Sports Car - Jung Wooyoung x Reader
Inspired by the song "Sports Car" by Tate McRae
"I think you know what this is"
Summary: You run from your life for the summer. No plans, no promises, just the hunger for something reckless. And then you see him. Jung Wooyoung. Heâs everything you're chasing: fast cars, faster nights, and a smile that dares you to misbehave. He races like heâs got nothing to lose and looks at you like youâre the next line heâs ready to cross. But the more you get tangled in each otherâs lives, the more you realize, rules donât mean shit when youâre both the type to break them. And now? Youâre not sure whatâs more dangerous: the races⌠or the way he looks at you.
Word count: 26.6K
Genre: Street racer!Wooyoung x reader, oneshot, angsty, drama, smut
warnings: Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), blood mentioned, angst about disappearing, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, unprotected sex, Wooyoung is dominant, lmk if I missed anything!
A/N: I have not read this through so I hope it's good! someone requested a wooyoung-fic where he isn't this "usually bubbly" character, and I had so much fun writing him as a tease but with an edge to it! literally I think he's so hot lmao, I love him. Enjoy pookies!!!
The rooftop is already humming when you step out of the elevator, heat clings to your skin, music spills into the open sky, and a blur of voices laughs like nothing in the world could touch them. You havenât planned on coming tonight. You didnât even come here to have fun. You came here to forget. To get out. To breathe without everything collapsing on top of you.
Back home, everything had started unraveling. Bills stacked on the counter, messages piling in that you didnât want to read, expectations pressed into your skin so tightly theyâd left bruises. People needed things from you. Constantly. Quietly. And if you slowed down for even a second, the whole system started to fail.
So you ran.
You packed a bag, booked a one-way plane ticket, and told everyone it was a âshort break.â A getaway for the entire summer. You didnât tell them that the idea of staying one more day in that life made your stomach twist into knots.
Now youâre here.
A few days into your stay in this town, visiting your cousin, living in a random Airbnb you just managed to afford. Here, no one knows what youâre running from. And for the summer, thatâs exactly the point.
âHoly shit, you actually came.â your cousinâs voice snaps you back. She weaves through a group of people and pulls you into a loose, alcohol-warm hug. âI was starting to think you chickened out.â
You offer a weak smile. âYou said thereâd be tequila.â
âThereâs also gin, cheap beer, and a guy puking off the fire escape. We have everything.â She shoves a cup into your hand and links your arms, dragging you into the heat.
You force a laugh and let her drag you toward her friends. The usual suspects. Half of them you met last weekend. The other half look like they belong in a music video, glossed lips, messed-up curls, tattoos theyâd lie about the meaning of. Music thuds through the speakers. A girl danced barefoot on a bench with glitter in her hair and zero fear in her eyes.
You want to be her. You want to be anything but yourself for a while.
Youâre halfway through your first drink when something, someone, catches your eye.
Not from the center of the party. From the edge. Leaning against the low wall like he belonged to another world. Half-lit by the string lights overhead. One boot hooked over the other. A cigarette hanging from his lips, the orange tip flaring each time he breathes.
His jacket is black, leather, worn in like a second skin. He wears it open over a faded black shirt that clings to his chest in the heat. His hands, veins, rings, knuckles, looked like they knew how to break things. Dark hair curled around his ears like he hadnât bothered to style it. And his face? Unbothered.
He isnât looking at anyone. Not watching. Not performing. Just existing.
Your cousin follows your gaze, and when her eyes land on him, then roll her eyes before her expression shifts into something like caution. âYeah,â she says, low. âThatâs Wooyoung.â
You blink. âWho?â
She gives you a look. âYou havenât heard about him?â
You shake your head, eyes drifting back to the guy in question.
Another friend chimes in, voice already tipsy: âHeâs bad news.â
âHeâs been here forever,â your cousin says. âBorn reckless. Drives like a lunatic. Hooked up with half the people on this roof and ghosted the rest.â
âWrecked his car last year racing out by the docks,â someone else adds, cracking open a beer. âDidnât even flinch. Climbed out with blood on his hands and laughed.â
You glance at him again. He just tips the bottle to his lips, throat working, cigarette still balanced between his fingers like a forgotten afterthought. His jaw is sharp, and the curve of his mouth looks like it only knows how to smirk or sneer. And when his eyes scan the room, they land on you.
Itâs not subtle.
He watches like heâs already bored of the outcome, like he knows exactly what happens when he looks at someone long enough. Like heâs already counted to three and youâre about to fall.
But you hold his stare. You donât smile. Donât flinch. Let him look.Â
And then you look away.
Your cousin touches your arm. âDonât even think about it.â
âIâm not.â
âYouâre so thinking about it.â
You turn away, take another drink, and try to pretend you don't feel that pull. That spark. That quiet ache for something reckless.
But you do. And youâre not here to be safe.
A little later you drift away from the group. You feel him before you see him. You glance sideways and heâs already there, leaning a little too casually against the cooler, cigarette behind one ear, that reckless grin barely tugging at his mouth like heâs doing you a favor by showing up.
Wooyoung.
Even if you didnât already hear whispers about him, the kind that circle like smoke, youâd know. Youâd know by the way he moves like he owns the room without touching it. The kind of man who thinks he doesnât need to ask.
âYou look like you could use another,â he says, chin-tilting toward your near-empty cup. âLet me grab you one.â
You donât answer at first. You just look at him. Not up or down, not obvious, but right in the eyes. Heâs used to curiosity, flirtation, maybe even awe. You give him something else.
Nothing.
And then, a soft, almost polite: âNo.â
His smile quirks. âYou sure?â
âVery.â
He laughs under his breath, gaze dipping once, quick. âTough crowd.â
You donât smile. You donât frown either. Just turn slightly toward the bar, like youâve already dismissed him. âIâm not thirsty,â you add. Cool. Flat.
He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, just enough to be felt. âWhat about a ride, then? Later. I could show you around. You new here, right?â
You blink up at him, head tilting like youâre thinking. For half a second, you let him think you might say yes. And thenâŚ
âNo again.â You take a sip from your cup, slow. Letting the silence linger between you as you let him try to read you. You smile then, just the corners of your lips, like a secret he doesnât get to know. âThanks, though,â you murmur, already turning away. You walk back into the crowd, eyes ahead, leaving behind the heat of him, the weight of his stare burning a hole into your back.
Itâs late now. The rooftop has thinned, half the crowd gone, music lower, conversations quieter, messier. Youâre near the edge again, drink long gone, and the sky bleeding into deep navy when you feel him behind you.
You donât turn. You wait.
âYou always say no that easy?â he says, and the way his voice grazes the shell of your ear makes your spine straighten just slightly.
You turn then, slow, like it costs you nothing. And there he is. His mouth is quirked like heâs in on some joke, but his eyes are sharp, focused entirely on you. Heâs even prettier up close. Prettier in the way knives are, sharp and gleaming and made to draw blood.
âIâm heading out,â he adds, casual. Like this is nothing. Like youâre just another option. âWant a ride?â
You want to get in his car. Want to see how fast he drives when thereâs no one telling him to slow down. You want to feel the engine roar under your feet, his voice slick in your ear, want to taste what danger actually feels like when itâs not a metaphor.
But you also want to see what heâll do when he doesnât get what he wants the first time. So you take a beat. Let the silence stretch. Your gaze drags down his body and back up again, slow enough to make sure he feels it. Then you look him dead in the eye.
âMaybe.â
You donât wait for his reaction. You just turn, hips swaying, and make your way back to your friends. And you feel his eyes on your back the entire walk across the roof.
Itâs late. The partyâs over. The rooftop has emptied, music cut off mid-song, and everyoneâs filtered into rides or rideshares or stumbled off into the night together.
âText me when you get home, alright?â your cousin says, pulling you in for a quick hug before she disappears into the uber with the last of the stragglers.
âYeah, yeah,â you mumble, waving her off as the door shuts behind her and they drive off.
And just like that, the noise is gone. The music. The bodies. Now itâs just you. Quiet. Cool night air on your bare legs. Streetlights blinking over cracked sidewalks. You check your phone, four minutes until your Uber. You lean back against the brick wall.Â
And then you hear it.
That engine.
It purrs low, like a warning or a promise, and you look up just as the black sports car pulls up to the curb. Same matte finish. Same cocky presence. Heâs behind the wheel, of course he is, one arm slung lazily over the door, dark hair ruffled, eyes hidden under his lashes like heâs still half-bored, half-waiting.
Your stomach twists. In a good way. You were hoping heâd try again.
But you donât show it. You keep your expression smooth, brows lifted just slightly in mock surprise.
âYâknow,â he says, voice deep and seemingly unbothered. âfor someone who says no so much, you sure know how to look like someone who would say yes.â
You smirk. âFor someone who hears no so much, you sure keep trying.â
That gets a glint of something behind his eyes, not offense. Amusement. Maybe even respect.
You check your phone again. Two minutes.
He nods at it. âUber?â
âMhm.â
âCancel it,â he says, like itâs obvious. âIâll drive you.â He studies you, slowly.Â
âYouâve had alcohol.â you say.
âIâve had one beer, correct. I can still drive,â He leans back in his seat, one finger tapping on the steering wheel like heâs deciding how long to wait. âOne of these times, youâre gonna say yes.â
You glance at the street. Then back at him. âMaybe.â You keep your voice light. But the way your heart skips when he licks his bottom lip like heâs already imagining what maybe might mean?
âSo now what? Youâre just gonna go home safe and sound to your own bed?â
You shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. âSafeâs not exactly what Iâm after.â
He laughs softly, the sound like gravel sliding over glass. âGood. Because Iâm not about safe.â He gestures to the passenger seat. âGet in. Iâm taking you somewhere that doesnât care about safe.â
You hesitate a moment, âYou donât even know my name.â
His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with something dangerous. âWeâll talk about that in the car.â
You glance back at your phone, then to the dark leather interior of the car where he waits, the door cracked open like an invitation. The night hums around you, the promise of escape, the thrill of the unknown.
And for the first time since you got here, you do the first reckless thing. You push yourself off the brick wall, reach out, fingertips grazing the door handle, and slide inside.
The door shuts behind you with a soft, final thud, and in that instant, everything feels different. The engine comes alive under his hand, a low purr that vibrates up through the floorboards and settles in your spine. He shifts into drive with a lazy flick of his wrist and pulls into the street like he owns it. The silence stretches, thick and full, like the pause between lightning and thunder.
One minute, itâs neon signs and sirens and people yelling from balconies. The next, itâs just open road, the dark curling around you like smoke. He didnât say where youâre going, and you didnât ask. Maybe thatâs part of it. You came here to stop asking questions.
He drives like he was born with a steering wheel in his hands, fast, aggressive, but never reckless. You glance at him. One hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the gearshift. Long fingers, silver rings.Â
You stare longer than you mean to.
He notices. He doesnât look at you, but you feel it, some part of him clocking your gaze. He smirks, like he likes being watched. âYouâre quiet,â he says, finally.
You glance at him. âI donât really know where weâre going.â
âThatâs the point.â
The lights of the city are long gone now, swallowed behind the bend of a hill. When he pulls off the road, your stomach dips.
The tires crunch against gravel as he eases the car up a narrow path that looks like it was never meant to be driven. Your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap, but you donât ask him to stop. You want to see where this leads.
Then the road opens up.
Itâs not a lookout point. Thereâs no fence, no benches, no other cars. Just a slab of cracked asphalt at the edge of a cliff, a wide, feral view of the city lights flickering far below. Wind rushes against the windshield. The drop is sharp. Dangerous.
Exactly what you wanted. He kills the engine and the silence rushes in. You donât move. Neither does he. Finally, he says, âScared of heights?â
âNo,â you breathe.
âPerfectâ Heâs already looking at you. That cocky, knowing tilt to his mouth again. Like heâs testing what scares you. Like he wants to find the exact line youâll make him cross.
âSo,â he says. âWhat do I call you when I make you regret getting in my car?â
You donât flinch. You meet his stare, steady. âY/N.â
He lets it settle, your name on his tongue. Rolls it once, like heâs tasting it. âY/N,â he repeats. âFitting.â
You tilt your head. âAnd you? I donât like calling strangers âguy who doesnât know when to quit.ââ
That grin flashes, quick and crooked. âWooyoung.â
You hum. âMm. That oneâs fitting too.â
The silence that follows isnât awkward. Itâs heavy. Saturated. His eyes donât leave you, dark, focused, hungry. You should look away, but your pulse is a drumbeat behind your ribs, and you want him to see it. You want him to know itâs because of him.
âYou always stare at people like that?â you ask.
His voice is lower now, more deliberate. âOnly when I want something from them.â
You raise an eyebrow. âAnd what is it you want from me?â
His tongue traces the edge of his bottom lip. âThe obvious answer?â
You nod, slow. âYeah.â
He doesnât hesitate. âI want you in my lap, messing up my hair, moaning my name like itâs the only thing you know.â
The words slam into you, blunt, confident, filthy. Your throat tightens around your breath, your legs press together without thinking.
He sees that too.
But you donât back down. You raise your chin, hold his gaze like itâs a challenge. âYou say that to all the girls you drive out here?â
Wooyoung leans in, just slightly, enough that his voice hits deeper, lower. âNah. Most of them donât make me work for it.â
Thereâs something raw in the way he says it, unapologetic, shameless. Like he knows exactly what heâs doing and doesnât care if you do too. He doesnât play pretend. He doesnât flirt to charm. He flirts to ruin.
