leaving a mark, his teeth indenting the skin of your inner thigh through the polka dot tights, and the contrast was devastating: the delicate pattern of dots, the dark fabric, and the red bloom of a bruise rising underneath. "Three times. I counted. I counted every single time his hand made contact with your body, and each time I wanted to break his fingers."

"Baby—"

"Three." He bit down again, higher up on your thigh, and you arched off the bed with a cry that you muffled against the back of your hand. The pain was sharp and bright, but it faded almost immediately into something warm and throbbing, and when you looked down, you could see the mark already forming, a dark, mouth-shaped bruise against the polka dot fabric, the white dots like witnesses to the claim.

"Two." Another bite, on the other thigh now, and his tongue swept over the mark after, soothing and wet and obscenely hot through the tights. You were trembling, your fingers twisted in the duvet, your glasses askew on your face, and he hadn't even taken off a single piece of your clothing.

"One." The last bite was the hardest, placed high on your inner thigh where the skin was softest and the tights were stretched thin, and you felt the sting of it all the way down to your toes. He pulled back to admire his work, and the sound he made, low, satisfied, almost predatory, made heat pool in your stomach. Three marks. Three whole ass bites. One for each time that man had touched you, each one a brand that would darken over the next few days into deep, mottled purple.

"Perfect," he breathed. His fingers traced the marks, pressing lightly, watching the way your breath stuttered. "You look so pretty with my marks on you, angel. So pretty. And everyone's gonna know. Not that they'd see these—" He dragged his thumb over the bruise on your inner thigh, and you whimpered. "But I'll know. And you'll know. And every time you move your legs tomorrow, you're going to feel them and remember that you're mine."

"I'm yours," you whispered, and you meant it with every cell in your body.

He smiled at that, not the sharp, possessive smile from before, but something softer, something that cracked through the jealousy like sunlight through clouds. "Yeah," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were still pressing bruises into your thighs. "Yeah, you are."

He reached for the waistband of your tights then, hooking his fingers under the elastic and dragging them down your hips slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every inch of newly exposed skin. The tights peeled off like a second skin, the polka dots sliding away from the bruises he'd left, and he tossed them somewhere over his shoulder without looking. 

Your underwear followed, a scrap of black lace that he pulled down with his teeth, and the visual of it, Riki on his knees, his eyes dark and fixed on your face, his mouth dragging lace down your thighs, was enough to make your breath come in shallow, desperate pants.

"Ki, please—"

"Please what?" He settled between your legs, his breath warm against your inner thighs, his lips ghosting over the marks he'd left. "Tell me what you want, doll. You have a mouth for a reason."

"Your mouth. Please—I need—"

"What do you mean by please?" He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him, and his tongue darted out to taste the mark he'd left. 

The sensation was electric, warm and not nearly enough, and you squirmed beneath him, your hips lifting off the bed in silent pleading.

"I need your mouth on me. Please, Ki. Please, baby."

"Good girl." The words vibrated against your skin, and then his mouth was on you, and you stopped thinking entirely.

He was thorough. 

He was always thorough, Riki had never done anything half-heartedly in his life, and that included this, but tonight there was an edge to it, a hunger that bordered on desperation. His tongue was hot and precise, mapping every fold and curve with the focus of a cartographer charting new territory, and when he found the spot that made your back arch off the mattress, he stayed there, circling and pressing and sucking until you were making sounds you didn't recognise.

"Riki—oh god—Ki—"

He groaned against you, the vibration of it shooting through your body like a shockwave, and his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises alongside the bite marks. 

He was making noises too, low and guttural sounds that were half-moan and half-growl, the kind of sounds that came from a man who was losing himself in the taste of you, who couldn't stop even if he wanted to, who was drunk on champagne and jealousy and the sweetness of your body on his tongue.

"You taste so good," he murmured against you, his voice wrecked. "So fucking good, angel. My doll. Mine."

"Yours—ah—yours, baby, I'm—"

He didn't let you finish the sentence. His tongue flattened against you, broad and wet and relentless, and he licked into you with a determination that made your vision blur. Your glasses were completely fogged now, the lenses clouded with heat and moisture, and you reached up blindly to pull them off, tossing them somewhere on the nightstand, and the world went soft and dark at the edges. Not that you needed to see. You could feel every stroke of his tongue, every press of his lips, every sharp inhale he took between your legs like he was breathing you in.

The orgasm built slowly, a tightening coil in your lower belly that wound tighter with every stroke of his tongue. You could feel it approaching, cresting, your thighs shaking around his head, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even though closer was physically impossible—

And then he stopped.

You made a sound of protest that was embarrassingly close to a sob, your hips chasing his mouth, but he pulled back just out of reach, his hands pressing your thighs down against the mattress. "Not yet," he said, and his voice was steady even though his lips were swollen and glistening and his chest was heaving. "You don't get to come yet."

"What—why—"

"Three." He said it simply, and the meaning crashed over you like cold water. Three. Three edges. Three denials. One for each time that man had touched your shoulder, one for each moment Riki had watched from across the room and done nothing. This was the reckoning.

"Riki, I can't—"

"You can." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, gentle and reassuring. "You can, and you will. Because I asked you to. Because you're mine, and you're going to take what I give you, and you're going to be good for me. Can you do that, doll?"

Your eyes were stinging. Your body was thrumming with unresolved tension, every nerve ending screaming for release, and he was asking you to hold on, to wait, to endure. But the way he was looking at you, soft and dark and so full of love that it made your chest ache, made it impossible to say no.

"Yes," you whispered. "Yes, I can be good for you."

"My good girl." He smiled, and then he was moving, shedding his puffer jacket and pulling his sweater over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and the faint definition of his abs. He was beautiful. He was always beautiful, but like this, dishevelled and hungry and looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, he was absolutely devastating.

"Come here," you whispered, reaching for him, and he went.

He kissed you as he settled over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and strange. His hands worked at the remaining pieces of your outfit, the jacket, the scarf, the mini-skirt, until you were bare beneath him, your skin flushed and dotted with the marks he'd already left, and he pulled back to look at you again.

"You're so beautiful," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "So fucking beautiful, and you're mine. Say it again."

"I'm yours, Ki."

"Again."

"I'm yours. Only yours. Always yours."

He kissed you harder, his hands roaming your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. He traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the dip of your collarbone, his touch feather-light and burning. "This body," he murmured against your jaw. "This body is mine. Every inch of it. Every curve. Every mark." 

His lips found your breast, his tongue circling your nipple, and you arched into the wet heat with a broken moan. "He can look all he wants. He can fix your glasses and adjust your clips and touch your shoulder until his fingers fall off. But at the end of the night, this—" He bit down gently on the swell of your breast, and you keened. "—this comes home to me."

"Yes—yes, baby, always—"

"Open your mouth for me, doll."

You did, without hesitation, without question, because you trusted him with every fibre of your being and because the look in his eyes right now, the raw and naked need, made it impossible to do anything but surrender. 

He shifted, his knees bracketing your shoulders, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as he freed himself from his jeans, the hard length of him bobbing heavily against his stomach.

He was big. 

You'd never gotten used to it — the first time you'd been together, you'd actually laughed, because what else were you supposed to do when confronted with something that looked like it belonged in a textbook? He'd been mortified until you'd explained, and then he'd been insufferably smug about it for approximately five weeks. Now, though, there was no laughter — only hunger, only want, only the desperate need to feel him in whatever way he'd give you.

"Tap my thigh if it's too much," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hand was shaking where it gripped the headboard. "Okay?"

"Okay."

He pressed the head of his cock against your lips, and you opened wider, your tongue darting out to taste the salt of him, and the sound he made, a sharp, bitten-off groan that he tried to swallow and failed, sent a pulse of heat straight to your core. 

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, and you felt the stretch of him, the weight, the girth, the way he filled your mouth until your jaw ached with the effort of accommodating him.

"Fuck," he breathed. His head fell back, the long line of his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Fuck, doll, your mouth—"

You hummed around him, and his hips jerked forward, pushing himself deeper, and you fought your gag reflex bravely, your throat fluttering around the intrusion. He noticed, he always noticed, and his hand came down to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek in a gesture that was so tender it made your eyes water.

"You're doing so good," he said, and the praise washed over you like warm honey. "So good for me, angel. Taking me so well. My perfect girl."

He started to move then, shallow thrusts at first, letting you set the pace, but gradually deeper, faster, his hips rocking into your mouth with a rhythm that was steadily losing its restraint. 

The sounds he was making were obscene: low, rumbling moans that came from somewhere deep in his chest, punctuated by breathless curses and fragments of your name. He was vocal always, had been since the very beginning, the first time you'd been together he'd been so loud that his neighbour had pounded on the wall and he'd just laughed, breathless and unashamed, but tonight, with the champagne stripping away his inhibitions, he was practically singing.

"Ah—fuck, yes—just like that, doll—your mouth feels so—god—"

His hand fisted in your hair, not pulling, just holding, and his thrusts grew more erratic, his breathing more ragged, and you could feel him getting close, the way his muscles tensed, the way his moans pitched higher, the way his thighs trembled against your shoulders. 

But he pulled back before he could finish, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound that made you both groan, and he was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut like he was physically holding himself together.

"Not yet," he said, more to himself than to you. "Not like that. I need—I need to be inside you when I come. Need to feel you."

He moved down your body, settling between your legs again, and this time when he kissed you, it was slow and deep and tasted like the two of you mixed together. 

You could feel him hot and hard against your stomach, the slick of him smearing across your skin, and you reached down to wrap your hand around him, but he caught your wrist and pinned it above your head.

"Patience," he murmured against your lips, and you whimpered because patience was the absolute last thing you had right now.

"I've been patient," you protested, and your voice came out wrecked, raw and hoarse from his cock in your throat and the moans you couldn't stop making. "Please, Ki—I've been so good—"

"You have," he agreed, and his free hand was sliding down your body, over the curve of your hip, between your legs, and his fingers found you dripping and swollen and so achingly sensitive that even the lightest touch made you jerk. "You've been so good for me, baby. My perfect, perfect girl. You deserve a reward, don't you?"

"Yes—please—"

He entered you in one long, slow thrust, and the sound you both made was identical, a broken, desperate moan that harmonised in the quiet of the bedroom. 

He filled you completely, the stretch of him bordering on too much and then settling into something that made your eyes roll back in your head, and he held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants.

"Feel that?" He rolled his hips, a slow grind that pressed against every sensitive spot inside you, and you sobbed. "That's mine. You're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours—fuck—I'm yours, Ki—"

He started to move then, really move, and the pace he set was punishing. Deep, hard thrusts that drove you up the mattress, each one punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and the wet sound of your bodies moving together. He was relentless, his hips snapping forward with a precision that spoke of barely contained control, and each thrust hit something inside you that made your vision go blank.

"This is mine," he gritted out, his hand sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. "This body—this pussy—all of it. Mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine."

"Yours—only yours—baby, please—"

"Please what?" He shifted the angle, hitching your leg up over his hip, and the new position let him sink even deeper, and you heard yourself make a sound that was barely human, high and thin and desperate. "Please let you come? Is that what you want, doll?"

"Yes—yes, please, I need—"

"You need to wait." He thrust into you hard, and you screamed, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth, his tongue sweeping past your lips in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. "Three, remember? You've had one. You need two more."

"I can't—I can't take it—"

"You can. You will." He pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes dark and molten, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You're so strong, doll. So perfect. So beautiful. You can take anything I give you, and you'll thank me for it. Won't you?"

"Yes—yes, I'll thank you—thank you, Ki—"

"Good girl."

He kept moving, and you kept climbing, and just as the coil in your belly was about to snap for the second time, he pulled out. Stopped out of nowhere. 

The emptiness was unbearable, your body clenching around nothing, your hips chasing the friction that had been so cruelly denied, and the sound you made was a full-bodied sob that echoed off the walls.

"I know," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were shaking. "I know, baby. I know it's hard. You're doing so well. Just one more."

"One more," you repeated, like a prayer. "One more. I can do one more."

"My good girl."

He pushed back in, and this time the thrusts were slower, not gentler, not by a long shot, but more deliberate, more controlled, each one a calculated assault on your senses. His hand found the spot between your legs, his thumb pressing in tight circles, and the sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you was too much. You were shaking, tears streaming down your temples into your hair, your hands fisted in the sheets so tightly that your knuckles were white.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, and his voice was reverent, worshipful, like he was looking at something holy. "All teary and desperate and mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody. Not the designers, not the buyers, not the men who think they can put their hands on you at events. This—" He thrust deep, grinding against you, and you keened. "—this shit is mine."

"Yours—only yours—Ki, please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come—I can't—I'm going to—I need—"

"Not yet." But his voice was strained, his own control fraying, and you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his thrusts were becoming more erratic, the way his moans were pitching higher and more desperate. 

He was close too, you could feel it in the tension of his body, the way he was fighting his own release alongside yours, and the realization that he was denying himself as much as he was denying you made something hot and tight twist in your chest.

"Ki—"

"One more, doll. Give me one more. You can do it. I know you can."

He changed the angle again, deeper now, impossibly deep, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix with each thrust, and the pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain. You were beyond words now, beyond coherent thought, reduced to a creature of pure sensation, every nerve ending firing, every muscle trembling, your entire being focused on the point where his body met yours.

He pulled out again.

The third denial was the worst. Or the best. You couldn't tell anymore. You were sobbing openly, your body wracked with tremors, your thighs shaking around his hips, and when you reached for him, your hands were so weak that you could barely grip his shoulders. The orgasm that had been building for what felt like hours was hovering just out of reach, a wave that had crested but hadn't yet broken, and the frustration was so acute it was almost its own kind of pleasure.

"I can't—" you wept. "Ki, baby, please—I can't take another one—please, I need to come—I need—"

"I know," he said, and this time his voice broke on the words. "I know, doll. You've been so good. So perfect. So patient. You took all three so beautifully. My good girl. My perfect, perfect girl."

He thrust back in, and this time there was no stopping. No pulling out. No denial. Just the relentless, punishing rhythm of his hips and the pressure of his thumb on your clit and the sound of his voice in your ear, low and rough and so full of love that it made your chest hurt.

"Come for me," he said, and it was a command and a plea and a prayer all at once. "Come for me, doll. Let go. I've got you. I've always got you."

You came.

It hit you like a wall of light, blinding, all-consuming, every muscle in your body seizing at once as the orgasm that had been denied three times finally, finally crashed over you. 

You were aware of screaming his name, of your nails raking down his back, of your body arching off the bed so violently that he had to pin you down with his weight, and the pleasure was so intense that for a long, terrifying moment, you couldn't see or hear or think, you could only feel, every cell in your body exploding and reforming and exploding again.

He followed you over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering, his breath catching, and then he was spilling into you with a groan that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones. 

You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of him inside you, the way his body shuddered with each wave, the raw, animal sound of his release, and it triggered another smaller orgasm in you, your walls clenching around him in aftershocks that made you both gasp.

He didn't pull out. He couldn't. His body had given out the moment the orgasm hit, and he collapsed on top of you with his full weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps that you could feel against your sweat-damp skin. 

You held him, your arms wrapping around his back, your fingers tracing the scratch marks you'd left, thin red lines that would be visible tomorrow if he took his shirt off, and you pressed kisses to whatever part of him you could reach: his temple, his hairline, the shell of his ear.

"I love you," you whispered, and your voice was wrecked—raw and hoarse and barely audible. "I love you so much, Ki."

"I love you too." His voice was muffled against your neck, thick and slow and sleepy, the champagne and the orgasm hitting him all at once. "I love you more than anything. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Good." He pressed a lazy kiss to your pulse point, and you felt him smile against your skin. "Mine."

"Yours."

The silence that followed was warm and comfortable, the kind of silence that could only exist between two people who had just dismantled each other completely and were now lying in the wreckage, too spent to move but too content to care. The heater hummed in the corner. The snow was falling outside the window, visible in the glow of the streetlight, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off and was ignored.

Eventually, Riki shifted, just enough to lift his head and look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and soft and so full of affection that it made your heart do something embarrassing in your chest. 

"Hey," he said.

"Hello to you too."

"Are you okay?"

"Mm." You stretched, wincing at the soreness that was already settling into your muscles, and you shifted your legs experimentally, and that was when you saw them.

The marks.

What the fuck.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at your body, and the sight that greeted you made your breath catch. 

Your inner thighs were a patchwork of bruises, the bite marks from earlier, already darkening into deep purple and blue, overlapping and intersecting like some kind of abstract painting. 

Your hips were fingerprinted, ten small crescents where his hands had gripped you. 

Your breasts bore the faint impression of his teeth, and your collarbone — well. It looked like you'd been attacked by a very determined vampire.

"Oh my god," you breathed.

Riki followed your gaze, and the satisfied smile that spread across his face was entirely unapologetic. "Oh my god?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "That's all you have to say?"

"Riki, there are—there are marks everywhere."

"That was kind of the point, doll."

"I know, but—" You shifted again, wincing as the bruises on your thighs pressed against the mattress, and then a thought struck you that was equal parts mortified and relieved. "Oh, thank god it's winter."

Riki raised an eyebrow. "Thank god it's winter?"

"So I don't have to head out in shorts twenty-four-seven," you explained, gesturing at the constellation of bruises decorating your thighs. "I mean, can you imagine? I'd walk into the office and my team would think I'd been attacked by a wild animal."

"A very handsome wild animal," Riki corrected, and you laughed.

"A very handsome wild animal who can't control his teeth," you amended.

"I control them just fine. I placed every single one of those marks with intent." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the mark on your collarbone, his lips warm and lingering. "And besides, baby, you won't need to worry about shorts. I just washed and prepared your maxi skirts, especially the denim one your mom reworked, so thank me later."

You stared at him. "You did what?"

"Washed your maxi skirts." He said it casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn't just confessed to doing your laundry — which he never did, not because he was unwilling but because you were particular about the way your garments were handled and he'd once shrunk a cashmere sweater and you'd made a face so tragic that he'd sworn off laundry duty entirely. "The denim one is hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I air-dried it like you showed me. And the grey wool one is in the closet, third hanger from the left."

"You, Nishimura Riki, washed my skirts. By hand. And air-dried them."

"Yes." He blinked at you, all innocent and earnest, like he wasn't lying there with love bites covering his throat and your lipstick still smudged on his jaw. "Is that... is that weird?"

"No." Your voice came out thick, and you realised with a start that you were getting emotional, over laundry, of all things, but it wasn't really about the laundry, was it? 

It was about the fact that this man, the same man who had marked you like a territorial wolf not fifteen minutes ago, had also spent time carefully hand-washing your skirts because he knew, somehow, that you'd need them. That he'd thought ahead. That he'd taken care of you in ways that were quiet and domestic and so fundamentally him that it made your eyes sting again. 

"It's not weird," you said again, softer this time, and you cupped his face in your hands and kissed him, slow and deep and full of a love so enormous that you couldn't possibly contain it. "It's the opposite of weird. It's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me."

"Now who's being dramatic," he murmured against your lips, but he was smiling, and you could feel the way his chest expanded with the kind of quiet pride that he'd never admit to out loud.

"Thank you, Ki."

"You're welcome, baby." He shifted, pulling out of you with a wince that matched yours, and the absence of him left you feeling empty and cold and aching in ways that were both physical and emotional. 

He reached for the duvet, pulling it over both of you, and gathered you against his chest like you were something precious and breakable and infinitely worth protecting.

"Hey," you said, your voice muffled against his skin.

"Hm?"

"Next time someone flirts with me at an event and I don't notice, you have my full permission to come over and be insane about it."

He laughed, the kind that shook his whole body and made the bed creak. "You're going to regret saying that."

"Probably." You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "But at least I'll have the maxi skirts to cover the evidence."

"The denim one especially," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Your mom did a great job on it. The hem is perfect."

"You’re so weird."

"You love it."

"Yeah." You pressed a kiss to the centre of his chest, right over his heart, and felt it beat steady and strong against your lips. "Yeah, I really do."

Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the city in white, and inside, under the warmth of the duvet and the weight of each other, you fell asleep to the sound of his breathing and the knowledge that tomorrow, when you pulled on that reworked denim maxi skirt, the marks on your thighs would press against the fabric like a secret — yours and his and nobody else's.

When Riki handed you your glasses from the nightstand the next morning, his fingers lingering on the frames just a moment too long, you thought about the way he'd looked at you when you'd put them on the night before, like you were the only person in the room, in the city, in the world, and you smiled, and you didn't bother wondering whether the man from the event would reach out, because it didn't matter. 

None of it mattered. 

The only hands that would ever touch you like that, the only hands that had the right, were the ones currently reaching for the coffee maker, still clumsy with sleep, still wearing the scratch marks on his back like a badge of honour.

"Hey, baby?" Riki called from the kitchen, his voice rough with morning and fondness.

"Yes?"

"The tights—are they hand-wash only? Because I may have like… thrown them on the floor last night, and I want to make sure I don't ruin them when I pick them up."

You laughed, bright and so full of love it hurt, and you padded barefoot into the kitchen, your bruises hidden under the oversized sweater you'd stolen from his closet, and you kissed him until the coffee went cold and the snow outside melted into slush and the whole world narrowed down to this: his mouth on yours, his hands on your waist, his heart beating against your palms.

"Hand-wash only," you murmured. "Cold water. Lay flat to dry."

"I'll add it to the list," he said, and he smiled, the one that was just for you, and you thought, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that you were the luckiest woman alive.

And the polka dot tights, when you finally retrieved them from the bedroom floor, were perfectly fine, ready for the next event, the next outfit, the next time Riki would look at you across a crowded room and know, with absolute certainty, that you were his.

Just as he was yours.

⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . moonlight by kali uchis

✷ 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 !

[jeongspetal]

      SORRY, PROF. PARK!  ✴︎  P.SH

(성훈)  your professor is everything you want in a man, not to mention an eater smut mdni ♡⃘ 𝟣𝟥𝟥𝟪  prof!sunghoon x student!reader fem reader age gap dirty talk slight bondage soft dom!hoon sub!reader

Professor Park is attentive and careful, and god—attractive. When he teaches, it’s always slow because he has to be mindful of the few that aren’t quite grasping the topic. Like you, he’s especially slow with you and you relish in it. He’s everything you could want in a boyfriend, and unfortunately everything that men of your age struggle to be. But, that’s okay! Professor Park is sure to make you forget about those inconsiderate little boys. Especially in moments like these after a lecture, where it’s just the two of you locked in the large room. Professor Park—Sunghoon speaks so softly even if there’s nobody else in the room to hear besides the two of you. His low voice barely echoes off of the walls, each nasty word dipped in sweet honey. “Been waiting all day for this, hm? For my fingers?” His breath is hot against your ear as his fingers run up and down your slick pussy. It’s embarrassing how wet you are through the thin cotton of your panties—a whole hour and 25 minutes of his velvety voice making your thighs clench. Just watching his fingers flex around the piece of chalk they gripped made your stomach twist. A concerningly high-pitched whine leaves your lips as you nod feverishly, and he cracks a toothy grin. “Of course you have. So messy.” He murmurs, fingers curling around the lace. He pulls the fabric back with his digits and lets it snap against your sensitive cunt, sending shocks throughout your body. Another whine, this time softer, escapes you—something incoherent that Sunghoon doesn’t pay much attention to. “Please, stop teasing,” you huff, lips forming a pout. God, he wants to kiss that little pout away, but that would require extra time that the two of you don’t have. The things he would do if there was an extent on the 15 minute window between classes. “I’m having so much fun, though. You wouldn’t want to ruin that, right?” He whispers, directing his gaze to your glassy eyes. You shake your head hesitantly with a soft, “No, professor,” from your pouty lips. “Sunghoon.” He corrects, pressing a soft, loving kiss to your lips. Carefully, the professor descends to his knees, sitting so submissively right in between your spread legs. The edge of his wooden desk is uncomfortable and burns red marks into the plump of your asscheeks, but it’ll be worth it when he’s done. Sunghoon’s fingers curl around your thighs firmly enough that warm red handprints form—and fade just as fast. He spreads your legs just a little bit more, and you take it upon yourself to swing a leg over his shoulder. Time after time he’s praised you for doing that, saying it gives him “easier access”.

“God, look at you. Ruined your pretty panties for me.” He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your clothed clit, making your legs instinctively draw closer together. From his position in between your legs, he looks so gorgeous. His hair is pushed out of his face and still a little damp from his morning shower—the birthmark on his nosebridge accentuates his features like always and those lips. So. Fucking. Perfect. Park Sunghoon is the literal embodiment of attractiveness, and you wouldn’t be surprised if at least one of the other thirty girls taking his course thought the same. Sunghoon presses one more teasing kiss to your mount before hooking a finger underneath the waistband of your panties and dragging them down your legs. “We don’t have a lot of time, Prof—Sunghoon,” you whine, one leg slowly swinging. You dig the heel of your sneaker into his back to put more urgency into your words, but he isn’t having it. Sunghoon clicks his tongue and glances up with a stern look on his face. “Stop being a brat, or you can hurry on to your next lecture.” He reprimands. You sigh, watching as he pockets your lacy pair and swings your other leg over his opposite shoulder. Sunghoon’s breath is warm against your sensitive cunt—every slow breath makes your fingers twitch. “Pleaseeee—” You whine. Your pleads are cut short with one languid stripe along your folds and a soft groan from his lips. The essence of your juices coat his tongue like candy. “Fuck, tastes so sweet,” he murmurs into your pussy, fingers tightening around your thighs. In a sense, he’s right. Your mounted thighs make it so much easier for his tongue to reach every part of you, the nerve plunging in and out of you with precision. “So—mph—good, professor,” you moan, to which your voice echoes off of the walls. “Shh, not so loud.” He grunts into your wet cunt, slurping up every ounce of slick you produce. Sunghoon is still careful despite how rapidly he’s moving, making sure to reach every part of you. Your pleasure is his biggest priority, even if it seems like he’s enjoying this more than you are. “M’sorry, fuck, I can’t take it,” Your whines are high pitched and unforgiving in correlation to the waves of pleasure moving through you, each slow lick a reminder of Sunghoon’s skill. By the time your climax is steadily approaching, the professor has shushed you around five times and as much as he loves hearing your pretty moans, Sunghoon can’t afford to get caught. He pulls back from your cunt with a wet smack, the lower half of his face glistening with your juices. Sunghoon tugs on his striped tie with two fingers and loosens it, the fabric falling from his neck with one or two more pulls. In a complete daze, you can’t think of any reasons he would need his tie, but you don’t question him. Not until the piece of fabrics is being pushed past your lips and knotted securely around your head. Soft muffled noises leave your lips fingers grasping his damp hair for an answer. “Can’t have you getting too loud, now can we?” He murmurs softly, leaving back in and pressing a longer kiss to your slick folds. You nod slowly, the “yes” you respond with getting lost behind the fabric. Sunghoon’s tongue is warm against you again and definitely welcome. Just like before he works you toward your climax with slow licks. Your muffled whines fall upon deaf ears, the man between your legs losing himself in pure ecstasy.

Your climax comes fast and unpredictably, a soft cry slipping past the makeshift gag in your mouth. Sunghoon licks up every last drop, making your overstimulated cunt twitch. Shaky hips and a series of high-pitched cries makes his draw back from between your legs. His eyes are glazed over with something unintelligible, and your legs kick as a signal to remove the gag. Sunghoon chuckles softly, tugging the tie down from your mouth.

A breathy gasp leaves your lips, and Sunghoon is quick to capture your lips in a firm kiss.

“I should gag you more often. Maybe then you’ll learn to control your volume.” He teases against your mouth, tongue tasting purely of you. It’s endearing how easily he can switch from concentrated to easygoing—perhaps your favorite part about being his favorite. This soft side of him is reserved for your eyes only. “It’s not fun when you’re on the receiving end.” You murmur, pressing another chaste kiss to his lips in return.

“Don’t you have a lecture to get to?” He murmurs, and in return you send him a glare. “Don’t you have a lecture to teach? And, you still have my panties.” You huff, untying the knot he made earlier and slinging his tie around his collar.

“You can go the rest of the day without them, yeah?” He retorts as you restore his once neatly done tie. Sunghoon’s lips curl up into a smirk at how easily your expression changes. “You’re a bad professor.” You huff and push yourself off his desk, red marks painting your skin. He tugs your skirt down and swats at your ass, a chuckle leaving his lips.

“You’re my favorite student.”

@jeongspetal 5.17.26

authors note: my last fanfic was on april 28. i am so sorry gng but i'm back ( and working on tugging on my strings >3< )

[hoonkitti]

a kiss is a sex ─ ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

𓊆박성훈 x fem reader𓊇 💌 crazy making out scenes, literally they're only making out, suggestive and steamy! making out, grinding, spit play, tongue play, so messy, sunghoon's so obsessed! non proofread as usual!

𓆩♡𓆪 part two here -> no kiss is a punishment !! i donno if this is obvious but i highlight kissing so so so much and for so many times in almost every smut i write about. i love kissing, i think kissing is the most intimate act ever. kissing is sex, and i have this weird thing where i'm like, oh kissing IS THE point of everything... u cheat and fuck her?? ok... u KISS her...? ok now wtf that's actually cheating... i can talk abt it for hours sorri ok mwah. i love kissing <3

thinking of kisser boy sunghoon aka sunghoon who’s obsessed with kissing. unlike the other guys who make one another choose ass or boobs, sunghoon prefers your… lips instead. 

it shows in the way he kisses you like he’s trying to memorise every plump, every skin, every texture of it. so slow at first—almost lazy—just pressing his lips against yours again and again, barely moving. 

“sunghoon—” 

his arm snakes around your waist from behind. you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, notes and textbooks scattered around the foldable table, but sunghoon—who’s leaning against the edge of the bed—has clearly run out of patience and things to do.

you let out a small surprised sound as he pulls you backwards, settling you between his legs, back meets his chest, and your head naturally tilts up toward him.

“don’t—” you start, trying to keep your focus on the open laptop in front of you. “i need to study.”

he doesn’t listen, nor care really. instead, sunghoon’s slender fingers slide along your jaw, turning your face toward him with that determination when he wants something from you. and this something is your lips. 

“just one,” he murmurs, mouth already hovering close. “please?”

you turn your head away at the very last second, lips pressing into a line. “no. i have a test tomorrow—”

sunghoon follows. his hand cups your cheek, guiding your face back to him. the moment your lips are within reach, he presses a soft, lingering kiss to them, slow and sweet like he’s just beginning to melt.

you pull back slightly, whining, “sunghoon, i’ve got a test—”

but he’s already tilting your head the other way, chasing your mouth with his own. another kiss, a little deeper this time, his lips moving against yours. when you try to pull and turn away again, het lets out a soft, pleading sound against your lips. 

“please, baby, just a little more,” he whispers, voice sweet and saccharine. his thumb strokes your cheek as he angles your face toward him once more. “your lips are so pretty when you’re focused…” 

his thumb then lightly presses and tugs on the plump centre of your lips. “it’s so pouty…”

you frown and squirm half–hearteedly in his hold, giggling despite yourself as he keeps stealing kiss after kiss—each one slowly and more consuming than the last. every time you mutter “nooo”, or try to look away from him, he simply nudges your chin back and captures your lips again.

more persistent. more greedy. more annoying. 

“babe—” you try one last time, but it just comes out breathy, whiny, and weak against his mouth. 

your boyfriend hums softly, super satisfied, and kisses you even deeper, one hand cradling your face while the other keeps you pressed against his chest. he takes your bottom lip between his, tugging it gently before soothing it with a slow swipe of his tongue. 

“mmhm,” sunghoom hums, sucking your top lip and just lost in the feeling overall. every kiss is so deliberate and unhurried and felt, but so persistent that you’re melting nonetheless whether you want to or not. 

he barely gives you room to breathe, and it’s not helping with the awkwardness of the position you’re in—twisted around with your back against his chest, neck craned. but he doesn’t seem to notice; and if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. your boyfriend just keeps turning your head with his hand so he can kiss you from every angle he wants, smiling against your lips every time they part a little more for him. 

“so soft,” he murmurs between kisses, voice hazy and low. 

his fingers squish your cheeks together, making your lips pout. he starts peppering tiny, greedy pecks all over them—soft, repeated little kisses on the plump centre, then the corners, then back to the middle again like he can’t decide which part tastes better.

you let out a muffled whine. 

sunghoon cuts you off by pressing a firmer, deeper kiss right in the centre of your squished lips, feeling them yield underneath. he doesn’t let go of your cheeks, keeping them pinched while he indulges—sucking, then the top one, savouring the plush. 

“you’re so perfect,” he whispers before tilting your head further to the side, capturing your mouth fully, slow and so deep, completely lost. 

he’s so irritating. 

——

a kiss is a sex. 

sunghoon doesn’t just love kissing during sex—he pretty much can’t get hard without it. or he gets hard every time you guys kiss? it’s not foreplay, nor is it an add on. he cannot fathom how some people don’t devour each others’ lips during sex.

making out is the main event most of the time. 

the nights where you both start with the intention of going further, clothes already scattered on the floor, his body hovering over yours, hard and ready… and you’re so fucking desperate your pussy keeps spasming over fucking nothing… 

but then his lips find yours and everything slows down except the hardness in his cock. he gets so lost, completely. 

like right now.

sunghoon’s got you underneath him, thighs spread around his hips, skin hot and flushed and sweaty. you can feel how hard he is, his cock pressed against you and it twitches every time you shift. 

“can’t—can’t take it anymore, hoonie… need you inside m—” 

your boyfriend cuts you off by slamming his lips against yours instead of pushing inside and fucking you feral. 

and there goes everything.

he tilts his head, slotting your mouths together perfectly, sucking on your bottom lip before sliding his tongue against yours in sensual strokes. every time you try to pull back for air, he just chases over—whining into your mouth. 

“where you going?” he whines, grinding his cock between your pussy lips. “just kiss me—c’mon.”

it’s so fucking annoying how his hips roll so nicely, his cock between the wetness of your cunt and sometimes the tip dips in—but he never actually thrusts in. sunghoon’s too busy indulging your mouth—licking and biting.

instead of the wet sex, thrusting, pounding sounds, the room is filled with messy and obscene wet kisses. 

you moan into his mouth when he angles his head and kisses you even deeper, tongue exploring every corner and crevices of your domain. his thumb strokes your cheeks while he keeps your face right where he wants it, completely taking control of the kiss as usual.

“shit, shit, shit,” he moans, grinding his cock faster against your soaked pussy—hot, heavy, throbbing—and kisses you just as much. 

not for a single second does he pull away. his mouth stays glued to yours, every grind makes you both whimper. sunghoon plays with your tongue like he’s making love to it—curling around yours, sucking on it, then licking it flat and messy. 

gosh, he’s even fucking licking your teeth like it’s toothbrush, or something.  

sunghoon pulls back just enough to let a thin string of spit corner your lips, then dives back in, pushing his tongue against yours. this time, sloppier on purpose. sunghoon mixes his spit with yours under it’s dripping down your chin before catching it with his tongue then feeds it back to you in an open–mouthed kiss. 

“so wet,” he pants like a dog in a heat. “your mouth, pussy—everything’s so fucking soft for me.”

you’re both a mess. spit on your chin and chest. his hips that just rolls in that desperate rhythm he’s not doing anything to fix, rubbing his cock against your clit, but still not slipping inside. he’s too addicted to your mouth, 

this is sex for him. 

sunghoon pulls back for half a second, eyes hazy and you swear his pupils dilate by many when he stares down at you. momentarily, you thought you’re finally getting pounded—but then he spits directly onto your tongue—a blob of warm saliva pooling on the flat of your tongue—before he kisses you again.

there have been nights when he spends hours just making out and being naked with you and sunghoon cums just from that. shoots up those precious semen that should’ve been inside you on your tummy. 

your boyfriend is so pathetic and annoying he cums from kissing alone. from the way you whimper into his mouth when he sucks on your tongue. from how swollen and shiny your lips get. 

this is one of those nights that don’t even go further than this. 

because to sunghoon, a kiss isn’t just a kiss.

it’s sex. 

——

“...what did you do?”

you’re staring at the mountain on the bed—all from that expensive brands you mentioned once in passing. sunghoon stands behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder, looking way too pleased. 

“i bought you stuff baby,” he smiles, pressing a kiss on the slope of your shoulder. then, he presses his cheek against yours, lips not failing to brush your skin. “...try ons?” he says innocently, but the mischievous glint in his eyes says otherwise. 

sunghoon bought you more lip products than lingeries or toys. glosses in every shade and flavour—sheer pinks, shiny nudes, tinted reds, glittery ones, plumping ones. stacks of lip oils, balms, liners, liquid lipstick, satin, powdery—it’s endless. 

“hoonie,” you laugh, half–amused, half–shocked. “this is too much. you just bought me some few weeks back, and i don’t even wear lip gloss that often—”

“but you will now,” he murmurs, already pulling you forward with him. he picks up a shiny pink gloss and uncaps it, eyes locked on your mouth. 

“try this one first.” 

you barely have time to protest before he holds your chin and applies the gloss on for you. his gaze is so focused on every glide of the wand across your lips. when he’s done, he admires how glossy and pouty they look.

“gosh,” he murmurs, feeling the throb beneath his sweats. 

sunghoon presses his lips against your newly glossed ones, smearing the shin between you. it starts soft—but sunghoon being sunghoon—he quickly gets greedy. he kisses you deeper, tongue swiping across your bottom lip to taste the sweet goods.

“mmm… strawberry,” he murmurs, then goes back in for a confirmation and more. he sucks lightly on your bottom lip, licking the gloss, only to kiss so the shine transfers to his own lips. 

you pull back a little, giggling. “you bought all this just so you could kiss it off me, didn’t you?”

your boyfriend doesn’t deny it. instead, he picks up another tube—a cherry red one this time—and grins that pretty, naughty smile.

“obviously. be good and try the next one for me, baby.”

sunghoon plans on spending the entire night applying, admiring, and then thoroughly kissing every single shade off until your lips are swollen and shiny with his spit because sunghoon believes nothing—nothing looks better on you but him. 

buying you all these glosses aren’t just a gift for you—it’s an investment for him. 

© ⌞dollyhoon⌝ ⁞ all rights reservedㅤ please don't share, copy, or translate my work.

[hoonkitti]

no kiss is a... punishment? ─ ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

𓊆박성훈 x fem reader𓊇 💌 heavy making out, spit play, tongue play, teasing, edging, dildo/vibrator use, sunghoon's tied, light bondage, grinding, reader is not a dom, sunghoon is not a sub but he sure as hell act like one here... very whiny, needy, obsessed sunghoon!

𓆩♡𓆪 eeekk part two of !! a kiss is a sex !! >w< sunghoon is CRAZY here oml this might just be some of the filthiest non-penetration thing i've ever written lol. if you enjoy pls give it lots of love and feedbacks! tysm <3

“no.”

“please?”

“no.”

you rolled your eyes, trying to stay focused on the book in your hands as you snuggled deeper into the sofa. your boyfriend was kneeling on the carpet in front of you like a pathetic puppy—both of his hands gently holding your feet, thumbs pressing slow, soothing circles into your soles.

sunghoon had been massaging the for the past twenty minutes—which was so, so nice—but not his attempt to butter you up. 

“please, baby,” he murmured. “just one kiss,” he whispered, voice soft and sweet as he leaned to place a kiss on your feet. “one tiny little kiss, baby. i’ve been good, haven’t i?” 

you glanced at him, eyebrows pinched together. “you’ve been begging and i don’t appreciate that,” you replied, focusing back on your book to flip to the next page. “the whole point of this is to stop you from kissing all over me every two fucking seconds.”

yeah—that’s right. 

you put sunghoon on a timeout.

it’s not hard really, and it could’ve easily been avoidable if he hadn’t acted like a complete child the other day.

you two had been at your family house. one minute you were just sitting together on the couch, watching a christmas movie on a summer night, and the next sunghoon had pulled you onto his lap and started kissing you like he’d been starved for days.

and when sunghoon kissed—he really, fucking kissed. 

“my baby,” sunghoon murmured, cradling your face in his bigger hands, tilting your head exactly how he wanted while his lips moved slow and deep against yours. he kept sighing softly into your mouth, licking along your bottom lip before sucking on it gently.

letting out a soft moan, he took that opportunity to slide his tongue inside. it was messy. wet. the kind of kiss where he kept changing angles, chasing your mouth every time you tried to breathe, humming in satisfaction whenever your lips parted more for him.

it went on for a couple of minutes, until mixed drool hung from both of your lips and chins—until sunghoon’s hand started wandering underneath your shirt and he was about to take it off when—

your grandmother came down the stairs.

to be fair, the two of you were so lost in it that neither of you heard. and you probably shouldn’t be making out in the living room—but everyone was fast asleep! 

she saw everything.

she saw sunghoon’s hand creeping underneath your shirt. 

she saw your boyfriend was still greedily making out with you, lips swollen and glossy and his eyes were hazy and almost droopy. your shirt fell on one shoulder, and sunghoon’s shirt was wet with drool. 

and it didn’t help that you were on his lap too.

your grandmother had cleared her throat loudly, and you wanted to die from embarrassment on the spot. she just chuckled and said something of—young love—before walking away like it was nothing. 

the humiliation burned, and that became the final straw. 

“but she didn’t even mind! she smiled—i saw her smile!”

you gave him a deadpan look, shaking your head. “i minded. it’s not your grandma—so you don’t know how that felt for me. she raised me for god’s sakes.”

he leaned forward, resting his cheek on your knee, now massaging your calf. 

“i’m sorry,” he mumbled, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. then, sunghoon kissed your knee. “i just… i can’t help it. your lips were right there, and they looked so soft and…” he glanced at your mouth again. 

gosh, that honey wax lip balm was really making your lips extra shiny and plump, huh? he thought, licking his own lips. he ought to get you more lip balms so you can wear them at home, from now on. 

“please? just one kiss. i’ll be so quick—i swear!”

you sighed, smiling as you extended your arm to caress his cheek. 

“sunghoon,” you hummed, thumb brushing the apple of his cheek. your boyfriend’s eyes widened slightly before he nodded eagerly, smile widening. 

“get off me, and don’t piss me off.”

——

it truly gets to the point where he’s doing just about anything to get your forgiveness. 

the next morning, you woke up to the smell of breakfast. when you walked in, still half–asleep in his oversized tshirt, the sight that greeted you was almost comical.

sunghoon was shirtless, setting up the table with favourite fruits, iced coffee, meal, and there was even a small vase of flowers he clearly ran out to buy earlier. 

“good morning, baby,” he said, rushing over to pull out your chair. “please have a seat… i made all your favorites." 

you raised your eyebrows, taking a seat nonetheless. “... what are you doing?”

“repenting,” he answered, kneeling beside your chair and resting his chin on your thigh and looked up at you with those sparkling eyes. “i know that now—i embarrassed you in front of grandma.”

you hummed, clearly not buying it. 

“right.”

that wasn’t all. 

sunghoon was acting like you had sentenced him to life in prison. 

throughout the next two days, his desperation only kept growing. what started as sweet gestures turned into sneaky little attacks. he’d kiss the top of your head when he walked past you sitting on the couch. he’d snuck behind you while you were washing dishes and planted soft kisses along the side of your neck before you swatted him away.

gosh—he was insufferable. 

“sunghoon!” you scolded, turning around with a frown. “when i said no kissing, i meant anywhere! stop trying to find loopholes.”

he blinked at you innocently, lips still hovering near your shoulder with his hands resting on your hips. “but that wasn’t on your lips… it doesn’t count, right?”

“yes, it does,” you said sternly, holding him by his shoulders and pulling him away. “you’re being ridiculous. it’s only been—what?—two days. you’re not dying.”

“you don’t understand,” he whined, following you back to the couch like a puppy with his leash behind. when you sat down on the couch with your legs up, sunghoon gripped your thighs, kneeling between them. “it feels like i’m dying.”

you ignored him and picked the remote up, but he wasn’t done.

your boyfriend leaned in and pressed a kiss to your bare knee, then another higher up on your thigh. you immediately closed your legs, using your toes to push at his shoulder. 

“no!”

he looked up at you with the most pitiful expression, eyes big and pleading. 

“just this once,” he begged, voice soft and shaky. “please, baby. one real kiss—and after that you can put me on another timeout for a whole week. just let me kiss you properly right now. i’m going insane.”

you stared at him in disbelief. he couldn’t even survive two days, let alone two weeks? talk about nonsense.

“babe—it’s just kissing!” you exclaimed. “it’s not like you can’t talk to me, or touch me, or be near me. you’re acting like i’m torturing you when all i asked was for you to stop mauling my face every few minutes.”

“but kissing you is my favourite thing to do,” he mumbled, pressing his forehead against your thigh. gosh, he’s such a fucking kid. “i really, really need it. i miss how soft they are… how they taste… i miss the little sound you make when i suck on your bottom lip—”

“sunghoon—” 

he lifted his head again. 

“yn, i’ll do anything.” 

you stared at him for a long moment—this five–foot–evelen tall, composed and deemed cool man literally on his knees begging for a… kiss? 

you let out a sigh.

“...okay. fine.”

sunghoon’s face lit up instantly with pure hope. a bright, relieved smile started to form.

“but we’re doing it my way,” you added quickly, cutting off his excitement. “one chance, park sunghoon. you follow my rules. if you pass, timeout ends tonight. if you fail… that’s four more days.”

he nodded frantically, his selective hearing stopped listening after the timeout ends tonight. 

“yes, anything! i’ll do anything.”

——

what…?

sunghoon frowned as he’s left completely naked, lying on his back in the middle of the bed, wrists bounded tightly to the headboard with his own silk tie. his chest was already heaving, abs flexing under you as you sat comfortably on his stomach, wearing nothing but a thin pair of panties. 

his cock was painfully hard, aching, and leaking against his lower stomach, twitching every few seconds with spurts of precum shooting out—but he couldn’t do anything about it. not with his bounded wrists—he couldn’t touch you. couldn’t pull you down. and most importantly—

he’s still not allowed to kiss you.

you reached over to the nightstand and picked up your favourite toy—a small vibrator—before turning it on. the low buzzing filled the room. 

sunghoon frowned, his eyes darkened as he watched you slowly pulled your panties to the side, positioning the vibrating head right against your clit. his breath hitched—he thought he’d thrown it out—

“ngh,” a low, soft moan left your lips as you settled back down on his toned stomach, using him as your seat. 

“baby…” he breathed out, voice already strained. his hips twitched uselessly beneath you. “this is just mean.”

the corner of your lips twitched into a smirk, looking down on him. “you said you’d do anything,” you reminded him sweetly, slowly rolling your hips as you pressed the toy harder against yourself. “so behave. if you can stay still and quiet until i cum—you win.”

his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes locked on your face, then your wet lips that you kept licking and biting, then the way your tits moved every time you grinded down on his abs. 

you’re so fucking wet, it smeared across his stomach. the sight of him tied up and desperate underneath you was affecting you more than you expected…

sunghoon bit his lip harshly, eyes fluttering when he felt you wet folds rubbing back and forth on his stomach. his wrists pulled against the tie. 

“fuck—you’re dripping on me,” he groaned, head falling back for a second before he forced himself to look at you again. his voice cracked. “don’t do this—shit,”

you clicked your tongue and pressed the toy harder against your clit, letting out a pretty moan that made his cock jump.

“you can always say you give up, and suffer four more days.”

sunghoon whined loudly, a broken, frustrated sound low from his stomach went straight to your core. his eyes were glassy, lips parted as he watched you with desperation. 

“baby… fuck, please,” he rasped, voice strained. “at least let me touch you. or let me touch myself. shit—”

his cock twitched. 

“no,” you cut him off, rolling the vibrator in slow, teasing circles over your swollen clit. “you don’t get to touch me anything. that’s the deal.” 

a pitiful groan left his throat as you started grinding your soaked pussy against his toned stomach, spreading your wetness all over his abs. lewd, wet sounds of you rubbing yourself filled the room. sunghoon’s eyes rolled back for a second. 

“you’re getting so wet,” he breathed, abs flexing underneath you every time you rolled your hips. “i can feel it dripping down my sides… why are you doing this—?”

you ignored him and only moaned louder, grinding down harder, using his body like he was nothing but your personal toy. the vibrator buzzed relentlessly against your clit while you rocked back and forth, leaving a shiny mess all over.

sunghoon looked wrenched. 

his cock was painfully hard, flushed dark and leaking onto his skin. every time you moaned, his hips jerked up instinctively, but he couldn’t reach you. 

he thought he could still hold it back. after all, you’re not that hard to please. you’d probably cum in just a few minutes, and sunghoon could relieve himself in the bathroom. and the timeout would be called off.

then you reached over to the nightstand again. 

sunghoon’s eyes widened when he saw what you pulled out—a dildo.

“baby, no,” he breathed, shaking his head. “no, no, no—wait, what the fuck?”

you didn’t answer. instead, you brought the toy to your lips, looking straight at him while you sucked on the tip. you swirled your tongue around it, taking it deeper into your mouth with wet, obscene sounds, hollowing your cheeks.

he frowned even deeper—he looked like he was going to burst.

“babe, what the fuck—?!” his wrists yanked hard against the tie, the headboard cracking. “don’t do that. why are you sucking that shit? that’s not fair—yn, please—!”

his voice was full of pure jealousy as he watched you lube the dildo up with your mouth, eyes dark and frustrated and pissed the fuck off and annoyed. you pulled it out with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to the toy.

sunghoon looked like he was going to lose his mind. his breath quickened.

you lifted your hips, panties now fully to the side, and slowly dragged the thick head of the dildo along your folds, teasing yourself right above his stomach. 

“no, no, no—don’t ride that. yn, i’m literally right fuckin’ here. i’m literally right here,” he begged, voice hoarse and whiny. “why the fuck would you use that when you have me? you’re so fuckin’ mean—and now you’re gonna fuck yourself on that thing on top of me?”

you lined the dildo up with your entrance and began sinking down onto it with a long, satisfied moan, right on his lower stomach—like it’s his dick. the sight of you taking the toy so easily made sunghoon’s cock twitch violently, a fresh bead of precum rolling down his shaft.

“fuck… this is torture,” he groaned, head falling back against the pillow as he watched you ride the dildo. “i hate this—i hate this so much. that should be me, fuck!”

you smiled down at him sweetly, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, letting the toy drag against every sensitive spot inside you. while it’s nothing compared to your boyfriend’s, you figured you’d settle for this for now.

“mmh… but this feels so good, though?” you sighed, voice breathy and teasing. you braced your hands on his chest and started bouncing on it faster, making sure your ass brushed against his aching cock. “it’s so thick… filling me up just right.”

sunghoon’s eyes twitched, glued to where the toy disappeared inside you. his abs flexed hard everytime you sank down.

“baby, shit—” he groaned. “take it out. use me instead. i’m right here, i’m so hard for you—”

you ignored him and rode the dildo harder, moaning louder on purpose. your wetness was dripping all over his stomach. you reached down and rubbed your clit in time with your movements, putting on a full show just for him. 

“look at you,” you cooed. “does it hurt, hoonie? knowing this could be your cock but you’re too greedy to behave?” you groaned, tipping your head back. “i would’ve ended the timeout anyway—but you couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

sunghoon let out a broken whine, yanking harshly on his restraints. his hips bucked up uselessly, trying to chase any kind of friction. 

“i can’t—i can’t do this anymore,” he gasped, eyes glassy and desperate. “please let me fuck you—shit, let me kiss you, baby. i’ll—i’ll do anything, i don’t care anymore.”

you slowed your movements and leaned forward, bracing your hands on either side of his head. slowly, you lowered yourself until your face hovered right above his. your lips were so close—just centimetres away. you cupped his flushed cheeks with both hands, thumbs gently stroking his skin. 

sunghoon’s breathing hitch then stopped. his lips parted, eyes wide. 

you tilted your head slightly, lips brushing the tiniest bit against his—just a ghost one. you could feel his hot breath trembling against you. 

sunghoon let out a soft, needy sound.

but right before your lips could properly meet, you pulled back. 

you sat up straight again, still cupping his face for a second longer before letting go with a soft  chuckle. 

your boyfriend’s expression shattered. 

“no… no—!” he groaned. “don’t do this to me. you were so close—baby, please!” 

with one last hard yank on the tie, the headboard creaked loudly—

“i can’t anymore,” sunghoon hissed. “i give up, yn. i fucking give up—please just kiss me. i don’t care about the timeout anymore. i’ll take that four fucking days. please, i’m begging you.”

sunghoon looked up at you, chest heaving.

“i surrender.”

you watched him for a second—flushed, desperate, utterly ruined. a part of you was disappointed with how bad his restraint was, another part of you knew who to blame.

“alright then.”

you reached up and untied the silk tie from his wrists. the moment the fabric loosened and fell away—he surged forward. his hands grabbed your waist as he flipped you both over. you let out a surprised gasp as your back hit the mattress, and suddenly he was on top of you—caging you completely with his bigger frame.

his breathing was ragged as he hovered over you. one of his hands immediately slid to the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip. 

“none of this bullshit anymore,”

then he crashed his lips onto yours.

it was pure hunger.

sunghoon kissed you like he was trying to devour and suck the living shit out of you—deep, messy, obsessive, starved. he tilted his head, sucking on your bottom lip before pushing his tongue into your mouth, licking and tasting every inch like he’d been denied oxygen for days.

wet, filthy sounds filled the room as he kissed you harder, groaning loudly against your lips.

“fucking finally,” he gasped between kisses, barely pulling back an inch. “missed your lips so much… so fucking much.”

he didn’t let you breathe. every time you tried to pull back for air, sunghoon chased your lips and punished you by kissing you even deeper, tongue sliding against yours with wet, desperate strokes. his hand cradled your jaw, keeping your face right where he wanted so he could indulge himself fully. 

his body pressed you down into the mattress, hard cock rubbing against your thigh as he kept making out with you. your boyfriend’s fingers pressed your cheeks together, making your lips pout for him. 

“mmph—!” you muffled. 

sunghoon hummed at the ecstasy, eyes half–lidded in bliss as he kept your face squished between his slender fingers. he pulled back just enough to stare at your forced pout, then started peppering greedy, wet kisses all over your pushed out lips—soft at first, then harder, sucking on your bottom lip.

“fuck… look at you,” he whispered. “so fucking adorable—you’re so fucking cute.”

then he dove back in, kissing you deeper than before. his tongue pushed past your lips, licking into your mouth messily, tasting every inch while his spit mixed with yours. he was so greedy—sucking on your tongue, licking the roof of your mouth, then pulling back just to let strings of spit connect you before he licked them away and kissed you again. 

you couldn’t utter a single word—not with the way sunghoon kept your cheeks squished the entire time, occasionally changing the angle so he could kiss you from a new side. his hips never stopped moving, grinding his leaking cock between your pussy lips, the tip nudged and kissed your little clit.

“shit—gonna make you my wife,” he moaned between messy kisses, breathing hot and heavy against your mouth. “wanna be my wifey, baby? fuck—legally bounding you to me forever.” 

his cock twitched. 

sunghoon liked the sound of it. 

he squished your cheeks tighter, sealing his mouth over yours once more—deep, filthy, and so wet that drool was starting to drip down your chin. he licked it up without hesitation and fed it back to you with his tongue, moaning loudly when you whimpered.

“mmph—” you muffled, nails dragging red lines over his toned back. 

sunghoon groaned at the sting, the sound vibrating into your mouth. finally, he loosened his grip on your cheeks and pulled back just enough for you to gasp desperately for air, chest heaving. “hah—!” 

you barely managed three shaky breaths before his hand came back to your jaw, thumb pressing on your bottom lip. 

“stick your tongue out,” he ordered.

you hesitated for half a second, still catching your breath. sunghoon frowned.

“baby,” he said. “i said, stick your tongue out for me.”

you swallowed the lump and saliva in your throat before letting your tongue slip past your swollen lips. sunghoon leaned down and immediately pressed his own tongue flat against yours. it’s so disgustingly filthy. he licked it slowly, then started playing with it shamelessly—curling, stroking, sucking on the tip before licking it again.

“that’s it,” he murmured against your mouth. while your eyes were shut, sunghoon occasionally opened his just to see the flushed look on your face. “just like that.”

he kept your mouth open with his thumb on your chin, tongue sliding, curling, dancing against yours in the most obscene way possible. he was so completely lost in it.  

it didn’t take long.

“ah—fuck, baby!”

sunghoon kept kissing—making out, french kissing, wet mouth fucking—you desperately. and with a broken moan that vibrated against your mouth, his hips stuttered. his whole body tensed as he came hard, thick ropes of cum spilling against your lower tummy. he kissed you through it—whimpering into your mouth as he rode out his orgasm.

only when he finally stopped shaking did he pull back slightly, breathing heavily against your lips. 

you laid there completely spent, chest heaving, staring blankly up at the ceiling as your mind spun. your body felt like jelly.

there is no fucking way, you thought. i’m ever putting him on timeout again. 

who knows how crazy he’d get next time.

meanwhile, sunghoon collapsed half on top of you, burying his face into the crook of your neck. his arms wrapped tightly around your body, pulling you flush against him. 

“i love you,” he mumbled against your skin, dripping with affection. “ugh… i love you so much.”

sunghoon pressed soft, lazy kisses all over your cheek, then your jaw, then back to your cheek again, nuzzling into you like a clingy pup.

“i love you, i love you, i love you…” he kept whispering between little kisses. one of his hands gently stroked your hair while the other rubbed circles on your waist. “let’s just forget about the timeout and never do that to me again, okay? i’ll actually go insane.”

you let out a weak, tired laugh, still dazed, but couldn’t help threading your fingers through his messy, sweaty hair.

sunghoon smiled against your cheek, giving you one last long, soft kiss before sighing.

“you’re all mine.”

© ⌞dollyhoon⌝ ⁞ all rights reservedㅤ please don't share, copy, or translate my work.

[momentsofengene]

WHEN DUTY CALLS ✧ park sunghoon

pairing: neurologist!sunghoon x ob-gyn!reader

after years of being co-workers, he never reciprocated the feelings you had for him. so you buried them and learned to live with it. that is, until a small encounter leads him to start showing you that he cares.

genre: co-workers to lovers, fluff, slow burn, hospital au

word count: 12k

It's 2 am, and you're at the hospital.

Seated in the doctors' lounge, you go through your previous patients' charts, updating them one-by-one. From their vitals, medications, progress notes, everything has to be precised and double checked.

Being an OB-GYN means your life rarely follows a normal schedule.

Most nights are spent awake. On call, in delivery rooms, watching life come into the world one patient at a time. It’s exhausting, relentless… but familiar. Somewhere along the way, the chaos became routine.

You barely notice how late it’s gotten anymore.

The quiet scratch of your pen against paper is suddenly interrupted by a soft clink.

Then a cup of coffee appears beside you.

You pause, eyes shifting from the chart to the cup, then upward to the person who placed it there.

Park Sunghoon.

Four years of working in the same hospital, and he still has a way of showing up without a sound. White coat neat as ever, expression calm in that almost unreadable way of his. He works as a neurologist, precise, composed, and annoyingly consistent.

“Night shift again?” he asks, already pulling a chair a few steps away before sitting down.

You lean back slightly, exhaling as you close the file in front of you. "Yeah, I wasn't able to finish these in one go so I had to switch schedules with Dr. Choi."

“I get it,” Sunghoon replies, offering a small, understanding smile. “There are days when I end up doing the same thing too.”

“Well, thanks for the coffee, I really needed this,” you say, taking a sip. You pause, then look up at him surprised. “You even remembered my order?”

Sunghoon simply purses his lips and shrugs, as if it were nothing, before reaching for his own cup. “You’re welcome.” Just as he’s about to say more, his phone vibrates.

“They need me there. I guess I’ll see you later.” He stands from his chair and lightly pats your shoulder before heading toward the door.

You glance at the cup of coffee in your hands, a small frown forming. You’d only been to the café together twice: once three months ago, and again just two weeks ago. How could he have memorized my order?

A warm feeling slowly blooms in your chest as you think about Sunghoon and his sudden thoughtfulness.

It reminds you of a time when your feelings for him were harder to ignore. Back during your first week working together, when he introduced himself as the newly hired neurologist. What started as simple admiration gradually turned into something more.

Those feelings lasted for an entire year. But between the long hours, the need to stay professional, and your own reluctance to risk it all, you chose to bury them. You kept telling yourself that workplace romance should be avoided, that work always comes first, and that romance simply wasn’t worth the risk. Eventually, you convinced yourself that being nothing more than co-workers was for the best.

You shake your head, snapping yourself out of your thoughts. “Why am I suddenly thinking about the past?” you murmur under your breath. “He probably just has a really good memory.”

With that, you turn back to your work, forcing the lingering warmth in your chest to fade.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Sunghoon, who was on his way to a patient’s room after leaving you alone in the doctors’ lounge, caught himself smiling slightly, especially when he recalled the look of surprise on your face when you realized he had remembered your order.

Back then, he hadn’t paid much attention to you. He hadn’t gone out of his way to learn the little things. Like how you took your coffee or whether you preferred something sweet on the side. But ever since that small hangout with you and a few co-workers three months ago, something had shifted. A quiet curiosity about you had begun to grow.

It wasn’t just because you were one of the best rookie OB-GYNs the hospital had seen. It was also the way you cared for others, not just your patients, but people in general.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Three months ago…

As the rest of the group prepared to leave the café, you lingered behind, glancing at your phone as if you had just remembered something.

“I just remembered I need to buy something before I go. You guys go ahead,” you told Chaewon, your friend. She nodded, calling out a quick goodbye before catching up with the others.

Once they were gone, you stepped back towards the counter and ordered two croissants and a bottle of water. After paying, you hurried outside, scanning the area as if looking for someone.

What you didn’t realize was that Sunghoon had stayed behind. He had gone to the restroom just before everyone left, assuming he’d catch up with the group afterward.

As he stepped out and dried his hands, he paused when he spotted you still there. From inside the café, he watched as you approached a beggar and a small child sitting near the parking lot.

You crouched down to their level, handing them the food you had just bought. A gentle smile spread across your face as you spoke to them softly, though he couldn’t hear the words. After a moment, you gave a small wave before turning to leave.

Sunghoon stood there a little longer than he meant to, quietly processing what he had just seen. Something about that moment stayed with him. The sincerity, the kindness, the way you did it without expecting anything in return.

It made him realize that maybe you were more than just a co-worker he had known for years.

And somehow, from that day on, he found himself paying closer attention.

──────────────────────────────

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing you into the quiet hum of fluorescent light and mirrored steel.

You pressed your back lightly against the wall, exhaling through your nose as the display above the doors blinked from floor to floor. The senior doctor’s message still lingered in your mind: Come to my office. I need to introduce you to someone.

The elevator slowed briefly at the 5th floor, then continued upward. You checked your watch out of habit, fingers tapping once against your coat sleeve.

Just then, the doors opened with a gentle ding. You looked around to find out nobody there, until your eyes caught movement at the far end of the corridor.

A familiar figure stood just outside the elevator’s reach, hands tucked into his white coat pockets, posture relaxed in a way that somehow still looked presentable. Sunghoon.

He nods slightly when he sees you inside, stepping into the empty space beside you. He presses the button, and the elevator doors slide shut with a soft chime.

“Busy today?” he asks, breaking the silence a few seconds after stepping in.

“Not really. I just need to meet with the senior doctor.”

“Oh? How come?” he asks, a hint of surprise flashing across his face. It’s rare for either of you to be called in, usually only for major announcements or worse, bad news. So when you first read the message, you had been just as puzzled.

You shrug lightly. “I’m not entirely sure. She did mention introducing someone, though. Maybe a new employee.”

Sunghoon nods, taking that in.

“How about you?” you ask, turning to him. “Anything big happening today?”

“Actually, I have a procedure at 5 pm,” he says casually.

You instinctively glance at your watch. “That’s in thirty minutes.”

"I know." Sunghoon replied. "You don't seem like you're in a rush." You replied, noticing his chill attitude.

"Well it's a minor one. Just a lumbar puncture, won't take long." He says, seeing your expression.

“Huh… that’s your version of minor?” You mutter, brows lifting slightly as you look at him.

Sunghoon lets out a quiet breath, almost a huff of amusement, barely there. “You just get used to it.”

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Still sounds intense.”

“It’s routine,” he says simply, like that alone should settle it. And somehow, coming from him, it almost does.

The elevator hums softly as it slows, the numbers above the door blinking once before stopping.

Your floor.

The doors slide open.

You hesitate for only a second, then shift your weight forward, stepping out into the hallway. Before fully turning away, you glance back at him.

“Good luck, Sunghoon.”

He meets your gaze, calm as ever. “I don't need it.”

That almost makes you scoff, but instead you just exhale a small laugh. “Still, good luck.”

The doors begin to close behind you.

And just before they shut completely, you catch it, the smallest hint of a smile on his face, gone just as quickly as it appears.

You walk straight to the end of the hallway, where the senior doctor’s office is located.

Stopping in front of the door, you knock three times. A voice from inside calls, “Come in.”

Taking the cue, you twist the doorknob open and step inside. Dr. Lim stands near her desk, a folder in hand. Beside her is a young man with sharp, cat-like eyes, standing straight with quiet composure.

You close the door behind you and walk toward them.

“Dr. Kang,” the senior doctor says, closing the file in her hand, “This is Jungwon, a newly assigned resident. He’ll be rotating in OB-GYN under your supervision.”

You turn your attention to him just as he steps forward, extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Kang.”

You shake his hand without hesitation, offering a small, welcoming smile. “Nice to meet you too, Jungwon. Welcome to the OB-GYN department.”

He smiles back, his expression calm and professional, no trace of nervousness in sight.

“Alright,” Dr. Lim continues smoothly, already reaching for another document on her desk. “Jungwon, you’ll report to Dr. Kang starting today. She’ll orient you with the ward and your responsibilities.”

Jungwon nods. “Understood, ma’am.”

The senior doctor looks up once more, this time addressing both of you. “OB-GYN is a demanding department. I expect discipline and clear communication. Dr. Kang, he’s your responsibility during this rotation.”

You give a small nod in acknowledgment.

Dr. Lim leans back slightly, signaling the end of the meeting. “Now that’s settled. You may go.”

You turn first, straightening your posture as you head for the door. Jungwon follows a step behind, attentive.

Once you’re outside in the hallway, you turn to face him.

“First things first,” you say, folding your arms lightly. “Call me by my first name, Y/N. No ‘Dr. Kang.’ It makes me feel older than I am.”

Jungwon lets out a small chuckle. “Got it. Y/N it is.”

“As Dr. Lim mentioned, I’ll be your supervisor for the duration of your rotation in OB-GYN,” you continue. “Since it’s your first day, I’ll give you a quick tour of the facilities so you can start familiarizing yourself.”

You gesture forward. “Let’s go.”

The two of you head towards the elevator. “The OB-GYN department is on the third floor,” you add, pressing the button.

When the doors open, you’re greeted by the nurses’ station. The nurses on duty look up from their desks.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Kang,” they greet in unison.

“Good afternoon,” you reply with a polite nod before turning slightly to Jungwon. “This is Jungwon, our new resident. He’ll be working here starting today.”

Jungwon smiles and greets them, and they return the gesture warmly.

You lead him down the left hallway lined with patient rooms. “This is where admitted patients stay, postpartum mothers, as well as those recovering from surgery,” you explain. “The rooms along the right hallway are mainly for regular check-ups and consultations.”

“And over here…” you continue, walking towards the far end where a large door with glass panels stands. “…is the Labor, Delivery, and Recovery Room. LDR for short.”

You push the door open just enough to step inside and the shift is immediate.

A strained breath cuts through the air, followed by a low cry. A patient grips the bed rails, her knuckles pale, while a nurse guides her breathing with steady reassurance.

“Active labor,” you say calmly as you step further in. “This is where things start to pick up.”

Jungwon stays close behind you, noticeably quieter now, his eyes taking everything in.

A monitor beside the bed beeps steadily, then suddenly dips. The nurse straightens. “Doctor, heart rate’s dropping.”

Before the tour can even pause, you’re already moving.

“Position her to the left,” you instruct, your tone calm but firm. “Give her oxygen.” The room shifts instantly, quick hands, precise movements, controlled urgency.

The patient gasps, her eyes squeezed shut as another contraction hits. You glance at the monitor. Then steady again, as the beeping evens out.

“Good,” you murmur, stepping back as if it were second nature. “Keep monitoring.”

“Yes, doctor.”

The tension doesn’t disappear, but it eases just enough. You turn back to Jungwon, your expression composed.

“It can change that fast,” you say simply. “You learn to respond before it becomes a problem.”

He nods, still processing what he just witnessed.

“Come on,” you add, already heading for the door. “Let’s continue.”

“On the opposite end,” you say, pointing down the hallway, “is the operating room.”

You walk in that direction, with Jungwon following closely behind.

You push the operating room doors open, and a wave of sterile, cool air greets you as you step inside.

Bright overhead lights reflect off stainless steel instruments neatly arranged on trays. The operating table sits at the center, surrounded by monitors and machines humming quietly in the background.

“Procedures like cesarean sections and gynecologic surgeries are done here,” you explain, your voice steady as it echoes slightly in the room. “And when things don’t go as planned…”

You pause for a brief moment, your gaze flicking toward the operating table.

“…that is where we take over.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The tour continues as you guide Jungwon through the rest of the facility, from the ultrasound rooms to the examination areas, and finally to the newborn units. You explain each section with ease, answering his occasional questions, barely noticing how quickly time slips by.

It isn’t until you glance at your watch that you pause.

“Oh, it’s already 6 pm,” you say, a little surprised. “Perfect timing. My shift ends now, and since I’ve already shown you around the entire OB-GYN department, we can both head home.”

“Wait, really?” Jungwon asks, clearly caught off guard.

You nod. “Yes. Once I leave, there won’t be anyone to supervise you anyway. And since it’s your first day, I’ll let you off early this time. Your real work starts tomorrow.”

“Ah…” Jungwon exhales in relief, a small grin forming. “I’ll be ready by then,” he assures you, determination settling into his expression.

“Good to hear,” you reply with a faint smile. “Well, I’ll get going now. See you tomorrow, Jungwon.”

“See you, Doc,” he says.

You give him a small wave before leaving.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

After gathering your things, you take the elevator down to the underground parking area. The space is quieter now, the hum of engines and distant footsteps echoing faintly. You spot your car a short distance away and walk towards it, pressing your key fob to unlock it.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, you place your bag on the passenger side and reach for the ignition.

You turn the key.

Click.

Nothing.

You try again.

Click. Click.

The engine doesn’t turn over.

A faint frown forms as you attempt a few more times, but the sound only grows weaker until the car falls completely silent and unresponsive.

"Unbelievable,” you mutter, letting your forehead rest briefly against the steering wheel.

You sigh, leaning back as frustration settles in. Your eyes drift to your bag beside you.

“How am I supposed to go home now...”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

A few minutes later, you find yourself standing outside the hospital entrance, arms folded loosely as you scan the road.

You decided to take a cab instead, but even after waiting for several minutes, none stop. The few that passed by are already occupied, their headlights briefly illuminating you before disappearing down the street.

You shift your weight, glancing down the road again, hoping the next one will finally be empty.

Then, a sleek silver BMW pulls up in front of you, the engine purring softly as the window rolls down.

You look over to see who it is.

Sunghoon sits behind the wheel, one hand resting loosely on it while the other drapes over the passenger seat’s headrest, his posture relaxed.

“Need a ride home?” he asks.

“I—”

Before you can even answer, he leans over and pushes the passenger door open. That leaves you with little room to refuse.

You step in, closing the door gently behind you.

Settling into the passenger seat, you sit a little stiffly, your gaze fixed on the window beside you.

It’s your first time riding in a car alone with him, something you never really imagined would happen. And not just any car, but his.

For a moment, the air inside feels thick with unspoken tension. Neither of you says anything, the quiet stretching just a bit too long.

After a while, Sunghoon clears his throat, breaking the silence. “So… what happened to your car?”

You turn slightly to look at him. “The battery died. I’ve been so busy these past few weeks that I forgot to get it replaced.”

“I see.” He nods once. “How long were you waiting out there?”

“About twenty minutes,” you reply.

“Good thing I saw you then,” he says, a faint chuckle slipping through. “You looked like you were about to lose your patience.”

You let out a small laugh. “Honestly, I was. And thank you, by the way. If you hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve ended up walking home.”

That earns another quiet hum of amusement from him.

After that, the conversation fades, but this time, the silence feels different. Softer. Easier. The low hum of the engine and the faint music playing on the radio fill the space comfortably.

For once, it isn’t awkward.

The car slows to a stop at a red light. Sunghoon glances your way, his expression unreadable but calm. “You hungry?”

“I think I’m good,” you reply, but almost immediately, your stomach betrays you with a low rumble. Shit.

You freeze for a second, suddenly remembering that you skipped lunch earlier, too distracted and a little too nervous about the senior doctor’s message.

Sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh at the sound. “Let’s grab something to eat,” he says, already easing his foot back on the gas as the light turns green. “My treat.”

You don’t argue.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

A few minutes later, you find yourselves at a casual Italian fast-food restaurant. The warm lighting and soft chatter from other customers make the place feel cozy despite the rush hour.

You scan the area and spot a small booth tucked into the corner. “There,” you say, heading towards it.

You slide into the seat while Sunghoon remains standing beside the table. “What would you like to eat?” he asks.

“I think pasta’s fine,” you answer.

He nods. “Alright. I’ll order for us. Just wait here, okay?”

“Okay.”

You watch as he walks toward the counter, joining the short line. For a moment, you find yourself absentmindedly observing him the way he stands, calm and composed even in something as simple as ordering food.

A few minutes later, he returns carrying a tray.

He sets a plate of pasta in front of you, his lasagna beside it, then hands you your drink.

“And this one’s for you,” he adds, placing a slice of pizza next to your plate.

You blink, confused. “I didn’t order that.”

He sits across from you, completely unfazed. “I did. I figured the pasta wouldn’t be enough since you’re hungry.”

You cough lightly, feeling your cheeks warm. “Oh… uh, thank you.”

You start eating, your gaze fixed anywhere but him. Somehow, the earlier ease from the car ride has shifted again, replaced by a quiet, awkward tension.

You never really imagined this. Sitting across from him, sharing a meal like this. It almost feels unreal, like something out of place in your usual routine.

You can feel his gaze on you, subtle but unmistakable.

“What happened with the senior doctor earlier?” he asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You look up, surprised, but your shoulders relax now that the conversation has shifted. “She introduced me to a new resident,” you explain. “He’ll be under my supervision.”

Sunghoon nods, taking a bite of his food.

“His name’s Jungwon,” you continue, twirling your pasta with your fork. “From what I’ve seen so far, he has potential. He wasn’t nervous at all, even when we went to the LDR earlier.”

“That’s good,” Sunghoon says. “At least he seems passionate from the start.”

You nod, but then the thought that’s been lingering in your mind resurfaces. You hesitate just for a second before speaking.

“Sunghoon… can I ask you something?” He looks up. “Sure.”

“Not to sound rude or anything, but why are you suddenly talking to me?” you ask, your voice softer now. “I mean… we’ve been co-workers for four years, and this is the first time you’ve bought me coffee or talked to me for more than ten minutes.”

For a brief moment, he looks genuinely caught off guard. His eyes widen slightly, and a faint blush creeps up to his ears as he scratches the back of his neck. “That’s… uh…”

"I just thought that I've been so shy these past years that I don't get to socialize with my co-workers that much. You know, I just recently became close with that dermatologist, Kim Sunoo." He replied.

You nodded, a small smile forming. “That’s good to hear. I remember you skipped the Christmas party for two years straight. It’s nice to see you stepping out of your comfort zone.”

He smiles back. “I guess it is.”

The conversation drifts into something lighter after that, and before you realize it, dinner is over.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Soon enough, you’re back in his car, this time parked in front of your apartment building.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, turning slightly towards him. “Thank you for the ride, Sunghoon. And for the food.”

He smiles softly. “Don’t mention it. If you ever need a ride home, you can just call me.”

You stopped. “But… I don’t have your number.”

“Here.” He unlocks his phone and hands it to you. You take it, typing your number into his contacts before handing it back. “There.”

You step out of the car, the cool night air brushing against your skin. “Goodnight, Sunghoon,” you say, closing the door halfway and then you heard him speak, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You pause for just a moment before shutting the door completely, the sound echoing softly in the quiet street.

Later that night, as you lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, your mind drifts back to everything that happened.

The coffee. The car ride. Dinner.

Him.

Your heart beats a little faster, your cheeks warming at the memories.

Those feelings you buried years ago? They’re being dug up by none other than Park Sunghoon himself.

──────────────────────────────

Three weeks after that dinner with Sunghoon, the two of you have grown noticeably more comfortable around each other. He even picked you up from your apartment the morning after that night, insisting so you wouldn’t have to take the subway to work.

And now, you’re back in the thick of it. Endless patients, heavy workloads, night shifts, deadlines, and back-to-back surgeries taking up most of your time.

“Doc, I’m done with my rounds for now,” Jungwon says, appearing beside you while you’re busy taking a patient’s blood pressure.

You finish up, offering the patient a small reassuring smile before noting down the readings on the chart.

“Good,” you say, turning to him. “I want you to check on Baby Jung in the newborn unit. When I assessed the baby earlier this morning, the condition was a bit unstable. If that continues, report back to me so we’ll coordinate with the Pediatrics Department.”

“You got it.” Jungwon gives a quick salute before turning to leave.

“Oh, and Jungwon,” you call out just as he’s a few steps away. “Don’t forget the dessert you promised me for lunch.”

He chuckles, glancing back. “Of course, Doc. See you at the cafeteria later.”

Over the past three weeks, you and Jungwon have also grown closer, spending nearly every day working side by side. You’re grateful to have someone to share the hectic schedules and overwhelming workload with as it makes everything feel just a little lighter.

You grab the clipboard with your patient records and head towards the elevator. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out, about to read the message but you bumped into someone.

The impact causes the clipboard to slip from your hands, papers scattering across the floor.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry!” a voice says quickly.

You crouch down to gather the papers, the other person doing the same.

As you pick them up and glance up, a nurse you don’t recognize hands you a few sheets. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” you reply, standing up.

“I’m really sorry again, Doctor…” Her eyes flicker to your coat, reading the name stitched onto it. “…Kang.”

You shake your head lightly. “It’s okay. I wasn’t looking either. It’s partly my fault.”

You pause for a moment, studying her. “By the way, what’s your name? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

She smiles sweetly. “I’m Jang Wonyoung. I just started working here yesterday.”

“Well, it’s nice meeting you, Wonyoung,” you say with a friendly smile. “Sorry our first meeting had to be like this.”

“That’s alright,” she replies. “Have a nice day, Dr. Kang.”

She gives a small wave before heading off.

You continue towards the elevator and pressed the button. While waiting, you check your phone and read Jungwon’s message. He mentions that the newborn unit is a bit crowded with nurses and a few parents, and that he’ll update you once he gets inside.

Ding.

The elevator doors open.

You look up and see Sunghoon inside.

A smile forms on your lips as you step in, slipping your phone back into your pocket.

“Funny how we always run into each other at the elevator,” you say, turning to him.

“It is,” he replies, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Maybe I should start charging you for getting to see a handsome face like mine every time the doors open.”

You let out a laugh, and he joins in, the sound light and easy between you.

“Anyway,” he continues once the laughter fades. “Where are you planning to eat lunch? Sunoo and a friend of mine are trying out a newly opened restaurant nearby. Want to join us?”

“I’d love to,” you say, “but Jungwon and I already made plans, and he’s treating me to dessert, so I can’t really say no to that.” You nudge his side playfully.

“Ah, I see.” He nods, though you can’t help but notice the slight disappointment in his tone. “Maybe next time.”

“Definitely next time,” you reply.

The elevator doors slide open at your floor.

You step out, then glance back at him. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

And with that, you walked away, unaware of the way his gaze lingers on you just a second longer than usual.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Lunchtime arrives, and you’ve been sitting there for almost an hour.

Your plate is already empty, your drink long finished, and yet there’s still no sign of Jungwon or the dessert he promised.

You let out a quiet sigh, resting your cheek against your palm as you glance towards the cafeteria doors. Maybe I should’ve just gone with Sunghoon instead…

Just as the thought crosses your mind, the doors swing open and Jungwon rushes in, scanning the room before spotting you.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry I’m late, a patient was—” He’s panting so hard he can’t even finish his sentence.

“Woah, hey. Sit down first,” you say quickly.

He does as told, and you hand him your spare bottle of water. He takes it immediately, drinking it down in one go.

Once he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at you apologetically. “I really wanted to come earlier, but a patient asked me to stay with her until her husband arrived. I didn’t expect it to take that long… if I had known, I wouldn’t have stayed.”

You nod, your expression softening. “It’s okay. I would’ve done the same thing.”

“Did you at least eat lunch?” you ask.

“I did,” he replies. “The patient felt bad for making me wait, so she gave me some food.”

“Then I guess that leaves us with dessert,” you say, pointing lightly at him. “Now go get me that dessert you promised.”

Jungwon stands up immediately and heads to the counter.

A few minutes later, he returns, but this time, there’s a slight frown on his face.

“They ran out,” he says. “I guess it’s my fault for getting here late.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “So… what are we supposed to have for dessert now?”

Jungwon pauses, thinking for a moment before his expression brightens. “I know a place. Come with me.”

A short while later, the two of you find yourselves standing in front of a gelato shop in town.

“I come here whenever I’m craving something sweet,” Jungwon says, a hint of excitement in his voice. “They make the best gelato.”

He steps ahead of you, holding the door open.

“You’re really serious about this gelato, huh?” you tease with a small laugh.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Across the street, inside the newly opened restaurant, Sunghoon sits with Sunoo and Jay.

“Is that Y/N?” Sunoo suddenly says, pointing towards the window.

Sunghoon’s attention shifts instantly, his gaze following the direction.

Outside, he sees you with Jungwon.

“She’s with the resident,” Sunoo adds, still watching.

“They seem close,” Jay comments casually. “Maybe a little too close. I can’t even remember the last time I became friends with a resident.”

Sunoo gasps softly, covering his mouth. “Right? I thought I was the only one who noticed.”