You donât move. Donât look away. The cliff below disappears into a blur, the city glows like it doesnât even know you left. Itâs just you and him, and the space between you thatâs shrinking by the second. âI want to stop thinking,â you say, voice low, steady. âThatâs why I got in your car.â
Wooyoungâs eyes darken slightly. The smirk fades, replaced with something quieter. Sharper.
You keep going. âI want to stop caring. Stop worrying about the next thing, the smart thing, the right thing. I just want to shut everything off for a while.â
Heâs still, like he knows not to interrupt.
âAnd youâŚâ you look at him then, all dark eyes and bad decisions, his hand loose on the steering wheel like heâs not even pretending to care about control. âYou seem like the kind of guy who doesnât ask for consequences. Or commitment.â
His tongue swipes the inside of his cheek, and he exhales a soft laugh. âThat obvious?â
You shrug, but thereâs a glint in your eye. âKind of your whole thing, isnât it?â
He leans in a little more, elbow on the door, body turned toward you now. âSo you want to do something reckless?â
âI got in your car, didnât I?â
That gets a reaction, a slow grin, one side of his mouth curling with pure, unfiltered interest. âI donât make promises,â he says. âI donât do rules, or tomorrow. But if you want tonight, no strings, no pretending, just the rush-â
âI do.â
Two words. Honest. Simple. And you donât look away when you say them.
He leans closer, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. âThen come here.â
You donât hesitate this time. You crawl across the seat without a word, knees brushing the leather, breath catching when your thigh grazes his. When you settle in his lap, his hands find your hips instantly, grounding you, greedy.Â
âYou sure?â he murmurs, and itâs not hesitation, itâs courtesy, like giving you a final out he already knows you wonât take.
You slide your hands into his hair, fingers threading through the dark mess of it. âDonât ask again.â
Thatâs all he needs.
He surges forward, and your mouths crash together like the tension had teeth. Thereâs nothing soft about it. His tongue finds yours without asking, and you meet him head-on, like youâve wanted this since the second you saw him flick ash from his cigarette.
He tastes like trouble, smoke and whiskey and a little bit of adrenaline, and you canât get enough. His hand slides up your back, under your shirt, dragging warm fingertips along your spine. You arch into it.
âFuck,â he mutters against your mouth, like he didnât expect you to kiss like this, to move like this. He bites your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp, and then kisses you again, deeper this time, like heâs chasing something down in your throat.
âGod, you feel good,â he groans, hips rolling up into yours, and you grind down in answer. The car creaks slightly under the weight of you both, the windows fogging, your breaths too loud in the silence of the hill.
This isnât careful. It isnât pretty. Itâs fast and messy and hot.Â
You kiss him like youâre starving, because in a way, you are. Not for romance or sweet nothings. For chaos. For heat. For the perfect, destructive distraction that he is. Wooyoungâs hands roam like he has every right. Under your shirt, up your thighs, gripping like heâs trying to leave fingerprints. The center console digs into your thigh, but you donât care.Â
âTake this off,â he mutters, tugging at your top.
You obey, quick and clumsy, flinging it to the passenger seat. His eyes rake over you, your bra, your breathless expression, your flushed skin. He drags his hands up your stomach slowly, deliberately.
âYouâre unreal,â he murmurs, mostly to himself. Then he leans in, pressing a trail of kisses from your collarbone to the swell of your breast, tongue flicking out just enough to make your breath hitch. âYou like being bad, donât you?â
You laugh, barely. âI like not thinking.â
He grins, dark and cocky. âGood. âCause thinkingâs the first thing Iâll take from you.â
One hand unhooks your bra. The other grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. He dips his head, mouth latching onto your breast, sucking until you arch into him, fingers tangled in his hair. Your moan breaks out sharp, raw.
âFuck,â you whisper, because this is already more than you expected, hotter, filthier, better. You reach down between you, fingers touching him over his jeans. Heâs hard. Big. Thick. You wrap your hand around the shape of him, and he groans, deep in his chest.
âWhat do you want me to do to you?â he asks, placing wet kisses on your skin.
âI donât care, just make me come.â you breathe against his jaw, licking just beneath his ear.
Wooyoung adjusts the seat back slightly, giving you space but not distance. The second time you roll your hips against him, itâs not slow. Itâs shameless. You moan, not even trying to hide it.
One of his hands leaves your waist. It trails down your stomach, smooth and slow. He slips it under your skirt like heâs done it a thousand times, no hesitation, no asking, just confident fingers dragging over your heat until you gasp and grab tighter at his hair.
âGod, look at you,â Wooyoung murmurs, breath hot against your ear. âAlready falling apart.â He rolls the windows down halfway, lazy, casual. The breeze slips in, cool against your skin. You realize what heâs doing, letting the night hear you. Letting the whole city know who youâre moaning for.
Cocky bastard.
âYou want to be loud for me?â he whispers against your jaw, fingers teasing your folds, slipping between them with perfect pressure. âWant to let them hear how good I make you feel?â
Your body tenses, eyes fluttering shut, breath caught on a moan as his fingers slip inside you, deep, slow, fucking up into you with confidence.
You grind down against his hand, head falling back. âWooyoungâŚâ
He growls. Literally growls.
âThatâs it. Just like that.â
Youâre sitting on his lap, backlit by the city, your skin bathed in moonlight and sin. Your shirt and bra are long gone, tossed somewhere into the passenger seat, your skirt barely hiding anything. Youâre undone, flushed and panting, his fingers buried deep inside you, and he canât look away.
He exhales sharply, like he just got hit. âJesus,â he mutters, but itâs not a prayer, itâs a celebration.Â
You grind against his hand shamelessly, your head tipping back as you let the sounds escape your throat. You donât care if the city hears. You hope it does.
And neither does he. His free hand cradles your jaw, forces you to look at him, and you do. Eyes glassy, lips parted, your breath catching as his fingers curl just right again. You cry out, and he grins, proud, possessive. âThatâs it.â
He leans forward to press his mouth against your chest, sucking a bruise into the soft curve beneath your breast, biting down just enough to make you twitch. âLouder,â he murmurs, tongue trailing hot and slow along your skin. âLet them hear how good I make you feel.â
The windows are down, the night air hitting your flushed skin, but youâre burning up. On fire from the inside out. And just when you think youâre going to tip over the edgeâŚ
âCome for me, pretty girl,â he whispers, eyes wild. âCâmon, I want to feel it.â
Thatâs all it takes.
You fall apart with a cry, nails dragging down his chest, hips grinding helplessly into his palm as he works you through it, as if he could drag it out longer just because he can. You ride his hand until youâre limp and breathless, your head falling forward onto his shoulder. Wooyoung keeps his hand there, holding you open, feeling you twitch around nothing as you come down.
Youâre still panting, slumped against his chest, the city lights flickering behind you like a dream. Youâve never felt so raw. So wrecked.
So alive.
He finally slides his fingers out of you, slow, wet, deliberate, and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a smirk.
âSweet,â he murmurs, voice wrecked. âKnew youâd taste like trouble.â
He leans back slightly to look at you, the glow of the city behind your head like a halo.
And fuck if you arenât the most dangerous thing heâs ever seen.
***
You donât even remember how you got home after that night. One minute youâre burning against him, the next youâre in your bed, shirt crumpled in your hands, the cityâs glow bleeding through your curtains. He drove you back, fast, silent, like the night didnât want to hear you talking. No promises. No phone numbers. Exactly what you wanted.
No strings. No ties.
Just that raw escape from everything thatâs expected of you.Â
A few days later your cousinâs car sputters its last breath three blocks from the apartment, and now youâre both standing in the office of a mechanicâs garage, listening to the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low rumble of hip-hop from the back.
âYou guys take walk-ins?â your cousin asks the man at the front desk.
âDepends whoâs free,â the guy says, barely glancing up before he clicks a button and mutters into the intercom. âYo, someoneâs gotta check this Corolla in bay two.â
You almost donât register the sound of footsteps behind the garage door. Almost. It swings open, and he walks in like itâs any other day. Black t-shirt, grease-stained hands, that same smug posture, lazy, lethal confidence in every step.
Wooyoung.
Your stomach flips. Your pulse forgets what itâs doing.
He doesnât freeze. He clocks you in a second, eyes dragging from your shoes to your lips, and smirks like he knew this would happen eventually.
The garage smells like oil and gasoline, thick and sharp. Your cousin pops the hood of her beaten-up car and starts explaining the issues to Wooyoung. He listens quietly, nodding, hands tucked in the pockets, eyes flickering toward you more than once. His dark hair is tousled, shadows playing across his face. Heâs calm, collected, but thereâs something electric beneath that cool exterior.
âGotta head to their office, handle some paperwork,â your cousin says without looking back. âBe back as soon as I can!â She walks off, leaving you alone with Wooyoung.
The silence is thick. Wooyoungâs there, crouched by the open hood, cigarette resting behind his ear, muscles flexing as he works. He doesnât look up immediately, but the moment he does, his eyes catch yours with a slow, knowing smirk.
A smirk curls at the corner of his lips. âDidnât think Iâd see you again. Thought youâd be too smart for that.â
You cross your arms, eyes locked on his. âIâm full of surprises.â
He smirks, that cocky tilt of his head making your stomach flip. âIs that supposed to be a warning or an invitation?â
You laugh, sharp and unbothered. âMaybe both. Depends if you can handle it.â
Wooyoungâs gaze sharpens, amused and intrigued. He steps closer, the air tightening between you. âI race. Late nights, no rules, just speed and risk. You ever been to one?â
You cock your head, curious but guarded. âCanât say I have.â
âRaceâs tonight,â he says flatly. âOld pier, Maple Street. Ten oâclock. Show up.â
You meet his gaze evenly, lips curling into a faint smile that doesnât give anything away. âMaybe.â Without another word, you turn and walk toward the office, the sound of your footsteps sharp in the quiet garage. Behind you, you feel his eyes burning, like a spark waiting to ignite.
***
You didnât plan on coming. You told yourself that more than once, heels clicking too confidently across the cracked asphalt now.
The lot is packed tonight, headlights cutting through smoke, the low thrum of engines and bass mixing with the scent of exhaust and beer. Thereâs laughter somewhere behind you. A fire pit burning on the outskirts.Â
Youâre not here for him. Youâre here for the thrill. The mess. The chaos.
Thatâs what you tell yourself⌠right until you spot him.
Heâs got the hood of his car up, hands deep in the engine under the yellow haze of the parking lot lights. Sweat glints at his temple. Leather jacket stretching as he moves. Thereâs something brutal and beautiful about him like this, focused, filthy, in his element.
You donât stare long. Just a second. You tell yourself itâs curiosity, nothing more. Long enough to feel that old pull in your gut. Then you turn your head, pretend heâs nothing. Sip from your cup like you didnât come here hoping heâd show.
The crowd buzzes around you, bass from someoneâs speaker, the smell of gasoline and cheap weed and summer sweat. Your heels click softly when you shift your weight. The hem of your black skirt creeps higher when you cross your legs.
âYou actually came.â
You glance over, deliberately slow. Wooyoung is standing next to you now, casual as ever, hands in his pockets, smirk lazy across his face.
âDidnât realize you were the welcoming committee.â you tease.
He smiles, teeth sharp under the buzzing parking lot lights. Heâs close now, not touching, but he never needs to be. His eyes drop, track the tiny black skirt hugging your hips, the heels that make your legs look miles long. You feel the way he looks at you, possessive, greedy, intrigued.
âYou came here alone?â he asks, voice low, like a secret passed too close to your ear.Â
You raise a brow, sip from the red cup in your hand. âWhy? You worried?â
His gaze cuts to the guy who had been trying to talk to you before, then back to your mouth. His stare is slow, deliberate. Territorial in the kind of way he wonât admit out loud. âI should be.â Then, softer, almost too quiet beneath the bass and city noise, but it hits you square in the chest. âYou shouldnât come here looking like this.â
You smirk, weight shifting onto one hip as you tilt your head at him. âScared you might get some competition?â
His eyes drag down your legs. Slowly. Taking their time. âAre you doing this on purpose?â
You blink up at him, lashes thick. Innocent, like you donât know exactly what he means. âDoing what?â
He steps closer, just a breath between you now. His voice drops. âYou wanna be looked at?â His eyes flick to the crowd, jaw tightening. âYou want every guy here thinking theyâve got a chance?â
You hum, almost amused. âIâm just having fun.â
His tongue drags across his bottom lip as he fights the twitch in his smirk, that look of barely restrained hunger already flooding back in. âYouâre trouble.â he says simply, shaking his head. âFucking trouble.â
Then, without asking, he slides his jacket off and drapes it around your shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Smelling like oil and smoke and him.
âIâm not cold,â you murmur, eyes narrowing.
He shrugs. âDidnât say it was for that.â He leaves without another word. Just a look, something unreadable, sharp-edged, and hot enough to sink into your spine.Â
The buzz of the crowd floods back in as soon as heâs gone. Music from someoneâs speaker thumping through the pavement, tires squealing nearby. Laughter. Catcalls. You move, slipping through clusters of people, past hoods popped open and boys hyping up their cars. You find a low ledge near the corner of a building and climbs up, tugging his jacket tighter around your body as you settle. It still smells like him. Smoke, grease and something reckless.
Then you see him.
Heâs stepping toward his car, the same one he made you come in last week. Thereâs a light sheen of sweat on his neck, messy strands of hair falling over his forehead. His jawâs tight, focused. The cocky confidence is still there, but cut with something else, something darker. Dangerous.