Sunghoon’s grip on his fork tightens slightly as he listens, his eyes still fixed on the scene outside. On the way Jungwon holds the door open for you and the way you laugh.

“Do you think maybe they’re—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sunghoon cuts in, his tone sharper than usual. “Can we just eat in peace and not start rumors?”

Sunoo scoffs, side-eyeing him. “Geez. I was just saying.”

Sunghoon then goes back to eating, but the air at the table has shifted.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

After finishing your gelato, you and Jungwon stepped outside.

Just as you’re about to leave, you spot Sunoo approaching the shop.

You wave at him, and he waves back enthusiastically, a grin spreading across his face.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Getting dessert,” he replies. “Do they have mint chocolate here?”

“Yeah they have tons of flavors, actually. I think you’ll like all of them,” you say with a small laugh.

“Really?” Sunoo’s eyes light up. “I can’t wait!”

He practically skips toward the entrance.

Moments later, Sunghoon and Jay approach.

“Hi,” you greet as they stop in front of you.

“Hello,” Jay replies, glancing inside. “Is Sunoo in there?” You nodded.

“I’ll see if there's a flavor I like,” he says, turning to Sunghoon. “You want anything?”

Sunghoon shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Jay heads inside, leaving the two of you and Jungwon, who has just stepped beside you in an awkward silence.

“Hey,” you say to Sunghoon, but this time, something feels off.

He just nods. No smile. No teasing remark.

Jungwon shifts slightly beside you, and Sunghoon’s gaze flickers toward him, sharp, assessing.

“Right,” you say, trying to ease the tension. “Jungwon, this is Dr. Park Sunghoon, my friend.”

You gesture towards Jungwon. “And Sunghoon, this is Jungwon, the resident I told you about.”

Jungwon immediately extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Park.”

For a second, Sunghoon just stares at it, his thick brows slightly furrowed.

You clear your throat softly. Only then does Sunghoon take his hand, briefly.

“Uh huh,” he mutters.

Jungwon withdraws his hand, the smile on his face still polite, though a little uncertain now.

Just then, Sunoo and Jay return. With Sunoo holding his three scoops of mint chocolate chip gelato.

“Let’s head back,” Jay says. “Lunch break’s almost over.”

The five of you began walking back towards the hospital. Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Jay walked ahead, while you and Jungwon trail slightly behind.

“Jungwon… I’m sorry about that,” you say quietly. “Sunghoon isn’t usually like that. I don’t know what got into him.”

“It’s okay,” Jungwon replies, giving you a reassuring smile. “Maybe he just had a bad day.”

“Still… I’ll talk to him.” Before he could respond, you jogged forward.

“Sunghoon,” you call.

No response.

You try again.

Still nothing.

You frown slightly before reaching out and poking his side.

He flinches, finally turning to look at you. “What was that for?”

“You weren’t listening, so I had to resort to that,” you say, pouting slightly. His expression softens just a bit.

“…Sorry. What did you want to say?” He asks as you crossed your arms. “Why were you rude to Jungwon earlier? The kid was just trying to introduce himself.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied, looking away.

“You were,” you insist. “What’s wrong? Are you upset because I didn’t join you for lunch?”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes as he looks back at you.

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not that. A waiter messed up my order earlier, so I didn’t really enjoy the meal,” he lied, his voice a little too fast, as if he’s trying to convince both you and himself.

“Oh… that sucks,” you say, your tone softening. “So you really just had a bad day.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, scratching the back of his neck. His ears tint slightly red.

“You should leave them a bad review,” you say lightly. “They don’t deserve all that hype.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Maybe I should.”

──────────────────────────────

It was now time for the yearly medical mission, this time held in Gangwon Province.

Early in the morning, before the sun had fully risen, doctors were already gathered at the back of the hospital, loading supplies into vans. The atmosphere was focused, everyone moving with practiced efficiency.

Once you finished loading your things into the vehicle, the senior doctor, Ms. Lim, arrived to announce the car assignments. Most of the staff, doctors and nurses alike were placed in the larger vans, while only three were assigned to the smaller car.

That included you, Chaewon, and a pharmacist.

“We better get moving. The drive will take two to three hours, and I don’t want us arriving late,” Ms. Lim said as everyone began heading toward their assigned vehicles.

You stepped into the small car first, with Chaewon following right after. “Great, seatmates,” you said lightly, earning a smile from her as she settled beside you. The pharmacist sat in the front passenger seat, next to the driver.

Even with only four people inside, the space felt slightly cramped, with a few supplies stacked behind your seats, signaling the long drive ahead.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

You arrived in Gangwon Province after two and a half hours.

You stretched your arms as soon as you stepped out of the car. “Finally, we’re here,” you said, glancing at Chaewon beside you.

“Look at the view,” she pointed out.

Ahead of you, mountains covered in green stretched into the distance, the early sunlight rising over them and casting a soft glow across the landscape. The air was noticeably cooler and cleaner, a quiet reminder that you were far from the city now.

Around you, doctors and staff had already started unloading supplies from the vehicles. You moved towards the car again and joined in, helping carry boxes as the medical mission was about to start.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The medical mission is taking place at a public school gym that is converted into a temporary clinic.

Folding tables are set up in sections for each department, with simple privacy screens dividing consultation areas. Nurses move between stations guiding patients, while rows of chairs line the sides of the gym for those waiting their turn.

You sat at a small table marked for OB-GYN consultations, flipping through charts as a line of patients steadily forms in front of you, the hum of the makeshift clinic filling the space around you.

The check-up began smoothly, most patients were cooperative, listening attentively as you gave instructions and advice. Those who needed minor procedures were guided to the adjacent room for outpatient care, while you stayed at your station, calmly writing prescriptions and updating charts.

From across the space, Sunghoon sat at a parallel table, his gaze occasionally lifting towards you. He observed the way you spoke to each patient, reassuring and always gentle in tone, together with the soft smile you gave even in the middle of a busy line.

“Man, you gotta stop staring at her. There are patients on their way,” Jay said quietly from beside him.

“I— I wasn’t staring,” Sunghoon replied immediately, shifting his attention to the neatly arranged supplies in front of him, pretending to align them even though they were already perfectly in order. “Just… observing.”

Jay let out a small hum of disbelief. “Whatever you say.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Lunchtime came, with your team providing free food for all the attendees. A long line formed as patients waited for their meals, the gym still buzzing with quiet conversation and movement.

You sat at the table assigned for the doctors, with Sunghoon taking the empty seat beside you.

“Hi,” you greeted as he greeted back.

“How’s the consultation so far? I saw there are a lot of patients in your area,” he asked as he started eating.

“It’s going well. I haven’t had this much fun in a while,” you admitted, earning a small nod from him.

“Good to hear you’re enjoying it,” he said simply.

“I am,” you continued. “It’s always a pleasure helping people.”

The conversation flowed easily as you both ate. When you finished your meal, you reached for the brownie included in the tray, but Sunghoon stopped you.

“Don’t.” You looked up at him, confused.

“It has nuts,” Sunghoon added.

“Oh,” you blinked, then set it back down. “Right.”

A beat passed before you asked, “How did you know I’m allergic to peanuts?”

He cleared his throat, looking down at his food. “I saw you separate the nuts when you were eating that salad last week. And I've seen the EpiPen you always carry in your pocket.”

You stared at him for a second longer than intended, your chest tightening.

“You noticed that?”

He gave a small shrug. “It’s hard not to.”

A quiet warmth settled in your chest, though you kept your expression calm. “Well… thank you for warning me.”

You glanced back at the brownie, then sighed softly. “But it feels like a waste to just leave it.”

Before you could say more, Sunghoon reached over and took it from your plate.

“Always so considerate,” he said, before taking a bite himself.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

It was already night by the time the medical mission ended.

Everyone looked exhausted, evident in the way people moved slower than usual, taking their time packing up supplies. The once busy area had quieted down, replaced by tired chatter and the occasional sigh.

You grabbed your things and made your way to the car, opening the trunk.

“Here, I got it.”

Before you could protest, Sunghoon had already taken the supplies from your hands and placed them neatly inside.

“Thanks,” you say, watching as he closes the trunk.

Just then, Chaewon comes rushing over, slightly out of breath. “Y/N, I asked Ms. Lim earlier if I could transfer to the van since I felt claustrophobic in the smaller car. She said I could, but only if someone switched places with me. I tried asking around, but no one wants to,” she groans, squeezing your hands in mild panic.

You give her a sympathetic look. “Chae, maybe we can—”

“I’ll switch seats with you.”

Both of you turn as Sunghoon speaks up, having clearly overheard the conversation.

“You would?” Chaewon asks, her face lighting up.

He gives a small nod. “Yeah.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you!” she squeals, then quickly turns back to you. “But Y/N, is it okay if I’m not your seatmate anymore?”

You smile softly. “It’s fine. I know how much you hate small spaces.”

Chaewon beams before pulling you into a quick hug. “Thank you, Y/N. You’re the best.”

“Everyone, let’s go!” Ms. Lim calls out.

“I have to go, see you at the hospital!” Chaewon says, waving as she hurries off.

You wave back before heading to the car. You slide into your seat, and a moment later, Sunghoon follows, settling beside you.

“She’s right,” he mutters, shifting slightly. “It is cramped in here.”

Your shoulders brush against his from how little space there is.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “We just have to endure it for two and a half hours.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The car ride begins, the hum of the engine blending with the low chatter of others. You pull out your phone, texting Jungwon about updates from the hospital. The screen blurs slightly as you blink slowly, fatigue catching up to you.

You let out a quiet yawn while waiting for his reply, your eyelids growing heavier by the second.

“Tired?” Sunghoon asks softly from beside you.

“Mm,” you hum in response, too drained to form a proper sentence.

“You should get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll wake you up when we arrive.”

"Maybe I should.”

You lean your head against the window, eyes slowly closing as the gentle motion of the car puts you to sleep.

A few minutes pass.

Sunghoon glances at you, noticing the way your head keeps tilting awkwardly against the glass, your body shifting uncomfortably with every bump on the road.

Carefully, he moves a little closer.

Slowly, so carefully you don’t wake, he lifts a hand and gently guides your head away from the window, letting it rest against his shoulder instead.

“There…” he whispers softly.

Your head settles against him, your breathing evening out as you remain asleep, now in a far more comfortable position.

He stays still, not wanting to disturb you. But as the quiet of the ride settles in, he begins to feel his own exhaustion creeping in.

His eyes flutter shut.

And soon enough, he falls asleep too.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Unbeknownst to the two of you, Sunoo, who had already taken the front seat earlier, insisting he wanted to ride shotgun instead of being stuck in the back with the supplies on the van, was quietly watching a movie on his phone.

At some point, he glanced up from his screen and caught a glimpse of the back seat through the rearview mirror.

His brows lifted slightly.

He shifted in his seat and turned just enough to look behind him directly.

There you were, fast asleep, your head resting gently on Sunghoon’s shoulder.

And Sunghoon, also asleep, his head slightly tilted toward yours.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across Sunoo’s face.

He paused his movie and casually raised his phone, snapping a photo of the two of you, clearly entertained.

“Interesting…” he muttered under his breath before returning his attention to the screen, as if nothing had happened.

──────────────────────────────

The morning two days after, you step out of the elevator, heading towards the doctors’ lounge, only to stop in your tracks.

A few feet ahead, you spot Sunghoon walking out of the operating room. He’s in the middle of removing his surgical gown and cap, his hair slightly disheveled as he runs a hand through it to fix it.

For a moment, you just watch him.

You were about to walk over, maybe ask how the procedure went when someone beats you to it.

“Doctor.”

You glance over.

It’s the nurse you met before, Wonyoung.

“How was the procedure?” she asks, her voice softer than usual.

“It was fine,” Sunghoon replies.

“Of course it went well. You’re good at what you do,” she says, stepping a little closer than necessary. “Do you need help with anything, Dr. Park? I can assist you in cleaning up.”

Before he can respond, she reaches out, noticing his collar slightly crooked from removing his surgical gown and fixes it herself.

You freeze.

For a second, you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing. Your lips part slightly as you watch the interaction unfold, something uneasy settling in your chest.

She’s clearly flirting.

You wait, expecting Sunghoon to step back, to say something, to at least react.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, looking at her, almost as if he’s momentarily zoned out.

Something about that makes your chest tighten.

“Tsk.” You crossed your arms and turn away, not bothering to watch any longer.

Your steps are quicker now as you head straight to the doctors’ lounge, pushing the door open a little harder than necessary.

The sudden noise makes Jungwon look up from his laptop, slightly startled. “Y/N?” he says.

You pause, then let out a small breath. “Jungwon. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I’m just working on a report,” he replies, closing his laptop halfway. “What’s up? You look a little… irritated.”

You sit down beside him, crossing your arms as you lean back.

“Jungwon, do you know that newly hired nurse? The tall one who looks more like a supermodel than a nurse?”

He turns his chair toward you, giving you his full attention. His brows knit slightly as he thinks. “Nurse Wonyoung?”

“Yes, her,” you say quickly. “I just saw her flirting with Sunghoon out there. Can you believe that? A nurse who’s barely been here a month, hitting on a doctor?”

Jungwon lets out a small chuckle once you finish.

“Yeah, I believe you,” he says. “You don’t usually get this worked up over something small.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” he leans back a bit, a teasing glint in his eyes, “you sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” you repeat, almost scoffing. “Of course not. He's my friend and I’m just looking out for him. You know it’s against company rules to date someone new.”

You can feel the warmth creeping up your cheeks.

“…Yeah right,” Jungwon says, clearly unconvinced.

You quickly stood up, not wanting to entertain his teasing any further. “Whatever. I’m going to grab something to eat.”

“Alright, Doc,” Jungwon says with a small teasing grin as you head for the door.

You walk down the hallway, your gaze lowered as you fumble through the pockets of your coat, searching for some cash. Distracted, you don’t notice where you’re going and end up bumping into someone.

It’s Sunghoon.

Your expression shifts almost instantly, your mood dropping the moment you realize it’s him.

“Where are you heading?” he asks, one brow slightly raised.

“Just going to buy some food,” you reply.

“Want me to come with you?” he offers.

“I’m fine,” you say a little too quickly. “I can manage on my own. Besides, I have a hysterectomy scheduled after this. I need to get back right away.”

The lie slips out easily, even though you know the surgery isn’t for another hour.

“Okay… just don’t forget to—”

You don’t let him finish.

You walked past him without another word, your steps just a little faster than before, the image of what you saw earlier still lingering stubbornly in your mind.

Maybe it was better to avoid him and push those resurfacing feelings back down. So that in the end, you wouldn’t end up getting hurt.

──────────────────────────────

The next few weeks stayed the same, you avoided Sunghoon as much as you could.

You grew distant. Conversations were cut short, small talk nonexistent, and every interaction between you was kept strictly professional.

It felt like the friendship you built with him had never existed at all, as you treated him the same way you had for years before.

“Working the night shift again?” He asked as you were waiting for your coffee at the vending machine.

You froze for a split second at the sound of his voice behind you, but quickly composed yourself.

“Yeah.”

The cup dropped into the slot. You took it without looking at him as you walked past him.

Sunghoon could only watch your retreating figure, letting out a quiet sigh as another attempt to start a conversation with you failed.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Sunghoon leaned back against the counter in the doctors' lounge, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere distant. Jay glanced up from his phone and watched him for a moment before speaking.

“You’ve been like that all week,” he said.

Sunghoon didn’t respond.

“Actually,” Jay added, setting his phone down, “ever since she started avoiding you.”

That finally made Sunghoon look at him. “Avoiding?”

Jay let out a short scoff. “You didn’t notice?”

Before Sunghoon could answer, the door opened and Sunoo walked in, drink in hand, immediately sensing the tension.

“Notice what?” he asked casually.

Jay nodded towards Sunghoon. “He just realized.”

Sunoo blinked once, then laughed lightly. “No way.”

“What are you talking about?” Sunghoon frowned.

Sunoo leaned against the table, studying him. “You’ve been acting off for weeks.”

“I haven’t—”

“You have,” Jay cut in. “You’re more distracted. You forget small things, double-check things you normally don’t.”

Sunoo added, “And you keep looking towards her area even when you’re not assigned there.”

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened slightly. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does,” Jay said calmly. A brief silence followed before Sunoo tilted his head.

“You didn’t even realize she was avoiding you until now.”

Sunghoon paused, thinking back. Vague replies, shorter conversations, the way you left early, the lack of eye contact. “…I thought she was just busy,” he muttered.

Jay shook his head. “You don’t believe that.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer.

Sunoo exhaled softly. “You’re not just noticing her.” He smirks slightly. “You’re affected by her.”

The words hung in the air.

Sunghoon scoffed weakly, but it lacked certainty. “I’m not affected.”

“Then why do you look like that every time she walks past you and doesn’t stop?” Sunoo asked simply.

Silence.

Jay crossed his arms. “You didn’t care before.”

Sunghoon frowned slightly. "What do you mean?”

“You used to be fine,” Jay said. “Now you’re not.”

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "She’s been acting weird...”

Jay immediately corrected him. “No. You’ve been acting weird.”

Sunghoon looked between them, irritation flickering but it didn’t last. Because it was starting to feel… accurate.

Sunoo sighed and pushed himself off the table. “You know what your problem is?”

Sunghoon looked up. “What?”

“You think noticing her is enough,” Sunoo said simply.

That made him pause.

Jay added more quietly, “It’s not.”

Sunghoon frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Sunoo stepped closer, voice steady now. “You don’t get to just notice her forever.”

“You either do something about it or someone else eventually will. Like perhaps, Jungwon?”

That landed differently.

Sunghoon’s expression hardened. "What am I supposed to do?” Jay answered immediately. “Tell her.”

Sunghoon blinked. “Tell her what?” Sunoo lets out a short laugh. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

He pulled out his phone and unlocked it, tapping a few times before turning the screen toward Sunghoon.

The photo from the night of the medical mission appeared. You, asleep, your head resting on his shoulder. Him, leaning slightly toward you, closer than he remembered.

The room went quiet.

“How did you get that?" He coughs. "And you know, that was just an accident. I didn't mean to end up in that position,” Sunghoon said after a moment, but his voice was quieter now.

Sunoo hummed. “Sure.”

Jay added, almost matter-of-fact, “You don’t let people that close.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. His eyes stayed on the photo longer than necessary. “Since when did I start doing things like that?” he muttered under his breath.

Neither Sunoo nor Jay answered.

Instead, they just watched him, because for the first time, Sunghoon wasn’t denying it anymore. He was thinking.

Then Sunoo spoke again, softer but sharper.

“You don’t have to keep pretending you don’t feel anything. We know.”

Jay nodded once. “Just talk to her.”

Sunoo tilted his phone slightly, still showing the photo. “Before someone else does.”

And this time, Sunghoon didn’t argue.

──────────────────────────────

You push through the operating room doors, the sterile air hitting you instantly as the urgency inside the room becomes clear. The patient is already on the table, breaths uneven, the monitor beside her flashing unstable vitals.

“Doctor, her blood pressure is dropping,” one of the nurses calls out.

“I see it,” you reply, already gloving up. “Prepare for immediate delivery.”

Jungwon stands across from you, already scrubbed in, eyes focused but tense. This is different from the cases he’s seen before, this one is slipping, and even he can feel it. The usual controlled rhythm of the operating room feels tighter, heavier.

You moved quickly, voice steady despite the rising pressure. “Ma’am, stay with me, okay? You’re doing well. Just a little more.”

The woman turns her head slightly towards you, her face pale, lips trembling. “Doctor…” her voice is weak, barely audible. “If something happens…”

You shake your head immediately. “Nothing is going to happen. We’re getting both of you through this.”

She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers weakly gripping the sheets. “Please… just save the baby.”

“No,” you say firmly, without hesitation. “We’re saving both of you. Stay with me.”

“Heart rate dropping!” another nurse calls.

“Let’s move, now.” The room shifts into rapid motion.

“Push,” you instruct, your tone controlled but urgent. “You have to push for me.” With one final effort, the baby is delivered.

A second of silence, then a cry fills the room, strong and alive.

“Baby’s out,” you announced, a flicker of relief passing through the team.

But it doesn’t last.

“Doctor, she’s bleeding heavily!”

You look down, there's far more blood than before as it pooled rapidly.

“Start uterotonics. Apply pressure, now!” you order, your voice sharper now.

Jungwon hesitates for a fraction of a second before moving, following your commands, his movements slightly rushed.

“Ma’am, stay with me!” you call, louder now. “Stay with me!”

The monitor begins to slow.

“No, no, come on,” you mutter under your breath. “We’re not losing you.”

“BP unrecordable!”

“Prepare for resuscitation!”

The flatline cuts through the room. Followed by a long, continuous sound.

“No!” you shout, immediately stepping in. “Start CPR!”

You begin compressions, counting under your breath, your movements precise but desperate.

“Come on… come on…” you whisper, your voice cracking just slightly.

Jungwon watches for a brief moment, then steps in to assist, swallowing hard as he follows your lead.

Minutes pass, but the monitor doesn’t change.

The sound remains flat as your movements slow down.

The weight of the silence settles heavily in the room, no one daring to speak. For a moment, you just stare at the monitor, as if waiting for it to change. It doesn’t.

You inhale slowly, forcing yourself to straighten.

“Time of death,” you say, your voice quieter now, but steady as you glance at the clock. “4:56 pm.”

The baby’s cries echo faintly from across the room, a sharp contrast to the stillness surrounding you.

You turn your head towards Jungwon, your expression composed, but your eyes betray a flicker of something deeper.

“Transfer the baby to the newborn unit,” you instruct. “Go with the nurses.”

Jungwon nods, swallowing hard as two nurses carefully prepare the infant.

He hesitates for just a moment, looking back at you, before following them out.

You exhaled deeply, looking at the patient lying before you. Then you instructed the nurses on what to do with the body, ending with, “I’ll go inform her husband.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

Pushing the operating room doors open, you stepped out into the hallway. The bright lights feel harsher now, the noise around you dull and distant. Across from you, her husband sits in the waiting area. The moment he sees you, he stands up quickly.

“Doc… how are they?” he asks as you approach.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, gathering the courage to say the words.

“I’m sorry, sir… but your wife didn’t make it,” you say quietly.

His shoulders drop as he looks down, his composure breaking as he starts to cry.

“…And the baby?” he asks after a moment, wiping at his tears.

“She’s alive,” you reply gently. “They’ve taken her to the newborn unit. I’ll let you know when it’s okay for you to visit.”

He nods weakly, trying to hold himself together.

“I’m… I’m sorry again for your loss,” you add, trying to sound professional despite the lump in your throat.

“It’s okay,” he says, though his voice trembles. “At least… at least you saved our baby. Thank you for that.”

You nod, offering a small, sympathetic smile as he turns and walks away, his steps heavy and unsteady.

You know it wasn't your fault, but deep down you still feel disappointed in yourself for not saving her.

As a doctor, moments like these are inevitable. But for you, it has only happened six times, including today. You always do your best to save your patients’ lives and you usually succeed. So when the worst happens, you can’t help but feel responsible, as if the loss was yours to carry.

You step aside, pressing a hand lightly against the wall as you take in a sharp breath. Tears begin to fall, quiet at first, then harder as the memory resurfaces, your patient’s face, the way she looked at you, trusting you when you promised to save both her and her baby.

“Y/N?” You heard someone call and you look up to see Sunghoon. You stared at him for a while, your expression a mix of surprise and nervous at the thought of him seeing your vulnerable side.

“Sunghoon, I—”

Before you can finish, he closes the distance and pulls you into a gentle embrace. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, guiding it to rest against his shoulder, while the other slowly rubs your back.

“Shh… it’s okay,” he murmurs softly. “You don’t have to explain anything.” He holds you carefully, like you might fall apart at any second.

You stayed like that for a while, crying into his shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around you.

You’re not sure how, but the simple gesture made you feel safe. The comfort you didn’t even realize you needed is suddenly there, steady and warm, easing the tightness in your chest little by little.

“I couldn’t save her,” you manage to say, your voice breaking as you pull away slightly, shaking your head. “I tried… but it wasn’t enough.”

“Hey, look at me.”

His hands gently cups your cheeks, guiding your gaze back to his.

“It’s not your fault,” he says softly. “It never was. So don’t blame yourself for what happened. You did everything you could.” His voice remains calm, comforting. “I’m like that too, I don’t always get to save my patients. But what matters is that you tried. That’s what counts.”

You swallow, nodding slowly as his words sink in.

“You’re right. Thank you,” you whisper.

He gives you a small, reassuring smile. “You don’t have to thank me. Just know that I’m always here for you.”

Your breath catches at that.

Your brows knit slightly as you search his face, trying to find even the slightest hint that he’s joking, but there’s nothing. Just sincerity, clear and unwavering in his eyes.

“Sunghoon…” you murmur.

“Yeah?” he responds, tilting his head slightly.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask quietly. “I’ve been a jerk to you these past few weeks but you’re still here, comforting me.”

Your gaze drops again, guilt creeping in.

“I don’t think I deserve your kindness… or even your friendship.”

Sunghoon shakes his head almost immediately. He lifts your chin gently with his finger, making you look at him again.

“I don’t care about the past few weeks,” he says. “You needed someone, so I came.”

Something in your chest stirs at that, soft and unfamiliar, yet overwhelming all at once. Your lips tremble slightly as your eyes begin to sting again.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I promise I won’t do it again.”

Before he can respond, you step forward and wrapped your arms around him once more, holding him tighter this time.

Sunghoon lets out a soft chuckle, clearly caught off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gently pats your back, his touch warm and reassuring as you cling to him.

──────────────────────────────

The next day after the incident, you, Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Chaewon went out to eat together. It was Sunghoon’s idea, he said it might help cheer you up after everything that happened.

You sat at the table with Chaewon beside you and Sunghoon across from you.

As you waited for your food, you glanced at him and smiled. “Sunghoon, thank you for this. I really needed it. I’m glad to have a friend like you.”

Then you looked over at Chaewon and Sunoo. “And you guys too.”

“Aww, no problem, babes. We’re always here to cheer you up,” Chaewon replied, wrapping an arm around you in a side hug.

“Friends?” Sunoo suddenly echoed, glancing at Sunghoon from the corner of his eye.

You blinked, confused.

“Oh– I mean… yeah, you’re welcome,” he quickly corrected, offering an awkward smile.

Before you could question it further, the food arrived, filling the table and momentarily shifting everyone’s attention.

The conversation died down as you all started eating, the clinking of utensils replacing it.

A few minutes in, Sunoo suddenly stood up.

“I just need to go to the restroom,” he said casually, then turned to Sunghoon. “Come with me.”

Before Sunghoon could even react, Sunoo was already pulling him up from his seat. Sunghoon barely had time to set his fork down, looking completely caught off guard as he was dragged along.

You watched them walk away, brows slightly furrowed.

“What was that about?” Chaewon asked.

You shrugged, just as confused. “I have no idea.”

ᯓ★ ݁˖

As you walked back to the hospital, you decided to bring up what happened earlier.

“So… are you going to tell me what that was about, or am I supposed to pretend it was nothing?” you asked, glancing at Sunghoon.

“What? That?” Sunghoon replied casually, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Sunoo was just overreacting about something.”

“Really…” you said, clearly unconvinced. “What kind of something?”

He rolled his eyes slightly, though a small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s just between me and him. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you if it ever concerns you.”

You let out a quiet sigh, deciding not to push further. “Okay, fine. I’ll believe you. As long as it’s not about a secret crush or anything, then I’m out.”

“What?” Sunghoon suddenly said, a bit too quickly.

You frowned, studying his reaction. “Huh…?” Then it clicked. “Wait… I’m right?”

“N-no, you’re not,” he denied, but the tips of his ears turned noticeably red.

A laugh slipped out of you. “Hey, relax. I won’t tell anyone,” you said, nudging him lightly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He glanced at you, still unsure whether to believe you.

“I think I already have an idea who it is,” you added, a teasing smile forming. “And don’t worry, I support you.”

“Oh…” Sunghoon exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “T– thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a small smile.

You looked away after that, your chest tightening just a little, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Relief, because Sunghoon trusted you with something so personal, and disappointment, because you hadn’t expected him to like Wonyoung back.

You thought you had successfully buried those feelings long ago, but hearing him admit he had a crush still stung more than you were willing to admit.

It’s fine, you told yourself. As long as you stayed good friends, that would be enough.

──────────────────────────────

The fluorescent lights in the doctors’ lounge felt harsher than usual.

Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Or maybe it was the way the numbers on the chart in front of you refused to make sense no matter how many times you read them.

Beside you, the cup of coffee you bought earlier had long gone lukewarm.

You reached for it anyway, bringing it to your lips in a half-hearted attempt to wake yourself up.

The bitter taste lingered, but it did little to chase away the heaviness in your eyes. If anything, it only reminded you how tired you really were.

You blinked once. Twice.

Still, the words blurred.

With a quiet sigh, you leaned back slightly in your chair, pressing your fingers against your temple as if that would somehow force your mind to cooperate. It didn’t. If anything, the silence of the room only made your thoughts louder and harder to ignore.

You didn’t even realize you were staring blankly at the same line for the past five minutes.

“You’re going to misread that.”

The voice came from behind you, calm and familiar, cutting through your haze like it always did.

You didn’t turn immediately. Instead, you let out a small breath, somewhere between a tired laugh and defeat.

“I’m not,” you muttered weakly, eyes still on the chart. “I’m just… taking my time.”

There was a pause. Then the sound of footsteps, slow, unhurried, coming closer.

“You’ve been ‘taking your time’ on the same page since I got here,” he replied.

You finally turned, meeting Sunghoon’s gaze. His expression wasn’t mocking, nor was it particularly soft, it was something in between, the kind you had learned to read over the years. Observant. Quietly concerned.

You straightened a little in your seat, as if that alone could prove your point.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, though even you could hear how unconvincing it sounded.

His eyes flickered briefly to the untouched coffee beside you, then back to your face.

“You didn’t even finish that,” he pointed out.

You glanced at the cup, then away. “It’s not working,” you admitted under your breath.

That was when his expression shifted, just slightly.

“…Come on.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“Come on,” he repeated, already turning away as if he expected you to follow.

You stared at his back for a second, then let out a quiet sigh before pushing your chair back. The legs scraped softly against the floor as you stood, grabbing your coat almost out of habit.

“Where are we going?” you asked, trailing after him.

“Fresh air,” he said simply. “Since that clearly isn’t working.”

You glanced back once at the abandoned cup of coffee on the table before following him out.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The hallway was quieter than usual.

Your footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floors, falling into rhythm with his. Neither of you spoke, and yet the silence felt… comfortable. Familiar. It wrapped around the two of you like something well-worn, something neither of you questioned anymore.

The elevator ride was short.

You leaned lightly against the wall, arms loosely crossed, your head tilting back just enough for your eyes to close for a second. The hum of the elevator was almost lulling, dangerously so.

“You’re actually going to fall asleep standing up,” Sunghoon muttered.

You opened one eye lazily. “I’m not that far gone.”

He didn’t respond, but you felt his gaze stayed on you for a brief moment.

ᯓ★ ݁˖

The rooftop door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

The moment you stepped out, the cold night air hits your face, sharp and refreshing. It stole the warmth lingering on your skin and replaced it with something clearer.

You inhaled deeply.

And for the first time in hours, your head felt lighter.

“…Okay,” you admitted, stepping forward. “That actually helped.”

The wind picked up slightly, brushing past you and tugging at the edges of your coat. Fabric shifted, swaying gently with each passing breeze, the night wrapping itself around you in quiet movements.

You walked towards the railing, resting your hands against the cool metal as you looked out at the city below. Lights flickered in the distance, cars moving like slow, distant streams.

For a moment, everything felt far away.

“Thanks for this,” you said softly.

No response.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Sunghoon stood a few steps behind you, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his posture relaxed but his gaze wasn’t on the view.

It was on you.

You turned slightly, brows knitting together. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took a step closer.

Then another.

The faint sound of his shoes against the concrete felt louder than it should have, each step closing the space between you until he was standing beside you, closer than usual.

Close enough for you to notice the way the wind shifted his hair slightly.

Close enough to see the way his eyes caught the city lights.

The way they seemed to twinkle, just barely, as he looked at you, not distant, but focused in a way that made your chest tighten without warning.

Something in your expression must have changed, because his gaze softened a little.

“You know, lately…” he began slowly, his voice lower now, steadier but heavier somehow. “I’ve been noticing things I didn’t before.”

Your breath hitched, just slightly.

“I thought it was nothing,” he continued. “I told myself it didn’t matter.” Then he took another step closer.

You didn’t move.

“But it keeps coming back,” he said, softer now. “No matter how much I try to ignore it.”

Your heart was beating faster now, louder than the wind, louder than your thoughts.

You couldn’t look away, not when he was standing this close, not when his voice sounded like that.

“Look, Y/N…” he said, your name quieter than you had ever heard it from him.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something—”

A sharp sound cut through the air.

Your phone rang.

The sudden noise felt almost too loud in contrast to the stillness that had built up around you. You flinched slightly, breaking eye contact as you reached into your pocket.

Jungwon’s name flashes on your caller ID the moment you pick up.

Before you can even speak, his voice comes through urgently. “Y/N, there’s a woman in active labor with complications. We need you here now.”

“Okay, I’m coming,” you reply, your voice cutting through the quiet rooftop.

The wind is still, almost cruelly calm compared to the urgency in his tone.

You turn to Sunghoon, and for a brief second, your expression softens with guilt. “There’s an emergency. You can tell me that next time, okay?”

“Oh… okay,” he says quietly, the disappointment flickering across his face before he can hide it.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” you add, already stepping back.

And just like that, you’re gone.

Sunghoon watches as you rush towards the door, your coat trailing behind you, footsteps echoing sharply before fading completely into the hospital corridor.

The rooftop falls silent again.

He stays there for a moment longer, unmoving, the wind brushing through his hair as if time itself has slowed down just for him.

A small breath escapes him, almost a sigh, as he looks at the empty space where you were standing just seconds ago.

══════════════════════════════

☙ taglist:

@kristynaaah @choibeargyu @oopshee @wonstruck7 @missoxy @loveydoveyez @naraemin @momoarchiveee @betagalactose @jakebitez @reneleaily @jakey1115 @honestlyatomicpanda @jaeunaria0-0 @thisismepls @sievenderz @fabulousarepo4 @heestiki @cumtrov3rsy @wonniecaramelmacchiato

author's note: wow, 12K words, this is actually my first time writing a fic that reached this word count

i really enjoyed writing this, which is probably why it ended up this long haha. as a med student myself, i got especially excited while writing the medical parts. and i think this is, by far, my favorite fic that I’ve written so far

i hope you were able to read it until the end >< even if it didn’t fully meet your expectations, i genuinely did my best to pour my heart into this fic (which I think I somehow did hehe)

[biased-and-broke]

You and me in this world

Pairing: Ni-ki x shy reader

Genre: Fluff/slight angst

Word count: 700+

Synopsis:

You and Ni-ki had been in a secret relationship for almost a year now-until it was so secret anymore. A couple of saseangs, a few blurry photos and a lot of speculation later, your relationship has been revealed to the world. Do you stay strong… or break down?

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

You were surprised as to how invested people were into his life, yet how oblivious they could be. 

It had been almost a year. A year of stolen mornings and messy hair. A year of inside jokes whispered between just the two of you, hands brushing when no one was watching. A year of pretending your little secret universe existed alongside the chaos of his world.

No one knew. That’s how you liked it.

Until the day it all slipped.

You were scrolling aimlessly on your phone when you saw it—an image posted by some random account, blurry but unmistakable. Ni-ki’s face, perfect as always, and next to him… yours. You barely recognized yourself in the grainy photo, but the world did. The comments had already started rolling in, some sweet, some cruel. And then another photo, and another. Sasaengs, paparazzi, and speculation—it was like a dam had broken, and your life was suddenly on display.

You tried to ignore it, tried to breathe through the panic rising in your chest, but it was impossible. Every notification felt like a tiny hammer striking your heart.

The knock on your door came softly, but it made you jump.

“Hey,” Ni-ki’s voice was low, careful. “You okay?”

You swallowed hard and shook your head. “I… I didn’t think it would… go this far.”

He stepped inside without another word and pulled you into his arms. His warmth surrounded you, a bubble in the chaos. You buried your face in his chest, trying not to let the tears fall, but they did anyway.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, fingers brushing your hair. “I’m here. Always.”

You wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him. And for a moment, you did.

· · ───── ·𖥸· ───── · ·

The next day was worse. The photos had gone viral. Rumors spread like wildfire. Some fans were supportive, but others… cruel. You avoided your phone, avoided social media, even avoided mirrors. Ni-ki didn’t leave your side.

He pulled you into corners whenever cameras weren’t looking, held your hand so tightly you thought it might leave a mark, and never let you out of his sight.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said softly one evening, while the sunset cast gold across the studio. “We’ll handle it together. Always.”

You looked up at him, eyes red but steady. “What if I can’t? What if I can’t handle it?”

He cupped your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Then I’ll handle it for you. We’re in this together. You and me… in this world. Always.”

The weight on your chest lifted slightly. Even if the world was cruel, even if it was loud and unkind, Ni-ki was there. And somehow, that made everything bearable.

· · ───── ·𖥸· ───── · ·

Days passed. Photos continued to leak. Fans speculated, some supported, others attacked. You learned to breathe through the hate, leaning on Ni-ki’s quiet strength.

One night, after a long day of interviews and flashing cameras, Ni-ki led you to a small park nearby. No one followed. No one watched.

He sat on the grass and pulled you close, your back against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, steady and calm.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” he murmured. “I’m yours, and you’re mine. That’s all that matters.”

You leaned your head back against him, feeling safe for the first time in days. “I… I was so scared,” you admitted softly. “Scared I’d lose you… or that people would hate me.”

He kissed the top of your head. “You won’t lose me. Never. People can think what they want. They don’t get to touch this… us.”

You closed your eyes, letting the world fall away. For the first time in a week, maybe in months, you smiled without shame, without fear.

Because in that quiet park, under the fading light of the sun, you realized something simple and powerful:

The world could never understand your universe. But you and Ni-ki? You were infinite together.

· · ───── ·𖥸· ───── · ·

Later, you two walked hand in hand back to the car, sneakers brushing against the pavement. Cameras flashed in the distance, but it didn’t matter. Ni-ki squeezed your hand gently, a quiet promise that no matter what, he was yours. And in your secret universe, that was enough.

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

Request: Open💖

💬 feedback is appreciated 💌 reblogs are loved 🌷 thank you for reading!

[biased-and-broke]

143

Pairing: Keonho x shy reader

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 650+

Synopsis:

You had been dating keonho for 143 days. It was Valentine’s Day and you weren’t expecting anything-it is his birthday after all. But maybe you should of expected the unexpected. 3 words, 8 letters-there’s always time for surprises.  ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

You had been dating Keonho for exactly one hundred and forty-three days.

Not that you were obsessively counting. The number just lived in the back of your mind, tucked between little memories: the first time he stole your fries without asking, the late-night walks where your hands kept brushing until he finally laced his fingers through yours, the quiet comfort of sitting side by side doing absolutely nothing.

Valentine’s Day crept in softly, wrapped in pink storefront displays and heart-shaped balloons tied to café chairs. But to you, it was something else entirely.

It was his birthday.

So you kept your expectations low on purpose. Today was about him. You woke up early to pick up his favorite cake from the bakery down the street, the one with too much frosting and the tiny chocolate curls he always pretended not to like. Your gift sat neatly wrapped in your bag, ribbon tied in a bow you’d redone three times until it felt perfect.

When you met him outside his favorite café, the winter air nipped at your cheeks. Keonho stood there with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, hair slightly messy like he’d run out the door in a hurry. The second he spotted you, his face lit up in a way that made your chest feel warm.

“You’re early,” he teased.

“So are you,” you shot back, and he laughed, the sound soft and familiar.

Inside, the café buzzed with quiet conversation and the steady hum of the espresso machine. You slid into your usual booth by the window, watching condensation fog the glass as people hurried past outside. You reached for your bag, ready to hand him his gift.

“Wait,” Keonho said suddenly.

There was something different in his voice—gentle, but edged with nerves. He pulled a small envelope from his pocket, the corners worn like he’d been fidgeting with it all day. He pushed it across the table, his fingers lingering for a second before pulling back.

Your heart stuttered.

Inside was a folded piece of paper. You opened it carefully, the world narrowing to the neat handwriting on the page.

Three words. Eight letters. ‘I love you’. 

For a moment, everything else faded. The chatter, the clinking cups, the music playing faintly overhead—it all blurred into the background. The words settled into you slowly, warm and steady, like sunlight spreading through your chest.

When you looked up, Keonho was watching you with a small, uncertain smile. There was vulnerability there, a quiet hope that made your throat tighten.

“You didn’t have to Ke,” you whispered, your voice softer than you expected.

He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. “I know,” he said. “But… there’s always time for surprises.”

The rest of the day unfolded in gentle snapshots. You sang to him as the café staff brought out his cake, your voice joining theirs in a messy, laughing chorus. Frosting ended up on your fingertip after you tried to fix a smudge, and he caught your hand before you could wipe it away, grinning as he stole the sweetness for himself.

You wandered the city without a plan, your shoulders bumping as you walked. The winter sun hung low in the sky, painting everything gold. Sometimes you talked about nothing—movies you wanted to see, places you wanted to visit. Sometimes you fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling.

As evening settled in and city lights flickered on, you found yourselves sitting on a quiet bench, your hands intertwined between you. The air was cold, but the warmth of him beside you made it easy to forget.

One hundred and forty-three days.

It felt like a lifetime and a heartbeat all at once. And as you leaned your head against his shoulder, the words from the note echoed softly in your mind. Not loud or dramatic. Just real.

The best surprises, you realized, weren’t grand gestures or perfect moments.

They were this—small, quiet pieces of happiness you could hold onto long after the day was over.

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

Happy (late) Valentines Day!

Happy (late) Keonho Day!

Requests: Open💖

💬 feedback is appreciated 💌 reblogs are loved 🌷 thank you for reading!

[swiftjay23]

𝓜𝒓. 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝓜𝓻𝓼. 𝓢𝓶𝓲𝓽𝓱

Your marriage to Jay was already hanging by a thread, cold silences, dead love, secrets thick enough to choke on. But everything shatters the night you discover the truth: you’re assassins on opposite sides, and your entire relationship was engineered to end with one of you dead. When a mission goes sideways and Jay collapses bleeding in your arms, the two of you are forced into a feral, desperate partnership to outrun the kill orders now targeting you both. What follows is pure chaos: rooftop fights, a mini-heist gone wrong, explosions, marriage counseling sessions that definitely weren’t meant for combat couples, and the kind of chemistry that only hits when hatred and love coexist in the same breath. Trust breaks. Trust rebuilds. Guns misfire. Hearts don’t.

𝓖enre: action-thriller, marriage-on-the-rocks, morally gray romance, espionage drama, slow-burn rebuilding trust, hurt/comfort, dark comedy in chaos.

𝓟airing: assassin spy husband!Jay x assassin spy wife!reader

𝓦arnings: morally gray MCs, marriage built on lies, toxic-but-entertaining dynamics, secret identities, spy/assassin themes, high-stakes missions, violence, guns, blades, bombs, explosions, gore/blood, injury detail, near-death scenes, betrayal, psychological manipulation, chasing, interrogations, emotional whiplash, mutual attempted murder (married-core), and overall thriller chaos, power imbalance, flirting, cheesy lines.

𝓦arnings (SMUT!): explicit sexual content, rough/angry sex, bruising intimacy, dominance/power struggle, breathy pinning/grappling, semi-public tension, clothes half-on type scenes, fingering/oral implications, marking (handprints/bruises), messy desperate pacing, and emotionally charged sex between two very hot, very unhinged assassins.

𝓒ameos: Lee Heeseung/Evan from Enhypen (the bait/enemy), Yang Jungwon from Enhypen (Jay's best friend/ handler)

𝓘nspired 𝓑y: Mr and Mrs. Smith

𝓦ord 𝓒ount: 35K

Sam: Please they get so unserious :D One of my fav fav fav movies ever!

[Better Than The Movies] [Masterlist]

THE MARRIAGE COUNSELOR.

You stared at it for a long moment, the brass letters catching the light like they were mocking you. The metal nameplate read like a joke, The Marriage Counselor, as if couples didn’t already know what they were signing up for when they crossed that sterile white threshold.

The plaque glinted under the soft fluorescent light, its polished edges reflecting back a room that was far too clean for the kind of damage that usually entered it. You could’ve been anywhere else, preferably doing something productive, like chasing down a target who owed you blood and money, but instead you were here, legs crossed, back straight, wasting two hours in a room that smelled like lavender and futility. As if this expensive, ineffective junk would magically bring back a ship that had already sunk.

Across from you, Jay tapped his watch. Again. The sound was rhythmic, deliberate, like he wanted you to notice it. You didn’t look up from your nails, filing them into sharp, immaculate ovals that gleamed under the dull lighting. You could feel his eyes flick toward you anyway, just a brief, silent assessment, habitual, detached.

The therapist’s office looked like it had been curated for calm. Light beige walls, two steel-framed chairs facing each other, a small table between them stacked with tissues and mint candies. A diffuser hummed softly in the corner, puffing out a lazy curl of scented air. The smell was supposed to be soothing. It wasn’t.

You shifted your leg slightly, the heel of your boot clicking against the floor. Jay’s gaze followed the movement for a second before he went back to adjusting the cuff of his shirt, his fingers running down the smooth white fabric until it was perfectly aligned with his wristwatch. He did everything that way, precise, practiced, exacting.

He looked good, as always. That was part of the problem. Hair slicked back in that calculatedly careless way, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins visible, posture so relaxed it bordered on arrogant. He didn’t have to speak for you to know he’d rather be anywhere else, preferably in a room where there were more weapons than words.

The counselor, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and too much perfume, shifted in her seat, her pen hovering over the open notebook in her lap. She was waiting for something. For anything.

You could hear the clock ticking behind her. Every second dragged.

When she finally spoke, her voice was warm, measured, professional. “So,” she began, glancing between the two of you like she was approaching a pair of unpredictable animals. “Why are you here today?”

You didn’t answer. Neither did he.

Her pen hovered. The silence settled, heavy and stale, stretching thin like glass that refused to shatter.

Jay exhaled through his nose, low and impatient. The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried enough weight to fill the room. His eyes flicked toward the clock, then the window, then you. You caught the glance from your peripheral vision, but you didn’t bother to meet it. You simply continued filing your nails, slow, deliberate strokes, tiny sparks of metal scraping against the emery board.

The counselor cleared her throat. The sound was tentative, like she didn’t want to startle either of you. “It’s okay,” she tried again, forcing a small, placid smile. “There’s no wrong way to start. Most couples feel uncomfortable at first.”

Still, neither of you said a word. If silence could kill, this room would have been a crime scene already. The counselor shifted again, that nervous little smile faltering when neither of you took the bait. Her pen made a soft click as she pressed the end compulsively, as if the noise might fill the silence neither of you seemed willing to break.

“Why don’t we start simple?” she tried, voice lilting, hopeful in the way of someone trying not to drown. “Who’d like to share first?”

Still nothing. You sat with your ankle crossed neatly over your knee, back straight, every inch of your posture polished and controlled. The kind of stillness that took years to learn. Inside, though, inside you were ticking like a bomb. You could feel Jay’s attention like static at the edge of your awareness, brushing against your skin even as he looked away, pretending to check the time on that damned expensive watch. He didn’t need to look at you to make you feel watched.

It had always been like that with him. A quiet, constant pressure. A touch that wasn’t a touch. Finally, you sighed, a deliberate, theatrical exhale, and muttered, “He left the door open again.”

Jay’s head tilted slightly, the smallest shift, but you caught it. “Excuse me?” “The door,” you repeated, voice flat, still not meeting his eyes. “Front door. Wide open. Again.” He blinked slowly, as if replaying the memory frame by frame. A faint tick pulsed in his jaw. “It was locked.” “It was open.”

A pause, long enough to taste. Then, smoothly, “You sure you weren’t too distracted rearranging the kitchen to notice?” That made you look at him. Finally. The counselor blinked, pen frozen midair. “Rearranging?” You smiled, small, sharp, surgical. “He hates the new layout.”

Jay returned it, equally thin. “Because it doesn’t make sense. The knives are nowhere near the cutting board.” “They’re decorative knives, Jay.” He leaned back slightly, voice deceptively soft. “Knives are never decorative.” “Depends,” you murmured, “on what you use them for.” The air thickened like smoke. The counselor let out a shaky, misplaced laugh, mistaking the sharpness for humor. “Well, it’s good that you can joke—” “We’re not joking,” you both said, almost in unison.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was pressurized. A held breath waiting for something to explode. The counselor swallowed, adjusting her glasses, her pen trembling just slightly as she tried to look at one of you without staring too long at either. Her voice came out thinner this time. “Alright, um… let’s try to keep things constructive. Maybe talk about what’s working?”

You ignored her. Jay did too. Instead, you tilted your head toward him, almost lazy. “He replaced my coffee beans,” you said, like it was an accusation. Jay’s brows lifted. “Because yours taste like burnt rubber.” “They’re imported,” you shot back, just a little too fast. “You wouldn’t know the difference.” “I’d know poison if I tasted it.”

That earned you a low hum from him, barely audible, but his gaze was locked on yours now, steady, calm, dangerous. There was nothing romantic about it. It was the stillness before the pull of a trigger, the charged quiet of two professionals who’d memorized each other’s tells: the flick of a wrist, the dilation of a pupil, the heartbeat quickening just slightly when the line was crossed.

The counselor scribbled something down, uncommunicative, defensive, mutual hostility, as if any of those words came close to describing this. Jay leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the side of his chair, the picture of lazy indifference, but you caught the twitch in his fingers, the way his thumb brushed absently over his ring, like a tic. You wondered if he realized he was doing it. You wondered if he’d kill you before or after he stopped pretending to love you. 

You noticed because you always noticed. Every tic, every micro-expression. It was a habit you couldn’t unlearn, observing him was survival. And maybe, somewhere deep down, compulsion. He noticed your glance. He didn’t stop. “So,” the counselor tried again, her smile stretching thin as paper. “You two have been together… how long?”

“Seven years,” you said. “Eight,” Jay corrected. You turned to him, brows arching. “Eight?” He met your look evenly. “You always forget the first year.” You let out a faint, humorless breath. “That’s because we were pretending to be other people the whole time.”

Jay’s lips twitched, but his eyes didn’t. “You make it sound like it stopped.” The counselor laughed again, high, nervous, sharp around the edges. “Ah! So you’re both very… um… playful.” “Sure,” you said lightly, crossing your arms. “Let’s call it that.”

Jay’s tone was even smoother now, honey over glass. “She’s always been creative with her definitions.” You tilted your head toward him, eyes narrowed just enough to pass as teasing. “You’d know.” He smiled back, slow and deliberate, that same charming smile he used in interrogation rooms right before the subject broke. The one that never reached his eyes. “I do.”

The counselor’s pen stuttered against her notepad, a faint tap-tap-tap. Her gaze darted between you again, searching for a foothold, some way to steer this shipwreck of a session back to shore. “Why,” she asked carefully, “do you think you’re here today?” The question hung in the air, too light for how heavy the room had become.

You looked at Jay. Jay looked at you. And neither of you answered. Outside, a car door slammed somewhere down the street. Inside, the hum of the diffuser filled the silence like a heartbeat. The counselor waited, blinking, as if time itself might coax the truth out of you. Jay’s thumb tapped once more against his ring before he finally spoke, voice low enough that it barely reached the other side of the room. “Because someone thinks one of us might snap.”

You didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “They’re wrong.” He looked at you again, longer this time, slower, and something unreadable passed through his expression. A flash of recognition. A memory, maybe. Or the ghost of the night he’d wiped blood from his hands and kissed you before the body had even cooled.

Flash: White walls. Fluorescent lights. A man tied to a chair, shaking. You stood over him, one gloved hand wrapped around his jaw, the other holding a blade so sharp it glimmered even under the cheap light.

“Who paid you?” you asked softly. He whimpered something useless. The knife pressed closer, the point grazing his pulse. His eyes darted, terrified. You smiled faintly. Professional. Detached. “You’ve got one more chance.” The man spoke. You didn’t even need to hear the words, you could tell from the tremor in his voice that he was lying. By the time you left the room, the floor was a Rorschach painting of red.

Flash: Different lighting. Different silence.

A lab, sterile, humming, too bright. The air reeked of ozone and burnt circuitry. Jay stood in front of a dismantled computer tower, hands gloved, wiping blood from the barrel of a silencer with an efficiency that was almost tender. The man slumped over the desk beside him had stopped breathing five minutes ago. Jay didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to.

He wiped his hands, slipped his phone out of his pocket, and typed a brief message. Target acquired. Cleanup in process. Then, like nothing had happened, he removed his gloves, adjusted his cuffs, and walked out.

Now. The therapist’s office. The scent of lavender diffusing through stale air. Your pulse in your throat. The counselor cleared her throat again, too loud this time. “Okay, let’s try something different. I’d like each of you to share one thing you admire about the other.” Jay leaned back, that half-smile ghosting across his lips again. “She’s good at lying.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “He’s good at pretending it bothers him.” The counselor’s pen stilled. The silence returned, heavier than before. And beneath it all, the quiet hum of mutual recognition, the tension between love and annihilation, the unspoken truth that neither of you would ever walk away first.

Because in your world, leaving was just another way of dying. The counselor blinks at the two of you like she’s trying to decode a foreign language. Her pen stills halfway through an unhelpful note, the faint scratching noise fading into the hum of the too-cold air conditioner. You and Jay sit in the same metallic chairs, same careful distance apart, enough space for a ghost to sit between you, maybe two.

She clears her throat again, voice pitched in the way people do when they’re trying too hard to be gentle. “You two seem… distant.” You don’t even look at him when you answer. “We work on communication.” Jay leans back, arms crossing, it’s almost lazy, but you know that posture is defensive, practiced. His jaw flexes just enough to betray irritation. “Not effectively,” he says.

The counselor blinks again. “Right. And what does that mean to you?” You shrug, the corner of your mouth lifting into something almost resembling a smile. “It means we’re talking, aren’t we?” Jay scoffs softly, it’s not cruel, but it’s edged. “If you call this talking.” “Better than silence,” you shoot back. She looks between you, a human metronome of confusion, before scribbling something again, probably deflection or passive hostility. You’d bet a bullet on it.

The silence that follows is weighted, brittle. You stare at the wall clock ticking away the seconds of your so-called therapy, while Jay stares at you. You can feel it, that sharp, assessing gaze that’s less husband and more… analyst. The air between you feels like it’s been split by a blade neither of you has drawn.

He shifts slightly. “So. How long do we have to do this?” The counselor blinks. “It’s a fifty-minute session.” “Feels longer,” you murmur. Jay smirks, and it’s infuriating, that same smirk that used to melt you, now just fans the irritation in your chest.

The counselor forces a smile, her voice catching somewhere between concern and exhaustion. “Maybe we can start small. What’s something you both… appreciate about each other?” A pause. You open your mouth, then close it. Jay’s hand twitches like he’s about to speak but doesn’t. You can see her hope crumble a little more with every second that passes.

Finally, you say, “He’s punctual.” Jay turns to look at you, a glint of amusement cutting through the cold. “She’s efficient.” You both smile, but it’s nothing close to warmth. It’s choreography, neat, sharp, and deadly in its precision. The counselor sighs. “Right. Okay. I think that’s… progress.”

You almost laugh. Jay does, quietly, under his breath. The counselor mistakes it for relief. When the session ends, you both stand at the same time. No words exchanged, just the scrape of metal chairs against tiled floor. The door clicks shut behind you, and the silence is louder than anything said in that room.

You drive home with the radio off. Streetlights flash through the windshield, slicing your reflection into fragments. In the corner of your eye, Jay’s hands stay perfectly steady on the steering wheel, controlled, precise. He always drives like that, like he’s calculating escape routes rather than directions. Neither of you speaks. You haven’t, not since the door closed behind the counselor’s polite wave. The hum of the tires on asphalt fills the space between you. You glance out the window, rain threatens in the distance, smudging the city skyline into streaks of gray and gold.

At a red light, your phone buzzes against your thigh. You glance down, thumb flicking open the hidden compartment under the console. The burner glows faintly, one message. Target confirmed. 0300 hours.

You lock it before Jay can see. Not that he’s looking. He’s too busy checking the reflection in the rearview mirror, not for traffic, but for tails. He exhales, almost a sigh, and you can tell he’s somewhere far from the present. Maybe a lab, maybe a mission. You wouldn’t know. Eight years, and you’ve never told him what you do when you “work late.” You’ve never mentioned the sound a man makes when a blade touches his throat, or how steady your hands stay during interrogation.

Little do you know, he’s never told you what he does in those “overnight meetings,” or why there’s always a faint scent of gun oil on his collar. You turn your head toward the window, eyes following the blur of passing lights. Jay’s profile is calm, unreadable, and for a moment, the silence feels like confession. Eight years of marriage. Zero truths. And yet somehow, both of you think you’re winning.

The traffic light flicks green. He doesn’t move right away. Just watches the intersection ahead like he’s waiting for someone to step out of the shadows. When he finally drives, it’s slower, deliberate. “Are you cold?” he asks suddenly, voice quiet enough that it almost startles you. You glance over. His tone is neutral, too neutral. “I’m fine.”

He hums in acknowledgment, eyes still fixed on the road. “You were shaking.” “I wasn’t.” (You were.) His hand tightens on the steering wheel. “You don’t have to lie.”

You smile faintly, the reflection of streetlights catching in your eyes. “That’s rich, coming from you.” He looks at you now, just for a second, long enough for tension to spark across the console like static. The air feels thinner somehow. You can almost hear the beat of his pulse under the hum of the engine.

“Why do you always assume the worst?” he asks softly. “Because I’ve met you,” you say, matching his tone. “And I’ve seen the worst.”

A pause. The car’s interior feels suddenly too small. The smell of leather, the low vibration of the engine, it’s all too intimate for two people so armed. He laughs once, quietly. “Fair.” You don’t say anything. Neither does he. The silence stretches again, elastic and dangerous. You reach the apartment building at the edge of the city. He parks neatly, kills the engine, and unbuckles his seatbelt, but doesn’t get out. Just sits there, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel. You wait. He finally says, “You told her I left the door open.”

You tilt your head. “You did.” “I didn’t.” “Then someone else did.” His eyes narrow, just a fraction. “Who would that be?” You smile, small and sharp. “You tell me. You’re the paranoid one.” “Cautious,” he corrects. “Same thing.”

You both sit in the dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp flickering outside. You can feel his gaze again, heavy, deliberate. Not cruel, but dissecting. “Do you ever wonder,” he says after a moment, “what she’d write down if she knew who we really were?”

A beat, what was that supposed to mean?  You let the question hang, then murmur, “She wouldn’t have time to write.” He looked at you more carefully, studying the way your cold eyes were fixed ahead, the bridge of your nose, the curve of your lips— he chuckles, low, dangerous, and it makes your skin prickle. “That’s what I thought.”

You open the door first, stepping into the cool night air. He follows a moment later, his footsteps matching yours out of habit, synchronized, as always. The elevator ride up is silent, the kind of silence that hums. You both stare straight ahead, watching the floor numbers blink past. At the 14th floor, the doors slide open, and he gestures for you to go first. Always the gentleman. Always the predator. Inside the apartment, everything is too neat. Too sterile. The faint scent of jasmine from the diffuser tries, and fails, to soften the tension. You take off your coat. He doesn’t.

You turn to him. “You hungry?” He shakes his head. “Already ate.” You hum. “Where?” He meets your eyes. “Work.” You nod once. “Long day?” “Always.” You stand there, an arm’s length apart. Married. Civil. Strangers. And under it all, that same question neither of you has ever asked aloud: Who will pull the trigger first?

The morning begins the way it always does, too quiet, too clean, too precise.

The sun filters weakly through the curtains, painting the kitchen in thin bars of gold. It’s the kind of light that should make everything look warm, but somehow, here, it only sharpens the edges.

Jay is already at the table, the newspaper folded into perfect thirds. He doesn’t eat. He never does in the mornings, just sits there, sleeves rolled up, reading headlines that don’t really interest him, coffee cooling untouched by his elbow. The faint sound of the clock fills the silence between you, measured and mechanical. You move around him soundlessly. The choreography is familiar: kettle, mug, filter, grind. Your movements are exact, like a dance you’ve performed too many times to ever forget the steps. You don’t look at him when you pass by. You don’t need to. You can feel him. The shift of air when he turns a page, the subtle creak of the chair when he crosses one leg over the other. Every sound in this apartment is catalogued, memorized, understood.

The smell of roasted beans fills the air, a comfort to anyone else, but not to you. To you, it’s strategy. Distraction. Something to do with your hands. Jay’s voice breaks the quiet, smooth but cool. “You’re up late.” You don’t glance at him. “You’re up early.” He hums, a neutral, noncommittal sound, and returns to the paper. The kettle clicks off, a neat punctuation mark.

You pour the water slowly, deliberately, watching the dark bloom of coffee spread through the filter. The faint hiss of the pour-over fills the silence again. You used to talk, once. There used to be laughter here. The sound of him humming along to some old record while you burned toast and pretended not to care. Now it’s just this, ritual without warmth.

When you finally speak again, it’s because you have to. “You used all the sugar.” Jay doesn’t look up. “I measured it.” “You measured it wrong.” A flicker of a smirk ghosts across his face, there and gone. “I don’t measure wrong.” You place your mug down with a quiet, deliberate clink. “You do when you’re distracted.” That earns you a glance, brief and razor-sharp. “I don’t get distracted.” “Of course not.”

You take a sip, too hot, and let the burn sit on your tongue longer than necessary. You wonder if he’s watching. He is. Always. Jay folds the newspaper with surgical precision, every line crisp, every edge aligned. “You have plans today?” “Work,” you say simply.

He nods, pretending to read again. “Late?” “Probably.” He hums again, and the silence stretches out between you like a tripwire. You used to ask him the same thing. You used to care. Now you both just trade questions like moves on a chessboard, predictable, sterile, practiced.

Your cover story is pristine. You’re the Director of The Firm, a high-end “corporate solutions” company that handles sensitive acquisitions and “problem resolution.” In reality, it’s a global assassination network disguised as a consultancy firm for CEOs with blood on their ledgers. You sit behind smoked glass, dressed in sharp suits, managing death as if it’s logistics. Your business cards say: Precision. Discretion. Permanence.

Jay, for his part, is an IT recruiter for a cybersecurity firm, or so the neighborhood believes. In truth, he runs his own cover operation, a shell company that builds defensive systems for covert agencies and offensive ones for whoever pays more. His world is lines of code and encrypted servers, networks so deep you can drown in them.

Between the two of you, you’ve destabilized governments, erased identities, and orchestrated coups. But here, in this quiet suburb, your greatest operation is keeping the façade of marriage intact. A faint breeze stirs the curtains. Outside, the city is waking up, car horns, dogs, a neighbor’s radio bleeding faintly through the walls. Normal sounds. Civilian sounds. They don’t fit here.

You glance at him over the rim of your mug. His tie is straight. His shirt immaculate. He looks like the picture of control. But you know that stillness, have seen it before, in interrogation rooms, on rooftops, in the moments before someone decides to pull a trigger.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you say, mostly to fill the air. He lowers the newspaper. “And you’re listening too hard.” You smile faintly. “Occupational hazard.” That earns you another silence, but it’s different this time, denser. His eyes linger a second too long, and you can almost feel the air change, heavier, charged. For a heartbeat, the kitchen feels smaller. Then he blinks, the spell breaks, and he stands.

His chair scrapes back quietly, too controlled to be careless. He sets the paper down in its exact place and walks past you, close enough for his sleeve to brush your arm. The touch is brief but electric, leaving a shiver that you hide behind another sip of coffee. “Don’t wait up,” he says, reaching for his jacket. “I wasn’t planning to.” He pauses at the door. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the weight of his gaze. There’s something like amusement in it, cold, knowing. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.” His hand lingers on the doorknob. For a second, you think he might say something else. But he just exhales softly, the kind of breath that carries too many unsaid things, and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him. The sound echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.

The silence after he’s gone feels heavier than his presence ever does. You set the mug down, stare at the faint ring it leaves on the counter. A perfect circle. Unbroken. You rinse the cup, wipe the counter, straighten the chair he moved, because that’s what you do. Maintain order. Keep things clean. Keep the edges sharp and the routine tighter than the lies holding it all together. Your reflection stares back at you from the dark window. Same face. Same calm. Same invisible hairline crack beneath the surface.

You check your watch. 08:03. Plenty of time. You reach under the sink, hand brushing past cleaning supplies until your fingers find the cool metal of the lockbox. A code. A click. The lid opens with a soft hiss. Inside: a gun, two flash drives, a sealed envelope marked in red. You touch none of it. Just look. Inventory. Confirm. Close.

By the time you’re done, the kitchen looks normal again. Domestic. Safe. You take your coat, grab your keys, and step into the hallway. The air smells faintly of detergent and someone else’s perfume. For a moment, you imagine what it might be like to live an ordinary life, to argue about bills, about laundry, about love. Then you lock the door behind you, and the thought dissolves.

Jay takes the elevator down alone. He doesn’t press the ground floor, he presses the basement. The ride hums softly, the mechanical buzz like white noise over the sound of his own heartbeat. When the doors open, the fluorescent light flickers once, twice. He walks through rows of cars, past the one he drives to work, to another parked deeper in the shadows. The trunk opens with a coded click.

Inside: a weapon case, neatly organized. Two suppressors. A map. A folder labeled Asset 42. He doesn’t look at the map long, just enough to memorize. Then he closes it again, adjusts his tie, and checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. Calm. Composed. Civilian. He glances at his watch. 08:11. He’s got two hours before the briefing. Four before the first target moves.

He drives. Back upstairs, the sun has shifted. The kitchen is filled with light now, bright, almost cheerful. The scent of coffee still lingers. The newspaper headline stares up from the table where he left it. Diplomat’s Car Bomb Kills Three – Suspects Unknown.

Your mug sits beside it, lipstick mark smudged at the rim.

Two halves of the same scene. A life that looks ordinary from the outside. And a marriage built on the art of pretending.

— — —

“Morning, Jay! Morning, sweetheart!” You look up from clipping the hedge to see Linda from next door, a hurricane of floral perfume and gossip, waving like you’re her favorite soap opera couple. Her husband mows the lawn behind her, humming to himself, the picture of cheerful obedience.

“Morning, Linda,” Jay says smoothly, lowering his sunglasses. His smile is crisp, calculated, perfect. You can almost hear the click of it being deployed. “Oh, you two are just adorable!” she gushes, leaning over the fence like she’s confiding in an old friend. “Always so composed! I tell Gary all the time, you could teach us a thing or two about marriage.”

You meet Jay’s gaze over the hedge, and the irony almost makes you laugh. Almost. “Well,” you say, voice sweet enough to rot. “Discipline helps.” Linda laughs, oblivious. “Oh, absolutely! By the way, don’t forget the HOA meeting this evening. We’re discussing mailbox uniformity, again!”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the hedge clippers. “Wouldn’t miss it.” When she finally retreats into her pastel house, you exhale, setting the clippers down with surgical precision. Jay’s smirk is small, sharp. “Mailbox uniformity,” he murmurs. “How will we ever survive the chaos?”

“Maybe I’ll volunteer to lead the discussion,” you reply. “You know how I am with problem-solving.” He glances at you, a flicker of amusement, and something darker, passing through his eyes. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

You smile, stepping past him to collect the mail. The sunlight glints off your wedding ring, sterile, reflective, a weapon in its own right. Inside, the house hummed with the practiced life of perfect suburbia: the faint scent of vanilla candles, the distant whir of the washing machine, the immaculate surfaces that hid everything they were meant to hide. On the refrigerator door a grocery list in your handwriting read like an accusation: Milk. Eggs. Lemons. Lies.

Jay’s voice called from the living room, easy, casual. “You’ll be home for dinner?” You paused, sorting the mail, bills, glossy coupons, a charity leaflet, and one unmarked envelope that didn’t belong with the polite clutter of everyday life. It lay there like a promise wrapped in neutral paper. “Depends,” you said, slipping the envelope between your fingers. “Work might run late.”

He made that soft, ambiguous hum again, the sound that meant nothing and everything. “Of course.” Neither of you specified what “work” meant. In this house the word was elastic, an execution in a foreign warehouse, a midnight breach into a fortified server room, a phone call that made people stop breathing. Saying any of it aloud would be dangerous in more ways than one, so you let the sentence remain small and tidy like a lie folded into a napkin. The air in the hallway felt thick with polite deceit, as if the wallpaper itself had learned to keep secrets. You slid the unmarked envelope into your blazer pocket, no ceremony, no examining the edges, and walked up the stairs. Jay watched you go, eyes unreadable above the rim of his coffee mug, the quiet of his stare cataloguing you in ways words never could.

Outside, the street looked exactly as it should: children shrieking in a cluster of summer laughter, sprinklers hissing in tidy arcs, hedges clipped to friendly angles. The neighborhood was a tableau of smiling façades and hollow certainties. You and Jay were its crown jewel, polished, enviable, quietly rotting behind the same clean windows everyone admired.

The meeting takes place in Linda’s living room, beige, symmetrical, aggressively normal. Everything smells faintly of lemon cleaner and desperation. You and Jay arrive exactly on time. Not early enough to seem overeager, not late enough to be rude. The performance begins at the door, his hand on the small of your back, your polite laugh at something you didn’t hear.

The neighborhood royalty is all here: Linda and Gary from next door, Karen and Tom from across the street, a handful of retirees who seem to feed on complaint. A tray of deviled eggs sits untouched in the center of the coffee table, next to a bowl of hummus that’s trying very hard to look artisanal. “Jay! Y/N!” Linda beams, ushering you in. “So glad you could make it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling like it doesn’t hurt. Jay takes the seat beside you on the couch, close enough that your knees brush, a reminder, maybe, of the part you’re both playing. His cologne lingers, sharp and clean. You can feel the eyes of every neighbor on you two: the perfect pair, the aspirational marriage. Linda claps her hands. “Alright, everyone! Let’s get started. First item on the agenda: mailbox uniformity!”

Jay’s fingers twitch against his knee. You almost smirk. Karen, who runs the neighborhood Facebook group like a dictatorship, raises a manicured hand. “I personally think everyone should have the same model, black, metal, with a lock. It looks more professional.” Tom, her husband, nods obediently. “We don’t want inconsistency. It lowers property value.”

Gary chuckles. “Tell that to the Johnsons and their flamingo mailbox.” The group murmurs, scandalized. You exchange a glance with Jay, your lips parting in a whisper only he can hear. “Riveting, isn’t it?” He doesn’t look at you, but you can see the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Almost as exciting as your last board meeting, I bet.”

You tilt your head slightly, voice soft and dangerous. “The last board meeting ended with someone bleeding out in the restroom. This one’s just… louder.” He covers a smile with his knuckles, and the sight of it, the faint curve of his mouth, the warmth that flickers and dies too fast, makes your stomach twist, traitorous.

Linda’s voice cuts through. “Y/N, you’ve got such a good eye for aesthetics, what do you think?” The room turns to you. Every gaze expectant. You rest your chin on your hand, feigning thoughtfulness. “Uniformity can be… stifling. But structure’s good for discipline.” Jay glances sideways, the ghost of a smirk betraying him. “She’s always been a fan of discipline.”

A few polite chuckles ripple through the group. You turn to him, smiling sweetly, the kind of smile that hides a knife. “And he’s always been a fan of control.” Something electric shifts in the air. Just for a second. Linda, blissfully unaware, scribbles something on her notepad. “Wonderful points! Alright, moving on! The community watch program…”

You tune out the next fifteen minutes, conversations about porch lights, unfamiliar cars, and a mysterious “teenager in a hoodie” sighting. The irony isn’t lost on you. If they knew what kind of surveillance systems you both ran from your basement, the HOA would probably dissolve itself out of existential dread. Jay leans closer, whispering under the hum of small talk. “You could run this whole thing if you wanted.” You hum, still staring at Linda’s notes. “Maybe I already do.” He laughs under his breath, low, quiet, genuine. It almost sounds like affection.

When the meeting finally ends, there’s a flurry of thank-yous and casserole invitations. You and Jay play your roles to perfection: smiling, nodding, engaging in small talk about the weather and recycling schedules. Linda hugs you both at the door, her perfume clinging like static. “You’re such a lovely couple,” she coos. “You remind me that marriage can be so stable when both people work at it.”

Jay’s smile is polite, sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, we work at it.” The door closes behind you. The night air tastes clean, finally. You walk down the driveway in silence, the sound of your heels echoing on the pavement. Jay unlocks the car, but you don’t get in right away. You look up at the rows of glowing windows, every family inside pretending just as hard as you are.

“Stable,” you repeat, under your breath. Jay glances at you, that faint, assessing squint returning. “What?” You turn toward him, voice smooth. “She called us stable.” He chuckles softly. “We are. Statistically.” You cross your arms. “Statistically, most marriages fail.”

He meets your gaze then, something unspoken tightening between you. “So let’s make sure ours doesn’t.” The words sound like a promise. Or a threat.

Later, back home, the lights are dim. You hang your coat, he loosens his tie. The performance lingers even now, two actors unwilling to break character. On the kitchen counter, your phone buzzes once. A single message flashes across the screen. CLIENT CONFIRMED. NEW TARGET: Evan. Your breath stills. The initials hit like a pulse of static.

You glance toward the living room, Jay, unbuttoning his cuffs, unaware. Or maybe not. He looks up, meets your eyes. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a weight to it now, like he’s reading more than your face. “Everything alright?” he asks. You smile, sliding the phone face down. “Perfect.” He studies you a second longer, then nods. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence. You pour yourself a glass of water, watching your reflection ripple in it. Jay passes behind you, brushing close enough that his sleeve grazes your arm. It’s nothing. And it’s everything. Domestic bliss. Just another mission, perfectly executed.

The day unravels in silence. By noon, the house has settled into its perfect performance, sterile, still, and utterly convincing. The kind of silence that feels deliberate. You work at the desk in the upstairs office, light slanting in through blinds like prison bars. Files are open on your screen, innocent spreadsheets, dummy emails, HR reports. All camouflage. Beneath the desktop, another monitor hums quietly, encrypted. A hidden window blinks to life every forty seconds, asking for authorization. You don’t answer it yet.

Jay’s absence fills the house like a ghost. You can feel him even when he’s gone, his watch ticking on the dresser, his jacket hanging too neatly, the faint trace of his cologne in the air. Everything he leaves behind is a placeholder for the things he doesn’t say.

You tell yourself the marriage is fine. That silence is safer than honesty. But lately, something in the quiet feels off. Like a wire pulled too tight. You open the window, let in the city hum. And under the sound of traffic, you think, Something’s missing. Not affection. Not even trust. Something else, something you can’t name. A piece of the game you can’t see. Down in the basement of a downtown office tower, Jay sits at his desk, surrounded by monitors that cast his face in pale light. His reflection flickers in the glass, a man who could be anyone. Who is anyone.

He scrolls through lines of code that no civilian should ever have access to, eyes scanning, calculating. The pattern of movement is almost graceful, like a pianist playing a dangerous song only he understands. He should be focused. He should be calm. But a thought keeps needling at him, looping back no matter how many firewalls he builds around it.

Something’s missing. He doesn’t know if it’s her, or him, or whatever used to fill the air between them before it all went quiet. Maybe it’s the sound of truth, and he’s forgotten what that even feels like. The phone rings. Not his personal one. The other one, the matte-black satellite phone buried beneath a stack of meaningless reports.

He stares at it for half a second before answering. “Smith.” A pause. Then a voice, smooth and precise. “You’re being reassigned.” Jay leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Reassigned?”

“Temporary directive. DIA asset transfer. Codename: Evan. Prisoner extraction. You’ll receive coordinates within the hour.” He’s silent for a beat too long. The voice doesn’t wait for a reply. “High value, high discretion. You know the drill.”

The line clicks dead. Jay exhales slowly, jaw tightening. The name Evan sticks in his head like a shard of glass. He’s heard it before, once, months ago, buried in chatter that never made sense. A rumor about a prisoner too valuable to kill and too dangerous to keep.

He pulls up the encrypted database. The same blinking authorization window appears, the one he’s been ignoring. This time, he types in his code. The screen floods with classified data. Coordinates. Transfer schedules. Escort routes. He scrolls once, twice, and freezes.

Because in the logistics roster, beside the operation ID, there’s a familiar name listed under “Field Operative – Alternate Contractor.”

Yours.

–––

You’re in the kitchen when your phone vibrates against the counter. Not your phone, the other one. The one that doesn’t have a ringtone, only a low, steady pulse. You dry your hands, glance once toward the living room. The clock ticks steadily, the kind of rhythm that hides secrets. Then you swipe to answer. “Report,” a voice says, low, modulated, genderless. Your handler. You stand still, eyes on the window. “Listening.”

“Priority job. DIA prisoner transfer. Codename: Evan. Extraction on transport route Alpha-Nine. Two-day window. You’ll receive the drop point at 0600.” You nod once, even though no one can see you. “Parameters?” “Alive,” the voice says. “For now. Full debrief later.” The call ends with a soft tone, no goodbye, no confirmation. You stand there a moment, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence.

Evan. You’ve heard the name too. Whispered across encrypted lines, pinned on bulletin boards that only exist in the dark. You set the phone down, but your hand lingers on it longer than it should. Upstairs, the faint creak of the bedroom floor makes you look up. Empty. But the air feels wrong, as if the house is holding its breath. You close your eyes and inhale slowly, the way you do before every mission. Focus. Compartmentalize. The lies keep you alive. Still, beneath the precision of your thoughts, the same phantom pulse thrums like an aftershock. Something’s missing.

–––

By evening, Jay and you will sit across from each other again, pretending at normalcy. The distance between you will hum like a live wire, and neither of you will say a word about the missions, the phones, the target. But somewhere between your silence and his restraint, both of you will know, whatever’s missing is about to find you first. And its name is Evan.

— — —

By the time Jay gets home, the light has turned the color of smoke. The street outside hums with the soft sounds of suburbia, sprinklers, car doors, someone’s dog barking like a metronome. Inside, the house smells faintly of lemon soap and silence. You hear the lock turn before you hear his footsteps. It’s always the same rhythm: two steps, pause, another three. He doesn’t call out. Neither do you. The door shuts, the shoes come off, the keys land with a soft clink in the ceramic bowl by the stairs. Precision. Control. Predictability, the same way you both survive.

“Long day?” you ask, voice smooth, neutral. It’s not a question so much as a ritual line in a well-rehearsed play. “Same as usual,” Jay says. His tie’s gone, the collar of his shirt undone just enough to look human. He moves through the kitchen like a man walking through his own dream, touching nothing, seeing everything. “You?”

You hum. “Paperwork. Endless.” He glances at your laptop on the counter. The screen shows only an open spreadsheet, columns of meaningless data. He doesn’t look close enough to notice the faint flicker of the hidden window beneath it. You know, because he never does. He trusts your surface. And you’ve made an art of keeping it polished.

Jay opens the fridge. “We’re out of milk.” You shrug. “I’ll add it to the list.” He leans against the counter, watching you. You can feel the weight of it, not affection, not suspicion, but something quieter. The way a soldier studies the field before a fight. You break eye contact first, reaching for a glass. The water runs clear and cold. He watches the stream hit the rim, the condensation bead and slide down your fingers. “Dinner?” he asks.

“I ordered in,” you say. “Thai.” He nods. It’s the same answer every Thursday, Thai, then silence, then bed. The rhythm holds the illusion together. Predictable marriages don’t draw attention. Predictable marriages don’t raise flags.

You plate the food in silence. The radio hums low in the background, soft jazz, warm and domestic. Jay sits across from you at the dining table, sleeves rolled, wristwatch glinting faintly in the lamplight. The watch you bought him two years ago. He still wears it every day, though you doubt it’s sentiment. More likely habit. Or guilt. You push a grain of rice around your plate. “They called me in for another presentation next week,” you lie.

Jay looks up. “Another one?” “Mhm. New client. Potential merger.” “Anyone I’d know?” You smile. “Doubt it.” He nods, accepting it. You feel something almost cruel twist in your chest. Because you could say it, you could tell him what The Firm really does, how the mergers you lead end in body bags. But you don’t. You won’t. And the worst part is, a small, self-protective part of you wonders if he’d even be surprised.

Jay cuts into his food, slow, deliberate. “Linda mentioned the HOA might raise the community fees again.” “Of course she did,” you murmur, reaching for your glass. “It’s her love language.” That earns a quiet snort from him, an almost laugh. It’s the first sound that feels remotely alive all evening. You both linger in that pause longer than you should. Then the clock ticks again, loud and sharp, and whatever flicker of warmth was there dissolves like sugar in water.

Later, in the living room, you sit beside him on the couch. The TV glows faintly, some nature documentary, muted. On the screen, a lion stalks a herd of gazelles through long grass. The irony isn’t lost on you. Jay scrolls through his phone. You pretend to read a book. Both of you are elsewhere, running coordinates, decoding patterns, mapping exits in your heads. Every quiet second feels like reconnaissance.

At some point, he reaches out, resting a hand lightly on your thigh. Not possessive. Not tender. Just contact, the kind of touch that says, we’re still here. It almost undoes you. You look at him. His profile in the low light, sharp, immaculate, distant. You wonder if he’d still look at you like that if he knew how much blood your hands have seen. “Jay,” you say before you can stop yourself. The sound of his name feels strange, heavy on your tongue.

He turns, eyes softening a fraction. “Yeah?” You open your mouth. Close it. Smile. “Never mind.” He studies you for a moment, then nods, like he knows not to press. You both go back to your respective silences. On screen, the lion strikes. Midnight comes like a held breath. The house is dark. The air conditioner hums, the clock ticks, the world pretends to sleep.

Downstairs, in the quiet glow of the kitchen, your phone vibrates once, the secure one, the one hidden in the breadbox behind the false panel. You move like smoke, bare feet soundless on tile. You lift the lid, thumb brushing the cold glass. TRANSFER ROUTE CONFIRMED. ALPHA-NINE. 0600 HOURS.

Across town, Jay sits in his own office, the blue light of his monitors painting his face in fractured shadows. His satellite phone lies open on the desk beside a map. ASSET EVAN. LOCATION LOCKED. EXTRACT, NOT ELIMINATE. HIGH PRIORITY.

Two different rooms. Two different missions. One collision course. Jay rubs a hand over his jaw, exhaustion setting in behind his eyes. He doesn’t notice the photo frame at the edge of his desk, the two of you on your wedding day, smiling under white light. You look happy. He looks human. Both illusions, perfectly preserved.

In bed, the space between you feels colder than the sheets. He sleeps on his side, one arm beneath the pillow. You lie awake, watching the shadows slide across the ceiling. Every breath you take feels counted. You know how this will go. Two days from now, somewhere along Route Alpha-Nine, your paths will cross. He won’t know it’s you behind the trigger. You won’t know he’s the extraction agent keeping your target alive.The lie has always been your safety net. Now it’s the knife pressed between your ribs.  And as you finally close your eyes, you think: if love is just another form of loyalty, what happens when you’re assigned to betray it?

— — —

Eight years ago.

Florence glows like a dream set on fire. The Palazzo Vecchio blazes with chandeliers, laughter, and the low hum of moneyed indulgence. Gilded masks glint beneath candlelight; the air hums with strings, perfume, and the faintest edge of danger. Gold dust clings to the night like a secret that refuses to fade. You move through it all like smoke, silver gown, dark mask, smile sharpened to perfection. You’ve been here before, though never under this name. Never with this mark. Tonight’s target: a black-market art broker selling information under the guise of a charity auction. Tonight’s mission: simple. Blend, charm, retrieve. And never, ever get caught.

A waiter offers you wine. You take it, the stem cool between your fingers, the glass catching slivers of light as though even it can’t stay still. The ballroom is a maze of mirrors and murmurs. A watch chain flashes. A coded gesture passes between two men by the fountain. Somewhere near the orchestra pit, you hear the unmistakable click of a gun’s safety being released and reset. Every sound, every glint, every careless whisper, you catalogue them all.

And then you see him. At first, it’s nothing, a shimmer in your peripheral. A man leaning against a marble column, mask of black and gold, tuxedo cut sharp enough to wound. He looks impossibly calm, as though the chaos around him is a play he’s already read the ending to. But his gaze moves with purpose, slow and assessing, never idle. You recognize that look. Not from memory, but instinct. Predator. Still, when his eyes find yours, when that slight, knowing smile curves his mouth, you don’t look away. You never do.

He notices you before the orchestra reaches its second crescendo. Red wine, silver silk, the faintest edge of steel beneath your grace. You linger too long on the exits, your attention flicking over the crowd like a scanner. Not a debutante. Not a diplomat’s bored wife. He doesn’t know your name, but he knows the type, careful, calculated, deliberate. The kind who never comes anywhere unarmed, even if the only weapon is a smile. He should leave you alone. He knows better. But curiosity, that old, dangerous thing, has always been his favorite sin.

The auction begins. A Van Gogh replica is unveiled to reverent sighs and polite applause. You raise your glass, play your part, your earpiece crackling softly, a voice confirming your target’s position near the north balcony. Focus, you remind yourself. But his gaze is still on you. You can feel it, that invisible thread pulling tight between your spine and his. The air shifts, charged. A song changes, and something in you does too. You take a step left. So does he. You reach for another glass of champagne, and he’s already there, hand brushing yours as he offers one.

“Looks like we’ve got the same taste,” he says, voice smooth enough to make the room feel smaller. You turn, meeting his eyes through the mask’s dark edge. “In wine or in trouble?” He grins, slow, devastating, the kind of grin that feels like a confession. “Depends which one you’re offering.”

Your heart shouldn’t skip. But it does.  Florence has that effect; it makes even ruin look romantic. You study him for a beat too long. His mask hides half his face, but not the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. Not the flicker of curiosity there, like he’s wondering what kind of storm you’d be if he let you close enough. He tilts his glass toward yours. A quiet toast. No words. Just the soft clink of crystal beneath candlelight, and something unspoken in the air, something dangerous, but almost tender. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says finally. “That’s because we weren’t supposed to.”

He laughs, and you almost forget where you are. The music swells, violins sweeping through the silence between you. His presence feels magnetic, an anchor in a sea of masks and lies. For a fleeting second, you imagine meeting him in another life. One without missions, or aliases, or marks on your wrist. One where Florence isn’t a cover, but a promise.

But then the earpiece hums again, a reminder, sharp and cold. The spell breaks. You smile, polite, distant, perfect. “Enjoy the auction, Mr...?” “Jay,” he offers, after the smallest hesitation. “Jay,” you echo, letting the name linger on your tongue like the last sip of wine. “Try not to get into too much trouble.”

He leans closer, voice low enough to melt into the music. “I was about to tell you the same thing.” And just like that, two strangers in a city made of light and lies, caught in the flicker of something that shouldn’t exist at all, you walk away first. But you can feel his eyes following you, long after the song ends.

— — —

The orchestra shifted into a darker, slower rhythm, a waltz meant for people who liked to play with fire. The kind of melody that made secrets lean closer.

He crossed the marble floor toward you, each step unhurried, deliberate, the kind of confidence that didn’t need to be announced. You could feel him before he reached you, that quiet gravity that some men carried like a weapon. “Would you dance with me?” His voice was low, smooth, perfectly even, too even to be real.

You tilted your head, feigning a kind of lazy curiosity. “That depends. Are you a good dancer?” He smiled, slow, restrained, the kind that didn’t bother showing teeth because it didn’t need to. “I don’t make a habit of disappointing.”

And perhaps that should’ve been your warning. You took his hand. The moment his palm met yours, the air changed. The sound dulled, the light thickened, as though Florence itself had paused to watch. His touch was warm, steady. Too steady. You recognized that composure, the kind of calm people build when they’ve seen blood before and learned how to wash it off.

He led you onto the floor, and the crowd swallowed you both. Masks turned, diamonds gleamed, and violins sighed like confession. You moved together like you’d done it before, step, turn, glide. His hand on your back, your palm against his shoulder, every motion measured and exact. But beneath the elegance was tension, the friction of two people reading each other like code, testing limits without ever breaking character.

His fingers brushed the small of your back, light as breath. The briefest contact, yet it burned. You wondered if he could feel the knife strapped to your thigh, if he knew what kind of woman he was holding. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he said, tone casual, but his eyes far too observant. “That’s the point of a masquerade,” you replied, voice soft but edged. “Some people come to be seen.”

“And some people come to disappear.” His laugh was quiet, a single note that didn’t reach his eyes. “Which are you?” “Tonight?” you said, spinning under his arm, letting your dress flare like liquid silver before you fell neatly back against him. “Still deciding.” He twirled you again, slower this time, his gaze never breaking from yours. When he caught you, his mouth was dangerously close to your ear.

“Be careful,” he murmured. “Florence has a habit of burning people who don’t pay attention.” You exhaled, pulse thrumming against his palm. “Good thing I like fire.” He studied you like he was committing the line to memory. “You shouldn’t.” The music swelled, lush, decadent, almost too slow for propriety. But you didn’t care. Neither did he. The space between you was too charged, too deliberate. It wasn’t romance, not really. It was recognition. The kind of understanding that only predators share when they see themselves reflected in someone else’s eyes.

“You’re not here for the art auction,” you said softly. He smirked, every inch of arrogance perfectly measured. “And you are?” “Maybe I like pretty things.” His hand flexed against your waist, a silent pressure that said he didn’t believe you. “Then you’re in the wrong room.” You laughedm quiet, bright, disarming. A sound meant to draw attention just long enough to deflect it. “And what do you think I’m here for, then?”

He leaned in, the scent of him sharp and clean, cedar, smoke, and something darker beneath. “The same thing I am.” For a heartbeat, the world narrowed, to the press of his hand, the rhythm of the waltz, and the pull of something reckless inside your chest. You didn’t know who he was, but you knew what he was. You could feel it, that coiled stillness, the awareness of exits, the constant calculation behind his eyes.

“Interesting guess,” you murmured, smile ghosting your lips as your mask brushed his. “But you shouldn’t assume.” “Neither should you.” The song ended in a slow, aching note. Applause broke out, brittle, hollow, meaningless. Couples separated. Champagne glasses chimed. The room exhaled. But not you. Not him. You both stood still, still caught in the invisible pull between you, pretending you hadn’t just recognized something fatal in each other.

He was the first to move, offering his hand again, not as an invitation, but as a dare. “Balcony?” You should’ve declined. You didn’t. You took it. Outside, Florence was quieter, the air cooled by the river, the night spilling over the city in strokes of gold and ink. The Duomo glowed against the horizon, its dome like a candle cupped in the hands of heaven. From below, you could hear laughter drifting up from the streets, muffled by distance, softened by time.

For a moment, it almost looked peaceful. Almost. He leaned against the railing, loosening his tie, half removing his mask. Candlelight from the ballroom pooled over his jaw, catching the sharpness of his cheekbone, the curve of his mouth. “You don’t seem like the type who gets nervous,” he said, voice low and easy. You set your glass down on the stone ledge. “That’s because I don’t.”

“Everyone gets nervous,” he said lightly. “It’s just a matter of what they’re hiding.” You stepped closer, skirts whispering against the marble. “And what are you hiding?” He looked at you then, really looked. And something in his expression changed. The arrogance softened, replaced by something quieter, more dangerous. “If I told you,” he murmured, “you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.” For a second, he almost did. You saw the hesitation, the flicker of truth just behind his eyes, but then it was gone, replaced by that immaculate calm, the kind built from years of lies and necessity. “You’re dangerous,” he said finally, like it was a compliment. Like he already knew what you could do with a single look. You smiled. “You have no idea.”

The wind stirred, carrying the faint scent of jasmine, the distant hum of the orchestra, the echo of a world that didn’t belong to either of you. Somewhere below, a bell tolled, and for just that instant, Florence felt suspended, breathless, waiting. He moved first, closing the last few inches between you. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the silk, could hear the quiet control in his breathing.

“Do you always walk into danger this willingly?” he asked, voice barely a whisper. “Only when it’s worth the risk.” His lips curved, softer now. “And am I?” You met his gaze, heart hammering. “I haven’t decided yet.” The air between you felt alive, vibrating with the weight of things unsaid. The kind of pull that wasn’t attraction, not at first, something older, more instinctual. Recognition. Challenge. The dangerous thrill of someone who might understand you too well.

Inside, the orchestra began another song, brighter, faster, a reminder that the night wasn’t done. Laughter spilled out from the open doors, glittering and hollow. Neither of you moved.

And in that golden hush of the Florentine night, two assassins stood inches apart, each one a secret the other shouldn’t want to keep, each one about to become the other’s most beautiful mistake. “You shouldn’t stare,” you said, keeping your tone even. He smiled faintly. “Maybe I’m just waiting to see if you’ll run.” “Why would I?” “Because you look like someone who knows when she’s in danger.” You tilted your head, lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. “Maybe I like danger.” That did it, the air shifted, sharp with static. Neither of you moved, yet the space between you seemed to close on its own, drawn by something magnetic and merciless.

He took one step closer. The balcony was narrow; his shadow merged with yours against the stone wall. Candlelight flickered across his mask, gilding the edges of his jaw. You could feel his breath brush your cheek, warm against the cool night air. “You’re not afraid of much, are you?” he asked quietly. “Not usually.”

“What about now?” You laughed, soft and breathless, the sound catching on something deeper. “You’ll have to try harder.” His hand rose, unhurried, fingers grazing the edge of your mask. “May I?” You didn’t answer, not yes, not no, just held his gaze, letting him decide what kind of trouble he wanted to be.

He traced the ribbon at your temple, touch impossibly gentle. The kind of careful that wasn’t restraint but study, like he was learning the map of you with every pass of his fingers. Your breath faltered, betraying you. You caught his wrist before he could untie it, your nails pressing just enough to make his pulse stutter.

“Careful,” you whispered. “You might ruin the mystery.” He leaned closer, the corner of his mouth curving. “Maybe I want to.” And then it happened, no warning, no pause. The distance between you snapped like tensioned wire.

The first kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t the kind that asked for permission; it was collision, heat, breath, surprise. The kind that started like a mistake and felt like gravity. His mouth was warm and sure, the kind of kiss that burned too fast to stop. Your hand fisted in his shirt; his fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head until you had no choice but to fall into it. You tried to pull back. You did. Once, twice. But every time you broke the kiss, breath ragged, his thumb brushed your jaw and you found yourself leaning in again, chasing the taste you shouldn’t want.

“Stop,” you managed between breaths, though your hands were still on him, holding, pulling. “I am,” he murmured against your mouth, though he clearly wasn’t. You laughed, breathless, wrecked, and he kissed the sound right off your lips.

The railing pressed cold against your back. The city stretched below, golden and silent, the Duomo gleaming like a witness. His hand slid up your arm, over your shoulder, fingertips tracing your pulse. Every movement was deliberate, not hungry, but patient, measured, as if he was memorizing the cadence of your restraint.

“This is—” you started, meaning to say wrong. “—inevitable,” he finished, barely audible. His lips found yours again before you could argue. This one slower, deeper. He tasted like red wine and smoke, and something darker, control, maybe. The kind of man who kissed like he was used to having the upper hand and terrified when he didn’t.

Your mask tilted slightly under his touch. You almost let it fall, almost let him see, but instinct flared and you broke the kiss, chest rising, breath catching. His eyes searched yours, still close enough that you could feel the words before he said them. “You keep running from it.”

“I’m not running,” you whispered. “I’m surviving.” His smile was soft this time, almost sad. “Same thing.” He leaned in again, slower, careful, and your resolve cracked. The world blurred into motion and warmth, his mouth on yours, your heartbeat deafening in your ears. The kiss deepened until you forgot the reason you’d come out here at all.

And then, crackle. A sound cut through the night, sharp and surgical, right in your ear. “Target’s on the move. This is your chance.” The words sliced through the haze like a blade. You froze. Lips still inches from his, still wet from his. eyes wide. His expression flickered, too fast to read, too smooth to trust. For a moment, you thought he’d heard something too.

But no. Impossible. You swallowed hard, forcing your pulse to steady, forcing air back into your lungs. You took a step back, fingers trembling as you reached for your glass. Anything to mask the sudden shift.

“I should—” your voice faltered, the taste of him still on your lips. “—get back inside.”

He didn’t stop you, but his gaze followed every move, tracking, assessing, remembering. The mask between you was back in place, but it didn’t feel like enough. “Leaving already?” His voice was low, almost lazy, but there was something beneath it now, something thin and dangerous, like the edge of a knife.

“Duty calls,” you said, and forced a smile that didn’t quite hold. He tilted his head, a mock toast in your direction. “Then I won’t keep you.” You hesitated for a heartbeat, not sure why, then turned, heels sharp against marble. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Inside, the ballroom swallowed you whole. Perfume. Laughter. Gold. The glittering noise of people oblivious to the storm around them. Your pulse hadn’t calmed. You touched your earpiece, voice a whisper of steel.

“Confirmed. Visual acquired. Moving in.”

Across the balcony doors, behind the veil of curtains, Jay exhaled slowly. Almost a laugh, low, disbelieving. He dragged a thumb over his lower lip, smudging the faint trace of your lipstick there. Then his own earpiece hissed to life. “Target’s on the move. This is your chance.”

For half a second, he stilled. Looked toward the door you’d just vanished through. The sound of your heels still echoed faintly, and his mouth curved into something almost fond. “Already on it,” he murmured. He straightened his mask, stepped back into the golden noise of the ballroom, and neither of you noticed just how close your paths were about to cross again. Not as strangers. Not as lovers. But as executioners chasing the same prey, each unknowingly aimed at the other.

Outside, Florence gleams. The city is a fever dream of light and stone, domes glinting under moonlight, rain slicking down the marble saints that watch from cathedral spires. Somewhere far below, the Arno catches the moon and breaks it to silver shards. You move fast. The streets twist like veins beneath your heels, narrow, ancient, full of echoes. A blur of a tuxedo flashes ahead, your target. You don’t hesitate. You sprint.

Your pulse syncs to the city: the slap of your boots against cobblestone, the rasp of breath in your throat, the click of metal in your grip. Right turn, an alley, tight and stinking of wine and smoke. Left, a market stall overturned, oranges rolling like spilled gold. Somewhere close, another rhythm matches yours. Footsteps. Controlled. Trained. Not the target. You don’t look. You can’t.

A shadow drops cleanly from a balcony, lands without a sound. Then: a muted thwip. A silenced round cuts the air; the guard beside you jerks once and collapses. You don’t pause to wonder who fired it. You vault the body and keep going, heartbeat climbing like it’s chasing the end of the world. You don’t think of his mouth. Or the way he’d kissed you like it was a challenge. But the memory cuts through anyway, heat and danger, your pulse tangled with his. Focus. The word hits like an order. You obey it.

The target darts into a narrow lane between shuttered cafés, knocking over crates and glass. You follow. Rain starts, first a shimmer, then a downpour. It slicks your hair to your neck, turns your dress heavy. Somewhere above, thunder mutters across the hills.

Ahead, movement. You raise your weapon.And freeze. Another figure stands at the mouth of the alley, dark suit, wet shoulders, gun already leveled. Both masked. Both steady. Both certain the other shouldn’t be here.

The silence holds, drawn tight as wire. Then, gunfire.

Stone explodes inches from your cheek. You dive behind a pillar, glass raining down, the scent of gunpowder thick and metallic. Return fire. Two rounds. Miss. You curse, roll, reload. The echo of his shots comes sharp and disciplined, military precision. Whoever he is, he’s good. Too good.

Rain hisses down, plastering silk to your skin. You break cover, sprint. Footsteps follow, fast, relentless. The chase twists through Florence’s back arteries: under laundry lines, across empty piazzas glowing gold with lamplight. A bell tolls, slow and ancient. You move faster. Jay cuts through a side street, his jaw set, his breathing even despite the sprint. The voice in his ear crackles: “Suspect’s turning east, toward the river.” Yours says the same. You both turn.

The city splits between you, parallel routes divided by one stone wall, one alley, one heartbeat. You pause under an archway, chest rising and falling. Steam curls from your lips into the rain. You press your back to the wall, eyes scanning corners. On the other side, Jay mirrors you exactly, pistol up, breath controlled, pulse heavy under the thunder.

Neither of you knows how close you are. One step. One corner. One second from recognition. The comm hisses again. “Copy that,” you whisper. At the same time, he whispers it too.

Then the line cuts, dead silence, and the rain swallows everything. For a moment, only the city breathes. Then you move. Both of you. Toward the river. Toward the target. Toward each other. Rain slicks the terracotta rooftops into mirrors. Florence is half-asleep, half-burning, lamplight leaking from shuttered windows, church bells shivering through the mist. You move across the skyline like a whisper, one heel digging into wet clay after another, breath measured, heartbeat locked to the rhythm of the storm.

“Target moving east,” your handler’s voice cuts through the static. “Do not lose visual.”

Copy. You vault a low wall; the slick edge bites into your palms. The world is a blur of rain and stone, wind and distance. Below, the Arno glitters in fractured silver, rippling with the pulse of thunder. You barely feel the cold anymore. You’ve become it, precise, silent, relentless.

But something else moves with you. It starts as a whisper, the faint percussion of steps that match yours too cleanly to be chance. You don’t look back. The rooftops demand all your focus, and the night feels too delicate to trust. One wrong glance, one hesitation, and you’ll vanish into the dark like smoke. Still, the presence clings to you, a pulse in the corner of your awareness. Too close to ignore. Too far to confirm.

Across the river, Jay runs in near-perfect sync. His silhouette cuts through rain, black coat streaming like ink, eyes locked on the faint shape ahead. The same ghost. The same target. The same hunt. “Target’s on the move. Confirm pursuit.” His handler’s voice crackles through the earpiece. He doesn’t reply. The rain drowns everything but breath and metal. He moves faster.

The city below has gone still, Florence folded into itself like a held breath. Only the rooftops are alive, slick with rain and shadows, streaked with the motion of two predators who don’t know they’re circling each other. You catch movement ahead, a glint of metal, a flutter of a coat, the suggestion of someone watching. You push harder, knees burning, lungs tightening. The edge of the roof ends abruptly. You leap, roll, come up hard against scaffolding. Rust flakes beneath your grip; a loose pipe clangs against concrete. A flicker of motion ahead, the target. Gone before you can fire.

“Visual reacquired,” you start to say, but the words falter. The space ahead is empty. Only rain. Only echoes. Jay turns down a side street two blocks away. His shoes slap water, his hand steady on the grip of his gun. For a second, he sees it too, that same half-formed shadow slipping behind glass, swallowed by fog. He stops, scanning rooftops, breathing through his teeth. Just mist. Just the sound of his own heart.

“Visual lost,” you say, your tone clipped, professional, even as your jaw tightens.

At that same instant, Jay murmurs the same words into the same open frequency. Neither of you knows you’ve spoken in unison. Neither knows that the signal is bleeding across both lines, syncing you like reflections. A long pause. Rain patters through static. Then the command: “Return to safe point.”

You lower your weapon. Exhale. The tension leaves you in controlled increments, muscle by muscle, breath by breath, until only the hollow throb of adrenaline remains. You wipe the water from your cheek and glance across the river. There, just for a moment, a movement. A silhouette stepping onto the parallel roof, framed by lightning. Broad shoulders, deliberate stride. A stranger. A shadow. Something in your chest flinches, recognition without reason.

And then he’s gone. Jay pauses in the same heartbeat, head lifting toward the opposite bank. Through the rain, through the fog, he swears he sees someone, small frame, deliberate motion, the glint of a weapon lowered too slowly. Lightning blinks, and she’s gone too. The bells toll the hour, low and distant. The sound drips through the rain like a heartbeat fading.

You disappear down one stairwell. He disappears down another. Two ghosts descending into the arteries of a city that never even saw them. No witnesses. No confirmation. Mission failed.

Just rain.  And the faint, unshakable sense that somewhere out there, in another storm, another night, the chase isn’t over yet. The gala hums when you step back inside, strings swelling, laughter floating, perfume hanging thick in the air. Gold light flickers against the marble; glasses clink like small detonations. The world pretends nothing happened. You don’t. The storm is still in you, heartbeat still ragged, breath still half-missing. The memory of rain and rooftops hasn’t left your skin. You move through the glittering crowd as if surfacing from another world, each step too sharp, too careful.

Then you see him. Jay. By the bar. Hair mussed, collar open, a faint smear of dust near his jaw like evidence of the chaos you both just survived. His suit fits too well to be innocent, his glass of whiskey half-finished, his expression too calm to be real. He looks like sin that dressed itself in a tuxedo, and almost convinced the world it belonged here.

Your pulse betrays you. You shouldn’t look twice. You do anyway. He notices immediately, of course he does. His gaze hooks into yours across the room, slow and deliberate. The smallest flicker of amusement breaks the surface, the kind of smile that says I know something you don’t.

When he moves, the crowd parts for him. Effortless. Predatory. Everyone turns, but he’s already looking at you. “Rough night?” he murmurs when he reaches you, voice threaded with smoke and velvet. You take a sip of champagne you don’t remember picking up. “You could say that.” His eyes drag over you, the faint smear of rain on your shoulder, the damp curl at your temple, the tiny tremor in your fingers you thought you’d hidden. “You look like you ran a marathon.”

“And you look like you started it.” His laugh is low and warm, too human for what he is, too easy for the edge in his posture. “Maybe I did.” You don’t smile. You don’t move. For a breathless moment, there’s no orchestra, no people, no noise. Just the static between you. The kind that feels like something alive.

He tilts his head, eyes catching the light. “Dance with me.” The words shouldn’t sound like an order, but they do. You glance down at his hand, steady, offered, dangerous. “I don’t even know your name.” “Good,” he says softly. “Keeps it interesting.”

Temptation wins. You take it. The music slows into a waltz, sweet and heavy. He pulls you closer, not indecently, but close enough that your perfume mixes with his cologne, sharp and woodsy. His hand rests against your back, the other guiding your palm to his. You follow his lead before you realize you’re doing it.

Every step feels like a secret traded in plain sight, your heartbeat betraying you, his gaze memorizing it. Around you, the ballroom spins in slow gold blur, chandeliers catching light like fire trapped in glass. “You’re trouble,” you whisper, eyes on his collarbone, your mouth brushing the edge of a smile. He leans in until his lips almost touch your ear. “You have no idea.”

The words hum against your skin, low and certain. You feel the pull, familiar, fatal. For a second, it feels like that kiss on the balcony never ended, just rewound itself into something more dangerous.

When the song fades, you step back first. The space between you feels too wide and too narrow all at once. “This was fun,” you say, because it’s easier than saying what it really was. “Just fun?” His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes don’t match. “You’ll live.” You turn, half-grinning, ready to disappear back into the crowd, but his hand catches your wrist, not rough, just enough pressure to stop time for a single breath. His skin is warm, his pulse steady.

He slips something into your hand. Smooth. Small. Quick. A folded napkin. “Emergency contact,” he says, smirk curving back into place. “In case you ever get lost again.” You roll your eyes, but it’s mostly for show. “You’re assuming I’d call.” “Oh, you will,” he says easily, already walking away. “Curiosity always wins.”

You watch him go, the straight line of his back, the confidence that shouldn’t be as compelling as it is. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. You unfold the napkin. A number, written in dark ink. No name. No flourish. Just a number. You stare at it longer than you mean to. Your fingers hover over your phone. You tell yourself not to. You do anyway.

You: You’re insufferable.

The reply comes faster than it should.

Unknown: Tomorrow, 8 p.m.?

You hesitate. One heartbeat. Two. The city hums around you, but all you hear is the echo of his voice.

You: Fine. But I’m picking the place.

A pause. Then:

Unknown: Wouldn’t have it any other way.

You slip the napkin into your clutch, close your phone, and take one last look at the crowd where he disappeared. He’s gone. But the ghost of his hand, his mouth, his voice, all of it lingers like smoke.

You shouldn’t feel this much electricity from a stranger. But then again, he never really felt like one.

The city glows like an open secret, streets slick with rain, lamps flickering gold over cobblestones, the air heavy with the scent of wine and basil. Somewhere in the distance, a Vespa hums past, laughter spilling into the night. Church bells murmur from the Duomo, their echoes carrying like whispers across the Arno. You arrive first. The café is tucked between two narrow alleys, small enough to miss if you weren’t looking. One outdoor table. Two flickering candles. A violin playing softly from an open window upstairs. The sound weaves through the air like silk, mournful, romantic, old.

You sit, order something just to keep your hands busy, and let your eyes trace the crowd, tourists, locals, lovers. You spot reflections in windows, movements in shadows. You can’t quite shake the instinct to scan every corner. Old habits.

Jay arrives late, not enough to annoy you, just enough to make you notice. He moves through the streetlight like he owns it. His shirt is black this time, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair still slightly tousled from the wind. When he smiles, the world sharpens into focus, like someone twisted the lens and suddenly everything else blurred except him.

“You’re punctual,” he says, voice smooth, teasing. “You’re not,” you reply. “Had to make an entrance.” You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. The waiter pours wine, deep red, rich, the kind that burns slow. You watch the reflection of candlelight swirl in your glass as he speaks.

It starts easy. Talk of cities, of art, of music. The kind of small talk that feels like testing fences for weaknesses. Every question sounds casual, but neither of you really believes in coincidence. Then it starts to deepen.

He asks, “Why Florence?” You say, “Why not?” He tilts his head, watching you over the rim of his glass. You can feel him studying the shape of your lies, how smoothly you let them pass. You notice he does the same. Every truth feels half-dressed, every smile too measured. But you don’t stop. You laugh. You lean in. You let the warmth of the wine make you bold. He tells you a story about getting lost in Venice; you tell him one about a painting that made you cry. Somewhere between the laughter and the silences, something clicks, not comfort, not trust, but recognition.

When the bill comes, he pays without asking, sliding enough cash to cover both and a little extra. His fingers brush yours on the table, casual but deliberate. You reach for your coat, but he stops you with a look that feels like an invitation and a dare all at once.

“Walk with me?” You do.

Florence at night is cinematic, streets washed in gold and shadow, bridges glowing like veins of light across the river. The air hums with music and memory. You walk without purpose, trading stories that sound true enough to believe. He gestures when he talks, animated, half-distracting you from the way he keeps glancing at your lips.

And somewhere between a joke and a silence, his hand brushes yours. Once. Twice. Then stays. You look at him, really look, and it hits you how dangerous this feels. Not because of who you are or what you’re hiding, but because it feels too easy. Too real. He’s smiling when you glance up at him, like he knows he shouldn’t, but can’t help it. His thumb grazes your knuckles, a touch soft enough to feel accidental, certain enough to say otherwise.

You’re the one who kisses him first, quick, reckless, testing. He’s the one who deepens it, slow, sure, undoing. It tastes like red wine and rain, and something you can’t name yet. And when you finally pull away, the city keeps glowing like it knows something you don’t. Jay pulls back just an inch, lips still brushing yours, breath warm and uneven. There’s a question in his eyes, not permission, not hesitance, but something quieter. Something like want.

And then he says, voice low enough to scrape against your spine: “Come with me.” You blink once, pulse stuttering. “Where?” His smile curves, slow, deliberate, confident in a way that shouldn’t be legal. “My place. It’s… close.”

He means dangerously close. You mean dangerously tempting. Before you can overthink it, before you can remind yourself that you don’t do this, don’t follow strangers into elevators and penthouses with views of entire cities, your hand is already in his. He leads you through the rain-glossed streets, past shuttered boutiques and glowing trattorias, until the marble lobby of an old Renaissance-restored building rises out of the dark. Inside, the floors gleam. The chandeliers drip light. The concierge greets him by name.

Of course he has a penthouse. Of course he does. The elevator ride is silent, but not empty. You can feel him watching your, not with hunger, but with curiosity. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with no corners. When the doors slide open, the city spills in. His penthouse is all glass and shadow, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Arno, dark wood floors reflecting the city lights, a bottle of unopened scotch on the counter, a jacket tossed across the sofa.

It smells faintly like cedar and something clean, expensive. He steps inside first, loosening his collar. You follow, dripping rain onto his immaculate floor. Jay turns to you, and for a second, neither of you speaks. There’s the hum of the city. The faint echo of your pulse in your ears. The knowledge that this is a bad idea wrapped in a perfect one.

Then softly, almost shyly, impossibly, he asks: “Can I take your coat?” You laugh under your breath, handing it over. “You kiss someone like that and then you ask for my coat?” He hangs it up carefully, almost too carefully, then looks back at you with a grin that is anything but careful.  “Trying to be a gentleman,” he says. “It’s not working.”

He takes that step toward you, the one that erases distance. His fingers graze your jaw. Your breath catches. The air tilts. “Then I won’t pretend to be one,” he murmurs. His mouth finds yours again, slower this time. Deeper. The room fades, the world dissolves, and Florence hums beneath your feet like it’s holding its breath. You don’t know his name. You don’t know his secrets. You don’t know the life he leads.

But tonight, in the soft glow of a city that has seen too much love to warn you away, you let yourself want him. And when he leads you through the dim hallway toward his bedroom, you follow. Not because you trust him. Not because you should. But because something about him sets every nerve alight, a match struck in the dark a taste of danger a heartbeat you shouldn’t be hearing this close. And because for the first time in a long time, you’re not thinking about lies or missions or escape routes. Just him. Just tonight. Just the way he looks back at you like he’s already memorizing the moment you walked into his life.

The door closes with a soft click behind you, sealing the room in a hush that feels almost sacred. The only light is the thin strip of gold leaking from the hallway under the door and the faint glow of the bedside lamp, dimmed so low it barely exists. Shadows stretch up the walls, long and trembling, and Jay stands in front of you like he was carved out of one. He doesn’t speak. He just steps closer.

“Sit.” A whisper, low, rough, almost like the command scrapes the air. His fingers brush your hip as he guides you backward, barely there, but enough to make your breath stick. The mattress dips when the backs of your knees hit it, and then you’re sinking down, palms sliding across the sheets, heartbeat pounding through your skin. Jay stands over you, chest rising slow, deliberate. You can’t see his expression clearly, not with the light falling only from the side, but you can feel it, the intent, the heaviness, the focus. His gaze drags over you like a touch.

He steps into your space. Knees brushing yours. Breath ghosting your forehead. His hands rise, but he doesn’t touch you yet. He hovers, knuckles grazing the air just shy of your jaw, your collarbone, the hem of your shirt. You can feel the heat of him without the contact, and something tightens inside you.

“Look at me.” Another whisper. Not soft. Just precise. You raise your eyes, and whatever he sees in yours pulls a slow exhale from him, the kind that sounds like restraint unspooling. His fingers finally touch your skin, first the underside of your jaw, tracing the line of it with the backs of his knuckles, then the column of your throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t rush. He maps you with a patience that borders on reverence.

His thumb hooks into the neckline of your top. “I’m taking this off,” he murmurs, voice so close it vibrates against your lips even though he’s not kissing you. “Slowly.” And he does. The fabric peels upward inch by inch, his hands never leaving you. His fingers slide beneath the hem, gliding over your stomach, your ribs, the curve beneath your breasts, not groping, not grabbing, just learning you, marking the shape of you into his palms. He lifts the shirt higher, the soft scrape of cotton passing over your skin making every nerve spark awake.

When the fabric hits your arms, he stops again.

“Arms up.”  Breath against your ear, warm and quiet. You raise them, and he pulls the top off in one smooth, unbroken motion, dropping it beside him without breaking eye contact. His gaze runs over your bare skin like he’s memorizing the moment cell by cell. No smile. No tease. Just heat. Stark and focused.

Then he kneels. Right between your knees. His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, slow enough that your breathing stutters. He doesn’t rush to your waistband; he traces circles into your skin with his thumbs, following the curve of your hips, pressing just enough to ground you. His head is down, dark hair falling into his eyes, breathing steady but deep, like he’s trying not to lose himself too fast.

Your shorts sit low on your hips now, his fingers hooked into each side, waiting. “You want them off?” Barely a whisper. You nod, and he shakes his head slightly. “Say it.” Your voice barely works, but the word comes out, small and trembling: “Take them off.” His fingers tighten. He pulls.

The fabric slides downward, dragging along your thighs, your knees, your calves. He doesn’t look away from your body as he works them off, folding them once, placing them neatly beside your discarded shirt, something about the neatness only making the moment feel more intense, more intentional. When he rises back up, his hands cup your calves, sliding slowly up, over your knees, along the tender inside of your thighs. The higher he goes, the slower he moves, like he’s savoring every inch of skin he uncovers. Your breathing catches halfway through, and he pauses, not pulling back, just holding you there, letting the tension coil tighter.

His thumbs stroke lazily along the inner edges of your thighs, and he leans in, voice just a breath: “Tell me if you want me to stop.” You whisper back, “Don’t stop.” A muscle in his jaw twitches, sharp in the dim light. His hands roam upward again, tracing your hips, your waist, the sides of your ribs, every inch taken with an almost cinematic patience, as though he’s unwrapping someone precious, someone he’s waited too long to touch like this. He stands again, towering over you, shadow falling across your bare skin. His fingertips brush your shoulders, glide down your arms, then return to your torso like he can’t decide which part of you he wants to touch first. Every pass of his hands leaves you warmer.

Then he leans close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours. “Lie back.” A whisper that trembles at the edges. You sink into the pillows, and he follows, palms dragging down your sides one more time, mapping you all over again, slower, deeper, more deliberate.

Like he’s memorizing the moment he finally has you stripped, open, waiting under him. Like he’s worshipping you in silence. Like the room itself is holding its breath for what comes next.

The door closes with a soft click behind you, sealing the room in a hush that feels almost sacred. The only light is the thin strip of gold leaking from the hallway under the door and the faint glow of the bedside lamp, dimmed so low it barely exists. Shadows stretch up the walls, long and trembling, and Jay stands in front of you like he was carved out of one. He doesn’t speak. He just steps closer.

“Sit.” A whisper, low, rough, almost like the command scrapes the air. His fingers brush your hip as he guides you backward, barely there, but enough to make your breath stick. The mattress dips when the backs of your knees hit it, and then you’re sinking down, palms sliding across the sheets, heartbeat pounding through your skin.

Jay stands over you, chest rising slow, deliberate. You can’t see his expression clearly, not with the light falling only from the side, but you can feel it, the intent, the heaviness, the focus. His gaze drags over you like a touch. He steps into your space. Knees brushing yours. Breath ghosting your forehead. His hands rise, but he doesn’t touch you yet. He hovers, knuckles grazing the air just shy of your jaw, your collarbone, the hem of your shirt. You can feel the heat of him without the contact, and something tightens inside you.

“Look at me.” Another whisper. Not soft. Just precise. You raise your eyes, and whatever he sees in yours pulls a slow exhale from him, the kind that sounds like restraint unspooling. His fingers finally touch your skin, first the underside of your jaw, tracing the line of it with the backs of his knuckles, then the column of your throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t rush. He maps you with a patience that borders on reverence.

His thumb hooks into the neckline of your top. “I’m taking this off,” he murmurs, voice so close it vibrates against your lips even though he’s not kissing you. “Slowly.” And he does.

The fabric peels upward inch by inch, his hands never leaving you. His fingers slide beneath the hem, gliding over your stomach, your ribs, the curve beneath your breasts, not groping, not grabbing, just learning you, marking the shape of you into his palms. He lifts the shirt higher, the soft scrape of cotton passing over your skin making every nerve spark awake. When the fabric hits your arms, he stops again.

“Arms up.” Breath against your ear, warm and quiet. You raise them, and he pulls the top off in one smooth, unbroken motion, dropping it beside him without breaking eye contact. His gaze runs over your bare skin like he’s memorizing the moment cell by cell. No smile. No tease. Just heat. Stark and focused. Then he kneels. Right between your knees.

His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, slow enough that your breathing stutters. He doesn’t rush to your waistband; he traces circles into your skin with his thumbs, following the curve of your hips, pressing just enough to ground you. His head is down, dark hair falling into his eyes, breathing steady but deep, like he’s trying not to lose himself too fast.

Your shorts sit low on your hips now, his fingers hooked into each side, waiting. “You want them off?”  Barely a whisper. You nod, and he shakes his head slightly. “Say it.” Your voice barely works, but the word comes out, small and trembling: “Take them off.” His fingers tighten.

He pulls. The fabric slides downward, dragging along your thighs, your knees, your calves. He doesn’t look away from your body as he works them off, folding them once, placing them neatly beside your discarded shirt, something about the neatness only making the moment feel more intense, more intentional.

When he rises back up, his hands cup your calves, sliding slowly up, over your knees, along the tender inside of your thighs. The higher he goes, the slower he moves, like he’s savoring every inch of skin he uncovers. Your breathing catches halfway through, and he pauses, not pulling back, just holding you there, letting the tension coil tighter.

His thumbs stroke lazily along the inner edges of your thighs, and he leans in, voice just a breath: “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You whisper back, “Don’t stop.” A muscle in his jaw twitches, sharp in the dim light. His hands roam upward again, tracing your hips, your waist, the sides of your ribs, every inch taken with an almost cinematic patience, as though he’s unwrapping someone precious, someone he’s waited too long to touch like this.

He stands again, towering over you, shadow falling across your bare skin. His fingertips brush your shoulders, glide down your arms, then return to your torso like he can’t decide which part of you he wants to touch first. Every pass of his hands leaves you warmer. Then he leans close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours. “Lie back.” A whisper that trembles at the edges.

You sink into the pillows, and he follows, palms dragging down your sides one more time, mapping you all over again, slower, deeper, more deliberate. Like he’s memorizing the moment he finally has you stripped, open, waiting under him. Like he’s worshipping you in silence. Like the room itself is holding its breath for what comes next.

Jay lowers himself over you without letting his weight touch you yet, just hovering, his breath warm and uneven. The bed dips under his knees, and the shadows shift across his face, cutting him into sharp angles. His eyes drag over you, slow enough to make your chest tighten. His fingers find your waist again. Not grabbing. Not rushing. Just claiming the space. “You’re so still,” he whispers, the words brushing your lips even though he’s not kissing you. “Are you nervous?”

You swallow, but your voice is steady when you breathe out, “A little.” His fingertips slide inward… just under your ribs… tracing the slope down to your stomach. His thumb presses lightly, drawing a line that makes your hips jerk. His gaze flicks down, watching the reaction.

Quietly, with a breath that sounds like he’s already losing control: “Good.” Then his lips touch your skin, right beneath your ribs. A single kiss. Deep, slow, warm. His mouth moves lower, pausing between each kiss just long enough to let the heat build. He doesn’t kiss like a man in a hurry. He kisses like he’s studying you, tasting your reactions, choosing his next move with surgical precision.

Your breath stutters when he reaches the softest part of your stomach. He hears it. His voice is a whisper against your skin, low, restrained, almost pained: “Don’t hide that from me.” One of his hands slides up, cupping the underside of your breast. He doesn’t squeeze, he just holds you there, thumb stroking a slow, almost cruelly gentle rhythm. His mouth trails higher, his hair brushing your skin, his lips tracing the line under your breast with a slowness that makes your whole body arch.

When his mouth finally closes around your nipple, your inhale breaks. He groans, a low, quiet sound, muffled against your skin as his tongue circles you, slow and deliberate. His other hand moves to your thigh, fingers digging in, holding you open as he takes his time sucking, kissing, tasting you like he’s trying to keep himself from devouring you too fast.

He switches sides, lips closing around your other nipple with a deeper pull, and you feel every controlled tremor radiating from him. Then he lifts his head and whispers against your breast: “You’re already shaking. Lie still for me.” You try. But when he moves lower, when his tongue traces a line down the center of your stomach, slow enough that your toes curl, your hips lift on their own.

He catches them with one hand, pressing you flat to the bed. “Don’t.” Just one word. But said so softly, so dangerously, it forces stillness into your bones. His lips are at your waistband now, the last barrier, thin and useless. He looks up at you through the shadows. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just hungry. “Open your legs for me.”

Your thighs fall apart, breath hitching. Jay exhales like he’s been waiting for that moment. Two fingers hook the edge of your last piece of clothing, pulling it down slowly, slower than his patience should allow, dragging the thin fabric over your hips, your thighs, your knees, your ankles. He drops it somewhere behind him without looking.

And then he sees you fully. His jaw tightens. His breath leaves him in a slow, shaky exhale. “Beautiful,” he whispers, not soft, but reverent, like the word forces itself out. He spreads your thighs wider with his hands, thumbs stroking the inside, and lowers himself between them. His face hovers inches from you, his breath warm where you need him most. He looks up again. Voice deeper. Rougher.

“Before I taste you,” he murmurs, “tell me what you want.” Your voice is barely a whisper. “You.” Jay shuts his eyes for half a second, just half, like the word hits him too hard. Then he leans in.  Slow.  Inevitable.  Pinning you with his hands on your thighs. His lips touch you. One slow, deep lick. Your back arches, involuntary, sharp, and he grips your thighs harder, holding you open as he does it again… slower this time… deeper.

A whisper against you: “Good… keep giving me reactions like that.” He starts to eat you out with a quiet, consuming intensity, no loud sounds, just heavy breathing, the wet pull of his mouth, the soft drag of his tongue. Every movement is deliberate, like he’s building you from the inside out, like he wants to memorize every tremor. And when you start to beg, breathless, whispering his name, he just moans into you and murmurs:

“I’m not stopping until you break for me.” Then he licks you. From bottom to top, one slow, devastating stripe of tongue that makes your whole spine curve off the mattress. He stops at the top, tongue flattening against your clit for a second, pressing just hard enough to make your breath crack, then he pulls back with a quiet inhale like he’s savoring your taste.

“Oh, fuck…” he whispers, voice roughened. “You taste better than I imagined.”

He doesn’t give you time to recover. His tongue returns, this time soft and slow, lazily stroking you, mapping you, tasting you like he’s learning your body one wet, trembling flick at a time. His hands grip your thighs harder, holding them open as he settles his mouth deeper against you. He chooses a rhythm, deliberate, focused, steady.

Long, deep licks. Followed by soft circles. Followed by slow, pulsing pressure. Your hips twitch up, and he pins them immediately, fingers tightening. “Stay still,” he murmurs against you, voice vibrating through your core. “Let me do the work.” He slides his tongue lower, dipping inside you with a slow push that makes your legs shake. He groans, actually groans, the sound muffled and sinful, and your body answers it with a pulse he feels immediately.

His fingers dig in. “There it is,” he whispers, breath hot against you. “Give me that again.” Then he gets rougher. His mouth latches onto your clit with a sudden, hungry pressure, and he sucks, deep, slow, controlled, the kind of suction that makes you grab the sheets and gasp his name. He reacts to that.

He growls. Not loud, low, quiet, primal, and the vibration rolls through you. Jay keeps sucking, tongue flicking in perfect, devastating pulses, alternating between gentle strokes and sharper, firmer pressure until your voice breaks into airless sounds you can’t control.

Your thighs try to close around his head. He doesn’t let them. He shoves them open, grip firm, voice so dark it borders on a warning: “Don’t… fucking… run.” He buries his face deeper into you, eating you out with an intensity that’s almost desperate, messy now, wet sounds filling the room as his tongue works you faster, harder, his jaw moving with purpose.

He moans into you again when you tug his hair, the sound sending another sharp wave through your body. “You’re close,” he whispers, his voice shaking with how badly he wants it. “I can feel it, don’t fight it. Come for me. Right here. On my tongue.” He sucks harder, the perfect pressure, tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless movements. Your breath breaks, your hips lift, and he holds you down, forcing you to stay exactly where he wants you.

You fall apart. Your gasp turns into a cry, your thighs trembling, your whole body tightening and unraveling all at once, and Jay doesn’t stop. Not for a second. He keeps licking you through it, slow and hungry, drawing every last shake out of you until you’re limp against the mattress. Only then does he pull back, lips glistening, breath ragged, eyes dark.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, slow, deliberate, and whispers: “Again.” Your pulse is still stuttering from his mouth, your thighs trembling against the sheets, when Jay lifts his head. His lips are swollen, wet from you, his breath sharp and uneven. He climbs up your body with a slow, predatory steadiness, each movement deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment before he finally breaks.

His hands bracket your hips first, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who’s in control. Then he drags them up your sides, over your ribs, up to your wrists, pinning both your hands above your head in one smooth motion. He leans down until his forehead nearly touches yours.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispers, voice low, rough. “Good.” His body settles between your thighs like it was made to fit there, warm, heavy, solid. You feel the hard length of him press against your inner thigh, and the jolt that shoots through you is so sharp your breath catches. He feels it. His jaw clenches. “Look at me.” Your eyes lift to meet his, and he holds your wrists tighter, the weight of his stare heavy, consuming.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “Slow enough that you feel every inch.” You nod, breathless, but he shakes his head. “Say you want it.” “I want it,” you whisper. He exhales, slow, shaky, like those words hit him deeper than they should. Then he lets go of your wrists just long enough to guide himself, the tip of him brushing your entrance. The contact alone steals your breath. He presses forward just a little, barely parting you, just enough to make you whimper.

A soft, dark whisper at your lips: “Relax… let me in.” And then he pushes. Slow. Deep. Unstoppable. Your breath breaks. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your body tightens around him immediately, involuntarily, and Jay feels it. His head drops to your neck, his breath coming out in a strained, bitten-off groan. “Fuck… you’re tight—”

He stops himself, pulling in a slow, shaking breath like he’s on the edge of losing control already. He presses deeper inch by inch, your body stretching around him, taking him, pulling him in. You gasp his name. His hand shoots to your jaw, tilting your face toward his. “Don’t look away,” he whispers again, voice trembling now. “I want to see everything you feel.”

He sinks deeper. Deeper. Deeper until his hips meet yours and there’s no space left between you. You’re full. Breathless. Pinned under him. Jay’s forehead drops to yours, his hair brushing your cheeks, his breath sharp and uneven. “Shit…” he breathes out, voice cracking at the edges. “You feel—” He cuts off with another shuddering exhale. “You feel too good.”

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting them higher around his hips, opening you wider, pulling you closer, pulling you onto him. He holds still for a moment, letting your body adjust, letting the pressure settle deep and heavy between you. Then he whispers: “Tell me when you’re ready for me to move.” You can’t find your voice, so you pull your hips up into him, small, shaky, desperate.

His breath catches. “Okay…” A whisper that sounds like surrender. “Okay.” He pulls out slowly, every inch a drag that makes your eyes flutter, and then pushes back in with a deep, deliberate thrust that knocks a breathy sound from your chest. Jay groans into your neck, the sound low and ragged, his control slipping. His pace stays slow at first, deep, grinding strokes that make your whole body lift off the mattress each time. His hand slides behind your knee, pushing your thigh up higher, opening you more, letting him sink deeper, hit deeper.

Your breath starts breaking, your voice catching with each thrust. And Jay murmurs against your mouth, breath trembling: “That’s it… take it… take all of it…”

He thrusts again, deeper, harder, the sound of your bodies meeting sharp and wet in the quiet room. Your fingers claw into his back. He groans, low, guttural. His voice drops to a whisper so dark it shakes through you: “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.” Jay’s thrusts get heavier, deeper, the kind that shake the mattress, the kind that force sound out of your throat no matter how hard you try to hold it back. His breathing is ragged now, brushing hot against your cheek, every exhale trembling like he’s fighting something in himself.

He’s not winning. You can feel it. His hips snap forward again, harder than before, and your gasp breaks into his mouth. His hand slides up your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there, anchoring you, guiding the angle of your head as he kisses you. A deep, messy, open-mouth kiss that tastes like desperation and heat. He pulls back only far enough to whisper against your lips:

“I can’t—” His breath shudders. “I can’t stay gentle anymore.” Your body clenches around him, and the reaction rips something raw from his chest. “That,” he growls softly, forehead pressing to yours, “don’t do that unless you want me completely gone.” You whisper, broken:  “I want you gone. Lose it.”

Jay freezes, only for a heartbeat. That’s all it takes. His control snaps. His hand slides down your thigh, grabbing hard, and he flips you onto your stomach in one fluid, effortless motion. You gasp as the sheets brush your skin, your body still trembling from the shock of being moved so fast. He’s already behind you. Already pulling your hips up to meet his. Already pressing himself back inside you with a deep, brutal thrust that makes your arms collapse.

Your forehead drops to the pillow, your fingers fisting the sheets. Jay groans behind you, long, low, dragged from his chest like he’s been holding it back for too long. “Fuck… this position…” Another thrust, harder. “You’re gripping me like you don’t want to let go.” He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, his hand sliding around your waist, fingers finding the softness just above your hip. He pulls you back onto him, matching his thrusts to the desperate rhythm of your breath.

Your voice breaks into the pillow. Jay hears it. He slides one hand into your hair, gripping at the base of your neck, pulling your head back until your mouth opens on a gasp. His lips find your ear, hot, panting, trembling with feral restraint. “You want it rough?” Another snap of his hips. “Take it.”

He slams into you, deep, precise, punishing in the best way. Your body jolts, back arching, legs shaking. His whisper cuts right into the sound of your breath: “Every… single… drop of me—”  Thrust.  “You’re taking it.”  Thrust. “You hear me?” You try to answer, but it comes out a whimper. He growls, quiet but sharp, and tightens his grip in your hair.

“Use your words.” “Y—yes,” you choke out. “I’m taking it.” He bites your shoulder, hard enough to make your breath stutter, then licks the spot slowly, soothing it with a soft drag of his tongue.

“Good,” he whispers against your skin. “Keep saying yes.” He lifts your hips higher, the new angle letting him sink impossibly deeper. The sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, sharp, wet, rhythmic. You feel him everywhere. His breath on your neck. His chest on your back. His fingers bruising your hips. His cock dragging so deep each thrust feels like it reaches your breath.

Your voice cracks with every movement. And Jay loses the last piece of control he’s holding. His thrusts turn rougher, faster, his pace hungry and relentless. His hand slides between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make your entire body jerk. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Come on my cock. Come for me while I’m inside you.”

Your fingers claw at the sheets. Your knees buckle. Your vision whites out. “Jay—” He snaps his hips into you harder, hand working you with ruthless precision. “Say my name again.” “Jay—fuck—Jay—” “That’s it,” he whispers, breath breaking. “Give it to me. Now.” And when your climax hits, sudden, violent, overwhelming, Jay moans into your shoulder, grabbing your hips, thrusting through your orgasm like he’s trying to lose himself inside the feeling of you coming apart around him. Your body collapses forward.

Jay follows you down, still buried deep, chest pressed to your back, breath hot and shaking against your skin. “Don’t move,” he whispers into your neck. “I’m not done with you yet.”

— — —

It happens fast. Not the falling, that part was slow. Weeks of stolen nights. Rain on penthouse windows. Jay learning the shape of your mouth like it was a map he’d forgotten how to read. You pretending you weren’t already lost in him. Two ghosts who had chased each other without knowing it. But the moment he asks, truly asks, isn’t dramatic. It’s raining again. Same rain.  Same city. Different you.

You’re standing under a stone overhang outside the old courthouse, both of you dripping, both of you laughing because this is ridiculous, utterly, impossibly ridiculous, and yet you’ve never been more certain of anything.

Jay’s hair is plastered to his forehead. His shirt is damp at the collar. He looks at you like the world finally stopped spinning. “Marry me,” he says. Quiet. Breathless. No theatrics. No ring. Just him.

You don’t even pretend to think. “Okay.” That’s how you end up inside the courthouse, rain streaking every window, thunder shaking the old wooden floorboards. The lights buzz faintly. The judge looks half-asleep. Your clothes are still wet. Jay can’t stop staring at you. It’s small. It’s messy. It’s real. You hold each other’s hands, cold fingers, warm palms, and the rain outside becomes the only witness.

Jay steps closer, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s grounding himself. His voice is barely above a whisper: “’Til death do us part.” You lift your chin, eyes locked on his. “You first.” Jay lets out a broken laugh, the kind that sounds like surrender, and kisses you right there, before the judge even finishes the sentence. The world blurs into rain and lips and the taste of something terrifyingly close to forever.

But you don’t end there. Hours later, the storm has quieted into a drizzle as he drives you through narrow streets until the Florence Cathedral rises, luminous, ancient, impossibly beautiful. No crowds tonight. Just candlelight pooling through stained glass, flickering in ruby and sapphire across marble floors. Jay leads you inside, not to marry you again, not for formality, but because he wants this memory carved into something sacred.

He stands with you in the center of the vast nave, rain dripping from your coat onto centuries-old stone. His hand finds yours. Your wedding bands, simple silver, glint under the candles.

The silence feels holy. Jay turns to you, jaw softening, rain still clinging to his lashes. “You know,” he murmurs, voice reverent, “if you ever walk away from me, this place won’t survive it. I won’t survive it.” You lean in until your foreheads touch, breath mingling in the chill of the cathedral. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not going anywhere.” Outside, the bells begin to ring, slow, deep, echoing through every stone archway like a blessing.

Two ghosts who once chased each other across rooftops now stand inside a church older than every name they’ve worn, bound by a rain-soaked vow whispered too quietly for the world, but loud enough to last.A courthouse wedding in a storm. A kiss beneath a vaulted ceiling of angels. And a promise neither of you ever planned to keep, yet couldn’t imagine breaking. Til death do you part. You first.

— — —

The present burns colder than memory. Gone is Florence. Gone is warmth. Gone is the taste of Jay’s mouth on yours, hot and reverent, like he was learning you cell by cell. All that remains is the mission room. An unmarked building. An unlabeled door. A table so cold it might as well be carved from absence. A folder hits the metal with the blunt weight of inevitability. Your handler doesn’t sit. He doesn’t blink. His voice is a monotone blade when he says:

“Target identified.”

You open the file. At the top lies a grainy surveillance still, taped in with a single yellowing strip of medical tape, like the print is alive and might try to run. LEE HEESEUNG. Codename: EVAN. Black hair. A sharp, unsmiling mouth. Eyes that look like they’ve witnessed the wrong side of hell and decided not to come back. Below, in stark block letters:

HIGH-VALUE TARGET.DIA PRISONER – ESCAPED CUSTODY. A HIGHEST PRIORITY FOR ELIMINATION.POTENTIAL RISK: EXTREME.

You keep your expression neutral, professional. Your pulse betrays you anyway, tightening in your wrists, fluttering too fast in your neck. Your handler continues, tone flat: “Intel confirms he resurfaced three days ago. Multiple agencies want him dead. We’re pulling international contractors to lock down the grid. You’ll have first contact. Coordinates on dispatch only when his location stabilizes.”

Stabilizes. A strange word. A stranger implication. You close the folder with a soft, decisive snap. “When do I move?” “Tonight.” You nod, controlled, composed, a ghost wearing your skin. But your stomach twists tight, curling around a feeling you can’t name. Something is wrong. The lights above flicker as if agreeing. You slide the file into your coat and walk out like nothing inside you has shifted at all. Except everything has.

—

Different city. Different agency. Same fluorescent hum of dread. Jay sits across from his director, legs spread loose, posture careless enough to fool anyone who hasn’t watched him kill. But the tight vein in his jaw pulses once, barely there, but real. “Your assignment,” the director says, pushing a folder across the steel table. Jay flips it open with two bored fingers. Then he sees the photo. A small taped polaroid. Same face. Same eyes. Same ghost. LEE HEESEUNG. Codename: EVAN.

Jay goes still. Not visibly. But he forgets to breathe for half a second.

His director doesn’t notice. “Target escaped custody. Too dangerous to leave in circulation. Termination authorized, no retrieval, no arbitration.” Jay turns the page. Dense black text. Red stamps that read like they were carved instead of printed.

HIGH-VALUE. PRIORITY ONE. ELIMINATE ON SIGHT.

His voice comes out low, edged with something he doesn’t let surface often. “Solo contract?” “Yes. Clean. Quiet. No footprint.” Of course. Jay is a ghost maker. “Location?” he asks. “You’ll receive coordinates in transit. Target is migrating.” Jay closes the folder, leans back, tongue pressing once against the inside of his cheek, a tell he never allows. Not unless something feels off. He didn’t expect the sensation clawing through his chest now.He doesn’t like it. Like he’s standing at the mouth of a memory he hasn’t lived yet.  Like the world has tilted one degree and he’s the only one who noticed.  Like fate just cracked its knuckles.

He stands. “When do I depart?” “Now.” Jay leaves without another word.

Your safehouse greets you with silence and stale air. You drop the folder onto the bed. It flips open on impact. Heeseung’s eyes stare up, dark, hollow, too knowing. Something in you recoils. Not in fear. In recognition you can’t justify. A familiarity that feels like a bruise you don’t remember getting.

You press your palm over his image until your skin hides the photo entirely. Your comms vibrate.

MISSION ACTIVE.STANDBY FOR COORDINATES.

The unease slithers deeper, coiling in your ribs. This is just another job.  Just another shadow to neutralize. That’s what you tell yourself. You don’t know Jay is reading the same photo in another part of the city. You don’t know he’s already moving. You don’t know the mission has already tied your fates too tight to pull apart. Outside, the wind picks up. Somewhere, the storm shifts. And the moment the coordinates hit both your phones… everything begins to break.

The desert wind cuts like glass. You stand among the guards, helmet low, visor down, uniform crisp. Breath steady. Pulse measured. The armored convoy crawls across the dirt road in front of you like a beast made of steel and secrets. Engines hum. Radios crackle. Boots crunch.

Evan, Heeseung, is in the third vehicle. Chained. Drugged. Supposed to be harmless. He isn’t. You grip your rifle tighter. Up on the ridge, unseen, Jay lies flat against red stone, rifle braced on a bipod. Sun cutting across his scope in a thin, lethal line. He’s still. Focused. A shadow carved from patience. His handler’s voice whispers in his ear: “Confirmed visual on Evan?”

Jay exhales. “Confirmed.” Your handler whispers the same into your comm, almost word-for-word. Neither of you knows the other is listening to the exact same briefing.

The transport halts. Guards reposition. You blend among them, steps silent, movements practiced. Your disguise holds. No one looks twice. Jay adjusts his aim, tracking the man being escorted out of the armored vehicle. Evan’s hair is longer than the file photo. His face gaunt. But his eyes, sharp and aware, cut through everyone around him.

Jay’s finger settles on the trigger. So does yours. The plan is clean: You draw fire and chaos from the inside. Jay snipes from the ridge. Evan dies between both shots.

Flawless. Mathematically perfect. Zero risk of failure. Until the sun shifts. Until Jay’s scope catches the smallest sliver of reflection, your reflection. Helmets down. Uniform standard. Should’ve been nothing. But he sees the tilt of your chin. The tension in your shoulders. The way you steady your rifle. He knows bodies. He knows yours. Jay’s breath stops.

…No. It can’t be. Not here.

He blinks once, and, you look up. Your eyes meet his through the glint of his scope. Instant. Electric. Catastrophic. Recognition hits you like a punch to the ribs. Your lips part beneath the helmet, shock flooding ice-cold down your spine. Jay. Jay is the sniper. Jay is the second operative. Jay is on the same hit.

What the hell—

“Shooter One, take the shot,” your handler orders. “Shooter Two, green light,” his handler echoes. Neither of you pulls the trigger. That hesitation, one heartbeat, ruins everything. Evan, ever perceptive, looks directly where Jay is hiding. Then directly at you. His mouth twitches. Not into a smile. Into readiness. He moves first. A knee to a guard. A ripped weapon. A shot fired into a fuel tank.

You dive, Jay curses and rolls, and the world explodes. Fire erupts through the convoy. Guards scatter. Bullets rain. Smoke eats the sky. Through the flames, Evan slips free, fast, trained, terrifyingly calm, and vanishes into the burning horizon. Mission blown. Target alive. You and Jay exposed. You scramble behind an overturned truck, helmet half-melted, lungs burning with smoke. Jay slides down the ridge, grabs his gear, and disappears into the canyon. Both of you escape.  Barely. Both of you are shaking. More from the recognition than the blast.

You drive with white-knuckled hands, headlights slicing through dusk, replaying his face in your mind. Jay. At the ridge. Rifle aimed at the same man. Your stomach refuses to settle. Across the city, Jay drives just as hard, jaw tight, music off, mind racing. You. At the convoy. In uniform. Holding a rifle. Too coincidental. Too precise. He isn’t stupid. Neither are you. You both know exactly what this means.

Your apartment is warm. Your clothes are clean. Your pulse is anything but steady. Jay arrives right on time. You don’t hug him. He doesn’t kiss you. The tension is a living thing between you, sharp, metallic, almost visible.

You cook because it gives your hands something to do. He stands behind you, silent, watching the knife move. You speak first. “Traffic?” Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. He shrugs. “Not bad.”

You sit. You both eat too quietly. Then you slip. You don’t realize you’ve said it until the air collapses. “I thought you were in Itaewon today.” You freeze. Jay lifts his gaze slowly. A smirk forms, slow, subtle, cutting. “You always think you know where I am.”

It’s not flirtation. It’s a test. Your pulse spikes. “Where were you?” you ask. He places his chopsticks down, leans back, eyes on yours with unnerving calm. “In the heat,” he says. “In the open.” “Wind was bad. Distance was… manageable.”

Your heart stops. Only a sniper would phrase it that way. He watches your reaction carefully. Then, softly, almost gently: “Funny thing, though. Someone down there hesitated too.”

Your blood turns to ice. He knows. And worse, he knows you know. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s lethal.Two operatives. Two lies. Two truths cracking open all at once. One failed mission. One escaped target. One inevitable collision. Jay’s smile fades. His voice drops to something dangerous and intimate: “Tell me, sweetheart…” His eyes glint. “…were you aiming for Evan today?”

You inhale. Exhale. Lie or tell the truth. Either way, everything changes here.

The morning after the botched prisoner transfer tastes like the inside of a bullet casing, metallic, bitter, and humming with the memory of heat. Your apartment is too still. Too neat. Too unbroken for what you both witnessed yesterday. Jay moves through the kitchen like someone daring it to betray him. His shoulders are loose, relaxed, casual, the exact posture he wears right before he puts a knife through someone’s ribs. You’ve studied that body language in your enemies. In him, it’s worse. Because it isn’t foreign. It’s familiar.

You woke up to him breathing beside you, warm, steady. The kind of breathing only a man who slept well produces. He shouldn’t have slept well. Not after seeing you in that convoy. Not after recognizing your eyes through the sniper glint.

Not after realizing the truth. Neither should you. But assassins adapt. And marriage, even a forged, accidental, courthouse one, teaches you how to lie through breakfast. Jay opens a drawer and pulls out a mug. He doesn’t reach for your favorite one. He reaches for the one he bought, the newer one, the one that doesn’t have your fingerprints memorized. He’s telling you without saying a word:

I’m not predictable today. Don’t assume anything.

Good. You weren’t planning to. “Coffee?” you ask, voice light. Sweet. Dangerous. “Please.” Jay leans a hip against the counter and watches you with eyes that give nothing away. Not fear. Not anger. Not confusion. Just calculation. You grind the beans by hand, slow, methodical. You measure the water temperature. You test the bitterness. You make it perfect.

And then, when you pour it into his mug, your finger taps the hidden capsule against the rim. It dissolves instantl, micro-poison, nearly undetectable, designed to mimic food poisoning for the first nine minutes, then shut down the heart. You stir it once. Twice. Jay’s gaze flicks to your wrist. A single raised brow.

He knows. You slide the mug toward him anyway, like the world’s deadliest waitress. Jay picks it up, inhales the steam, and smiles. “Looks good.” His fingers curl around the ceramic. You watch his pulse.

He takes a sip. Swallows. And smirks. “I love when you make things strong,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to meet yours, deliberate. “It wakes me up.” You keep your face serene, completely still, but your blood chills. Because Jay doesn’t set the mug down. He doesn’t drink it again. He just… holds it. Letting you wonder whether he swallowed anything at all. Letting you imagine him spitting it out behind your back this morning. Or swapping the mug. Or taking the antidote he always keeps in his back pocket.

He’s playing with his life like it’s his wedding ring. The same way you just played with his. He takes another sip. You stop breathing. Then he sets the mug down, pushes it a few centimeters toward the center of the counter, and taps the handle twice with one finger.

Message loud and brutal: Try harder.

Your body warms, adrenaline or arousal, you can’t tell. With Jay it’s always been that fine, lethal line. “Early mission today?” you ask casually, rinsing the spoon you stirred his coffee with. Jay’s eyes follow the spoon’s path. Your wrist. Your stance. He’s mapping where your weapons could be hidden. Where you could run. How fast he could catch you.

“Something like that,” he says lightly. “And you?” “Same.” “Ah.” He stretches, neck cracking slightly as he rolls his shoulders. “Busy couple. Always on the move.” His tone is teasing. His eyes are not. You both move at the same time, him reaching for his phone; you turning for your jacket. Your fingers brush the drawer of the entryway table, where you usually keep your keys.

Only today, your keys aren’t there. Jay took them. Jay knows you noticed. You meet his eyes. He smiles. “Borrowed your car,” he says simply. No apology.  No reason. Just theft. Just war. You school your expression. “When?” “This morning.” “That early?” “Hm.” Jay gives a small shrug. “I had… errands.” Translation:  He was checking everything you own for traps.  He didn’t find the ones you wanted him to. But he found enough.

“Yours is still here,” he adds. “What’s left of it,” you say under your breath, so quiet a regular husband wouldn’t catch it. Jay is not a regular husband. He hears it. His smirk sharpens. “You say something?” You look up through your lashes. “Just wondering why you look so tired.”

That lands. A small, precise hit. He steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that your breath shifts. His hand lifts, thumb grazing a strand of hair behind your ear. It would be tender, if it weren’t a threat. “Oh?” Jay murmurs. “I slept like a baby.” You didn’t. He knows. “Didn’t you?”

You tilt your chin. “Lighter sleeper,” you say simply. “You know that.” Jay’s smile is too soft to be safe. “I do.” A beat of silence. Heavy. Charged. Loaded like a chambered bullet. Then he steps back, grabs his jacket, and says: “I’ll see you tonight.”

A normal line. Too normal. You nod once. “Dinner at eight.” “Eight,” he echoes. Neither of you says if we both make it. When he leaves, the air collapses. Your spine straightens. Your pupils narrow. Today is the day. The first strike. The first real attempt. You check the time. Jay will reach the parking garage in seven minutes. You have the detonator in your hand.

You flip open the blinds just a sliver. The view of the street below is clear. Your husband crosses the road, calm, unhurried, unaware (or pretending to be). He reaches the elevator to the garage.

Six minutes. You move through the apartment quickly, silently, retrieving your backup keys, your boots, the bag under the sink with a gun no one but you knows about. You breathe once. Then you press the detonator.

The explosion shakes the city block. Flame ruptures upward, glass shattering, concrete cracking. People scream. Birds scatter. Smoke billows like a beast unleashed. Your pulse spikes.

You scan the wreckage. Burning metal. Twisted doors. Fire licking the hood of your husband’s car. And then, through the smoke, a silhouette steps out. Untouched. Unrushed. Unburned.

Jay walks through the flames like he’s leaving a photoshoot, not a murder attempt. His jaw is sharp, his hair slightly wind-tossed, suit jacket thrown over one shoulder like the explosion was an inconvenience at best. He lifts his gaze straight to your window.

And smiles. Slow.  Infuriating.  Devastatingly amused. He mouths: Cute. You exhale a curse. War has officially begun. Your phone lights up before the smoke even clears.

1 new message — JAY 💍

You open it with a thumb that doesn’t tremble. You won’t give him that. The message contains no text. Just a photo.

Him. Standing in front of the burning remains of his car. Two fingers raised in a peace sign. A heart emoji drawn in smoke behind him. You clench your jaw. Smug bastard.

You’re still staring at the photo when your door unlocks behind you. Not forced. Not picked. Not kicked in. Unlocked. From the inside. Your stomach drops. You reach for your gun, too slow.

Jay presses the muzzle of his gun behind your ribs, so gentle it feels like a greeting. “Good morning again, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, warm, mocking. “Miss me?” You don’t let your spine stiffen. “Doors lock for a reason.” “Oh, I know.” His breath brushes your neck as he steps around you, gun still resting at your side like an affectionate hand. “I just don’t care.”

He doesn’t shoot. He doesn’t need to. He walks in, calm as ever, dropping his jacket on the couch. You watch him move, fluid, confident, unbothered.

He survived your bomb. He broke into your home. And he’s making himself comfortable. “Coffee was good,” he says lightly as he toes off his shoes. “Bold flavor. Slightly poisonous aftertaste, but still smooth.” You grit your teeth. “You drank it.” “Did I?” Jay tilts his head. “Or did I pour it into the pothos plant when you blinked?”

You glance at the plant. It’s wilted. You exhale sharply. “…you asshole.” Jay beams. “I love when you notice.” He walks past you without a care in the world, crossing to your desk. Your laptop sits there. Closed. Untouched. Or so you thought. Jay sits in your chair, spins once, and props his feet on your notebook. “Can I ask you something?” he says casually.

You cross your arms. “No.” He continues anyway. “Why did you think blowing up my car would work?” he asks. “You know I’ve survived worse.” You force your heartbeat to steady. “It was worth a try.” He looks at you for a long, quiet moment. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.” And then he opens your laptop. Your breath catches. “Jay.” Warning. Threat. Plea.

He ignores all three. The screen comes to life, your wallpaper, your folders, your encrypted files, Except it’s not your normal login screen. It’s a new one. White text on a black background:

HELLO, SUNSHINE.ENTER PASSWORD TO SIGN YOUR RESIGNATION LETTER.

Your blood goes ice-cold. Jay glances up sweetly. “You didn’t think I’d let you be the only one to leave surprises today, did you?” “If you touched my files—” “Oh, I touched everything.” He taps a few keys. Windows flicker open—your missions, your photos, your kill records, your handler’s notes. “Your entire professional history is so… intimate. Like reading your diary. Except more murder-y.”

You lunge forward. Jay lifts a finger. One finger. Barely a motion. You stop. Your body responds to him before your mind does. “Baby,” he murmurs. “Do you really want to fight me this early? We haven’t even discussed lunch.” You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You want to strangle him with the charging cable.

He continues typing with lazy, deadly precision. “Your firm thinks you’re resigning effective immediately,” he says. “I drafted a lovely, heartfelt letter. You talk about burnout. Wanting to reconnect with your spouse. Wanting a quiet life.” “I would never write that.” Jay grins. “I know. That’s why it’s funny.” You step closer. “Jay, undo it.”

“Can’t.” “Undo it.” “No.” You slam your palm on the desk beside him. “Now.” His eyes lift to yours with slow, thrilling danger. “You blew up my car.” “You drank poison.” “You tried to stab me in your sleep.” “You dodged. That’s not my fault.” “Oh, please,” he scoffs, fingers flying across the keyboard. “You were aiming for my shoulder.” Your jaw tics. He noticed. Of course he did.

Jay’s tone shifts, softens. “You don’t want to kill me.” You ignore the sting in your chest. “That’s not the point.” “Then what is?” he asks quietly. Silence drapes over you both. Thick. Heavy. Truth-shaped. You break it with steel rather than vulnerability. “You’re compromising my mission.” Jay laughs under his breath. “Sweetheart, you are the mission.” You freeze. He doesn’t. He clicks one last button, and your laptop pings. Your heart stops. On the screen is the confirmation:

RESIGNATION SENT.  

ACCESS TO FIRM FILES LOCKED.

GOOD LUCK IN YOUR FUTURE ENDEAVORS.

You breathe out slowly, deadly calm. “You’re insane.” Jay stands slowly, stepping into your space like he owns it. Like he owns you. “Maybe,” he says. “But I’m your problem now.” You grab his collar, hard. “Undo it.” He dips his head so your noses almost touch. “Make me.” You shove him away. He lets you, only because he wants to see what you’ll do next. “You’ll pay for that,” you say under your breath.

Jay smirks. “Promise?” You turn on your heel. He follows. Every step you take, he mirrors, calm, close, unshakable. Like you’re dancing. Like you’ve always been dancing. Like you were both trained for this moment without knowing it. “Where are you going?” he asks lightly.

“To fix what you broke.” He hums. “Try. I’ll enjoy watching you.” You reach for your weapons bag. Jay reaches the other side of it at the same time. Your hands brush. He freezes. You freeze. Then his smile curls sharp and dark. “Married couple things,” he says softly. “Sharing the murder kit.”

You grab the bag first. Jay lets it go. “This is war,” you tell him. He shrugs. “It’s Tuesday.” You don’t bother responding. You storm toward the door. Jay calls after you: “Dinner at eight!” You flip him off without looking back. “Can’t wait!” he shouts cheerfully.

The smile drops. His eyes narrow. His entire posture shifts from amused husband to operative. He sits back at your desk, pulls out a flash drive, and inserts it quietly. A new screen pops up:

TRANSFER COMPLETE.TARGET: EVAN — LOCATION UNKNOWN.SECONDARY TARGETS: YOU.

Jay stares at the screen. His jaw ticks. He whispers: “…you weren’t supposed to be on this mission.” He closes the laptop gently. Then stands, stoic, tense, deadly. No more jokes. No more flirting. For the first time since the wedding,

Jay looks scared. Not for himself. For you. The moment you hit the street, the cool air cuts through the lingering smoke clinging to your clothes. You breathe once, deep, steady, calculated. Then your phone vibrates.

JAY 💍: Miss you already.

You turn the phone off. No, you slam it off.

You hit your firm’s satellite tech hub in under twenty minutes. Not the front door. Not even the side entrance. You take the maintenance stairs, four levels up, two down, a narrow hall, a biometric scanner you bypass with a thin strip of heated wire and a practiced twist, and you’re in. The room is dark, humming with servers and fluorescent lights that flicker like dying stars. Your handler, Mira, sits at the central monitor wall, boots up on the desk, chewing gum like she’s bored with the world.

She doesn’t look surprised when you appear behind her. “Bad day?” she asks. You toss your locked-out credentials onto her lap. “My login’s dead. Who did it?” Mira leans back, chewing slowing. “Didn’t come from us. It came from you.”

Your blood chills. “Someone hacked it,” you say. “No.” Mira taps her screen. “Someone with physical access logged in as you and sent a resignation letter manually.” You inhale through your teeth. “Jay.” Mira whistles softly. “You got married fast.”

You don’t answer. Her gum pops. “Look, I don’t care about your love life, but if you’re out, you’re out. I can’t reverse this.” “Give me access,” you say. Voice low. Controlled. Deadly. She studies you. Then sighs. Then types. Her gaze flicks up once. “If anyone finds out—” “No one will.” A temporary access tunnel opens on her screen, thirty minutes before it self-erasers.

You pull out your phone to re-route your handler keys, but the phone isn’t in your pocket. Your pulse spikes. Mira raises a brow. “Lose something?” You exhale. “Jay.”

You return home like a shadow, silent, poised, lethal. Your apartment is dark. Too dark. Jay never leaves it dark. He hates the dark. You move slow, every step measured.  The door clicks behind you. And the moment it shuts, a hand covers your mouth. Not rough. Not panicked.

Purposeful. Jay’s body presses yours into the wall, his breath warm against your ear. “You left without saying goodbye,” he murmurs. You sink your teeth into his palm. He hisses, pulling back, hand flexing. “You bite harder at home than on missions,” he says lightly.

You elbow him in the ribs. He dodges, laughs, and spins you, pinning your wrist to the wall with a grip that’s firm, not bruising.

“Are we fighting?” he asks, eyes bright, wild, excited. “Please say yes.” You twist your wrist. He tightens grip. “Let go,” you whisper. “No.” You slam your knee toward his thigh, he blocks, catches your leg, hooks it around his waist. Too close. Too intimate. Too familiar. Your breath stutters. He notices. His voice softens. “Where were you?”  It’s not jealousy. It’s not suspicion. It’s fear. Real fear. “Don’t,” you say. Jay leans in, forehead brushing yours. “Tell me.”

“Why?” Your pulse stings. “So you can report it?” He freezes. Slowly, his hand drops from your wrist. “You think I’d turn you in?” “You hacked my firm.” “You blew up my car.” “You poisoned me.” “You stabbed me.” “You started it.” “You married me.”

You both blink. Everything stops.Jay takes a slow step back. Something flickers in his eyes, hurt, sharp, unguarded for a fraction of a second. “You don’t get to use that,” he says quietly.

“…Jay—” “No.” He shakes his head once. “That was real. Whatever else we are, whatever game we’re playing, that wasn’t the game.” His voice cracks just a little. Barely there. Barely audible.

It hits harder than any weapon. You swallow. Your chest feels too tight. He steps around you, slow, cautious, like approaching a wounded animal. “If you keep treating this like a mission,” Jay says softly, “I’ll start fighting like it is one.” That’s the warning. The last one he’ll give. Your voice is thin. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.” “You never have to ask,” he says. “I just do.”

You turn away, fast. Too fast. It gives him the opening. Jay reaches into his back pocket and tosses something onto the table. Your phone. Completely wiped. Factory reset. SIM ejected. Firmware updated. “Jay.” The word isn't anger. It’s disbelief.

“I told you I was good with tech,” he says. You stare at the dead device. “You wiped my tracking. My contacts.” “Yes.” “My encrypted notes.” “Yes.” “My mission tags.” “Yes.” You take a step toward him, voice lethal. “Why?” Jay stares at you. Not smirking. Not teasing.

Serious. “Because someone else put you on the Evan hit,” he says quietly. “Someone who wasn’t supposed to. And your firm isn’t the one pulling strings.” Your heart stops. “…what?” He walks closer, slowly, the way he always does when the truth is the most dangerous thing in the room. “The target?” Jay says softly. “Everything around him?” “The hit that went wrong?” “The explosion?” “The double assignment?” He exhales. “It wasn’t an accident.” Your breath stutters. “Jay, what the fuck do you know that I don’t?”

He shakes his head. “Not here.” He reaches out, slowly, like a truce. His fingers hover near yours. “If we’re going to survive this,” he murmurs, “you need to trust me.”You stare at his hand. Trust. You haven’t trusted anyone in five years. You don’t know how.

So you do the only thing you can. You don’t take his hand. But you don’t walk away either. Jay’s breath shakes. A tiny, almost imperceptible release of tension. It’s enough. He nods. Steps back. Gives you space. “We’re in this together now,” he says. You swallow. “Not by choice.”

Jay holds your gaze. “Marriage never is.” You almost laugh. Almost. And that’s when both your phones buzz at the same time. You look at each other. Then at the notification.

PRIORITY ALERT — EVAN SIGHTINGLocation: UNKNOWNSender: UNKNOWNMessage: RUN.

Your pulse spikes. Jay’s eyes flick to you, fear, fury, devotion all tangled into one sharp, explosive truth: Someone is hunting you both. And they know exactly where to find you. Your notification blinks twice before the screen goes black. Jay’s does the same. A synchronized kill-switch. An external override.

Someone just shut down your comms. Someone inside your network. Someone inside his. Your pulse spikes. Jay’s jaw tightens. “Back room,” he says. You don’t argue.

The two of you move in perfect sync, terrifyingly perfect, crossing the living room in three strides. You reach for the emergency drawer beneath the bar; Jay grabs the floor-plate latch behind the bookshelf. Your fingers brush cold metal. Glock. Silencer. Knife. Jay pulls up a case you didn’t even know he hid beneath the floorboards.

“Really?” you whisper, motioning to the hidden compartment. “I said I was good at tech, not that I was boring.” He flips the case open. Guns. Ammo. A tracking beacon the size of a grain of rice. You don’t have time to question it. A soft click echoes through the apartment. Then another.

Then—

WHRRR—

The building’s automatic locks engage. Jay’s head snaps up. “Someone triggered the internal seal.” “From outside?” “No.” He cocks his gun. “Someone who has access to both of our profiles.” Meaning: Someone who knows you’re assassins. Someone who knows you’re married. Someone who wants you trapped.

Your breath goes thin. Jay moves first, pushing you behind the kitchen island just as the glass balcony doors SHATTER. Wind. Glass. Gunfire. The first bullet whistles past your ear. The next embeds in the marble countertop. Jay shoves you down with a sharp, “Stay low,” then fires three quick, precise shots through the broken glass.