You let your eyes trail over him slowly, drinking it all in: the way his eyes scan the street, calculating. Alive. You feel it from here, the pull, the high. He was made for this.
And then, just before he gets in, he looks up. Straight at you.
Itâs not casual. Itâs not an accident. His eyes find you like a match to gasoline. You donât look away. You let him see you. Legs longs, his jacket barely covering the sin of your skirt, lips parted from the liquor and heat of it all. You tilt your head, just a fraction, enough to let him know you like what you see.
He grins. Barely there, but it cuts through the dark. Then heâs gone, slipping into the driverâs seat, engine revving like a war cry.
The flag drops and the cars launch forward like bullets, engines roar like wild beasts unleashed, tires screeching against the cracked asphalt. Youâre breathless, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd.Â
The car beside him tries to keep pace, but itâs like watching a child chase a shadow. Heâs too good. Too confident. Too alive. He takes the first turn tight and fast, almost too fast, but he grips it, tires screaming in protest.
You bite your lip and smile, pulse ticking high. You werenât looking for meaning.
But this? The danger, the speed, the burn in your veins?
This might be exactly what you needed.
Back on the straightaway, his car roars ahead, slicing through the night like a knife. The other driver strains, but Wooyoungâs already miles ahead. The city lights blur past, but heâs a sharp contrast, focused, untouchable. The finish line rushes toward him, and he crosses it first with a triumphant roar from the crowd.
The roar of engines dies down, and the crowd begins to thin after a while, their chatter fading into the night as anticipation for the next race lingers in the air. You step away from the edge of the track, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, heart still pounding from the rush. You find a spot behind a half-gutted van and lean back, letting the chaos fade. You breathe in the night and feel your pulse begin to settle.
Then a voice behind you cuts right through.
âRunning off already?â he drawls.
You donât jump. You donât turn around too quickly. Just lift your gaze toward the sky for one long second, then shift to glance over your shoulder.Â
Heâs there. Lit up in the dim glow of a busted streetlamp, black t-shirt, eyes hot. His hairâs a little messy from the wind, jaw sharp with leftover adrenaline. Smug, as always.
âI figured youâd be busy,â you say, neutral.
âI am,â he shrugs. âBut I saw you walk away.â
You face him fully now. âCongratulations, by the way.â
He steps closer, just a little. âYou came to see me win?â
You tilt your head. âI came for the thrill.â
He laughs under his breath like he knows better. âAnd did you get it?â
You don't answer. Just let your gaze sweep over him, slow and deliberate. Thereâs a sheen of sweat on his neck, veins prominent from gripping the wheel.Â
âI always knew you were trouble,â he murmurs, mouth twitching. âBut that skirt? That walk? You just confirmed youâre doing it on purpose.â
You smirk. âYouâre not the only one who likes a little attention.â
That makes his tongue press into his cheek, makes his eyes darken just a shade. Then he jerks his head toward the lot. âCome on.â
You raise a brow. âWhere?â
âAway,â he says simply. âYouâve seen enough here, havenât you?â He doesnât wait for your answer, just starts walking toward his car like he knows youâll come. And maybe thatâs what makes you move, the confidence, the danger, the not-knowing.
Because you want to. The engine rumbles to life like itâs impatient, just like him. He doesnât say a word when you glance at him, just flicks the headlights on, rolls down his window, and pulls out without looking back.
You donât ask where heâs going. He doesnât tell you. His hand is steady on the wheel. One arm draped over the top, wrist loose, like heâs done this a thousand times, like he owns every road. Thatâs when you see it. The rose inked on his forearm, just above the wrist. You never noticed it before. Sharp lines, bold petals, thorns curled close to the stem. Beautiful. Quietly dangerous.
Just like him.
After a while, you catch the scent of salt. The car slows, headlights cutting across uneven sand and gravel before dipping low, settling in front of a wide, open stretch of black water. The ocean looks infinite like this, still, deep, unbothered by the world they came from.
Wooyoung kills the engine.
The beach isnât much, not the kind you'd take photos at, but it's empty. Silent. The kind of place people come to forget. Or to be alone, together.
âYou always bring people out here?â you ask finally, your voice low, not because you're shy, but because anything louder might snap the moment in two.
His mouth twitches. âNo.â
Thatâs all he gives you.
You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly and open the door. The air outside is colder than expected, and the wind off the ocean hits your bare legs like a slap, but you donât flinch. You walk barefoot into the sand, heels dangling from one hand. His jacket hangs off your frame like a secret you shouldnât be keeping.
You donât look back. You donât need to.
You hear him follow a few seconds later. The door shuts with a heavy thud, and his footsteps crunch behind you in the sand. And you feel it: his stare. Heavy. Hot. Carving into the back of your thighs like heâs still sitting behind the wheel, still imagining your legs slung over his seat.
âYou gonna keep staring?â you ask, not turning around.
âIâm trying not to.â
You smile, slow. âYouâre bad at that.â
He lets out a short laugh, the low kind that hums in your stomach. Then he steps closer, sand giving way under his boots.
âThat skirtâs gonna be the death of me,â he mutters.
You finally turn your head, raise an eyebrow. âWhat does it do to you?â
He laughs under his breath, low and sharp. âYou want the full list?â
You face him now. The hem of the jacket skims just above your thighs, the wind teasing it up every so often, just enough. And he's looking. His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, like heâs thinking too much.Â
You blink up at him, heart in your throat but your expression smooth. âIâm starting to think youâve got no self-control.â
âOh, I donât,â he says easily, taking another step forward. You donât back away. âNot with you standing there like that. Jacket slipping off your shoulder. Those pretty little heels in your hand like you just got tired of playing nice.â
The air between you is thick now, too hot, too still, too quiet. Just the wind, the dark waves behind you, and the way heâs looking at you like every second without touching you is driving him fucking insane.
âYouâre not making it easy,â he says low.
âIâm not trying to.âÂ
He exhales a sharp laugh, then grabs your jaw and kisses you. Thereâs no warning. No slow lead-in. His mouth crashes onto yours like heâs been starving, like heâs trying to taste everything he missed. You kiss him back just as hard, breath catching in your chest as your free hand fists in his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips, palms skimming down the sides of your thighs, up under the hem of your jacket.
Then he pulls back, just enough to speak, voice rough and low, eyes dark. âGet in the backseat.â
You blink, chest heaving. âWhat?â
His hand is still gripping your thigh, thumb stroking slow against the inside. âYou heard me. Backseat. Now.â
Itâs not a suggestion. Itâs a command that lights something wicked inside you. Without a word you walk around to the passenger side, pulling the door open with your heart pounding. Heâs already climbing into the back, shoving the front seat forward to make space. The dome light overhead flickers on and then dims as you slide in beside him.
The second the door shuts, heâs on you again.
The car fills with the sound of breathless gasps and the shuffle of clothes, the scent of him closing in as his hands roam with renewed urgency. He tugs you into his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, your skirt riding high as you grind down against the bulge already straining in his jeans.
âFuck,â he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. âThis-, this is what I shouldâve done last time.â
You kiss him again, deeper this time, biting his lip just hard enough to make him curse again. His hands slide up your back, underneath the jacket, skin against skin now, and itâs not enough. Nothing is.
âKeep the jacket on,â he mutters between kisses. âLooks better on you anyway.â
You laugh softly, a sound that breaks into a moan as he grinds up into you, the friction delicious and overwhelming. You know this is going to get messy. Exactly the way you want it.
Because this time, heâs not stopping.
He curses under his breath, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping, pulling you down harder onto him as he bucks up. âYouâre gonna drive me insane,â he murmurs, biting down on the edge of your jaw, hard enough to make you gasp. âMaking those little noises, grinding like that-, fuck-â
Your hands are already at his belt, unfastening it with practiced ease, the clink of metal loud in the quiet car. His breath catches the moment your fingers brush over the hard line of him, still straining against his jeans.
âShit,â he mutters, eyes dropping to where your hand moves. He leans back slightly, hands gripping your thighs as you shift just enough to pull him free, hot and heavy in your palm, thick and already leaking. He hisses when your thumb swipes over the tip.
âIâve thought about this,â he says low, watching you from beneath heavy lashes. âYou. In my car. Wearing my jacket. Getting me this fuckinâ hard without even trying.â
âYouâre the one who didnât fuck me last time,â you whisper, breathless, teasing.
His jaw tightens. âYeah. And Iâve regretted it every damn day since.â Then he reaches down between you both, pulls your underwear to the side with one hand, rough, impatient, and notches the head of his cock against your entrance. You rise to your knees to angle yourself better, nails digging into his bare shoulders. He meets your gaze, voice low and hoarse. âYou ready?â
You nod. âDonât you dare hold back.â
And he doesnât.
He pushes in slow but deep as you sit down, eyes locked on yours the entire time like heâs watching your reaction. You clutch at him as your body stretches around him, breath hitching when heâs finally buried all the way inside you.
âFuck,â he groans, forehead pressed to yours. âTight as hell. Fucking perfect.â
You roll your hips experimentally and both of you moan at the friction.
His hands grip your waist, guiding you, dragging you along his cock in slow, dirty motions. The car creaks beneath you, the windows fogging with condensation, but neither of you notice. Youâre too wrapped up in the heat between your bodies, the wet sound of you sliding over him again and again, your soft gasps clashing with his filthy praise.
âJust like that,â he pants, teeth gritted. âRide me, baby. Take what you need.â
Your hands slide into his hair as you start to move faster, bouncing slightly in his lap. The jacket slides open, but you leave it on, feeling his hands grab your ass, tugging you down harder each time you rise.
âYou look so good like this,â he rasps. âSo fucking filthy. You like fucking me in my backseat, huh?â
You moan, nodding against his neck.
He thrusts up harder suddenly, making you cry out, nails raking down his chest. He grabs your jaw again, kissing you hard, tongue dragging over yours as his hips slam up into you with rough, desperate rhythm.
Suddenly he grips your hips tight and flips you without warning, your back hitting the seat, knees bent over the edge. Heâs between your legs in seconds, shirt rucked up around his waist, jeans barely pushed down his thighs. The jacket is still on you, wide open now, framing your body like he meant for it. His body cages yours completely.
âKeep your eyes open,â he says, voice thick. âI want you to see.â
You do. God, you do.
Because the sight of him like this, cock wet and thick, already pushing back into you, is obscene. His jaw clenched, chest rising and falling hard, lips parted with the filthiest groan when he sinks into you again. Your mouth falls open at the stretch, at the slick sound of it. Youâre soaked for him, and he knows it.
âLook at that,â he grits out, glancing down between you as he drags out and slams back in, harder now. âYou see how fucking good you take me?â Heâs got a hand around your throat now, thumb dragging under your jaw as he stares down at you like he owns the moment. Sweat at his temples, veins in his neck, and that look in his eyes. Feral.
âYou like seeing me fuck you? Like how deep I go? How filthy I get when I lose it over you?â he growls, watching every flicker of your expression.Â
You try to hold eye contact, but your eyes flick down, greedy, hungry, obsessed. The way his cock slides in and out of you, the wet slap of it, the muscles in his stomach tightening with every thrust, itâs too much. Too perfect.
You nod fast, moaning, your nails digging into his arm. Heâs relentless now, pace brutal, and all you can do is take it, back arching, toes curling, your voice high and breathless.
âCome for me,â he says low, rough. âRight now. Wanna feel it.â
And fuck, when he leans down and bites your neck, when his hand moves back to your thigh, spreading you wider so he can go even deeper, you fall. Hard. You break apart with a strangled moan, legs trembling around his waist, nails scraping down his back. He watches you fall apart, eyes locked on yours, hips never slowing.
âGoddamn,â he growls, voice tight. âYou feel that? How youâre gripping me? Gonna make me-, fuck, gonna fill you up, baby. Just like this.â
You hold onto him as he groans, deep and raw, stuttering into you with one final thrust, spilling inside with a curse. You feel all of it. Every pulse. Every inch.
His palm slides up your thigh, and you feel every inch of him still inside you, thick, pulsing, stretching you open just right.
He doesnât pull out. Doesnât even move.
His head drops back, breath harsh, chest rising fast under that clingy black t-shirt. You watch the muscles shift beneath it, the way a single vein trails down his forearm, twitching slightly. He glances down between you, lips parting.
âLook at that,â he mutters, voice like gravel. âStill so fucking tight around me.â His hand slips under the jacket again, palm dragging up your skin. âYou kept this on,â he says, almost to himself. âFuck, you really wanted to kill me tonight, huh?â
You try to speak, but he shifts his hips, slow and deep, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan instead.
He grins. âThatâs what I thought.â
He pulls out slow, deliberate, watching the mess heâs made of you. You try to close your legs, but he doesnât let you. He taps your inner thigh, and you let him spread you open again, even if your body protests.
âStay like that,â he murmurs. âWanna look at what I did to you.â
And you do. You let him look. You let him take it all in, cocky eyes dropping to where you drip down onto the backseat, your thighs trembling, lips swollen from the way he kissed you.
You stay wrapped around each other in that charged silence, the world outside fading away until all that exists is the heat, the touch, and the undeniable pull between you. The night is yours, messy and unfiltered, and you wouldnât want it any other way.
***
Youâre wrapped in a towel, hair damp, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower. The night outside your Airbnb window is soft and still, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, hot day. Youâre not thinking about him, not actively, anyway. But your mindâs been drifting all week, every time your fingers brushed the edge of your mouth like they could still feel his kiss, like your thighs remembered how he fit between them.