Two bodies drop. A third retreats behind the balcony railing. You slide across the floor, snagging a spare pistol he’d left under the table (of course he has guns everywhere), and pop off a shot toward the movement. Jay glances at you. Not surprised. Not impressed. Something like relief.

Then an echoing THUNK. A grappling hook hits the floor, metal claws digging into the tile. “They’re coming in from the roof,” you hiss. “No, they’re coming in from everywhere.” As if on cue, the hallway door explodes inward, splintering wood across the floor. Four men enter. Black gear. Custom rifles. Zero insignia.

Not government. Not mercenaries. Something worse. “Down!” Jay barks. You duck behind the overturned chair as Jay fires again, his shots sharp and clean even in chaos. One intruder drops, but the others fan out, forcing you into a crossfire. You roll sideways, sliding behind the dining table, heart hammering. You fire twice, one bullet taking a man’s shoulder, another grazing his thigh.

Jay shouts, “Left!” You spin, knife out, just as another intruder lunges. You bury the blade between his ribs. Jay’s breath catches. Not from fear. From something closer to awe. But there’s no time to acknowledge it. More footsteps thunder down the hall. “Jay,” you breathe, “we need an exit.” “We’re not making it to the stairs.” He reloads. “We take the balcony.”

“That’s a ten-story drop.” “I didn’t say jump.” He hits a switch on the wall, a switch you’ve never noticed, and a thin metal cable unspools toward the balcony like a steel lifeline. You stare. He winks. Of course he has a zipline.But before either of you can reach it—CRACK.

A bullet hits the floor inches from your hand. You dive. Jay turns to cover you, and in that one second, you see it. The sniper on the roof. The glint of a scope. The trajectory aligning perfectly with Jay’s chest. Your breath freezes.

“JAY—!” The gun fires.Jay turns, but not fast enough. THUD. The bullet slams into his shoulder, jerking his body backward. You scream his name, raw, unfiltered, instinctive, and launch forward, catching him before he hits the floor. Blood spreads fast beneath your fingers. “Fuck—Jay—no—stay with me—” He grits his teeth, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut for a second too long.

“I’m fine,” he pants. “You’re bleeding out,” you snap. His grin is shaky, defiant. “You should’ve seen the other guy.” Another bullet smashes into the wall behind you. “Move!” you hiss, dragging him behind the couch. He tries to push you away. Fails. His arm trembles.

Your chest feels like it’s collapsing. Not from panic. From realization. You are not supposed to care this much. You are absolutely caring this much. Jay leans his head back, breath heaving. “You’re… worried about me,” he says weakly. “Shut up.” “You are.”  He smiles again. It’s soft. It’s stupid. It’s killing you.

“Jay, I swear to god—” “Your hands are shaking,” he whispers. You look down. They are. Another blast from the hallway makes the floor tremble. You grab him by the jaw, forcing his eyes open. “Listen to me. If you pass out, I’m killing you myself.” Jay breathes a broken laugh. “I knew you cared.” You press your forehead to his, just for a second, because fear is a physical thing in your throat.

“We’re getting you out,” you whisper. Then you stand.  Gun ready. Heart burning. A shadow moves in the hall. You fire before you think. Two shots. One body drops. Jay watches you through half-lidded eyes, dazed and bleeding but still tracking your every move. “Jesus,” he murmurs, “you’re beautiful.”

“Jay, shut the fuck up—” Another volley of gunfire cuts into your words. Jay forces himself to his feet, pressing a hand to his wound, face going white. You grab his arm. “Don’t you dare—” “I’m not leaving you,” he says hoarsely. “You can barely stand—” “Then you’ll hold me up.”

He raises his gun with his good arm. You stare at him, angry. Terrified. A little in love. Just a little. “On three,” you say. Jay nods, breath stuttering. “Three.”

You don’t even say one or two. You both burst from cover, you firing left, Jay firing right, two bodies drop, and Jay stumbles. You catch him with an arm around the waist, hauling him toward the balcony.

Glass crunches under your boots. The wind screams through the broken doors. Jay gasps, “We zipline.” “You can’t grip it.” “You’re not carrying me.” “Watch me.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but gunfire erupts behind you and he has no time. The cable swings wildly in the wind. Jay sways. You grab the harness, loop his arm through it, cinch it across his chest. “Hold on to me,” you demand. His hand grips your shirt weakly. “Always,” he whispers. You kick off the balcony.

Bullets chase you through the air. Wind tears at your clothes. Jay’s blood smears your arm where he’s clinging to you. You hit the opposite balcony too hard. You nearly fall. Jay groans, collapsing against you. But you’re alive. You’re out. For now. You drag him inside the empty apartment, slam the door shut, and drop to your knees beside him.

Jay looks at you through hazy eyes. Smile faint. Voice faint. “You saved me.” “Don’t.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it like that.” Jay lifts a hand, shaking, bloodied, and touches your cheek.“You’re shaking again,” he whispers.

Your vision blurs for a second. “You took a bullet for me,” you breathe. His lips part. “Of course I did.” The truth of it hangs between you, dangerous, unspoken, blinding. And that’s when you realize:You are not his enemy. You never were. Someone else is. Someone who wants you both dead. Someone who just forced you onto the same side.

Jay’s head lolls forward, barely conscious. “Stay with me,” you whisper, grabbing his face, forcing his eyes open. He breathes a tiny laugh. “As long as you’re here,” he murmurs, “I’m not going anywhere.” And he doesn’t let go of your shirt.

His head lolls forward before you catch it, your hands sliding under his jaw, guiding him back against the wall. His skin is cold. Too cold. “Jay—Jay, stay with me,” you breathe, panic tearing up your throat like barbed wire. Not even when his eyes finally close do you let yourself blink. “No… no, no— Jay.” You shake him, voice breaking. “Wake up! Wake—” Your vision blurs. Hot, stinging tears gather so fast you barely feel them until they fall, hitting his cheek, mixing with the rain and blood.

Jay’s lashes flutter. His eyes open only a sliver, unfocused but stubborn. “Relax, princess…” he murmurs, and the nickname sounds wrong on dying lips. He coughs, hard, body shaking, blood splattering across your wrist. You flinch, but only for a second before cupping his face again. “Don’t talk,” you whisper. It comes out harsher than intended. “Please. Don’t talk.” He tries to laugh, but it breaks in his chest. “Bossy…”

“Shut up.” You press your forehead to his, breathing him in, counting his breaths like you can hold them steady with sheer will. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna fix this, okay? Just— just hold on.” Your hands move before your thoughts do, tearing open the med pack strapped to your thigh. Your fingers shake so violently you drop the gauze twice before slamming it against the wound in his side.

Jay groans, low, guttural, teeth gritted. “I know,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I know, I know— I’m sorry—” You press harder. His blood seeps through instantly, hot and slick against your palms. You’re losing him. If you don’t stop the bleed, he’ll— “I’ve had worse,” he rasps.

You glare at him through your tears. “Stop trying to be charming while you’re dying.” “Worked on you before,” he whispers, mouth twitching. “Jay.” Your voice breaks again. “Please. Let me help you.” He lifts a shaky hand, blood-soaked fingers brushing your cheek, smearing red across your skin like paint. “You’re beautiful when you worry.”

Your breath leaves you in a shudder. “I’m not— I’m not losing you,” you choke out. “Not now. Not like this.” You rip open another roll of gauze, press harder, feel for the bullet. You can’t pull it out here, not without killing him faster, so you stabilize, bind, improvise a pressure pack using your own torn shirt.

Jay watches you through half-lidded eyes, like memorizing you is the only thing keeping him awake. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs.“Because you’re bleeding out, you idiot.” He tries for a smile, fails. “Still bossy.” You swallow a sob. “Jay, don’t close your eyes.” “I’m tired.”“No.” Your voice snaps, sharp and terrified. “You don’t get to sleep. Look at me. Keep looking.”

His gaze slips, then steadies. “I’m right here,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his temple. “Stay with me.” He exhales, long and shaky, leaning into you like it’s instinct. “Thought you hated me,” he mumbles. “I do,” you whisper. “But you’re not allowed to die.”

His hand finds your wrist weakly. “Selfish.” “I don’t care.” For a moment, there’s only rain, blood, your breath shaking against his. Then, “Princess…?” His voice breaks. “Don’t… leave.” “I’m not going anywhere,” you swear, gripping his hand so hard your knuckles ache. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” And even as his eyes start to flutter closed again, you keep holding him together with your hands, your voice, your heartbeat pressed to his. You won’t let him go. Not tonight. Not ever.

You press your palm to the wound, breath shaking. “Stay with me, Jay, don’t you dare—” His eyes slip half-shut, lashes wet. “Relax, princess… I’m fine.” He’s not. Blood spreads warm under your fingers.

“Fine?” you snap, voice breaking. “You took a bullet for me. I could’ve—” A sharp clatter echoes from outside the safehouse. Both your heads snap up. Jay inhales sharply, forcing himself upright despite your hands. “We need to move.” You sling his arm over your shoulder, practically dragging him out the back. The moment the door bursts open, the sky greets you with a cold, merciless downpour. Rain soaks through your clothes instantly, mixing with the blood on your hands.

You stop in the alleyway, chest heaving. Everything hits you at once. “You shouldn’t have done that,” you whisper, rain sliding down your face like tears you refuse to let fall. “You shouldn’t… I could’ve taken the damn bullet, Jay.” He opens his mouth, but you step back from him, shaking your head hard.“ You don’t get to make that choice for me.” Your voice is raw, trembling. “Not anymore.” Then you turn, heart pounding, rain drowning out every sound except the shatter of something breaking inside you, and you walk away from him.

You slam the door behind you so hard the frame rattles. Jay’s eyes follow you, bruised from the shrapnel, and still somehow infuriatingly calm. The apartment smells like smoke and adrenaline. You smell like panic. He saved you. You hate that he saved you. You hate even more that he almost died doing it.

You wheel around on him, chest heaving. “What the hell was that?”

Jay pauses, one hand braced on the wall as he toes off his boots, rainwater pooling beneath him. There’s a cut across his cheekbone he hasn’t even bothered to wipe. He glances up at you, slow, measured, knowing exactly how to piss you off. “What was what?” he says lightly.

Your hands curl into fists. “You were reckless.”

His brows lift, just a little. His breath hitches, just a little. And then he laughs under his breath, soft and disbelieving. “That’s what I get for saving your life?” “It’s not—” you start, voice cracking with more emotion than you’d ever allow if you weren’t this wrung out. “It’s not like that, Jay.”

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer, wiping the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Really? Because from where I was standing, you were about two seconds away from becoming modern art on that wall.” “That was the job.” Your throat burns. “And you— you didn’t have to—” “Didn’t have to what?” he interrupts. “Jump in? Blow my cover? Pick you over the target? Yeah. I’m aware.”

You stare at him, stunned. He says it like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t cost him. Like he didn’t just choose you over a multimillion-dollar bounty. Like he didn’t almost get shot in the throat because he was too busy making sure you stayed alive.

“You can’t do that,” you whisper. He laughs again, but this time it’s not amused. It’s sharp, frayed, ripped out of him. “Can’t do what?” He gestures wildly toward you. “Care if you get killed?” Your nails dig half-moons into your palms. “You’re not supposed to. That’s the point.” “Oh, right,” he snaps. “Because we’re professionals. Cold. Detached. Dead inside. Pick your favorite cliché.”

“This isn’t funny.” “You think I’m laughing?” You shut up. Silence slams into the room like a bullet. Jay inhales deeply, trying, failing, to steady himself. There’s soot on his collar. A bruise blooming over his ribs. He looks wrecked. And somehow, still… looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth keeping track of.

He steps closer. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says quietly. Almost brokenly. His voice is low enough that if the thunder outside were louder, you’d miss it entirely. Your breath catches. Your heart forgets what it’s supposed to do. “Jay…” you say softly. But he’s already shaking his head, pushing past whatever softness was threatening to break him open.

“Don’t twist it,” he mutters. “You’d have done the same for me.” You don’t answer. Because he’s right. And that terrifies you more than anything. His eyes search yours, messy, raw, too honest for two people who signed a marriage certificate under false names and lies.

Then he says, quieter still: “Tell me it didn’t mean anything.” A challenge. A plea. You swallow hard, and say nothing. Because you can’t lie to him anymore. Not in this moment. Jay exhales sharply, stepping back like he’s been hit. “Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s what I thought.” The storm outside cracks open the sky. Inside, the tension is a different kind of thunder. “Jay, wait—” “Don’t,” he says, turning away, jaw clenched. “Just… don’t.”

But you cross the distance before he can escape into the hallway, grabbing his wrist. His pulse jumps beneath your fingers. “Listen to me,” you say, breath shaking. “I wasn’t angry because you saved me. I was angry because you didn’t think about yourself.” He scoffs. But you see the way his shoulders loosen, just barely. “How noble of you,” he mutters. “Concern for the man you tried to poison with his morning coffee.” You wince. “You know why I did that.”

“Do I?” he says, spinning to face you, eyes burning. “Because from my perspective, our marriage turned into a battleground before breakfast.” “Because I thought you were going to kill me first,” you snap. Jay’s jaw flexes. He stares at you, stunned. “No,” he says slowly. “I wasn’t.”

“I knew,” you whisper. “I knew the second you hesitated at the briefing. You were never going to take the hit.” “And you were?” There’s no accusation. Just hurt. You close your eyes. “I don’t know,” you admit. Jay’s breath leaves him in one long, exhausted sigh. “Then what are we doing?” he says. The question isn't rhetorical. It’s the most honest thing he’s ever asked you.

“We’re surviving,” you say. “Together?” he asks. You don’t answer. You can’t answer. Not yet. But you don’t let go of his wrist. And he doesn’t pull away. 

“I think not letting you die is the bare minimum of being your husba—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing, voice cracking on the word he suddenly seems afraid to say. Husband. The one word neither of you had dared to use since the reveal. Your heart thunders. “You can’t—Jay, you can’t just—” “Just what?” His hand wraps around your wrist and slams it above your head. “Care? Worry? Interfere?”

“Get shot!” you snap. “Better me than you,” he snaps back. And that, that is what breaks something open in you. The fear. The fury. The adrenaline. Everything you’d been holding together with duct tape and denial. Your hand goes to your thigh holster so fast he doesn’t even register the movement, but he does when you jam the barrel of your pistol into the center of his chest.

You feel the jolt run through him. A shiver. A hesitation. He looks down at the gun, then up at you. Slowly. A smile, sharp, crooked, infuriating, crawls onto his lips. “Finally,” he murmurs. “There you are.” You pull the trigger half a millimeter, just enough to make the metal click. He exhales like you’ve kissed him. Then he moves. His hand knocks the gun sideways; the shot fires into the ceiling, plaster raining down. At the same time he sweeps your legs, fast, elegant, brutal, and the two of you crash onto the floor in a snarl of limbs and curses.

You roll, flip, pin him. He twists, grabs your waist, flips you back. Your knee drives into his ribs. His elbow catches the floor beside your head, inches from smashing your skull. A grunt. A gasp. The scrape of skin on hardwood. Your breaths tangling like wire. He manages to get on top of you, thighs bracketing your hips, hands gripping your wrists so tightly you feel the pulse pounding through his palms.

His face is flushed, chest heaving, eyes burning with equal parts fury and want. “You’re out of your mind,” you breathe. Jay leans down, lips brushing your ear. “So are you.”

You buck your hips to throw him off just as he lowers himself onto you, and it backfires. His hips grind into yours, the friction sharp, scorching. A moan breaks in your throat. He hears it. His breath stutters. And then everything changes. His grip on your wrists tightens.  His hips pin yours harder. The fight hums into something darker.

He drags your hands above your head and holds both with one palm, the veins in his forearm rising like tension cables. His other hand slides down your throat, not choking, just feeling your pulse slam against his skin. “You were scared,” he says quietly. The softness of the words clashes with the ferocity of his hold. “No,” you lie. His thumb brushes the hollow of your throat. “You were terrified something would happen to me.”

Your breath shakes. “Jay—” He kisses you. Not gentle. Not careful. A violent, hungry collision of teeth and breath and heat. You bite his lip and he groans into your mouth, his hand sliding down your throat, along your collarbone, under your shirt. His fingers splay across your stomach, dragging the fabric up.

Your legs lock around his waist without your permission. He breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down your jaw, biting just hard enough to leave marks. “You wanted to kill me five minutes ago.” “I still might,” you pant. “Do it after.” He grinds down against you, slow and deliberate, and your back arches off the floor. His hand releases your wrists just long enough to rip your shirt open, the buttons snapping, scattering across the hardwood.

You shove him onto his back and straddle him, your hands braced on his chest. He looks up at you like you’re a miracle and a threat. “Fuck,” he whispers, head falling back. “Hit me again.” You punch him in the shoulder so hard it echoes. He groans, long, deep, wrecked.

You drag your hips down against his and his entire body jerks. He grabs your waist, thumbs digging into your skin, guiding your movement with frustrated, desperate precision. “Harder,” he gets out, voice fraying. “Don’t—don’t hold back.” You lean down and bite his neck, the taste of his skin hot and sharp between your teeth. He bucks so violently you have to grab his shoulders to stay balanced.

His hands slide under you, gripping your ass, pulling you against him rhythmically, hungry, demanding, each motion a dare. You kiss him again, even messier this time, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths, tearing at clothing, at control. At sanity. He flips you again, your breath knocks out as your back hits the floor, and then he’s on you, between your legs, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other drags down your stomach, down your hip, down, you gasp when he reaches between your legs through what’s left of your underwear.

His thumb strokes you once, experimentally. Your hips jerk. Jay exhales shakily, forehead pressing to yours. “God, you’re—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re killing me.” “Good,” you breathe. He kisses you again, slow for half a second, then brutal, full of teeth, his fingers sliding against you, stroking harder, deeper, pushing you toward a fall neither of you planned for. Your nails drag down his back. He hisses. He bites your shoulder. You moan.

Every movement is anger and need and unstoppable momentum. He shifts, lining himself up, breath hitching, but then he stills. Completely. His forehead presses to yours. His breathing stumbles. You feel the tremor run through him. “You sure?” he whispers. You grab his jaw, forcing him to look at you.  “Jay. Shut up.” He laughs once, wrecked, breathless, then pushes into you.

Your breath catches, your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in as he thrusts again, harder this time, hips snapping forward with the same precision he fights with. A broken sound leaves your throat. He answers with one of his own. His rhythm is fast, rough, hungry, each thrust driving your back across the floor, your fingers scrambling for purchase, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. He kisses your mouth. Your neck. Your jaw. Whispering curses and confessions against your skin.

“I shouldn’t want you like this,” he growls. “Then stop.” “You know I can’t.” Your bodies snap together in a frantic, violent rhythm, fighting and clinging and devouring each other, the line between combat and desire shredded beyond recognition. Your climax hits like a gunshot, sharp, overwhelming, ripping a cry from you that you try and fail to swallow. Jay feels it. His whole body shudders. “Don’t—stop—” you gasp.

He doesn’t. He can’t. He moves faster, hips slamming into yours, hands gripping your throat and waist like he can’t decide whether he wants to worship you or pin you to the floor forever.

When he finally comes, it’s with a broken, strangled sound, his face buried in your neck, his body shaking through the final thrusts, breath hot and shattered against your skin. For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sounds: your breathing, his breathing, the distant hum of the fridge, the soft clatter of a gun rolling across the floor. Slowly, carefully, Jay lifts his head. His hair falls over his forehead, damp with sweat. His eyes meet yours. And there it is. The truth you’ve been avoiding, fearing, hating.

Neither of you will ever kill the other. Not because you can’t. But because you won’t. He collapses beside you, chest heaving, arm thrown over his face. You stare at the ceiling, heart still racing, your body still trembling with the shock of everything that just happened. After a long silence, Jay speaks, voice quiet, wrecked:“…We’re in so much trouble.”

You laugh, soft, disbelieving, broken.  “Yeah,” you breathe. “We are.” His hand blindly finds yours on the floor. You let him take it. You don’t let go.

Morning breaks through shattered glass like an apology that comes too late. The living room is a battlefield wearing sunlight.  A cracked lamp. A chair on its side. Guns scattered across the floor. Your ripped shirt dangling from the edge of the couch like a white flag no one surrendered.

You’re the first to wake. Your body aches, bruises blooming purple, muscles trembling in ways that have nothing to do with fighting. Jay is asleep on the floor beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising slow and steady despite the deep, angry bruise blooming across his ribs.

Right where your knee hit him. You swallow. Last night had been a war. This morning feels like the ceasefire no one signed. You push yourself up, wincing. Jay stirs at the sound. His voice is rough, sleep-heavy, almost gentle enough to hurt: “…Morning.” He moves to sit up and instantly stiffens, pain flashing across his face. His hand goes to his shoulder. You reach out without thinking. “Hey, stop. You're injured—”

He bats your hand away, offended. “I’m fine.” “You’re literally bleeding, Jay.” He looks down at the dried streak of red along his side, unimpressed. “Occupational hazard.” “You need rest.” He snorts. “I need coffee.”

He pushes himself to his feet anyway, stubborn as hell, favoring his left side. He winces only once, and only because he thinks you’re not looking. You are. You follow him into the kitchen, the air between you still… charged. Last night sits on your skin like phantom fingerprints. Jay grabs the French press. Pauses. Glances at you.

And in a quiet voice that sounds like truce, like surrender, like something you’re not ready to name,“Coffee?” You hesitate.Not because you don’t want it. Because accepting anything from him feels too much like trust. Your silence makes something flicker through his eyes, hurt, maybe, or fear he’d never admit to. He turns away. “It’s not poisoned.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “I know.”

He pours two cups. You take yours. His shoulders drop the smallest amount, as if that simple gesture, coffee accepted, means he can breathe for the first time since last night. You open your mouth to say something, apology, maybe, or warning, but your phone vibrates on the counter. A single alert. Your blood runs cold. Jay’s phone buzzes at the exact same time. You pull yours open. He does the same. Two identical messages. Two identical contract codes. Two identical targets.

TARGETS: – CODENAME: SPECTER – CODENAME: NIGHTSHADE HIGHEST PRIORITY: ELIMINATION STATUS: CONFIRMED STRIKE IMMEDIATELY

Specter. Jay’s codename. Nightshade. Yours. Your firm gave you a kill order. On him. His firm gave him a kill order. On you. Jay’s eyes meet yours, quiet, hollow, stunned. “…They teamed up,” he says. “Yeah.” Your throat feels tight. “They did.” “Because we survived.” “Because we didn’t kill each other.” Silence stretches between you, long, sharp, terrifying. Then, A shadow moves behind the frosted glass of the front door.

Jay reacts first. Gun drawn. Body tense despite the pain ripping through his ribs. You move beside him, back-to-back, mirroring his stance. Your hands tremble just slightly. “…Jay?” you whisper. “I see him.” The doorknob turns. Jay raises his gun. The door opens. A man steps inside, hands lifted, expression calm, but eyes alert, scanning the room in one sweep. Black jacket. Messy brown hair. Sharp, intelligent gaze. Yang Jungwon. Jay’s handler. His closest friend.

Jungwon shuts the door behind him and lets out a soft whistle at the destruction. “Well,” he says lightly, “at least you two finally consummated something.” “Jungwon,” Jay warns through his teeth.

Jungwon ignores him. He looks at you, not as an enemy, not even as competition. As someone whose life is equally hanging by a thread. “They know,” Jungwon says simply. You force your voice steady. “About last night?” “No.” Jungwon steps further inside, lowering his hands. “About the prison transfer. About the botched hit. About Evan.”

Your pulse kicks hard. Lee Heeseung. Codename: Evan. The target both firms wanted dead. The target who escaped because you and Jay were too busy staring each other down to finish the job. Jungwon continues, tone flat: “You’re both liabilities now. Loose ends. They teamed up to erase you.”

Jay tenses beside you. “How long do we have?” “Hours. Maybe less.” Jungwon’s eyes settle on Jay’s side. “You’re hurt.” “He’s fine,” you say automatically. “I didn’t ask you,” Jungwon replies, but not unkindly. Jay straightens despite the clear pain. “What’s the plan?” Jungwon hesitates for the first time. He looks at both of you, at the bruises, the tension, the silent terror beneath your defiance.

Then: “You need leverage. Big leverage.” A beat. “Grab Evan.” You blink. “He escaped. He could be anywhere—” “He’s not.” Jungwon reaches into his jacket, pulls out a tracking photo. Grainy but clear. “He’s wounded. Hiding. He won’t get far without help.” Jay exhales slowly, jaw tightening. “You want us to use a DIA prisoner as a bargaining chip.”

Jungwon nods. “It’s the only thing that stops both firms from wiping you off the map.” You step back, shaking your head. “Jay needs rest. He can’t—” Jungwon raises a brow. “Jay has hours until a kill squad kicks down this door.” You turn to Jay. “We can do it tomorrow. You’re injured—”

Jay laughs once, dry, disbelieving. “Tomorrow?” “Jay—” “Tomorrow?” he repeats, stepping closer, his voice quietly furious. “We don’t have a tomorrow if we sit here.” You grab his arm. “You’re not at full capacity—” “I don’t care.” “You’re bleeding—” “I. Don’t. Care.” His voice cracks on the last word. Not with anger.

With fear. He looks at you, really looks, eyes raw, chest rising too fast, his ribs clearly killing him. “I’m not losing you,” he says. It’s barely louder than a breath. Your heart stumbles in your chest. Jungwon clears his throat. “So… shall we?” Jay grabs his jacket, his gun, the keys to the ruined car you blew up yesterday. You take a breath, steady yourself, and follow him out.

Because even injured, even furious, even hunted, Jay doesn’t hesitate. And neither do you. The plan should’ve waited. You said it three times. Jay ignored it three times. He’s still moving like someone stitched him together with adrenaline and pure spite; his ribs are wrapped, his lip is split, and every few minutes he winces like his body is reminding him what you did to each other last night.

But he still holsters his weapons like nothing hurts. “Jay,” you hiss as you crouch behind the concrete barriers overlooking the transport route. “You’re injured.” He cocks his head, expression maddeningly casual. “And you’re bossy. We all have our burdens.”

“Jay—” “Look,” he murmurs, adjusting his scope despite the tremor in his grip. “We do this now or they move him underground forever. You want to spend the rest of our lives being hunted? Because I would like at least one morning where our coffee isn’t poisoned.”

You smack his shoulder. He smirks. “See? You care.” “Shut up.” The convoy rumbles into view, six armored cars, two decoy vans, the kind of escort pattern reserved for nuclear weapons or very, very important men. Like Evan. Heeseung. The reason your entire world is burning.

Jay gives you a look, a question disguised as a shrug. “Ready?” You exhale. “Don’t die.” His jaw softens, but only for a second. “Not planning to. Not until you say I can.” And then, chaos. You drop smoke onto the road. Jay shoots out the front wheels of the lead truck. The transport jolts, metal screaming as it swerves off the roadside barrier.

Soldiers scatter. Jay moves fast, too fast for someone stitched with bruises, sliding over the hood of a van, taking two guards down with clean, silent precision. You match his rhythm: a blade to a throat, a chokehold, a sweep, a disarm. The two of you could’ve coordinated this in your sleep, and maybe you had, in the old life, the life before rings, before truth.

He catches your eye mid-spin. “You always were sloppy with exits.” You duck a punch, elbow a guard in the temple. “You liked that about me.” He laughs, breathless, wicked. “You’re not wrong.” Together you reach the transport, override the manual lock, and haul the reinforced door open. Inside, cuffed to a steel bench, sits Evan. He looks… calm. Almost forgiving. “You came,” he says softly, like he expected you. Jay points a gun at him. “Move and I’ll put three in your leg.”

Evan tilts his head. “Jay Park. DIA’s worst hire and their biggest headache. You’re looking a little rough.” “Thanks,” Jay says flatly. “We had marital issues.” You shove Jay. “Shut up.” Evan smiles like he knows exactly what that means.You cut his restraints. Jay yanks him out by the collar. “We’re using you as leverage,” Jay says. “Don’t get sentimental.”

Evan’s eyes flick toward you. “You still think I’m the mission?” You stiffen. “What?” Jay narrows his eyes. “Don’t play games.” Evan sighs, rolling his wrists where the cuffs had bitten skin. “You really don’t know.” “Know what?” you demand. He looks between you, slow, almost pitying. “You weren’t sent to kill me.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “I was bait.” Jay stops breathing. “What?” you whisper.

Evan steps out of the truck like a condemned man walking himself to the gallows. His voice is steady, but there’s a tremor beneath it, fear or grief, you can’t tell. “You were meant to kill each other.” The world goes very quiet. Your firms. The double kill order. The impossible mission overlap. The repeated “no survivors” clause.

Everything clicks. Everything shatters. Jay closes his eyes for one heartbeat, then another. “…Fuck,” he breathes. You swallow. Hard. “We walked into a setup.” “You didn’t walk,” Evan says gently. “You ran.” Jay’s fingers twitch toward yours, barely a brush, barely a breath, but you feel it like impact. You’re both shaking. Not from fear. From realization. From betrayal.

From the knowledge that the only person who didn’t try to kill you… is the same person you were ordered to kill. The wind circles the wrecked transport, carrying smoke and dust and the faint metallic bite of blood. Evan waits several paces away, smart enough to give you distance, smart enough to know the real explosion hasn’t happened yet.

It’s between you and Jay. Jay’s breathing is uneven, like his body can’t decide whether to collapse or fight. The morning sun cuts across his cheekbone, highlighting the bruise you gave him, the split lip he earned, the exhaustion he’s hiding badly.

He looks at you. And for the first time since the night you married him… you can’t read him at all. You take a half-step back. “Don’t,” he says quietly. Your throat feels scraped raw. “Jay—” “No.” He runs a hand through his hair, wincing when his ribs protest. “Let me, just, try to say something before this gets worse.” You stay silent. You don’t trust your voice. He breathes in slow, controlled, like he’s defusing a bomb strapped to his own spine. “So that’s what we were,” he says. “A mission. An assignment that went on too long.” Your mouth trembles. You hate that he can see it.

“We were set up to fail,” you say. “Set up to kill each other.” Jay nods, grim, bitter. “Yeah. I guess the joke’s on them.” His eyes meet yours, something breaking underneath. “Because I didn’t.” You swallow hard. He takes one step closer.

“Maybe it started as a mission.” His voice softens in a way that hurts more than any bullet ever could. “But I fell anyway.” The world steadies for one impossible heartbeat. Jay doesn’t look away. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t hide. He just stands there, bruised, cut, breathing too shallow, offering the one thing that could destroy you more thoroughly than any firm ever has: the truth.

Your fingers curl into fists. You want to scream. You want to kiss him. You want to go back in time and drag your past self by the throat for letting this happen. Instead, your voice comes out barely audible. “That’s the problem.” Jay’s jaw clenches. Not in anger. In pain. He knows exactly what you mean. You fell too. And that, that, is the one variable neither of you were trained to survive.

Smoke drifts from the cracked asphalt. The transport alarms wail faintly in the distance, glitching in and out like a dying heartbeat. You and Jay stand there in the tension of something raw and newly broken,  your confession hanging between you like a live wire. Jay’s chest rises and falls too fast. You can tell he wants to step toward you again. You can tell you’d let him. But before either of you move, a voice slices in: “Romantic,” Evan deadpans. “Touching, even. But unless you both want to be buried here, we should RUN.”

You turn sharply, Evan is limping toward you, a stolen pistol in one hand, blood drying on his collar. He looks pissed, exhausted, and somehow still completely unimpressed. Jay mutters, “You always had terrible timing.” “Yeah?” Evan snaps. “Well, your welcoming committees are two minutes out. Drones, thermal sweeps, and eight agents who don’t miss.” He points at you with his gun. “Especially at you.” You exhale through your nose. “Wonderful.”

He gestures wildly. “You think I wanted to be bait? They framed me just to trap you two idiots. So unless you feel like dying for a failed marriage, MOVE.” Jay flinches at the word marriage. You do too. But Evan isn’t done. He jabs a thumb behind him. “Your firms have teamed up. They know you’re alive. They want a clean slate. And guess what cleans a slate real nice and shiny?”

Jay groans. “…our corpses.” “Ding ding,” Evan says. A distant drone hum rises over the ridge. Jay meets your eyes. The argument. The confession. The truth. All of it collapses into one silent decision.

“Come on,” he murmurs, grabbing your wrist, not rough, but firm. “We’re not dying here.” “For once,” Evan mutters, “I agree with the husband.” You shoot him a glare. “He’s not—” But Jay interrupts. “Later.” The three of you sprint across the dirt, weaving between charred vehicles. The drone’s beam sweeps across the ground, searching. Jay shoves you behind a wrecked armored van just as gunfire sparks against the metal.

Evan dives in beside you, panting. “They brought the elites. Perfect. Fantastic. Love this journey for us.” Jay peeks over the edge. “We can take the valley road. It’s unscannable for at least five kilometers.”

You wipe blood from your cheek. “And after that?” Jay hesitates. Evan answers for him: “We improvise. Badly, based on your track record.” Jay throws him a glare. “You’re welcome for pulling you out of that transport.” “I didn’t ask to be saved!” “Doesn’t mean you weren’t going to die.” “GUYS,” you snap. They shut up. Gunfire hits closer.

Jay reaches out, not grabbing your hand, but hovering near it. Almost asking. Almost touching. “Stay close,” he says softly. And you do. Not because he’s right. Not because he’s wrong. But because everything inside you is already moving toward him. Evan sighs dramatically. “If you 

You all break from cover. Running. Breath burning. Heart pounding. Behind you, the drones rise like angry steel hornets. The valley road is nothing more than a cracked stretch of asphalt carved between cliffs, no lights, no railings, just moonlight and danger. Jay’s SUV fishtails as he guns the engine, gravel spraying behind you in flashes. Evan is half-conscious in the back seat, muttering insults between pained breaths. Jay keeps glancing at you through the reflection in the windshield. Not checking if you’re okay, checking if you’re still here.

Drones rise behind the ridge like a dark swarm, red eyes pulsing. “Tell me that’s not four,” you say. Jay doesn’t blink. “It’s six.” “Perfect.”

You’re already climbing into the back, popping open the trunk compartment. Jay keeps one hand on the wheel, the other reaching blindly to grab a spare mag you slap into his palm. The swarm locks onto the car’s heat signature. Beep—beep—beep. “That’s a missile lock,” Evan groans. “Missile. As in things that blow up. You two love ignoring those.”

Jay’s voice drops into something low, focused, lethal. “You want to complain, or do you want to grab the EMP?” Evan coughs. “Which one’s the EMP?” “The one that looks like it’ll kill you if you sneeze on it,” you say. “Oh,” Evan mutters. “Right.”

The beeping quickens. You vault over the seat, shove the hatch open, and balance yourself against the frame as the wind tears at your clothes. Jay yells, “Are you insane?” “Do you have a better idea?” “Yes! Not dying!” “Then drive faster!” Behind you, the drones tighten formation, sleek, military, unrelenting. You yank the EMP sphere from Evan’s shaking hands and twist the dial. The device warms instantly, humming with unstable power.

Jay swerves hard. The world tilts. Wind howls. The beeping hits a fever pitch. You look over your shoulder, a missile flare ignites. “Jay—” “NOW!” he shouts. You slam the EMP button. A pulse of blue light erupts, rippling through the air like a shockwave. The missile flickers, stutters, then drops dead midair. The drones short-circuit, spiraling into the canyon like dying birds.

Jay lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. You collapse back into your seat, chest heaving. Evan wheezes, “I… hate… you both.” Jay glances sideways, finally letting the relief, and something softer, show for half a second. “You okay?” he asks. You meet his eyes. “You’re reckless.” He smirks. “You knew that when you married me.” Evan coughs loudly. “Oh my god, is this really the time—”

BANG. Gunfire explodes against the rear glass, cracking it like ice. Jay curses. “They sent the ground teams.” “Of course they did,” you mutter. Ahead, headlights bloom, three black armored transports blocking the road. Jay’s grip tightens on the wheel. “Baby,” you say, “don’t you dare—” Jay floors it. Evan screams. The SUV slams through the barricade in a shower of sparks, spinning out onto the main highway. Jay wrestles the wheel, gravel spitting in all directions until the tires grip and the car rockets forward again.

You’re all thrown back in your seats. More headlights appear over the hill. Evan groans, “Please tell me that’s ordinary traffic.” Jay snorts, feral. “At this hour?” You draw your gun and chamber a round. “So what now?” Jay’s jaw flexes. “We lose them.” “How?” He slams the turn signal even though no one is looking. And cuts across lanes into oncoming traffic.

Evan shrieks. Jay grins. You swear under your breath but reach for the dashboard to stabilize yourself. “You’re insane.” “Married me anyway,” he says.

Bullets spray from the pursuing convoy, shattering the side mirror, shredding the back tire. The SUV fishtails again. Jay growls under his breath, correcting. “We need cover!” you shout. Jay nods. “I know a place.” “Is it stable?”

“No.” “Safe?” “Not a chance.” “Jay.” He gives you a reckless, stupidly beautiful half-smile. “You trust me?” The car skids around a blind corner. And you see it. A hotel. Lit up like a beacon. Crowded with civilians. Your stomach drops. “Jay—no—” “We’ll shake them inside.”

“That is a terrible idea—”

“You married me.” “That was BEFORE I realized how insane you are!” Jay slams the brakes, yanks the wheel, and the SUV rockets toward the hotel’s front entrance. Evan screams again. “WE ARE NOT DRIVING INTO A—” CRASH.

Glass explodes. The lobby floods with smoke and gunfire. And the chase becomes a war. The SUV skids to a brutal stop in the middle of the marble lobby, tires smoking, chandeliers trembling from the impact. Guests scream and scatter, champagne flutes smashing across polished floors. You shove the door open first, coughing through the dust cloud. Jay emerges on the driver’s side like he does this for morning cardio, rolling his shoulders, grabbing his gun, unfazed.

Evan limps out behind you both, wheezing. “You two need therapy. Separately.” No time to answer, because the glass front shatters again as three tactical teams charge into the lobby, rifles raised. You duck behind a toppled luggage cart, pulling Evan down with you. Jay rolls across the floor, sliding behind a display of fake plants.

Gunfire erupts in a violent percussion. Marble chips fly. A statue of some Renaissance noble loses its head. Jay shouts over the chaos, “You take left, I’ll take the right!” You grit your teeth. “What about the middle?” Jay’s smile is audible. “Trust me!”

You pop up and fire three quick rounds, two hit body armor, one finds a jaw. The man drops. You pivot, grab a server’s overturned tray, and use the polished steel to catch reflections behind you. Two more. You shoot through the tray like a mirror sight.

Jay mirrors you on the other side, sliding across the lobby floor, grabbing a weapon off a fallen guard, and firing with surgical precision. Evan crawls toward a decorative fountain like he’s seeking baptism. “This is—this is not—this is—holy sh—” A grenade clinks onto the floor.

You and Jay shout in unison:  “DOWN!” It detonates, smoke spilling in thick white plumes. Vision drops to zero. Your ears ring. Boots thunder closer. Through the fog, you hear Jay’s voice, low, controlled: “Two incoming to your right!” You twist on instinct, catching only silhouettes, dark, hulking, moving fast. One lunges.

You grab his wrist, twist, and slam his head into the marble. He goes down but tackles you with him, rolling both of you across the floor. He pins you. You jam your knee upward. He chokes, loosens. You elbow his face and finish him with a point-blank shot. Your chest heaves. Jay’s figure cuts through the smoke, expression sharp with adrenaline. “You good?” he asks.

“I’m busy,” you snap, firing past him to pick off someone aiming at his back. Jay doesn’t even look. “Thank you, sweetheart.” “This is NOT the time!” “Later then?” More gunfire. More bodies. The smoke thins just in time for you both to see the second wave enter through the blown-out glass front, armored, masked, efficient. Jay clicks his tongue. “They brought the expensive ones.”

You reload. “Great. Let’s be cost-effective and kill them fast.” He grins. “God, I love you.” You fire twice. “Shut up.” They move in a tight formation, sweeping through the lobby. Jay tugs your arm. “We need high ground.” “What high ground? It’s a lobby.”

He nods toward the enormous crystal chandelier above. “We jump.” You stare at him. “Jay. That is a terrible—” He grabs your waist. “On three.” “Jay—” “Three!” He launches the two of you upward, one hand on your hip, one on the broken banister of the second-floor balcony, using the momentum to swing both your bodies upward. Your stomach drops. Your hands scramble for purchase, but you make it.

The two of you land hard on the balcony floor, breathless but alive. Below, the squads fire up at you. Jay yells, “Go left!” You sprint, ducking behind decorative pillars. Jay takes the opposite direction. Bullets tear through the railings. The balcony trembles. You fire back, picking off the commanders first. Jay’s shots sync with yours, like choreography forged in war.

A guard climbs up the far stairwell. You see him first. Jay’s busy taking down three at once. “Jay, head’s up!” Jay turns, too late. The guard fires.You leap, tackling Jay behind a bust of Julius Caesar. The bullet hits Caesar’s face. Jay breathes hard. “He ruined history.” You shove him. “Stay focused.” But you’re both smiling. Because this is what you are, two storms that somehow learned to move in orbit.

A rocket launcher beeps. You freeze. Jay freezes. Evan screams from downstairs, “DUCK!” The entire left wall detonates, ripping a hole through the lobby, blasting marble, wood, plaster in a bloom of fire and dust. You shield Jay with your body. He drags you down with him. The world tilts, groans, and finally settles. Silence. Then, Jay coughs. “Okay. New plan.”

You rub the blood from your lip. “Yeah?” “Run.” “Run where?” He points toward the emergency exit sign flickering over a side door. You blink. “You want to escape?” “Temporarily.” “That’s new.” “You’re rubbing off on me.” “Jay—” He grabs your hand. Warm. Steady. Infuriating. “Come on.”

And the two of you sprint through the ruined lobby, through fire, through smoke, through broken marble and gunfire, until you slam into the alley behind the hotel, lungs burning.

And for one tiny, fragile second, you’re alive. Together. Just long enough for Jay to say: “…they’re still tracking us.” You turn. A drone hums overhead. Jay sighs. “Great.” You reload your gun. “Where to next?” Jay jerks his head down the alley. “The one place they’ll never expect.” You raise a brow. “And that is—?”

Jay smirks. “A home décor store.” You skid into the fluorescent-lit entrance like two escaped zoo exhibits, guns out, drenched, bleeding, adrenaline-soaked.

The bell above the door chimes politely. Jay looks at it, offended. “We’re literally being hunted by black-ops kill teams and they give us a cute little ding?” You grab his wrist and yank him inside. “Move.” The place is enormousm a warehouse-style labyrinth of staged living rooms, fake kitchens, throw pillows, and more plants than any single store should legally be allowed to sell. Soft jazz plays over the speakers, which feels personally disrespectful considering the number of bullets you’re both carrying.

Jay’s eyes scan the aisles. “Okay. Everything in here is soft. And useless.” You kick over a wicker basket full of blankets. “We’ll adapt.” “I hate adapting.” “You married me.” “Exactly.” You shoot him a look. He grins, even bleeding from the eyebrow. Somewhere behind you, the front door gets kicked in. Boots pound the ground. Jay grabs your hand. “C’mon.”

You drag him between two couch displays, both the same beige color that speaks of hopelessness, and duck behind the one labeled NORDIC DREAM: Minimalist Elegance.

Jay snorts. “This couch has better marketing than I do.” “Focus.” “I AM focused. I’m focused on how ugly this couch is.” You smack his arm. Hard. Behind you, motors whirr, a drone floats up the aisle, sweeping blue light beams across the furniture. You flatten. Jay pulls you tighter against the back of the couch.

And thenm Jay whispers, “We’re really hiding behind a couch set?” You whisper back, “It’s 30% off.” A beat. Then he shakes with silent laughter. “God, I fell for a menace.” The drone draws closer. You tilt your head just enough to see it. Sleek. Armed. Deadly. Jay meets your eyes. You nod once. Timing. One— Two— THREE— You both pop up. You shoot the drone once — Jay shoots twice, it jerks, sparks, then spirals into a Rustic Autumn Display, setting several decorative pumpkins on fire.

Jay winces. “Seasonal items. Tragic.” You don’t get to scold him, because the next wave of agents storm in, black armor, LED visors, full tactical gear. Six of them. Jay mutters, “They seriously brought the deluxe edition.” You grab his wrist. “Split?” He nods. “Rejoin in… kids’ furniture?” “Deal.” You break off, sprinting behind a row of Scandinavian storage units. Jay peels left toward the lamps.

Gunfire erupts immediately, rounds punching through walls, splintering wood, sending ceramic mugs exploding into shard clouds. One agent rushes your aisle. You duck behind a wardrobe closet. He swings it open. You shoot him point-blank inside the wardrobe. He collapses neatly into the storage space. You mutter, “Narnia’s closed.”

Another agent charges. You grab the nearest object, a coat rack, and swing it like a medieval halberd. He goes down. Jay, on the other side of the store, grabs a lamp off a display and smashes it over someone’s helmet. You hear him shout: “THAT WAS FIFTY EUROS!”

You almost smile. Almost. Two more agents sprint your way, coordinated, fast. You vault over a dining table and land on the other side, grabbing a steak knife from a staged place setting. You fling it, it buries itself in the thigh plate of the first agent. He stumbles. You seize the opportunity, rushing in, tackling him to the ground, slamming his helmet into the floor until the visor cracks.

Gunfire ricochets behind you. Jay yells, “Left side! Two incoming!” You spin, sliding across the floor behind a coffee table. One bullet grazes your arm; the sting burns through you.

Jay sees it, and his voice drops to something lethal. “You okay?” “Keep shooting!”

He does, with unnerving accuracy, even while limping, even while bleeding. You take down the last one together, one shot from you, one from him, the bodies hitting the ground in a synchronized thud. Silence. Smoke wafts between bookshelves and model kitchens. Designer rugs are shredded. Fake fruit is EVERYWHERE. Your chest heaves. Jay’s, too.

He walks toward you through the chaos, brushing debris off his bloodstained shirt, hair a mess, expression fierce. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until he’s right in front of you. Jay gently touches your cheek. “You’re hurt.” You whisper, “You’re worse.”

He huffs a half-laugh. “Yeah. But I’m prettier, so it balances out.” You smack his chest. He catches your wrist. You pull back, he pulls you forward. Your bodies crash together in the ruined remains of Modern Elegance: Cherrywood Collection. His forehead rests against yours. Your breath mingles. Chaos hums around you.

Jay murmurs, “They’re not stopping.” “I know.” “They’ll chase us until one of us is dead.” “I know.” “And you still want to run with me?” You swallow. A nod. He exhales, part relief, part fear. Then someone coughs behind you. You jerk apart, guns drawn, Evan limps out from behind a plant shelf holding two throw pillows, looking traumatized.

“Not to interrupt your, whatever that was, but we should probably MOVE. Like, now.” Jay blinks. “Were you hiding in the plants?” Evan glares. “I have been shot at eighteen times in the last twenty minutes. I will hide in whatever I want.” You grab Jay’s hand again.

“We go out the back,” you say. “Steal a car. Disappear.” Evan waves a pillow. “Yes. Please. Let’s do that.” And as the three of you sprint through the emergency exit, alarms blaring, sprinklers erupting overhead, Jay looks at you sideways. “You know,” he pants, “this could be our thing.” You snort. “Running for our lives?” He grins. “No. Making terrible decisions together.”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah. Same thing.” The wind outside the safehouse screamed like it wanted to skin the walls. Evan limped ahead of you and Jay, muttering curses under his breath as he shoved open the back exit. “Go,” he hissed, eyes wide with a terror you’d never seen on him, not even on missions gone nuclear. “They’re already here.”

Jay tried to steady him, but Evan shoved him off. “No, idiot. I’m slowing you down. And if they catch me, they’ll keep me alive long enough to track you. So run.” Jay opened his mouth, probably to argue, probably to be noble and self-sacrificial and infuriating, but Evan jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t make this sentimental,” Evan snapped. “I will punch you.”

The building shuddered. A boom echoed from somewhere above, heavy boots, breaching charges, the entire damn alphabet soup of elite killers descending the stairwells. You grabbed Jay’s wrist. “We need to go. Now.” Evan stepped back into the shadows, lifting the gun you’d stolen from the transport convoy. His stance was shaky. His jaw was set.

“Buy me a beer when you somehow survive this,” he said, already firing toward the stairwell. Jay hesitated for a fraction of a second, the kind that gets people killed, before you yanked him through the emergency door, into the alley’s morning haze. The explosion behind you rattled the street. Jay flinched. You didn’t let go of his hand.

The car was a battered sedan Jay hot-wired in under seven seconds. You climbed in, slamming the door, but before he could pull away, bullets punched through the rear window. “Drive!” you snapped. “I am driving!” He floored it, tires screaming. Black SUVs surged into the intersection behind you, windows dropping. Muzzle flashes lit up the fog.

“Who the hell did they send?” Jay muttered. “Everyone,” you said. “They want us erased.” A bullet grazed the side mirror, exploding it into shards. Jay tilted his head, avoiding the spray. “Still think we could’ve done this tomorrow?” he snapped, throwing the car into a turn so sharp your shoulder slammed into the door. You shot him a glare. “I said you’re injured, genius! Your ribs are barely—” “Oh my god, not this again,” he cut in. “We’re being hunted by two governments and three private intelligence corps, and you’re nagging me about my ribs—”

“That’s because you don’t value your own life—” “That’s what I get for saving yours?” You froze. The words hit you harder than the crash you narrowly avoided when he swerved around a delivery truck. “It’s not—” You gritted your teeth. “It’s not like that.”

Jay’s jaw flexed. But he didn’t push. Not now, not when the streets behind you filled with vehicles, shadows, drones, a whole strike team sent to wipe their hands clean. Ahead of you, the highway unfurled like a silver throat. A perfect kill box. Jay cursed under his breath. “We’re not making it out on wheels.” You checked your mag. “Then we improvise.” “You always did love improvising.” “You always did hate it.” “And yet,” he said, meeting your eyes with a wild, reckless smirk, “You married me.” 

— — —

The counselor’s office hadn’t changed. Same soft beige walls.  Same too-sweet diffuser scent. Same watercolor painting of a boat that made Jay snort every time you came in. The only difference was you. Both of you dressed in black, not intentionally matching, yet somehow perfectly coordinated. Your bruises had turned from deep violet to faint amber-yellow. Jay’s lip still held the slightest cut, healed enough to look rakish rather than dangerous.

You sat on the left side of the couch. Jay sat on the right. Somewhere in the middle, your knees brushed, but neither of you acknowledged it.

The counselor, bless her soul, tried to hide the tremor in her hands as she adjusted her glasses.

“So,” she began, voice bright in that therapist way people use when they’re silently praying, “I… hear things are… better?”

Jay smiled. That slow, clean, lethal smile that made people confess state secrets without realizing it.

“Much,” he said.

You nodded once. “We communicate more now.”

Jay added, “Explosively.”

You elbowed him. He didn’t even flinch. The counselor laughed, the brittle kind that shatters like cheap glass. “That’s wonderful. Can you give me an example of, uh… improved communication?” You and Jay exchanged a glance. Dangerous. Shared. Almost amused.

You shrugged. “We’re more open about our needs.” Jay leaned back, stretching an arm along the couch, behind you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat.

“She tells me when I’m being unreasonable,” he said.

“And he tells me,” you countered, “when I’m being reckless.”

The counselor nodded, scribbling notes frantically. “Good, good. And how do you handle disagreements now?” Jay tilted his head. “Non-violently.” You coughed. He coughed louder. The counselor frowned.

“Mostly non-violently,” you amended. “Emphasis on ‘mostly,’” Jay added, helpful as ever. The counselor blinked rapidly. “And… intimacy?” Jay’s lips twitched. You stared at the wall and prayed.

He answered anyway. “We’re bonding,” Jay said, voice dark silk. “Deepening trust exercises.” You choked. The counselor didn’t understand but blushed anyway.

“That’s… very good to hear.” She cleared her throat. “And your shared activities? Are you spending more quality time together?”

Jay laced his fingers loosely in front of him. “Well, we’ve started a joint workout routine.” You nodded. “And we cook more.” “Travel together.”

“We run.” “Sometimes sprint.” You sighed. “That’s when we’re being shot at.”

The counselor froze. Pen hovering in the air. “Shot… at?” Jay smiled politely.  “We process stress differently.” “And together,” you added. It wasn’t a lie. Not anymore.

The counselor shuffled her papers. “Well,” she said weakly, “despite the… intense phrasing… I’m glad you’re finding ways to reconnect. Marriage can be challenging. It’s wonderful you’re trying.” Jay hummed. You leaned back. Silence fell.

Not awkward. Not sharp. Just… easy. The kind of silence you’d both earned. The counselor exhaled softly, relief creeping into her voice. “I… think we’ve made real progress. If you two keep communicating this well, your marriage will absolutely thrive.” Jay looked at you. You looked at him. A beat. Then, you both laughed. Low, quiet, shared.

A secret. A promise. A survival. You leave the counselor’s office side by side, the hallway glowing with cheap fluorescent lighting. Jay’s hand brushes yours once, twice… then stays. Outside, the sky hangs low with clouds, soft and silver. Rain threatens, it always does around the two of you.

Jay opens the door for you. Not to be polite. To watch your back. You step into the street.

— — —

Waves smashing against jagged cliffs. Vineyards rolling down green hills. A stone house with blue shutters and a terracotta roof. Your laundry clips onto a line in the sun. Jay is terrible at it. He pretends not to hear your laughter. A cat you absolutely did not adopt lounges on your windowsill like it owns the world.

Jay at a sleek laptop, glasses sliding down his nose. Freelance “security consultant.” (He pretends that doesn’t mean occasional assassination.) You, leaning over architectural blueprints at the dining table. Freelance “restoration expert.” (You pretend that doesn’t mean breaking into high-security estates at 3AM.) Your passports line the drawer. Five each. All believable. All dangerous.

He watches you zip a duffel bag. You watch him check a handgun’s magazine. Neither of you tells the other to be careful. You don’t have to.

Gnocchi. Fresh tomatoes. White wine. Jay chopping basil in a way that is objectively illegal. You lean over from behind and correct his knife angle. He complains. You kiss his shoulder. He pretends to complain louder. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth and something that feels frighteningly close to peace. Music plays low, old Italian jazz humming through the small speaker near the window.

You steal pieces of bread off his cutting board. He pretends not to notice. Jay steals kisses. You pretend not to notice. A storm rolls in. Rain taps against the roof. He lights a candle. You open the window anyway, letting in the scent of wet earth. The cat knocks something off the counter. Jay swears. You laugh so hard you snort.

He looks at you like you hung the moon. You ignore the way your chest tightens.

Dinner done. Dishes in the sink. Rain whispering against the glass. The house dim and soft, lit only by candlelight and lightning far off the coast. Jay steps behind you as you wipe the counter. His hands slip around your waist, confident, warm, familiar in a way that still startles you.

He kisses your neck once. Slow. Claiming. Home-making.

You inhale sharply. He murmurs against your skin, voice velvet-dark: “Til death do us part.”

You turn in his arms, tug his shirt, pull him closer, your smile brushing his mouth, dangerous and adoring all at once.

“You first.”

The screen cuts to black.

Fade out. 

The nameplate hung on your door tilts, Mr and Mrs. Park.

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[biased-and-broke]

Stay with me tonight

Pairing: Sunghoon x Reader Genre: Fluff / Comfort Word Count: 350+

Synopsis: Finding Sunghoon alone after practice, you stay with him through his doubts and remind him that he is always enough. ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

The practice room was almost empty when you finally found him.

The lights were dimmed, most of the members had already gone back to the dorm. Only one corner of the mirrored room was still occupied.

Sunghoon.

He sat on the floor, back against the mirror, knees pulled to his chest. His hair was damp with sweat, hoodie thrown carelessly beside him.

He looked… tired.

Not the “I need sleep” tired.

The I’m carrying too much and don’t know how to say it tired.

“Hoon?” you whispered.

He flinched slightly before lifting his head.

“Oh… hey,” he said, forcing a small smile.

You walked over and sat beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” you said softly.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I just… wanted to stay a bit longer.”

You glanced at the mirrored wall in front of you.

His reflection looked smaller than usual.

“Did something happen?” you asked.

He stayed quiet.

For a long moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then—

“I messed up today.”

Your heart sank.

“What do you mean?”

“I kept missing the timing,” he admitted. “The choreo didn’t feel right. Everyone else was doing fine and I was just—” He laughed weakly. “Dragging them down.”

You turned to face him fully.

“Sunghoon.”

He looked at you.

His eyes were tired.

“I try so hard,” he continued quietly. “But sometimes it feels like it’s never enough.”

That was it.

You reached out and took his hand.

It was cold.

“You know,” you said, squeezing gently, “from where I’m standing, you’re one of the most hardworking people I know.”

He blinked.

“You never give up. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when you’re scared. You still show up.”

He stared at your intertwined fingers.

“I’m scared of disappointing everyone,” he whispered.

You leaned closer.

“You won’t,” you said firmly. “And even if you mess up sometimes… I’m still here. Always.”

Slowly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.

“I’m glad you came,” he murmured.

You smiled.

“Me too.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tightly.

Outside, the city lights flickered.

Inside, in that quiet practice room, he finally let himself breathe.

And for tonight, that was enough.

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

Requests:Open💖

💬 feedback is appreciated 💌 reblogs are loved 🌷 thank you for reading!

[prettybs]

FLASHING LIGHTS ⋆˚꩜｡ —NRK

After six months of loving Niki in private, the company lets him take you to a Prada event. Now all the lights, crowds, cameras, and headlines are focused on you.

pairing: idol!niki x fem!reader

⌗AN: I normally use “Riki” in my fics but since he’s an idol in this one I wanted to use Niki’, I’m not used to that so I might’ve written Riki sometimes whoops

⊹

You’re part of the PR and styling team for Chrome Hearts. The one who makes sure the right pieces arrive, the right people see them, the right fittings happen on time. You’re the one running around backstage with a clipboard and a coffee in your hand, making sure everything works.

That’s how you met him.

Niki had a collaboration with Chrome Hearts.

The first time you noticed him, he was sitting alone in a fitting room, scrolling on his phone, long legs stretched out, hoodie half unzipped, hair messy from being styled and styled again. He looked unreal.

He said thank you every time you handed him something. He remembered your name after the first day. He asked you questions about your job, about how long you’d been doing this, about whether you liked it.

And then somehow, slowly, without either of you planning it, it became a thing.

Small conversations during fittings turned into longer ones. Those turned into messages after work. That turned into drinks that “weren’t a date.” That turned into late-night talks, secret dinners, stolen time.

You’ve been together six months now.

Six months of being careful. Of not posting. Of not being seen. Of sneaking around like you’re doing something wrong even though you’re not.

Because dating an idol isn’t simple.

There are rules. Risks. Headlines that could hurt him, hurt you, hurt the group. You’ve always known that. That’s why you’ve been so careful.

Which is why today feels unreal.

Because today, his company said yes.

Not a full announcement, not yet, but permission for you to come with him. Permission for you to be seen together at a major event, for you to stand next to him in public.

The Prada show.

—

You’re at HYBE hours before, getting styled in a room that feels way too quiet for how loud your thoughts are.

Hair done. Makeup done. Dress pulled over you carefully.

You’re wearing a long, dark brown gown that hugs your body in all the right places. A matching sheer scarf wraps loosely around your neck and trails down your arm, and long sheer gloves cover your forearms.

Then the door opens.

You turn.

And Niki freezes.

Niki is already dressed. Black tailored trousers sitting low on his hips, a fitted plaid button-up underneath that’s slighty open at the chest, a long brown coat with a thick dark fur collar framing his shoulders. He looks perfect.

But the way he looks at you is even better.

Like he forgot how to breathe.

His eyes move over you slowly, not even trying to hide that he’s checking you out.

“…Jezus christ,” he mutters.

He walks towards you, stopping right in front of you, eyes still stuck on you like you’re something unreal.

“That’s dangerous,” he says quietly, placing his hands on your hips.

You blink. “Dangerous?”

He nods once, still looking at you. “If they didn’t already figure out I had a girl, they definitely will now.”

Your face warms. “Niki—”

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “Baby you look… insane.”

Then he smiles.

And it’s that smile that reminds you why all of this risk is worth it. Because this isn’t just a fahion show, it’s the first time the world gets to see what’s been yours for five months.

—

The car is already waiting when you step outside it’s long, black and glossy, with windows dark enough that you can’t see in. The driver gets out first and opens the back door for you both.

It feels surreal sliding into the leather seat instead of walking somewhere yourself, the door closing with a heavy thud that shuts the rest of the world out.

Niki sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush. Without really thinking about it, your hand finds his and he laces his fingers through yours. His thumb starts moving slowly over your knuckles.

At first, you just watch the city pass by through the tinted glass. The streets feel normal for a while, just shops, lights, people walking.. until they don’t.

The closer you get, the denser it becomes. More cars. More people. Groups standing around instead of moving, phones already raised, cameras hanging from necks, flashes testing.

You exhale slowly.

Then again.

Niki notices the second sigh.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking from the window back to your face. “You okay?”

You nod, but it’s not very convincing.

He squeezes your hand gently, pulling your attention back to him. “Hey,” he says quietly. “It’s gonna look more intense than it is.”

You glance back outside, the first real barricades are already visible now, staff in black, groups of photographers behind metal rails.

Niki shifts a little closer to you, lowering his voice.

“Baby listen,” he says, calm but firm in that way he gets when he’s serious. “If anyone talks to you, you don’t have to answer anything. You don’t owe them anything. If someone says something weird, you ignore it. If someone gets too close, you stay with me.”

You nod again, listening this time.

“There’s gonna be a lots of cameras,” he continues. “Just smile and wave.”

That part makes you smile a little.

He watches your face closely, then adds, “And if it gets too much, at any point, you tell me. I don’t care where we are or what’s happening, we leave. Okay?”

Your fingers tighten around his for a second.

“Okay.”

He lifts your hand slightly and presses a kiss on the back of your hand. “I got you,” he says simply.

The car slows down.

You can hear it now even through the glass, the muffled noise of the crowd, voices layered over each other, the distant clicking of cameras. Light starts flickering against the tinted windows.

Your stomach does a small flip when the door opens.

Sound crashes in immediately; shouting, screaming, the sharp sounds of camera shutters, flashes already bursting through the dark even before you fully step out.

Niki goes first.

He straightens as soon as his feet hit the ground, posture shifting instantly into that controlled version of himself, the one who belongs on red carpets. The noise spikes when they recognize him.

“NIKI!”
“Niki, OVER HERE!”
“Niki, look this way!!”

Then he turns back towards the car and holds his hand out for you.

You take it.

The moment you step out beside him, it’s like something breaks in the crowd.

There’s a half-second of confusion, two seconds of silence.

“Wait, who’s that?”
“Who is she?”

“Is she with Niki?”

And then it explodes. The screaming and camera flashes double.

“LOOK OVER HERE!”
“WHO ARE YOU?”
“LOOK AT THE CAMERA!”
“THIS WAY — JUST ONE LOOK!”

Your heart jumps into your throat, adrenaline gushing through you in a way you weren’t prepared for. The lights feel almost hot on your skin, white flashes blurring your vision. Niki’s hand tightens around yours instinctively.

You realize, with a strange surprise, that you don’t hate it.

It’s overwhelming, yes. Loud. Chaotic. But there’s something intoxicating about it too. About being seen.

Your grip on his hand tightens anyway.

As you start walking, people lean forward behind the barricades, arms stretching out with phones and microphones.

“Is she your girlfriend?” someone yells.
“Niki, who is she to you?”
“Are you together?”

Niki doesn’t answer. He just smiles and lifts one finger to his lips.

“Shh,” he mouths playfully.

The crowd goes insane.

You laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself, nerves buzzing in your chest. He glances down at you, amused, then turns his attention forward again as the red carpet comes into view. It’s long, lit up, backed by a tall wall of logos and soft white lighting.

Before stepping onto it, he stops you gently.

He slides his arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer to his side. He leans in so only you can hear him.

“Just breathe,” he murmurs. “Don’t rush. I’m with you.”

Then he steps forward with you.

The second your feet touch the carpet, the focus shifts.

You feel it before you really understand it.

The voices change.

“WHO IS SHE?”
“LOOK THIS WAY MA’AM!”
“YOU LOOK AMAZING!”
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”
“WAVE — GIVE US ONE WAVE!”

It’s not even about him anymore.

Cameras tilt. Lenses follow you. Flashes cluster around your face, your body, your movement. You hear your name being asked over and over, but you don’t give it. You don’t answer anything. You just stand there, heart pounding, niki’s arm steady around your waist like he’s holding you in place.

You lift your hand slowly and give a small wave and that’s all it takes. The crowd reacts like you’ve just given them a gift. More screaming. More flashes. People calling out praise, voices overlapping.

You turn your head slightly, letting the cameras catch you from different angles the way you’ve seen others do. Not really thinking, just following instinct, and it’s working pretty well.

Riki watches you from the corner of his eye. His thumb presses once, into your waist. Jus quietly impressed.

—

The afterparty feels louder than the fashion show ever was.

The place is loud. Music, chatter and laughs, heels on marble, camera shutters. The room is warm with bodies and perfume and expensive alcohol. Everywhere you look there’s someone recognizable, models whose faces you know but can’t place, designers, singers. It feels like stepping into a living magazine.

Everyone is glossy and glowing and half-tipsy, drinks constantly being pressed into hands. You’ve lost track of how many you’ve had, not enough to be drunk, but enough to feel loose.

Riki gets pulled into a conversation again, someone from the brand, someone important. He gives your hand a squeeze before stepping away.

You’re standing near one of the tall cocktail tables when someone stops next to you. He’s confident in a casual way, tall, dressed well, already smiling like you’re familiar. Might be an idol, a model or an actor, you don’t know.

“You’re the girl everyone’s whispering about right?,” he says.

You laugh politely. “I doubt that.”

He leans in a little closer. Too close, but not enough that it feels dangerous.

“I’m serious. You kind of stole the show.”

You tilt your head, amused. “I mean, that wasn’t the plan.”

He chuckles. Keeps talking. Asks where you’re from, what you do, how you know Niki, and you answer vaguely, friendly and harmless. You don’t want to be rude. You don’t want to make a scene.

At some point, his hand lightly touches your arm as he laughs.

Then it stays there just a second too long.

You shift slightly but keep smiling, still trying to be polite.

You don’t notice Niki watching until you do.

He’s across the room, mid-conversation, eyes locked on you.

On the guy. On the hand on your arm.

His jaw tightens. Just slightly.

Then he sees it, a photographer nearby, phone lifted, angled perfectly at you and the man leaning close.

That’s when he moves.

He crosses the room quickly, controlled but fast, stepping right between you and the guy.

His hand slides firmly to your waist. Possessive and clear.

“Hey,” Niki says, smiling tightly. “Sorry. She’s with me.”

The guy blinks, surprised. Glances between you and Niki.

“Oh. I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Niki says easily. “Enjoy the party.”

Not rude. But final.

The guy backs off.

Niki turns to you immediately, low voice in your ear.

“Come with me.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes your hand and leads you away, through a side hallway, past a security guard, into a quieter room with dimmer lights and no music.

The door closes behind you.

Silence.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“You can’t do that,” he says.

You blink. “Do what?”

“Let people touch you like that. Let them think they have access to you,” he says. “Not here. Not like this.”

Your chest tightens.

“I wasn’t letting him do anything,” you say defensively. “I was just being polite.”

“That’s the problem,” he says. “You don’t get to be just polite in settings like this.”

That stings. You fold your arms. “So what, I’m supposed to be rude to everyone who talks to me?”

“I’m saying you have to be careful,” he says. “People take pictures. People twist things. You can’t just—”

“So it’s is my fault?” you cut in.

He stops and looks at you. And you see it then, not just annoyance, but jealousy. Protectiveness wrapped in frustration.

“I saw someone taking pictures,” he admits more quietly. “Of you and him. If that gets out, they’ll make it look like something it wasn’t.”

Your shoulders drop slightly.

“You could’ve just said that.”

He exhales. “I know.”

“I didn’t like seeing him touch you.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t flirting?”

“I know,” he says. “But I didn’t like it anyway.”

There it is. Not the idol. Not the PR-trained response. Just a boyfriend who didn’t love watching someone else get close to what’s his.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

He steps closer.

“I know,” he says. “You don’t live in my world. That’s not your fault.”

“But I need you to understand it. For us.”

You nod slowly.

“I will.”

He relaxes slightly and then his hand lifts, brushing your thumb with his.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He squeezes your hand and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Good.”

His eyes linger on you for a second, he smiles and grazes your chin with his index finger and his thumb.

“My girl. C’mon, let’s go back.”

He says and pats your butt as you turn around, then he follows you back into the party.

Niki stays close to you the whole time. His hand at your lower back. His fingers brushing yours when you walk.

People start coming up to you.

They ask your name. What you do. How you met him. How long you’ve been together. You answer some of it, dodge the rest, laugh when you don’t know what else to do.

“I can’t really say yet,” becomes your automatic response. Some people smile like they understand. Some look curious. Some look a little jealous.

You catch Niki looking at you when you’re not paying attention.

Not checking if you’re okay, more like watching you. You catch it a few times, his eyes softening when you’re mid-sentence with someone else, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’s amused by the fact that you exist here with him now. That he gets to show you off in this world that used to be only his.

—

After a while your head feels light. From the noise. From the drinks. From being looked at constantly.

He leans in close to your ear.

“Wanna go?”

You nod immediately.

His security team forms around you as you move towards the exit, a quiet wall of black suits and ear ieces that makes the room feel suddenly smaller. The moment the doors open, the sound hits you like a wave.

People shouting, calling out names, flashes popping nonstop. You hear Niki’s name everywhere. And yours too, or at least something meant for you.

“THERE SHE IS.”
“HER — OVER HERE.”
“NIKI — WHO IS SHE?”
“TURN AROUND — PLEASE.”

“SMILE AT THE CAMERA!”

The flashes are blinding now, lightning up the dark sky.

You grip Niki’s hand tighter than you mean to.

He doesn’t comment on it. Just laces his fingers through yours and keeps walking. You walk fast with your head slightly down. Cameras everywhere. Noise everywhere. Until finally the car door opens and you’re inside and it’s quiet again.

The door shuts.

Your ears ring. Your chest feels tight, like you forgot to breathe for a minute.

Niki lets out a small laugh next to you, like he’s releasing something too.

“You did good,” he says softly.

You look at him.

“Mhm, I’m tired,” you murmur.

“I know, I am too” he says, pressing a small kiss into your hair.

It feels like the first moment all day where your body finally relaxes.

—

By the time you get back to his dorm, everything finally feels quiet again.

The door clicks shut behind you and it’s like your body only now remembers how tired it is.

Niki kicks off his expensive shoes and immediately flops backward onto his bed, arms spread out, staring at the ceiling like he just survived something dramatic. You watch him for a second and then shake your head.

“Outside clothes. On the bed. Really,” you say, raising your eyebrow at him.

He glances down at himself, then back at you, completely unbothered. “I’m exhausted.”

“I’m serious,” you laugh. “I want to shower first.”

He tilts his head, eyes lighting up a little. “Together?”

You snort. “No. I want, like… ten minutes where nobody talks to me or looks at me.”

He sighs dramatically but sits up. “Fine. Go.”

You grab his hoodie from the chair, head to the bathroom, and shut the door behind you before he can say anything else.

The shower is exactly what you need.

Hot water, quiet, no cameras, no questions, no people. You stand there longer than necessary, just letting everything wash off, the adrenaline, the weird feeling of being seen too much.

When you come back out, your hair is still damp, your face bare, his hoodie hanging loose on you, soft pajama shorts instead of the dress from earlier. You feel like yourself again.

Riki is in the shower now, the sound of water muffled through the door.

You crawl into his bed, pulling the blanket over your legs, phone in hand without even thinking about it.

Instagram opens automatically.

And then you see it.

Your own face.

Again.

And again.

A photo of you stepping out of the car.
A close-up of your hand in his, your fingers laced together.
A shot of you on the carpet, waving at the camera.
A video where you laugh at something he whispers to you.

Your stomach flips.

The posts are all variations of the same thing.

@idolupdates: “New couple spotted at the Prada event tonight? 👀”

@kpopupdatesglobal: “ENHYPEN’s NI-KI spotted attending Prada event with alleged girlfriend.”

@idolwatcher: “NI-KI arrives at Prada show holding hands with unidentified woman!”

@kchartsnews: “Is NI-KI in a relationship? Idol seen publicly with rumored partner.”

@dispatchstyle: “Photos: NI-KI makes first public appearance with female companion.”

@enhypenupdatedaily: “Fans speculate on NI-KI’s relationship status after surprise appearance.”

You tap into the comments without meaning to, there’s lot’s of different opinions on the situation.

“she’s so pretty wtf”

“She stole my man...”
“I love her already😍”

“not niki having a whole gf? my day is ruined.”
“he looks so happy🥹”
“they look good together ngl”
“I’m jealous but also happy for him???”
“The way he’s looking at her omg”

“I hope she’s just a model or brand staff…”

The bathroom door opens and a little cloud of steam slips into the room before he does.

You don’t look at him right away, but he still notices you.

The way you’re too still.
The way your phone is in your hand but you’re not typing.
The way your face looks too focused.

He walks over and sits down on the edge of the bed first, then shifts until he’s next to you.

“Don’t,” he says gently.

You blink and look at him. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t read that stuff.”

You shrug a little. “It’s fine. Most of them are… nice. Or at least not mean.”

He hums, not really convinced. He leans back on his elbows next to you, eyes on the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “Until you scroll too far.”

You do it anyway. Just once more.

He reaches over, takes your phone out of your hand and places it screen-down on the bed next to him.

“That’s enough,” he says softly.

You sigh, but you don’t argue.

You turn onto your side to face him instead.

“Babe. What if they don’t like me?” you ask quietly. “Like… what if I’m not what they expect.”

He looks at you for a moment before answering.

“Then that sucks for them,” he says simply. “Because I do.”

You smile a little at that.

“But your fans. Your job. What if I mess something up for you.”

He turns toward you fully now.

“You’re not a problem I have to manage,” he says. “You’re not… a situation.”

You swallow.

“I chose this,” he continues. “I chose you. So whatever comes with that, I’m fine with.”

⊹

taglist: @laikaonline @izzikiii @hearteubeateuxz @angelhyuka @berrybonnieee @choeryyxyz @ily4hoonity @embrjdos @astronomicalastro-blog1 @silvhoon @coupsarchive @bffr-riv @ily4hoonity @kittyvalr @eater4riki @twoloathe @mhhhhnj @rmmsthings @ilovetylerthecreater @eilishlamour @sociallyawkward18 @lovenha7 @enhajungwonheart @krikalovesstay @rikislove @wonsvisuals @nishirikiluvr @illtie @keipabsstuff @saeivra @emmaitoshi @ardlolic @aamirazx @wonuziex @bemyaehiweloveskz @sa1co @nikisfave @sociallyawkward18 @seerpentsk1rt @lovleycherryy @ivelvette @rikimuraaaa @evanleeisahoe @17ha @miffikeuu @luvv1anime @swiftinsightinsight @mininigning @bellachaewon @teddybeartaetae @chaexxe @oasiselli

[jaysbaefie]

the pushover | sjy

synopsis: in which jake sim finally stops letting you run the show—only to prove he’s always known how to handle you.

genre: childhood best friends au

pairing: childhood best friend!jake x bratty!reader

warnings: softdom!jake, bratty!reader, reader is so annoying but jake loves it, cornering, bantering, jake scolds reader often, jake is in loveeee, manhandling, spanking ass + pussy, oral (f.rec), spit play, tit play, unprotected p in v, clit play, biting..i think that’s it??

wc: 16.5k+

a/n: ayeee guess who’s back! this fic won on the poll so here i am delivering. this is also my 3k followers thank you post hehe!! thanks to each and every one of you guys that have been reading and supporting my work 😘 keep an eye out i’ll be putting out another pole soon. as always comments, notes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy reading :3

𓂃

you and jake sim grew up three houses apart on a street where everybody's moms knew everything and everybody's dads pretended they didn't. you were the loud one—the kid who rang doorbells like you were collecting taxes, who demanded attention with the confidence of someone who'd never been told no.

which you hadn't.

meanwhile jake... poor jake. he was the sweet, soft-spoken boy who trailed after you like a golden retriever with a bowl cut and velcro spiderman sneakers. he always had crumbs on his face, always carried your backpack without being asked, and always—always—laughed at your jokes, even when they weren't funny.

they were rarely funny.

you'd yell his name across the street, and he'd come running. you'd shove the glittery lip gloss you stole from your cousin into his hand and say "hold this," and he would. you'd call him "my assistant" during your bossy childhood games, and he accepted the demotion.

once, you made him cry because he didn't run fast enough during tag. you didn't apologize—instead you loudly declared, "omg, relax, you got tagged ONCE. big deal."

jake sniffled, you stomped away. and five minutes later he followed you again, because that's just how he was.

but somewhere around the end of high school, the world started pulling you in different directions. you were busy being dramatic, discovering tinted lip oils, complaining about your parents rules, and posting instagram stories from the passenger seat of other people's cars.

jake was busy doing things like... assignments. group projects. extracurriculars. things you mockingly called "nerd behavior."

he didn't go out much. he didn't chase chaos. he didn't orbit your life the way he did when you were younger. and you—in a classic act of emotional immaturity—pretended not to care.

at eighteen, you chose a college far away purely because the campus looked "aesthetic in fall," packed up your entire personality into two suitcases, and left without saying a proper goodbye. you waved at jake from the car window as your mom pulled out of the driveway and yelled something ridiculous like:

"don't let anyone bully you except me!"

he laughed. that soft, warm, dimpled laugh that used to follow you everywhere.

and then you were gone.

𓂃

college turned you into an even worse version of yourself—aggressively iced-coffee-dependent, chronically late, allergic to responsibility, and thriving in an environment where chaos was practically currency.

your life became a rotation of parties, spontaneous shopping, soft-launching people you weren't even dating, and pretending every bad decision was "character development."

you went through roommates like seasonal flavors. every semester someone new moved in, and every semester someone new moved out with a complaint that you were "a lot" or "messy" or "kind of terrifying when woken up."

you didn't disagree.

jake became a distant memory, the boy who sometimes liked your posts from an account with a profile picture you swear was five years old. you'd smile for half a second when his username popped up, then go right back to ignoring three overdue essays and online shopping for shoes you absolutely didn't need.

your worlds didn't touch anymore.

until life, rude as always, decided to intervene

it started with your roommate announcing she was "basically moving in" her new boyfriend. you thought she meant he'd be around more. no, he was actually moving in. toothbrush, clothes, gaming chair, ugly LED lights—the whole infestation.

he hogged the bathroom. he cooked shirtless at inappropriate hours. he once ate your leftover pasta and shrugged, "it was mid anyway."

you saw red. you didn't commit a crime, but it was close.

you decided to move out.

your landlord, a man whose personality could best be described as "human expired raisin," decided this was the perfect time to raise your rent by five hundred dollars.

you stared at the email. then you screamed. not a cute scream—a guttural, operatic wail that made the downstairs neighbor bang on their ceiling.

you called your mom, pacing through the disaster zone that was your half-packed room.

"i'm going to die," you said dramatically. "i'm literally going to die. you're going to have to identify my body by my lash extensions."

your mom sighed the sigh of someone who'd raised you for twenty-three years. "sweetheart, calm down—"

"don't tell me to calm down, my life is in ruins. ruins, mother."

"you're not in ruins."

"i'm going to be homeless."

"you're not going to be homeless."

"i'm going to have to live in my car—"

"oh honey," she cut in, "why don't you stay with jake?"

you froze mid-rant. "...jake?" his name unfamiliar on your tongue.

"yes! jake sim! he's back from finishing his degree. he bought a nice apartment downtown. he told his mother he has a spare room."

you stared into space, horrified. "jake sim? bowl-cut jake? used-to-cry-when-i-yelled jake?"

"he didn't cry," she corrected. "he teared up. once."

"mom. be serious."

"i am. you two were inseparable."

"when we were twelve!"

"well, he's always liked you."

"as a person?" you asked skeptically. you seriously doubted that anyone who was sane liked you as a person. yes, you're a lot of things but one thing you definitely are is self aware.

she made a vague noise, you didn't like the noise.

"i'll text his mother," she decided, and you instantly regretted calling her.

two minutes later, your phone buzzed.

mom: jake says you're welcome to stay anytime.

you stared at the text. it felt unreal. absurd. borderline comedic.

but you were desperate. and dramatic. and the universe clearly hated you.

so you said yes. because of course you did.

you packed your things with the confidence of someone who absolutely believed jake sim was still the same soft, shy, easily-managed boy who used to trail after you in elementary school.

you were so, so sure.

and you were so, so wrong.

𓂃

you hype yourself up in the elevator.

it's just jake.you think to yourself, the image of 12-year old him fresh in your mind.

you've known him your whole life. he once cried because you told him clouds were solid and he fell off the playground trying to "sit on one."

you are not nervous. you are annoyed.

annoyed that your lease fell apart. annoyed that your mother thinks you're still friends. annoyed that jake, sweet, soft, bowl-cut jake, is your only housing option unless you want to sleep in your car.

the elevator dings.

you're ready to see scented-candle bachelor hell. dirty laundry. possibly raccoons.

you knock and the door swings open. and your soul leaves your body.

because the man standing there is definitely jake—but upgraded. taller, broader, stupidly handsome, and sporting a smile that used to be pure golden retriever sunshine. except now it's... toned down. slower. like he knows exactly what it does to people.

"hey," he says, his eyes dropping down to take in your form and your hot pink suitcases. "come in."

come in? come in? no shocked gasp? no "wow you're back"? no nervous babbling?

you narrow your eyes suspiciously. "wow. no bowl cut." you admit, not the best choice of first words to say to your childhood best friend who you hadn't seen in years. but it was fitting.

he laughs—actually laughs—and steps aside. and you walk into the biggest personal betrayal of your adult life.

his apartment is spotless.

not "i cleaned because company is coming" clean. "i am a fully functioning adult who alphabetizes spices" clean.

the air smells like sandalwood and laundry detergent. plants sit by the window like they've never known suffering. there are no pizza boxes, no dirty plates, no gamer chair.

this is not jake's apartment.