You definitely werenât expecting a knock at the door.
You freeze, blink toward the entrance. No one knows you here. Another knock, this one lazier, a little amused. You pad barefoot to the door, frowning, water still sliding down the back of your neck.
You open it, and there he is.
Wooyoung.
He leans against the doorframe like he was born to fill that space, in his black jacket, a black tee that hugs his chest, his hair messy like heâs been driving with the windows down. His eyes sweep over you, lazy and unhurried, from the damp strands stuck to your cheek to the towel knotted just above your breasts. His mouth curves, that signature smirk tugging at the corner. He lifts his eyes back to yours, full of something dark and warm and very sure of itself.
âHey, trouble.â
Your heart stutters. âWhat-, How did you-â
He nods toward the hallway behind him. âWas driving around. Was in the area. Figured Iâd stop by.â
âYou remembered the address,â you say slowly, more to yourself than him. You hadnât thought much of it when he drove you home, twice. Definitely didnât expect him to turn up on your doorstep because of it.
He lifts a shoulder. âWasnât that hard.â
You tighten the towel slightly. âWhat made you think showing up unannounced was a good idea?â
Wooyoung shrugs, but thereâs a glint in his eye. âDidnât think. Just came.â His gaze skims over you again, slower this time. âGood timing, huh?â
Your chin tips up just slightly, a smirk tugging at your lips now, small, smug, impossible to hide. Youâre tempted, and you hate how much you like the power shift. How good it feels to make him wait on your word. He steps forward, just enough for the toe of his boot to cross the threshold.
You glance down at it, then back up at him. âYou gonna stand there or come in?â
He raises a brow like he wasnât expecting you to say it out loud, but the smirk that follows says he was hoping. âDidnât wanna be rude,â he says, stepping closer like itâs nothing.
You just step back, towel still clutched to your chest, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with modesty. The door clicks shut behind him and you turn away, heading back toward the bedroom without waiting.
He follows. Of course he does.
You donât say anything as you walk, still towel-wrapped and dripping faintly onto the hardwood. Heâs behind you, quiet, but not subtle. You feel his eyes on your back, your legs, the curve of your spine. You donât rush. Let him look. Let him want.
"Didnât think you were the kind of girl to answer the door dressed like that,â he murmurs.
âDidnât think you were the kind of guy to show up uninvited,â you toss back, stepping into the bedroom.
âNo phone number. Kind of had to improvise,â he says, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world.Â
You glance at him over your shoulder. Heâs leaning in the doorway now, arms crossed, that cocky gleam in his eyes like he knows heâs already gotten under your skin. âYou make a habit of showing up at girlsâ doors hoping theyâre half-naked?â
He smiles. âNo. Just yours.â
You donât answer, just turn your back to him and let the towel fall. It slips off your skin in one clean motion, landing at your feet with a soft rustle. You donât look back. You donât have to. You know what this does to him. The silence that falls between you says more than any words could.
Without looking back, you slip on a pair of black thongs slowly, then grab a white tank top. You donât rush. You feel his eyes burning into you the entire time. The top clings to your still-damp skin, nipples pressing clearly through the fabric. You couldâve dressed. You chose not to. You like watching him struggle to keep his cool. âSo,â you say, voice dry, turning around. âWhat do you want, Wooyoung?â
He shrugs, smile slow and lazy. âThought maybe youâd let me stick around.â
You toss the towel onto a chair and brush past him on your way to the kitchen. âAnd if I donât?â
He follows you again, of course. Closer this time. âIâll change your mind.â
You open the fridge, bend down just enough to give him a view, and pull out a bottle of water. When you stand again, heâs closer.
âNo plans tonight?â he asks.
You twist the cap off. âWas thinking about heading out.â
âDate?â
You look at him over your shoulder, sipping slow, the cool water sliding down your throat. âWhy? You jealous?â
He smirks, but thereâs something tighter in his jaw now. âIâd be stupid not to be.â
You laugh under your breath and turn, leaning against the counter, letting the cold bottle rest against your bare hip. âWould it stop you from showing up uninvited?â
âNot even a little.â
You study him for a beat. Heâs not pretending not to look, his eyes flick to your chest again, linger. You know he wants to touch you. Heâs barely keeping it together.
And you love it.
âSo where were you thinking of going?â he asks, resting his hands on the counter across from you.
âSome bar a few blocks from here. Thought Iâd look around.â
âYou gonna make me watch you flirt with someone else tonight?â
You smile lazily. âYou gonna stop me?â
He doesnât answer, just steps closer again, hands braced on either side of the counter behind you now, caging you in. His voice drops a little. âDonât really like the idea of anyone else looking at you.â
You arch a brow. âMm. So here you are.â
His gaze drags down your body, slowly, all the way to your thighs, down to the swell of your breasts under the thin white cotton, and then back up. He doesnât answer right away. You expect a flirt, a tease, a deflection, but when he speaks, his voice is steadier. Honest.
âI thought about you.â
Your chest tightens, just for a moment. You recover quickly, he doesnât need to know what that does to you. So you lift your bottle again, let it cool your lips.
âI donât make a habit of showing up for people,â he adds. âNot unless I want to.â
You lower the water, studying him now. âAnd what is it you want, exactly?â
His gaze moves across your face. âI donât know yet,â he admits. âBut Iâm not done finding out.â
You stay quiet. The silence stretches between you, long and warm. You could break it, make it light again, but you donât. Instead, you smile. Slow, knowing, and utterly unreadable. Not yes. Not no. Just⌠this. He catches it, the challenge in that smile. And itâs enough.
You step away, leaving your water on the counter, turning toward the bedroom without another word. Your fingers slide over the fabric of your skirt as you pull it on, eyes catching your reflection in the mirror, dark, a little wild, definitely dangerous.
From the doorway, you hear him speak, voice low, almost reluctant. âYou always this hard to read?â
You turn slowly, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. âIâm not looking for easy,â you say quietly. âNot tonight.â
He nods, eyes sharp and steady. âGood. Me neither.â
You pull out a delicate black crop top, barely there, high neck, open back. You pull the old white tank top over your head and slide on the new one. The cotton clings to your curves, your nipples visibly peeking through the fabric from where he stands. You donât fix it. You donât care. In fact, you tilt your head and catch his reflection in the mirror. Heâs staring, jaw tight again, mouth parted just slightly like heâs fighting the urge to say something or maybe do something.
You lift your hair, twisting it up casually to check how the top sits. âStill planning to stay?â
He steps behind you, slow, then reaches up without a word, catching a strand that slipped and tucking it gently behind your ear. His knuckles graze your cheek. His eyes hold yours in the mirror, and theyâre darker now. Serious. Like youâve peeled something open in him he hadnât planned on showing.
That does something to you. And you hate that it does. Because this wasnât supposed to be anything. Just tension. Just heat. Just one night in the back of his car and nothing else. But now heâs in your room. Talking like he means it. Looking at you like he wants to memorize what you look like under this light.
âWhere are we going?â he asks.
You smirk at your reflection. âSomewhere you can watch me walk away all night.â And when you glance at him again, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip like heâs trying to behave. But you know better.
âOh, sweetheart,â he murmurs, âyou think Iâll be able to keep my hands off you that long?â
You slide on your boots with a smirk. "Come on, then."
Heâs still standing there when you straighten, grab your purse, and cross to the door. He follows like a shadow. And as you step out into the hallway, his fingers brush the small of your back, low and fleeting.
You say nothing. But you donât stop him either.
The bar isnât loud, but it hums, low light, red leather booths, the sharp clink of glass, the bass of something dark curling through the air. He holds the door open for you and lets you walk in first, doesnât say anything, just watches the sway of your hips as you pass. He hasnât stopped watching you.
You slide onto a stool without waiting for him, legs crossed, skirt riding high. He stands beside you for a second, watching, just watching, then pulls his stool in too close and sits.
You glance at him sideways. âNo room anywhere else?â
He leans in without hesitation, breath brushing your jaw. âDidnât come here to sit far away from you.â
You order and the bartender slides the drinks over and disappears. You take a sip without waiting. He doesnât touch his glass yet. âYou came dressed like this,â he murmurs, âand then invited me out?â
Your eyes flick to his. âI didnât invite you.â
âYou said come with you.â
âAnd you showed up uninvited to my apartment before that.â
He grins, teeth sharp, voice low. âAnd you let me in.â
You glance over, tongue touching the rim of your glass just because you feel like being a little cruel. âYou like watching, huh?â
His jaw twitches. âI like knowing Iâm the only one who gets to.â
You smile, slow and sharp. âThatâs cute.â
He exhales a laugh, finally taking a sip of his drink. âItâs not cute. Itâs dangerous.â
You hum. âThat supposed to scare me?â
âNo. Itâs supposed to turn you on.â
Thereâs a pause. You donât look at him, not right away. You set your glass down. Shift slightly so your bare thigh brushes his jeans. You feel the way he tenses. And then you glance up, slow. Your voice is silk when it comes out. âIt does.â
He drags his gaze across your face like heâs memorizing every flicker of expression, then drops it again, to your chest, to your lips, to your thighs. His fingers flex around his glass. âYouâre driving me fucking insane.â
You tilt your head. âYeah?â
âIâm trying to be good.â
Your smile is wicked now. âWhy?â
He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, something real flickers there. But then he leans in, close enough that your knees brush. âBecause if I werenât, Iâd already have you in the back of the bar. Up against a wall. Hands on your hips. My mouth on your neck.âÂ
You laugh softly, but your heartâs racing. âAnd you think Iâd let you?â
âNo,â he says, eyes flicking down again. âI think youâd beg for it.â
The air between you crackles. But then you shift back, take another sip, re-cross your legs just to fuck with him. âMaybe I will. Maybe I wonât.â
He watches you with that burning, tethered hunger like heâs seconds from snapping it. But his voice stays calm when he says, âYouâre not like anyone Iâve met.â
You rest your elbow on the bar, chin tilted. âYou donât know me.â
âNot yet,â he says. âBut Iâm gonna.â
Thereâs silence again. Not awkward, something heavier. Hungrier. Heâs watching you like he could devour you whole. And you let him. You want him to. A couple people pass behind you, loud laughter and perfume in the air, but it doesnât break the line between you.
âDrink,â you murmur, nudging his glass with your fingers.
He obeys. A beat. Then: âLet me take you home after this.â
You tilt your head. âYou donât want to watch me flirt with strangers first?â
His jaw ticks. âIâll break his nose.â
You smile. And thatâs the moment you know youâve got him exactly where you want him.Â
He leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear, voice low and raw. âI donât want you anywhere but with me.â His fingers curl tighter around your hand, a silent promise and a warning all at once. You catch the fire in his eyes, fierce and unblinking.
You donât pull away. Instead, you trace your thumb over the back of his hand, letting the electricity spark between you both. âThen take me. Iâm all yours.â
Without another word, he signals for the check, hands never leaving you. Outside, the night air is cool against your skin, sharp and fresh. He opens the car door for you like he owns you already, then slides behind the wheel with a confidence that makes your heart race.
You drove for hours without direction, his hand resting heavy on your thigh, thumb tracing idle, possessive circles on bare skin. He made it clear between sharp glances and sharper words that he didnât do the whole dating thing, didnât play house, didnât promise anything past the next time he could get his hands on you. And though it seemed dangerous to play like that, you couldn't stop chasing him. The hunger in it. The freedom.
You let him pull off into some dark, empty lot halfway across the city and fuck you in the backseat again, his mouth everywhere, hands rougher this time, more desperate, like he'd been holding back all night. Afterwards, the windows fogged and your pulse still high, he drove again, nowhere in particular, just fast, just far, before ending up at your place. And when he had you again, finally, inside your own bed, it was slower, but not softer. He still didn't ask to stay. He didn't need to.
***
It wasnât supposed to be a regular thing.
You didnât plan on seeing him again the night after the bar. Or the night after that. But then he kept showing up and you did the same. One ride becomes two. Then four. Then too many to count. Now, itâs routine, a rhythm carved out of adrenaline, midnight, and want.
At first, it was easy. Just fast rides and faster hands. Parking lots with the windows fogged, whispered laughs and skin flushed from the cold. But then came the in-betweens. Gas station pit stops at 2 a.m. where heâd buy you snacks you didnât ask for. Lazy mornings when he didnât leave right away. He takes you to races, slips an arm around your waist like itâs second nature.
You never called it anything. You never talked about it like it mattered. But he was always there. And you kept letting him in.
Your cousin still thinks youâve been keeping to yourself. Staying quiet. Healing. If she asked, you wouldnât lie, but you wouldnât tell her everything either. Because whatever this is with him, itâs not simple. Itâs not safe. It isnât supposed to last.
You promised yourself when you came to this city for the summer that you wouldnât overthink. Wouldnât chase anyoneâs expectations. Wouldnât waste time second-guessing every move you made. You were here to feel, not fix. To want, not explain.
And Wooyoung made that easy.
He had a way of clearing your mind like smoke filling a room, thick, dizzying, inescapable. Dangerous in a way that didnât scare you, but hooked you. Like he was your own walking addiction, all sharp smiles and reckless charm, and you were already too far gone to pretend you didnât like the way he burned.
You visit him when he works at the garage, sweat on his neck, grease on his fingers, and you leaned against the wall until he pulls you in. Mouths hungry. Hands rough. Youâve fucked against that garage door more times than you can remember, the metal always cold against your spine.
It happens everywhere. Every time.