"is this staged?" you demand. "did someone professionally sanitize this because you knew i was coming?"

"nope," he says, grabbing one of your suitcases. "i live like this."

you blink owlishly. "on purpose?"

he snorts, looking at you with an unidentifiable expression on his face. "on purpose."

you want to throw something, no, you want to throw up.

but instead, you drop your bag on the couch like an entitled raccoon and flop dramatically across it. "i'm making myself at home."

he glances at your shoes on the carpet. "i can see that."

he takes a seat in the armchair across from you— calm, collected, not even a little frazzled— which is insane, because you're very clearly being a handful on purpose. you call that, asserting dominance. like the old days.

you clear your throat. "so. rules. house agreements. i assume you're gonna ask me to clean something? or, like... wash a dish? or close a cabinet? if so, i'll need written notice."

jake smiles. not the "aww she's being annoying again" smile you expect. no, this one is deeper. amused. knowing.

"sure," he says easily. "we can talk rules."

that throws you off. he's supposed to be flustered, scrambling to keep up. not leading the conversation like he owns the apartment—which, annoying fact, he does.

he leans back, forearms resting casually on his knees. your eyes almost pop out of their sockets when you notice how veiny his hands and arms were.

"okay," he starts, "rent is six-fifty a month. i already talked to your mom about it—she said she'd help out until you get settled again."

you cough on pure embarrassment. "she did what?"

he suppresses a grin. "it was cute, actually. she kept saying, 'jake honey, please don't let her be homeless, she can be... a lot.'"

you sit up. "i will literally burn my house down before i let you repeat anything my mother said about me."

"her words, not mine," he says, holding up his hands. his beautiful, god crafted, veiny hands. "anyway—utilities included. chores are pretty simple. i cook, so you can take trash and recycling. laundry we do separately. shared spaces stay clean."

"define clean."

"not a biohazard."

"rude."

"accurate."

you throw a pillow at his head. he catches it one-handed without breaking eye contact.

you actually stop breathing for a second.

since when can jake do that? since when is he coordinated? since when does he have forearms like that?

you scowl to cover the fact that your brain just short-circuited. "fine. anything else?"

he tilts his head. "yeah. don't steal my hoodies." you blink innocently. "why would i steal your hoodies?"

his gaze drops to your suitcase—where three of his old ones that you had 'borrowed' back in highschool are hanging out the side. proof that you struggled to pack all your belongings in two measly suitcases.

traitors.

"uh-huh," he says. "point is, don't steal them."

"i don't steal," you lie.

"you do."

"i borrow."

"indefinitely." you cross your arms. "well, maybe if you didn't buy hoodies that look good on me—"

"they look good on me," he corrects smoothly. "you're just annoying enough to steal them."

you're going to scream.

you stand, stalking toward the kitchen just to regain power. "i'm eating your snacks as payment for emotional damages."

he follows at a leisurely pace, because apparently he's immune to your chaos now. you yank open the fridge. it's organized. color-coded. there are vegetables.

"who are you?" you whisper, horrified. "where is the boy who ate a fruit roll-up off the sidewalk?"

"buried him," jake answers, grabbing a bottle of water and handing it to you. "grew up. got a job. graduated. learned to mop."

you squint at him. "did you join a cult?"

he laughs again—warm and low. "no. i just stopped being twelve."

"you were twelve for like ten years."

"and you're still twelve," he shoots back calmly. "so at least one of us stayed consistent."

you gape. "you're so— so—"

"accurate?"

"i was gonna say insufferable."

he leans on the counter across from you, arms folded, gaze steady.

"you were expecting me to be exactly the same, weren't you?"

you freeze. he's right. he knows he's right and you hate that he knows he's right.

before you can respond, he adds—lightly, but with something underneath, "don't worry. i still remember everything."

your heartbeat trips.

"everything?" you repeat.

he smiles. slow. devastating. "everything."

you look away first. you hate that too.

you grab chips from the pantry—loudly, aggressively—and announce, "i'm gonna walk around in tiny shorts and leave my stuff everywhere."

"go for it," jake says, opening a cabinet above your head to grab a mug. "i don't scare that easily."

"i wasn't trying to scare you!"

"sure."

"i wasn't—!"

he takes a sip of water like he didn't just psychologically annihilate you.

you feel your face heat. you hate him. you hate that he's changed. you hate that he hasn't changed in the ways that matter. you hate that he's taller and calm and unbothered and smells like pine and laundry and maybe a little bit like heartbreak.

and you really hate the traitorous thought sneaking into your brain: you might be in trouble.

after the unexpected back forth between you and jake, jake kindly showed you to your room which was much nicer than the one at your old apartment.

"i'll let you settle in, i'll be back in a few. gym." and with that he slips through the door and out of your sight.

since when did he go to the gym? since those veiny arms blessed your sight.

you huff while unpacking, taking in the clean space as a foreign feeling takes place in your chest.

what the fuck are you going to do?

𓂃

you hear the door before you see him.

a heavy, warm thud of sneakers hitting the entry rug. the quiet clink of keys. then the low, tired exhale of a man who just returned from the gym and doesn't realize he's about to emotionally ruin someone.

you peek over the couch. and yeah, he's sweaty.

like—sweat running down his neck, shirt stuck to his chest, hair pushed back with a damp curl kind of sweaty.

your brain forgets basic motor functions. he looks up and catches you staring, a unrecognizable glint in his soft eyes. 

"hey," he says, voice rougher than usual. "you're still awake?" awake? you're clinically deceased, but sure.

you sit up, flipping your hair like you didn't just get jump-scared by his forearms. "yeah. couldn't sleep. your... stomping woke me up."

"i didn't stomp," he says, amused. "i walked in."

"well it was loud."

"you were watching tiktoks on full volume."

you glare, chucking your phone on the other couch. "stop knowing things."

he smirks and heads to the kitchen for water, pulling his shirt up to wipe his face.

you get a full view of toned stomach. abs. v-line. you stop breathing somewhere around ab #3.

okay. enough. you're not going to let him win tonight. this morning he made you flustered. tonight? you're fighting back.

you hop off the couch and follow him to the kitchen, wearing the tiniest sleep shorts you own and his hoodie—you know, for psychological warfare.

"so," you announce, hopping onto the counter, crossing your legs slowly. "long workout? you look... tired."

he opens the fridge. "yeah. leg day."

you hum. "maybe you should let me massage them. you know. as a housewarming gift."

he doesn't choke. he doesn't blush. he just closes the fridge, sets down the water bottle, and looks at you with that infuriating, slow-lingering gaze that makes your stomach flip like a dying fish.

"you wanna massage my legs?" he asks softly, his brow quirking up before his gaze drops down to your bare legs and your small frame which was swallowed by his hoodie.

your throat closes. "i— i mean— maybe— if you—"

he takes a step closer. then another. until he's right in front of you, standing between your knees, but not touching you. not even a brush of skin. just close enough that you swear you can feel the heat rolling off him.

your brain: DEAD. ABSOLUTELY GONE.

he places his hands on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in—without touching you once.

your breath catches. everything in you goes still.

"you offering charity massages now?" he murmurs, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. "that doesn't sound like you."

your voice cracks. "why not?"

"you don't do things out of kindness." his tone is teasing, warm. "you do things because you want attention."

your entire nervous system sets on fire.

"i— excuse— i don't—"

"it's okay," he continues, leaning just an inch closer, his nose almost brushing yours. "i don't mind giving you the attention."

you swallow hard. "move."

"you sure?" he asks quietly. "you seem pretty comfortable."

you are not comfortable. you are a molecule vibrating out of your own skin.

you shove a hand at his chest—bad idea, he's solid—and babble stupidly, "i'm fine. you're weird. stop being tall at me."

jake laughs under his breath. it's warm. dangerous. affectionate in a way that makes your stomach curl.

he leans in like he might actually touch your cheek, lips, something and you freeze. but he doesn't. at the last second, he dips his head past yours and reaches behind you to grab a mug from the cabinet above.

you nearly scream. he pulls back slowly, the corner of his mouth tilted in a knowing smirk.

"relax," he says softly. "if i actually cornered you, you'd combust."

you glare at him, cheeks on fire. "i hate you."

"no you don't." he taps your knee with a finger, the only touch, light, teasing, devastating. "but you can keep pretending."

you nearly fall off the counter trying to escape.

he watches, amused, taking a sip of water like he didn't just send you through all five stages of grief.

"goodnight," he says casually, heading to his room.

you stare after him, emotionally damaged.

"i'm not massaging your stupid legs!" you call out.

his voice drifts back, "you offered."

you bury your face in your hands. you are so, so screwed.

𓂃

you wake up to the smell of something heavenly.

warm. buttery. slightly sweet.

you blink at the ceiling.

no way. no way jake is up early being...competent.

you stomp down the hall dramatically, ready to insult him for being a functional adult at 8:12 a.m.

and you freeze. because jake is shirtless. shirtless. in his kitchen. your now shared kitchen.

his back muscles shift as he flips pancakes. his sweatpants hang low. his hair is messy in the exact way that suggests he just rolled out of bed and looked inhumanly good by accident.

you forget why you entered the kitchen. or how to inhale.

he glances over his shoulder. "morning."

the audacity. “you—" your voice cracks. "you're— you're not wearing clothes."

he looks down, confused. "i'm wearing pants."

"that's not the point!"

"sounds like it is."

you hate him. you hate him so much your eye twitches. he plates a pancake and nods toward the stove. "there's extra batter if you want to make your own."

you puff up, offended. "i CAN cook."

jake raises an eyebrow. "do you want to say that again? slowly?"

you march to the fridge, grab random ingredients you probably won't need, and announce, "watch and learn."

"i'm watching." his voice is annoyingly amused. "not sure i'll be learning."

you ignore him, crank the stove on too high, and pour way too much batter in the pan. it spreads like a sad, beige puddle.

jake strolls over, sipping coffee, watching like he's observing wildlife.

"that's... thick," he comments.

"it's called fluffy," you snap back, your eyes finding his before dropping down to his chest and stomach. oh god why did you do that? jake catches your vision, a smirk playing on his lips.

fuck you.

"oh. okay. it's very... fluffy."

"shut up."

the pancake starts smoking aggressively. you start panicking aggressively.

"um— is it supposed to—"

WHOOSH.

flame kisses the edge of the pan. you shriek. "OH MY GOD—" jake moves instantly, reaching past you to turn down the burner.

and suddenly—he's right behind you. his chest against your back. his arms braced around you as he grabs the pan. his voice low, right by your ear, "hey. relax. i got it."

your brain vacates the premises.

his hands move with confidence, fixing your disaster pancake. his breath brushes your neck. he's close—too close—and yet he's acting like this is normal.

"you're gonna start a fire," he says softly, almost teasing.

"i— i didn't— the burner— your stove is— i— shut up," you whisper, mortified.

he laughs quietly, the sound warm against your skin.

"you're cute when you panic," he murmurs, not moving away. you seize up when you feel his warm breath brush against the shell of your ear, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

you clutch the counter for emotional support. "can you—can you back up?"

"why?" his tone is innocent. way too innocent. "you seemed fine last night when i was close."

you almost combust like the pancake.

"that was different!"

"how?" he asks, dipping his head just enough that you feel the brush of his hair against your cheek.

you have no good answer. because the truth is humiliating, last night you were flustered. now you're flustered and underprepared and wearing pajama shorts shaped like licorice strings.

you grab a spatula and use it like a weapon to push him away.

"move," you hiss, your face burning red.

he steps back, hands up, grinning like a menace. "yes, chef."

"don't call me chef."

"okay. fire hazard."

"JAKE."

he laughs a full, bright laugh that makes your stomach twist and heads back to his own plate. you plate your uneven, charred pancake with defeated silence.

and jake, the infuriating man, sets another golden, perfectly round pancake onto your plate.

you blink. "what's this?"

"a real breakfast," he says, pouring syrup for you like you're a child. "because you nearly burned the apartment down trying to prove a point."

you glare at him. "i was doing FINE."

"sure," he hums. "and i'm a ballerina."

you stab your pancake.

he watches you with that soft, amused smile again—the one with something deeper behind it.

then he adds, "you know... it's kind of nice having you here."

your fork slips out of your hand. "...what?" like you had said earlier, you're a lot of things but one thing you definitely are is self aware. you are not nice to have around, and you know it.

he shrugs, easy. "just saying."

you stare at him, face warming in a way you refuse to acknowledge. you mumble into your syrup, "i hate you."

he smiles, slow and knowing. "no you don't."

and the worst part? he's right.

the first week in jake's apartment goes... fine. dangerously fine.

it should've been easy to fall back into the old dynamic: you, the bossy menace; him, the soft puppy trailing after you with a shy smile and an unlimited tolerance for your nonsense.

except—he doesn't trail. he doesn't melt. he doesn't fold. and that pisses you off more than you'd ever admit.

the chaos starts small.

your makeup begins multiplying across the bathroom counter like it's staging a coup. lip glosses in a neat little line beside his toothbrush; your setting spray sitting directly in front of his razor; your glitter eyeshadow palette open—because closing it would've taken effort, obviously.

jake doesn't complain. he doesn't even sigh.

he just walks in one morning, towels slung over his shoulder, hair damp from the gym, and pauses at the counter.

"is this all yours?" he asks.

you don't look up from your phone. "hm? oh. yeah. i need space. don't be selfish."

jake nods slowly, like he's taking notes on you for a research study. "right. selfish. of course."

you ignore the way that makes your stomach twist.

you up the ante. you start asking—no, demanding—rides.

"jake," you call from your bedroom one morning, "can you take me to get coffee?"

"there's a café two blocks away," he says, leaning on your doorframe, wet hair dripping onto his hoodie.

you gasp like he's suggested you walk barefoot through snow. "that's uphill."

"slightly."

"jake. it's morning. i'm fragile."

he snorts and tosses you his car keys. "fine. you drive."

you blink at him like he had grown a second head. "i was... i was asking you to take me."

"yeah," he says, already walking away, "and i'm telling you to take yourself."

you stare at the keys like they've personally insulted you.

then there's the pizza incident. you take the last slice. obviously. you don't even feel bad. you're sitting on the couch when he walks in, box in hand, looking for the missing piece.

he lifts an eyebrow—that stupid, infuriatingly calm eyebrow—and glances at the empty plate on your lap.

"you didn't eat the last slice, did you?"

"no," you say immediately, even though the evidence is literally smeared on your mouth.

he looks at you. really looks. slowly. knowingly. lips tugging upward. "right," he says softly. "of course you didn't."

then he reaches forward, thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth—not touching, but close enough that the heat of him brushes your skin.

your body locks up.

his voice drops, warm and amused, "you've got sauce right here."

you nearly stop breathing. and then he pulls back, smiling like nothing happened.

you want to strangle him. or kiss him. or both.

but it's the blanket situation that finally pushes you over the edge.

his blankets are better. obviously they are. he's responsible and orderly and uses fabric softener. you're a tired disaster with a credit card.

so you drag his nicest throw blanket into your room one night without asking.

in the morning, he finds you on the couch wrapped in it like a human burrito, scrolling through your phone.

he laughs—this low, warm sound that makes something traitorous flutter in your chest.

"you know," he says, "you have blankets."

"yeah but yours are... softer."

he tilts his head, walking behind the couch. "so your solution was theft?"

"i don't see you complaining."

"i'm not complaining." he leans down behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath by your ear. "i'm just observing."

you freeze. again. you're starting to hate how often that happens.

"why're you so jumpy?" he murmurs, voice like honey.

"shut up," you whisper.

he only chuckles, watching your face turn a pretty shade of pink.

and then comes the night you push too far.

you're irritated for no real reason—maybe because he didn't react the way you wanted, maybe because he's not the boy you expected, maybe because his quiet confidence does something to you you can't explain.

you snap at him. something stupid. something about the air conditioner and his "stupid, organized, obsessive thermostat rules."

he's standing in the kitchen drying dishes when you say it. you expect him to fold, apologize, let you roll over him like you always have.

instead—he sets the plate down. slowly. carefully. like he's placing a piece in a chess game he's already winning.

then he turns and walks toward you. the air changes, it thickens, until you swear you can feel it press against your skin.

you retreat one step, he follows. you bump lightly into the counter. he doesn't touch you. he doesn't need to.

he braces one hand on the counter beside your hip, leaning in just enough that your heart slams painfully against your ribs.

his voice is warm, but the firmness beneath it is unmistakable. "don't talk to me like that."

heat crawls up your neck, "i wasn't— i didn't—"

"no," he says, soft and steady, "you did."

his eyes flick down to your lips for half a second—half a heartbeat—before meeting your eyes again.

"i let you get away with that stuff when we were kids," he continues. "but i'm not that guy anymore."

your pulse stutters. his face is close enough that you see the gold flecks in his eyes. "you don't get to talk to me like that," he says.

a beat.

"not anymore."

you swallow so hard it hurts. you open your mouth—to apologize, to argue, you're not sure—but nothing comes out.

jake watches you, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. not cruel. not mocking. just... knowing. then, gently, he pushes off the counter and steps back.

"good," he murmurs, turning away to finish the dishes. "i'm glad we understand each other."

you stand there, dizzy, cheeks burning, knees genuinely weak. you've never shut up so fast in your entire life.

and you hate—absolutely hate—how much you liked it.

𓂃

you don't realize when it starts.

or maybe you do, and you're just pretending you don't, because acknowledging it would mean admitting something absolutely unacceptable: that jake sim—golden retriever, former bowl-cut disaster, childhood doormat—is becoming the gravitational pull of your entire stupid life.

and you hate that.

you REALLY hate that.

it happens on a friday night.

you're out with a few friends—the fun, chaotic ones who think your bratty personality is "endearing" and "so girlboss of you." you're half-done a drink, leaning over the bar to talk to some tall, kind-of-cute guy who'd been eyeing you for the last ten minutes.

he's laughing at your jokes. you're flipping your hair and pretending you're not checking your reflection in the chrome beer tap.

it's going great.

until you hear the voice that's been in your dreams for the last few months, "hey."

you don't even have to turn around. your stomach recognizes his voice before your brain does.

jake.

you freeze, hand still hovering mid-gesture, and the guy in front of you lifts a curious eyebrow.

the asshole actually smiles at jake when he approaches, like they're suddenly in a friendly competition he's about to lose without knowing why.

jake leans against the bar beside you like he's been invited, like he belongs there—tall, warm, annoyingly good-smelling. his hand is on the small of your back, not touching, but close enough that you feel heat radiating through your shirt.

you hate that your heart triple-flips.

"hey," you say, pretending not to care, though your voice is a little too high. "what are you doing here?"

jake shrugs lightly. his eyes flick once—just once —to the guy you were flirting with. "came to pick you up."

"i didn't ask you to."

"your phone's dead."

you blink. you check your phone...your phone is, in fact, dead.

god, that's so annoying.

the cute guy clears his throat. "you two... know each other?"

before you can answer, jake does, with the most harmless, friendly voice you've ever heard, "yeah. she lives with me."

the guy's smile collapses.

your jaw drops. "jake—that's not—"

"roommates," he adds, finally throwing you a look that says better? but it's too late. the guy is already pulling back, suddenly very uninterested in continuing the conversation with a girl who apparently has a six-foot wall of muscle as a roommate.

"he's just—he's exaggerating," you say desperately, but the guy is already lifting his drink in a goodbye gesture. "nice meeting you," he says—to jake. not you.

he leaves. just like that.

you whirl on jake. "what the hell was that?"

jake looks genuinely confused. "what was what?"

"you—you scared him off!"

"i didn't do anything." his voice is maddeningly calm.

you shove his arm. it does nothing except hurt your hand a little. "you know what you did."

jake tilts his head, pretending to think, then steps closer, way closer, bending slightly so his face is level with yours. "if he got scared because i exist, maybe he wasn't that interested."

"you're insufferable."

"you're welcome for the ride home," he says, smiling like the world's sweetest problem.

you want to push him again.

you also want to grab him by the stupid lapel of his stupid jacket and kiss him until he can't talk like that anymore.

it's infuriating.

and it keeps happening.

you're out for brunch with friends and jake drops by to hand you the cardigan you "accidentally" stole again and suddenly the guy who'd been trying to get your number excuses himself.

you're buying ice cream at a street vendor, jake appears behind you because he was "in the neighborhood," and the guy working the cart instantly stops flirting with you mid-sentence.

you're at the bookstore, a cute grad student is recommending a title, and the moment jake walks up beside you to say, "hey, thought you wanted that coffee?" the grad student's smile just... dies.

every time, jake acts like he has no idea why.

every time, you want to scream.

one evening, you're sitting on the couch scrolling, pretending not to watch the clock, wondering when he's going to get home.

you hate that you miss him. you hate that his absence feels like silence filling the apartment too heavily.

the door unlocks. your heart jumps. you immediately scowl at yourself.

he steps in—hair messy from the wind, gym bag slung over his shoulder, wearing a fitted hoodie that absolutely shouldn't fit him that well.

"you're late," you snap, even though he isn't.

jake lifts a brow. "didn't know i had a curfew."

you huff. "whatever."

but he's already walking past you, and your eyes, traitors, follow him. the way his shoulders move. the way he reaches up to put his keys on the hook. the way his shirt lifts just slightly as he stretches.

you look away too fast and nearly drop your phone.

he notices. of course he notices. jake always notices.

he walks back toward the couch, slow, amused, hands in his pockets. you're about to make up some snarky comment when he stands directly in front of you, blocking the TV, blocking everything, and says gently:

"hey."

you blink up at him. you didn't even realize you'd been frowning.

"rough night?" he asks, voice warm, soft, impossibly soothing.

"none of your business," you mutter, crossing your arms.

but you don't move away when he leans down a little, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside your head—not touching you, just close enough that you feel caged in.

"you know..." he says slowly, eyes dropping to your lips for one devastating second, "you don't have to act tough with me."

your throat closes. your brain refuses to function.

then—as if that wasn't enough torture—he adds, quieter, "you know i'm not the kid you used to boss around. you see that now, right?"

you hate how hot your face gets. you hate how your pulse spikes. you hate that your breath catches in your chest like you've been punched. and you really hate how much you want him to say it again.

before you can fire back, before you can regain control, jake pushes off the couch and steps away, giving you space again.

like he didn't just ruin your entire week.

"i'm gonna shower," he says simply, like he didn't just mentally dismantle you. "order dinner if you're hungry."

you stare at him. you stare through him. then you finally breathe.

your voice comes out small. "jake?"

he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. his eyes soften in that way that makes your stomach flip inside out.

you swallow. "why do people keep assuming we're... y'know... together?"

he smiles—slow, deep, knowing.

"maybe," he says, "they're seeing something you're not ready to see yet."

your heart stops. you want to scream. you want to hit him. you want to kiss him until your knees give out. but you can't say any of that. so instead you throw a pillow at him. "shut up."

he laughs—warm, gentle, absolutely insane-making and disappears into the hallway. leaving you on the couch, heart sprinting, stomach twisted, entire world tilted sideways...

and realizing, for the first time, that you might be in very, very dangerous territory.

𓂃

you don't plan on getting jealous. you really don't. it just kind of... ambushes you, like a flying brick to the head.

the whole thing starts because your friend group decides to have a little saturday picnic in the park—very "we're adults now," very "bring something homemade," very "let's pretend our lives aren't falling apart."

you drag jake along because obviously. he has a car and you don't feel like ubering. plus, he always carries things for you without complaining, and you plan to bring at least four bags despite it being a two-hour outing.

he agrees without hesitation, because of course he does.

the morning of, he comes out of his room wearing a white t-shirt, grey sweats, a backward baseball cap, and that infuriating golden retriever smile that makes your stomach do embarrassing gymnastics.

you pretend not to notice. you absolutely notice.

"you ready?" he asks, grabbing the cooler like it weighs nothing.

you squint at him. "you're wearing that?"

he glances down at himself. "...yes?"

"to a picnic?"

"is this not... picnic attire?"

"you look like a catalogue model for 'athletic boyfriend who loves you.'"

he grins. "so i look good? i fit the part?" you blush furiously at his words, choosing to roll your eyes so dramatically it should win an award. "i didn't say that."

"but you didn't deny it."

"jake."

"yes?"

"shut up."

he just laughs and ushers you out the door with a hand on your lower back—casual, familiar, too natural.

you hate how your heart stutters. you want to be annoying on purpose, just to punish him. you succeed by making him carry every single one of your bags.

he still keeps that stupid gentle smile.

you hate it. you love it. you hate that you love it.

the picnic starts fine. your friends adore him—which annoys you for reasons you refuse to examine.

"jake's so sweet," one of them says while he helps set up the blanket.

"jake's so tall," another sighs dreamily.

"jake's so—"

"okay!" you cut in, a little too loudly. "we get it. he's perfect. shut up." everyone stares. you pretend you didn't say anything weird.

jake just throws you an amused little look like he knows exactly what's happening in your brain and is choosing to spare you.

which somehow makes it worse. then she arrives.

the problem. the villain. the enemy.

your friend's coworker—invited last minute—named mia, with perfect hair and a perfect smile and an offensively cute sundress. she spots jake instantly, like a moth to a glow-in-the-dark lantern.

"oh my god, hi," she chirps, stepping right into his space. "we haven't met yet. i'm mia."

jake stands, polite, warm, annoyingly charming. "hey. i'm jake."

you watch from your corner of the blanket, chewing a strawberry like you're trying to murder it with your teeth.

mia laughs at everything he says. she touches his arm at least twice. she calls him funny—funny, jake, the man who laughs at his own dad jokes and says "oopsies" when he drops things.

your eye twitches. and jake... doesn't pull away.

worse, he's being his usual self—easygoing, kind, listening fully, that soft focused attention he gives people when he genuinely likes them.

you have never hated being conscious more. your friends keep giving you meaningful looks.

you keep ignoring them. except then mia leans in closer, tiny sundress fluttering, and says, "so, are you seeing anyone?"

you nearly choke on air. jake doesn't seem fazed. "uh... i—"

"jake!" you snap, way too quickly, way too loud.

everyone stops. jake turns toward you with slow amusement raising his eyebrows. "yeah?"

"you— uh..." your brain abandons you. it packs its bags and literally leaves the continent. "you forgot to... um... help me with something."

he looks at the fully assembled picnic. "help you with what?"

"something," you repeat, sweating. "very important."

mia blinks. "oh, we can finish our conversa—"

"NOPE," you say, grabbing jake's wrist and yanking him off the blanket so fast he practically trips. "no need. bye. go touch grass or something."

you drag him behind a tree like a deranged cartoon burglar. he follows, mostly because he's trying not to laugh.

"you good?" he asks softly.

"i'm fine," you snap, glaring at him.

"you sure? because you look—" "if you say 'jealous' i'm going to drown you in the lake."

he smirks. "i was going to say 'cute,' but okay."

your brain fries like an egg on asphalt. "shut up," you whisper, but it comes out breathless.

he steps closer—not touching, but close enough that the tree is behind you and he's in front of you, warm and solid and taller than you remember.

"you dragged me away from someone mid-flirt," he murmurs, voice dropping into that low warm register that goes straight to your knees. "so i'm gonna need you to explain."

you glare up at him. "i did not. she wasn't flirting."

"she asked if i was seeing anyone."

"she was just being friendly."

"she touched my arm."

"maybe she's friendly with arms." god, you want to be friendly with his arms. "you pulled me across the park."

"i felt like walking."

"you growled." your face burns. "i did not!"

he grins—slow, devastating. "you definitely did." you shove his shoulder, which does absolutely nothing because he's built like a wall now. "you're imagining things."

"am i?"

"yes."

he leans in, inches from your face, eyes ridiculously soft and warm and knowing. "then tell me why you're mad."

you open your mouth. nothing comes out. your throat works around a sound that isn't a word.

jake watches all of it with that maddening patience—like he's been waiting years for this exact moment and can give you all the time in the world.

then, barely above a whisper, "you know i'd drop anyone the second you wanted me to... right?"

your heart stops. actually stops. you physically forget what breathing is.

and he smiles—that deeper, slower version he only gives you now—before stepping back, giving you space like he didn't just vaporize your entire soul.

"come on," he says, gentle. "before your friends think you murdered me." he starts walking back. you stare after him, stunned, furious, flustered, painfully alive.

you hate him. you really, really like him. you hate that you really, really like him.

and when mia tries to talk to him again later, he doesn't even notice—because he's too busy watching you out of the corner of his eye, like you're the only person in the park.

and that's when you know, you're doomed.

𓂃

the day starts stupidly normal, which should've been your first warning.

it's saturday. the sun is too bright. jake's already up—as always—making breakfast like some domestic prince charming he has no right to be. you stumble into the kitchen in one of his hoodies, hair a mess, mascara from last night smudged like war paint.

he glances over his shoulder, amused. "morning, trouble."

you roll your eyes because your heart does a weird little tap-dance. "you're loud."

"i haven't even said anything."

"you existing is loud."

he laughs—soft, warm, like he thinks you're hilarious even when you're being awful and goes back to cooking.

you sit at the counter, chin in your palm, watching him move around like he owns every inch of this kitchen. he does, technically, but you hate how good he looks doing it. the rolled sleeves that expose his delicious looking forearms. the concentration. the way he pushes his hair back when it falls over his forehead.

you look away before he catches you staring. he sets a plate in front of you a moment later, eggs, toast, fruit. stupidly wholesome.

you poke at it. "jake..."

"mm?"

"i need your car today." your car had been in the shop for the last few days, leaving you stranded at home majority of the day.

he pauses. not dramatically. not in a way meant to provoke you. just... pauses. "for what?"

"i need to run errands," you shrug. "grocery store, nail appointment, whatever."

he leans his hip against the counter, arms crossing. "you can take the bus. i need the car."

you blink. blink again. "...the bus?"you say it like he suggested you swim across the pacific ocean.

"yeah," he says simply. "the 14 stops right outside the building. it's not hard."

you stare at him and he stares back. somewhere deep inside your spoiled, bratty, slightly feral soul, a fuse lights.

"you're being dramatic," you declare.

"i'm being practical."

"you're supposed to help me."

"i do help you."

"not right now!" he exhales, patient but firm. "my car isn't your personal uber."

your pride twists sharply. you feel it—that hot, impulsive, immature spark that always gets you in trouble.

"wow," you snap, standing from the stool. "you get a couple muscles, a salary, and suddenly you're too good for me?" his brows lift, surprised—not offended, not angry—just surprised that you'd go for that. "i didn't say that."

"you're acting like it!"

you don't mean the words. not really. they spill out because you're flustered and embarrassed and you hate how stable he is when you're wobbling all over the emotional place. you fold your arms, chin lifted in that signature i'm-right-even-when-i'm-wrong posture.

"i'm asking for one tiny thing, jake. one. and you're giving me attitude? seriously?"

he doesn't flinch. "you're not asking," he says quietly. "you're demanding."

your pulse kicks up—defensive, stubborn. "because you're supposed to say yes!"

"why?" you hate that he says it without raising his voice. hate how calm he is while you're practically vibrating.

"because you always have!" you blurt. "you always listened to me! you always—"

"i was a kid," he says, tone low but steady. "you treated me like i didn't know how to have my own life. and back then? maybe i didn't."

you freeze. his expression softens—not pitying, not mocking —soft in the way someone looks when they finally decide to stop letting you run from something. "but i'm not that kid anymore," he says. "and you can't talk to me like i am."

your throat tightens—sharp, sudden. it's stupid how much it hits you, how fast your anger collapses into something hot and guilty.

he steps closer. not threatening. just... present.

closer than you expected. closer than your heart can handle without short-circuiting.

your voice shrinks. "i wasn't— i didn't mean—"

"yeah," he murmurs, eyes steady on yours. "i know. but you said it anyway."

you swallow. hard. jake looks down at you like he's seeing every version of you at once, bossy eight-year-old you, dramatic teenager you, chaotic adult you, and none of them scare him. none of them push him away.

"i'm not the one who needs to grow up," he says, softer now. "and i'm not trying to fight you. but i'm not here to be ordered around." the room feels too quiet suddenly. the only sound is the faint sizzle of the pan cooling on the stove and your own uneven breathing.

"i... didn't know i was doing that," you whisper.

"yeah," he says again, but gently. "that's the problem."

you look away, frustrated with yourself more than with him. and then he reaches out—slow, careful—and hooks a finger under your chin to tilt your face back up. not forceful but impossible to ignore. his voice drops just a little. warm. real. a little too intimate.

"i'm not going anywhere," he says. "i never have. but you can't keep pretending i belong to you just because i used to follow you around."

the words hit you dead center. because the truth—the horrible, humiliating, painfully raw truth—is that you didn't treat him like he was below you.

you treated him like he was yours. and somewhere along the way, he learned to walk without trailing behind you. you blink fast, trying not to let your eyes shine too much. "i... i just thought..."

"i know," he murmurs. "but that's why we're having this conversation."

you nod, small. awkward. vulnerable in a way you hate being. jake steps back slowly, giving you space without breaking eye contact.

"you can still take the bus," he says lightly. "i'll even google the schedule for you." you glare. but it's weak. he smiles, that stupid warm smile that ruins you every time. and for the first time, your bratty instinct doesn't flare up. instead, something quieter settles in your chest.

you're not sure you like it. you're very sure it has everything to do with him.

𓂃

it starts on a lazy sunday afternoon—the fake kind of lazy where you're doing nothing but somehow jake is doing everything.

he's folding laundry, humming, looking offensively good in a plain white tee, while you lie on the couch upside down, legs over the backrest, scrolling on your phone like a disgruntled cat.

you're bored. dangerous.

"jake," you call, voice dramatic, "i'm craving entertainment. entertain me." he doesn't even glance over. "i'm folding your shirts. that's entertaining."

"no, that's domestic," you correct. "you're like a husband in a detergent commercial."

"at least i smell nice?" he shrugs. you pause. he does. annoyingly so. you ignore the flutter in your stomach and point your toes at him from the upside-down position.

"tell me a story," you demand. "like bedtime story vibes. something juicy. something chaotic. something where i'm the main character—" "—which you always are," he finishes for you, snorting. "okay. fine. let's do memory lane."

you lift your head just enough to squint at him. "that sounds suspiciously sentimental."

"you're the one who asked." you flop your head back. "proceed, peasant."

he finally looks at you—that slow, amused, golden-retriever-who-knows-your-game look. "alright. remember grade four?"

"i choose not to."

"too bad," he says, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, folding the last shirt. "you announced to the whole class that we were getting married."

your phone drops onto your face. "i what—?"

he laughs, warm and full, like it's a memory he's kept safe. "yeah. you stood on a chair during recess and yelled, 'jake is gonna be my husband because he listens!'" you bury your face in your hands. "oh my god."

"you even made me a ring out of twist ties."

"stop talking."

"and then you made me swear an oath—"

"NO YOU DID NOT JUST SAY OATH—"

"—that i'd carry your backpack forever because i was 'stronger' and 'built for it'." you groan so loudly that he laughs again.

"you loved bossing me around," he says, softer now. "i still do," you shoot back, kicking his shoulder lightly with your foot. he catches your ankle. not tight, but just enough for your breath to hitch.

"i know." his voice is lower. "you were kind of terrifying."

"i was adorable," you argue, rolling his eyes.

"you were a tiny tyrant with pigtails."

"and you followed me everywhere," you retort, letting your foot rest in his hold because pulling away feels too much like losing.

"yeah," he says quietly, thumb brushing just once over your ankle before he realizes and lets go. "i did." you freeze. he doesn't look flustered, but the way he moves—slow, controlled, pretending nothing happened—tells you he definitely felt something too.

so you clear your throat and switch the subject recklessly. "well, remember when you glued your hand to a desk?" the corner of his mouth twitches. "you told me it would make me smarter."

"and you believed me!" you cackle.

"you said the glue had 'knowledge properties,'" he defends, pointing an accusing finger at you. "you said einstein invented it!"

you're laughing so hard you almost fall off the couch. he tries to stay serious, but your laugh is contagious and he ends up leaning back against the couch, head tipped against your knee as he laughs too.

you go still. his head. on your leg. like it's natural. like it's always been that way. your laugh fades into a stubborn little silence you can't name.

he notices. he always notices. "hey," he murmurs, chin tilting up just a little so he can see your upside-down face. "what's with that look?"

"what look?" you whisper, too fast.

"the one where you pretend you're annoyed but you're actually... i don't know." he searches your expression. "thinking."

you scoff. "i don't think."

"yes you do."

"nope."

"you definitely do."

"stop accusing me of intelligence!" he laughs again, but this time something softer lingers under it — something warm, something knowing. the air shifts. you hate it. or maybe you don't, maybe that's the problem.

"okay, next memory," you say quickly, tapping his forehead with your foot to break the moment. "tell me something where i look cool."

he smirks. "that never happened."

"JAKE—"

"kidding, kidding." he nudges your leg. "there was that time you punched a boy in the nose because he called me 'jakey-wakey.'"

you blink. "oh yeah. classic me."

"classic you," he echoes, smiling to himself in a way that makes your chest feel tight. and then, quietly, "you always had my back." the room goes still. your heart stutters—because he means it. because he remembers it. because he says it like it mattered.

"don't get sentimental on me, golden boy," you mumble.

"too late," he says, voice warm, teasing, but edged with something real. "you brought up memory lane. i'm just walking it."

you swallow. the dynamic tilts again—just slightly, just enough to make you feel like you're standing on the edge of something big.

so you do what you do best. you kick him lightly in the shoulder. "get up. i'm bored again." he stands, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt.

"fine," he says. "let's go get ice cream."

"you're paying, right?" he sighs. "i always do."

you grin. and he does too, like he wouldn't have it any other way.

𓂃

it starts stupidly. you're not even fighting.

you're tipsy—not blackout, not sloppy, just warm and giggly after a night out with friends. you called jake because your uber bailed and your phone was dying, and he showed up in ten minutes flat, hair messy from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, looking unfairly good for someone dragged out of bed at 1 a.m.

you slid into the passenger seat, all smug. "aww, jakey. did i wake you?"

he didn't even look at you. "put your seatbelt on."

ugh. infuriating. for the entire drive, you tried to poke at him— literally and figuratively—but he kept dodging with that maddening calm.

by the time you walk into the apartment, and by walk you mean jake carrying your flailing body—you're buzzing with irritation that isn't... really irritation.

not exactly. you kick your shoes off dramatically. "you didn't have to come get me, y'know."

he locks the door behind you. "you called," he says simply, shrugging off his hoodie. "i wasn't gonna leave you outside alone."

"i can take care of myself." he gives you a slow, deliberate once-over—the skirt, the smudged makeup, the slightly-wobbly stance.

"sure you can." you make an offended noise, fully ready to start something stupid—but he walks past you toward the kitchen.

which pisses you off more. so you follow him. obviously. he's pulling a water bottle out of the fridge when you step right into his space, eyebrows raised, chin tilted up like a challenge.

"you're ignoring me," you accuse.

"no," he says calmly. "i'm choosing not to indulge you." your stomach actually drops. oh, that tone. that new tone you still haven't learned how to handle.

you scoff. "wow. someone got confident."

"someone had to," he says. and then—god help you—he steps closer. not touching you, just closer.

your back meets the counter, cold through your shirt. he sets the water bottle beside you but doesn't move away. he's right there—warm, solid, taller, broader than he ever was as a kid—and he's looking at you like he can see every thought you're trying to hide.

"you good?" he asks softly. that should be a normal question. but it isn't.your throat goes tight. "i'm fine." he inhales once, slow, like he's counting to five because of you. "you're doing that thing again."

"what thing," you snap too quickly.

"pretending you don't want something," he murmurs, "just because you don't wanna admit i'm the one you want it from."

your breath actually stops. you hate how your hands grip the counter; you hate how your pulse stutters; you hate that he can hear it, probably feel it, with how close he is.

"you think i want something from you?" you manage, trying to sound bored. he leans in, not touching. but close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

"i think," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have called me tonight if you didn't." your voice comes out small. "i called because my uber bailed."

he smiles. slow. knowing. devastating. "sure," he says. "if that's the lie you wanna stick to."

you actually shove him. well—you try. your hands hit his chest, but he doesn't budge an inch. he just looks down at you with that infuriating calm, like you're cute for even attempting it.

"don't—" your voice breaks, and you hate that too. "don't talk like you know everything."

he corners you fully now, one hand resting on the counter beside your hip, the other lifting—slowly, giving you time—until his fingers hover under your jaw. not touching. just waiting.

"i'm not the one pretending here," he says softly. "i'm not pretending anything."

"yeah?" he whispers. "then look at me." you do. you shouldn't have.

his eyes are warm and dark and unbearably sure of you—like he's known this moment was coming since you were both twelve and you bossed him into giving you the last popsicle on the block. like he's been waiting for you to catch up.

"you can be a brat to everyone else," he says, barely above a murmur. "but you don't get to lie to me." your chest pulls tight, breath shaking, and you don't realize you've gone still until he tilts his head, studying you.

"there it is," he whispers. "finally." finally what? finally you stop running? finally you stop pretending you don't want him? finally you admit you're not the one with the power anymore?

you don't know. you just know your voice is barely a whisper, "...jake." something changes in his face. not anger. not triumph. just... relief. warm and deep and terrifying.

he leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours and his voice drops, low and steady, "i'm not gonna kiss you tonight," he says. "you're drunk."

you swallow hard, embarrassed and grateful and furious all at once. "but tomorrow?" he adds, eyes flicking to your mouth for half a second.

your knees actually go weak, tomorrow? "tomorrow," he says, "you don't get to run." and he steps back. leaving you breathless, cornered by nothing but your own heartbeat.

you wake up with your skull splitting in two, your mouth dry, and the horrifying, slow–motion realization that you remember every single thing that happened last night.

the way jake lifted you off that sidewalk like you weighed nothing. the way he held you steady while you tried to unlock the door and failed miserably.

the way he said it—low, warm, devastating, "you can be a brat to everyone else. but you don't get to lie to me." and worst of all, the way he looked at you afterward. like he was two seconds away from kissing you senseless against your own doorway.

you roll onto your back, throw an arm over your face, and groan.

"oh my god i hate it here," you mutter into your pillow. "i should move out. i should join a monastery. i should fake my death."

a soft knock hits your door. your entire soul leaves your body. "hey," jake's voice calls, maddeningly gentle. "i made breakfast." you consider leaping out the window. instead you croak, "i'm... busy."

"you're hungover."

"busy being hungover." he laughs—that warm, breathy laugh that you hear way too clearly through the door.

"come eat. i won't bite." liar, you think, dragging yourself out of bed. you almost did. you trudge down the hall in an oversized hoodie and socks, praying he looks terrible so you can at least feel morally superior.

he does not look terrible. he's standing at the stove in grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, hair damp, shoulders broad, forearms flexing as he plates food. the apartment is stupidly bright, the sun hits him like it's personally in love.

you want to die. you try to sneak to the fridge for water and pretend he doesn't exist. he turns just in time to catch you.

"morning," he says. you nearly drop the bottle. "...hi."

he raises an eyebrow. "that's it? no yelling? no demands?" you glare at him weakly. "i'm on sick leave."

"mhm." he sets a plate in front of you. "how's the headache?"

"big."

"water's on the table."

"i know."

"you didn't drink it."

"...i was getting emotionally prepared," you mumble. he smiles—soft, amused, slightly pitying—and sits across from you.mthe silence is unbearable. you poke at your eggs like they personally offended you. "so. about last night."

"yeah," he says calmly, sipping his coffee. "about last night." you brace yourself. you don't know what you're expecting—a lecture? a joke? him pretending it didn't happen?

what you don't expect is him leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking over your face like he can see every thought you're trying to drown.

"you were pretty honest," he says softly. you choke on air. "i— what— honest how?" he tilts his head. "you kept grabbing me."

"NO I DID NOT—"

"you did," he says, annoyingly unbothered. "kept saying i 'smelled stupidly good' and that i 'ruined guys' for you." you want the earth to open up and swallow you. "i was drunk," you whisper.

"i know." he nods. "that's why you didn't lie." your heart stutters. his voice drops, the same tone he used last night—warm, steady, too real.

"you don't have to freak out," he murmurs. "i'm not asking for anything." you stare at him. "you're being... weirdly nice."

"i'm always nice to you."

"you're being extra nice." his lips twitch. "you're hungover."

"i don't trust it."

"that says more about you than me," he says, and you actually consider throwing your fork at him. but then... he pushes his chair back. stands. walks around the table. you freeze as he stops right beside you. not touching you, he never touches first, but close enough that your entire body tenses.

"look at me," he says quietly. you do, because what other choice do you have. his eyes hold yours, steady and dark and impossibly sure.

"what i said last night wasn't because you were drunk." a beat. "i meant it." your breath catches. your fingers curl around the edge of your chair. "jake..."

he leans down just a little—not enough to cross the line, but enough that you feel him, warm and solid at your side. "you can avoid me all you want today," he murmurs. "hide in your room. glare at me. pretend you don't remember."

your heart is hammering so loudly you're scared he can hear it. "but we're not going back," he finishes. "not after last night." you can't speak. you can't move. you can't breathe. he straightens slowly, like he knows exactly what he just did to you, and steps back.

"eat your breakfast," he says lightly, already turning toward the sink. "you need your strength." you stare at his back, absolutely feral with confusion and panic and want.

because he's right. everything has changed and you're the one who feels ruined.

the rest of the day is... hell. you hide in your room because you're a coward with a hangover and a heart that won't stop doing gymnastics. you scroll on your phone. you pretend to nap. you dramatically throw yourself on your bed like a victorian widow.

unfortunately, your bedroom shares a wall with the living room.

which means you hear everything. you hear jake laughing softly at his phone. you hear him moving around, cleaning, humming, doing dishes. you hear him existing like the universe didn't tilt on its axis last night.

and every time he shifts, every time the floor creaks, your stomach flips like it's auditioning for a reality show.

around 5 p.m., you crack. you storm out of your room under the noble excuse of "checking if he replaced the Brita filter," which is a lie, but you're committed to the bit.

jake is on the couch. hair damp again from the gym. black t-shirt stretched over his shoulders. sweatpants hanging too low for god's favorites, let alone you, god's forgotten middle child.

he looks up the second you appear.

"hey." so casual. so normal. so illegal.

you fold your arms. "why are you acting weird?"

he blinks. "...i'm literally sitting."

"you're sitting weird." he bites back a smile. "okay. how does one sit weird?"

"like that!" you snap, gesturing vaguely at his whole body. "all... confident."

"i'm sorry?" he laughs, leaning back. "you want me to slouch more?"

"i want you to stop—" you choke on your own words. "—being like... this."he tilts his head. "like what?" you should walk away. run. escape. join witness protection. instead you stomp closer. "stop being smug about last night." his eyebrows lift. "i'm not smug."

"you are," you fire back. "you're doing the eyes."

"...the eyes?"

"yes! the—" you wildly point at his face "—'i know something you're not admitting' eyes." his lips twitch. "maybe because you are avoiding something."

you freeze. he didn't say it sharply. or cruelly. just... plainly. softly. like he's stating the weather.

"i'm not avoiding anything," you lie.

"okay." he pats the couch. "come sit, then." you scoff. "no."

"why not?"

"because." because you don't know what will happen. because you don't trust your own body around him. because his voice last night is still echoing in your bones. "because?" he repeats gently.

you glare. you hate him. you hate that he's winning. you hate that he's not even trying to win. "fine," you snap, and drop onto the couch beside him.

the space between you is legal... but barely. jake doesn't move. doesn't lean in. doesn't touch. he simply turns his head and looks at you.

slowly. openly. like he's reading a book he's already memorized. your pulse stutters. "what?" you demand.

his voice is quiet. "you still look upset."

"i'm not upset."

"you're doing the eyebrows."

you gasp. "I DO NOT—"

"you do," he murmurs, and the tone—god, that tone—almost makes you shake. "you always do when you're overwhelmed." you hate how he knows that. you hate how he knows anything. you hate how safe he makes it feel to be known.

"jake," you say, trying to sound sharp. "stop... looking at me like that."

"like what?"

"like you're—" you swallow "—waiting for me to break." he's quiet for a beat. then, "i'm not waiting," he says softly. "you already are."

your breath catches. he doesn't smirk. he doesn't tease. he just watches you—steady, patient, unbearably gentle. and something in you snaps. "you think you know everything," you whisper.

"no." he shakes his head once. "i just know you."

your throat tightens. you push up from the couch —too fast, too dramatic, too you—but before you can escape, his hand closes around your wrist.

not hard. not forceful. just enough, enough to stop you. enough to pull a tiny gasp from your mouth. enough to make your knees weaken embarrassingly fast.

you stare at him and he stares right back.

"don't run," he murmurs.

"i'm not—"

"you are." his hand slides down, fingers brushing yours. "why are you scared of me?"

"i'm not scared of you," you whisper.

"then look at me." you do and that's your mistake. because he stands and steps into your space. not touching, but close enough that your breath stumbles. your legs buckle beneath you and you find yourself sitting on the sofa again.

your back presses into the sofa without you thinking, his body following, not pinning you, but caging you all the same—one arm braced above your head, the other still holding your wrist like he's reminding you he could've touched more, but chose restraint instead.

his breath ghosts your cheek. "this is what you wanted last night," he says quietly.

your stomach flips so violently you almost fold.

"i— you— i was drunk," you manage.

"you're sober now."

you hate him. you want him. you hate that you want him. his forehead drops to yours—barely touching, barely there, but it feels like a strike of lightning.

"say it," he murmurs, voice dropping to that devastating low. "just once. stop lying to me." you swallow so hard it hurts. "jake..."

his thumb skims the back of your hand—the first real touch—slow and devastating and enough to make heat coiling in your stomach spike.

"say it," he repeats, even softer now. "and i won't make you wait anymore." you gasp. you could feel your chest press in and your thigh clench together, an action that doenst go unnoticed by jake's sharp eyes.

your whole body trembles under his breath, his closeness, his voice and he feels it, oh he absolutely feels it. he smirks, barely. and then, in a tone that is not patient anymore, not gentle anymore—a tone that is pure control, "don't make me ask again."

your mouth parts. your pulse jumps. the line is right there—the moment before the moment—and you know if you speak, if you admit one more thing, everything you've been holding back is going to break wide open.

and he's waiting. breathing with you. holding you still. letting you fall on your own.

your mouth opens, but the only sound is a shaky, pathetic little gasp. your brain is screaming at you to shove him, to run, to do something—anything—but your body is a traitor. it's melting. sinking into the wall of the couch, arching just the tiniest bit toward him, like a flower leaning into the sun.

his thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner wrist, a slow, deliberate circle that feels like a brand. "i'm waiting," he murmurs, and his voice isn't gentle anymore. it's low. rough. it's the voice of someone who's done waiting.

"i—" you try, but the word dissolves. your pride is a flimsy shield against the sheer force of him. he's not just jake anymore. he's the boy who memorized your every whim, who learned your tells, who grew up and sharpened all that quiet observation into a weapon aimed directly at your defenses.

"look at me," he says again, and you do. you have to. his eyes are dark, pinned on yours, and there's no escape in them. there's only the truth. "say it."

"i hate you," you whisper, and it's the most honest thing you've ever said. a slow, vicious smile spreads across his face. it's not triumphant. it's relieved. "no you don't," he breathes, and then he closes the last inch of space.

the first kiss is a collision. it's not soft. it's not hesitant. it's a punishment. his mouth is firm on yours, bruising, and before you can even process it, his teeth are sinking into your bottom lip, a sharp, stinging bite that makes you cry out.

he licks over the hurt immediately, a hot, possessive swipe, and then he's kissing you again, all teeth and tongue, a messy, hungry claim. he's devouring you, and you're letting him. you're arching into him, your free hand fisting the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.

he breaks the kiss, leaving you panting, your lip tingling. his forehead rests on yours, his breathing just as ragged. "see?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "not so hard, was it?"

you want to snap back, but all you can manage is a weak, breathless glare.

he chuckles, a dark, warm sound. "still got that look in your eye," he says, his thumb stroking the side of your neck. "like you're planning my murder."

"maybe i am," you whisper, dazed out of your mind.

"good luck with that," he says, and then he's manhandling you. his hands grip your waist, and he's spinning you, pushing you forward until your knees hit the edge of the couch. he bends you over the arm, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down. the position is obscene, your ass in the air, face pressed into the couch cushions.

"these," he says, his voice low and rough as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sleep shorts, "have been driving me crazy for a week."

he tugs them down, slowly, deliberately, and you lift your hips to help him, a silent surrender that feels more powerful than any argument you've ever won. he tosses them aside, his gaze dropping to the thin lace of your panties.

"so much for being subtle," he murmurs, and you flush, because he knows. he knows you wore them for him. you always do.

then his hand is gone from your back for a second, and you hear the sharp sound of it cutting through the air before it connects with your ass. a sharp, stinging slap that makes you yelp into the cushions.

"that's for being a fucking tease," he growls, his hand rubbing the sting into your skin. another slap, this one on the other cheek. "and that's for making me wait."

he yanks your panties down, and the cool air hits your dripping pussy. you're so wet it's embarrassing. "look at this," he breathes, and then you feel it—a sharp, stinging slap right against your folds. you jolt, a choked moan tearing from your throat. it's a different kind of pain, sharper, more intimate.

"so fucking wet for me. you wanted this just as bad as i did, didn't you?"

he doesn't wait for an answer. he's on his knees behind you, his hands gripping your ass cheeks and spreading you open. you feel his hot breath a second before his mouth is on you. he doesn't start slow. he licks a broad, flat stripe from your clit to your entrance, a messy, hungry taste before his lips close around your clit and he sucks. hard.

your knees buckle, but his grip on you is iron. he's a man possessed. he eats you out like he's starving, his tongue fucking into you, his nose pressing against your ass, his teeth scraping your inner thighs. he bites down on the sensitive skin there, hard enough to leave a mark, and you sob, pushing back against his face. he's obsessed. he's consuming you.

he groans at the taste of you, his tongue messy yet precise as he slide down your folds making your squirm. "jake, please," you gasp, your hands fisting the couch cushions.

he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice muffled by your cunt. "please what? beg for it."

"please, i need—"

"need what?" he demands, landing another sharp slap to your pussy. the sting mixes with the pleasure, a dizzying cocktail. you feel his fingers tease your clenching hole, not quite pushing in but instead dip in slightly before running over to rub at your swollen clit.

"your cock," you sob, completely broken. "please, jake, i need your cock."

he groans, a deep, guttural sound of victory. he stands up, and you hear the rustle of his jeans. then he's grabbing you, flipping you over onto your back on the couch like you weigh nothing. he looms over you, his shirt gone, his chest heaving. his eyes are wild, feral.

"open your mouth," he commands, his hand reaching between your legs to rub tight circles around your clit while you struggle to keep your legs open.

you do, without thinking. he leans down, spits directly onto your tongue. it's filthy, degrading, and it sends a bolt of pure lust straight through you. "swallow it," he orders, and you do, your eyes locked on his.

his expression morphs into one of pure bliss, his hand wrapped around his thick aching cock as he jerks himself slightly. he watches your needy mouth pull into a whine when his fingers press harder on your clit, pleading for him to fuck you.

originally, he was going to tease you. have you begging and crying for his cock, but he overestimated his ability to hold back when he realized how good you looked fucked out.

"good girl," he murmurs, and then he's lining himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. he doesn't wait. he pushes into you in one hard, deep stroke, and you both groan. he's big, stretching you, filling you completely, and it's overwhelming in the best possible way.

he starts to move, his hips slamming into yours, a brutal, punishing rhythm. each thrust is deep, deliberate, designed to break you apart. he leans down, sinking his teeth into the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, a hard, possessive bite that you know will leave a dark bruise.

"mine," he growls against your skin, his pace quickening. "you've always been mine." his hands fumble to pull up your shirt, eyes bright when he realizes that you weren't wearing a bra. his greedy hands grab at you tits, pinching and squeezing as he watched your face scrunch in pleasure.

"so fucking pretty." he mummers, his cock pounding into you strong before his mouth reach's down to take in one of your nipples—sucking hard.

you whine in response, hands clawing at his shoulders as you arch unnaturally against the couch.

"been waiting for this day for years." he confesses, between kisses that he's leaving on your chest. your heart beats faster at his sudden confession, moaning louder when his cock brushes against that all get area that many of your ex's had trouble finding.

the coil in your stomach tightens, impossibly fast. he can feel it too, can feel the way you're clenching around him, and he reaches down, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles.

"cum for me," he commands, his voice a low growl. "now."

you shatter. a blinding, all-consuming orgasm rips through you. you scream his name, your body arching off the couch as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. he follows you over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, spilling himself into you.

you shudder at the feeling of his warm cum in you, feeling him twitch inside you as he helped you ride out your high.

he collapses on top of you, his body heavy and warm, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you're both panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing.

for a long moment, neither of you speaks. you just lie there, tangled together, the aftermath of the storm settling around you.

finally, he pushes himself up, his arms braced on either side of your head. he looks down at you, his expression soft, his eyes filled with a terrifying amount of adoration. he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to the bite mark on your neck.

"still hate me?" he murmurs, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

you look up at him, at the boy you've spent a lifetime fighting, and feel something inside you crack open. "no," you whisper, and it's the truest thing you've ever said.

the room is still warm.not from the heater, not from the blankets—from him. from the way he touched you. from the way you touched him back.

you're lying on your back, hair messy, chest still rising too fast, your skin flushed in a way you hope isn't obvious... but you know it is. jake's spread out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily resting across your stomach like he claimed the space there without even thinking about it.

you don't speak at first. neither does he. your breathing gradually falls back into something human, and eventually something soft and unbearably embarrassing curls into your voice.

"so," you mumble, staring at the ceiling because looking at him might actually kill you. "um. that happened."

jake turns his head toward you slowly—so slowly your pulse skips like it's trying to escape your body.

he doesn't tease. he doesn't joke. he doesn't even smirk. he just looks at you, eyes dark and soft and deeply certain in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"yeah," he says quietly. "it did."

you swallow. his fingers move—not leaving your stomach, just tracing lazy, slow circles like he's memorizing the shape of you now that he's allowed to.

"are you..." his voice dips, warm and low, "okay?"

you shut your eyes for one humiliating second before answering.

"i'm fine."

"you sure?"

"yes."

"positive?"

"jake, please," you groan, dragging your hands over your face. "i'm fine, you're fine, everything's—whatever."

he laughs, soft and breathy, and his hand slides higher on your torso—warm palm resting just beneath your ribs without pushing, without restraining, just there.

and the worst part? you lean into it without thinking.

he notices—of course he notices—because his thumb presses lightly, intentionally, like he's acknowledging the way you reacted.

your voice comes out embarrassingly small. "stop acting like you know everything."

"i don't," he murmurs. "i just know you."

you turn your head sharply, finally meeting his eyes—which was a mistake, because he's already looking at you like he's been waiting for you to do it.

and he holds your gaze. fully. openly. no hesitation left whatsoever.

god, he's bold now. not arrogant. not smug. just... sure.

sure of you. sure of himself. sure of what he wants.

"i meant what i said," he says, the slightest rasp in his voice. "you don't get to lie to me anymore."

you swallow, throat tight. "i wasn't—"

he cuts you off with nothing but a look. a look that tells you exactly what he heard in your voice earlier, in your breathing, in the way you clung to him.

"you don't have to pretend," he adds quietly. "not here. not with me."

your chest squeezes.

no one has ever said that to you before—not like that, not with that kind of certainty, not with that kind of gentleness that feels like he's handing you permission you didn't even know you craved.

so you whisper—barely audible, "i'm not pretending."

his breath catches. barely, but you hear it. then he shifts—not climbing over you, not pulling you in —just rolling onto his side, facing you fully, his leg brushing yours under the blanket that he has pulled over you two.

his voice drops to something dangerously soft.

"good," he murmurs. "because I'm not pretending anymore either."

you blink. "pretending what?"

he leans in, just enough that you feel his breath against your cheek, his nose brushing the corner of yours.

"that I don't want you," he says simply.

your stomach drops straight through the mattress. he keeps going, voice steady, tone low but honest in a way that shakes you more than anything else tonight.

"i'm done acting like I don't think about you all the time," he whispers. "i'm done holding back because I thought it was what you wanted."

your lips part, but nothing comes out.

his thumb grazes your hip under the blanket— slow, barely there, but intentional. grounding. claiming. reassuring.

"i'm done pretending you're just my friend."

your pulse jumps so hard you swear it echoes.

you stare at him—dazed, breathless, overwhelmed.

"jake..."

he just watches you, eyes soft, voice steady.

"you don't have to say anything tonight," he murmurs. "you don't owe me anything. i just need you to know."

you whisper, "know what?"

he holds your gaze like he's anchoring you in place.

"that I want you."

your breath stops.

"that I'm not scared of it."

his fingers tighten just slightly on your hip. "that I'm not scared of you."

you tremble.

"and that I'm not going anywhere."

the room feels too small. too warm. too full of everything you've been running from.

you look at him, really look, and something cracks open in your chest. you don't know what to do with it. you don't know how to breathe around it.

but he does. he reaches up, cups the back of your neck with a gentleness that ruins you more than anything else tonight, and he tugs you in just a little—not kissing you, just touching foreheads, sharing breath.

"we'll talk tomorrow," he murmurs. "when you're less in your head."

you want to argue. you want to push him away. you want to pull him closer.

you end up doing none of those things—instead you melt, slowly, helplessly, into the space he holds open for you.

he pulls the blanket up. shifts closer. lets your head rest on his chest when you finally, silently, give in.

his hand stays on your back.

steady. warm. sure.

and for the first time, it hits you—painfully, beautifully, terrifyingly, you're not the only one who fell.

𓂃

you wake up before him.

which is unfair, honestly, because you absolutely deserve to sleep in after what he did to you.

your legs ache in that humiliating, delicious way. your throat is dry. your body is warm, too warm, because jake's arm is still around your waist, lazy and heavy and possessive even in sleep.

his breath ghosts the back of your neck. your, his, hoodie that he had helped you slip on last night was now halfway off your shoulder because of him. your pulse is still not normal.

you lie there, staring at the ceiling of the divining room, trying not to combust.

you should be embarrassed. you're not. you should be panicking. you are.

but underneath all of that—buried under the adrenaline and the dizzy aftershocks—there's this new, terrifyingly soft awareness sitting in your chest.

you want him.

in a way that isn't just physical. in a way that isn't just bratty competition. in a way that makes your stomach twist because you know it didn't start last night.

it started way, way before that.

your brain drifts—uninvited, unstoppable—right back to the beginning.

flashback — age 9, the playground

you're wearing a sparkly t-shirt and a crooked ponytail because you cut your own hair with safety scissors. jake is sitting in the sandbox, building something horrifyingly ugly but he swears it's a castle.

you stomp up to him, hands on hips, full attitude, even back then.

"you're doing it wrong," you announce.

he doesn't even look up. "hi to you too."

"jake. that's not a castle. that's a blob."

"it's abstract."

"it's ugly."

he sighs—that tiny, patient sigh that would become his trademark. "okay. what do you want me to do?"

"move over."

you don't wait. you physically shove him two scoots to the left and plop down beside him like you own the sandbox.

he moves. he always moves.

you grab his bucket. "we need more water."

he blinks at you, confused. "um... then go get some?"

you fix him with the most dramatic stare your nine-year-old face can manage.

"...i don't want to."

he laughs—that same soft little huff he still does —and stands up, brushing sand off his shorts.

"fine. i'll go."

"thank you," you say, like you're the queen of england.

when he comes back carrying a wobbly, half-filled bucket, you beam. you don't say thank you again, but he sees it in your face.

he hands you the bucket. but you don't take it.

you tilt your head and say, completely serious, "you pour it."

he should argue. he should tell you to do it yourself. he should tell you you're bossy. instead, without hesitation, he kneels and does exactly what you want.

and you lean closer—too close—watching him work, feeling weirdly fluttery and warm because jake listens to you in a way no one else does.

you don't know what it means at that age.

you just know it feels special.

later, when a group of older kids tries to take over your half-finished castle, you puff up, ready to argue—but jake steps in first.

"this is ours," he says firmly.

the kids back off and you stare at him like he's a superhero.

you don't understand your feelings, not then. but years later, lying in his bed with his arm around you, remembering the way nine-year-old jake defended your ugly sandcastle like it mattered?

you finally get it. it started there. it always started there.

back to present

you wake fully with a heavy breath and a heavier realization, you want to tell him. you want to admit it. you want to say something terrifyingly real like i think i've liked you since we were kids or i don't want last night to be a one-time thing or i want you.

and that's the problem.

because wanting is easy. saying it out loud is not.

so when jake shifts behind you, murmuring softly into your hair, "morning..." in that gravelly, post-sleep voice.

you panic. full feral panic.

you slip out of his arms, ignore his sleepy protest and practically flee the room.

you don't make eye contact during breakfast. you don't sit near him. you don't let him touch you, even though he tries—a hand on your waist, a brush of his fingers, small things that make your breath hitch.

he notices. of course he notices. he doesn't push, though. he just watches you with that calm, frustrating, evolved-from-childhood patience.

"everything okay?" he asks at one point.

you say, "yep!" like an idiot and then walk away before you faint.

cowardice: 1 you: 0

you're on the couch later, pretending to scroll your phone, doing a terrible job of acting normal. jake is in the kitchen, on speakerphone, fixing something near the sink.

you're not listening. until you are. because a girl's voice floats through the speaker—bright, flirty, familiar.

"so you're free this weekend?"

you freeze. jake hums. "yeah, probably."

the girl laughs. "good. i was hoping we could go out again."

again? AGAIN??

your vision goes sharp. hot. you sit up so fast your neck cracks.

jake notices the sound and glances over his shoulder—but you're already looking at him with an expression that could kill crops.

he mouths, 'what?' you don't answer.

the girl keeps talking. "my friends keep asking about you," she giggles. "they think you're cute."

you go still. silent. dangerously silent.

jake's eyes flick to your face and something about your expression makes him stand up straighter, makes his brow pull slightly together.

"uh—" he clears his throat. "can i call you back?"

"sure! text me later."

he hangs up and the kitchen goes too quiet. he wipes his hands on a towel and steps toward you slowly, cautiously, the way someone approaches a wild animal that might bite.

"hey," he says softly.

you don't respond. you just stare at him, jaw tight, heat ticking under your skin in a way that feels feral.

"that was... a friend," he offers.

you blink once. just once. but your eyes are sharp and possessive and nothing like the bratty irritation he's used to handling.

he stops walking. "what's going on?" he asks gently.

and that's when it hits him—the realization flickers across his face.

your posture. your eyes. the way you're holding your phone like you want to throw it at the wall.

you're jealous. not playful jealous. not the type of jealousy you showed at the park when mina, mona, mia whatever the fuck her name is was hitting on him. not petty jealous. real, territorial, chest-tightening jealous.

and jake has never seen you like that. his breath changes. his shoulders straighten. his whole energy shifts—calm, sure, controlled, like something in him clicks perfectly into place.

"come here," he says quietly.

you don't move. your throat is tight. your stomach is hot. everything in you is wound too tight to speak.

"come here," he repeats, firmer this time but still soft.

you finally stand. slow. tight. bristling with emotion you don't know how to name yet.

you walk toward him until you're only a foot away, eyes burning into his. he looks down at you—and there's something in his gaze you've never seen before.

something knowing. something claiming. something like, finally.

and then—you can feel him watching you. that stupid half-smirk, that stupid relaxed posture like he didn't just back you against the counter a few days ago, hands on your waist, voice warm enough to melt your spine. like he didn't murmur things that have been replaying in your head nonstop.

and what makes it worse? he looks so unbothered. like he knows something you don't. he always does.

"you're awfully quiet," he says from the couch, leaning his head back like he's bored. "you only shut up when something's bothering you."

you glare at him. "nothing's bothering me."

"mm." his eyes drag lazily up your legs, slow enough to make you want to throw something at him. "so it's just your attitude that's loud today."

"jake."

"what?" he grins. "you get weird whenever someone gets too close to the truth. you always have."

you cross your arms, heat rushing to your cheeks. "don't start."

he sits up like he's been waiting for that. "start what? pushing you?" a shrug. "you like when i do that."

you hate how your pulse jumps. you hate how he hears it. "you're so full of yourself."

"no," he says softly, "i just know you."

and the way he says it—warm, sure, familiar—makes your stomach twist in that embarrassing way you can never hide from him.

you turn away, but he laughs under his breath.

"see? there it is." he shuffles and steps in front of you, tilting his head. "that little flinch. the one you get when you're about to run your mouth but you don't know how to without admitting something."

"i don't have anything to admit," you snap—too fast, too sharp, too obvious. he raises a brow.

"okay," he murmurs, stepping closer, "then tell me why you've been avoiding looking at me since i had you pinned against that sofa with my cock deep inside of you."

you almost choke at his vulgarity.

"i— that— that was—"

"yeah," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "exactly."

you push his shoulder, out of pure panic. "shut up."

he laughs, catching your wrist midway, gentle but firm. "that's what i mean."

your breath stutters. "you've always been like this," he says, voice low. "bratty, loud, impossible. acting like you're the one in charge. you'd push me around, yell at me, boss me around—" his thumb brushes your pulse. "—and i loved every second of it."

your heart stops. you meet his eyes, stunned, and he smiles like he's been waiting years for that reaction.

"you liked that?" your voice cracks.

"of course i did." his tone warms, softens. "i loved that you treated me like i was yours without even realizing it."

your face burns and you whisper, "then why won't you let me do it anymore?" he steps in—close enough to feel his breath on your lips.

"because," he murmurs, "i finally realized something." your throat tightens. "what?" his eyes drop to your mouth, slow... deliberate.

"it's fun being pushed around by you," he says, "but it's even more fun watching you fall apart when i push back."

your knees go weak. he notices—of course he does—and his hand slides to steady your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch.

"see?" he whispers. "this is why i don't mind waiting for you to confess." you swallow hard. "i'm not confessing."

"you already are."

"no i'm—"

"you are." he smirks. "and you'll say it any minute now." your eyes narrow. "you're impossible."

"mm. and you like me."

your face flames. "shut up." he leans in, lips brushing your cheek—not a kiss, but close enough to ruin you.

"say it," he murmurs. "c'mon. you've been holding it in for years." you shove him again—weakly this time. "god, jake, you're so—"

"annoying?" he offers.

"cocky."

"you like that too."

you groan in frustration. "fine! okay? i like you. i've liked you for a long time. happy now?"

his breath hitches—barely—but you feel it. then he smiles—slow, victorious, soft around the edges.

"very."

you try to look away but he catches your chin with two fingers. "hey," he whispers, "look at me."

you do and his voice drops—deeper, rougher. "you think i didn't know?" a slow shake of his head. "i've always known."

your pulse pounds. "and i didn't say anything," he admits, "because you... being like this? all flustered and mouthy and stubborn? it's the cutest thing in the world."

your knees actually wobble and his grip tightens.

"and now that i know you want me too..." he leans in, lips barely brushing yours—never quite touching. "...i'm gonna enjoy every second of this."

and then he kisses you. not careful. not patient. like he's been holding himself back for years and finally lets the dam break.

your back hits the counter, his hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head exactly the way he wants. he drinks in the little gasp you make, smirking against your mouth like he knew it'd happen.

you try to kiss him harder, try to take control, but he catches your wrists—pinning them lightly above your head, just enough pressure to make your stomach flip.

"see?" he murmurs against your lips. "told you. it's fun pushing you around." you whimper—quiet, involuntary. his lips curve. "there she is."

he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, his mouth warm and sure and maddeningly steady. like he wants you to feel every second of it.

when he finally pulls back, your wrists are still caught in his hand, your chest rising and falling too fast.

he brushes his nose against yours, smiling softly—smug, but affectionate. "you can push me around later," he says, "but right now... let me have this."

you bite your lip, trying not to melt.

"jake?"

"yeah?"

"don't stop."

his smile is lethal. "wasn't planning to."

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[enhaflixer]

CUMMING OF AGE

bsfs brother!Heeseung x f!reader - when you ask him to teach you how to masturbate. (pure porn with plot. MDNI 18+, explicit, masturbation, cunnilingus, phone sex, ANGST, fluff too so its fine.) “If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.” “And if she won’t listen…” “I’ll make her.”

You’ve always had a hate-hate relationship with masturbation.

Not the “haha I don’t know what I’m doing” kind. Not the shy, innocent kind. The kind where you tried, over and over again, and every time it ended in that same aching, pathetic way—panties soaked, fingers numb, pussy throbbing, and absolutely nothing to show for it.

No finish. No orgasm. Not even a fucking twitch of satisfaction.

You rubbed and rubbed, like everyone said to. You found your clit. You circled it. Pressed it. Flicked it. Tried soft and slow, then fast and desperate. Tried with spit, with lotion, with fucking coconut oil once. But nothing ever felt right. Just this frustrating hum of almost. Like your body was teetering on the edge of something big and just… refused to jump.

You’d end up sore. Agitated. Your legs would shake, but not the good kind. Your pussy would swell, throbbing like she was mocking you for trying.

It made you feel broken. Or worse—boring. Like your body was wired wrong. Like you’d missed the most basic feminine skill everyone else seemed to be born with.

Girls talked about cumming like it was breathing. Like they could do it in five minutes flat with one hand and a good imagination. You’d hear them talk about shaking through the sheets, arching off the bed, seeing stars—and you’d smile and nod and laugh along, pretending like you got it, like you knew what it was like to get wrecked by your own hand.

You’d never even come close.

You tried toys. You bought a vibrator and nearly cried when it did nothing but make your arms go numb. You tried grinding on pillows until the friction made you raw. You tried porn. You even tried watching yourself once in the mirror like some kind of twisted self-help therapy. Nothing worked.

You’d touch and touch and chase and beg for it in your head—please, just this once, just let me finish, please—and still end up breathless, sticky, empty.

You’d cry sometimes. Just a little. From the frustration of it. From the absolute humiliation of being so fucking horny and not being able to do anything about it.

You hated that about yourself. Hated the way your body seemed to enjoy the build and not the release. Hated the way your clit would throb for attention and then get overwhelmed the second you gave her any. Hated the need. The noise. The mess with no reward.

But the worst part—the actual worst part—was how much you still wanted it. How much you still tried. Like a dog chasing its own tail. Like some needy little loser who couldn’t leave it alone.

You were eighteen, for fuck’s sake. You were supposed to know your body by now. You were supposed to be able to make yourself cum. You were supposed to own your pleasure.

Instead, you were stuck with a pussy that got wet at the idea of being touched and then shut down the second you did.

It made you feel fucking insane.

So you gave up. Mostly. You still touched yourself when you needed to—when it built up too much and made your thighs ache. But it wasn’t about cumming anymore. It was maintenance. A reset button. A pressure valve. You did it in the dark, quietly, quickly, just to shut your body up.

You didn’t even think about pleasure anymore.

You didn’t dare.

-

Evie—Heejoo, but you only ever called her that when you wanted to piss her off—was your best friend in the world. Ride-or-die since ninth grade, bonded over a shared hatred of your chem teacher and the fact that neither of you fit into your school’s carefully manicured social circles.

Where you were sharp and quick with your mouth, she was soft-spoken and wide-eyed, just sweet enough to disarm anyone who got too close. You balanced each other out. She calmed your storm. You stirred hers.

You were over at her house so often it barely felt like visiting anymore. You knew the code to their garage door. You had your own toothbrush in her bathroom. Her mom kept your favorite cereal in the pantry like clockwork. You even had a drawer in her room, mostly old hoodies and stolen pajama shorts that smelled like her perfume.

It wasn’t unusual for you to spend the weekend there, or three nights in a row, or an entire spring break. Her parents didn’t mind. They liked knowing where you both were—liked having an extra body in the house, even if they never said it out loud.

And then there was Heeseung.

Her older brother. Four years up. Barely a presence.

When you were younger, he was just the older guy who sulked in his room and stole her chargers. Sometimes he’d give you a ride when Evie asked, sometimes he’d walk past you in the kitchen and grunt a greeting, but that was about it. He was there, and then he wasn’t—off to college, off to god knows where, vanishing from your life as quickly as he’d drifted through it.

You had a tiny crush on him once, freshman year. The kind that sparked quick and stupid, fed by his lazy smirk and the way he wore his backwards cap while fixing his car in the driveway. It died fast—suffocated by time and distance and his complete disinterest in acknowledging your existence beyond a nod or a side-eye.

By the time he moved back home post-grad, you barely noticed. He was older now, busier, always in his room with the door closed, voice low behind it, like he was on constant phone calls or late-night games or… something.

You didn’t think about him much. He was just Evie’s brother. Part of the background. White noise.

Your focus was always Evie.

She was the one who held your hair when you puked. The one who lent you a dress before every shitty date. The one who knocked on the bathroom door when you were taking too long and said, “You better not be edge-cumming again, bitch,” like it was the most normal sentence in the world.

She talked about sex like it was just part of the air. Blunt. Effortless. She could make herself cum in three minutes flat. She said it with confidence, like breathing.

You hated how easily it came to her. You loved her anyway.

You always felt safe in her house. Safe in her bed, tangled up under a shared blanket, legs overlapping like twins born too far apart. Her room smelled like vanilla and lip gloss and safety. It felt like yours.

-

The house settled around you like it always did—quiet, gentle, familiar in a way that made your muscles loosen and your brain drift. Even the silence felt padded here. The hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional pop of cooling pipes, the subtle click of the thermostat shifting—background noise you’d grown so used to, it almost felt like home.

Evie was out cold beside you, one arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her breath hot against your ribs. She always slept fast after wine. She always slept on you, too—like her body never quite understood boundaries even after all these years. You didn’t mind. It was comforting, the weight of her. Like a grounding wire for the anxious, electric static building low in your belly.

Sleep wasn’t coming for you, though.

You’d been lying there in the dark for the better part of an hour, phone dimmed to nearly unreadable brightness, eyes burning from the glow. Nothing on your feed caught your attention. You’d scrolled past the same content three times already, thumb swiping out of pure muscle memory.

Something restless twisted beneath your skin, persistent and irritating. Not quite horniness, not quite insomnia—just that same pulsing tension that had been sitting heavy between your legs all night. Like your body was trying to tell you something without using words. You shifted under the blanket, trying not to disturb Evie, thighs pressing tighter together to relieve the dull ache. It only made it worse.

The urge to do something about it had been growing for hours.

You’d thought about sneaking off to the bathroom. You’d done it before—quiet, quick, businesslike. Just enough friction to take the edge off before falling asleep, still unsatisfied but too tired to care. The idea barely tempted you anymore. You already knew how it would end: the usual mess of spit-slick fingers, your clit swollen and sore, pussy wet and pulsing and still refusing to give you anything real.

Just the thought of trying again made you clench your jaw.

It was pathetic, the way your body teased you. Wet for no reason. Needy without payout. Over and over again, like clockwork. Like punishment.

You turned your phone off with a quiet sigh and let the screen go black.

For a moment, all you could hear was the creak of the floorboards expanding under the weight of a settling house. A branch tapping against the window. The subtle drag of Evie’s breathing. You stared at the ceiling, tired but tense, willing yourself to shut down the frustration building behind your ribs.

A man’s voice, deep and casual, barely audible through the cracked bedroom doors. Not enough to make out words. Not yet. Just the soft cadence of speech, rising and falling like a secret being shared too close to the edge of the world.

Heeseung’s door was open. Or cracked. Just enough to let a sliver of sound spill out. You hadn’t even realized he was home tonight.

Your body stilled, like it always did when you felt watched—except this time, you were the one doing the watching. Listening, technically. Just barely.

There was a pause, then a laugh. Not his. Another voice. Someone else. Male. Maybe one of his friends from school, the ones who came and went without warning. You couldn’t place the sound, and you didn’t care.

Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.

“It’s not that hard. Girls make it harder than it is."

“If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.”

The sentence dropped like a stone in the middle of your chest.

Not whispered. Not dirty. Just… stated. Like a law. Like fact.

Your fingers flexed unconsciously against the blanket. Heat flushed your neck and settled low in your belly, familiar and unwelcome. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was something about the way he said it. Not performative. Not like he was trying to sound cool. Just calm. Confident. Like the kind of guy who got women off without effort and never thought twice about why.

Every hair on your arm lifted. He didn’t stop there.

“And if she won’t listen…I’ll make her.”

No laughter followed that. No teasing. Just a quiet moment where it hung in the air, unchallenged.

You lay frozen in the dark, heart thudding, mouth slightly open. Your legs ached under the blanket, thighs tense and pressed together. You weren’t just turned on—you were caught. Cornered by something you weren’t supposed to hear and couldn’t let go of.

Something clicked. Not like a revelation, not some dramatic internal monologue, just… a shift. A tilt in the floor beneath your feet. A door opening in a room you didn’t realize you were trapped in.

You didn’t even know what you wanted in that moment.

But for the first time in your life, you wondered—really wondered—what your body would feel like under instructions that weren’t your own.

-

You tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. Swore you wouldn’t spiral.

You kept the overheard words tucked somewhere tight in your chest, smothered under fake laughter and half-listened stories while Evie walked you through her latest dating app disasters. You made it through brunch, through an entire Target run, through two face masks and one trashy Netflix documentary—and you almost convinced yourself you were over it.

But when the house quieted again that night—when Evie fell asleep curled up on the far side of the bed with her arm draped over a pillow instead of you—you gave in.

You waited a while. Just in case she wasn’t fully out. The kind of sleep that could crack open with the creak of floorboards.

And when her breathing evened out, soft and deep and oblivious, you slid out from under the blanket, grabbed your phone, and slipped into the hallway.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.

You didn’t turn the light on right away. Just stood there for a second in the dark, breathing.

The air was cooler here. The tiles cold against your feet. The smell of Evie’s shampoo still clung to the room—vanilla and something floral, sticky-sweet. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely visible in the silver sliver of hallway light. Your face looked flushed. Too open. Like something had already been peeled back.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, tugged your hoodie over your thighs, and pulled your phone into your lap.

No buildup. No browsing. You knew what you were looking for.

The video you always came back to. The closest thing you’d ever found to what worked. A deep voice. Slow instructions. Just audio—nothing to watch, nothing to focus on but sound.

It wasn’t him, but it didn’t have to be. Not yet.

Your underwear stuck to the heat between your thighs as you slid it down. Still wet from the tension that had been building since that morning. From the second you saw Heeseung in the kitchen and felt your legs press together automatically.

The wetness should’ve been a good sign.

But you already knew how this would go.

You played the video. Turned the volume down low. Closed your eyes.

Your fingers found your clit easily. Rubbed gentle circles, the way the voice said. You tried to breathe through it, tried to slow down, to listen.

There was too much pressure too soon. Your skin twitched with every touch. The angle was wrong. The rhythm never quite synced. Your body jerked between feeling almost there and feeling absolutely nothing.

You tried harder.

Tried picturing something—someone. His voice. His mouth. The way he looked at you this morning like you weren’t just Evie’s friend, like he saw something else.

That made your fingers move faster. Your hips twitch up from the seat, trying to find something—anything—that would tip you over.

But it never came.

Just heat. Just sweat. Just the same stinging tension in your thighs and the wave that built up, crested, and refused to break.

Your hand dropped. Your chest heaved with a breath that sounded too much like a sob.

You sat there for a full minute in silence, pussy swollen, twitching, soaking your hand—and still nothing. You hadn’t cum. Not even close.

Not even fucking close.

Your palm dragged across your inner thigh as you reached for toilet paper, the wet slick of your own arousal catching against your skin, obscene and bitter and useless. You wiped your hand clean, flushed, washed it under the tap in a daze.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes, bottom lip bitten raw.

This wasn’t working.

You couldn’t do this by yourself. Not anymore.

The shame didn’t even hit you until you opened the door, stepped back into the hall, and looked toward Heeseung’s room.

You didn’t remember walking from the bathroom to his door. Not really. Your body moved on instinct, fingers still damp with failure, breath shallow and uneven like you’d been running—not down a hallway, but in circles inside your own skin. Everything felt hot and wrong, like you were standing too close to something dangerous and still leaning closer.

The light from under his door was soft, pale blue. The kind of glow that came from a computer screen and sleepless hours. It made the hallway feel colder. Your skin felt clammy beneath your hoodie, thighs still tacky with your own arousal, pulse thudding hard behind your ears. You didn’t even try to calm yourself before raising your hand. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough anything left.

You knocked.

Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.

Nothing.

The silence on the other side stretched just long enough to make you feel stupid. You should’ve gone back to Evie’s room. Should’ve locked the bathroom door and buried your face in your hands like you always did. Should’ve swallowed the shame and left it to rot where it always did: at the bottom of your throat.

Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.

Heeseung opened the door halfway, leaning into the frame, and for a second you couldn’t speak. You weren’t expecting him to look like that—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar askew, hair a damp mess like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His sweatshorts hung low on his hips, legs bare, skin flushed warm like he’d just come out of the shower… or just come. You had no way of knowing which. And it made your brain short-circuit either way.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just confused.

His eyes dragged down your body with a slow kind of calculation, and you swore you saw the moment they caught on the way your thighs were pressed together, your bare legs twitching under the hem of your hoodie. The way your breath hitched in your throat. The way your fingers—still wet, still trembling—curled tighter at your side.

He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.

“You good?”

The question was simple, quiet. But it hit like an echo in a room with no furniture. You were not good. Not even close.

Your voice came out before you could soften it. Flat, direct. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.

“…What?”

“I just need to know,” you said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Before I say anything. It matters.”

He stared at you for a beat, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or suspicious.

“No. I don’t.”

You exhaled like someone had untied a knot inside your chest.

“Fuck.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“If you said yes,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor, “I would’ve had an excuse not to ask you.”

That made him pause.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned into the doorframe like he was settling in. His voice was a little lower when he asked, “Ask me what?”

Your whole body burned. There was no easy way to say it. No casual phrasing. No safe distance between you and the truth anymore. You didn’t have the energy to dance around it.

“You said something last night,” you started, forcing yourself to look at him. “About girls who can’t finish. About how they’re not listening to their bodies.”

He watched you carefully. No expression, just the slow, measured study of a man waiting for the rest.

“I heard it,” you added. “By accident. But it’s been stuck in my head. And I thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe you were right.”

Still nothing. Just his gaze crawling over your face, down to your knees, like he was trying to see where this was going before letting himself speak.

You swallowed, the taste of failure still thick in your throat. “I tried again tonight. Bathroom. Just now. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s always the same. Nothing works. I can’t finish. I touch myself, and it just—goes nowhere.”

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why you were telling him all this. You barely knew the guy. The last time you’d had a real conversation was probably three birthdays ago when he offered you a ride and you said no because he smelled like weed and fuckboy cologne.

But here you were. Standing in front of him like some half-dressed, sweat-slick confession, spilling everything.

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Your next breath shook as it left you.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” you said, quieter now. “I just want to ask… if you’d tell me what to do.”

That got something out of him. A small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His eyes dropped—lower this time—to your legs again, to the edge of your hoodie, to the bare skin flushed and prickling under the hallway air.

He nodded once toward you, chin tilting. “Your hand’s still wet.”

You froze.

His voice was low, unreadable. “You tried that hard, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He stepped back.

Just a few inches. Just enough to open the door wider. The light from inside poured out around him, cool and soft and full of static.

He held your gaze.

 “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and just like that, the house disappears. Evie’s room, the hallway, your entire carefully contained world—it all drops away. There’s only the low glow of his monitor casting pale blue light across the carpet and the quiet hum of something electric in the corner, like the room itself is holding its breath.

You hover near the door for a second, not sure what to do with your hands, your legs, your shame.

Heeseung’s already sitting, legs wide in his desk chair, turned toward you like he was waiting the whole night for this. He shifts, pushes himself up slightly, and drags the chair forward—lazily, unbothered—until it sits right in front of the bed. Close enough that if you spread your legs, he’d have a front-row seat.

Then he flips the chair around, straddling it backwards like some cocky delinquent in detention, arms crossed over the backrest, chin resting casually on top. His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice calm and low, like this is just another Tuesday night. “Sit.”

You make your way to the bed, legs tense, breath shallow, and perch at the edge like it might bite. Your thighs clench on instinct, hoodie pulled low, trying to shield what you already know he’s seen. You’re still warm from the bathroom. Still soaked. Still aching.

His eyes drift down. Slow. Lazy. No shame.

You fidget.

Heeseung doesn’t move. “Don’t get shy on me now. You came in here asking for a masturbation lesson, not a bedtime story.”

Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.

He lifts his chin. “Tell me what you usually do.”

The question lands harder than it should. Not because it’s dirty, but because it’s so simple.

You blink. “Like… where I touch?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate. “I usually just go straight to my clit.”

“Figures.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “And then what? Rub the fuck out of it ‘til it gets sore and wonder why it doesn’t work?”

Your mouth falls open in a small gasp. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. “Don’t take it personal. That’s what most girls do. It’s not your fault you think the goal is speed over sense.”

You don’t respond, but your silence is answer enough.

He leans in a little, forearms resting on the chair back, gaze glued to your bare thighs. There’s no hunger in it—not yet. Just observation. Like he’s assessing you.

“If your pussy had a voice,” he says smoothly, “she’d be screaming at you to chill the fuck out.”

You’re quiet for a long second. Because the worst part is… he’s not wrong.

He watches you squirm, and something like amusement passes over his features. Not cruel, but smug.

“Take your time,” he says, gentler now. “You rush her, she locks up. Doesn’t matter how wet you are.”

“…She?” you murmur, lifting a brow.

Heeseung shrugs again, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. She.” His eyes flick to yours. “You don’t gotta name her or write poetry about her, but you should probably stop treating her like a vending machine.”

Your laugh breaks before you can stop it. Quick and sharp, nerves bleeding out of your throat. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he says with a smirk, eyes dark. “Go on. Show me how you start.”

Everything tightens. You feel the weight of his voice low in your belly.

You don’t move right away.

He raises a brow. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you. That’s cool. But I need to see what you’re doing wrong.”

Your breath hitches.

Your hand moves on instinct—slow, shaky—and dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, then under the band of your panties. You’re already wet. Embarrassingly wet. And when your fingers graze over your clit, you flinch. It’s too sensitive. Too much. Your hips jerk a little, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the motion.

You rub. Once. Twice. It’s not bad. It’s what you always do.

But still—nothing clicks.

Heeseung tilts his head. “You’re too stiff.”

“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.

“Don’t be.” His voice drops half an octave. “You look hot.”

The way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Just a fact. Like he’s telling you what time it is. Like your soaked fingers and clenched thighs are something he’s been picturing all night.

“You’re thinking too much,” he adds. “Trying to force it instead of feel it.”

Your hand stills.

He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “Try this. Press your hand flat. Just hold her. No rubbing. No tapping. Just… feel her.”

You hesitate, then obey.

The flat of your hand settles between your legs, heat blooming up your arm from the contact. Your whole body clenches around it.

“Feel that?”

You nod. Barely.

“That’s what she likes,” he murmurs. “You’ve been poking at her like she’s a fucking keyboard. No wonder she’s not putting out.”

You let out a breathy laugh—half scandalized, half aroused. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re soaking through your panties,” he says, deadpan.

Your breath catches. Heeseung doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.

He sits there like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he’s doing you a favor. Like he’s enjoying this. You’re not even sure he’s hard yet—but he will be. You can feel it building. Between you. In you.

He lets the moment hang.

Then: “Now—slow circles. Don’t speed up unless she tells you to.”

“She doesn’t talk,” you whisper, teasing without confidence.

His gaze is heavy. Steady.

“She does,” he says, voice like heat sliding under your skin. “You just haven’t been listening.”

The room feels hotter now.

Not just the air—your skin, your mouth, your thighs. Sweat clings to the backs of your knees, damp beneath the bunched-up hoodie, and your panties are so wet they’re practically glued to one thigh. Your hips keep twitching without your permission, rolling up slightly with every pass of your fingers. It’s not graceful. It’s not some porn fantasy. It’s messy and uneven and real, and Heeseung is watching every second of it like it’s the only thing worth watching.

You keep thinking you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. You’re spread open on his bed, hand stuffed between your legs, whining softly every time you stroke a little too hard and have to ease back again—but you’re too far gone now to stop. Your cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, lips parted, and you can’t look away from him.

He hasn’t blinked once.

Heeseung is still straddling the backward chair, elbows resting on the top, chin on one hand like this is casual. Normal. Like you’re just some half-naked girl jerking off in front of him for practice and he’s your substitute teacher for the night.

The only thing that’s changed is his posture.

His knees are spread wider than before. His forearms are tense. One hand grips the edge of the chair a little tighter every time your body jerks, and you don’t miss the way his jaw flexes every time your breath stutters or your voice cracks.

You’re doing this to him.

But not enough.

Not enough to make it stop hurting. Not enough to make the ache go away. Not enough to finish.

You’re trying. God, you’re trying.

Your fingers rub in slow circles, not too fast now. You’re listening. You are. But your body keeps tensing at the edge, like it’s scared to fall off the cliff it’s been building for years. Your hand’s cramping. Your clit throbs. Your stomach clenches like you’re close—and then it dips, again and again.

It’s good. So good.

But it’s not enough.

You choke on a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your free hand fists the blanket beneath you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Heeseung speaks, finally, voice low and steady. “Still rushing her.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You are. I can see it.”

You shake your head, breath stuttering. “I’m not trying to—I swear, I’m—” You gasp. “It’s just—it’s not—”

You stop. Words catch in your throat. Your hips are rocking now, involuntarily, chasing a sensation that keeps pulling away the second you get close. Your fingers are wet, your pussy’s pulsing, and it still feels like you’re just rubbing up against a wall.

“It’s not enough,” you breathe out, broken. “I—I can’t—fuck—she’s not listening.”

Heeseung leans forward slightly, something sharp flashing in his eyes.

“Oh, she’s listening,” he says. “You’re just not talking to her the right way.”

You whimper. “Then tell me what to say.”

That makes his mouth twitch—just barely. Like he’s been waiting for that.

“Tell me what she’s feeling first.”

“I—” Your voice cracks. “She’s tight. Warm. I feel her—pulsing. Like she wants something but—she’s not opening.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze dark. “She wants to be filled.”

You nod.

“No,” he says. “Say it.”

Your chest heaves. Your hand hasn’t stopped moving, rubbing slow, desperate circles around your clit. “She wants to be filled.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“She wants to be fucking filled,” you whine. “She’s throbbing—she’s soaking—fuck, I can feel her squeezing nothing.”

Heeseung exhales slowly, eyes flicking down between your legs again.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now she’s talking.”

Your fingers glide lower, catching more slick and sliding back up. Everything’s soaked. You’re dripping down onto the sheets, and your thighs are trembling from the strain of keeping your hips lifted just right.

“She needs more,” you pant. “She’s clenching—she’s starving—”

Heeseung’s hand flexes around the edge of the chair again. His voice drops, almost to a growl. “So feed her.”

You moan—high and breathy—and press harder, circling your clit faster now, the way your body wants. Your lips are wet, your fingers slipping, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is slick and hot and alive.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, eyes burning into you. “Look at your fucking fingers.”

You do. It’s obscene. Your hand shines in the light, your fingers coated in slick. You barely recognize your own body like this. Ruined. Responsive.

“She’s begging,” he says softly. “And you’re finally listening.”

You whine, eyes squeezing shut. Your free hand presses against your lower belly, trying to hold the heat in. Your pussy twitches at the pressure.

“She’s so fucking greedy,” you gasp. “She won’t stop pulling—I can’t—I can’t keep up—”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “She knows what she’s doing. Let her take it.”

You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until you hear yourself moan again—shameless, cracked open, shaking from the inside out.

Your legs spread wider. You’re not trying to hide anymore. Not from him. Not from yourself.

You’re right there.

You’re going to break.

He’s just watching. Like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever seen.

You’re right on the edge, and this time it’s not teasing.

It’s sharp. Fast. Inevitable.

Your legs are trembling now, hips jerking with every motion, and your fingers are soaked—slipping against your clit, coating your inner thighs, dripping down the crease of your ass like your body’s trying to fuck itself open. Every stroke sends another wave of tension through you, and there’s no holding it anymore. Your body is begging. Your pussy’s leaking, twitching, clenching around nothing—and Heeseung watches like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even realize you’re moaning until you hear it echo back at you in the small room. High-pitched. Desperate. Wet.

The sound of your pussy is louder now too. Sticky and obscene, each rub slicker than the last. You can hear it every time you roll your hips into your palm.

Heeseung doesn’t say a word for a second too long.

You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.

His eyes are darker now. Half-lidded. Focused on your pussy like he’s reading it better than your face.

He shifts in his chair. Spreads his knees wider. His hand dips into the front of his sweatshorts, slow and casual, like he can’t ignore it anymore. You catch a glimpse of his fingers wrapping around himself—and your breath catches so hard your vision blurs.

He’s so hard.

His voice comes out deeper. Filthy. Measured like it’s the only thing anchoring him in the room.

“Look at that messy little cunt.”

Your body jerks at the word. You’ve never heard it said like that. Never felt it hit like that.

Heeseung strokes himself once, slow and firm under the fabric.

“She’s drooling all over your fingers. So fucking hungry. Bet she’s never been this loud for you before.”

“She hasn’t,” you breathe. “She never—she never—”

“You’ve been starving her,” he says, still jerking himself lazily. “Touching her like she’s a problem instead of a fucking meal.”

Your hand speeds up, and he sees it. Hears the slap of slick. You’re humping into your fingers now, sloppy and desperate and so close you could scream.

Heeseung leans forward, one elbow braced against the back of the chair.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough.

“Use your words.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “Yes. Please—I wanna cum—I need it—”

“Need what?” he pushes.

“I need her to fucking break,” you sob. “She’s clenching—she’s begging—she needs to cum, she needs it—”

“Then let her,” he growls. “Don’t fucking hold it. Let her make a mess.”

You whimper, fingers frantic, back arching off the bed.

And that’s when he says it—low and hot and foul.

“Let her fuck your fingers, slut.”

You snap.

Your body locks up, then shatters. You cum so hard your legs shake, hips jerking forward, thighs squeezing around your own hand as your pussy gushes over your fingers in sticky, messy waves. The moan that rips from your throat is broken, cracked, half-wet from tears.

It doesn’t hit you right away.

At first, there’s just white. Blinding. A full-body seizure of pleasure as your cunt clenches around nothing, soaking your own fingers, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t even sound like you.

It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—harder than you thought was even possible—and your body just keeps going, hips jerking, slick dripping past your knuckles, your voice cracking on every gasp.

Heeseung is still there.

You know he is. You can feel his eyes on you, feel his breath in the space between your bodies, but you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not like this.

And then it fades.

That warm, bright static in your brain flickers out. Your thighs twitch. Your hand finally drops, fingers soaked, wrist aching, clit too sensitive to touch again.

What’s left is the sound of your breathing. The slick, wet mess beneath your hips. The embarrassment flooding in all at once like a second wave.

Reality slams back into you hard.

You’re laid out across his bed—sweaty, flushed, thighs spread wide and soaked all the way down to the crease of your ass. Your pussy’s still twitching, swollen and glistening, your panties bunched at one knee, hoodie halfway pushed up your stomach.

Your fingers shine in the low light. Still wet. Still shaking.

You sit up fast, panic sweeping over your skin like ice water. “Shit—fuck.”

Your hand fumbles to pull your hoodie down, yanking it over your thighs, shoving your panties back into place even though they’re absolutely soaked through. The fabric clings wetly to your pussy and only makes the mess feel worse.

Heeseung hasn’t moved.

Still in the chair. Still one hand inside his shorts. He looks completely unbothered. Calm. Like you didn’t just cum your entire soul out in front of him.

You can’t meet his eyes.

He watches you fuss with the hem of your hoodie, your hands still trembling slightly as you try to make yourself look decent.

“Didn’t say stop,” he says mildly.

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “I came. Pretty sure that’s the goal, right?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just surprised you’re acting all shy now. That pussy was practically talking thirty seconds ago.”

“Jesus—” you squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in your hands.

Heeseung grins. Not mean. Not mocking. Just amused.

“You do realize how loud you were, right?” he adds. “I thought the bed was gonna snap in half.”

“Please stop talking,” you groan, voice muffled.

“You were crying,” he says like it’s a compliment, hand still lazily palming himself under his shorts. “That shit was beautiful.”

You peek at him through your fingers. He’s still hard. Still watching you with that same steady calm, like this is fine. Like this is normal.

He doesn’t even seem fazed.

That somehow makes the ache between your legs flare again. Weak, overstimulated, but greedy.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t realize I—um. That I could… do that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Cum?”

You shoot him a look.

Heeseung laughs, finally letting go of himself. “You’ve been fighting her for years. All I did was give you directions.”

You tuck your knees up into your chest, arms wrapped around them. You feel like you just stripped naked in front of someone who stayed fully clothed—and now he’s just lounging there like you didn’t just show him the most private part of yourself.

You sit in that awkward silence for a few seconds longer.

Heeseung stretches, chair creaking slightly. “So,” he says, tone casual. “Lesson two tomorrow?”

You blink.

“…There’s a second lesson?”

He smiles slow, eyes dropping to your thighs again. “You think she’s done learning?”

Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.

-

Your legs are still weak from the first night when you leave.

Just a few days back home. Just a quick visit. You didn’t think it would matter—but the second you cross the county line, your pussy starts aching like she knows she’s been abandoned. Like she misses his voice already.

You think about texting him before you even unpack your overnight bag.

 It starts that fast—barely through the front door, barely through dinner with your parents, barely through pretending to care about someone’s new side hustle or whatever cousin just had a baby, and already your mind is slipping. 

Already you’re restless. Already your body feels too awake. You can still feel the slick sticking to the inside of your thighs from last night, from the way he sat in that chair like he was doing you a favor while you touched yourself for the first time like it meant something. It hasn’t gone away. The ache stayed with you. 

That trembling throb between your legs that didn’t fade after one orgasm—or two—or three. And now, here you are. Sitting in your childhood bedroom like you didn’t just learn how to listen to your pussy in someone else’s bed with someone else’s voice in your ear.

You last all of twelve hours. Maybe thirteen if you count sleep, but that’s cheating. You keep checking your phone like a freak. Not even for a message—just to see his name.

 You scroll through the notifications like maybe he’ll magically show up. You open his contact. Stare at the little circle icon. You type a text. Delete it. 

Type again. Delete. Pace the room. Pull your hair up. Let it fall. Lie on the bed. Toss the blanket off. Roll onto your stomach, then your back, then sit up again because your body’s too hot and your thoughts won’t stop dragging back to the sound of his voice saying “Good girl. She’s listening now.”

You try to distract yourself. Put music on. Stare at the ceiling. Scroll through reels. But the tension is building and it’s not casual. It’s deep. It’s mean. 

Like your pussy’s crawling up your spine and whispering call him over and over again. And finally, like a fucking addict, you give in.

You don’t try to be subtle. Your fingers tremble as you type the message—“Can I call you?”—and hit send before you can regret it. Your breath catches in your throat. Heart pounding. Shame twisting in your gut like you’ve already crossed a line and he hasn’t even replied. But then your phone buzzes. Two texts in a row. You click without thinking.

No. I’ll call you.

Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.

You don’t even get a second to prepare. The call comes in instantly, and you fumble to answer it, press speaker, toss the phone onto your pillow and sit back, legs shaking under your blanket. You’re wearing nothing but a big t-shirt—no bra, no panties. Like your body already knew what was coming.

His voice is in your ear the second the line connects.

Low. Thick. Wrecked.

“You waited all day just to fuck yourself to my voice, didn’t you?”

The sound alone makes your thighs clamp together. You can’t answer. You don’t know what to say. You feel called out, ruined, exposed, and he hasn’t even seen you.

“You’re pathetic,” he breathes, and it’s not cruel—it’s reverent. Like he’s turned on by the depth of your desperation. “You left for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already starving.”

Your breath comes out shaky. “She hasn’t shut up.”

“I bet. That little pussy’s been crying for attention, hasn’t she? Soaking your panties, throbbing for no reason. Did you even try to touch her?”

Your hand slides down your stomach. Shame floods your chest. “I tried last night.”

“And?”

Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.

“…Didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because she’s not trained to your fingers. She’s trained to my voice.”

You nearly choke.

“Take the blanket off.”

You do.

“T-shirt stays. I want you messy under it. Like a filthy little secret.”

You obey, chest rising. The air hits your bare skin and your nipples pebble instantly under the thin cotton. You slide your hand under the hem and find yourself dripping already—your folds slippery and warm, your clit throbbing at the first brush.

“Fuck. You’re already wet.”

You don’t answer.

“Don’t ignore me. Say it.”

You whimper. “I’m wet.”

“Where?”

Your hand slides lower. “Everywhere.”

“Let me hear it.”

You drag your fingers through your folds, then lift them to the mic.

Squish. Slick. Wet.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “She’s fucking leaking for me.”

“She won’t stop,” you pant. “She’s been clenching—she’s needy. I can’t—I can’t even think straight.”

“She doesn’t need you to think. She needs you to listen.”

You nod like he can see you.

“You touching your clit yet?”

“No,” you whisper. “Just teasing.”

“Don’t tease her. Feed her.”

You obey. Your fingers find your clit and press slow, warm circles into the swollen skin. Your hips twitch immediately. Your body jolts with relief. Like it’s been waiting for this.

“Fuck. That’s it. Let her roll her hips. Let her grind on your fingers.”

You do.

And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.

“You sound like you’re crying.”

“I might be,” you choke out. “I’m—I’ve been on edge all day. She’s screaming—”

“Then shut her up.”

Your fingers move faster. Your breath turns ragged. The slick is everywhere now—coating your palm, sliding down your ass, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can hear it—slap, slap, slap—and you know he can too.

“God, listen to her,” he says. “She’s fucking talking again. Slapping wet, loud as hell, crying to be filled.”

Your thighs start to shake.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Heeseung—fuck, I’m close—”

“She wants to cum. So let her.”

You cum hard, back arching, legs tensed, voice cracking open around a sob as your pussy convulses around nothing—just your fingers, just your shame, just his voice dragging it out of you with nothing but command.

“Again,” he growls. “Don’t you dare take your hand off her. You begged for this. You waited all fucking day for it.”

You keep going. Because you can’t stop. Because this is his now.

-

You don’t get a break.

Heeseung doesn’t let you.

After that first call—the one where you came so hard you swore you saw stars—you thought maybe the tension would ease up. Maybe you’d get to breathe. But you don’t. Because the second you wake up the next morning, there’s already a text waiting for you.

Morning. She hungry?

Your pussy clenches on reflex.

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.

Yes.

His reply is instant.

Good. edge yourself until you’re shaking. No cumming. No cheating. You’ll send me a pic of your fingers when you’re done.

That’s it. No teasing. No sweet talk. Just commands. Direct. Cruel. And of course—you obey.

You finger yourself that morning with shaking hands, grinding into your palm in the silence of your old bedroom with one hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. You stop just short of release three times. Your panties are soaked. The sheets beneath you are ruined.

You send the photo.

Two slick fingers, gleaming. One droplet hanging from your wrist like a taunt.

He doesn’t reply until hours later.

Beautiful. Don’t clean her up. Let her stick to your skin. I want her to haunt you all day.

That’s how it starts.

Sometimes it’s a call. Sometimes it’s just a photo prompt. Sometimes it’s voice notes—low, slow, whispered filth that you replay in the bathroom on full volume with your thighs clenched so tight you can barely breathe.

Another day: make a mess on your favorite pair of panties. Send proof. Don’t wash them. Fold them and put them in your drawer like a secret. Like she remembers.

When you can’t call—family dinners, company in the house, a wedding event—he doesn’t complain. He just adapts.

He sends you three voice notes in a row, each one filthier than the last.

“Are you wearing panties right now?”

“She’s wet just from this, isn’t she?”

“Put your phone between your legs. Let my voice buzz against her while you grind.”

You do. In the middle of the day. On the edge of your childhood bed. With the door locked and your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sound of you cumming on command.

Every time you text him, he knows what you need before you say it.

On your knees. Two fingers. Say my name when you finish. That’s all.

You cum like a trained animal.

By the end of the fourth day, you’re overstimulated and aching. Your cunt stays warm. Your clit stays swollen. You can’t think straight without hearing his voice. You can’t fall asleep without a pillow between your legs and your phone under your ear, replaying the way he said your name like it tasted good.

He doesn’t let you get comfortable.

I want her ruined by the time you get back. Wet stains on your thighs. Bruised from your own fingers. No excuses. You belong to me now, yeah?

-

You’re at the dinner table when the text comes in.

There’s a bowl of pasta in front of you. Your uncle’s talking about traffic. Your mom’s pouring more wine. And your phone buzzes in your lap—one tiny, harmless vibration you almost ignore until you see the name on your lockscreen.

Heeseung.

Your chest tightens immediately. A hot ripple runs down your spine. You unlock it under the table, heart already picking up speed, thighs pressed tight together like that’s gonna help anything.

You expect a voice note. Maybe an instruction. Instead, it’s just a single message.

Don’t open this here. I’m serious.

You excuse yourself. Bathroom. You try to walk casually, but your legs feel unstable, like your body knows what’s coming and is bracing for it. You shut the door. Lock it. Sit down on the closed toilet seat. And then you open the message.

It’s not a photo. Not a voice note. Just a block of text.

And it destroys you.

I want you dripping. Right now. I want your thighs sticky. I want your pussy hot and twitching and swollen like she’s just been edged for an hour and she’s still not allowed to cum. I want her pulsing around nothing. Squeezing air. Leaking like she misses my cock even though she’s never had it. That’s how good I want her trained. That she misses me even though I’ve never fucked her. I want you to slide your hand into your panties and feel her spit for me. Feel how filthy she’s gotten just from reading my words. Not even hearing my voice. Just letters on a screen and she’s frothing like a brainless little thing. I want her throbbing. Sore. Pink. Aching. I want you to pull your panties to the side and look at what I’ve done to you. How she opens for nothing. How she clenches for nothing. How she cries, fucking cries, when she doesn’t get touched. I want her messy. Slutty. Wet enough to embarrass you. Wet enough you can’t clean it up with one tissue. Wet enough that if someone walked into that bathroom right now, they’d smell her. No fingers. Not yet. Just pressure. Palm down. Let her hump. Let her grind. Let her get yourself dirty. She knows what to do. She doesn’t need permission anymore. You’re gonna leak down your leg just reading this, aren’t you? She’s already twitching. Already soaking. She knows what she is now. A thing that exists to be used. To be made wet. To be trained.

You stare at your screen. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

And you feel it—that slow, steady drip.

You slide your hand down between your legs and whimper when your fingers meet your panties—soaked through. Hot and sticky, your folds puffy and swollen, everything throbbing with need.

You spread your legs wider. There’s no stopping it. You have to.

You push your panties aside, just like he said, and when you look down, your cunt is shining. Slick lips parted, clit swollen and begging, a string of wet clinging between your folds when you breathe too hard.

You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.

You grind again. Harder. The heel of your hand pressing directly on your clit. Your hips move faster, panting now, forehead pressed against your bent knee as your pussy humps your own hand like she’s starved.

You’re fucking yourself with no fingers. Just pressure. Just filth. Just his words rotting your brain and your pussy loving it.

You don’t stop until your legs lock, jaw clenched tight to muffle the moan that rips through your throat. Your pussy convulses, grinding down hard, cumming in waves against your own palm until you’re crying silently, thighs soaked, panties a mess, body twitching from the force of it.

When it’s over, you’re wrecked. You sit there in silence. Breathing heavy. Panties still pulled to the side, hand drenched, cunt gaping and twitching like she’s still looking for him.

You snap a photo.

Not of your face. Just your hand. Soaked. Ruined. Slick covering your wrist, dripping down your knuckles.

You send it. No caption. A minute later, his reply lights up your screen.

That’s how she’s supposed to look. Every day until you get home.

-

You don’t even knock.

You could, but what’s the point? He told you to come over as soon as you got back. No texts. No warning. Just a short message yesterday night:

You better show up dripping.

And you are.

The shorts you wore are damp at the crotch, your hoodie clinging to the sweat on your lower back. Every shift of your thighs against the car seat on the drive over made you squirm. By the time you’re standing in front of his door, your cunt is throbbing. Empty. Trained. Starving.

He opens it like he already knew you were there.

Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.

He stares at you for a second, quiet. His eyes drop to your legs, to the way you’re fidgeting, clenching, trying not to press your thighs together. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

Just opens the door wider and lets you in.

You step past him. Silent. Heat prickling under your skin. His presence is loud, even without words. You can feel the pressure building already—your pussy knows. She’s aware. Aware of the air, of the scent of him, of how close he is now after five days of only hearing him through a speaker.

He closes the door behind you. And waits.

You turn to him, hands still curled into your sleeves. “I did everything.”

He lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. Swallow hard. “Every day.”

Heeseung steps forward slowly. Stops in front of you. His eyes flick down, over your body, like he’s looking for confirmation.

“You leaking?”

Your breath catches. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. But you don’t hesitate.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down in one smooth motion. They hit the floor and you step out of them, bare underneath, thighs sticky and glistening. Your hoodie barely covers your hips now. One inch higher and he’d see everything.

He doesn’t touch you.

“Show me,” he says, voice low.

Your breath hitches again—but you drop to your knees. Not because he asked. Because your body knows what to do now.

You kneel between his feet on the hardwood floor, hands moving to part your thighs so he can see. You pull the hoodie up to your waist and slide two fingers between your folds—dripping. It spreads so easily. Glossy. Viscous. Your pussy folds open for your own touch like it’s nothing new. Like she’s been practicing all week.

You keep your eyes on him the whole time.

And when your fingers come back up, soaked and glistening, you hold them out. Heeseung watches you in silence.

Then leans forward, slow and deliberate. He takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks—deep, slow, tongue curling around them like it’s a reward.

Your hips jerk slightly. Your cunt clenches hard. He pulls off with a wet pop and stares down at you.

“She tastes trained.”

You nod.

“She beg yet?”

You exhale. “She never shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”

Then he grabs your jaw. Fingers firm but not rough, tilting your face up to his.

“You want her filled?”

You nod again. “Please.”

“Not yet,” he says. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m ready—she’s so ready, I’ve been—”

“I don’t care what you think. You’re not here to make decisions. You’re here to do what I say.” He lets go of your face. “You wanna get fed? Earn it. Lay down. Show me how she begs.”

You scramble onto the bed.

Flat on your back. Legs spread. Cunt on display. Dripping.

You’re already on your back, knees drawn up, thighs spread and trembling, cunt pulsing with heat that’s been building all week. You don’t try to hide it. You can’t. Your pussy’s wet. Loud. Lips glossy and parted, folds flushed and twitching like she knows the moment has finally come. She’s been teased. Trained. Denied. You’ve been filling her with fingers and pressure and your own voice, but never this. Never him. And now he’s standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s finally ready to eat.

But he doesn’t touch you first.

He picks your shorts up off the floor, turns them inside out—and finds your soaked panties tangled in the legs. He peels them out slowly, sticky with your slick, the thin fabric darkened and clinging to itself. You watch, breath caught, legs still open, burning with shame as he brings them up to his face.

And sniffs.

Deep.

He inhales like it’s a fucking ritual. Eyes half-lidded. Thumb pressing into the crotch to smear the wetness around before dragging it across his lip. His tongue flicks out—tastes it.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s been marinating in this.”

Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.

“She’s loud, too.” His voice drops lower. “I haven’t even touched her and she’s already talking. Look at her. Fucking twitching. Dripping. Spreading herself open like she knows who she belongs to.”

“Heeseung—” You whimper.

“Shut up.”

He tosses your panties to the side and climbs onto the bed, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving your cunt. He settles between your legs and just kneels there for a moment. Breathing her in. Hands on your thighs. Pushing them wider. Spreading you so open you can feel the air hit your slick.

You’re soaked. You know it. You can feel it, the slick sliding down into the dip of your ass, the way your folds part with every breath, your clit poking out, hot and swollen.

He just stares.

“You fucking trained her like this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You really did it. Came like a good little slut every night just to keep her hungry.”

“She’s starving,” you whisper, voice shaking.

“I can see that.”

His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, holding you open. His face lowers. Inches away. His breath hits your folds and your hips twitch violently.

He doesn’t lick you.

Not yet.

He just hovers. His nose skims your inner thigh. Then up. Right up the slick slit, dragging his breath across your folds until your body shudders. He breathes her in again—this time slower. Longer. Right at the source.

“God,” he mutters. “She fucking smells like obedience.”

You sob.

And then he spits.

Right on your pussy.

Hot. Heavy. Messy.

It splashes over your clit, drips between your folds, mixes with your slick and makes everything worse.

Your hips roll. You can’t stop it.

“Don’t you fucking move,” he growls. “She’s getting attention. She better stay still.”

And finally—finally—his tongue drags up your slit. A long, slow lick from hole to clit that ends with his mouth wrapped around it, sucking hard.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your spine arches off the bed.

But he pins you with one forearm across your stomach and doesn’t stop.

He eats you like a man starved. Like you’ve been feeding her for him. Keeping her ready. Keeping her needy. His mouth is everywhere—tongue licking up everything you’ve been saving, spit and slick and mess pooling under your ass while he moans into you.

“That’s it,” he groans against your clit. “Let me taste five fucking days of begging.”

You cry out, thighs clenching.

But he slaps your pussy with his hand—sharp, wet, punishing.

“Open.”

You go limp. You can’t fight it. You don’t want to.

He eats you like it’s personal. Tongue flat. Licking. Circling. Spitting again. Your clit’s too swollen, too sensitive, but he doesn’t care. He mumbles into you—filth you can barely understand because he’s too focused on devouring.

“She’s so fucking loud. She won’t shut up. You hear that?”

You do.

Your pussy makes noise with every lick—squelching, wet, obscene.

“I didn’t even fuck her yet,” he growls. “And she’s already creaming.”

You try to cum. You try.

But he pulls back just as your thighs start to shake, just as your stomach seizes.

“Nope. She’s not getting fed all the way until I’ve felt her on my cock.”

You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.

Heeseung leans back, licking his lips, chin soaked, eyes wild.

“She’s ready,” he says. “She’s starving.”

He’s already got two fingers hooked inside you when he tells you to open your mouth.

Not to kiss him. Not to speak. Just to take it.

He shoves his fingers past your lips—soaked in your own slick, the same fingers he’s been curling deep inside your cunt, dragging against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. You gag around them, moaning as the taste floods your tongue—salty, sour, yours. He pushes them down onto your tongue, presses hard until your spit leaks out around them and drips down your chin.

“Swallow it,” he mutters, eyes locked on your face. “That’s what obedience tastes like.”

You do. Of course you do.

Because you’d do anything he says.

And he knows it.

He wipes the slick from your lips with his thumb, drags it down your throat, then shifts forward—kneeling between your trembling thighs, lining himself up with your soaked entrance like he’s been waiting years for this moment.

You stare down at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and your whole body tenses. You’re already open, already dripping, already fucked dumb—but none of it’s going to prepare you for this.

“Look at her,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, smearing pre-cum across your clit. “She’s fucking begging.”

“She wants it,” you pant, voice shaking. “Please—”

He doesn’t give you time to finish.

He presses in—slow, deep, cruel.

The stretch hits you all at once. Your back arches. Your breath leaves you in a choked gasp, and your pussy clenches hardaround him, sucking him in inch by inch like she never wants to let him go.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans. “She’s trained alright.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. Writhing beneath him as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried all the way to the base.

She’s full.

Finally fucking full.

Your cunt grips him tight, fluttering around his cock like she’s been starving for it—and she has. Every inch of him hits something you didn’t know existed. Your body shakes under the pressure. You’re soaked. Stuffed. Used. And you want more.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she is.”

“She’s yours,” you gasp. “She’s a hole—your hole—she’s been waiting for this—”

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

You scream.

“You’re goddamn right she’s mine,” he snarls. “You trained her just to take my cock.”

You nod frantically, crying now, pleasure too thick in your throat to hold back.

He starts to fuck you in earnest—hard, relentless, loud. Skin slapping skin. His cock slick from your wetness, dragging through every twitch and squeeze, pressing deep, deeper, forcing your body to stay open for him. You feel it in your stomach. Your spine. Your fucking brain.

Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. And you want to thank him. You want to feel him. You want to taste him.

So you lift your head—try to kiss him.

You lean up, lips parting, mouth open and begging.

He pulls back.

His hand grabs your throat, presses you flat into the mattress. You gasp, eyes wide, blinking up at him in confusion. He smiles. Cruel. Mocking.

“No,” he says coldly. “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

Your breath shatters.

“Kisses are for good girls,” he spits. “You’re just a trained little hole.”

Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.

“That’s all you are now, isn’t it?” he sneers. “A stupid little cunt that opens on command. You get used, not kissed.”

Tears spill over your cheeks.

And you cum. Just like that.

From the words. From the shame. From the humiliation.

Your pussy spasms around his cock, soaking both of you as you scream into his hand still wrapped around your throat. Your hips jerk. Your vision goes white. But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, hips pounding, cock punching into your oversensitive cunt like he’s trying to reprogram you from the inside out.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let her milk me. Let her show me how much she needed this.”

You’re sobbing. Gasping. Too wrecked to speak.

“Fucking knew it,” he groans. “You were never gonna be satisfied until you got split open.”

He leans down, mouth right by your ear.

“But don’t ever reach for a kiss again. Sluts like you don’t get kissed.”

You’re already limp when he flips you.

Your body gives out so easily—shoulders pressed into the mattress, arms numb, legs trembling, hips cocked up on instinct the second he yanks you onto your stomach. His hands drag you by the waist like a ragdoll. Like something boneless, brainless, ruined. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your cheek sticks to the fabric. You’re crying, still, but there’s no shame left. Just the raw ache of your cunt pulsing around nothing—because he pulled out.

You whine, pathetic and wordless, hips rolling back into the air, leaking down your thighs.

“Still hungry?” he mutters behind you.

You nod into the pillow.

“Say it.”

“She’s empty,” you whimper. “She’s twitching—she wants you back in—she’s not done—she’s never done—”

You gasp when the head of his cock slides back in. Just the tip.

He doesn’t give you the rest.

You wiggle. Cry. Press your ass back against him and moan when your folds stretch again, split open all over his length.

“You trained her to take it,” he says. “Now you’re gonna train her to keep it.”

He presses forward.

His cock buries to the hilt in one brutal thrust, and your whole body spasms. Your hands claw at the sheets. Your cunt clenches so violently it forces a sob out of your chest, high-pitched and broken. You’re still sensitive. Still throbbing from the last orgasm. But he doesn’t care.

He starts fucking you again like he owns you.

The slap of skin echoes in the room, wet and obscene, his cock pounding into your raw pussy like she’s just a hole to conquer. You don’t even try to move anymore. Your body takes it. Open, obedient, used.

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being my little fucktoy?”

“Yeah, you do. You’re trained now. A good little cocksleeve who comes when she’s told. Cries when she’s full. Cums from being humiliated.”

“I do,” you choke out. “I’m yours—I’m your toy—just your fucktoy—use me—use her—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s what she wanted, isn’t it? Not kindness. Not kisses. Just cock. Just someone to shove it in and remind her she’s nothing but a messy, wet little pussy.”

He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.

“She’s so loud,” he snarls. “So fucking wet. She’s gushing. Every time I pull out she cries.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you cum again.

It’s raw. Ugly. Loud.

You scream—clawing at the sheets, nails ripping fabric, your body wracked with spasms as you squirt all over his cock, wet exploding out of you in waves, soaking the bed, your stomach, your thighs. You can’t stop it. You don’t want to.

He fucks you through it—harder.

“Let her break,” he growls. “Let her fucking split.”

And when your body finally collapses, hips falling, spine trembling, Heeseung doesn’t even slow down.

He grabs your hips, hauls you up, and drives in deep one more time—and stays there. His cock pulses inside you. Thick. Hot. Flooding you.

You feel it. You feel his cum shoot deep, thick ropes filling your already ruined pussy until your belly aches with it.

He stays inside. Keeps you cockwarmed, plugged full, hands rubbing down your spine like this is the aftercare.

Not words. Not love. Just being kept full. Like you should be.

You barely breathe. Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth’s open. You feel him lean over you. Feel the slow drag of his lips against your ear.

“You’re not starved anymore,” he whispers. “She’s fed now. Finally.”

You nod. Barely. Weak. Fucked out. His cock twitches.

“She’s still twitching,” he murmurs. “She wants to sleep like this.”

-

You wake up to the burn in your thighs.

The stretch. The ache. That slick-dried, too-sensitive sting between your legs from being filled for hours without a break. Your skin’s flushed. Clammy. You shift slightly under the covers, still half-asleep, and you feel it—him.

Still there. Still inside you.

You blink. Breathe. Try to make sense of your body—but the pressure between your legs is still warm. Your cunt clenches instinctively, and his cock twitches in response.

A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.

His arm is draped over your waist. His chest is pressed against your back. He’s asleep—soft breaths on your shoulder, jaw resting against the side of your head. And his cock is still buried to the base in your pussy. Warm. Heavy. Plugging you full like it belongs there.

But something else creeps in too.

You lie there for a moment. Silent. Still. Pussy fluttering, heartbeat slowing, and that awful little ache growing in your chest. The one that started the second he pulled away last night. The one that settled into your ribs when you reached for him and he said “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

You swallow. You whisper it before you even think about it.

“Are you really not gonna kiss me?”

It’s soft. Not needy. Just… there.

His breath shifts against your skin. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.

You almost regret asking.

Until he exhales through his nose and mutters, voice rough and low and real, “I’m still fucking inside you, you brat. You think I’m gonna spend the whole night cockwarming my favorite pussy and not kiss her in the morning?”

You twist under him, face flushed, and turn your head over your shoulder—and his mouth is already there.

No hesitation. He kisses you hard.

Mouth slanting over yours, tongue sliding in with no patience, lips full and hot and filthy with morning breath and spit. You moan into it, deep and broken, cunt clenching around his cock again like she’s reacting to the kiss like it’s touch.

His hand grips your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek as he devours your mouth. He licks into you like he means it—like you’ve earned it—like he’s been wanting to do it since before he ever called you a slut.

You’re whimpering into his mouth when it happens.

Your lips slide against his, sticky with spit, your breath still uneven from how long you spent crying into the pillow, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. He hasn’t pulled out. He’s still inside you. Still twitching, half-hard again already, thick and warm, stretching your still-leaking pussy while your body curls back into him, needy and clingy and soft in a way you didn’t get to be last night.

His hand cups your jaw now. Gentle. Finally. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he’s re-learning your mouth after denying it. His tongue pushes into you with unhurried filth, and your hips shift just barely, like your cunt’s trying to pull more of him in. Like she doesn’t even know how to be empty anymore.

And then you hear it.

“Heeseung?”

It’s distant. Not loud. Sleepy. But your blood freezes.

“Hey—have you seen Y/N?”

Evie. She’s awake. The breath dies in your throat.

Your eyes fly open. Heeseung’s hand freezes on your jaw. Your whole body locks. His cock is still deep inside you, softening now, but still heavy. Still leaking. You can feel him dripping down your inner thighs as your brain flips inside out with panic.

“Shit,” you mouth, barely audible.

Heeseung exhales through his nose, calm, but his arm is already tightening around your waist like he’s trying to figure out his next move in real time.

“Y/N?” she calls again. “Where’d you go?”

You scramble out of the bed like you’ve been shot. Legs wobbly. Pussy sore. You trip over the blanket as you reach for your discarded clothes, yanking your hoodie on over your head, trying not to scream as your shorts catch on your ankle. You’re still soaked, your panties still twisted around your thigh from where he shoved them earlier, and you can feel his cum still inside you, wet and hot and fucking obvious.

Heeseung’s already sitting up, dragging his hoodie on, running a hand through his hair to make it look like he just woke up.

You’re panicking. “Do I go back to her room? What do I do—what if she’s in the hallway—?”

Heeseung stands up, grabs your shoulders, kisses your forehead once—quick, mocking, cocky—like this is funny to him.

“Bathroom. Now.”

You sprint for it. Just as he opens his door.

His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.

“Yo.”

“You seen Y/N? I woke up and she wasn’t in bed. Her stuff’s still there though.”

Heeseung stretches in the doorway, voice smooth as fucking silk.

“Nah, haven’t seen her. She probably went to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t text me.”

“She probably didn’t want to wake you.”

You’re crouched in the bathroom, hands over your mouth, hoodie soaked at the hem, thighs still trembling. You glance down and see a smear of his cum on your leg, glistening in the morning light like a neon sign of guilt.

“Whatever. Tell her I’m making pancakes.”

“Will do.”

Door shuts. Heeseung turns, leans into the bathroom, finds you crouched by the sink.

“You owe me.”

You punch his chest.

He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low. “You’ll pay me back tonight."

-

It’s early.

Evie’s downstairs making coffee. You can hear the clinking of mugs, the stupid hum of whatever playlist she plays when she’s in a good mood.

You’re in Heeseung’s lap. Hoodie on. No underwear. His back’s against the headboard, his cock deep inside you, and you’re grinding slowly—hips circling, cunt fluttering, hands pressed to his chest to keep yourself upright.

You’re not allowed to bounce. Not allowed to moan.

Just slow, controlled rolls—like you’re milking him without giving yourself away.

“You sound like you want her to know,” he whispers against your throat.

You shake your head. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.

“Then be quiet, baby. Or I’ll hold your mouth and your hips still, and you won’t cum at all.”

You almost cry. He grabs your ass. Tilts your hips just right.

“If she walks in, you better keep her name off your lips while I fill you up.”

You do. Barely.

You cum with your hand clamped over your mouth, twitching around his cock like you were made for it—and Heeseung cums seconds later, low and quiet, mouth on your collarbone.

Downstairs?

Evie sings along to the chorus.

-

It’s disgusting.

There’s no other word for it.

You’re on all fours, face buried in Heeseung’s mattress, drooling, moaning, thighs trembling with every wet squelch of his fingers plunging into you from behind. His mouth is glued to your cunt, spit running down his chin, tongue working your clit in slow, sloppy laps while one hand spreads you open—and the other, lower, slick with your cum, is rubbing tight circles around your asshole.

You’re whining his name. Filthy. Wordless. Brain-melted.

“Fuck, she’s drooling for it,” he mutters into your pussy. “She wants both. She’s ready. One in her ass, two in her cunt—you wanna be stretched like a proper little hole, huh?”

Your face is soaked. Your body’s trembling. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, slick squelching with every slow drag in and out. Your rim clenches, raw and wet from the friction. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a pathetic sob.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she wants.”

“I want it,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I want you to open my ass—wanna be full, wanna cum like a fucktoy—please—please—”

And then—

“Y/N?”

You hear your name like it’s being spoken through a tunnel.

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body locks.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

You can feel his tongue hovering right at your clit. His finger is still circling your asshole.

And then you both look up.

In the doorway. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

Evie.

Her face doesn’t go red. It goes white. Like her blood just dropped to her feet.

She stares at your body—at your back arched, knees wide, your ass open, Heeseung’s hand buried between your cheeks, your best friend’s brother with his mouth on you and your spit in his beard.

And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.

Her whole body jolts forward like she’s about to puke right there in the hallway.

“Oh my—fucking—god—” she chokes. “What the—what the FUCK—”

She turns. Presses her palm to the wall. Leans into it. Her other hand clamps over her mouth and you see her shoulders jerk. Once. Twice. A horrible, broken sound crawls out of her throat.

“No—no—no—no, no, no—”

She’s panicking.

Can’t breathe. Her body is shaking so hard you think she might collapse.

“Evie—” you start, voice already wet. “Evie, please—please just listen—”

“DON’T.”

The scream hits like a slap.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t—don’t even say my fucking name—”

You’re sobbing now. Reaching for the blanket. Falling off the bed. Barely able to pull your hoodie down over your sticky, twitching body.

Heeseung moves. Not fast enough. Still shirtless. Still hard. His fingers still glistening.

“Heejoo—”

“DON’T. CALL ME THAT.” Her voice is shrill, raw, wrecked. “You’re my fucking brother.”

She looks at you. Like she doesn’t even know you.

And then her expression cracks completely.

Her face contorts—pain, betrayal, disgust, hatred—all in one devastating collapse.

“You were inside her,” she whispers, and her voice breaks. “You had your—your—you were licking her while you were fingering her ass—”

“You’re both fucking insane.”

You crawl toward her. Not thinking. Just begging. Your knees burn. Your hands shake.

“Evie—please—please just let me explain—”

She flinches.

Flinches.

Like your voice touched her skin. Then she goes still. Her breathing slows. Her hands drop to her sides.

She looks empty.

“Don’t come near me.”

Her voice is flat now. Robotic.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even fucking breathe in my direction.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. She steps back.

Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.

“You’re both dead to me.”

-

​​You don’t remember the walk home.

You don’t remember grabbing your phone, or leaving the house, or what the weather was like. You don’t remember how long you cried, or how many people stared, or how fucking long it took for the heat between your legs to fade into something cold and ugly. You just remember sitting on your bedroom floor—hoodie still wet between your thighs, your underwear balled up in your pocket—and trying to breathe without choking on it.

Because it doesn’t stop. The image. Her face.

Evie, hand over her mouth. Evie, gagging. Evie, stepping back like you were something dirty.

She meant it. Every word.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking breathe in my direction.”

She meant it.

You try to text her that night. You don’t even know what to say. There are three different messages in your drafts: one with just her name. One that says “I’m sorry.” One that says nothing at all.

They don’t send. You’ve been blocked.

He doesn’t text either. You don’t even know if he can.

The silence is so big it feels like a second death. You lie in bed every night with your phone face-up on your pillow, waiting for it to light up with anything. A call. A voice note. Just a name.

It never comes.

But you still feel him. In your body. In your bones.

Every time you try to sleep, your body curls like it’s expecting to be filled.

Some nights you wake up sweating—panting, pussy twitching—because you dreamed of his voice again.

You still miss him. Even after all of it. Even after how it ended.

Even after Evie’s face broke in half at the sight of you—wet, spread open, her brother’s finger sliding into your ass while you begged for more.

You still miss him. And that’s the part that makes you sick.

-

It’s been nearly two weeks since you watched Evie recoil in that doorway, hand clamped over her mouth like she was actually going to vomit.

You can’t erase the memory of her face—how disgust bled into betrayal, how her gaze slid right past you like you didn’t exist, then landed on Heeseung as if he were some twisted stranger in her own home. You tried to bury the image, tried to make it small and unimportant, but it lives in your chest now, swelling every time you breathe.

You haven’t talked to either of them since. Not one word to her, not a single text to him.

It’s as if the world paused on that moment: her voice ripping through the room, your body half-naked, his spit drying on your thighs, your stomach churning with guilt.

Now the doorbell rings, and somehow you already know who’s on the other side.

You open it slowly, hesitation weighing on every movement of your hand.

Heeseung stands there in a wrinkled hoodie, dark circles stamped beneath his eyes. He looks thinner—like the shape of him has caved in from the inside out. His hair is unstyled, his shoulders hunched, and the way he stares at you feels desperate.

Neither of you speak for a few seconds, the silence pressing into your lungs.

Then you break it, because you can’t handle him looking at you like that. “Why are you here?” Your voice comes out flat, echoing the numbness you’ve been living in.

Heeseung swallows, gaze skittering between your face and the ground.

“I had to see you.”

The words feel like they’re meant to fix something, but all they do is twist the knife. You give a hollow laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“You already saw enough.”

He exhales shakily, bringing a hand up to scrub at the back of his neck.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I know that’s not—there’s nothing I can—” He trails off, struggling, guilt carved into every line of his face. When he finally speaks again, his voice strains.

“You think we haven’t replayed it a hundred fucking times?” he asks. “The door. The blanket. You moaning. Me—God—we were still fucking with each other right there, even when she—”

“Stop.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it.”

“We saw her face,” his voice keeps going, low and fast and pained. “We saw it, and we still didn’t stop, like fucking animals. I see it every time I close my eyes. I hear her say my name like I was never hers, like you were never her friend.”

You speak,

“I can’t look at you without hearing her gag.”

The confession slashes the air, and his lips part like you’ve slapped him.

“I can’t hear your name without remembering what it felt like to be in her house, in her family, doing… that, while she thought I was asleep down the hall.”

For a moment, neither of you breathe. Then he forces himself to speak, voice cracking.

“I know. I fucking know, and I hate that we didn’t let go even when we heard her. I hate that she looked at us like we were monsters. I hate that part of me still wanted to stay inside you, and part of you still wanted me there, when we should’ve both stopped.”

You close your eyes, replaying Evie’s strangled gasp in your head, recalling the numb disbelief that followed when she told you not to speak, not to look, not to fucking breathe in her direction.

“I can’t talk to you,” you whisper, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I can’t even hear your name without feeling sick.”

He swallows and nods, like he’s been waiting for those exact words. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s about to shatter. “I won’t—if you never want to see me again, I understand.” He drags in a breath that rattles in his chest. “I just needed to know you were… alive.”

For a moment, you want to ask him if he’s okay too, if he’s been eating or sleeping, if he wakes up sweating like you do. But you lock it down, because you can’t afford to care right now.

“Well,” you say, and your voice is colder than you intend, “now you’ve seen me. Congratulations.”

A faint tremor passes through him, and he nods once. There’s nothing else. No lecture, no pleading. He just steps back, shoulders slumped, and turns away.

-

It happens in the grocery store, of all places. You’re pushing a half-empty cart down the cereal aisle, trying not to think about how much quieter life has been since you lost your best friend and the boy you broke her heart with. You’re scanning the shelves for something to distract you when you catch sight of a familiar figure at the other end of the row. 

Your heart lurches, your fingers tightening on the cart handle as your stomach flips. 

Because there, frowning at the boxes of cereal, is Evie—or Heejoo, or however she wants to be called now. You don’t have time to decide whether you should turn and run or force a hollow smile. She glances up, and your eyes meet. Neither of you moves.

 The aisle feels too narrow. Her cart sits between you, an invisible barrier.

She looks different—her hair is shorter or maybe just pulled back in a careless ponytail, dark smudges under her eyes, shoulders tense. She seems hollowed out in the same way you feel. 

Some part of you wants to say hey or I miss you or please talk to me, but the words dissolve in your throat. She’s the one who steps forward first, letting her cart roll behind her. Her heels click on the tile, echoing your every heartbeat.

“Having fun?” she asks, and it doesn’t sound like a question so much as a thinly-veiled jab.

You grip the handle of your cart, mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

“Evie—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, eyes flicking away like the name itself stings. “You don’t get to pretend we’re okay. You don’t get to act like we’re still friends.”

Her arms fold across her chest, nostrils flaring with each breath, and you feel your own pulse jump in your neck. “I—I’m sorry,” you manage, voice trembling. It’s not enough, you know that.

She scoffs, a breathy, humorless sound. “That’s it? You’re sorry? You think that magically fixes everything?” She gestures sharply, and you notice how tightly she’s clenching her fists. “You screwed around with my brother like it was nothing, and I walked in on—” Her voice breaks, face twisting as she fights off the memory. “I was just the idiot friend who never saw it coming, right?”

Shame flares in your cheeks. You hold your ground, though it hurts to meet her eyes. “I know I betrayed you,” you say. “We—God, I don’t even have the words for how messed up it was. We both knew better. We both let it happen.”

Her hand lifts to cut you off, shaking with the effort. “You think it’s just that you hurt me?” Her voice wobbles between anger and heartbreak. “You hurt him too, you realize that? He was my brother, you were my best friend, and you both blew yourselves up in front of me. Like you had no idea what it would cost.”

Your stomach knots in a way you haven’t felt before. She’s right. It wasn’t just her—it wasn’t just you. It was all three of you, tangling and twisting until it snapped. “I know,” you say more quietly. “And we’re all paying for it. He’s… he’s not okay. I’m not okay. And you’re definitely not okay. There’s no part of this that isn’t broken.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you think that helps? Hearing you say it’s broken doesn’t change the fact that I can’t even look at either of you without wanting to scream.”

You bow your head, voice almost inaudible. “I wish I could take it back.”

She swallows, and for a fraction of a second, the hostility in her eyes flickers with pain. “Well, you can’t.” Her grip tightens on the cart handle until her knuckles whiten, and she exhales shakily. 

“I want my brother back, you know. I want my friend back. But I don’t get either of those things, because you two decided to… to destroy what we had.”

Your throat closes up, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She stares for another few seconds, jaw clenched as she holds herself together. Then she moves around you, snatching her cart by the handle, the wheels squeaking in protest. 

“Enjoy the produce,” she mutters under her breath, voice dripping with bitterness as she passes.

-

It doesn’t happen overnight.

 There’s no single conversation that wipes the slate clean, no perfect gesture that makes Evie’s betrayal vanish, no magic wand that repairs the gaping wound in your chest. 

But over time—slow, grudging, step by hesitant step—you all begin to realize that staying in this darkness is killing you. Staying strangers, orbiting the same guilt without looking one another in the eye, is worse than facing the truth. And that truth is messy, fragile, and riddled with scars.

It begins with Evie texting you, late at night, a week after the grocery store encounter. 

Just three words: We need to talk.

You stare at the screen for a solid minute, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of your chest. 

Your hands shake as you reply, Yeah, okay. 

That’s all. No apology, no second-guessing, just acceptance. You wait for her to say when or where, but she doesn’t text back until the next afternoon, telling you to meet her at the park near her house. 

And then she clarifies: Just you.

You show up after sunset, nerves jangling in every limb, expecting hostility, or silence, or both. 

Instead, you find Evie sitting on a faded wooden bench under a flickering streetlight. She looks smaller than you remember, knees drawn up under her chin, arms hugging herself for warmth. As you approach, you open your mouth to say something—anything—but she holds up a hand, shaking her head.

“Don’t,” she says, voice tight. “Not yet.”

You stand there, awkward and guilty, waiting for her permission to speak.

She lowers her hand and sighs, staring at a patch of dead grass near her feet. “I asked you here because… this is killing me,” she mutters. “Being this angry all the time. Hating you. Hating him. I can’t keep up with it. It’s turning me into someone I don’t recognize.”

Her words break something inside your chest, and your throat goes thick. You sit down on the far edge of the bench, leaving a wide space between you, unsure if you’re allowed to be any closer. “I… I know,” you manage, voice unsteady. “I feel it too. It’s like I’m rotting on the inside.”

She nods once, gaze flicking to you before sliding away again. “I’m not saying I forgive you,” she warns, and you nod, heart pounding. “I’m just saying I don’t want this to be my life anymore. This—rage. It’s not me.”

She exhales, shoulders curling inward. “And I loved you. You were my best friend. And he… he’s my brother, and I loved him too. So how did we all end up here?”

Silence lingers. You fight back tears that threaten to spill. 

“We messed up,” you whisper, voice cracking. “We both did. Me and him. We used your house, your trust, your everything for our own messed-up… needs, and it was stupid and selfish and we ended up shattering everything.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I know none of that fixes it. But I swear to you, we never wanted to hurt you.”

Evie laughs bitterly, a hollow sound. “Well, you did. And I can’t pretend you didn’t.” 

Her gaze shifts to the distance, to the halo of light under the streetlamp. “But I don’t know if I can keep hating you. Or him.” 

She hesitates, words coming out slow. “I saw him last week. He looked—God, I hardly recognized him. Like a ghost of himself.”

You nod, biting back the urge to defend him or to ask a dozen questions. “He’s… not doing great,” you say simply, remembering his hollow cheeks, the way his voice cracked when he said he couldn’t sleep.

She wraps her arms tighter around herself, rocking slightly. “Neither are we,” she points out. “None of us are okay. And I guess that’s what I’m realizing. That we’re all stuck in the same crater, staring at the same wreckage. Maybe we shouldn’t be trying to fix it on our own.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “What do you want to do?” you ask, feeling the weight of her words press into your chest.

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she looks directly at you, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. “I want us to talk,” she says. “All three of us. In one place. I want us to put it all on the table, no hiding, no running out. Because if there’s any chance of moving forward—together or apart—we have to face it."

“I’ll text him,” she says, voice ragged. “Don’t expect miracles. But I can’t do this alone.”

A teardrop escapes your lashes and slips down your cheek. “Neither can I,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t respond, just stands up and motions for you to follow. 

-

Evie’s living room is dimly lit, and the air feels thicker than it should—as if everything you’ve said to each other in the last hour is still hovering in the space between. Outside, it’s already dark, the muffled hum of passing cars bleeding in through the windows. You’re all drained—physically, emotionally—yet no one moves to leave. Not yet. It’s not finished.

Evie is perched on the armchair, knees drawn close to her chest. You’re on one end of the couch, Heeseung on the other, and there’s still a gulf of guilt and confusion separating you. But you can feel the conversation building toward something bigger than apologies or confessions of regret.

Evie tugs at the sleeves of her sweater. She glances between you and her brother, mouth pinched tight, but her voice is gentler than before.

“I’m not pretending this is easy,” she begins, clearing her throat. “We’ve all hurt each other. I just want to know what you… what you both actually feel.” Her gaze settles on you, question clear in her eyes. “Do you two even care about each other beyond… beyond whatever it was you were doing?”

You swallow, your mouth dry. This is the moment you’ve been pushing down for weeks, refusing to think about. The reason you woke up gasping sometimes, alone in your bed, missing a warmth you never should have craved in the first place. You take a shaky breath, feeling your pulse hammer in your temples.

“I—” you begin, then stop. Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to speak. “I’m in love with him.”

It comes out bare, unpolished, stripped of excuses. You feel the words echo in your chest, leaving you vulnerable. Across the room, Evie’s eyes widen for half a second, and you can see her guard tighten, just a bit.

Heeseung exhales sharply, his head snapping up. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you focus on the floor, heart pounding.

“I know,” you continue, voice trembling, “that he might not feel the same way. I know we started this all wrong, that I messed up your trust, that I hurt you”—you glance at Evie—“and maybe I don’t deserve a happy ending. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t love him just because I’m ashamed of how we got here.”

Evie inhales like she’s bracing for another blow, her arms tightening around her knees.

“You’re saying you love him, even if he doesn’t love you back?” she asks, carefully, like she’s afraid of the answer.

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been caged in your ribs for months.

“Yes. It’s not… it’s not his responsibility. If it’s one-sided, that’s on me.” You glance fleetingly at Heeseung, face flushing. “I don’t expect anything from him, or from you. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I needed to say it out loud.”

Silence envelops the room, charged with tension. Heeseung is staring at you, eyes wide and glossy, like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. Evie shifts, chewing on the inside of her lip.

Heeseung finally speaks, voice rough.

“You… love me?”

You manage a small, trembling nod. “I do,” you say, meeting his gaze at last. “And if you don’t love me back, that’s okay. I know how messed up this is. I’m ready to… to accept that.”

He looks startled, as if no part of him expected you to be okay with that possibility. His hands flex on his knees, knuckles blanching. Then he breathes out, shoulders sagging.

“God,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievably stupid.”

You flinch, heart jolting—though there’s no real malice in his tone, only a shaky awe and raw disbelief that seems to be tying him in knots. He forces himself to meet Evie’s eyes for a flicker of a second, as if silently asking for permission to go on.

“Don’t call her that,” Evie snaps, voice quivering at the edges. She fixes him with a sharp glare, arms folded tight across her chest. “I don’t care how you meant it—she’s not stupid, and you don’t get to insult her in front of me.”

“Shut the fuck up Evie, one second,” He turns to you, “Because you think I’m not in love with you? That I’d leave you hanging with all this guilt?”

Your heart stutters, the floor tilting under you. “Heeseung…”

“I’m in love with you too,” he says, and the words hang in the air with tangible weight. “I can’t believe you’d be ready to walk away, believing it was one-sided. That you’d… accept it. God, do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you in so much pain, thinking I don’t feel the same?”

A soft sound escapes your throat—some blend of relief and shock—and tears gather at the edges of your vision. Across the room, Evie exhales shakily, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. You can see the swirl of emotions crossing her features: anger, hurt, jealousy, and underneath it all, a lingering care for you both.

Heeseung scrubs a hand over his face, then looks to Evie, voice trembling.

“I love her. I know I messed up. We messed up. We never should’ve lied. But I can’t take back how I feel.”

Evie drags in a deep breath. She pushes herself up from the armchair, pacing a short line across the living room. Her head is down, hands in her hair. When she finally looks at you both, there’s pain in her eyes, but not the same raw fury as before.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “You two…” She chews the inside of her cheek. “I hate what you did. I hate how you did it. But if you love each other—really love each other—I can’t tell you not to.”

 Her shoulders slump. “I want to be angry forever, but… seeing you like this, I—” She presses her lips together, tears brimming, then sets her jaw. “I guess I just want us to find a way to exist without destroying each other.”

A thick silence fills the space. Your chest feels ready to burst from conflicting emotions—gratitude, guilt, longing, terror. You look at Evie and see the ghost of the best friend you once knew, who might be willing to stand beside you again one day, even if it won’t ever be the same.

You open your mouth.

“I know it won’t be easy,” you say softly. “I don’t expect you to forgive everything in one night. But maybe… maybe we can start moving forward?”

Evie dashes a tear off her cheek and gives a tiny nod.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe.”

Heeseung watches her, watches you, then rises from the couch. He hesitates, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. You stand up, heart pounding, and drift closer. Neither of you quite meets in the middle, leaving a careful gap where all your remorse hangs. But it’s less than before.

Evie clears her throat, hugging herself.

“I can’t stay down here with you two being… whatever you are. I need time, okay?”

You nod quickly.

“Of course.”

Heeseung nods as well, voice soft.

“Anything you need.”

She steps back, wiping her eyes, and there’s a hint of a weary smile ghosting across her face, like she’s relieved but not sure how to show it.

“You two can talk, or… or go, or do whatever. I just…” Her breath catches. “I’m gonna go upstairs. That’s all I can handle right now.”

You don’t stop her.

Then you turn to him, tears slipping down your cheeks, a tremulous hope fluttering in your chest. He lifts a hand—tentative, like he’s scared to break you—and cups your cheek, thumb brushing your damp skin.

He exhales shakily.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words raw with emotion. “I’m sorry for everything.”

You nod, voice catching in your throat as you rest your hand over his.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “But I love you, and maybe… that’s something we can start with.”

His eyes close in something like relief, and he presses a soft, uncertain kiss to your temple. It isn’t a triumphant moment, not the kind of romantic victory you might’ve once imagined. It’s tender, laced with guilt and fear. But it’s also real—genuine and fragile, the only piece of warmth you’ve had in a long time.

-

Things shift slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. You and Heeseung start keeping your distance whenever Evie’s around—no subtle hand-holding, no lingering touches, certainly no sneaking off to lock yourselves behind the nearest door. 

It’s not that you’re ashamed of each other; it’s that you can’t stand the thought of rubbing your relationship in her face. You both know you’re lucky she’s even letting you in the same room without storming out.

So you dial it back. You let your bodies stop running the show. 

It’s harder than you expect—he still sets your nerves on fire by simply looking at you—but you remind yourself that Evie’s feelings matter, that you owe her more than just half-hearted consideration. You give her space, which means giving yourselves space too. 

No sex. No heavy make-out sessions. No pressed-up-against-a-wall confessions. Just… time and gentle contact.

Heeseung seems as restless as you. 

Sometimes, when it’s late and you’re on a phone call—whispering so Evie won’t hear through the walls—he sounds downright desperate. 

You can hear his breath catch when you say you miss him, can practically feel the tension radiating through the receiver. 

Yet both of you agree: this is how it has to be for now. If you want Evie to believe that what you have is more than just an addiction to each other’s bodies, you need to show her you can exist outside a bed.

So you go on dates. Real dates. Movie theaters, yes, but also bookstore trips, late-night drives to nowhere, strolling through a local fair when it rolls into town. 

You hold hands only if you’re well away from Evie’s neighborhood—fearful that any small sign of affection might break the thin thread of tolerance she’s extended. 

The first time you walk along the riverside in the evening, sipping cheap coffee from a convenience store, it hits you that you’ve never really done this part before: the tentative, day-to-day romance of building a real relationship. It’s both comforting and nerve-wracking. 

You can feel the charge sparking under your skin every time he smiles at you, like you’re seconds away from losing your careful resolve. 

But you don’t. Neither of you wants to risk undoing the fragile progress with Evie.

And that progress is slow, but present. 

She doesn’t cringe as much when you and Heeseung enter a room together. 

She no longer flinches if you happen to stand on the same side of the kitchen.

 Maybe sometimes she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t snap. You see the tension in her shoulders when you’re all in the same space, though—like she’s bracing for some new betrayal. 

You can’t blame her. You still offer to leave the moment you sense her discomfort rising. Surprisingly, she’s started telling you to stay.

But the real sign that things might be healing comes one weekend night when Evie texts you, out of the blue:

Girls’ night?

She doesn’t dress it up with a cute emoji or an explanation; it’s bare bones, almost clinical. And you stare at your phone with your heart hammering, wondering if this is a test, or maybe a begrudging olive branch. 

You answer with a shaky yes, and spend the next few hours trying not to read too much into it. You tell Heeseung you’ll be hanging out with Evie, and he just smiles—wide and genuine, telling you to have fun, to text him if you need anything.

Evie’s room hasn’t changed much since the night you snuck out of it to see Heeseung. The layout is the same, the posters the same, the bedspread the same. It all feels loaded with history. 

She sits cross-legged on her bed, handing you a soda—no alcohol tonight, no false bravado. You sense she wants you both stone-cold sober for whatever might be said. 

There’s an awkward pause, and then she gestures for you to sit, too.

For a while, conversation comes in bursts: updates about random classmates, stories from her day at work, small talk about the show you both used to binge-watch together. It’s stiff, but not hostile. 

She picks at her blanket, and you notice how she won’t hold your gaze for too long. Yet each minute that passes without snapping or bitterness feels like a victory.

Eventually, she slides a bag of nail polish across the bed toward you. “You, um… you still like doing this, right? It’s been a while,” she mumbles, glancing at your nails. 

It’s such a small gesture, but it makes your throat tighten. You nod, and she exhales something that might be relief. 

For a solid hour, the two of you paint and chatter, as if practicing how to be friends again. Her shoulders are less rigid. You’re careful not to misstep. Neither of you mentions Heeseung.

At least not directly. But you feel his presence in the air, the unspoken pivot point around which your every interaction revolves. It’s only when Evie finally fixes you with a long, assessing look, half-concern and half-uncertainty, that the moment arrives.

“Are you two, like… okay?” she asks. Her voice is laced with discomfort, but there’s no hatred in it. “You said no more sneaking around. But are you—happy?”

You swallow hard, carefully blowing on your newly painted nails. “We’re… doing our best,” you say. “Trying to be good for each other. Not just physically.”

She nods, lips twisting like she’s turning over your words in her mind. “I guess… that’s what I wanted to know,” she admits softly. “It still weirds me out sometimes, but I’d rather it matter to you than be some… fling.”

A wave of gratitude surges in your chest, making it hard to speak. You nod. “It matters,” you whisper. “I swear.”

She blinks a few times, then sets her nail polish aside. The tension in her shoulders relaxes just enough that her spine curves against the headboard, more comfortable than you’ve seen her in weeks. “Good,” she murmurs, tone stilted but earnest. “Don’t… don’t make me regret trying to rebuild this, okay?”

Your own shoulders slump in relief. “I won’t,” you promise. Your voice shakes with the weight of it. “And if I ever do, you can—and should—kick my ass.”

That draws a small, genuine laugh from her—a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like ages. She nods, letting the humor fill the space that was once suffocating with tension. “Deal,” she says.

You stay up later than expected—talking about nonsense, painting your nails in mismatched colors, occasionally lapsing into awkward silences. 

But each time, one of you breaks it before the air can go stale. By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve settled into a strange new normal: not quite what you were before the betrayal, but not strangers anymore. Something between you is mending, fragile but real.

When you leave, she walks you to the front door. It’s still weird, stepping out into the hallway where so much damage happened. 

But Evie’s behind you, not in front, and you can’t help feeling that the dynamic has changed in a way that actually might last. You glance back at her, and though she still looks tired, she doesn’t look hostile or betrayed. Maybe just… cautious. It’s enough.

“Night,” she says, one hand resting on the doorknob.

“Night,” you reply, voice quiet. “Thanks, again.”

She nods and closes the door gently behind you—no slamming, no huffing. Just a simple, private goodbye.

 As you slip into the night, you realize you’re smiling, mind already whirring with what you’ll tell Heeseung when you see him next. You catch yourself wondering if you’ll meet up for another date soon. Or if you’ll just call him on the way home, excitedly spilling the details of your slow but tangible progress with Evie.

-

The new place is barely furnished. A couch that’s still covered in plastic. A mattress on the floor. Takeout containers littering the kitchen counter. The floorboards creak with every step. The windows are wide open, and there are no curtains yet. It’s not home—not really—but it’s his. 

And most importantly, it’s finally, blessedly, fucking private.

When he opens the door and lets you in, he doesn’t kiss you right away. He just watches you step inside like you’re something he’s trying to memorize. His hands stay in the pocket of his hoodie. His jaw’s tight. His eyes flicker to the bag in your hand, then to your shoes, then up your legs so slowly it makes you feel exposed even though you’re still fully dressed.

You don’t say anything at first. You set the wine down on the counter. You take in the space—empty and echoing—but your skin’s already buzzing. You hear the door close behind you with a soft click, and something shifts.

He clears his throat.

“I haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, voice low. “Not really.”

You turn to look at him. “No.”

There’s a beat.

“Can I?”

You nod.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

His hands are on your face before you can blink, warm and rough and needing. The kiss starts soft, but only for a breath. Then it turns—hungry, desperate, filthy. Your back hits the counter with a thud, his tongue already in your mouth, his body pressing into yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you through your lips.

You moan into him, and he groans, deep in his throat, like the sound broke whatever shred of self-control he was hanging onto.

“You have no idea,” he pants, mouth hot against your jaw, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you in peace.”

Your shirt’s pulled up before you can answer, his mouth already sucking marks down your neck. His hands are everywhere—gripping your tits through your bra, unbuttoning your jeans, fingers slipping into your waistband like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

You gasp as his hand slides between your legs, cupping you through your underwear, his breath catching when he feels the heat there.

“Already wet?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Fucking knew it.”

He yanks your jeans down to your ankles, then sinks to his knees on the kitchen tile without another word. His hands push your legs apart, pulling one up to rest over his shoulder. And when his mouth presses to the soaked fabric of your panties, you cry out—sharp, helpless, needy.

“You wore these knowing I’d take them off with my teeth, didn’t you?” he growls, dragging the fabric aside with his nose, his tongue already lapping through your folds like he’s been waiting for this for months.

You can barely breathe. One hand flies to the counter for balance, the other fists in his hair. He licks you with obscene, wet sounds, groaning into your pussy like the taste is sending him over the edge. You grind against his face shamelessly, whining when he flattens his tongue and drags it up through your slit, over and over again.

“Fuck, Heeseung—please—”

He pulls back just enough to spit directly on your clit. “What do you need, baby?” he pants, thumb spreading it around with tight, deliberate pressure. “You want me to make you cum with my mouth like a good little whore? Is that it?”

You nod frantically, hips rocking against his hand.

“I missed this pussy,” he mutters, diving back in. “Missed how fucking loud she is.”

And she is. Your pussy’s wet, sloppy, noisy, every flick of his tongue echoing off the bare walls. You cum hard, legs shaking around his shoulders, crying out his name as your vision blurs.

But he’s not done.

He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabs you by the waist and turns you around, bending you over the counter.

“No more pretending,” he growls in your ear. “No more quiet. You’re gonna scream for me this time.”

He pulls your panties down and spreads you open, groaning like a man unhinged.

“God, you’re dripping. You fucking missed this too, didn’t you?”

You try to answer, but he’s already stroking his cock against your folds, rubbing the head through the mess between your legs, smearing it everywhere.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes—yes, I missed it—fuck, Heeseung, I missed your cock—”

He sinks into you in one sharp, brutal thrust, and you wail.

No condom. No pause. Just the stretch of him filling you up in one smooth, devastating stroke.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re fucking swallowing me.”

You’re moaning, writhing, drooling onto the counter. He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t give you time. He fucks you—relentless, pounding, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment you first touched him.

Your ass slaps against his thighs with every thrust. Your pussy is loud, the kind of wet, messy squelch that would embarrass you if you could think.

He slaps your ass hard, making you jolt forward. “Listen to her,” he growls. “She’s been crying for me.”

You don’t stop him. You beg for more.

He grabs your arms and pulls you back onto him, using your own body to fuck you harder.

“Keep taking it,” he snarls. “Be my good little cumrag, just like you used to be.”

You scream. You scream for him.

You cum again, sobbing into the crook of your arm, your entire body trembling.

He pulls out and flips you around, lifts you up onto the counter again, and kisses you like he’s devouring you from the inside out. Your legs are trembling so hard you can barely hold them up, but he spreads them open and spits straight onto your cunt, rubbing it in with two fingers, moaning when you jolt at the sensitivity.

“Wanna fuck you on the floor next,” he mutters against your lips. “Wanna fuck you on the mattress, on the couch, against every wall. Wanna ruin this apartment with the sound of your pussy screaming for me.”

You grab his face, breath ragged. “Then do it.”

He throws you over his shoulder and carries you to the mattress on the floor, where he fucks you in every position he’s ever imagined. He keeps you cockdrunk and leaking. When your voice gives out, he fucks you in silence. When your legs stop working, he props them up and keeps going. And when he finally cums—inside you, deep, claiming—he doesn’t pull out.

He just collapses on top of you, both of you drenched in sweat and slick and the aftermath of something feral.

You can’t move.

You don’t want to.

You just lie there, shaking, full, used, satisfied in a way that makes you dizzy.

Heeseung kisses your shoulder and whispers against your skin.

“I’m never being patient again.”

-

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @beariegyu @zzhengyu @annybah @seonhoon @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ cherry-stained skin ( nk ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — ni-ki x fem!reader

⤷ word count — 16.2k ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — hi my loves ! sorry this one took so long but here it is !! this inspiration actually has two different and separate derivations—this is the first one, and the other one will be a bit more on the intense side. had to pull from my series just to write this piece since i couldn’t resist. hope you enjoy 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), idol au, idol!ni-ki, non-idol!reader, boyfriend!ni-ki, girlfriend!reader, established relationship, ni-ki gets a secret-not-so-secret tattoo, marking/bruising (hickies everywhere), fingering, oral sex (f & m receiving), praise kink, possessive!ni-ki, overstimulation (brief), hand-holding during sex, dirty talk, bath aftercare, playful teasing, engene camera interaction, protective boyfriend vibes, ni-ki’s secret tattoo reveal, clingy!ni-ki, domestic intimacy, fluff

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — nishimura riki was known to be secretive—smiles that never gave too much away, glances that kept people guessing. but secrets never stayed hidden forever. one night, your lips leave marks that makeup can barely cover, and your eyes catch the tattoo he thought you’d never see—a kiss mark inked just below his abdomen, dangerously close to where only you should know. or where bruises, secrets, and late-night tenderness remind you that loving ni-ki means uncovering the things he tries so hard to keep tucked away.

It had only been a few weeks back, one of those nights where the city outside seemed too quiet, when the clock read a little past three in the morning.

Sleepiness finally crept over you, weighing down your lashes as you burrowed deeper into the comforter.

The fabric brushed warm against your cheek, coaxing you into that hazy state between wakefulness and dreams.

The foot of the bed dipped, pulling you back, and your gaze fluttered downward to find Ni-ki.

He was leaning over you, soft blonde hair falling into his eyes, his hands resting gently on your legs as he smiled at you.

You were staying over at their dorm again—or more like, your boyfriend had flat out refused to sleep without you.

It didn’t matter that he ran back to you backstage after every performance, sweat still dripping, adrenaline still high. It never seemed enough for him.

“Done already?” you murmured sleepily, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, shoulders sinking. “Yeah. Turned it off.” His nose scrunched, the way it always did when he got annoyed. “Kept losing. It pissed me off.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, groggy but genuine.

With a small sigh, you lifted the covers in invitation. He didn’t hesitate—climbing in behind you, sliding an arm around your waist like he’d been waiting all day just to do that.