The front seat. Backseat. Hood of his car when the engineâs still warm. In the car in a random alley in town. Once, behind the mechanic shop, half-hidden, half-exposed, and he didnât even care.Â
Youâve been to more than a few races by now. Long enough to know the scent of smoke and rubber. But nothing compares to watching him out there.
You live for that split second before the race starts, the way his jaw tightens, eyes dark and locked in, fire flickering behind them. Every time he wins, and he always wins, you catch yourself biting your lip, adrenaline tangled with pride. Like itâs your victory too. Because in a way, it is.
Youâre already wearing his jacket when you step out of the car, the oversized black thing swallowing your frame, sleeves pushed up, and unmistakably his. Everyone knows it. Theyâve seen you in it more than theyâve seen him wear it lately, and that says something.
Everyone knows not to look too long. Theyâve learned. The hard way.
The race lot is alive, headlights burning through dusk, bass thumping from open trunks, engines snarling like wolves waiting to be let loose. You settle on the trunk of Wooyoungâs car, skirt riding up your thighs, legs crossed slow.Â
And you know the eyes are coming.
You feel them before you see them. Some from the usuals. Most from the new ones. Men who donât know better yet. Or maybe they do, and theyâre just stupid.
Wooyoungâs bent under the open hood, checking something in the engine with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Youâve been at this long enough to recognize faces. Wooyoungâs team. The regulars. And the ones from the rival crew, all bravado and cheap insults, waiting to be flattened.
One of themâs eyeing you too hard.
Some rival team idiot, leaning on a car that doesnât belong to him. He lingers a few feet away, lean build and smug expression, drinking out of a red solo cup like he owns the place. He doesnât. And you donât bother acknowledging him. Not until he walks past you and whistles. Loud. Sharp.
âDamn,â he says, looking you up and down, eyes shameless. âSheâs got a better rear than your car.â
Your head turns slowly. You donât flinch, donât frown, just arch a brow, roll your eyes, and look away like heâs not even worth your breath. Heâs grinning like he hasnât just stepped into a minefield. His eyes drag over you like heâs entitled to it.Â
But you also know better than to think Wooyoung didnât hear it. You know whatâs coming. You know Wooyoung hears these comments, and you know exactly how heâll respond.
You feel it first. That shift in the air. That tension that hits just before lightning strikes.
Then you hear it.
His laugh.
Itâs low. Dangerous. It cuts through the bass like a blade through silk. Everyone around you stiffens because itâs not the kind of laugh that invites company. Itâs the kind that warns. A sound that simmers with violence, a fuse already lit.
Wooyoung tosses the rag he was using onto the ground without a word and walks, each step deliberate, calculated. He doesnât look at you as he passes. His eyes are locked on the idiot whoâs about to learn a very painful lesson.
âSay that again,â Wooyoung says calmly, still with a disturbing smile on his face.
The guy chuckles nervously, looking around for backup that isnât there. âRelax, man. It was a joke.â
You see the guy start to crack, the tension in his shoulders, the way he suddenly canât look Wooyoung in the eye.
âYou look at her like that again, or say some shit like that again,â Wooyoung murmurs, low enough that only the two of them, âand Iâll break your fucking legs. You understand? Iâll drag you behind my car and leave you in pieces by the end of the lot.â
His hand claps down hard on the guyâs shoulder, making him flinch. âSay something. Please. Give me a reason.â
The guy doesnât say shit. Just stumbles backward, muttering apologies, practically tripping over himself as he bolts into the shadows.
Wooyoung doesnât move for a long second.
Youâre still perched on the hood, legs swinging lazily, pretending your whole body isnât thrumming from the spectacle Wooyoung just made. When he turns, his smirkâs already in place. That cocky tilt to his mouth, the slow prowl in his walk. Like he knows youâre watching him just as closely as everyone else is.
And he knows exactly what he just did to you.
âJesus,â you say as he stops in front of you, âYou gonna mark your territory next?â
He chuckles low, eyes raking over you, from the collar of his jacket hanging loose on your shoulders, to the bare stretch of skin above your knees. His fingers hook into your waistband like itâs instinct. You bite your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, letting your gaze drop to his mouth, then drag lazily back up to meet his eyes. You know exactly what youâre doing.
âDonât tempt me.â His mouth crashes against yours before you can say another word.
Itâs not gentle. Itâs all heat and teeth, a kiss that claims. He kisses you like heâs mad you made him feel anything at all. Like heâs trying to erase the sight of someone elseâs eyes on your skin with every rough slide of his tongue. He drags your hips toward the edge of the car, like he wants you spread out and helpless for him right there.
When he pulls back, his lips are red, swollen. His voice is a whisper against your jaw.
âYou keep teasing me like that, baby, and Iâll fuck the attitude out of you, right here, right now.â
***
Itâs been over a month now.
You didnât mean for it to turn into anything. It just... happened.Â
Most mornings start in your kitchen, you in his shirt, him barefoot and sleepy-eyed, making something that smells better than it has any right to. Heâs a good cook, like, suspiciously good, and you tease him for it constantly. Ask if heâs hiding a wife and three kids somewhere. He just tosses you a berry or flicks water at your leg and tells you to shut up and eat.
Sometimes you donât leave the Airbnb all day. He puts something on the TV youâre not really watching, and you end up sprawled across his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare thigh, not even trying to be sneaky about it. Other days, you follow him to the garage, sit on a crate while he works on his car. He gets grease on his cheek, his neck, the curve of his collarbone, and you wipe it off for him with a teasing smile while he watches you like heâd rather pull you onto the hood and forget whatever else he was doing.
But you havenât told him. That youâre only here for the summer. That this, whatever it is, has a timer on it.
Maybe itâs selfish. Maybe itâs smart. But youâve heard him talk. Heard his friends joke. Heard the girls he used to fuck and toss to the side mention that he doesnât do relationships, doesnât do feelings, doesnât stay. Youâve heard it in his own voice too, casual, offhand comments when someone asks if youâre his girl and he shrugs it off or changes the subject, suddenly preoccupied with something else. It stings a little every time. Not dramatic, not devastating, but quiet, like a bruise you donât want to press on. Like maybe he wants you, but not really wants you. Not all the way.
So you keep it to yourself.
And in the meantime, you ride with him everywhere. Sit in his seat, steal his fries, kiss him in the glow of red lights. You let him cook for you. You brush his hair back when he lets it grow too long. You laugh at his dumb jokes. He never says what this is. And neither do you.
But he always shows up. And you always open the door.
Tonight, youâre at yet another of his races.Â
Engines rumble like thunder, headlights cutting through the night. Youâre standing at your usual spot, perched on the edge of the crowd, his jacket zipped halfway up your chest, hair pulled back just enough to see everything. Your eyes never leave the sleek black car rolling up to the start line, Wooyoungâs.
He pulls in like he owns the asphalt, engine growling beneath him like it wants to be let loose. His gaze sweeps over you, slow, loaded, then he smirks, that cocky little thing he does right before he tears the world apart.
And still, all you can think about is the way he kissed you ten minutes ago. Hot, full, tongue first, like he couldnât hold back. You still feel it, the heat of it, the taste of him, the way he murmured âStay where I can see youâ against your lips like a warning, or a promise.
The flag girl steps forward. He revs his engine once, twice, your heartbeat syncs with the rhythm. The light turns green, and heâs gone.
You donât cheer. Just watch, transfixed. The way he takes turns, precise and wild, engine howling as he cuts through the competition like itâs nothing. Itâs art. Itâs war. Itâs him. The matte black machine moves like itâs part of him, sleek, brutal, untouchable. Every time he shifts gears, it feels like the ground itself vibrates beneath your feet.
And thenâ
âCOPS!â
The scream rips through the air, high and raw and terrifying. Then the first siren wails.
All hell breaks loose.
Blue and red lights explode across the lot like fireworks. More sirens. Shouts. People start running in every direction, drinks spilling, tires screeching, screams rising. A girl next to you shoves past you so hard you stumble back, heels slipping on the uneven concrete.
The panic is total. A stampede.
Someone crashes into your side. You spin, disoriented, trying to find an exit through the chaos, but bodies are slamming against each other, climbing over cars, scrambling for cover. You canât see anything, not the streets, not where the cops are coming from, not even Wooyoung.
You try to run. Make it three steps before your foot catches on something, a curb, a bottle, someoneâs leg, and you crash to the ground hard, knees scraping raw against pavement. Pain blooms sharp and hot as your palms catch you, barely.
Panic grabs you by the throat. Youâre alone. You donât know where he is. The cops are coming fast.
And then-
A hand wraps around your arm.
Strong. Unshakable. Familiar.
You look up and heâs there, Wooyoung, eyes wild with adrenaline, jaw tight, his voice low and cutting through the noise like a blade. âCome on.â
He doesnât wait for a response. Just yanks you up with one swift pull and hauls you against his side. Heâs already planned his route. His car is parked in the shadows between a dumpster and a dead-end wall. He doesnât slow down. Throws open the passenger door and shoves you inside. You barely register the click of your seatbelt before heâs in the driverâs seat, slamming the door shut behind him.
âHold on.â
The tires scream as he throws it into gear and peels out of the lot, weaving through fleeing cars and panicked people like the devil himself is on your heels, and maybe he is. You see flashes of uniforms in the rearview mirror.Â
And then heâs driving. Not just fast, fucking insane.
He weaves through the mess like itâs nothing, dodging people, cars, even a barricade. You clutch the edge of the seat with both hands, heart slamming into your ribs. âWooyoung-,â you start, breathless, but he cuts you off with a sharp, âHold on.â
A sharp turn. Another. He ducks down a narrow alley and surges back onto the road. Blue lights flash behind you, distant, then farther, then gone.
He doesnât stop. He doesnât even slow.
You have no idea where you are, what neighborhood, what street, but he drives like he owns it. Like he knows every shortcut, every shadow, every alley that leads nowhere. He turns down a quieter street, dim, still, lined with apartment buildings. Finally, finally, he slows, pulls into a nearly empty lot, and kills the engine.
The air between you feels tight. You stare ahead, still locked in the adrenaline-fueled fog of escape, limbs buzzing, throat dry. Every part of you feels too tense to move. Youâve never been here before, in this area, and you donât ask. Not yet.
Beside you, Wooyoung sits with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward for a long moment like heâs trying to decide whether to say something or let the silence win. Finally, he turns his head toward you, his jaw tight but his voice softer than you expect.Â
âYou okay?â
You almost say yes. You almost lie. But then your gaze drops, and you notice the sting in your palms, the throb youâd tuned out in the panic. You glance down to find both your hands scraped raw, speckled with gravel and blood. Your knees too, now that you notice it, dark streaks running down your shins. You hadnât felt it when you fell, too busy chasing your breath through a stampede of strangers and spinning lights. Now the pain is catching up.
Wooyoung sees it before you can say anything. His hand reaches out, catches yours before you can tuck them away. He turns your palms over in his, his thumbs brush carefully along the edges of your cuts, not pressing, just grounding. He doesnât flinch at the blood.Â
âCome on,â he says quietly, rising to his feet. He opens his door and steps out, coming around to yours, opening it before you can reach for the handle. You follow him, still half in a daze, leading you up two flights of concrete stairs and through a door youâve never seen before.
The apartment is dim when he pushes it open, warm light spilling from a single lamp near the couch. Itâs cleaner than you expected, simple, utilitarian, not dressed up, but lived-in. You barely have time to look before he disappears down the hallway and comes back with a first aid kit and a damp towel. He doesnât say a word. Just gestures to the couch, and when you sit, he kneels in front of you without hesitation.
He doesnât speak at first. Just works in silence, jaw tight, eyes locked on your hand like itâs something breakable. The towel is warm and damp, his fingers careful as they blot the blood away from your palm. It stings, but you donât flinch. Not from the pain, not from him. His touch is gentler than it has any right to be, considering how fast heâd just driven you through the night.
You want to say something, maybe make a joke to ease the weight in the room, but your throat is too tight.
âYou should be more careful,â he finally says, voice low, rough-edged. Itâs not scolding, not teasing. Itâs something softer than either, quiet concern trying not to sound like it matters.
You glance at him, a bitter smile pulling at the edge of your mouth. âYouâre not my boyfriend.â
That makes him pause. He looks up, eyes catching yours like he heard everything you didnât say. âDidnât say I was,â he murmurs, something unreadable flickering across his face. âBut that doesnât mean I want to watch you fall apart.â
Your mouth goes dry. The way he says it, itâs not romantic. Not sweet. Itâs honest. Raw. And it disarms you more than anything else tonight.
He moves on to your knees next. His fingers graze bare skin and your breath catches, but he doesnât look up. He just keeps working. Focused. Steady. Like youâre both pretending this is normal. And you donât realize until heâs done, until the last bandage is pressed into place, that the silence between you has grown heavier.Â
He runs a hand through his hair like heâs trying to think straight, and then suddenly stands, stepping away from you like he needs distance just to breathe. His fingers twitch at his sides. And then his voice cuts through the room, low but cracked with something he canât keep down. âI donât fucking do shit like this,â he says, almost to himself. âI donât come back for people. I donât panic. I donât care like that.â
You get to your feet slowly. Barefoot. Still a little dazed. The pain in your knees is sharp but distant, dulled by the weight of everything heâs saying.
He scoffs, but it sounds too raw to be cynical. âYou-, fuck. You fell. You were bleeding. You were on the ground and I couldnât find you. I didnât even-â He swallows, shaking his head like the memory itself stings. âI swear to god I couldnât breathe for a moment. I didnât know if you were-â
He swallows hard. Shakes his head. âI didnât know if Iâd get to you in time.â
Your heart aches in your chest, a dull, spreading thing. Heâs still talking, more to the air than to you, and itâs clear he hasnât unpacked what any of this means.
âI didnât even think. I just ran. Like some idiot in a movie. Like you mattered more than getting caught. More than the car. More than myself.â
You walk to him slowly. Not interrupting. Just moving until youâre close enough that he has to feel you there. âIâm okay,â you say gently.
He turns, finally meeting your eyes, and what you see in his face makes your breath catch. Thereâs fear there. Not the kind from flashing lights and sirens, something deeper. Something quieter. Like heâs afraid of what he just felt. Afraid of what you mean.
âI donât know what this is,â he murmurs. âBut seeing you fall like that? Seeing blood on your hands? I-, I didnât even know it could fucking hurt like that.â
Heâs not touching you. Doesnât reach for you. Like heâs afraid even that might be too much.
So you reach instead. You lift your hand, still bandaged, and place it softly on his chest. Right over his heart. âItâs okay,â you say. âWeâre both okay.â
He stares at you for a long moment, and the silence stretches, not awkward, just full. Full of what neither of you is brave enough to name. Then he leans in slowly, carefully. Like youâre something fragile heâs afraid to break. His lips brush yours, the barest touch, and then he pauses, giving you the chance to pull away.
You donât. So he kisses you. Soft. Scared. Reverent.
A kiss so soft you arenât sure if you ever felt him so careful before. He cups your face, doesnât push or tries to make the kiss escalate into anything. Just a kiss full of words neither of you can say out loud.
You both start getting ready to bed shortly after. He digs through a drawer and pulls out a worn t-shirt, faded black, soft from too many washes, and holds it out to you. You peel off whatâs left of your clothes without a word, not bothering to leave the room. Youâve done far more with him than change in front of each other. Modesty was gone the second you got in his car the night you met him.
The shirt falls low on your thighs. His eyes flicker over you for a second, but he doesnât say anything. You watch as he reaches for his own shirt, pulls it over his head.
Thatâs when you see it.
Not the faint bruises or the surface scrapes he usually calls battle wounds, this is different. A scar, brutal and deliberate, slices across his back. Itâs old, but deep. Twisted. Ugly in a way that doesnât fade with time.
He catches your reflection in the mirror. Sees the way your eyes lock onto it. And he doesnât flinch this time. "You gonna ask?" he says, voice low.
You donât. You just walk closer, slow. Let your fingers ghost along the raised skin. He flinches, not because of the touch, but because of what it means.
âIâve never seen that one before,â you say softly. You glance up. "Youâve told me every scar youâve got came from racing.â
âThat one didnât.â
You wait. Let him decide if he wants to keep running.
âMy mom had this boyfriend when I was younger. Real piece of shit. Loud. Drank too much. Always mad about something. One of those types that got mean when no one was looking.â He pauses. Breathes. âHe didnât like that I was in his house. Didnât like that I was⌠me.â
Your breath hitches, but you donât say anything yet.Â
âOne night, I told him to go fuck himself. Didnât even yell it. Just said it. He didnât like that either.â He runs a hand down his face. âHe threw a bottle at me. Then pushed me through a glass door. Said it was an accident when he told my mom.â
You stare at him, horror rising slow and bitter in your throat.
âShe believed him. Or she pretended to.â He lets out a breath, tired and rough around the edges. âThe rest of the shit? Yeah. That came from racing. From working on cars. From fights I chose. But that oneâŚâ He finally drops his eyes from the mirror. âThat one stayed.â
âHow old were you?â
âFourteen.â
You donât ask what happened after. You donât need to.
He laughs once, dry and humorless. âTold people I got it from flipping my first bike. Sounds cooler than getting shredded by some drunk asshole trying to prove he was bigger than a kid.â
Your hand moves gently, fingertips brushing the scar that runs ragged and long over his back.
âI figured Iâd lie about it forever,â he murmurs.
âWhy didnât you?â you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
âBecause you saw it. And IâŚâ He swallows hard. âI feel like I can tell you.â
You donât answer with words.
Instead, you press a kiss to his back, right above the scar, right where it starts. Then another, lower. Then your arms wrap slowly around his waist, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades. You feel him exhale when you hold him. Deep, shaky, like the air was trapped somewhere in him all this time and heâs only now letting it out.
Your fingers curl around his stomach. His hands come up, covering yours. Eventually, the silence shifts. âCâmon,â he murmurs, voice softer than youâve ever heard it. âLetâs sleep.â
You follow him without question, crawling onto the bed as he switches off the light. Darkness swallows the room, and you hear him move around the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight when he gets in.
Thereâs a beat of silence. Another.
Then his arm reaches out in the dark. It lands on your hip, hesitant at first, like heâs still not sure heâs allowed to touch you like this, without hunger. Without heat. You roll onto your side and press your back against his chest.
Thatâs all it takes.
His arm curls tighter around you, and he tucks his face into your neck like he needs to hide there. Like your skin might silence all the chaos still crashing inside him. He exhales like heâs been holding that breath since the car.
Tentatively, he shifts closer, arm slipping around your waist. Itâs unsure, gentle, like he's still figuring out how to hold someone when itâs not about claiming, when itâs about comfort. When it means something.
This is the first night you fall asleep together without bruises between your thighs or adrenaline in your blood. Just warmth. Just the weight of his body behind yours, heavy and grounding.
It feels like you finally stopped running.
***
You donât talk about what this is. Not once.
Not in bed, not on long drives, not when he kisses you like heâs terrified to stop. Not even when youâre curled up in his passenger seat at 2AM and his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist like a secret.
Thereâs too much at risk. Too much truth that would ruin the thrill of not knowing.
Because he doesnât do relationships. Doesnât do promises. Heâs said it before, with words, with the way heâs lived. And you? You came to this city to escape all of that. Rules, opinions, weight. Youâre still only here for the summer, something he doesnât know, and you havenât figured out how to say.
So you donât say it.
Instead, you live in your Airbnb like itâs permanent. Like you belong in his car, like his jacket is just something that naturally belongs on your back. You leave your lip balm in his glove box. Your extra phone charger in the center console. A bag of snacks in his trunk because youâre always hungry after races.
And he lets you. Doesnât ask questions.
But Wooyoung? Heâs changed.
People know now. At every race, every meet-up, every underground garage, itâs known: youâre his. Not in any official way. No one dares call you his girlfriend, not after the way he handled it last time someone tried.
It was offhand, just a throwaway comment from a guy near the starting line, half-laughing when he said, âDidnât know you were bringing your girlfriend tonight.â
Wooyoung didnât laugh. Didnât even look your way. He just reached for his drink, shrugged once, and changed the subject like the thought didnât even deserve space in his head. Like the idea of you being something more than what you already are was ridiculous.
You smiled, pretended you didnât notice, but something in your chest went tight and stayed that way the rest of the night. Itâs not like you expected him to correct the guy. Not like you expected him to say yeah, sheâs mine in front of everyone. But still. The way he ducked the question entirely, like it was easier to pretend nothing existed at all, left you feeling just a little less wanted.
Even still, he makes it known. The jacket he tosses you without asking. The way he watches from across the crowd, eyes locked on you like a storm waiting to break. The way he always drives you home himself, even if it means leaving early.
He doesnât call you his. But he acts like you are. And somehow, that contradiction is the part thatâs starting to hurt.Â
Because Wooyoung would rather die than have someone else think they have a chance with you.
Like the night at the food truck. Youâre standing behind him, trying to decide if you want fries or a burger, when a guy from another team slides too close beside you. Tries to flirt. Tries to joke. Light, easy, harmless. But Wooyoung hears your polite laugh. The subtle shift of your body. He turns around and the look on his face silences everything around you. He doesnât touch the guy. Doesnât raise his voice.
Just says, âYou always this brave, or is it a head injury thing?â
Itâs calm. Dead calm. That terrifying kind of stillness that means dangerâs already here. The guy stutters, laughs nervously, backs off fast. Youâre quiet as Wooyoung orders for you both without asking what you want. He already knows.
Another time, you're out in public together, grabbing coffee, of all things. You're standing beside him in line, scrolling your phone, not paying attention when someone brushes too close behind you in the cramped cafĂŠ.
Wooyoung notices. And it's not subtle.
He shifts, steps between you and whoever the guy was, planting a hand flat on your lower back like a warning. His fingers are warm, rings cold, tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. His eyes cut across the room, jaw clenched tight. The guy moves. Fast. Like he can feel it too, that Wooyoung isnât fucking playing anymore. He doesnât talk much when it happens. Doesnât shout, doesnât cause scenes.Â
Just steps in, makes it very clear without saying much at all: touch her and die.
Even in quieter moments, itâs there.
When you reach across the console to grab his hand, he laces your fingers together, tight, like heâs holding on for both of you. He walks you to your door every single time now. Doesn't leave until youâre inside, lights on. Waits for you to text him. If you forget, he calls. If you donât answer, he shows up.
You once cut your finger in the kitchen, barely a scratch, but when you flinch and suck in a breath, heâs already there. Ripping a paper towel, pressing it gently to your skin.
âItâs fine,â you say.
He doesnât answer. Just wraps it for you, checking it twice like you might bleed out. You see it in his eyes, itâs not about the cut. Itâs the idea that you could be hurt when he wasnât there. That he canât protect you from everything.
Later, you find a box of bandages in his car. You didnât put them there.
Even in bed, itâs different. Still intense. Still raw. Still him taking control, pushing you exactly where he wants you, but now thereâs a tightness to it, like he needs to make sure youâre still here. He checks in more, holds you longer.
He kisses you when itâs over. Not just because itâs hot. But because he needs to. Needs to remind himself that youâre real and still wrapped up in his sheets and not leaving. Not yet. And he never says it, neither of you do, but itâs all there.
The way he glares at people who so much as look your way. The way he drives faster when you fall asleep in his car, like getting you somewhere safe is the most important thing in the world. The way his hand always finds your thigh when youâre beside him, not to tease, but to anchor himself.
Neither of you say it. Because if you say what it is, you might have to admit what itâs becoming.
And then youâd have to face the truth: That you were supposed to stay untethered. And he was never supposed to care this much.
***
Youâve been coming by the mechanic more often than you meant to.
It started casual, dropping off food, sitting on the hood of his car while he worked. Now itâs just⌠habit. Comfortable. Like muscle memory. No one bats an eye anymore when you stroll through the side door with a drink in hand and his name on your lips.
Todayâs no different, at least, it shouldnât be. You push open the rusted side gate, the sun hitting the back of your neck, and move past the usual row of busted-up cars. His car is here. You spot it immediately. You already know the license plate by heart.
Itâs almost your last week in the city.
You havenât told him yet.
Youâve meant to. You meant to today. You even practiced what to say on the way here, something light, something like a joke, even though thereâs nothing funny about it. You just wanted to see how heâd react. Maybe you were hoping itâd tell you something.
Instead, you hear voices from the other side of the office wall. And suddenly, none of your plans matter.
Youâre about to head toward the office when you hear voices, low and muffled through the cracked window. You pause without meaning to. Itâs his coworker, the chatty one with a loud voice. Youâve seen him around. Heâs always giving Wooyoung shit. Heâs doing it now. Heâs saying, âI donât know, man. Feels risky. Letting someone get close like that.â
Wooyoung doesnât answer right away.
The colleague keeps going, tone easy but serious. âI mean, itâs cool she hangs around, I like her. Sheâs not dramatic or clingy or anything. But you always said you donât do the whole relationship thing.â
Another pause. A longer one.
Wooyoungâs voice finally comes, quiet, like heâs not really sure how much he wants to say. âYeah. Youâre rightâ
The colleague responds right away, voice teasing. âCome on. Donât act like itâs not true. Youâre not built for that shit, dude. Youâd die if someone asked you to label anything.â He laughs again, louder this time. You hear a clink of a socket wrench hitting the metal table.
Wooyoung says something else too soft to catch.
The colleague snorts a little. âNo, I remember what you said. You were all âyeah, she was cool, nice hookup, chill vibes, thatâs it.ââ
Wooyoung doesnât laugh at that. Doesnât argue either. He stays quiet.
And itâs that silence, that silence, that makes something tighten in your chest.
Because you know what this is. You knew walking into it. You knew from the first night when he didnât ask your number and you didnât offer. You both agreed, wordlessly, on what this wasnât.
But lately⌠itâs felt like something more. Or maybe that was just you, reading too much into the way his hand would rest on your thigh even after everything was over. Or the way he always made sure you got home. Or how he never let anyone else so much as look at you sideways.
And still, when it mattered, when someone asked, he didnât say anything. Not sheâs not just a hookup. Not I like having her around. Not even yeah, itâs not like that.
Just silence.
You step back from the window before you can hear more. The drink in your hand is still cold. You bring it with you again and leave before anyone sees you. You donât slam the gate. You donât text him. You donât say a word. You just vanish, like maybe you were never supposed to be there in the first place.
***
The sun is starting to set when your cousin calls. âYouâre going home next week. You have to come to the party.â
Youâre halfway through folding a pair of jeans, your suitcase open on the floor like itâs mocking you. Your Airbnbâs quiet mess, zippers half-pulled, makeup bags tossed to the side, a pair of heels you havenât touched in weeks abandoned by the door.