The weight of his chin settled in the crook of your shoulder, and instinctively, your hand found its way to his hair, threading through soft strands of blonde.

“I really miss your black hair,” you muttered, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Ni-ki’s chuckle rumbled low against your back, his breath warm on your skin. “Mmhm. I bet you do, baby.”

You turned in his arms, cheek pressing against his chest, and the steady thrum of his heartbeat lulled you further. His hands slid to cover yours, fingers lacing together loosely.

“I really do, Riki,” you said quietly, tipping your head back just enough to catch the smirk tugging at his lips.

He looked down at you, eyes glinting in the dim light as the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

“Maybe one day,” he murmured, voice low and playful. “I’ll be sure to tell my manager first.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the mention of Yuki—the long-haired man who was more like Ni-ki’s shadow, constantly reminding you, ‘Look after him, please. He forgets.’

“Okay,” you whispered, grin tugging at your lips.

Ni-ki pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead, the warmth of it making your eyes droop even more.

“I’m so sleepy, Iki,” you mumbled into his chest, the nickname slipping past your lips without thought.

He chuckled, a sound that shook through his body and into yours. That name was yours alone—only spoken when it was just the two of you, safe in the quiet.

He shifted down further, pulling you tighter against him as his long arm reached to tug the blanket over the both of you.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he whispered against your hair. “We’ve got a full schedule tomorrow.”

You rolled your eyes even through your drowsiness, tilting your head to look up at him. “Can’t we just postpone the tour? I mean, I get it—you’re an idol, but you need to rest too.”

He laughed softly at your pout, the sound carrying a kind of fondness that always melted you.

You reached up, brushing his bangs away from his face with gentle fingers. He caught your hand mid-motion, bringing it down to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles.

“I know, baby. I wish I could too.” His words were tender, weighted with exhaustion. “But we’ll get our break after they’re done, okay?”

You huffed, brows furrowing, not quite ready to surrender to sleep. As your hand rested against his chest again, your eyes caught the glimpse of black ink peeking out from under the cuff of his hoodie sleeve.

The fabric had slipped down with the movement, revealing the sharp lines of the tattoo etched into his wrist—an ace of spades, the bold A sitting neatly above the spade, stacked together like a secret meant only for him.

Your breath softened as your fingers instinctively reached for it, tracing the lines with featherlight care.

His skin was warm beneath your touch, the contrast of soft against inked permanence making your heart thrum.

“I really like this,” you hummed, still brushing your fingertip against the design.

Ni-ki’s lips curved into a small, gentle smile as he shifted his arm even closer, letting you explore the tattoo like it was yours to trace.

His gaze softened, lingering on the way you looked so focused even through your drowsiness.

“I know,” he murmured with a quiet chuckle, the sound barely breaking the stillness of the room. “You’ve told me that a hundred times before.”

You grinned, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his hoodie as you inched closer to his chest.

“Well… it just shows you’re such an ace in dancing,” you teased, tapping the spade once with your finger before dragging it lightly down his wrist.

“An ace, huh?” he whispered, leaning down just enough for his breath to tickle the shell of your ear. “Then what does that make you?”

You blinked up at him through heavy lashes, lips curving. “The lucky one who gets to keep you.”

His laugh came out low. Even in the dim light spilling in from the streetlamp outside, you could see the faintest pink tint dusting his cheeks.

You couldn’t resist leaning up a little, pressing the softest kiss to that warmth, your lips brushing against his skin.

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly before you settled back down, cheek to his chest, your ear catching the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I love you, Iki,” you whispered, the words carrying that hazy sincerity only the quietest hours of the night could hold. “Good night.”

For a moment, silence blanketed the room again, broken only by the faint hum of the heater and your breaths syncing together.

Then Ni-ki lowered his head, his lips brushing your hairline as he pressed a tender kiss there.

“I love you too, (Y/N),” he whispered, the sound so soft it almost blended with the darkness around you. “Good night.”

You smiled against his chest, your hand tightening around his hoodie as he pulled you even closer, as if he wanted to mold you into his very being.

The warmth of his body, the comfort of his scent, and the safety of his arms all tangled together, wrapping you in something far deeper than words.

It was barely seven in the morning when you found yourself perched on the leather couch in Ni-ki’s room, legs curled up as you leaned closer to the small mirror propped against the black wooden coffee table.

The faint light spilling through the blinds made the gloss on your lips gleam as you carefully swiped another layer on, pressing them together before giving yourself a proud little nod.

Even at this hour, you had to admit—you didn’t look half bad.

The door swung open with a loud creak, nearly startling you. Ni-ki barged in, hair still messy from sleep, a sleeveless shirt clinging to his frame.

A shit-eating grin stretched across his face, and before you could ask what he was up to, Jungwon’s voice carried through the now closed door.

“Nishimura, I swear—stop hiding (Y/N)! I need her help with the agenda!”

You shook your head with a small laugh, setting your gloss aside as you stood. He was practically glowing with mischief, shoulders bouncing with stifled laughter at his leader’s frustration.

You crossed the room, smoothing your pants down as you reached him, fingers hooking onto the hem of his sleeveless shirt.

“Stop chasing Jungwon around,” you scolded, clicking your tongue as you tugged him closer. “And get changed.”

Ni-ki pouted instantly, eyes widening as if he could charm you into letting him off. “But—”

You gave him a look, the one that always made him cave.

He sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”

You grinned victoriously, retreating to the edge of the bed while he rifled through his still-open suitcase. He grabbed a gray hoodie, tugging his sleeveless shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion.

You hadn’t meant to stare—really, you hadn’t.

But despite growing up alongside him, despite being there from the very beginning, your eyes couldn’t help trailing over the lean lines of his frame.

He wasn’t the same boy you’d met during debut; time and relentless training had carved him into something sharper, stronger.

Every muscle, every dip of his skin seemed highlighted by the ink that stretched over his ribs, black against pale skin, impossible not to notice.

You were so caught up in the sight that you nearly missed his voice.

“Baby, are you bringing any of the plushies I gave you?” His tone was casual, distracted as he tugged the hoodie halfway on, still facing away from you.

When no answer came, he frowned, brows pulling together. “…Baby?”

He turned, hoodie dangling in his hands, only to catch you frozen, eyes locked on him. The corner of his mouth twitched upward as realization struck.

You blinked rapidly, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Huh?”

Ni-ki’s smirk only widened, boyish but dangerous, like he’d caught you red-handed.

He removed his hoodie from his hands, not bothering to slip it on properly—just tossing it lazily over one shoulder like some careless model. One hand shoved deep into the pocket of his sweats as he strolled toward you, his voice low and amused.

“Were you staring?”

Your throat bobbed, panic blooming as you cleared it and quickly tore your eyes away.

“I—oh, um, yeah… I need to pack my stuff too, sorry.”

You turned in a rush, making a beeline for your open suitcase near the curtains. The neat rows of folded clothes suddenly looked like the most interesting thing in the world.

Fingers fumbled with the zipper, the excuse flimsy even to your own ears, but it was the only escape you had.

Behind you, you could feel his gaze—heavy, knowing. His smirk lingered in the silence, stretching out just enough to make you burn.

“Don’t forget your makeup bag, baby.”

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, spinning around as the memory hit you. Of course—you’d left it on the coffee table.

Ni-ki still shirtless, the hoodie hanging off his broad shoulder, holding the sleek black leather pouch. The Chrome Hearts one he’d gifted you a few months back. Your stomach dipped.

You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched into a guilty smile, recalling how you once ranted about your Prada one being too small for your growing collection—most of which he’d impulsively bought for you.

Ten lip glosses in one week, handed to you like candy, because “they reminded me of you.” Overboard, yes. But undeniably him.

The pouch gleamed under the dim morning light, supple leather shifting softly in his hand as he took his time walking closer, closing the distance inch by inch.

“Here.” His voice was gentle now, almost careful, as he held it out.

You swallowed and took it, nodding faintly, your eyes glued stubbornly to the floor as if it might swallow you whole.

But Ni-ki only chuckled.

“Hey.” His tone dropped to something softer, teasing laced with warmth.

He stepped closer, his fingers brushing yours again as he casually took the pouch from your hands and set it aside on the bed.

Then, without hesitation, his arms slipped around your waist, pulling you against him.

“What’s this, huh?” he murmured, tilting his head down so his breath tickled your temple. “Caught you staring and now you’re getting all shy on me?”

Your breath hitched, cheeks flaming as your palms landed flat on his chest, solid and warm. “I wasn’t—!”

He laughed quietly, the sound rich and unhurried, his lips curving against your hair. “Mmhm, you were.”

One of his hands slid up your back, holding you flush against him, while the other stayed at your waist like he had no intention of letting go.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, voice playfully conspiratorial as he leaned close enough for you to feel his smirk against your ear. “I like when you stare.”

Your knees nearly buckled at the words, your heart racing so hard you swore he could feel it.

You sighed shakily, burying your face into Ni-ki’s bare chest, the warmth of his skin calming you even as your cheeks burned.

“Not fair, Riki,” you mumbled against him, voice muffled.

He laughed lowly, arms tightening around your waist until you felt completely enveloped. “Nothing’s fair, baby.”

Groaning, you shoved lightly at his chest, slipping out of his grasp just enough to stand on your toes. Despite the stretch, he still had to dip down a little for you to reach.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek—quick—and leaned back with a grin when the glossy red print of your lipstick shone against his skin.

You hummed in appreciation of your own handiwork, smirking up at him while his brows lifted knowingly.

“Pack up, blondie,” you teased, tone playful as you poked at his chest. “I need to help Jungwon with the schedule for the London tour next week.”

He sighed, dragging it out dramatically, before finally nodding. “How many heels are you bringing for that?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “At least three.”

He nodded as if he were making mental notes, already dragging one of your empty suitcases toward him. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he reached down and picked up one of your heels from the floor, spinning it lightly in his hand.

“Oh,” you added with a smug little smirk, pointing at his cheek as you reached for the door. “And you might wanna clean that up.”

Before he could reply, you slipped out the door, shutting it quickly behind you.

For a moment, Ni-ki just sat there, blinking.

Then, curiosity getting the best of him, he fished his phone out of his pocket and flipped open the camera app. His reflection filled the screen, and sure enough, the bold print of your lipstick stood out proudly against his pale skin.

He chuckled to himself, scrunching his nose at the sight.

“Very cheeky, (Y/N),” he muttered, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

He stared at the mark for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Then, with a sudden smirk, he closed the camera app and pulled up his chats.

Scrolling quickly, he landed on a familiar name—his tattoo artist.

ni-ki [7:15 AM]: yo, are you awake?

It took barely a few seconds before the typing bubbles popped up.

ink man [7:15 AM]: What’s up man?

Ni-ki’s grin widened.

ni-ki [7:15 AM]: i need a rush piece. can you do it tomorrow?

ink man [7:15 AM]: Yeah sure, just drop by. Send me the inspo.

Ni-ki wasted no time, snapping a quick photo of his cheek, the kiss mark bold and clear, before sending it.

The response came almost instantly.

ink man [7:16 AM]: Did (Y/N) give you that? That’s sick, man.

Ni-ki bit back a laugh, thumbs flying across the keyboard.

ni-ki [7:16 AM]: obviously. need it somewhere hidden though.

ink man [7:16 AM]: I got you, man.

He was about to type out a reply when your voice carried faintly from down the hallway.

“Riki! Come here, quick meeting!”

He swiped the chat away immediately, only sending a quick thumbs-up emoji before shoving his phone back in his pocket.

Standing, he tugged his hoodie properly over his head at last, combing his fingers through his hair as he padded over to the door.

“Coming!”

The moment he pushed the door open, the noise of the dorm rushed in. His members were scattered across the floor of the living room, papers, pens, and laptops everywhere.

Their manager, Yuki, sat cross-legged, pinching the bridge of his nose as though dealing with children instead of grown idols.

“This kid—really—you only listen to (Y/N),” Yuki muttered, gesturing toward Ni-ki with exasperation.

Ni-ki blinked, tilting his head innocently, blonde strands swaying slightly in his face without their usual gel. He moved toward the empty spot beside you, dropping onto the floor easily.

“What do you mean?”

Heeseung shot him a look, unimpressed. “We’ve been calling your name for the last two minutes.”

Ni-ki’s lips curled into a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck. “Oops.”

You only rolled your eyes, nudging him with your knee. “Focus, Riki.”

Ni-ki smirked to himself, but obediently leaned closer, pulling the schedule papers toward him as if he hadn’t just planned something wildly impulsive behind everyone’s back.

It had been a few days since Ni-ki sent that impulsive text to his tattoo artist, and for some reason, he’d been acting off.

Nothing big, nothing dramatic—but just enough for you to notice.

It was early, the dorm alive with a quiet kind of chaos. Members darted between their rooms with bags slung over their shoulders, voices muffled but firm as reminders echoed down the hall.

“London. Early. Start packing. Don’t forget your passports.”

You hummed to yourself, standing in front of the full-length mirror on Ni-ki’s closet door. The curlers had done their job—your hair fell in soft waves that framed your face perfectly.

You set the curler down carefully, running your fingers through to fluff the strands, nodding in satisfaction.

The door creaked open, and Ni-ki walked in with a handful of papers, his brow furrowed, lips pursed.

He looked like a grown man carrying the weight of the world—except he was still barefoot, hair messy, and his hoodie looked two sizes too big.

“Is our schedule really this packed?” he groaned, holding the papers up like they were some cursed prophecy.

You glanced at the page, recognizing both your name and Yuki’s scribbled at the bottom—signatures confirming the tour agenda you both spent hours organizing.

Smiling apologetically, you slipped the papers from his hands and set them on the bedside table before reaching up to wrap your arms around him.

“Come here, you big baby.”

Almost instantly, his arms wrapped back around you—but something about the way his hand darted down to move yours from his lower waist up to his middle didn’t go unnoticed.

You frowned for a split second, but let it slide, hugging him tighter.

His chin rested easily on top of your head, and for a moment, it felt like the stress of schedules, suitcases, and planes melted away.

Still, you winced, your neck straining at the angle. “Riki… are you forgetting you’re literally a whole foot and some inches taller than me?”

He chuckled quietly but didn’t let go.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his voice dropping lower as though whispering a secret only for you.

“When this world tour’s over, we’re going on vacation. Just the two of us.”

Your chest warmed, lips tugging up into a smile. “Let’s go back to Japan. I miss our families.”

Ni-ki’s face lit up at the suggestion, eyes glinting. “Mhmm. I miss Bisco.”

You burst into laughter at the mention of his dog. “Really? Not even your sisters?”

His nose scrunched adorably, making you grin harder.

“Hey—you can’t blame me. Those two won’t give me a break.” He shuddered dramatically, and you smacked his arm lightly.

Rolling your eyes with affection, you bent to grab the papers again. But as you shifted your weight, your other hand instinctively went low for balance.

Ni-ki moved faster than you expected, grabbing your wrist mid-motion, keeping your touch far from his side as he steadied you with his other arm.

You blinked up at him, brows furrowing. “Riki… are you okay?”

He forced a smile, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Yeah, just—really bad muscle ache on my side. From practice.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You should get that checked—”

“Nah, I’m good.” He waved you off quickly with his free hand, a little too quickly.

You gave him a look—the one you always did when you could tell he wasn’t being fully honest.

He exhaled in defeat, muttering under his breath, “Women…”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “What was that?”

He plastered on a sheepish smile, leaning down until his nose brushed yours. “Nothing, baby. I love you so much.”

Your irritation cracked under the weight of his grin, and when his lips pressed against yours, soft and slow, you couldn’t help but smile back into the kiss.

When he pulled away, you tapped his chest, nodding toward the half-open suitcase by the bed.

“You ready?”

His gaze flicked toward the empty luggage and he grimaced.

“…No.”

You smacked his chest lightly again, rolling your eyes. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

The stadium was quiet compared to what it would be tomorrow—no fans, no flashing lights, just the faint hum of equipment and the echo of the boys’ voices bouncing off the walls as they rehearsed Sweet Venom for what felt like the hundredth time.

You sat slouched in one of the VIP front row seats, clipboard balanced on your lap, pen tapping against the paper.

Your eyes drifted from the detailed setlist you’d been rereading for the past ten minutes to the stage, where Ni-ki was moving with muscle memory, his every step sharp despite how visibly drained he looked.

A low sigh left your lips just as the seat beside you shifted.

“You alright, kiddo?”

You turned your head to see Yuki settling down beside you, one brow raised, his ever-present lanyard bouncing against his chest.

“Why?” you asked automatically, blinking at him before your eyes flicked back to the stage.

Ni-ki had just brushed his damp bangs out of his eyes, sweat clinging to his skin under the harsh stage lights. Your chest tugged a little, but you quickly looked back down at your clipboard.

Yuki chuckled, shaking his head. “Because you’ve done more than enough for the team tonight. You look ready to collapse yourself.”

A smile pulled at your lips despite the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders. “You know… I should thank you for still letting me in the makeup team.”

That got a laugh out of him. He leaned back in the seat, arms crossed as his eyes followed the boys on stage.

“Yeah, but you spend more time with the stage team than your own crew these days.”

Your grin only widened. “Still. Really, thank you, Yuki. I owe you a lot.”

He turned to look at you, and for a second his expression softened, almost fatherly.

“You don’t owe me anything, (Y/N). If anything, I owe you. The higher-ups love you. Say you act like a mother to the boys.”

You scrunched your nose at that, shaking your head in disbelief. “I’m literally the same age as Riki.”

That made Yuki burst out laughing, his voice echoing louder than the boys’ background vocals.

“Maybe so, but at least they listen to you. Who would’ve thought the youngest member’s girlfriend could make the rest of them actually shake?”

This time, it was you laughing, biting your lip as you tried to keep quiet. “That’s a little too extreme, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Yuki admitted, lips quirking.

He glanced at the stage where Ni-ki was spinning into place before his eyes flicked back to you, his voice gentler now. “Still, thank you. For being with them when I can’t. For being with him when I can’t.”

You followed his gaze toward Ni-ki, then looked back at Yuki with a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “Young love really does wonders, huh?”

Yuki’s smile deepened. “Mhmm. Childhood friends to lovers—you two are the definition of it. Suck it up.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you swatted at him with your clipboard, but he just stood, ruffling your hair before you could dodge.

“I’m telling you, you are,” he said with a grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Anyway, I need to head backstage. Check on the equipment.”

“What’s next after this?” you asked, flipping your clipboard around and scanning the highlighted notes.

“Dunno. You tell me.”

You traced a line down the list before finding your answer. “One more run of ‘No Doubt’ and they’re done for the night.”

He nodded in satisfaction. “Well, knock yourself out. But not too much, alright? You’re practically like a daughter to me.”

You raised a brow at him, unimpressed. “You mean you just need me for crowd control tomorrow.”

Yuki’s grin widened as he pointed at you like you’d caught him. “Yes.”

Rolling your eyes, you waved him off. “Yes, yes, I get it. Goodbye, Yuki.”

“Bye, (Y/N),” he called as he walked away, laughing at the exasperation in your voice.

You couldn’t help but smile a little, your gaze automatically lifting to the stage just as the final notes of ‘Sweet Venom’ echoed out across the empty stadium.

The boys were panting, sweat-soaked, and drained—but still moving with precision. As the music faded, you noticed Ni-ki moving fast, skipping steps as he jogged down the side stairs.

The others caught his eagerness, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

Sunghoon leaned lazily into his mic, his lips curling into a smirk. “Such a baby.”

Ni-ki paused mid-step and whipped around to glare at the older, eyes narrowed, shoulders rising with every breath.

Sunghoon immediately lifted his hands in mock defeat, lips twitching in amusement. “Okay, okay.”

Still glaring, Ni-ki turned back and broke into a jog again—straight toward you.

You hurriedly dropped your clipboard onto the empty chair beside you and spread your arms open just as he practically launched himself at you.

“Oof, Riki—” you muttered, stumbling back a little under his weight. “You’re heavy!”

He only slumped further against you, unbothered, as if proving a point.

Your arms circled around him instinctively, and you rubbed your hands up and down his damp back, smiling when you caught the camera in the corner filming the two of you.

“You good?” you murmured softly.

He nodded against your neck, voice muffled. “I missed you.”

A laugh bubbled out of you as you stroked the back of his hair. “I’ve been sitting here for the past three hours.”

“Still,” he grumbled, refusing to move.

You sighed, tugging gently at his shirt. “Come on, you need to finish. You still have one more song to go over.”

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbled stubbornly, his arms tightening around you like a child.

You giggled, shaking your head at him, when suddenly a buzz from your pocket pulled your attention away. Patting his back, you coaxed, “Let go, Riki.”

He reluctantly pulled back, lips in a pout, before flopping onto the chair next to you like he owned the place.

You fished out your phone and saw Yuki’s name flash on the screen, a new message. Smiling, you set your phone on your lap and looked at Ni-ki, his hand still wrapped around the mic he’d been holding all evening.

“May I?” you asked, pointing at it.

He immediately let go and handed it over, eyes still sulking but lips twitching like he wanted to smile.

You stood, cleared your throat, and brought the mic up. “Everybody,”

The staff froze in place, turning toward you, and the boys on stage all blinked and shuffled closer, curiosity painted on their tired faces. Even the tech crew looked up from their equipment.

Flipping your phone around, you read aloud, trying to keep your tone professional: “According to Yuki, we can all leave after the boys get enough rest—staff included—once we finish one more stage check.”

The collective sigh of relief was instant. Shoulders relaxed, heads nodded, a few quiet “thank gods” echoing through the space. But you weren’t done.

A smile tugged at your lips as you scrolled to the next part of his message.

“Also,” you added, clearing your throat dramatically. “Yuki says—and I quote—‘I’ve heard No Doubt way too many times tonight. Have a good rest, everyone.’”

The staff erupted with laughter, some even shouting “Thank you, Yuki!” despite him being backstage.

Jungwon immediately punched the air and collapsed dramatically onto the stage floor. Jake doubled over, laughing, while Sunghoon leaned against him, groaning from exhaustion.

“Finally,” you muttered under your breath, lowering the mic and letting the boys and crew revel in the good news.

You turned back to Ni-ki, only to catch him wincing slightly as his hand pressed against his side. Your smile dropped into a frown.

“Haven’t I told you to get that checked?” you asked quietly.

He glanced at you sheepishly, caught, before giving you a small nod. “Yeah, you did.”

“And?” you pressed, already crossing your arms.

He grinned, victorious like a child who finally did his homework. “I did.”

Suspicious, you raised a brow and snatched your clipboard from the chair, holding it like a weapon. “And what’s the verdict?”

“Really bad muscle strain,” he admitted, tone casual, though you didn’t miss the slight tension in his voice.

You grimaced. “Riki…”

Standing at the same time you did, he swung an arm casually around your shoulders, tugging you close as if nothing was wrong.

“Are you sure you don’t have to go to a hospital?” you asked, brows furrowed as you let him guide you toward the side exit.

“Baby, you’re overthinking it.” He waved his free hand dismissively.

You shot him a sharp look, making him laugh. “What was that look for?”

“I’m serious!” you scolded, narrowing your eyes. “You push yourself too hard.”

He leaned down, pinching your cheek with his free hand. “Riki, I swear—”

“I know, I know,” he cut in quickly, grin soft but teasing as he let your cheek go. “So… thank you.”

You exhaled, torn between smacking him and hugging him tighter, your lips twitching despite yourself.

Behind you, the rest of the boys were filing down from the stage, loud as ever.

“I want chicken,” Jake groaned, stretching his arms overhead.

“I want pizza,” Sunoo countered instantly.

“No, chicken!”

“Well, I want pizza!”

“Both,” Jay sighed in defeat, dragging a hand down his face. “We’ll just get both.”

Ni-ki chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. “I want sushi.”

Then he looked back at you, eyes gleaming as he pulled you closer against his side, whispering just for you, “And plus, I’m not dying. It’s just a strain.”

Your chest softened, but you still sighed, leaning into him. “I know… but I worry about you.”

His lips curved upward, his voice low and teasing but warm. “I know.”

Things only got weirder with the way Ni-ki was acting that night. The two of you shuffled across your shared hotel room, walking through the mess of used plates and scattered cups that littered the carpet.

You sighed, tossing another paper cup into the trash bag as you muttered, “I feel like I’m a mother of seven.”

Ni-ki laughed, balancing two greasy chicken boxes in one hand. “Saying that at nineteen is wild.”

You shot him a flat look, but the corner of your mouth tugged up anyway.

When you walked past him to grab the stack of napkins someone left crumpled on the table, he caught your wrist and tugged you into his chest, his chin dipping to rest on top of your head.

“Tired?” he asked, voice low, soft.

You nodded against him, muffled. “So much. I don’t know how you guys manage to do all that singing and dancing for hours.”

His grin widened, and he pressed a lazy kiss into your hair. “Don’t bring yourself down like that. You do so much for us.”

You looked up at him then, smiling gently before you pressed a kiss against his jaw. “Well, I’m going to take a shower. Tell Jungwon I’ll help him with the morning schedule later, okay?”

He hummed, nodding, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead like he couldn’t help himself.

You were already walking toward the bathroom when you called back, teasing, “Are you gonna join me?”

Ni-ki chuckled under his breath, pulling his hoodie over his head and tossing it onto the loveseat. Clad now only in a white shirt, he shook his head with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, baby. I can’t.”

You frowned, hand already on the sliding door. “Are you sure?”

His smile tilted guilty. “Heeseung needs help with something. But I swear I’ll make it up to you next week.”

You blinked. “Next week?”

“Mmhm,” he confirmed, grin boyish but nervous.

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Okay, Nishimura. I’ll hold you to that.” And with that, you slid the bathroom door open and disappeared inside.

The second the door shut, Ni-ki let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. His hand lifted, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it up.

The dim light washed over his skin, tracing down the sharp lines of his abdomen until it caught on the angry red ink just beside his V-line—an outline of lips. Your lips.

His own lips tugged upward despite himself, tracing the tender skin gently with his fingers before pulling the shirt back down.

“Since when do I ever refuse a shower invite?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself as he flopped onto the bed.

Reaching for his phone, he tapped Heeseung’s name. The older picked up within two rings.

“What did you do this time?” Heeseung’s voice was immediately suspicious, already teasing.

“What the hell do you mean ‘this time’?” Ni-ki huffed, shifting the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Oh, I don’t know—did (Y/N) make you sleep on the hotel couch again?”

Ni-ki groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “That was one time!”

Heeseung’s laugh echoed faintly through the line. “Yeah, when you lost her Dior lipstick during filming. I still remember that meltdown.”

“I bought her five more to make up for it, didn’t I?” Ni-ki retorted, flopping onto his back and fixing his gaze on the ceiling.

“Mmhm,” Heeseung drawled, the sound of rustling and then a ramen lid peeling back audible through the speaker. “Okay, loverboy. Why are you calling me? We’re literally two floors apart.”

Ni-ki bit his lip, hesitating. “…How do I tell (Y/N) I have a new tattoo?”

There was a pause. Then Heeseung’s voice rose in pitch. “When the fuck did you get a new tattoo?”

“A few days ago,” Ni-ki admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

Heeseung made a low hum. “So why don’t you tell her? You’ve never had a problem before.”

“Because…” Ni-ki sighed, sitting up to ruffle his hair. “It’s about her.”

That earned a snicker. “What, did you get her face inked on your back or something?”

“No!” Ni-ki snapped, then exhaled. His voice softened. “I got her kiss mark… right below my abdomen. A womb tattoo.”

There was silence—then Heeseung burst out laughing, nearly choking on his ramen. “Oh my god. You are so down bad.”

Ni-ki rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched with a proud grin.

“Well, I grew up with her. We went to the same school, she flew to South Korea with me during I-LAND, she never broke up with me even when things got insane. I asked her to be my girlfriend when we debuted, and we somehow kept it under wraps until last year. So yes, I am down bad. Thank you very much.”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Heeseung muttered between slurps of noodles. “You’ve got a future wife, damn.”

The grin stretched wider across Ni-ki’s face at that.

“So what are you scared of?” Heeseung pressed.

Ni-ki leaned back against the headboard, his hand unconsciously brushing against his side where the tattoo lay hidden. “She might have my head for getting one without her consent.”

Heeseung chuckled. “That, I can’t help with. But…” His tone shifted mischievous. “I do have an idea.”

Ni-ki groaned immediately, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. “This is not a good start. A ‘Heeseung idea’ usually means problems.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

Ni-ki let out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand over his face. “…Go on.”

The crowd for soundcheck was as loud as it could get, the screams ricocheting off the stadium walls like thunder.

You stood beside Yuki just below the stage, hands crossed on your chest, eyes darting across the moving lights and the boys bounding from one end of the stage to the other as they sang ‘Go Big or Go Home.’

They were grinning wide, waving, showing off for the hundred cameras capturing their every move.

“Are we absolutely sure there’s no misplaced—” you gestured vaguely at the stage, “—lights, cables, or anything for them to trip over? You know, a falling spotlight waiting to kill somebody?”

Yuki barely blinked, arms crossed as he tracked the members’ blocking. “No. I triple-checked with the technical team last night. Everything’s secure.”

You nodded slowly, shifting your weight onto your other foot. The moment you did, Yuki’s eyes flicked down, catching the shine of your 4-inch platform boots. His grimace said enough.

“Are you sure you’re going to survive the whole night in those?” he asked dryly.

You glanced down at your shoes, rocking them side to side with a sheepish grin. “Yes… why?”

Yuki gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. Two hours into our wedding and my wife nearly threw her heels at me because her feet were hurting.”

You laughed at the image, tipping your head toward him. “Oh, I will tell her that. I miss her.”

“Mmhm, sure. She misses you too,” Yuki replied, lips quirking.

You turned your head then, scanning the pit just behind you—and nearly snorted out loud. A crowd of ENGENEs were pressed up against the barrier, their phones all pointed directly at you, not the stage.

Some were giggling, others waving their banners, and a few even mouthed “(Y/N), look here!”

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.

Thanking Heeseung and Jake in your head for every English lesson they drilled into you, you called out, voice raised just enough:

“Why are you guys filming me? The boys are right there!” You pointed up at the stage, where Sunghoon was in the middle of his part, waving at the crowd.

The fans screamed even louder, and one particularly bold voice near the front shrieked, “We love you more, (Y/N)!”

You laughed, hand flying to cover your mouth before lowering it again, your smile wide. Turning back to Yuki, your eyes silently asked the question—‘Can I?’

Yuki raised a brow but eventually sighed, shaking his head in fond defeat. “Go ahead,” he said, a small smile tugging his lips.

That was all the permission you needed. You turned back around and walked closer to the barrier, the cheers rising with every step.

Immediately, the bodyguards stationed nearby moved like shadows, one of them already lifting his hand to step with you.

You quickly raised your own hand, halting them. “No need,” you said firmly, turning your head just enough to meet their eyes.

“But Ms. (Y/N)—” one of them started, tone cautious.

But you were quicker. “I trust them enough, okay?”

The bodyguard hesitated, but backed off with a reluctant nod, his gaze sweeping over the fans just in case.

You reached the barrier now, folding your arms loosely on top of it as fans nearly exploded into screams and chants.

Someone held up a poster with your name scribbled in glitter letters, another waved a plushie of a baby chick, and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.

“You guys are too much,” you teased, your grin widening as you pointed up at the stage. “Jake is right there!”

Sure enough, Jake was only a few feet away, mid-song, tugging playfully at Jungwon’s sleeve.

When he noticed you pointing at him, he waved dramatically, sending the fans into another fit of screams. You turned back to the barrier with a laugh.

“And you’re filming me, really?” you asked, mock incredulity painting your tone.

In response, a fan lifted their phone, the screen showing a paused frame from an EN-O’CLOCK episode—where the staff had accidentally left in a close-up of you making the ugliest face mid-laugh.

You burst into laughter, clapping a hand over your mouth.

“Oh, come on!” you groaned, still laughing.

“But you’re so pretty!” the fan shouted back, and the crowd around her echoed in agreement.

You felt your cheeks heat, ducking your head before lifting it again with a soft, “Thank you.”

Another voice piped up eagerly, “(Y/N)! Share your makeup secrets!”

You gasped playfully. “My makeup secrets? Okay, one day I’ll crash one of Ni-ki’s lives, alright?”

The cheers were deafening, and you couldn’t help but shake your head with a smile.

Even after all these years, using your boyfriend’s stage name in front of others still felt strange on your tongue. To you, he was just Riki.

“But,” you continued, tapping your lips, “right now I’m using Dior.”

Gasps, screams, and waving lightsticks followed instantly.

“The lipstick or the gloss?!” someone shouted.

You grinned, holding a finger up as if about to make a huge reveal. “Both.”

That got the loudest cheer yet, and you laughed, covering your ears dramatically as if they were too loud. Fans kept their phones up, catching every second, some yelling your name, others just screaming out of sheer excitement.

“How are you and Ni-ki?” a fan suddenly shouted above the noise.

You blinked but smiled warmly, leaning closer so they could hear you. “We’re very happy. Thank you.”

The crowd smiled. Some squealed, others cooed, a few even fanned their faces as if they couldn’t handle it.

The moment felt lighter now, so you started posing for their cameras—peace signs, exaggerated winks, blowing kisses that made the whole section of fans go feral.

You laughed as one screamed, “(Y/N), we’re only here for you!”

“Don’t say that!” you scolded playfully, pointing toward the stage.

But then another voice rang out, bolder, cheekier: “Does Ni-ki have a new tattoo?”

Your laughter faltered just slightly, though your smile didn’t drop. Shaking your head, you answered honestly, “That’s not my story to tell.”

The fans collectively pouted, some even whining, but you noticed most of them nodding in understanding.

Before you could add anything else, a voice boomed through the mic above you.

“Hey!”

Your head snapped up to see Jay walking toward your side of the stage, mic in hand, his expression halfway between amusement and mock-accusation. “(Y/N), are you stealing our fans?”

The crowd erupted again, and you shook your head furiously, laughing. “No!”

Jake quickly joined him, dragging Ni-ki along by the wrist. Jake’s grin was mischievous, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers. “Engenes, what is this?”

Behind you, the pit exploded into chants: “We love (Y/N)!”

You laughed, hiding your face in your hands. Jake bent over laughing too, but it was Ni-ki who took a step forward, pulling his mic to his lips.

“That’s my girl,” he said smoothly, in perfect English.

You froze, eyes widening, before your face flushed pink all the way to your ears. The crowd screamed so loud, every single phone now pointed at Ni-ki—or at you, who was covering your face in disbelief.

And of course, one brave fan screamed back, “She’s my girl, not yours!”

The boys on stage lost it. Jake keeled over laughing, Jay’s jaw dropped in fake scandal, and Ni-ki leaned forward, brow furrowed as he replied into the mic, “What? No.”

That only made the fans scream louder.

You couldn’t stop laughing, shaking your head as you raised your hands like you were calling a ceasefire.

“Okay, okay—let’s all calm down!” you said, gesturing toward the boys on stage, then to the staff behind you.

The crew by the wings gave you nods, already signaling to the sound team to get ready for the next track.

Ni-ki still had a mischievous grin tugging at his lips, Jake was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, and Jay was muttering something about “unbelievable betrayal.”

The concert had ended in fireworks, confetti, but now the halls of the hotel were hushed, lined with tired staff and members already retreating to their rooms.

You and Ni-ki lingered behind, waving the others off with soft goodbyes.

His hand rested at the small of your back protectively, while his other arm carried your discarded boots—the heels dangling by their straps as you padded along in just your socks, exhaustion written in every step.

Swiping the keycard, you pushed the door open with a sigh that was almost dramatic.

“My feet are so tired, Iki…” you mumbled, leaning heavier into him.

The way his lips curved at the nickname made your chest warm, but he only shook his head in fond amusement as he nudged you inside. Setting your heels down neatly by the door, he closed it behind you.

“Only your feet, really?” he teased, his tone light but his eyes soft.

You nodded solemnly, flopping against his side as he guided you deeper into the room. “I could still run a mile, I swear. But my feet? They’re killing me.”

He chuckled, leaning down just enough to brush his lips against your cheek before steering you toward the bed. “You’re stubborn,” he muttered, easing you down onto the mattress.

Kneeling in front of you, he gently tugged at your ankles, placing your socked feet in his lap before working his thumbs into the sore arches.

The sound that left you was an unfiltered sigh of relief. “That feels so good…”

“I told you to wear your more comfortable ones,” Ni-ki hummed knowingly, his long fingers tracing slow, careful circles into your skin. “But did you listen? No.”

Your nose scrunched up, the tiniest pout forming as you leaned back against your palms. “Okay, now you sound like Yuki.”

That made him laugh, a soft, boyish sound that filled the quiet room. He let go of your feet eventually, sliding up onto the bed beside you instead.

Without a word, he reached for the zipper of your cropped jacket, shrugging it off your shoulders with an ease that made your heart squeeze.

“Thank you, Iki,” you whispered, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Anytime, baby. I got you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into your temple.

You lingered there a moment, letting the quiet sink in—the dim hotel lights, the muffled sounds of the city outside, the way his warmth was already seeping into you.

Finally, you tilted your face up to him with a tiny smile. “Well… I don’t know about you, but I need to take a shower. I’ll be back, okay?”

Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss against his lips, the kind that was meant to be quick—but his hands were quicker, sliding instinctively around your waist to hold you in place.

You couldn’t help but smile against his mouth, your palm flattening over his chest. “Iki… I feel so icky. Like, actually.”

Pulling back just slightly, he gave you that smug little grin of his. “Nice wordplay.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you stood up, tugging off your socks and tossing them aside with a sigh of relief.

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you were already scrolling to your shower playlist when you glanced back at him.

“Feel free to join me, okay?” you teased lightly, raising a brow.

His answer was a simple hum, his gaze following you as he leaned back on his palms. “Mhmm. Go ahead.”

You caught the way his eyes lingered as you padded toward the bathroom, and even after you closed the door, you could still feel his grin hanging in the air.

Humming softly, you continued scrolling through your shower playlist, the familiar beat of your favorite song spilling faintly from the phone speakers.

But instead of hitting play, your thumb slid to another app out of habit—Twitter.

The screen lit up instantly, a flood of notifications stacking on top of each other. Mentions. Retweets. Tags. All saying the same thing:

“Ni-ki’s tattoo!”

“Womb kiss mark tattoo??”

“Has (Y/N) saw it?”

Your brows furrowed. “Huh?” you mumbled, adjusting your grip on the phone. “Must be his ace of spades on his wrist again…”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, scrolling faster. “Or maybe his rib tattoo? Or… maybe the fans just want him to get a new one.”

But then one post caught your eye. A shaky, zoomed-in video from earlier tonight.

You tapped it.

The clip was grainy, but clear enough: Ni-ki’s hoodie riding up during soundcheck, the hem flashing just enough skin for a split second. The caption screamed in all caps:

“NI-KI’S WOMB TATTOO IS A KISS MARK?”

Your breath stilled, the faintest gasp escaping before you even realized. The red outline was unmistakable—lips, right below his abdomen, just at the sharp dip of his v-line.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart thumping against your ribs. “It’s real.”

Your shower playlist forgotten, you shoved the phone aside and bolted out of the bathroom, bare feet smacking against the carpet despite the ache in them.

“Riki!”

He was just tugging his hoodie over his head, hair mussed, tank top clinging to him in the dim hotel lighting. He startled at the urgency in your voice, spinning around.

“Baby, what—?”

“Let me see.” Your words came out sharp, desperate, as you crossed the room in quick strides.

His brows pulled together. “See what?”

“The tattoo.”

For a split second, he froze. And then—he winced, almost guiltily. “…What tattoo?”

Your jaw dropped. “Don’t play with me right now, Nishimura Riki. Let me see.”

The sound of his full name in your tone must’ve cracked something in him, because he sighed, defeated. Tossing his hoodie carelessly to the floor, he grabbed the hem of his tank top, pulling it over his head in one swift motion.

Your eyes flickered over his bare chest, the sculpted lines of his shoulders, but you didn’t have time for that distraction.

His hand went to his waistband, tugging the elastic of his joggers down just slightly—enough to reveal it.

The semi-fresh tattoo sat stark against his pale skin, the red ink almost glowing in the lamplight. The outline of lips was sharp and bold, delicate in its detailing but impossible to mistake.

It curved right at the dip below his abdomen, dangerously intimate, the placement both daring and tender. The skin around it was still slightly raised, faintly irritated, but the design itself looked striking, almost beautiful.

You couldn’t stop the way your lips parted, breath catching.

Slowly, almost reverently, you raised your hand, hovering just above it. You traced the air around the mark, careful not to touch the healing skin, your fingertips trembling.

“Riki…” Your voice cracked slightly, your brows furrowing. “Are you… cheating on me?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, barely a whisper, but the weight of them hung between you like lead.

His head snapped up instantly, eyes wide. “Baby—what? No!” His voice was firm, urgent.

He reached for your wrist gently, “That’s—” He stopped, swallowing hard, his chest rising and falling. Then, quieter, he said, “That’s yours.”

You blinked, confusion flickering across your face as your lips parted, waiting.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, then nodded toward the tattoo, his voice raw. “Your lips. Always yours.”

You furrowed your brows, confusion tightening your face. “What? You didn’t even ask me for any references this past week…”

Your voice trailed off as your mind replayed the countless times he had bugged you before about his other tattoos—showing you sketches, asking which angle looked better, begging for your approval.

But this one? Nothing.

Ni-ki exhaled, his big hands slipping from yours as he sat back on the edge of the bed. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, wordless but insistent. An invitation.

You swallowed, then obeyed, stepping forward and settling across his lap, straddling him carefully.

Your arms looped around his bare shoulders, instinctively avoiding the fresh ink just below his abdomen. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His gaze softened, though his tone carried a heavy seriousness. “You need to promise me something first.”

Your brows knitted. “What?”

“That you’ll never, ever think I could cheat on you. Ever.” His words were firm, unwavering, the kind that left no room for doubt.

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Okay…”

“Good girl,” he said, his chest rising against yours with relief. “Because I’d rather kill myself than do that.”

Your palm shot up to swat at his chest, a sharp “Riki!” escaping your lips.

He chuckled, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, but his eyes stayed earnest. “I’m serious, baby. I really just can’t. And I never will, okay? So don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

His lips brushed your cheek in a soft kiss before he tugged you closer, his chin grazing your temple. The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten.

“I got it almost three to four days ago,” he admitted quietly.

Your head tilted at that, confusion mixing with something else. “But… you never asked me to come with you.”

His mouth curved into a softer smile.

He leaned forward just enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, his voice lowering into something gentle. “Because I wanted it to be a surprise, silly.”

He sighed, shaking his head with a hint of playful frustration. “But the fans got to you first, huh?”

You nodded slowly, pouting. “Yeah… I saw it on Twitter.”

He let out a small laugh, ruffling his hair with one hand before wrapping it back around your waist. “Well. There goes my plan.”

You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “But whose kiss mark is that, really?”

Ni-ki laughed outright this time, his gaze flicking downward to the fresh ink. Your own eyes followed instinctively, catching on the way the tattoo curved dangerously close to his v-line.

One of his hands stayed firm on your waist, but the other tilted your chin up until your eyes locked with his.

His voice dropped, steady but soft. “I told you. That’s yours.”

You blinked at him, furrows deepening, and he leaned closer, almost conspiratorial. “Remember when you kissed me a few days ago before we left Korea?”

Your lips parted, a faint memory resurfacing—your lipstick, smudged on his cheek after a kiss. You nodded slowly. “Yeah…”

His grin turned sly, almost boyish, but his eyes burned with intent. “You laughed because your lipstick stayed behind. But I loved how it looked. So I took a photo… and sent it to my artist.”

Your mouth fell open incredulously. “And you couldn’t just let me kiss a napkin or something? So you’d have a proper stencil?”

He laughed again, tugging you in until your noses nearly brushed. “I told you, it was supposed to be a surprise. I thought you’d hate me after using you like that.”

You huffed, your chest tightening with warmth, then peppered kisses across his face—his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—each one soft but urgent.

“Iki, that’s the hottest tattoo I’ve ever seen.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling, brushing his thumb across your waist. “You said that about my rib tattoo.”

You pulled back just enough to press a quick peck to his lips, your smile curving against his mouth. “Well, this tops it off. And it’s even better that it came from me.”

His laugh rumbled low in his chest, and before you could take another breath, Ni-ki’s arm tightened around your waist, the other sliding up behind your head.

He tugged you flush against him, tilting your face just so, lips colliding with yours again—harder this time, hungrier.

Your fingers instinctively found the back of his neck, threading through his hair, tugging lightly at the soft strands as the kiss deepened.

He groaned into your mouth, a sound that sent heat rushing straight to your stomach. His bare chest pressed against you, firm and warm, and you melted further into him.

The kiss broke only for a second, both of you panting, lips still brushing as you whispered, “Your blonde hair is starting to grow on me…”

Ni-ki smirked, his breath fanning across your lips as he murmured, “I told you before, didn’t I?”

Then, before you could reply, he caught your mouth again, harder this time, the hand on your hip gripping and pulling you impossibly closer.

A gasp slipped from you, muffled into his mouth, as you felt him rub against you, hips pressing forward with a teasing grind. The movement dragged a needy little moan from your throat, which only seemed to spur him on.

You tilted your head, letting him nip at your lower lip, tugging it gently before his tongue slid against the seam of your mouth, asking for more.

Without hesitation, you parted your lips, letting him in, and the kiss turned messy—tongues tangling, breathless whines spilling as his hand slid lower on your hip, guiding you right where he wanted you.

The friction between you made your head spin, your nails grazing along his nape as you clung to him.

Ni-ki groaned again, hips rolling against yours in a slow grind that had your knees going weak.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice low and rough, “you drive me insane.”

Your fingers tugged on his hair, earning a low groan from him that vibrated right into your mouth.

Ni-ki’s hand on your hip guided you down against him, grinding you into the hard planes of his bare chest and the growing heat between his legs.

The sound that left your throat was muffled against his lips, a needy whimper that only spurred him on.

“Fuck—” he breathed against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours for a second before he kissed you again, rougher this time.

His other arm slid lower, cupping the back of your thigh to pull you even tighter to him. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your head tilted back slightly, giving him more access as his lips trailed down your jaw, hot and wet against your skin until they reached the curve of your neck.

His teeth grazed your pulse point, biting just enough to make you gasp, your hips instinctively rolling against him.

“Riki—” you moaned, your voice shaky, broken by the friction that only grew more intense with every movement.

He chuckled against your skin, lips curling into a smirk before sucking lightly at the spot he’d just bitten. “I love it when you say my name like that.”

His breath was hot, his voice dark and low. “Say it again.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body rocking in sync with the way he guided your hips, grinding harder, deeper, until your head was spinning.

His mouth found yours again, swallowing every moan as his thumb traced circles into your waist, slow and deliberate.

The kiss broke just long enough for you to pant against his lips, your words barely a whisper.

“Riki, please…”

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your throat as his mouth dipped down.

“So needy…” he mumbled into your skin, the words melting into a groan as his teeth sank lightly into the side of your neck.

You gasped, fingers instinctively fisting his hair as his other hand gathered your dress higher and higher, the material bunching at your waist.

His palm slid beneath it, warm against your stomach, fingertips tracing the faint lines and curves there as if he were memorizing them.

Your breath hitched when his hand moved higher, cupping your breast over the thin lace of your bra. The gentle pressure made your back arch, your chest pressing into his palm, silently begging for more.

“Riki—” Your voice cracked halfway, turning into a soft whimper as his skilled fingers found the clasp behind you, undoing it with practiced ease.

The bra slackened and fell away, caught in the fabric of your dress, and his lips returned to your throat, painting trails of kisses and open-mouthed bites across your collarbone.

Each mark stung, then throbbed, leaving warmth that made you grin helplessly against him.

That grin made him groan, the sound raw, rumbling from his chest as if your reaction drove him insane.

Without warning, he stood, his arms locked around your waist, lifting you with an effortless strength that made you squeak in surprise.

“Riki!” you gasped, arms clutching his shoulders, legs curling around him instinctively.

“Relax,” he smirked against your ear, carrying you as though you weighed nothing, before lowering you onto the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath you, and before you could catch your breath, he was hovering above, his body caging yours in completely.

His lips were everywhere—your throat, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder—leaving a constellation of bruised, red marks in his wake.

Each press, each bite, drew moans you couldn’t hold back no matter how hard you tried.

“Sound so sweet,” he muttered against your skin, his voice husky, “all of this just for me.”

Your reply melted into a moan as his hands slid back to the hem of your bunched-up dress. He paused, dark eyes flicking to yours, and you already knew what he wanted.

Wordlessly, you reached down, helping tug the fabric up and over your head, your bra slipping off with it.

The cool air met your bare skin, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of his gaze—hungry, reverent.

“Fuck…” he breathed, his tone so raw it made your stomach flip.

His hand came up, tracing the curve of your chest before cupping it fully, his thumb brushing across your sensitive nipple.

You arched into his touch, a desperate sound breaking from your throat. “Riki—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low and rough as he leaned down to capture your lips again.

His fingers toyed with your nipples, alternating between sharp pinches and soft circles that had you gasping into his mouth.

His kisses trailed lower, warm and wet, until his lips wrapped around one peak, tongue flicking while his hand teased the other.

Your whimpers spilled freely, echoing against his skin as he marked his way down, sucking hickeys into the softness of your chest.

He pulled away just briefly, smirking at the sight of the blooming bruises scattered across your skin.

“Perfect,” he muttered, admiring his work as his fingers gave another squeeze, sending you squirming. “All mine.”

Heat surged through you when his hands slid lower, careful but deliberate, brushing down until he hooked his fingers under the lacy material of your underwear. He tugged gently, grinning when your thighs tensed.

“Wearing the pair I bought you?” His tone was mocking, dripping with satisfaction. “Really, baby? Just tell me you need me.”

The embarrassment hit you all at once—cheeks burning, chest heaving—and your hands flew up to cover your face. “Riki…” you whined, muffled behind your palms.

He clicked his tongue in disapproval, leaning forward until his forehead rested against yours. “Don’t give me that shy bullshit,” he said, voice sharper this time.

His thumb dragged across your lower lip until you had no choice but to peek at him through your lashes. “I want to see you.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you lowered your hands. His eyes darkened instantly, a satisfied hum leaving his throat as he slipped the lace completely off you, tossing it aside carelessly.

The air was thick with tension as he settled between your legs, spreading you with a hunger that had you panting.

He pressed a single kiss to your inner thigh before giving your core a slow, teasing lick that sent shivers all the way up your spine.

“Riki—” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “No teasing.”

He pulled back just enough to grin up at you, mouth glistening. “You don’t call the shots, sweetheart.”

His thumb swiped over your slick folds, deliberately slow, as his lips brushed the inside of your thigh again. “But since you asked so pretty…”

Ni-ki didn’t give you a chance to whine before his mouth was back on you, tongue dragging up your slit in one long stroke that made your back arch.

He hooked his arms under your thighs and tugged them higher, resting them snug over his shoulders so he could bury himself even deeper.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you echoed in the quiet room, his tongue teasing your clit with feather-light flicks before dipping lower, pushing inside your entrance with playful thrusts.

The sensation made your finger instinctively bury themselves in his hair, pulling at the blonde strands until he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“Ni-ki—” your voice cracked into a whimper, your hips twitching, desperate for more friction.

You tried to buck up against his mouth, chasing his tongue, but his grip on your thighs was firm, pinning you down with ease.

He pulled back just slightly, lips glistening as his dark eyes met yours from between your legs.

“Mhmm, too eager,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth curling as he brought two fingers up, rubbing lazily over your folds. “Need to prep you, baby.”

You pouted, breath shaky. “But—”

“I know,” he cut in, kissing the inside of your thigh again, his voice calm but laced with amusement.

“You’ve taken me too many times to count, huh?” His fingers pressed teasing circles around your entrance without slipping in.

Your lips parted, frustration bubbling up. “Yeah, so—”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head like you were being stubborn on purpose. “The last time I skipped prep, you couldn’t stop complaining about how sore you were. Remember that?”

Before you could spit out another retort, he pushed one finger in, slow and deliberate, watching the way your face twister in relief.

He smirked knowingly, “See? Feels better when I take my time.”

Your breath hitched, your nails scratching at his scalp. “Feels… f-feels good either way,” you mumbled, already melting under his touch.

“Mhmm, maybe,” he said, curling his finger inside you before adding a second. His tongue flicked at your clit again, making you squeak.

“But I like it when you fall apart for me,” Ni-ki murmured against you, voice low, warm breath fanning your skin as his fingers began to pump in and out at a steady rhythm.

Your back arched instantly, your hands clutching at the sheets. “F-feels so nice, Iki…” you moaned, the nickname slipping out in a broken whisper.

He smirked up at you—sharp, proud. “There it is again.” His tone was almost mocking, but the way his fingers twisted deeper inside you made it clear he was eating it up.

“You weren’t even trying to hold back that time.”

You shook your head, whining as his thumb flicked your clit in time with his strokes. “N-not my fault—”

“So sensitive,” he teased, dragging his fingers out slowly just to thrust them back harder, making you gasp.

“Love your fingers so much,” you whimpered, squeezing your thighs together around his head.

“I know.” His answer was cocky but the curl of his fingers inside you was devastating, brushing against the exact spot that made your vision blur.

He pushed them deeper, stretching you further as he tilted his wrist. “You love how long they are, huh?”

Your moan cracked, the sound tumbling out shamelessly. He chuckled under his breath, the vibration against your clit making you spasm.

His pace quickened, slick sounds filling the room, his knuckles nudging against you as he drove his fingers in deep.

You tried to close your thighs tighter, overwhelmed, but his free hand pressed firmly against the inside of your thigh, keeping you spread for him.

He only growled low at the resistance, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh just to remind you who was in control.

“You’re already close,” he said knowingly, his lips brushing your skin as his tongue flicked over your clit again, slower now, dragging out your desperation.

“Yes,” you breathed, almost too quiet to hear, your chest rising and falling with sharp gasps. “So close, Iki—”

“I know you are,” he hummed, curling his fingers once, twice, perfectly timed with the way his tongue circled you.

His pace built higher, sharper, the rhythm relentless. “Cum for me, baby.”

That snapped through your body—your hips jolted, thighs trembling as your climax hit hard, spilling out of you in shuddering waves.

Ni-ki didn’t slow, licking you through it, swallowing every sound you made like it was his favorite song.

“Good girl,” he said softly when your body finally sagged against the bed, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

His chin was glistening, fingers still buried inside you as he gave one last curl just to make you twitch. “So messy for me already… and I haven’t even started.”

You whined at the overstimulation, trying to shift your hips away, but Ni-ki caught your thighs with his other hand. His gaze burned as he slowly withdrew his fingers, coated with your slick, and lifted them to your lips.

“Don’t waste it,” he murmured.

You whined at the overstimulation, trying to shift your hips away, but Ni-ki caught your thighs with his other hand, holding you steady.

His gaze burned as he slowly withdrew his fingers, glistening with your slick.He raised them to his lips.

His tongue flicked out first, tasting you with a low hum of satisfaction before he drew his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean one by one.

The sound of it sent heat rushing to your cheeks. His eyes never left yours as he savored it, thumb dragging across his bottom lip as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, “So sweet… I could live off this.”

The hand on your thigh stroked lazily, his thumb drawing circles as if to soothe.

He straightened slowly, towering over you now, the corner of his mouth lifting in that teasing, dangerous grin of his.

“Too tired, baby?” he whispered, voice rough, as though the words were meant only for your ears.

You shook your head quickly, breathless but desperate. “No,” you panted, tugging gently at his arm as if he might actually leave you there.

“I just need… to breathe. Just a second.”

Something in his expression softened at that—his grin easing into the faintest, fond smile. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another, feather-light.

Soon, he was dotting kisses across your face—your temple, the bridge of your nose, your jaw—each press lingering just a little longer, just enough to make your chest flutter.

“Riki,” you whispered, voice soft but laced with something deeper.

He hummed in response, not stopping his trail of affection, until you looped your arms around his neck and tugged him flush against your bare body.

His chuckle rumbled warmly between you, low and amused. “Yes, baby?”

“Lay down for me.”

That made him pause, his brow raising as his lips quirked. “Are you sure?”

You nodded eagerly, sealing your answer with a few quick kisses of your own, peppering his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, even the tip of his nose.

This time, it was him who froze, smiling as though he was soaking in every ounce of your affection.

“I need to make you feel good too,” you murmured with a small pout, your bottom lip jutting out.

Ni-ki laughed, shaking his head. “Baby, you’re saying that while looking like an angry bunny. That doesn’t make you look very—”

You gasped, cutting him off with wide eyes. “You don’t think I look seductive?”

He smirked at your dramatics, leaning closer. “Depends.”

“Really, Riki?” you pulled him even closer by the neck, pressing your forehead against his. “After making me cum, you’re saying that?”

He chuckled again, his breath warm against your lips. “Baby, I’m just teasing. You know I find you very seductive.”

Your protest melted into a soft sigh when he dipped down to kiss along your collarbone, leaving heat in his wake.

Fingers threaded through the strands of his soft blonde hair that had fallen into his face, brushing them back tenderly.

“Come on,” you whispered, your thumb brushing his temple. “I wanna make you feel good too.”

Ni-ki hummed in approval, pressing one last kiss against your skin before pulling away. “Okay, okay,” he murmured, sitting back carefully against the headboard.

You slid off the sheets, standing for a moment just to catch your breath. His eyes immediately swept over you, lingering on the marks he’d already left. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Stop acting like you weren’t the cause of these,” you teased, gesturing to the constellation of hickeys scattered across your thighs.

His chuckle was low, unbothered, almost proud. “Can’t help it if you look better with my marks.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Fixing yourself with just enough confidence, you moved between his spread legs, kneeling onto the mattress.

Slowly, you lowered yourself even more, cheeks flushing lightly under the heavy stare of your boyfriend—but you didn’t shy away.

Instead, your fingers tapped gently against the front of his gray sweatpants, voice quiet. “Can you… um, remove these, please? Iki?”

He didn’t say a word—just gave a small nod before lifting his hips. In one smooth motion, he shoved the sweats down, discarding them carelessly to the side of the bed, leaving him in nothing but black boxers that clung to his frame.

You stayed settled between his legs, eyes flickering down before they caught on the fresh ink etched into his skin.

You pulled up just enough to press a gentle kiss to his lips, lingering before you pulled away. Not far, though—just enough that your noses still touched, your breath mingling with his.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked softly.

Ni-ki shook his head faintly, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. “No… only when I move too much during practice or performances.”

You nodded, eyes warm as you tilted your head and pulled him into another kiss. Your palms pressed to the solid expanse of his bare chest, sliding upward as his arms wound tighter around your waist, pulling you flush to him.

His tongue slid past your lips with ease, swirling against yours in lazy, intoxicating strokes that made your head spin.

A small moan escaped your throat, muffled against his mouth. You pulled away only when breath forced you to, panting softly as you let your lips trail downward—kisses dotting his chin, then the column of his throat.

Ni-ki groaned low as you bit into his neck, the sound rough and unrestrained, his head tilting back automatically to give you more access.

“Fuck, that feels nice,” he mumbled, his voice dropping, thick with pleasure.

Grinning against his skin, you continued your work, tongue soothing over each sharp bite before marking him again, your lips dragging down to his collarbone.

The bloom of bruises followed wherever your mouth traveled, each one deliberate, each one a brand of your own.

You didn’t stop there—your mouth moved down, slow and teasing, pressing open-mouthed kisses across the planes of his chest, down the ridges of his toned stomach, until you reached the waistband of his boxers.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice almost warning, though his fingers inched down toward your hair, threading through it lightly.

You hummed softly, a low sound vibrating in your throat as you let him gather your hair into his hand, careful to keep it from falling into your face.

Your lips trailed lower, peppering kisses and sharp little bites along his v-line. The way his muscles flexed under your mouth made you grin against his skin.

“Baby…” Ni-ki groaned again, but it came out rougher this time, more like a plea than a warning.

You blinked up at him, wide eyes slightly glossy from the intimacy and the lingering buzz of your own pleasure, making his jaw tighten.

He hissed softly through his teeth, visibly restraining himself as he let you do what you wanted, his knuckles whitening where they clutched at your hair.

Your lips found the skin near his new tattoo, the small red marks you left near it earlier now blooming darker.

Each kiss, each bruise you pressed there only seemed to make the ink stand out more—your work contrasting beautifully against the art etched into him.

Ni-ki had to physically stop himself from flipping you onto your back and burying himself in you right then.

His abdomen tensed beneath your kisses, a frustrated groan catching in his throat as you pulled away, fingertips skimming lightly over the sensitive skin around his tattoo instead.

“You love me that much, huh?” you whispered, teasing, your nails tracing his skin delicately.

He smirked down at you, but there was heat simmering in his gaze. “Only if you knew, (Y/N).”

The rare sound of your name falling from his lips made your stomach flip. He almost never said it unless he was serious—or getting impatient.

That alone made you smile, biting your lip before lowering your hand. Your palm pressed against the hard outline in his boxers.

His hips jerked just slightly at the touch, a low groan vibrating in his chest as his hold on your hair tightened—not painfully, but enough to remind you just how close to his breaking point he was.

You licked your lips at the darkened patch of fabric where his precum had seeped through, your mouth practically watering at the sight.

With careful slowness, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down. He lifted his hips obligingly, helping you peel them off and discard them carelessly to the side.

Your eyes widened at the sight of him—hard, flushed, the tip red and leaking.

Your hand instinctively wrapped around his base, the heat of him burning against your palm as you gave an experimental squeeze.

“Fuck,” Ni-ki muttered under his breath, his eyes locked on you as if the act of watching you alone was satisfaction enough.

You dipped your head, giving a kitten lick to the bead of precum gathered at the tip.

His head tipped back with a hiss, his adam’s apple bobbing as he groaned, the sound guttural.

Not breaking eye contact, you slowly wrapped your lips around the swollen head, hollowing your cheeks just enough to make him twitch in your grip.

“Good girl,” he praised, voice low and rough, making your thighs squeeze together at the sound.

A muffled moan slipped from you around him, the vibration making him buck his hips lightly into your mouth. His breath hitched, the hand in your hair tightening as his knuckles brushed your scalp.

“Just like that,” Ni-ki groaned, chest rising and falling faster as he tried to control himself, his gaze burning holes into you.

“Fuck, you look so pretty with your mouth on me…”

Your head traveled lower, lips stretching slowly as you took more of him in, careful not to let your teeth graze his sensitive skin.

The weight of him sat heavy on your tongue, making your mouth water as you wrapped your hand around the base, stroking the parts you couldn’t reach.

Your tongue worked messy circles around his shaft, and the salty taste of precum only urged you on.

“Baby…” he breathed, voice strained. His hand tightened in your hair, gathering it into a messy ponytail that kept your face clear so he could watch every second.

The sight alone had his jaw clenching. “You’re doing so good for me. So, so good.”

His praise sent a spark of heat right down your spine. You bobbed your head faster, letting him brush against the back of your throat. The sensation made you moan around him, the vibration traveling up his length.

He chuckled breathlessly, the sound broken. “Don’t force yourself, baby. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

But you only moaned again in response, the sound so needy it pulled another groan from him.

Your hand tightened its grip, pumping him in rhythm with your mouth. He hissed sharply, his hips twitching.

“Fuck—” he cursed under his breath as his other hand drifted down, tapping your cheek lightly in a way that made you shiver. “Look at you. Taking me so well.”

His control faltered when you swirled your tongue around the head again, his hips pressing forward just enough to nudge deeper.

Not enough to choke you, but enough to make your throat ache deliciously. The feeling of him stretching your mouth, filling every bit of it, had you whimpering.

“God, I need to cum in you,” Ni-ki rasped, voice breaking low and rough.

That had you pulling off him with a wet pop, licking your lips to catch the slick that trailed down your chin.

Your eyes flicked up to him, pupils blown wide, and you whispered, “Then do it.”

He didn’t give you a chance to tease him further. His big hands gripped your waist and in one smooth motion flipped you onto your back.

You squeaked out his name, “Riki!”, but it came out more like a whine than a protest.

He only hummed, low and firm. “I know.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as he hovered over you, the switch in his demeanor dizzying. Just seconds ago he was groaning under your touch, and now he had you caged beneath his body like he hadn’t been falling apart at all.

His forearm pressed into the mattress beside your head as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss so soft it almost didn’t match the urgency radiating off him.

His other hand laced with yours, fingers intertwining as he pressed your arm down beside your head.

With his free hand, he guided himself against your entrance, rubbing teasingly along your folds. The heavy drag of his cock against your clit made you whimper.

“Stop teasing, I need you,” you begged, hips twitching toward him.

He clicked his tongue, amused. “So impatient…”

But he gave in anyway, pressing forward slowly. The stretch burned in the best way, your walls straining to take him.

No matter how many times, he was always too much—too long, too thick, splitting you open inch by inch.

Your breath caught, a whimper escaping before you could swallow it down. He immediately brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing gentle circles to ease the sting, his lips brushing your temple.

“Relax for me, baby,” Ni-ki murmured, voice softer than before. His kisses moved down to your lips, pressing one after another, distracting you from the ache.

“Breathe. I’ve got you.”

By the time he bottomed out, your back arched and a moan spilled from your mouth right into his. He swallowed it eagerly, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough.

He stilled, chest rising and falling fast, letting you adjust. His hand slowly untangled from yours, brushing over your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Tell me when to move, okay?” he murmured, gaze locked on your face.

You nodded, still shaky, trying to breathe through the stretch. The fullness had your body buzzing, your walls fluttering helplessly around him.

He kissed your cheek, then the corner of your lips, whispering, “Take your time, baby.”

A few breaths later, you whispered, “You can move.”

His eyes searched yours, worried even in his desperation. “Are you sure?”

You nodded again, pressing a kiss to his jaw, your voice trembling. “Yes.”

Relief washed over his features as he laced your fingers together again, squeezing gently before pulling his hips back slowly, then pushing back in.

The drag made you whine instantly, your thighs tightening around his waist.

Ni-ki kissed you again, this time rougher, swallowing your moans. His tongue tangled with yours, wet and hot, until you were gasping into his mouth.

When you pulled back just enough to breathe, you whimpered, “F-faster, please…”

He didn’t hesitate. His thrusts picked up pace, sharper, more deliberate. Your hands clutched at his back, nails dragging down his skin as your head tipped back against the pillows.

“Feel so good,” you gasped, voice breaking into moans.

He groaned low in his throat, pressing his forehead against yours. “Like that?”

You could only nod, words lost as he angled his hips just a fraction deeper. The new angle had you squeaking, eyes going wide.

“There it is,” Ni-ki rasped, his pace steady as his cock drove into that spot again and again.

Your eyes rolled back, the world around you blurring. “Oh my god—Riki—”

“That’s it,” he grunted, his grip on your hand tightening.

His other hand slid down to your waist, pinning you in place as he fucked into you harder, faster, hitting that spot over and over until you were crying out with every thrust.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised through ragged breaths, his voice breaking from how tightly you clenched around him.

“Taking me so well. So perfect.”

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with your broken moans. He reached down suddenly, thumb circling your clit in quick, tight motions.

The added stimulation had you writhing under him, back arching as your thighs trembled.

“‘M close,” you gasped, your body twitching with every roll of his hips.

“Not yet,” he growled softly, rubbing faster, relentless. “Hold it for me, baby. Just a little more.”

You whined, eyes glossing over with tears from the sheer intensity.

He leaned down, kissing them away one by one. “So pretty when you cry for me.”

Your walls clenched around him tighter and tighter until he hissed. “Together, baby. With me.”

You nodded weakly, moaning his name. “Riki, please—”

Both his hands went to your waist, holding you flush against him as his thrusts grew harsher, his groans spilling hot against your neck.

“Cum for me.”

The command tipped you over, your body convulsing as you clenched around him. Your nails raked down his back, scratching red marks as you cried out his name.

He groaned, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, hot and heavy, filling you with thick ropes of cum.

“Fuck—” his voice broke as he buried himself to the hilt, holding you tight through his release.

He pressed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing the tender skin as bruises bloomed in his wake. You panted beneath him, eyes half-lidded, trembling from the aftershocks.

When he finally lifted his head, sweaty bangs falling into his eyes, you reached up weakly, fingers brushing them away.

His gaze softened, lips curving into the faintest smile before he kissed you—deep, consuming, like he wanted to melt into you completely.

He kept fucking you through the tail end of your highs, slow now, drawing out every last shiver until you whimpered from sensitivity.

Only then did he pull out with a hiss, his cock glistening, the sight alone making your cheeks burn.

Carefully, he lowered himself over you, chest pressing against yours, his weight comforting as he buried his face in your neck. His arms wrapped around you, keeping you caged under him as if letting go wasn’t an option.

When he finally looked up at you, his eyes were soft—so different from the intense, heavy gaze he’d given you earlier. They were glossy now, gentle, almost boyish.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, voice low but steady.

You smiled, heart swelling, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Riki. More than you know.”

His lips curved into a tender smile as he pressed a quick peck where your kiss had landed. “How did I get so lucky?”

You scrunched your nose at him playfully. “Well… considering you pulled my hair during elementary school just to say you liked me…”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, shaking his head. “Mhmm. Wouldn’t have you right here now if I didn’t, huh?”

You laughed softly, letting him slowly guide you up until you were sitting. He slipped off the bed, then leaned back down, his large hand reaching for yours.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said gently.

Before you could protest, he scooped you up into his arms with ease, carrying you toward the bathroom.

The door slid open with a soft sound, and he set you carefully on the edge of the tub before moving to turn the heater on.

The steady rush of water filled the space as he reached for bath oils and a handful of bath bombs, the lavender scent quickly filling the room until your shoulders slumped in relief.

He dipped his hand into the water to test it, then looked back at you with a teasing little smile. “Come on, baby. I know you love your water scalding.”

You huffed, patting his chest lightly. “And you say it like I’m dramatic.”

His chuckle was soft as he helped you step in. The warmth of the water licked at your skin, relaxing your sore muscles instantly.

You sank in with a content sigh as he slid in behind you, his long arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against his chest.

“Now this,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you leaned your head on his shoulder. “This is nice.”

Ni-ki hummed, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I love you. I really do.”

You tilted your face up to press a kiss against his jaw, smiling faintly. “How many times are you going to say ‘I love you’ tonight?”

He grinned, leaning down so his lips brushed your temple. “Not just tonight. I’d say it every day—even if one day you ended up hating me.”

Your eyes snapped open as you grimaced, turning in his arms to frown at him. “Riki, you know that would never happen.”

He only shrugged, reaching over to grab the shampoo bottle from the little shelf. “Just making sure.”

You only shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips as you leaned further into him, cheek brushing against his damp chest.

The soft quiet wrapped around you both, broken only by the faint drip of water against porcelain and the gentle rustle of his fingers twisting through your hair.

Everybody’s spirits were high—it was only a few hours before the first night of the show.

The boys, fresh from their showers at the hotel, were now gathered comfortably in the backstage dressing rooms.

The air was thick with the faint scent of hairspray, hair products, and the lingering trail of expensive perfume spritzed by staff.

Chatter and laughter filled the space, the kind of buzzing energy that always came before a performance.

You, however, were standing directly behind Ni-ki, flushed to your ears as you stared at the sheer amount of bruises along his neck and collarbone, clear as day under the harsh vanity lights.

They stood out even more against the plain white button-up shirt the stylists had given them to wear for the meantime.

Ni-ki clearly wasn’t ashamed—he grinned like a cat, leaning back in the chair with his long legs stretched out casually. He caught your wide-eyed stare through the mirror and raised his brows smugly.

“Looks nice,” he mused, running a hand through his freshly dried blonde hair, his smirk deepening. “Should I… point to them when I sing my part in XO?”

“Riki!” you swatted at his shoulder in mortification, earning a bark of laughter from him.

From a few seats away, Sunoo—currently getting his hair styled—caught the commotion. His sharp eyes flickered to Ni-ki’s exposed neck, his lips twitching before he spoke up.

“Nice job, (Y/N),” Sunoo teased, a knowing smile tugging on his lips. “At least we know the makeup artists are doing their job later.”

The room erupted in small snickers, and the two women standing beside you—the makeup artist and hairstylist assigned to Ni-ki—exchanged amused glances.

The makeup artist shook her head with a grin, reaching for her concealer.

“That’s true,” she chimed in, her tone dripping with playful mischief.

The hairstylist nodded eagerly in agreement, her voice sly as she leaned closer, nudging your arm with her elbow. “It’s always the innocent-looking girlfriends…”

Heat flooded your face instantly. You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “Please, stop…” you muttered, voice small.

Ni-ki’s laugh rumbled out, boyish and teasing, as the stylist next tohim snorted under her breath.

“Ah, come on, don’t hide,” he teased, reaching behind him to pry your hands away from your face. He caught them easily, his long fingers wrapping around your wrists as he held your palms gently against his.

His eyes met yours through the mirror, playful but firm. “Come on, be proud of it. You’re an artist—like your boyfriend.”

Your ears burned hotter at his words.

The stylist chuckled, shaking her head as she dabbed primer along Ni-ki’s jawline. “He’s right, you know. Young love—it’s really sweet to watch.”

Ni-ki squeezed your hand, grinning wide. “See? Even she agrees with me.”

You groaned again, face warming more, making both Ni-ki and the stylist laugh together. The sound was light, easy, filling the room like sunlight.

Just then, a voice called from the doorframe. “(Y/N).”

You glanced back, spotting Yuki leaning against the door with a clipboard tucked under his arm. He arched a brow. “Can I steal you for a minute?”

You looked down at Ni-ki, who gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go. His grin softened into something gentler as he murmured, “Go, baby.”

The stylist hummed, not missing a beat as she brushed along Ni-ki’s cheekbones. “Ah, young love,” she repeated, voice fond.

You laughed, nudging her lightly. “Come on, you’re only twenty-seven.”

She huffed, though her lips twitched. “My husband finds joy in annoying me every day, so watching you two makes me soft, alright? Don’t ruin this for me.”

Ni-ki leaned back, smirking, catching your reflection in the mirror. “I mean, I find joy in annoying (Y/N) too. So maybe it’s fate.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, but before you could retort, you noticed the camera crew had slid in beside you, catching the whole interaction.

With a sigh, you turned toward the lens, eyes narrowing as you pointed accusingly at Ni-ki. “Engenes, are you seeing this? Do you see how Nishimura Riki treats his girlfriend?”

Ni-ki barked out a laugh, tilting his head toward the camera. “Engenes in relationships, back me up, yeah?”

The stylist, trying her best to keep her brush steady, muttered, “Stop moving, Ni-ki—” only for you to lean down suddenly, pressing a bright, glossy kiss to his cheek.

The smudge of red lipstick stood out against his skin, and Ni-ki erupted into louder, boyish laughter, smacking his thigh in amusement.

The stylist sighed, tossing you a half-hearted glare as she reached for a makeup wipe. “(Y/N)… what am I going to do with you?”

You blinked innocently, batting your lashes. “Be glad you think we’re cute?”

She huffed again, though you caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Meanwhile, Ni-ki sat up straighter in his chair, sweeping his bangs aside with a flourish as if he were showing off a medal.

He pointed proudly at the lipstick mark. “(Y/N) has an attachment to our Romance: Untold album, as you can see.”

You couldn’t help but grin, leaning down to press a softer kiss to the crown of his head. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

He tilted his head back against the chair, gazing up at you with an easy smile. “Mhmm. Go, Yuki needs you.”

You gave his cheek a light pat. “Stop moving, you big baby.”

Ni-ki only shook his head, laughing as he looked back at himself in the mirror.

Leaving him behind, you crossed the room to Yuki, who was waiting with his clipboard. “Took you long enough, kid,” he muttered, handing it over.

You grinned. “Really, old man?”

He rolled his eyes, folding his arms. “Yeah, yeah. We need you by the tech booth—the staff wants your opinion on the stage lighting later.”

He paused, giving you a look. “Also… because you speak English better than me.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “There it is.”

“Come on, time’s ticking.” He turned, walking ahead.

Before following, you glanced back toward the dressing room. Through the vanity mirror, you caught Ni-ki already watching you, his eyes soft and unguarded as he mouthed, ‘I love you.’

Your chest tightened, warmth blooming all over. You mouthed back, ‘I love you too.’

Ni-ki raised a closed fist, like he was sending you luck from across the room. You nodded, lips curving into a smile before finally turning to follow Yuki out.

As you trailed behind him, clipboard clutched against your chest, you couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that slipped past your lips.

You shook your head at yourself, muttering under your breath, “I really need to thank that fan who managed to see his tattoo…”

Yuki glanced sideways, brow arched. “What was that?”

You blinked, caught, and quickly waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing, nothing. Just… a thought.”

He hummed, clearly unconvinced but too busy skimming through the papers in his hand to pry.

Still, your thoughts lingered on Ni-ki—the way he’d smiled at you through the mirror, the lipstick mark still smeared proudly on his cheek, the way his fist had lifted in silent encouragement.

It tugged at something warm inside you, a feeling that refused to fade no matter how far down the hallway you went.

Because if it weren’t for that fan’s sharp eyes catching the ink on his skin, maybe you wouldn’t be here now, walking away from him only to feel his love following you like a shadow—loud, boyish, and impossibly bright.

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[prettybs]

TIPSY & TOUCHY ˚. ᵎᵎ — NRK

too many drinks at Jake’s party got you feeling like having some fun with your boyfriend, but he decided to be responsible tonight

pairing: bf!riki x reader

contains: suggestive fluff alcohol drunk reader horny reader

⊹

Jake’s house hates to see a party coming... Bass from the speakers pulses through the walls and floor, making the cups on the kitchen counter rattle slightly.

The air is warm from too many bodies in one space, filled the smell of alcohol, sweat, perfume, and whatever snack someone burned in the oven earlier

Riki sits next to you on the couch at first, thigh pressed against yours, arm resting loosely behind you. You’re talking to your friends, half listening, half laughing, your drink is already warmer than you’d like.

“I’m gonna go say hi to the guys, alright baby?” Riki says, leaning down close so you can hear him over the music.

You turn your head toward him, smiling. “Okay. Don’t get lost.”

He snorts and leaves. You watch him for a second, then you turn back to your friends.

From that moment on the night passes quickly.

Your drink empties. Someone refills it. Someone hands you another. You lose track of how many sips turn into how many cups. Your body gets warmer, lighter and your head gets fuzzier.

You’re in the kitchen now, leaning against the counter, laughing at something Jay is saying. He’s holding his cup dangerously close to spilling it on himself, swaying just a little too.

You feel unsteady, the room tilts when you move your head too fast. So you don’t. Your eye lands on Jay’s shoulder, it’s solid, convenient. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt without thinking about it, just something to hold onto.

Jay see’s how far you’re gone and rolls his eyes before swinging his arm around your shoulder to hold you steady. He catches Riki searching around the room for you, he calls out Riki’s name and then nods his head to you, still holding you.

Riki shakes his head and walks up to you. His arm slides around your waist and pulls you gently but firmly into him.

“I’ve got her,” he says to Jay.

Jay looks at you, then at Riki, then nods quickly, clearly relieved. “Yeah.. She’s gone.”

Riki barely reacts to Jay. His focus is entirely on you now.

You turn your head and register him with a slow blink. Your eyes almost sparkle when you see Riki, like you haven’t seen him in months.

“Oh!,” you squeak. “Hiiiii!!”

“Yeah, hi,” he replies, softly but with a hint of annoyance.

Your body reacts before your brain does. You lean fully into him, face pressing into his chest, your nose catching the familiar scent of his laundry detergent and his skin.

“You left me,” you accuse quietly.

He exhales through his nose, a tiny laugh hidden in it. “Come on.”

He guides you through the crowd, arm tight around you, hand steady at your waist. You don’t really walk so much, you just let him move you, feet occasionally catching, your balance questionable.

The music feels louder when you pass the speakers. The lights feel brighter. Everything feels a little too much.

He sits you down on the couch you were sitting on before, very slow and carefully, making sure you don’t miss it, then sits right next to you before you can tip sideways.

Which you immediately do anyway.

Your head drops onto his shoulder. Your body curls toward his warmth instinctively, like you’re trying to crawl into him.

Your hands find him.

Your fingers trace his jaw.

Then his neck.

Then down his chest.

Then slowly down his stomach, your fingers are about to slide into the waistband of his pants when he catches your wrist gently.

“Okay,” he says gently, catching your wrist. “Let’s not do that here.”

You blink at him, trying to focus. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, trying not to smile, “you’re drunk and this isn’t a bedroom.”

You think about that very seriously… then you lean in and try to kiss him.

He turns his head just in time so your lips land on his cheek instead.

You smile at that, then immediately try again, and this time you manage to catch his lips.

The kiss is soft. A little clumsy. And it feels like the rest of the world drops out from under you.

The music, the people, the lights, it’s all gone. There’s just him. The warmth of his mouth, the way his hand tightens slightly at your side, the quiet sound he makes when he exhales against your lips.

Then, without really thinking about where you are, you shift.

You swing one leg over his lap, settling yourself right on him like that’s the most natural thing in the world.

Riki’s his hands automatically move to your hips to steady you.

He lets himself enjoy it for a few seconds, just the closeness and warmth of your body. Until you starts grinding your hips against his, then he registers what’s happening.

He breaks the kiss, “okay baby, that’s enough.” He said and he lifts you, guiding you back to sit beside him again.

Your hand drifts back to his chest first. Your fingers start tracing shapes through his shirt again, slower now, more intentional.

Riki notices immediately and his jaw tightens.

“You’re doing it again,” he murmurs.

“Doing what?” you ask innocently, eyes too bright.

“That,” he says, nodding at your hand.

You tilt your head. “I like touching you.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah. I know.”

You whine as you settle down next to him “so let me.”

“No.” Riki kisses your forehead instead, soft and lingering.

Your hand finds his jaw again, turning his head slightly to give yourself access to his neck. You press your nose against it and take a big sniff, then you flatten your tongue and give it a sloppy wet kiss.

Riki laughs under his breath and shakes his head. “Y/n…”

You look at him, smile and bite your bottom lip “I want you baby…” then you nuzzle your face back into his neck and nibble on his earlobe.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

You blink at him. “You’re being dramatic.”

He lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a groan. “You have no idea how hard I’m trying right now.”

You take that as a challenge. You lean in, place a hand on his jaw and whisper in his ear. “Have sex with me in the bathroom.”

Riki drags a hand over his face, wiping off a smile, he lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not gonna fuck you while you’re drunk baby.”

You whine and forget to lower your voice “atleast let me suck your d—”.

Riki grabs your face to shush you up “sshht.” He chuckles, “Okay, we’re going home.”

You blink up at him. “Why.”

“Because you’re gone,” he says, amused. “And because if we don’t leave now, you’re gonna get us banned from Jake’s house.”

He stands up anyway, pulling you on your feet and keeping one arm around you so you don’t fall over. You complain the entire way to the door, leaning into him like your bones have turned to jelly.

The car ride is… not calm.

You immediately turn sideways in your seat, knees pointing toward him, body leaning into his space even though you’re buckled up.

Your hand finds his arm. Then his shoulder. Then his thigh.

“You’re warm,” you say softly.

He exhales through his nose, eyes on the road. “Please keep both feet on the floor, on your side of the car.”

“But I like you.”

“I’m aware.”

You lean your head against his shoulder at a red light.

“Y/n,” he warns softly.

You smile at him. “Do you love me?”

He glances at you, helplessly fond. “Very much, y/n.”

When you get to his place, you almost trip getting out of the car.

He catches you instantly.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Yeah. Definitely time for bed.”

He walks you up to his door, your steps uneven, your weight leaning heavily into him. One of your arms is looped around his neck, the other gripping his hoodie like you might float away if you don’t hold on.

Inside, the lights are low and quiet. No noise. No people. Just calm.

You sway in place once the door closes and he doesn’t even try to make you walk anymore. He scoops you up instead. Your arms wrap around him automatically, face pressing into his shoulder.

“You’re strong,” you mumble.

“I know,” he says quietly.

He carries you to his bedroom. He sets you down on the bed gently, like you’re something fragile even though you’re very much not acting like it.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, brushing your hair out of your face.

And even though your hands still try to follow him when he pulls back, your body finally starts to relax and you fall asleep peacefully, dreaming of allll the things you’re gonna do to him tomorrow when you’re sober.

⊹

taglist: @engenehazy @izzikiii @hearteubeateuxz @angelhyuka @berrybonnieee @choeryyxyz @ily4hoonity @embrjdos @astronomicalastro-blog1 @silvhoon @coupsarchive @bffr-riv @ily4hoonity @kittyvalr @eater4riki @twoloathe @mhhhhnj @rmmsthings @ilovetylerthecreater @eilishlamour @sociallyawkward18 @lovenha7 @enhajungwonheart @krikalovesstay @rikislove @wonsvisuals @nishirikiluvr @illtie @keipabsstuff @saeivra @emmaitoshi @ardlolic @aamirazx @wonuziex @bemyaehiweloveskz @sa1co @nikisfave @sociallyawkward18 @seerpentsk1rt @lovleycherryy @ivelvette @rikimuraaaa @evanleeisahoe @17ha @miffikeuu

[rosylix143]

doll in pink | y. jeongin

pairing: yang jeongin x hyperfeminine!fem!reader

genre: smut

synopsis: jeongin loves to play dress up with you and make you perfect and pretty. pretty enough to worship and ruin at the same time. and tonight was no exception.

cw: MDNI, dom!jeongin/sub!reader, pet names (doll/dolly/babydoll, good girl/good doll), use of collars (kinda??), dollification, dumbification, mirror sex, vaginal fingering, degradation (he calls reader a slut and a sex doll), cum swallowing, unprotected sex (don’t!), p.i.v, rough sex, multiple rounds, spanking, hair pulling (pull my hair innie pls), this is really filthy, guys, hahaha

let me know if i’m missing anything!!

wc: 5289

other parts: in pink masterlist

a/n: another day, another installment to the in pink series😍 i fear this one is a bit self-indulgent sooooo…do with that what you will. i also wanna quickly give a huge thank you to all the love for this series!! i’m really enjoying my time writing all the fics for this series and sharing them with y’all. so as always, don't forget to leave a like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed this fic. your support is always appreciated <3

masterlist | join my taglist

———————————・❥・——————————

Jeongin had a thing for playing dress up. And by “dress up,” it’s really just him dressing you up. Whenever he and you have some free time, Jeongin would have you sit in front of your pretty vintage vanity in your shared bedroom, as he would shape you into whatever he wants you to be. He’d have your hair styled the way he wanted it. Your makeup would always be to his liking, and the clothes and accessories you wore were carefully picked out by him. It’s his way of spoiling you: drowning his precious doll in luxury and ribbons.

And you weren’t opposed to any of it. In fact, you loved it whenever he made you look so pretty and his. Something about his possessiveness over you was so hot, and his taste in fashion was always good. You didn’t even need to tell Jeongin what kind of clothes you wanted to wear. He knew your preference for the hyperfeminine aesthetic all too well, so he always catered to it. One look at your Pinterest feed, and Jeongin’s immediately inspired.

It had been a while since the both of you played dress up, but today was the lucky day. And since it had been a while, he wanted to dress you up in something exceptionally beautiful. Something he could worship you in, but also ruin at the same time. And no simple outfit was going to cut it. He needed to build one himself. He was out shopping in the mall, while you were at home, probably watching television or reading a book about princesses being saved from evil witches. Jeongin stepped into his favorite store: a store where he’d find the perfect clothes for you, and they would always be the first thing he saw displayed on the mannequins.

The mannequins in front of him were wearing the new Valentine’s Day collection, so there were many shades of pink and clothing types to choose from: teddies, babydoll nightgowns, body suits, and a simple two-piece set. A lot of which he had seen you in before. He had to search deeper to find the perfect pieces. Luckily for him, he didn’t have to search that much, for he found a gorgeous lavender pink lace triangle teddy lingerie that had a little skirt piece attached. Up close, he saw the intricate rose pattern in the lace: a pattern so pretty and perfect for you. His hands explored the fabric too, noticing how this set was unlined, just how he liked it.

Without putting an extra thought, Jeongin took the lingerie piece from its respective kiosk, and he immediately searched for stockings that could match with it. Thankfully, it didn’t take him too long to find a pair that had the same shade of pink and a similar lace pattern. Jeongin didn’t even pay attention to the price. He took it to the front desk for the cashier to scan and bag.

“You got good taste, Sir,” the woman at the desk said, “This set has been selling out fast.”

“I can see why,” Jeongin nodded, his voice a little confident and proud that he managed to grab an item so special.

“Well, that will be $150.”

Jeongin swiped his card without hesitation. After walking out of the lingerie store, his eyes immediately fell on the jewelry store right across from him. It was another store he bought from. He wore his gorgeous diamond cross necklace almost every day ever since he bought it. That was when he realized that he needed to spoil you with diamonds again. The last diamond jewelry he bought you was a long white gold necklace that had a deep red ruby heart charm, all of it studded with diamonds. While that necklace could work with the outfit he was putting together for you, Jeongin felt the need to add something new. Something more sexy.

He stepped into the jewelry store, casually scanning all the pieces they had to offer: bracelets, rings, necklaces, made out of a variety of gemstones and gold. All of the jewelry was pretty, but it was not what he was looking for. However, there was one piece that caught his eye: a pink gold choker, studded with diamonds. There was even a charm that had a little pink heart. It was so cute and pretty, all perfect for his doll and her neck.

“Anything you like, Sir?” A man in a neat, fancy suit asked. He was definitely a worker, based on the tablet he was carrying around.

“Oh, yes, I’ll take this choker, please,” Jeongin pointed at the displayed jewelry.

“The pink gold one?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, Sir, I’ll have it ready for you. I’ll say that it will be highly expensive.”

“That’s okay. I’ll have it.”

After making the very expensive purchase for the choker, Jeongin’s shopping trip was done. And he walked out of the mall with two paper bags of excitement and a smirk full of eagerness. Even the thought of imagining you wearing the new things he bought was fueling the adrenaline in his veins, driving him crazy. You had no clue what was coming.

And it was clear you didn’t because you were only baking cinnamon rolls, all while wearing a white knitted tube top with a large bow on the cleavage, a pair of denim shorts decorated with large pink bows on the back pockets, and pink fuzzy socks that had a simple fox pattern. Your hair was messily put together with a baby pink butterfly clip. It wasn’t the best outfit you’ve had put together, but it was your so-called chill day, and you wanted to wear something simple and cute. Besides, it was Jeongin’s job to make you all look cutesy anyway.

The smell of cinnamon and butter filled the kitchen as you carefully took out the burning hot glass pan from the oven. The cinnamon rolls were golden and heavenly, so you felt like flying. You carefully placed the tray on a slab of cork on the kitchen island and immediately went to whipping up the cream cheese icing. As you were doing so, the front door opened, the loud creak echoing from the living room to the kitchen. Your head immediately turned to see who walked in, and your eyes lit up with stars.

“Innie!!” You quickly abandoned the bowl of cream cheese and ran to the man at the front door.

Jeongin carefully put the shopping bags on the couch before pulling you close with a wide smile.

“Hi, Babydoll,” he said, “You’re looking awfully cute today.”

His hands wrapped around your waist, and your feet were lifted from the ground. A squeal escaped your lips as Jeongin spun you around before kissing you deeply. Your eyes slowly closed, and your body immediately melted into his. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and his hands were on your ass, keeping you propped up against him. Red tinted your face, and Jeongin was eagerly nipping, sucking, and biting on your vanilla-flavored lip gloss.

“Jeongin!” you whined, squirming in his hold.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Jeongin chuckled, “Damn, you’re wearing the lip gloss I gave you?”

“Yeah…I love it.”

“Good to know. Also, what were you cooking, Baby? The kitchen smells good.”

“Oh! I made cinnamon rolls. I was actually in the middle of making the frosting.”

“I see,” Jeongin gently put you back down on the floor. “I wanna try one.”

“Well, you’re in luck, Yang Jeongin.” You booped his nose and giggled, “They are fresh out of the oven! Just lemme make the frosting, and I’ll serve you.”

You rushed to the kitchen, and Jeongin followed you. You reached for the bowl of cream cheese and added the powdered sugar and vanilla extract before mixing it all together with your baking spatula. A breath was suddenly sucked out of you as Jeongin wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close to his chest. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling as much of your sugary cinnamon scent as possible. Heat rushed to your cheeks once more, and the butterflies in your stomach fluttered greatly.

“Innie—” you gasped.

“Hmmm, my sweet Dolly,” Jeongin hummed before kissing your neck.

“You’re lucky I finished making the frosting.” You used your baking spatula to plop dollops of icing onto the cinnamon rolls and spread them all around. The icing easily melted into the hot rolls, giving them a good shine. You then grabbed a metal spatula and a plate. “Here you go, Hon. One cinnamon roll for you.”

“Aww, thank you, Baby,” Jeongin smiled warmly at your generosity. He kissed your cheek before grabbing his fork to take a bite of your pillowy soft cinnamon roll. And by God, it was pillowy soft. Not only was it soft, but the warm brown sugar cinnamon butter exploded in Jeongin’s mouth, and the cream cheese frosting was decadently sweet. He couldn’t help but softly moan. “God, Doll, that’s good.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened with excitement.

Jeongin eagerly finished the cinnamon roll, carefully licking all the icing off his fingers.

“Yes, really,” he said, “A sweet treat like this deserves a reward, Doll.”

“A reward?” You tilted your head, a little confused but intrigued.

“Well, yes. Why do you think I went to the mall today?”

You blinked twice, trying to piece together where he was getting at. You did remember the large shopping bags he brought home, both with familiar logos. Logos that were on the things you owned thanks to him. Suddenly, it was hitting you.

“Oh my god, you got me stuff?” you asked, a bit of eagerness in your voice.

“Of course, Y/N,” Jeongin smirked, as he pulled you close again. His hand reached down to gently grab your ass, but also fiddle with the cute bows on your back pockets. “Wanna play dress up?”

Blush crept up your cheeks, and excitement bubbled up in your stomach. It’s been a hot minute since Jeongin dressed you up, and you were eager to see what he had in store.

“Yes,” You said, “Right after I eat my cinnamon roll.”

You picked out a cinnamon roll from the tray and took a slow bite out of the dessert. Nothing was more heavenly than a sweet bite of that cinnamon goodness.

“Of course, Doll,” Jeongin chuckled, “No rush at all.”

After finishing your cinnamon roll, you covered the tray and gave Jeongin the greenlight for dress-up time. He led you to your shared bedroom: a room where the orange lights were dimly lit and intimate. He had you sit on your pink and white vintage vanity, which was all covered with makeup, hair accessories, and jewelry. There was even a Polaroid of you and Jeongin holding each other close taped onto the mirror. Jeongin stood behind you, running his hands down your arms.

“So pretty, Doll,” Jeongin said deeply before leaning in to kiss your neck tenderly. “I’ll get the stuff. Be good and wait here.”

“Okay,” you chirped.

Jeongin kissed your temple and left the bedroom to grab his shopping bags from the living room. You looked at yourself in the mirror, wondering what he had in store for you. Was he gonna bring something just as sexy as the last thing he dressed you up in? Or was he bringing something frilly and a dress fit for a princess?

You saw Jeongin’s reflection in the mirror. He was carrying the same shopping bags from before.

“What’s in the bags?” You asked.

Jeongin smirked and pulled the teddy lingerie and stockings out of one of the shopping bags. Your eyes widened, and you put your hands over your mouth. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

“Oh my god, Innie!” you said, “It looks so pretty!”

“Yes, it is, Doll,” Jeongin nodded. He then slowly approached you, like a fox ready to hunt. Your back gently collided against the edge of the vanity as he got closer. His knees brushed up against yours, and Jeongin put the lacy set in your hands. “But I think it’ll look extra pretty on you. Try it on, Baby.”

“Okay, I’ll try it!”

You took the teddy lingerie and stockings and went into the walk-in closet. Once you were alone in the closet, you took off all of your clothes and threw them on the floor. You then put on the lavender pink lingerie and stockings. The fabric felt so soft on your skin, and it was very snug around your curves. Even your reflection on the standing mirror at the end of the closet proved it. Blush flooded your cheeks at the sight of your perky tits being propped up in the unlined lace that only covered the center of your front, and the rest of the piece was being held together by straps that accentuated your sides. The skirt piece was frilly and the size of a belt, barely covering anything underneath. You looked behind you, and your ass was fully exposed. The lace wasn’t even trying. This was by far the most exposed you’ve ever been, and God, you loved it. The stockings were a nice touch, and you were impressed by Jeongin’s ability to find a pair of stockings that matched so perfectly.

Jeongin was waiting patiently at the cushioned vanity stool. His leg was bouncing a little as he scrolled on his phone, awaiting you to come out. To say that he was excited was a bit of an understatement. He needed to see what you looked like in that lacy piece. Picturing it alone was making his gut stir. You stepped out of the closet, and Jeongin’s head immediately snapped up to meet your gaze. His Adam’s apple immediately bobbed, and all the blood rushed down his body at the sight of you. You looked cuter than he imagined. Even your shy face made it all better.

“Oh my, Doll…” Jeongin said, his voice a little heavy but controlled. “How do you feel? You like it?”

“I like it a lot, Innie,” you said, internally squirming from the hot stickiness brewing between your legs. It was a little embarrassing how quickly you got hot and bothered, but with things like dress up, you had to be patient and let Jeongin dress you up.

Jeongin stood up from the vanity stool and patted the cushioning.

“Come here then, Babydoll,” he said.

You eagerly ran to the stool and sat in it, putting yourself on display in the rounded vanity mirror. Jeongin’s hands immediately landed on your bare shoulders, and they traveled up and down your arms.

“You look so lovely already, Doll…” his breath was already hot and heavy against your skin, and his hands traveled further down your arms and crept onto your sides. He was making you squirm on purpose. “I don’t know where to start…”

“You always start with my hair,” you said.

“True. I always do,” Jeongin took the pink butterfly clip, letting your luxurious hair fall on your shoulders. He gently placed the clip on the vanity’s surface before running his hands through your locks. “Hmm…what should I do with your pretty hair? I’m thinking half pigtails. Yes, that would be cute.”

Jeongin grabbed your hairbrush and easily took two ponytails that had little pink bows attached to them. He put them on his wrist and immediately got to work. The bristles of the brush ran through your soft hair, leading your locks to his empty hand. Jeongin gently tugged on your hair, making sure it was properly up before carefully wrapping a ponytail around it and tightening its grip on your hair. He did the same on another bit of your hair, and now your half-pigtail hairstyle was done. God, you looked so cute.

“Beautiful,” Jeongin hummed before planting a kiss on top of your head. “Like this hairstyle, Dolly?”

“Yes,” you said, “It looks cute.”

“Good. Now, I suppose I get to do your makeup now.”

He reached over on the vanity’s surface and grabbed a makeup wipe from its little plastic bag before getting low on the ground on your side and gently rubbing it all over your face and neck, removing all the extra makeup, making your skin a blank canvas. Once he was done with the makeup wipe, Jeongin got to work and started to paint your face with primer, foundation, concealer, and all the extra pigments that made you look pretty. Jeongin was careful when he dragged the tip of the makeup brush against your cheeks, spreading the blush on your skin. You sat incredibly still, not wanting to move a single muscle that could lead to a mess up.

“You look so pretty, Doll,” Jeongin said huskily, as he applied pink lip gloss to your lips. Meanwhile, his free hand found its way to your thigh. You sucked in a small breath, feeling him squeeze your supple flesh. “All pretty and perfect for me.”

“Really?” you asked.

“Well, of course. Look at yourself in the mirror.”

Jeongin closed the lip gloss and put it on the vanity before standing behind you again with a perfume bottle in hand.

“The only thing is that something is missing,” he said right after spraying some perfume on you, letting all that sugary vanilla scent out into the atmosphere and on your pretty, now glittery skin.

“Wait, what?” you asked. Meanwhile, Jeongin grabbed the second shopping bag and grabbed the diamond choker.

“This choker, my sweet Doll.” A smirk grew on his face as he returned to you. Your heart skipped a beat at the little lights reflecting off the studded gems. Even the little heart charm got you squirming. “I got it just for you.”

“It looks so pretty.”

Jeongin carefully put the diamond choker around your neck, clipping it together. It almost looked like a collar on your neck, and it was better than how he imagined it. The choker was tight and snug around your neck, but not too tight, and it really did put the entire outfit together—a final piece in this puzzle you were. A puzzle he gets to have to himself forever because you were his and only his, and no better proof than this collar he put around your inviting neck. Although Jeongin would be lying if he said that he didn’t wish that the choker would be tight enough to leave some kind of imprint on your neck. A temporary mark, but a mark of ownership regardless.

“Is it too tight?” Jeongin asked.

“No, it’s perfect,” you blushed, immediately flicking the heart charm with your index finger. “I love it, Innie. I love the heart charm.”

“And I love it too. My pretty Doll. I knew you had good taste.”

Jeongin immediately kissed your neck, and his hands were on your exposed sides. And like cream cheese icing on hot cinnamon rolls, you immediately melted to his touch. His kisses were a little rough, and his grunts were low and heavy against your ear.

“Innie…” you whined a little, as your back immediately arched at the feeling of his hand palming one of your breasts, slowly teasing your sensitive nipple.

“You know how we finish playing dress up, Doll,” Jeongin whispered, “Besides, you can’t lie…I know you were soaking the entire time I was doing your hair and makeup.”

A gasp was forced out of you when his fingers slipped into the lacy fabric and found your soaking, throbbing clit. The pads of his fingers rubbed against your sensitive bud, and more moans were coaxed out of you, as your legs slowly opened. Emboldened, Jeongin went in further, and your fingers were now inside of you, making you moan once more as your pussy immediately clenched on his fingers.

“So I was right,” Jeongin said deeply before biting your ear. He stared at your reflection in the vanity mirror, taking in your flushed, dolled-up face, your glossy, agape lips, and the way your chest was already heaving from the sensation. Even the way your choker slightly stretched with every swallow down your throat was so erotic. “Look at yourself. So desperate for me already like a good doll, yes?”

“Innie!” you whined when he started to move his fingers, which were already long enough to hit your sweet spot with ease. Meanwhile, his other hand was fiddling with the lace of your lingerie and touching as much of your body as he wanted. You squirmed in his touch, and more heat rushed down to your core the moment you felt his hard tent against your lower back. “Oh god!”

“Yes, Baby, don’t be shy. Look at yourself while I fuck you with my fingers.”

Jeongin leaned further into the crook of your neck, inhaling all the vanilla off you, and he attacked you with intense kisses and bites. You moaned and whined, and you felt so weak you couldn’t move. Your brain was already so occupied with nothing but pleasured clouds, only sending signals to your pussy to pulse and clench and cry, soaking your lingerie and the cushion of your pink vanity stool. You tried to keep your eyes on your reflection in the mirror, but it was already such a hard task when Jeongin was making you feel this good.

“So pretty, Doll,” Jeongin teased, as he increased the pace of his fingers, making you whine and moan. “Look at you. Dripping so much candy, and I didn’t even give you my cock yet. Such a slutty little thing, aren’t you?”

He smirked and teasingly rolled his hips against your lower back, making sure you felt that hard tent in his pants that was only getting harder by the second.

“Innie!” you moaned, as the tight coiling in your gut came.

“Gonna cum, Doll?” Jeongin asked.

“Yes!!”

“Should I let you cum? So soon?”

All you answered with was a whine, and your pussy tightly clenched on his fingers. Jeongin couldn’t help but laugh, finding you and your dumb state adorable.

“Awww okay, Babydoll, you can cum.”

He plunged his fingers further into your sweet spot, and you moaned loudly with a high pitch, as your pussy gushed all over his fingers, your lacy lingerie, and your vanity seat. Jeongin slowed the movements of his fingers down, but not slow enough to have you fully come down from your high. In fact, he wanted your head to stay high up in the clouds as much as possible. He pulled his fingers out and carefully shoved them in between your lips, making you taste yourself. You gagged a little from his fingers, but you didn’t protest and licked all of your sweet essence off his long fingers, as your eyes rolled back.

“Yes, good girl,” Jeongin kissed your cheek, “Such a good slut for me.”

“Innie,” you whined, as he pulled his fingers out of your lips, smudging all your lip gloss everywhere.

“I know, I know, Doll. I’ll give you what you need.”

Jeongin suddenly picked you up from the vanity stool and carried you bridal style to the large bed. He gently placed you on the plush blankets, as if you were made out of porcelain. Within the blink of an eye, Jeongin’s clothes were taken off and thrown off to the floor. You swallowed heavily at the sight of his body. His abs were perfectly sculpted and glossy with sweat, and dear lord, his cock was fucking huge that your mouth watered and your cunt clenched over nothing but fabric.

“Like what you see, Dolly?” Jeongin laughed breathlessly. “Of course, you do, look at you. Don’t worry, Baby, I’m here.”

Jeongin slowly crawled onto the bed until his body was hovering above yours. He gently grabbed your wrists with one hand and put them over your head, as he gently spread your legs with his other hand.

“Innie…” you whined.

“I know, Doll,” Jeongin said, his voice low and husky. He kissed your forehead. “I’m gonna give you what you want, don't worry.”

His lips met yours, and all the air was sucked out of your lungs. You eagerly kissed Jeongin back, moaning against his lips. Jeongin let out a deep groan and then bit your bottom lip, coaxing a high whine out of you. Meanwhile, he kept your thighs apart and quickly pulled some of the fabric of your lingerie to the side, exposing your drooling pussy. Suddenly, Jeongin shoved his cock inside of you, and a gasp was forced out of your lungs, as you already felt his tip collide with your sweet spot.

“Jeongin!” You cried out.

“Fuck, Dolly!” Jeongin moaned, his back arching a bit after feeling your pussy tightly grip him. “You’re so fucking tight!”

Jeongin immediately rocked his hips against you, slowly increasing his pace. And by God, did you feel like you were in Heaven. He was so big, all the words and coherent thoughts poofed away from your brain. All you knew at that moment was how fucking good Jeongin’s cock felt with the way he would hit your sweet spot so perfectly. You clenched onto him for dear life, refusing to let him go, all while dripping more and more for him.

“Jesus, Babydoll, you’re squeezing me right,” Jeongin moaned, as his skin slapped yours. “You’re gonna leave me permanently blue balled at this rate.”

You moaned more, calling out his name was some kind of prayer. Meanwhile, Jeongin couldn’t take his eyes off your tits and the way they’d jiggle and bounce with every one of his thrusts inside you. He could even see a good glimpse of your pretty areolas, which only motivated him to keep going and hit your sweet spot repeatedly.

“Jeongin!” You cried out, feeling all the pressure build up deep in your stomach, as your clit throbbed under the tight lace.

“Gonna cum, Doll?” Jeongin asked, his breath fully ragged, as his nails dug further into your skin.

“Innieeeee, pleeeaaasseeee!!”

“Now you’re begging? God, you’re better than any sex doll ever. Always so good at taking what I give you, yes?”

Jeongin pushed inside you again, and just like that, you both came instantly. White spilled into you, as you gushed all over him the second time. You were higher than the clouds, and your legs were so weak. Your lungs heaved with hot air, and sweat was dripping from Jeongin’s slick black hair onto your body. He could even see the sweat drip down the shimmering diamond choker you still had on. God, it looked even more beautiful on you, all fucked out and boneless. Normally, you both would calm down and call it a night, but Jeongin still needed more. One load of his cum wasn’t enough for you tonight. You deserved more.

“Baby?” Jeongin asked breathlessly, “Wanna go again?”

“Innie?” You panted, your voice light and airy. “Again?”

“Yes, my sweet doll. But only if you want it.”

“I want it! Please, please, please!”

“Good girl.”

He carefully pulled out of you, coaxing a whine out of you and letting all the white drip down your legs and onto your pretty stockings. Jeongin kissed your forehead before putting his hands on your waist.

“Get on your stomach, Baby,” he said.

You did as he said, and Jeongin bit his bottom lip at the sight of your cute plush ass, barely covered by your mini skirt and lingerie. He couldn’t help but give you a spank, making you cry out.

“Jeongin!” You yelped.

“Sorry, Doll, you just have a cute ass,” Jeongin shamelessly said before spanking you again. “You really are like a Barbie. So perfect…and so mine.”

Jeongin pulled on the lingerie lace once more, pushing it to the side before plunging into you from behind, filling you up so perfectly. You gasped and whined loudly, and your back arched. Your cunt gripped tightly on his cock once more, and your hands gripped tightly onto the bedsheets as Jeongin pounded into your sweet spot.

“Innie!” You moaned, all the heat rushing down to your core. “Fuck!”

“Even from behind, you feel so good, Dolly,” Jeongin moaned, as his blunt nails dug into your hips—his grip almost bruising you.

You moaned and cried against the sheets, staining them with tears and saliva, as Jeongin jackhammered into you. Suddenly, Jeongin’s hand found your soft half-pigtails to grab and pull back to lift your head. You winced from the harsh pull, but God, did the little pain feel good on top of the pleasure, which made your eyes roll back from the dizziness.

“Gone dumb again, Doll?” Jeongin asked, “Dumb over my fucking cock? Good girl.”

He rolled his hips again, making you moan loudly, and the coil in your gut tighter than before. Jeongin didn’t hesitate to reach down under you to play with your soaking, puffy clit, which made you squirm even more.

“Cum, Babydoll,” he commanded before pinching your clit.

You moaned again, and the dam inside you broke, letting everything flood and soak his cock and your lingerie even more. And within the next two thrusts, Jeongin moaned and released hot, thick spurts of cum into you, filling you up once again. He then slowed down his movements until he remained completely still. Silence was among you both, as you both slowly caught your breath and came down from your highs. Your hearts were pounding incredibly, and you felt Jeongin’s cock soften within you. Sweat glistened on your bodies, making your skin glow under the intimate orange light in the bedroom.

“Y/N?” Jeongin reached out to cup your face from behind, so he could at least see your blushy pink face. “Are you okay?”

You looked at him and softly nodded.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” You said, “You felt good as always.”

“I’m glad,” Jeongin smiled softly and tenderly kissed your temple. “I’ll take care of you, okay?”

Jeongin carefully pulled out of you, and you exhaled a breath as you felt the physical emptiness within you, alongside the immense cum oozing out of your spent cunt. You didn’t move much after that. You just remained still in bed in bliss as Jeongin cleaned you up with a warm, damp washcloth before he carried you to the warm bath, in which he washed off all the sticky sweat off your body and hair. And soon, you found yourself in bed with him again. You were wearing a soft pink Valentine’s Day pajama set while cuddling next to Jeongin, as he wore his own sleepwear: a vintage Nirvana shirt and red plaid pajama pants.

“How did you like playing dress up today?” Jeongin asked.

“I loved it, Innie,” you replied with no hesitation, followed by a giggle. “I especially loved the choker.”

“The choker?”

“Yeah. Shiny, beautiful, and I liked how tight it felt on my neck.”

Jeongin smirked.

“Careful, Doll,” he said, “Now, I’m tempted to buy you an actual collar.”

“An actual collar?” You feigned shock before smirking back. “How possessive of you.”

“Well, of course, I’m possessive of you.” Jeongin wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer to his hard chest. “You’re my Doll. No one else’s.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I’m your pretty doll in pink.”

You giggled and nuzzled into his chest, and Jeongin’s heart melted. You were too cute for this universe. What on Earth did he do to have you cuddling up against his body like that? Well, it didn’t matter now because while Jeongin loved having you indulge in his fantasies like playing dress up to make you look pretty enough to ruin, he, above all, loved having your equal enthusiasm and passion for the fashion, and delectable cinnamon rolls. You were his forever lover. Forever his pretty pink doll.

———————————・❥・———————————

tags: @enhacolor @yeonii08 @felixsonlyrealwife @staytinyluva @teukbyeol-xoxo @d4ily-n-sh1ne @you-dont-know-my-name @rileylovescats @ryvannanightshade-kpop @babystay7 @hunter-or-the-hunted @wilbursootsimp45678 @niku0704 @elisabeeee @the0twst0shrimp0mc @fandomtrash11 @hpnsfwaddict @bunbunbl0gs @star-my @demonicobsessions @fweakygyatt @ariaaleelynn @liv123sworld @harleyvaleska19 @theartisticlibrarian @warped-rabbithole @lily-5 @ava-lazaza @https-snw23 @pinknaori

[skzophreniic]

NO NUT NOVEMBER

*°࿐ cw: explicit sexual content (MDNI), fingering, dry humping, grinding, penetration

a stupid bet, a sugar-sweet kitchen, and a boyfriend who wants you way more than he’s supposed to.

*°࿐ notes: as part of emmie and attie's secret stay writing event for the talented, beautiful, amazing @emmiesoverthemoon. i was sooo hyped to see that i had been assigned to you i couldn't wait to post this lol. hope you like it, you deserve the world!!

Hyunjin kisses you like he’s got nowhere else to be.      

There’s a slow, unhurried weight to it. The TV is still on in the background, some drama muttering away to itself in soft, unsubtitled chaos, but the sound is blurred under the rush of your own pulse and the little wet catch of his breath every time your mouth moves against his.    

You’re folded into the corner of your couch with him, half on, half around him. At some point you’d started the night sitting side by side; now his back is pressed against the armrest and you’re straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips, hoodie riding up in the back. One of his hands is anchored at your waist, fingers spread, thumb tracing absent circles into the thin cotton of your t-shirt. The other is splayed between your shoulder blades, holding you steady each time you lean in and kiss him a little deeper.      

This is familiar. This is easy. You know the way his mouth moves, the way he always starts soft and then forgets himself. The way he chases you when you pull back to breathe, lips parting, eyes half-open and almost offended that you’d dare put distance between you.     

You tilt your head, kiss him again, slower this time. He makes a sound in his throat—quiet, pleased—and his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on your waist. You can feel the tension coil in him, the way his chest expands under your palms, the little hitch when you let your teeth graze his bottom lip before soothing the sting with your tongue.      

He tastes faintly like hot chocolate and something minty. You’d shared a mug an hour ago, knees knocked together on the coffee table, laughing at some ridiculous scene on screen. Now the mug is forgotten, abandoned on the coaster.     

“Hyun,” you murmur against his mouth, not really meaning anything by it. His name comes out as more exhale than word.    

“Mm,” he answers, equally articulate, and drags you a fraction closer.      

His hoodie is soft under your hands, but the strip of skin it doesn’t quite cover at his waist is warm, a different texture entirely. Your fingers slip lower, tracing the hem, feeling the way his muscles jump beneath your touch. You’ve been here a hundred times—on this couch, on his bed, in the backseat of his car on nights when you’re both too impatient to make it inside. There’s a well-worn path from “this” to “more”, a map your bodies know by heart.  

You start to follow it without thinking.    

Your hips shift, just a little. Just enough to settle more firmly over him, to close the last bit of space between your stomachs. The movement drags the seam of your leggings against him and you feel, very distinctly, the way his breath stutters. The hand at your back flexes. His fingers press into you like he’s grounding himself on your spine.    

You do it again, slow, barely there.   

This time the reaction is sharp. His jaw tightens. A sound escapes him, low and almost pained, and for a second you think, triumphantly—got you.   

Then he breaks the kiss.     

One moment his mouth is moving with yours, hot and open and eager; the next, his lips are gone and his forehead is pressed to your shoulder instead, breath gusting hot through the fabric of your shirt. His hands haven’t moved—he’s still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slide off his lap if he lets go—but the rest of him has gone very, very still.      

You blink, dazed, heart thudding. It takes your brain a second to catch up with the fact that he’s not kissing you anymore.     

“…Hyunjin?” you say, after a beat.

He groans. Not sexy this time—just a long, miserable sound from somewhere deep in his chest.   

“Okay,” he says into your shoulder. “Okay. Wait.”   

You freeze. A tiny, cold flicker of something unpleasant touches the back of your neck. You sit back just enough to see his face, hands sliding up to frame his jaw.    

“Did I do something?” you ask, searching his expression. “If I hurt you or—”    

His eyes fly open. “What? No.” He looks horrified at the very idea. “No, no, you didn’t do anything. You’re—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, muscles working like he’s biting down on the rest. “…too much, actually. That’s the problem.”    

You stare at him. He looks wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever is going on inside his head. His hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips are pink and kiss-bruised, and there’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones. He also looks like he’s in physical pain.   

You’re not sure whether to be flattered or offended.    

“You kissed me first,” you point out, because you’re not above stating the obvious. “On my couch. With zero warning. While I was minding my business.”      

His mouth twitches like he wants to smile and can’t quite manage it. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “That part was extremely stupid of me.”     

“Okay, now I’m confused.”      

You tilt his face up a little more so he has to meet your eyes. He does, reluctantly, like a school kid being called on in class when he definitely did not do the homework.      

“Something happened today,” he says. “At the practice room. With the guys.”      

“Is this the setup to a horror story?”     

“Honestly?” He scrubs one hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair. “Yes.”    

You wait. He watches your mouth for a second too long, then drags his gaze back up with visible effort.   

“Promise you won’t laugh?” he tries.   

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately.      

He winces. “Okay, but hold your laughter internally, at least.”  

“No promises.”    

He presses his lips together like he’s bracing for impact. “We made a bet.”   

Of course they did. You can already feel your eyebrows climbing.    

“Go on,” you say slowly. “What kind of bet?”      

He hesitates. Looks at the wall over your shoulder. The ceiling. Anywhere but your face. When he finally gets the words out, they’re muttered like he’s ashamed of them.     

“No Nut November.”     

Silence.      

You blink once. Twice. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hums. The drama on TV hits a particularly dramatic background music swell that feels almost intentional.      

“I’m sorry,” you say at last. “You’re going to have to say that again, because my brain auto-censored it.”  

He drags his gaze back to you, eyes wide, lips pushed out in a sulky little pout you’d find adorable if you weren’t so busy processing.    

“No Nut November,” he repeats, enunciating each word clearly like he’s in class. “You know. That stupid internet thing? We… monetized it.”     

“You—” You clamp your mouth shut, because the laugh is right there, bubbling in your chest. “You and the boys made a No Nut November bet.”    

He nods, miserable.  

“For money.”     

He nods again.            

“You voluntarily signed up,” you say slowly, “for thirty days of self-inflicted suffering. While you have a girlfriend. Who lives ten minutes away. Who you routinely climb like a tree the second you walk through the door.”      

His shoulders lift in the closest thing to a defensive shrug he can manage with you still on his lap. “When you say it like that it sounds dumb.”  

“That’s because it is dumb, Hyunjin.”      

“I know,” he says, defeated. “But there’s a cash prize.”      

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “How much?”      

He tells you the number. It’s not nothing; they clearly took this seriously. You do the math quickly in your head and still can’t restrain your snort.      

“Hyun,” you say, softening despite yourself, “you’re already rich. That is, like, two pairs of shoes to you.”    

“It’s not about the amount,” he protests. “It’s the principle. And the bragging rights. And—” He pauses, eyes flicking down to your mouth before dragging back up again. “I was going to spend it on you.”      

That short-circuits your sarcasm for a second. “…What?”     

“If I win,” he says, pushing past his own embarrassment in a rush, “I’m taking you somewhere stupid romantic. Mountains, or a beach, or that resort you sent me with the heated pool and the really fluffy robes. The money we all put in would cover the whole thing. It’d be, like, a victory trip.”    

You blink. Your chest does an inconvenient little squeeze.    

“You could just… book that now,” you point out, a little more gently. “You don’t need a bet to take me on vacation.”     

He smiles, small and stubborn. “Yeah, but it feels different if I earn it. You know? Like, ‘look what I suffered through for us.’”    

You stare at him. At his earnest face, his messed-up hair, the way his hands are still sitting so carefully on your hips like you’re made of glass and temptation at the same time.      

“You are insane,” you decide, affection curling through the exasperation. “Romantic, but insane.”      

“Is that a yes to supporting my insane romantic quest?” he asks, hope creeping into his voice.      

You sigh, dramatically, just to watch his mouth twitch.       

“Let's recap,” you say. “You and your idiot bandmates shook hands on a no-sex, no-anything deal for the month, and you want me to be, what, your moral support? Your… chastity coach?”  

He laughs, finally, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction. “Please never call yourself that again.”  

“I’m serious.”      

“I know.” His fingers flex, thumb brushing the hem of your shirt, quickly pulling back like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to.

“It’s just us,” he adds, more carefully. “The boys. I’m not asking you to… sign a contract or anything.”

“How generous,” you deadpan.

“I’m serious,” he says, and he is. You can hear it—threaded under the teasing, under the mortification. “You don’t have to change anything. I’m the one who signed up for torture.”

“Then why,” you ask, narrowing your eyes, “do I feel like I’m about to get drafted anyway?”

He hesitates. It’s tiny, but you feel it, the way his hands tighten on your hips for half a second before he makes himself relax.

“Because,” he says slowly, “if you keep doing… that—”

“Doing what?” You blink at him, the picture of innocence. You are still in his lap. Your shirt is still slightly crooked. Your mouth still tingles from his.

His gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, like his own body is answering the question for him. His tongue darts out, quick, almost nervous, before he catches himself.

“Existing like this,” he mutters, giving your waist the faintest, helpless squeeze. “Sitting on me. Making those little noises.” His voice dips, embarrassingly earnest. “Looking at me like that.”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I was literally just kissing my boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. You want to be annoyed on principle—because you were very much enjoying yourself five minutes ago—but the way he’s looking at you makes it hard. 

You drop your hands from his jaw, smoothing them instead over his shoulders, down the line of his hoodie. He lets out a slow breath, like your touch isn’t making anything better, but he’s too gone on you to pull away.

“You’re really going to try,” you say.

“I am,” he says. And he means it. For all his dramatics, there’s steel underneath. “I have self-control. I can do this.”

You hum. “With me around?”

He turns his head, meets your gaze. That stubborn spark flares again. “Especially with you around.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Bold of you to say when you just almost combusted because I moved my hips an inch.”

His ears go pink. “That was… an adjustment period.”

“Mm.”

“Warm-up,” he insists. “I’ll get used to it.”

“You’ll get used to… not having sex with me,” you say flatly. “For a month.”

A shadow of uncertainty flickers across his face, there and gone. He swallows.

“Well, when you put it like that,” he says faintly.

You feel the tiniest, petty part of you preen at that. Because there it is, laid bare between you: it’s not sex in general he’s missing. It’s sex with you. It’s your laugh in his ear, your fingers in his hair, your teeth on his shoulder.

You drag your thumbs over his cheekbones, smoothing the faint flush you put there. “You know this is going to be harder on you than me, right?”

“How do you figure?” he asks, wary.

“You’re the clingy one,” you say. “You’re the one who turns every movie night into a makeout session. You’re the one who can’t sit next to me without holding something—my hand, my leg, my entire body.”

His mouth curves, despite everything. “You love it.”

“I do,” you admit. “Which is why I don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself.”

“Because I’m competitive,” he says. “And stupid. And I like the idea of saying, ‘I survived No Nut November while dating you.’ It makes me sound strong.”

“Or deranged.”

You sigh, long and theatrical, and for a heartbeat his eyes soften like he thinks you’re actually upset. You’re not. Annoyed, a little. Wound up, definitely. But underneath it there’s a thread of fondness that won’t loosen no matter how hard you tug.

“Fine,” you say at last. “I will… attempt to support your deeply questionable life choices.”

His whole face lights up, relief washing over his features so visibly it almost knocks you back. “Really?”

“Really,” you say. “I will try not to sabotage you. I will not seduce you on purpose. I will, to the best of my ability, refrain from climbing into your lap at every opportunity.”

His gaze flicks down to where you are currently planted. “Starting when?”

You pause. Consider the logistics. Consider the way his hands tighten when you shift even a little, the way his pupils are blown wide already.

“…Tomorrow,” you say.

He laughs, bright and helpless. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately,” he agrees. “Yes.”

You lean in and press a quick, closed-mouth kiss to his lips—just a peck, nothing that could be construed as dangerous, even if he still chases it faintly when you pull back.

He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he said the words No Nut November out loud. His hands slide up your back, palms flattening between your shoulder blades, and he pulls you in, just enough to tuck you against his chest.

A few days pass, and for the most part, it’s… fine.

You see him in little pockets of time carved between schedules—quick coffee before practice when he’s already in sweats and a beanie, a rushed goodbye in the lobby when his manager honks from the curb, a FaceTime call with his hair still damp from the shower and his voice soft with sleep. The bet lives in the background of everything, like a bad inside joke. There’s a running tally in the boys’ group chat he shows you once, all ugly emojis and worse nicknames.

You make fun of him every time he mentions it. He rolls his eyes and kisses your forehead. It’s almost easy to forget that there’s a line between you now, even if it’s one he drew himself.

By the time Friday crawls around, you’re exhausted in a way that feels low and heavy. The kind of tired that turns your bones to sand. You spend the evening cleaning in lazy bursts—loading the dishwasher, half-folding laundry, wiping crumbs off the coffee table—and then give up around eleven, flopping onto the couch with a blanket and your phone.

He texts you sometime after that.

HYUNJIN: done late today 🥲 HYUNJIN: leaving now, might be closer to 2 HYUNJIN: don’t wait up if you’re tired okay

You send back a half-assed heart emoji and stubbornly decide you’re going to stay awake anyway.

You don’t.

Sleep sneaks up on you the way it always does—slow eyelids, heavier blinks, the show you were pretending to watch turning into background noise. You curl onto your side, phone slipping from your hand to the cushion, the apartment washed in the soft blue light of the TV. The last thing you remember is thinking you should get up and brush your teeth.

The next thing you’re aware of is the soft metallic click of your front door.

You surface slowly, in layers. The dimness of the room. The quiet shuffle of shoes being toed off. The low, familiar murmur of his voice as he whispers something to himself and drops his bag by the wall.

You don’t move right away. You’re warm and heavy under the blanket, lungs rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Footsteps pad across your floor. A shadow passes between you and the TV.

“Baby?” he says quietly.

You crack an eye open.

Hyunjin stands at the end of the couch, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp and curling around his forehead. There’s a mask hanging from one ear and a plastic bag looped around his wrist. The digital clock on your cable box informs you, unhelpfully, that it’s 2:14 a.m.

“You’re late,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

He smiles, the kind of soft, crooked thing that makes the trip worth it. “Hi to you too.”

He sets the bag down on the coffee table carefully, like it’s precious cargo. Something inside clinks faintly—takeout containers and chopsticks knocking together. The smell hits a second later, warm and savory, oily in the best way.

Your stomach flutters in vague interest, but the rest of you is too tired to respond.

“I brought food,” he says, needlessly. “In case you were hungry.”

“ ‘M not,” you mumble, letting your eyes fall closed again. 

He glances at the phone wedged between you and the back cushion, screen dark. 

“I made it to…” You blink, brain scrambling for a landmark. “Some guy got slapped. Might’ve been episode one. Might’ve been a commercial.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re adorable.”

You feel the couch dip as he sits down near your feet, the springs sighing under his weight. The rustle of the plastic bag, the little rip as he tears open the knot. The sharp, plasticky snap of chopsticks split apart.

You peel your eyes open again, just enough to see him through your lashes.

He’s turned sideways, one knee up on the couch, container balanced on the coffee table in front of him. The screen light catches on his jaw, on the damp strands of hair clinging to his neck. He looks tired in that way you’ve learned to read—creases at the corners of his eyes, shoulders slumping for the first time all day—but there’s still a fizz of energy under his skin. The schedule high hasn’t completely worn off yet.

“You’re not going to sleep?” you ask.

“I’m starving,” he says around a mouthful of rice. “Also, I have news.”

You shift a little, tugging the blanket up under your chin. “Good news or stupid news?”

“Both,” he says cheerfully. “Han lost.”

That wakes you up more effectively than the smell of food.

“Already?” You blink at him. “It’s been, like… what, five days?”

“Four,” he says. “And it was technically last night, so three and some change.”

You snort. “What happened?”

He grins, eyes lighting up with the kind of glee reserved for watching your friends suffer consequences.

“Apparently he had a dream that started off all innocent and then—” Hyunjin makes an unhelpful, vague hand motion. “—turned into a lot of things very fast. Woke up already… you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Already?”

“That’s what he said.” Hyunjin shrugs, then takes another bite.

“So Han’s out,” you say, prodding. “What about you?”

His gaze flicks to you, amused. “I’m great.”

“You’re really going to sit there,” you say, “and claim this is easy?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Hasn’t been that bad so far.”

You study him, skeptical. He looks… okay, actually. Still a little keyed up from work, but not feral. His leg is bouncing a bit where his foot rests on the rug, but that might just be habit. His eyes skitter over you once—messy hair, oversized sleep shirt, blanket burrito—and then obediently return to his food.

“Huh,” you say. “So you weren’t lying about self-control.”

He pretends to preen, shoulders squaring. “Told you. Mind of steel. Also, practice has been insane. I barely have the energy to think about sex.”

You hum. “Must be nice.”

His mouth curves, just enough. “Are you suffering?”

You give him a flat look. 

He reaches over with his free hand, fingers searching blindly under the blanket until they find your ankle. His palm is warm where it closes over your skin, thumb rubbing absent circles over the bone. It’s casual, familiar, easy in a way that doesn’t immediately set your nerves on fire.

“Have you…” He trails off, lashes dipping as he looks down at the food again. “You know. Been okay?”

You tilt your head. “You mean, am I climbing the walls without your dick?”

He chokes on a grain of rice.

“Don’t say that while I’m chewing,” he wheezes, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. His grip on your ankle tightens in affronted self-defense. “I could’ve died.”

You smile, lazy and mean. “You walked into that.”

He recovers with a theatrical sigh, shoving another piece of chicken into his mouth like he needs to occupy it with something other than words.

You think about giving him a real answer. About the way your brain keeps replaying little moments from before the bet, about the heat that hums under your skin when he hugs you from behind, about the way you’ve caught yourself staring at his hands more than once this week. But he looks tired and proud of himself in the same breath, so you just shrug.

“It’s been… fine,” you say. “You’re busy. I’m tired. I’ve been mostly falling asleep before my brain has time to be annoying.”

He seems relieved by that, tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction.

“Good,” he says softly. “I didn’t want this to feel like—” He makes a face, searching for the word. “Like I’m withholding something from you.”

“You kind of are,” you say lightly. “But it’s consensual withholding, I guess.”

“Sexy,” he mutters. “Love when my girlfriend talks about things like a lawyer.”

You nudge his calf with your toe. “You’re the one who turned your sex life into a contract.”

“Don’t remind me.”

For a while, the apartment settles into a sleepy kind of quiet. The TV murmurs to itself in the background, all dim colors and looped soundtrack. Hyunjin eats, methodical and unhurried, and you watch him with half-lidded eyes, floating in that strange in-between space where you’re too tired to get up but not tired enough to sink all the way under again.

He looks at home here, in a way that makes your chest ache a little if you think about it too hard. His socks are mismatched—one black, one gray—and his hoodie rides up when he leans forward to grab another piece, exposing a sliver of pale skin at his waist. There’s a small stain on the cuff. His bag is half unzipped by the door, phone charger peeking out.

He catches you staring eventually.

“What?” he asks, chopsticks pausing halfway to his mouth.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just looking.”

“At my chewing?” he says doubtfully.

“At my boyfriend,” you correct.

The expression that crosses his face is almost comically soft. His shoulders drop, eyes going warm at the edges, mouth curving in that way that says you could ask for the moon and he’d at least google how to get it.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

“You’re already here,” you point out, but you scoot anyway, pushing yourself up and crawling the short distance until you’re within reach.

He abandons the food for the moment, wipes his fingers on a napkin, and lifts the blanket in invitation. You tuck yourself against his side, head finding the familiar spot on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his thigh. He settles an arm around you automatically, palm spreading over your upper arm, thumb tracing slow, soothing lines.

This isn’t new. You’ve done this a hundred times. In other months, on other nights, this is the position that leads to wandering hands, to his mouth finding yours, to something more tangled and breathless and messy.

Tonight, it doesn’t.

You feel the awareness of that hovering between you like a held breath. The way his fingers pause for half a second on your arm before resuming their pattern. The way his chest rises and falls under your cheek, maybe a bit deeper than usual.

“You’re being very well-behaved,” you murmur, eyes slipping closed again.

He huffs a soft laugh, the sound rumbling against your ribs. “I told you. I can do it.”

“This is only the beginning,” you remind him. “Don’t get cocky.”

You fall quiet after that, lulled by the steady motion of his hand and the low, steady noise of the TV. Sleep creeps up again, heavier this time. Your muscles go slack one by one, your thoughts dissolving into half-dreams. Somewhere above you, Hyunjin’s voice blurs into a comforting hum as he narrates his day.

Eventually, his words start to slow. He finishes the last bites of his food one-handed, sets the empty container back in the bag, and leans forward to tie it closed, careful not to jostle you too much.

When he settles back, you make a small, unconscious sound and burrow closer. His arm tightens around you automatically, his other hand coming up to smooth over the back of your head.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You could say the same—about him, about this stupid bet, about the next three weeks that are going to test both of you more than either of you realize. But right now, it’s still easy. Right now, it’s just his voice, his warmth, the soft press of his lips against your forehead as the room blurs out.

You let your mind go quiet, let your body sink into his.

For week one, at least, cuddling really is safe.

It’s a Tuesday when you head to the dorm after work, the hallways too bright and too quiet at the same time. Changbin opens the door with a fork in his mouth and a hoodie half on, half off his shoulder.

“Oh,” he says around the fork, then catches himself and pulls it out. “Hey. He’s here—just showering.”

“Hi,” you smile. “Whatchu eating?”

He lifts the plastic container he’s demolishing. “Protein.” Then, because he’s not actually a monster, “There’s more in the fridge if you want. I picked up extra.”

“I’m okay.” You toe your shoes off. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

He waves you down the hall, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Make good choices.”

You snort and leave him to his protein and plausible deniability.

Hyunjin’s room is the same it’s always been—two plants clinging valiantly to a windowsill, a paint-smeared tote hooked over a chair, a candle he probably isn’t supposed to have tucked half-behind a stack of books. You sit on the edge of his bed and listen to the water shut off, the muffled thump of the bathroom door, the soft slap of bare feet down the hall.

He comes in toweling his hair, damp shirt clinging in places you’re trying not to think about. There’s a drop of water clinging to the hollow beneath his ear; you feel it like a physical tug somewhere deep and unhelpful.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s stupid how much better the room feels just because he’s in it. “You got here quick.”

He tosses the towel onto the chair and crosses the room in two long steps, leaning in to press his mouth to your forehead. The kiss is quick, chaste, the kind that shouldn’t do anything to you at all.

It does.

You try to hide it by reaching for the ends of his hair, tugging at damp strands to fluff them. He ducks his head obligingly, that lazy, pleased sound rumbling in his chest.

“Long day?” he asks, and he’s close enough that you can see the damp darkening his lashes, the tired creases at the corners of his eyes.

You shrug, noncommittal. “Fine.”

His mouth tilts. “Liar.”

“I am attempting nonchalance,” you say primly.

“Terrible attempt,” he says, even softer. His hands slide to your hips like they belong there—because they do—and then stop, a tiny check you feel more than see. He studies your face for a beat, all the easy teasing peeling back. “Talk to me.”

You look away. The words feel ridiculous even inside your head. You’re fine. You are. It’s just that every time he looks like this—clean and warm and a little undone by the shower—your body sings a single, unhelpful note and refuses to shut up about it.

“I’m… tired,” you say, which is true. “And you look like that.”

“Like what?” He follows your gaze down the curve of his own throat, as if he might discover the problem alone. When he looks back up, he’s smiling, but it’s gentler now. “Come here.”

You go easily, because you always do. He pulls you up the bed and sits back against the wall, legs long and relaxed, and you settle sideways into his lap, your shoulder to his chest, your knees tucked beside his ribs. His hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt without fanfare, palm spreading warm over your stomach, the other arm bracketed around you, a cage you have never wanted to run from.

For a minute, you let the room be small and quiet. You listen to the city mutter through the window and the dorm’s ancient heating rattle like a ghost down the vent. His thumb moves in slow circles at your waist. Your breath takes its cues from his.

It would be easy to leave it here. It would be smart.

You shift.

It’s small. An inch, maybe less. A recalibration that has you closer to the heat of him, to the clean smell of his skin, to the damp line of his jaw when you tip your head back to look. He doesn’t move when you do it. He doesn’t even breathe, for one held second. You feel the restraint in the stiffness of his shoulders, the way his hand flattens against your stomach like he can anchor both of you to something that isn’t this.

“Baby,” he says, and it’s not a warning so much as an acknowledgment. A you’re not wrong, I feel it too.

You swallow. “I know.”

His eyes skate over your face. Whatever he sees there makes a decision for him. He exhales through his nose and dips his head, pressing his mouth to your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. Kisses that are careful, not cold. Kisses that say I want to and I promised myself I wouldn’t in the same breath.

You catch his jaw with your fingers when he tries to duck away from your mouth again. He goes still under your hand, eyes flicking to your lips.

“Hyun,” you say, and you hate how rough it sounds. “I’m really… I’m not trying to make this harder, but—”

“I know,” he says immediately, like he’d been waiting to hear that. He cups your face, thumb skating under your eye. Up close like this he looks a little wrecked himself, damp hair curling, mouth soft and pink, pupils a little too big. “I can tell.”

Your cheeks heat, humiliation and relief tangling together. “It’s stupid.”

His mouth flickers like he wants to argue with that on principle. He doesn’t. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, voice dropped low.

“Do you want me to help?”

You go silent. The question hangs between you, honest and easy. He’s not teasing. He isn’t trying to talk you out of anything. He’s offering.

“Help… how,” you ask, and your voice breaks exactly where his eyes do.

“However you want,” he says, like it’s simple. His hand leaves your stomach and slides to your hip, not pulling, just there. “I can take care of you. Just you.” His mouth quirks, apology-soft. “Let me.”

The worst part is how fast your body answers for you. Heat rushes bright and immediate under your skin; your breath catches and you feel yourself lean toward him on a string you didn’t know you’d given him.

“That’s not—” You stop. Try again. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s not about fair,” he says, and he means it. “It’s about you.”

You search his face for the crack in the offer, the place where it costs him too much. All you find is want and patience layered over it like gauze. He’s careful even in this—like his own restraint is something he can set down for a second if it means you get to breathe again.

Your hands have found the back of his neck without permission. Your thumb strokes a damp curl flat, the kind of thoughtless, tender touch that should make this easier and doesn’t at all.

“What if you—” You stop, because saying it out loud feels like tempting fate. Your eyes flick to his mouth and back. “What if this makes it worse for you?”

His smile is crooked and honest. “It already is worse for me.” He tips his forehead to yours. “But I can live with worse if it means you sleep.”

You press your lips together, a small, involuntary pout he sees and promptly chases with a soft kiss, like he can kiss the indecision off your mouth.

He murmurs against your lower lip, “Say the word.”

The room narrows to his breath and your pulse. To the way his fingers curl at your hip, not urging, just steady. To the warm, damp smell of his t-shirt and the faint thread of citrus in his hair. You could nod. You could fall into the shape of the offer and let him handle it, and you know with a weird, fierce certainty that he’d be devastatingly good and even more devastatingly gentle.

You want it.

You want him.

And yet there’s a stab of stubbornness you didn’t know you had, something that says later, not like this, not when he’s already walking a tightrope for you both.

“I…” You exhale and press your face to his throat, buying a second against his skin. Your voice comes small. “If you start, I won’t let you stop.”

He swallows, the motion brushing your cheek. “You don’t have to.”

“Hyun.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again it’s a soft capitulation, not to the bet but to you.

“Okay,” he says, and kisses your hair. “Okay. Then let me do something else.”

Before you can ask, he shifts, easing you down the bed. He lies on his side and tucks you in against him, your back to his chest, his arm heavy over your waist. His knee slides between yours, not indecent, just there, a solid line to lean into. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw, the place below your ear that makes your whole nervous system light up, and he kisses you slowly, like he has time to spare, like he can bleed the ache out by degrees.

You melt, traitorously. His hand spans your lower belly, the heel of his palm applying the gentlest pressure in time with your breath, a rhythm that asks and asks until your body answers by unclenching.

“Better?” he whispers after a while, voice gone husky with concentration.

You nod, the movement dragging his mouth along your skin. “A little.”

“More?” he asks, and even now it’s a question.

You find his hand where it rests at your waist and bring it lower. No coyness—your fingers slot between his and you guide, decisive, until his knuckles meet the inside of your thigh. His breath catches against your jaw.

“Here,” you say, already breathless. “Like this.”

He doesn’t make you show him twice. His palm curves over the heat of you through your leggings, a careful pressure that has your hips tilting before you can stop them. He follows the shift without comment, mouth moving at your neck in slow, coaxing kisses while his fingers learn the shape of what you need—broad strokes, then tighter, then right where you’re aching.

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “I want to get it right.”

“You are,” you manage, and then you’re not managing at all because he is, the heel of his hand catching exactly where the ache peaks. You exhale a small, helpless sound into his shoulder. He swears under his breath, almost reverent.

There’s the faint, traitorous scrape of the bedframe when you roll your hips into his hand. He stills for a heartbeat, listening; from the living room comes the distant murmur of Changbin’s TV and a laugh that might be at a meme or a dog video or nothing at all.

Hyunjin’s mouth ghosts your ear. “Quiet for me, yeah?”

You nod too fast, the motion tugging a gasp from your chest when his fingers press a fraction harder. It’s not enough; it’s too much; it’s perfect. You grab his wrist and push—just a little more, just there—and he groans like the simple trust of it does him in.

“Okay,” he says, voice wrecked-soft. “Okay, baby.”

He works you through the fabric until it’s damp, heat pulling heat, your thighs clenching around his hand like you could keep it there forever. You can’t think in full sentences; your world narrows to the steady drag of his palm and the way his lips keep finding you—temple, jaw, the corner of your mouth when you turn blindly toward him. Every time he feels you shiver he makes one of those low, encouraging sounds that never fails to set you off.

It still isn’t enough.

You catch his wrist again, firmer, and tug his hand under the waistband. He goes without protest, breath stuttering as his fingers slip against you, nothing in the way now but your own restraint. The first touch is shockingly gentle; the second has intent behind it. He finds slick heat and then slides lower, tasting the whine you can’t swallow.

“Like that?” he asks, barely there.

“Mm—” Your head tips back against his shoulder. “Yeah. More.”

He gives you more. Two fingers, careful at first, easing you open, his palm angling so his thumb can circle right where you want it. The sound you make is embarrassingly soft and he swallows it with a kiss to your cheek, then your mouth, then back to the place below your ear that makes your knees go loose even though you’re lying down.

You don’t realize you’re grinding until he breathes a shaky laugh at your shoulder. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Use me.”

You do. You rock into his hand, chasing what he’s giving you, and something in him slips its leash.

“God—” His fingers tighten on your hip like he’s steadying himself, then he’s moving you with him, guiding the grind, setting the rhythm he wants from you—long, deliberate strokes that land you right over his thumb every single time. His breath saws against your neck, hot and uneven. “Look at you. Fuck.”

You try to be quiet. You try. But the way he angles his wrist, the way his fingers curl just right and stay right, drags a sound out of you that’s too loud for the thin dorm walls.

He clamps a palm over your mouth before it’s even fully out, reflex-quick. “Shhh,” he breathes, voice frayed. “Baby—quiet. Please.”

It should be mortifying; it only makes your pulse ricochet. You nod against his hand, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewards you by pressing in deeper, circling faster, like he’s losing the map and loving it.

“That’s it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’s it, that’s it.” He’s gone pink high on his cheeks; his pupils are huge, swallowing the brown. He can’t keep still—hips twitching once behind you before he forces them flat to the mattress with a strangled noise. His jaw flexes like it hurts. “You feel so—” He cuts himself off on a quiet groan when you clench around his fingers. “Please. Do that again.”

You do, because you’re helpless for him, because his hand is relentless and every soft, wrecked little sound he makes sinks straight to where you’re aching. He slips a third finger in only when you drag his wrist down and ask for it with a needy roll of your hips; he swears into your shoulder and gives it to you, patient for exactly two strokes before his control frays again and he’s driving you through it, thumb never leaving the spot that’s turning you inside out.

Another moan swells; his palm seals your mouth a second time, more desperate now, his fingers splayed across your cheek. “I know,” he whispers, nearly panting. “I know, I know—be good for me. I’ve got you.”

You are far past good. Your nails bite at his forearm; the bed gives a perilous creak. He presses closer to muffle it, chest flush to your back, forearm banded across your waist to hold you right where he wants you. You can feel the tremor in him, the fine shake running through his shoulders. You can feel him hard and ignored, pressed hot against the curve of you, and the quiet, broken sound he lets out when you grind back by mistake is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Don’t—” His warning shatters into a laugh that’s barely a breath. “Don’t do that to me, I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You’re not sure if you apologize or whine; it dies under his hand either way. He kisses the hinge of your jaw like thanks, like apology, like please. Then he sets himself to finishing you—no mercy, no pause, just intent, the pads of his fingers dragging the way he knows drives you crazy, his thumb ruthless and steady.

The wave hits fast. You try to tell him—his name, the word close, anything—but all that comes out against his palm is a panicked sound, so you grab his wrist and squeeze, nails digging in.

“I know,” he says, strangled. He buries his mouth against your shoulder, breath scorching. “Let go. Let me have it.”

Two more circles and you break—silent first, too much for sound—and then a gasp rips free anyway, high and wild. His hand holds firm over your mouth, muffling it; his other arm pins you tight while you shake through it, fingers never letting up until the aftershocks start to make you twitch away.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, easing you down, slowing, softening. His palm leaves your mouth to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking back and forth while you find air again. “Good girl. So good.”

You float for a moment, boneless, every muscle unspooling at once. He slips his fingers free with ridiculous care, tugs your waistband gently back into place, then brings his hand up and licks his fingers clean.

You turn in his arms and see it: how ruined he is. Hair a damp mess, lips swollen, pupils blown, a flush licking down his throat. He’s breathing like he just ran stairs. He’s buzzing—the kind of taut, vibrating restraint that makes your post-release brain go soft with something feral and fond.

“Hyunjin,” you whisper, reaching for him.

He catches your hand and threads your fingers together to stop you from going anywhere dangerous, laugh cracking on the edges. “Don’t. Don’t touch me or I'm going to nut in my fucking pants." 

He’s laughing when he says it, but it’s wrecked—too high at the edges, too close to something he doesn’t trust.

He scrubs a hand over his face, drags in air, then blows it out slow like he’s extinguishing candles. “I need a… God. I need a colder shower.”

“You literally just—”

“A colder one,” he bites, already peeling himself away from you like you’re a live wire. He kisses your forehead in apology and swings his legs off the bed. “Two minutes.”

You watch the way he stands—careful, like any wrong move might undo whatever thread he’s got left—and you’re a little in love with him for choosing distance when everything in him is screaming closer.

You let him go, because you love him, because you’re sated and soft and this is the part where you be kind. He crosses the room in long strides, hooks his thumbs in his sweats, and—because modesty has never been a thing with you two—shucks them and his briefs in one smooth, catastrophic motion. Stark naked, he’s all flushed skin and long lines and want he’s trying to pretend isn’t chewing through him. You watch his back flex as he grabs a towel and a spare tee from the chair, then he’s out the door with a muttered “two minutes” like a promise to both of you.

Week three arrives with sugar in the air and Hyunjin starfished on your kitchen rug like a defeated prince.      

You’re at the counter with a mixing bowl, scraping browned butter down the sides while the oven hums to temp. He’s in sweats and a wrecked ponytail, one sock on and one sock nowhere to be found, forearm over his eyes. Every so often his ankle bumps your cabinet. Thunk. A soft hum. Thunk.      

“You’re going to dent my cupboards,” you say, dropping vanilla into the mixing bowl a slow, amber ribbon.      

“Mm,” he answers, noncommittal.     

“You’re staying for the christmas party, right? Next month? I’m not doing sugar-cookie assembly line by myself.”      

“Mm.”      

“I’m thinking two kinds. Classic trees and those little star sandwiches with the jam. You’ll be on sprinkle duty.”     

A quiet smile in his voice. “Mmhm.”    

You flick a glance down. “This is a conversation, you know.”      

He slides the forearm off his eyes. Blinks hazily at you from the floor. “I’m participating,” he says, deadpan, then ruins it by softening, gaze raking you slow like he forgot he’s supposed to be alive and not a ghost. “You’re pretty.”  

Your first instinct is to preen. Your second is to throw flour at him. You settle for a smug tilt of your head. “You say that now. Wait till I’m covered in powdered sugar.”   

He huffs a laugh that buzzes the rug. “Can’t wait.”      

You hold up the whisk. “Do we like gooey or crisp?”      

“Mm. Gooey.”    

“Okay, king of strong opinions.”  

He smiles up at the ceiling. Another thunk. Another hum.      

You pour the butter-sugar mix into the flour. Fold. Breathe. The apartment feels small and warm and very, very you—his hoodie drying on a chair back, a reusable tote on the knob, your playlist low on your phone. For a minute, he’s content to be a warm obstacle on your floor, soaking you up.

He speaks without moving his arm. Almost conversational. “Hypothetical.”

You glance down, fighting a smile. “Hit me.”

“What if,” he says, voice too even, “I put the tip in.”

Your wrist doesn’t even pause. “Tip of what?”

Silence.

You scrape around the edge of the bowl, utterly absorbed. “Like—piping tips? For the cookies? I told you, we don’t need the fancy snowflake nozzles, they’re so annoying to clean—”

“Baby,” he says, and his forearm finally slides off his face.

You still don’t look. “Or did you mean baking tips? Because, sure, here’s one: don’t eat all the dough before it hits the tray—”

“Babe.”

You sigh like he’s interrupting something deeply important and set the whisk down. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Hyunjin. I’m not a mind reader.”

He’s already looking at you like you are, eyes dark in a way that doesn’t match the lazy sprawl of his body. He pushes himself up on his elbows, ponytail sliding over his shoulder, gaze dragging from your bare legs to the hem of your shorts and back up.

“The tip,” he says slowly, like he’s testing every word before he lets it out. “Of my dick. In you.” A beat. “Hypothetically.”

You blink once. Twice. “Ohhh.” You click your tongue. “That tip.”

His mouth falls open. “You are insufferable.

He’s up before you can reply, a shadow at your back, hands sliding under your elbows to the counter so you’re bracketed, caged, warmed. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw like muscle memory.       

His mouth opens against your pulse on a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. He sets his hands on your hips and moves you—one step forward, one to the side—until your thighs kiss the counter and the mixing bowl wobbles. He steadies it with one hand without taking his eyes off you, then slides it out of reach, batter-slick whisk clinking in the sink.

“Hands on the counter,” he says.

You look over your shoulder, innocent. “Why?”

“So I don’t break your stupid mixing bowl.”

“Responsible,” you say, even while your fingers are already spreading on the laminate, flour dust ghosting your skin.

He crowds in, chest to your back, palms skimming down your hips like he’s fitting you to a blueprint only he can see. The oven clicks; the air smells like butter and sugar and the cold outside dying in the radiator. He bends to your neck. Kisses. Bites once, soft. Breathes out like he’s been underwater for days.

His voice drops an octave you feel in your knees. “I want to get off on you,” he says, every word deliberate. “I want to grind against you raw on this counter until I forget my own name, and then I want to fuck you.”

Heat hits you so fast you have to grab the edge of the counter to steady yourself. Your laugh comes out thin. “Are we still speaking in hypotheticals?”

“Hypothetically,” he agrees, and then he’s doing it—tilting your hips, slotting his thigh between yours, the rough press of his sweats catching the thin cotton of your sleep shorts as he drags you back along him. The first grind is exploratory; the second has purpose. He uses your waist like a handle, sets the tempo he wants, long, mean drags that line his length over the place you’re already burning.

You try to be smug, to keep the pretense, but your breath betrays you, breaks jagged on the exhale. Flour dust jumps off the counter with each push, lighting the air like static. His ponytail has half-escaped; a damp strand falls into the hollow of your shoulder as he noses there, breathing you like oxygen.

“Hyun,” you manage, warning, plea, everything.

“Yeah,” he answers, a torn sound. His hands are big and careless and perfect where they grip, thumbs digging into soft skin so he can pull you back harder. “Yeah, baby. Take it.”

He’s not gentle. He’s not cruel. He’s something feral in between, a man who’s been good for weeks and finally lets himself be selfish. He steers you so your belly meets the counter edge; the leverage is obscene. You arch, helpless, and he goes a little unhinged at the sight—hips stuttering, breath breaking hot against your neck.

“God—look at you.” He groans into your skin, the sound strangled. “This is what you do to me. You hear me? This. Every night.”

You push back, meeting the roll of him with greedy, short little rocks that make the cabinet rattle. He laughs—wrecked, disbelieving—and tightens his grip until all you can do is let him use your body to chase what he needs. Your thighs tremble; slick heat soaks through cotton; the room narrows to the rhythm, to the knock of the cupboard, to his voice unraveling in your ear.

A moan swells before you can catch it. He grins into you neck. “Thats it. Let me hear you,” he whispers, ragged, like prayer. “Be good for me.”

You are good. You are ruined. Your lashes stick from the heat. He ruts through the damp mess he’s made of you, the drag so precise you see stars at the edges. He says your name like he can anchor himself in it.

The oven beeps ready; neither of you moves. He presses you deeper to the counter, one hand flat beside yours, the other spread over your belly to feel every desperate twitch while he works you. His pace goes tight and deliberate—grind, drag, pause; grind, drag, pause—until you’re slipping, chasing, whining.

He breaks first.

“Fuck the bet,” he says, sudden, hoarse. “I’m done. I’m done.” His mouth finds your ear and his voice is all teeth. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” you gasp into his palm, wrecked. 

He’s already there—sweats shoved low enough to free him, the quick-rough sound of cotton surrendering. Your shorts follow with a jerk, no ceremony, just the urgent rustle of fabric and the brief, cool kiss of air on your skin before he’s there, hot and heavy and real against you.

“Spread,” he says, and his knee knocks yours wider, his hand guiding, uncaring of flour handprints and sugar smudges. He drags the head of himself over you once, twice, slicking himself in what you’ve already given, and then does it again—slower, meaner—like he’s trying to memorize the way you go soft against the counter when he catches your clit on the upstroke.

“Hyun—” It’s barely a word.

“I know.” His voice is dark honey, ruined at the edges. He slots himself between your thighs and ruts there, bare skin to bare skin now, the length of him sliding through the mess he’s made of you. No thrust yet—just long, grinding passes that smear heat everywhere and light up each nerve he touches. His grip on your hips is possessive, fingers denting flour into your skin. “Let me use you,” he breathes, almost reverent. “Let me—”

He guides your pelvis so you ride him back, makes you take his rhythm: drag, press, catch, shiver. Your belly bumps the counter each time; a dusting of sugar lifts into the air like static. You’re wet enough that it’s obscene, the glide slick and noisy in the warm quiet of your kitchen. His ponytail snags in the nape of your neck; he noses under it, inhales like he’s starving.

“Look at this,” he mutters, half-crazed. “Look at what you do to me—feel what you do to me.” He rocks up so the head grinds just under your clit and you jolt, a strangled sound tearing loose. “That’s it. Be sweet.”

You are, because you can’t be anything else like this. Your thighs clamp; you chase every pass without pride, cheeks hot. He’s shaking behind you—actually shaking—hips stuttering once when the underside of him slips just right against you.

“Fuck—” He laughs, hoarse and unbelieving. “I could cum like this. I could—” He cuts himself off with a hiss, throttling the thought. “No. Not before I—” His teeth find the hinge of your jaw, a quick bite that lands more like a kiss. “I need in.”

You nod so hard your forehead taps the cabinet. He shifts his hand from your mouth to your jaw, turning you just enough to catch your profile with his lips, a messy brush that says sorry and thank you and mine all at once.

“Tell me,” he says, words breaking, the tip riding your clit on purpose now, cruel. “Say it.”

“Inside,” you gasp, shameless. “Hyun, inside—please.”

“Yeah?” He lines up, the head nudging your entrance, pushing and retreating in tiny, maddening presses that make you see white. “Just the tip,” he promises, like a liar and a saint. “I’ll be good.”

You feel the tremor in his thighs when he finally breaches you: slow, steady pressure and then the hot, perfect give of your body taking him. He stops with just the crown nestled inside, jaw locked, breath a ragged shudder against your shoulder. Your fingers claw at the laminate.

“Jesus,” he says into your skin, awed and wrecked. “You’re—I forgot how good you feel.”

You try to move; his arm bands across your waist, pinning you. “Don’t,” he grits, almost laughing at himself. “If you move I—” His hips twitch, helpless. You whine, crushed under the wanting.

He holds there for two, three breaths, like a man at the edge of a cliff telling himself not to jump—then the cliff gives. He eases a fraction deeper, a slow, shallow roll that feeds you a few more millimeters and steals the air from your lungs. You gasp; he groans raggedly like your reaction hits him straight in the spine.

“Just—” Another tiny push, another desperate bite of his lip. He’s barely inside, and somehow it feels like everything. “Just the tip. I swear.” He nuzzles your cheek, voice a trembling whisper. “Let me have this.”

You do. You let him have you: let him set the smallest, filthiest rhythm—out a breath, in a breath—each shallow press a tease that builds pressure until you’re shaking against the counter. He never leaves you; he never takes more than an inch. It’s torture cut into lace, and he’s falling apart in it with you, muttering praise and nonsense into your skin.

“Perfect. Perfect. Taking me so good—there you go—” His thumb sneaks lower to feel where you’re stretched around him and the sound he makes at that is shattered, reverent, almost boyish in its wonder. “You’re making a mess of me.”

You are. He is. You feel him pulsing, the restraint a live wire under your hands. Your body clamps down, greedy, and his control howls.

“Okay,” he says, like a surrender and a warning braided together. He presses a kiss behind your ear, soft as sugar. “One more. Just—” His hips roll, deep as he dares, shallow as he can stand. The head nudges that spot again, deliberate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. “Just like that.”

Then suddenly, something in him snaps—audible, almost—and the careful, pretty rhythm you’ve been holding together goes feral. His grip bites, his hips lurch, and he slides in a rough, shallow stroke that punches a sound out of both of you. Another, tighter. A third that’s barely anything at all, just the thick, blunt head grinding where you’re slickest, and he’s gone.

“—ohhhh, fuck—” The word breaks on a groan. He bites into your shoulder as the noise tears out of you, forehead dropping to your shoulder, body strung bow-tight as it hits him. Heat floods; his hips stutter and lock, jerky little pulses betraying him while he tries to stay buried only that impossible inch.

You feel him shake through it, every tremor telegraphing to your spine: weeks of restraint burning up in seconds. He slams home and finishes inside of you, messy and hot, fingers clenched tight around your hips.

For a heartbeat it’s only breathing—his, wrecked and ragged; yours, caught under his palm in quick, shocked pulls. The oven timer chirps again, unbearably cheerful.

He blinks back into himself by degrees. The hand at your mouth slides to your cheek, thumb stroking once like apology. He leans his forehead to the nape of your neck and laughs once, breathless, incredulous, doomed.

“I lost,” he says into your skin, like a eulogy. Then, with immediate, dramatic conviction: “This is your fault.”

He doesn’t move. If anything, he melts closer, chest sealed to your back, nose buried under your ear like he could crawl inside your skin and be done with it.

“My fault?” you echo.

“Absolutely,” he says, kissing the line of your jaw like penance. “A conspiracy. You, butter, sugar, tiny kitchen. I never stood a chance.” Another kiss. Another. He’s clingy in that way that makes you gooey—hands roaming with nowhere to land, mouth greedy for reassuring you’re-here-you’re-mine pecks that trail from your temple to your cheek to the corner of your lips. “I was strong until you did the—” he gestures vaguely at your hips, voice cracking into a helpless laugh, “—that exact thing.”

You tilt your head back, catching his mouth. “Poor baby.”

“Savage temptress,” he counters, already nuzzling, already smiling against your skin like he’s high on you. He finally peels away an inch to grab a paper towel, wipes you and the counter with gentleness that makes your throat sting, then tosses it and wraps himself around you again like the clingy, overheated octopus he is.

“Hyun, the timer,” you remind, soft.

He groans theatrically and still doesn’t let go. “I’m emotionally compromised.”

You bump his hip with yours; he gasps like you shot him and tightens his arms. “Okay! I’m going. I’m going.”

He peels himself off you in slow inches, fingers dragging along your waist until the very last second, like Velcro that refuses to unstick. The oven timer chirps again, smug. He mutters something rude at it under his breath and grabs an oven mitt.

You watch him cross the kitchen: sweats low on his hips, ponytail half dead, cheeks still a little pink. He looks wrecked and soft and yours, and something hot and fond curls under your ribs.

He opens the oven, a blast of heat puffing his hair back, and wrestles the tray out. “Look at that,” he announces, setting it on the stovetop with a hiss of metal on metal. “Perfect. Unlike my failure.”

You snort. “You act like you didn’t sprint to failure the second you had an opening.”

“Defamation,” he says, affronted, but his eyes are laughing. He leans on the counter next to the cookies, shoulders heaving once in a leftover shiver, then glances at you with the expression of a man who just remembered something terrible. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“The group chat,” he groans. “We have to tell them.”

You blink. “We?”

“We are in this together,” he insists immediately. “If I go down, you’re my accomplice.”

You wipe a thumb through a stray streak of flour on the counter. “Or,” you say, “you could… not tell them.”

He blinks. “Not… tell them?”

“Not tonight,” you amend. “You can confess your tragic downfall in the morning. When you’re less—” you wave a hand at his whole flushed, wrecked self “—like this.”

He considers that, chewing his lip. Then he sighs, dramatic. “Postponed execution. I’ll allow it.” He chucks his phone onto the table without unlocking it and steps back into your space like a magnet snapping home.

You squeak when he scoops you up by the waist, spinning you lazily once before setting you on the counter beside the cooling tray. His hands find your hips again and stay there, thumbs rubbing little circles over the fabric.

“Hyun,” you laugh. “Cookies are hot.”

“So am I,” he says, completely straight-faced. “Equal threat level.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers are already in his hair, loosening the half-dead ponytail, combing through the strands at his nape. He melts, actually melts, tipping his forehead into your shoulder with a tiny, content sound.

For a minute, that’s all it is: his arms around your waist, your nose tucked into his damp hair, the kitchen warm with butter and sugar and the soft tick of the cooling oven. His heartbeat is a steady thump against your ribs. The sharp edge of earlier has dulled to something slow and syrupy.

He speaks without lifting his head. “Just so you know,” he mumbles into your shirt, “I’m taking you anyway.”

You stroke the back of his neck. “Hm?”

“The trip.” He turns his face so his cheek is pressed over your heart, words softer, clearer. “I still want to go. With you. Even if I lost like, spectacularly.” His mouth quirks. “Maybe because I lost spectacularly.”

You huff a tiny laugh. “You don’t need an excuse to take me on vacation, you know.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s no bravado in it now. Just that earnest, stupid-sweet honesty you’re a little bit addicted to. “I just… liked the story in my head. Suffer all month, win the pot, whisk you away with my noble restraint.” He tips his chin up to look at you, eyes soft. “But I think ‘couldn’t keep my hands off my girlfriend while she was making cookies’ is a pretty good story, too.”

“A little embarrassing,” you correct.

“Still vacation-worthy.”

You search his face. “You’re sure?”

He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and certain. “I’m sure,” he says against your lips. “I wanted the trip with you. The rest was just… decoration.”

Your chest does that inconvenient squeeze again. You thread your fingers with his where they rest on your thighs, squeezing.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then we’ll go.”

His whole body relaxes, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He grins, bright and boyish and a little relieved, then tucks back into your shoulder, arms cinching you closer until you’re basically welded together.

He smiles against your collar, and the kitchen, your stupid cookies, the ruined bet—all of it settles into something small and sweet and yours. No charts, no prize money, no rules.

Just Hyunjin, sticky with sugar and soft with relief, promising you a vacation he was always going to take you on anyway, and you, letting him hold you there on your own counter until the only thing left humming in the air is the certainty that he’d lose a hundred bets, and choose you, every single time.

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