âI donât think I can,â you tell her, voice even. âStill a lot of packing left.â
Thereâs a pause on her end. âYou okay?â
âYeah. Just tired.â
She doesnât press, which youâre grateful for. You hang up after promising to text if you change your mind. Your phone buzzes again a few minutes later.
wooyoung: partyâs still on?
You hesitate before answering.
you: yeah. go without me though. iâve got a headache. go have fun, iâll see you tomorrow maybe :)
You add the smiley like punctuation. Like proof that youâre fine. Like itâll make him believe it. He replies quickly.
wooyoung: should I be worried?
You stare at the screen for a second too long, then type back:
you: no, go have fun. donât worry about me
You set your phone face-down on the bed.
Across town, Wooyoungâs been sitting at the bar too long. The drink in front of him has gone warm. Condensation slicks down the sides of the glass, untouched, just like every conversation around him. People come and go, throwing smiles, bumping his shoulder, asking if heâs alright.
He shrugs them off. Nods once. Plays it cool.
But heâs checked his phone maybe six times in the last twenty minutes. Still nothing. No double text. No âchanged my mindâ or âcome get meâ or even just a stupid emoji. He keeps glancing toward the front door anyway, hoping youâll walk through like you always do, unbothered, lowkey, dressed like you didnât mean to wreck his whole night.
But the door doesnât open.
He exhales, tips his head back against the wall behind the bar. The music is relentless, some overproduced club track bleeding through every surface, but his thoughts are louder. And then, from a few stools down, like fateâs cruel hand, he hears your name. Not shouted. Not screamed across the club. Just mentioned in passing, carried casually from the girl standing a few feet away, and it makes his spine straighten.
âWell, itâs almost her last week here.â a girl says casually, voice raised just enough over the beat.
He doesnât move, but his eyes shift. Three girls. Mid-conversation. Loud over the music but not enough to draw attention. Then one of them, your cousin. He remembers her. The same girl you ditched once to meet up with him instead.
âShe flies out next week,â she says with a little laugh. âShe was very clear from the start, just here for the summer, nothing permanent.â
His stomach drops. Next week.
Another girl blinks. âRight. Thatâs wild. It went by fast.â
âSheâs been here since June,â your cousin adds, shaking her head fondly. âKind of kept to herself most of the time. Said she just needed a break from everything. A reset. She said she wanted it low-key, didnât want a big sendoff or anything. Just⌠come, live a little, leave.â
Wooyoung stands up.
He doesn't hesitate, doesnât weigh his options or think about whether itâll blow your cover, he doesn't even fucking care. He walks straight toward them, shoving his way past a group of guys to get to her. Your cousin turns, laughing mid-sentence, and then her face twists into startled confusion when she sees him.
âWooyoung?â
He doesnât wait. âWhat did you just say?â
Her brows crease. âAbout what?â
âYou said sheâs leaving.â
She blinks. âY/N? Yeah⌠sheâs going back home next week. Saturday, I think.â
His voice drops. âWhy?â
Now sheâs really confused. Her head tilts, but thereâs no edge to her, just honest confusion. âI mean⌠sheâs going back home? She was just here for the summer.â
Wooyoung swallows hard. Temporary. Like he was temporary.
The cousin squints a little. âWhy are you-,?â She doesnât finish. Wooyoung is already turning away.
Something hot flickers behind his ribs, deeper than confusion, heavier than jealousy. A fire that starts in his chest and spreads fast, scorching through every moment you spent in his passenger seat with his hand on your thigh like you belonged to him. Every time you smiled like you had time. Like you werenât planning to vanish.
You didnât tell him.
And with every step, his hands curl tighter into fists. Not from rage, from betrayal. Not because youâre leaving, but because you never gave him the chance to ask you to stay.
***
Youâre perched on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly spinning your phone between your fingers. Not texting. Not calling. Just⌠holding it. The silence stretches, filled only by the low hum of the fan and the distant sound of kids playing outside.
A half-finished iced coffee sweats on the nightstand. You havenât touched it in an hour.
Your eyes drift toward the sneakers by the door, the laces knotted from the last time you ran through the city barefoot after a night out. That night ended in his car. His laugh still echoes in your ears sometimes.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You freeze. Three sharp raps against the door, no hesitation, no time to think. You walk to the door slowly, heart climbing your throat, hands slightly shaking. You open the door.
And there he is.
Wooyoung. Standing on your doorstep like a storm you forgot to prepare for. His jaw is tight. Eyes darker than youâve ever seen them, like theyâve been chewing on a fire he canât put out. Heâs still in the clothes from the club, shirt slightly rumpled. One look at him and the walls youâve spent the last twenty-four hours building start to crack.
He doesnât ask to come in. He doesnât smile.
âWhat the hell were you gonna do?â he says, voice low, tight with something brittle. âJust leave?â
He knows.
You open your mouth, close it. The hallway feels too narrow. The room behind you too full of all the things youâre not saying. âI wanted to tell you,â you say, barely above a whisper.
His eyes narrow. âWhen, exactly? When you're already on a flight? After I'm wondering why youâre not picking up anymore, when Iâm standing around like a fucking idiot waiting for you to show up like you always do?â
You flinch. âI didnât think it mattered.â
His head jerks like you hit him. âWhat the fuck is that supposed to mean?â
You inhale sharply. And it all rushes out.
âI didnât think it mattered because youâve been telling me for weeks, that whatever this is, it was never going to be real to you,â you say, voice shaking. âEvery time someone mentioned the word relationship, you changed the subject. Joked it off. Acted like it was a disease youâd catch if you got too close.â
He flinches.
âYou donât know what that feels like,â you go on, eyes stinging now. âTo be there with you. Around your people. At the shop. At those stupid races. Knowing everyone knows what this is, but still⌠Iâm nothing. Iâm not yours. I never will be.â
âThatâs not-â he starts, but you cut him off.
âYou wanted me,â you say. âYou want me. But not really. Not in the way that matters. You wanted the thrill, the adrenaline, the sex, the way I look sitting on the hood of your car. But you didnât want me. Not all of me. Not the kind of want that keeps someone.â You laugh, bitter and low. âDo you know how fucking awful that feels? Like the thought of being with me was the worst fucking thing in the world.â
His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.
âYou made me feel like I was asking for too much by just⌠existing. Like being wanted, really wanted, was too much to ask from you.â
He steps forward, hands balled at his sides, struggling to breathe like the weight of your words are crushing his ribs.
His laugh is bitter. âYou think youâre the only one hurt here? You were gonna leave without a word like I was nothing. Like Iâm just a pit stop until you find something better.â
He stops, looks at you with eyes that are almost wild. âIâm not good at this, at talking, at feelings, at... anything like that. Hell, I never thought I needed to be. I told myself Iâd never need anyone. I built these walls so fucking high, so no one could get close enough to tear me apart.â
His jaw clenches. âBut then you show up, and itâs like everything I thought I knew gets smashed to shit. You werenât supposed to be the one I gave a damn about. You werenât supposed to be the one who made me wanna drop my guard. But you did.â He swears under his breath, fists clenched. âAnd now? Now I find out youâre leaving, just like that. No warning, no fight, no âhey, Iâm scared, I wanna talk.â Nothing. Just packing up and going like I was never even here.â
His voice cracks just a little, anger tangled with something rawer. âDo you know how it feels to be the idiot? The one who let himself hope, who let himself need someone, only to get punched in the gut when they bail?â
He laughs bitterly. âI donât know if Iâm pissed at you or myself more. Maybe both.â He takes a step closer, voice low but fierce. âBut I do know this, If Iâm here, if I let you in, itâs because you meant something. Because it meant something to me for the first damn time ever.â
You try to speak, but he cuts you off.
âSave it. I donât wanna hear the excuses. I get it, you didnât think it mattered. Thatâs exactly the problem.â
He takes a step back, a dead laugh escaping him, low and bitter. âWell, congratulations. You just showed me what it feels like to be on the other side. To be lied to. To be played.â He stares at you, eyes cold now, voice hard. âHope it was worth it.â
Without waiting for a reply, he turns sharply and storms away.
***
For the whole week, the tears donât stop. They come uninvited, sometimes silent, sometimes raw and shaking, but always leaving that hollow ache buried deep inside your chest. You find yourself crying in the quiet moments: sitting on the edge of the bed, in the shower with water running over your face, staring out the window when the world moves on without you.
Each morning, you wake swollen-eyed, sun pouring through the curtains, bright and uncaring, as if nothing has changed. But everything has shattered. You miss him so deeply it twists your stomach into knots, a sickness that wonât ease. The nights are the worst.Â
You also couldnât keep hiding it from your cousin anymore. Or, she figured it out on herself. âYouâve been off lately.â your cousin had said, eying you up and down.
You hesitated. âIâm just tired.â
She arched a brow. âIs this about him?â
You froze. âWho?â
âWooyoung.â She didnât say it mean, just like sheâs trying to piece something together. âI donât know whatâs going on, but the way he looked when I mentioned you leaving⌠It was weird. Like he knows you more than youâve told me.â
You couldnât look her in the eyes. Seconds away from breaking into a full sob for the twelfth time that day.Â
âAnyway,â she said quickly, waving it off. âWhatever it is, whatever it was, just let it go tonight, okay? Party like itâs the last night of your life.â
And youâve continued to try and enjoy your last days here, but itâs impossible. Your head is a mess, thoughts crashing and spinning, none of them making sense. Should you text him goodbye? Call him? Pretend none of it happened? But what if silence is worse?
You pace the apartment, heart pounding in your chest, every breath thick with uncertainty. You donât know what you want, or maybe you do, but youâre too scared to admit it.
Eventually, you drag yourself toward the door, ready to leave the place for a minute, to get some fresh air and maybe clarity. You open the door, but something steals your attention. A folded piece of paper taped carefully to the wood.
Curious, you pull the letter free and unfold it. Your breath catches the moment your eyes land on the handwriting, unmistakably his. The paper feels heavier than it is, like every word inside carries weight you werenât prepared for.
***
Itâs now late evening.
You havenât moved from your spot in hours. Curled into the corner of the couch, knees hugged to your chest. Still havenât touched the tea you made earlier. Itâs cold now. Forgotten. Like everything else.
The letter sits on the table in front of you, creased, slightly crumpled at the corners from your fingers folding and unfolding it again and again. You know every line by heart, but your eyes keep scanning it, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. Something less devastating.
You almost grab your keys three times. You almost text him. You almost call.
But itâs like there's a wall of glass between you and the right decision, and you just⌠stare through it. Paralyzed. Terrified that if you make a move, itâll shatter wrong.
He bared his soul in that letter. And you havenât done a damn thing. You hate yourself for how long youâve been sitting here, frozen in uncertainty. One half of you screams to run to him. The other whispers all the reasons you shouldnât, how complicated it is, how much you still donât know, how youâre still leaving regardless because your life isnât in this city. You canât stay.Â
But then your phone rings.
A harsh buzz against the silence. You jolt upright, heart lurching, eyes narrowing at the unknown number lighting up your screen. You hesitate only a second before answering.
âHello?â
Thereâs a pause on the other end, filled with heavy breathing and the sound of wind. âHey-, sorry, shit, I know this is random, but youâre the only person I thought might come. Itâs about Wooyoung.â
Your heart stops. You sit up straighter. âWhat about him?â
âSomethingâs wrong,â the voice says. Young, male, familiar in a distant way. One of the crew, maybe. Youâd met him once. âHe left not long ago for a race. Not one of ours. This oneâs⌠rough. Real shady crowd. No rules, no spotters. Just pure fucking chaos. We tried to stop him but-, he's gone. Heâs fucking gone.â
The room spins. You grip the edge of the table to stay upright. âGone where?â you whisper, voice sharp.
The guy on the other end swears again, fast and breathless. âWe donât know exactly. We lost his signal halfway through the city. He left alone,â The guyâs voice breaks, low and anxious. âHe wasnât listening to anyone. He-, he wasnât himself, okay? He sounded... off. Like he didnât give a fuck.â
Your stomach drops. Ice seeps into your spine.
âI didnât know who else to call,â he continues, breath shaky. âBut I thought-, if anyone could talk him down, or stop him-, fuck, I thought maybe it was you.â
Youâre already on your feet. Your coat is halfway on. You grab your bag with one hand, shove your keys in your pocket with the other. âWhere is it?â
âWe donât know exactly. But Iâm sending you the last pin we had on his phone before it cut out. We got a few guys out looking for him, we can come pick you up.âÂ
You donât even know what information youâre giving him. You just know you agreed to whatever it took to find him, end the call and bolt out the door, your blood pounding like war drums in your ears.
Somewhere unknown, Wooyoung steps out of his car. He doesnât belong here.
He lights his second cigarette with the last flick of a dying lighter, cupping the flame with trembling hands. The smoke scratches down his throat, a pathetic distraction from the coil of chaos tightening in his chest. He leans against his car, the only clean machine in a sea of monsters, stripped down, souped-up beasts patched with rust, dents, and blood.
This isnât his turf. This isnât some friendly underground run on the edge of town. This is hell. The kind of place no one talks about. Where names donât matter, and losing means more than wrecked metal. Itâs the kind of place where engines scream louder than people, where egos shatter on the pavement, and no one gives a fuck who makes it home.
And heâs alone. No crew. No backup. No one knows where he is and thatâs the whole point. Because if anyone saw him like this, theyâd ask questions. Theyâd see the truth behind the glassy eyes, the clenched teeth. Theyâd see heâs already come apart.
But heâs here to forget his thoughts. To feel something. No matter what it is.
Someone laughs nearby, short, sharp. Like a knife sliding out of a sheath. Wooyoung doesnât turn, not right away. But he can feel eyes on him. Heâs too clean. Too obvious. A target painted in neon across his back.
Footsteps crunch on gravel. âDidnât expect to see golden boy down here. Youâre lost, sweetheart?â The voice is male, rough. The kind thatâs been marinated in alcohol and old fights. âOr you finally decided you wanna die somewhere interesting?â
Wooyoung lifts his eyes slowly. A man steps into the dim wash of flickering floodlights, heavyset, sleeves torn off, scars up his arms like tally marks. A long one slices through his cheekbone and disappears into his beard. His fists are wrapped in old tape, stained with something dark.
He smirks at the sight of Wooyoungâs face. âI remember you. Pretty boy from the East Strip. You used to race clean, yeah? Thought you were better than this.â
âIâm not here to talk,â Wooyoung says flatly.
The man chuckles. âYeah, I figured. Heard some talk. Heard your little pretty thing ainât been around lately. Thatâs why youâre out here? Trying to forget her?.â Â
Wooyoungâs entire body goes still.
Scar-Knuckles keeps going, oblivious or cruel, maybe both. âShe was a real fine thing, too. Damn shame. Wouldn't mind taking her out for a ride.â
âYou say one more fucking word about her,â Wooyoung growls, stepping forward.
Scar-Knuckles doesnât back off. His grin just stretches wider. âOr what? Youâll throw a punch? You think anyone here cares if I beat your face into the asphalt? This place doesnât give a fuck about you or your sob story.â
Behind him, engines scream, test runs or warnings. The smell of gas and rage fills the air. âNo one hereâs gonna come looking if you donât walk away from this, you know that?â the man says. âYou lose out here, you lose everything. Car. Money. Life. Depends on whoâs watching. Or who you piss off.â
Wooyoung steps even closer, eyes locked with his. âThat supposed to scare me?â
Scar-Knuckles stares at him for a long second. Then he laughs again, colder now. âNo. I think you already decided nothing matters.â Scar-Knuckles gives a soft chuckle and steps back, letting the darkness swallow him. âGo ahead then. Race your heart out. Letâs see whatâs left of you when this is over.â
The man walks off with a shrug, leaving behind the echo of truth.
Wooyoung breathes hard through his nose, blinking against the sting of smoke and his own exhaustion. He gets in the car, slams the door, and rests his forehead against the steering wheel for half a second. His hands are shaking. Not from fear, at least not fear for himself. Heâs past that.
He exhales and turns the key. The engine snarls to life like itâs hungry for blood.
And if the road ahead wants to kill him? Heâll fucking let it.
Youâve been driving for hours. Your phone is clutched in your hand like a lifeline, screen cracked at the corner from how hard youâd thrown it earlier, after the fifth voicemail you left him, each one angrier, shakier than the last.
The streets blur outside the windshield. Youâve checked every place he used to go when he wanted to be alone. Back lots. Rooftops. The edge of the highway where you once caught him chain-smoking, staring at nothing. A crew member is driving now, one hand clenched tight around the wheel, the other scrolling through group chats and rumor threads on his phone.
Youâve never felt this level of rage and terror at the same time. You want to scream, to hit something, to shake Wooyoung until he realizes what the hell heâs doing. But more than anything, you just want him alive. Breathing. Standing in front of you so you can yell at him properly for pulling this shit.
âHeâs never done this before,â The crew member mutters, jaw tight. âNot without backup. Not without at least one of us watching his back.â
Thatâs what scares you the most. Youâve been in enough of those street scenes to know, some places donât play fair. Some places, if your car flips, no one stops. If you piss off the wrong people, they donât argue. They retaliate.
âCome on,â you whisper under your breath, staring at the dark horizon like you can summon him out of it. âCome on, you idiot. Where the fuck are you?â
The crew member rattles off a list of names. Small-time crews, illegal races still rumored to be active tonight. You recognize only half of them. The further the names go, the worse it gets. Places known for sabotage. For fights breaking out mid-race. For bets that go beyond money. For people who donât give a fuck if you crash and burn.
You turn to him, breath catching. âLetâs go to the worst one.â
He raises a brow. âYou sure?â
âNo.â Your throat tightens. âBut I need to find him.â Even if it drains every last piece of you. Even if you fall apart the moment you lay eyes on him. Because right now, the alternative is worse.
Right now, the alternative is never seeing him again.
You donât say much as the car swerves through another dark stretch of road. Every second feels like itâs scraping your nerves raw. Your knee bounces restlessly, your arms crossed so tightly over your chest they hurt. âFuck,â you whisper, voice barely holding together. âI donât know where else to look.â
But then he slams his foot on the brakes. âWait-, what the fuck is that?â
You lurch forward as the car skids to a halt on the side of the road, dust clouding around you like smoke. Your eyes snap forward.
And you see it.
Off the edge of the road, maybe thirty feet down a barely-visible side trail eaten up by weeds and mud and fog, thereâs a car. The shape of the car is unmistakable. Low, black, dented on the passenger side door from a scrape weeks ago. Youâve spent too many nights leaning against that car, riding in it, practically living in it. You know it like you know him. And itâs just sitting there, quiet. Still.
âThatâs him,â you breathe. âThatâs his car.â
He curses. âThat roadâs not even on the map.â
He reverses hard and jerks the wheel to take the turn, tires grinding against the gravel, kicking up dirt as you veer off the main path. The closer you get, the harder your pulse hammers, because the lights are still on but no one is moving. No music. No engine running. Just the car. Waiting. Alone.
The moment he slams the brakes, youâre out the door and running, feet crunching through weeds and dirt.
And then you see him.
Leaning back against the hood, one foot on the ground, cigarette half-burned between his fingers. His head is tilted back, eyes closed like heâs been there for hours, maybe longer. He looks like the ghost of himself, silhouetted in the mist and high beams. Still. Dangerous. Untouchable.
He looks down as you approach. Sees you. And doesnât move. Like youâre a hallucination. Like heâs not sure youâre real.
The closer you get, the more your fury uncoils.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?!â you scream, slamming both hands into his chest with all your weight. âYou came out here alone? You shut off your phone? You didnât tell anyone where you were going?!â
He doesnât move. Not at first. Just stares at you like youâre something he dreamed up in a fever. Like you couldnât possibly be real.Â
You donât give him the chance to speak.Â
âIâve been looking for you all night,â you yell, hitting him again. âWe all have! You couldâve gotten hurt-, or worse-, and no one wouldâve even known where to start! You think youâre invincible, is that it?! You think nothing can fucking touch you?!â
Wooyoung just stands there, staring at you like you're a ghost. His cigarette is long forgotten, half-burned, dropped to the dirt near his boot.Â
âYouâre not!â you snap. âYouâre not invincible, Wooyoung. Youâre just a fucking idiot with a death wish!â you bite out, trembling all over. âYou couldâve died, Wooyoung. You couldâve left me-,â You choke on the word, a sob rising in your throat before you can swallow it down. â-left me here, alone.â
He flinches. That word punches the air from his lungs. But youâre not done.
âI came here thinking maybe you were in a ditch somewhere. I came here thinking I might have to pull your body out of a wreck. I hate you so fucking much right now-â You press your hands to his chest again, less forcefully now. Your fingers tremble, curling into the fabric of his jacket like youâre holding yourself together.
âI love you, you idiot.â
The words come out before you can stop them. Raw. Unfiltered. Not a confession, not a whisper in the dark. A curse. A scream. A truth ripped from your chest.
âI fucking love you, and you didnât even think-â You shake your head, voice cracking. âYou didnât think about what that would do to me.â
Wooyoung stares at you like the earth just shifted under his feet. And thatâs when he finally moves. His hand lifts, hesitant, like he thinks he might scare you off if he touches you wrong, and rests against your wrist, where your fingers are curled into his jacket. His grip is gentle. So fucking gentle.
âYouâre here,â he says, voice low, rough. Like he doesnât believe it.
Youâre both shaking now, but for very different reasons. Your hands rise, cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth where heâs biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to fall apart.
âI love you,â you say again, softer this time. âYou absolute fucking idiot. Donât you ever pull something like this again.â
His breath shudders out.
And then he moves. Grabs your waist. And then he kisses you, fast, hard, desperate. Like heâs never going to get the chance again. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging in like he's grounding himself.Â
âI love you,â he whispers back into your mouth. âFuck, I love you.â His mouth is on yours again before the last word leaves his lips, devouring the space between you. Your back hits the hood of his car with a thud. You donât flinch. You arch into him.
âTell me this is real,â he whispers, burying his face in your neck. âTell me youâre not gonna disappear when I wake up.â
You cup his face and make him look at you. âIâm right here,â you say.
The way he kisses you after that feels like the end of the world. Itâs not sweet. Itâs not soft. Itâs fire meeting fire. Chaos kissing recklessness. All your rage and fear and need slamming into him like a fist. You taste the danger on him. The gasoline. The smoke. The guilt. But underneath it, he's warm. He's alive.
And youâre still here.
He's breathing against your mouth now, kissing you back like he just realized he still has something to lose.
The door slams shut behind you, and he doesnât waste a second.
His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat, hot, frantic, desperate. Like he needs you to forgive him through the kiss, like heâs trying to make you forget what he just put you through. You clutch at his jacket, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the solid heat of him.
âI thought I lost you,â you breathe against his mouth, voice trembling with the aftershock. âYou fucking idiot, I thought-,â
âI know.â His voice breaks. âI know, baby. Iâm so fucking sorry.â
Your back hits the door with a soft thud, but he doesnât press hard. Not now. He cages you in with his body, but itâs not about possession, itâs surrender. He kisses you slower now, deeper, like heâs tasting the words you screamed at him earlier. I love you.
âFuck, I missed you,â he groans into your skin, the only thing he says, and even that sounds like a confession. His jacketâs half-off already, pushed down by your greedy fingers, and he shrugs it off without pulling away, never breaking contact. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, your thighs. Like he canât decide what to touch first, what to memorize.
When his lips dip lower again, dragging down your throat like heâs starved, you tilt your head back to give him more. He takes it like an offering.
âYouâre gonna let me make this up to you,â he mutters between kisses, dropping to his knees with a thud that echoes in your spine. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips branding you through the fabric of your pants. âRight here. Right fucking now.â
And you let him, because you donât want apologies.
You want him. Every reckless inch. Every frantic breath. Every desperate kiss he canât stop giving you.
His mouth drops to your hipbone first. Not to tease, heâs past that. You feel the way he exhales against your thigh, shaky, reverent. Then his hands hook under the waistband of your pants. His fingertips press into your skin as he drags them down.
He presses his cheek against your thigh for a second, breathing you in. âGod, I missed this. Missed you. I couldnât fucking think straight.â
When your panties catch at your hips, his eyes flick up, and that look, wrecked, pleading, makes your breath catch in your throat. He doesnât say a word. He just tugs the last layer down and off, letting it fall to the floor like it doesnât matter, because it doesnât. He guides your thigh to rest on his shoulder, giving him better access to you.
And then he leans in.
His tongue flicks out to taste you, one deliberate stroke that sends a sharp gasp ripping through your lungs. You grab at his hair, your hips twitching forward, but he holds you firm, anchoring you against the door with those strong hands on your hips.
His tongue finally finds your clit, and itâs slow. A slow, dragging stroke that has your spine arching away from the wood behind you. His lips close around it, warm and wet, and the sudden suction makes your legs tremble.
âFuck, you taste so good-, so sweet, baby, fuck,â he pants between licks. He licks and sucks with maddening control, every stroke perfectly placed, like he knows your body better than you do.
And he does. Fuck, he does.
He tilts his head slightly, and the next pass of his tongue has you gasping, sharp and broken. Your hands tighten in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He dips his tongue lower, tasting you fully, deeply, a slow glide up through your folds before sucking your clit back into his mouth again.
You canât breathe. You canât think. âShit-, fuck, right there-,â Your voice is cracked open, raw.Â
Your entire body is on fire, heat coiling low in your belly, thighs shaking, breath coming out in ragged moans. He lets one hand drift between your legs now, two fingers slipping between your folds with ease. He strokes you slowly, coating them, until he finally sinks one inside.
The stretch makes you gasp. His mouth doesnât stop. âYeah, come on,â he growls, the vibrations of his voice shooting straight through your core. âLet me feel it. Come on my face, baby. Give it to me.â He curls his finger, searching for that spot he knows so well, and the moment he finds it, you fall apart.
Your knees buckle. Your head hits the door with a soft thud. Your cry is half-sob, half-moan, your whole body trembling as the orgasm rips through you. He holds you there through it, mouth never leaving your clit, finger still stroking inside you in perfect rhythm.Â
Youâre panting by the time he pulls back, mouth and chin soaked, his eyes black with lust and something darker, devotion, maybe. Something that looks too much like love. He rises slowly, and your gaze drops to the way his chest rises and falls, how his fingers flex at his sides like heâs still holding himself back.
You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts you, hands locking around the backs of your thighs, arms straining with need. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and your back slams softly against the door as he catches your weight. His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is deep.Â
He groans into your mouth when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard. âI should be mad at you,â you pant between kisses. âI should fucking hate you for scaring me like that.â
âIâd let you,â he whispers against your lips, dragging them open with his tongue, tasting the words. âIâd let you do anything, baby. Just donât leave me.â
He turns, carrying you down the hallway, kissing you like itâs killing him not to be inside you already. The walk is messy, his lips never leave yours, your hands gripping the collar of his shirt, his fingers pressing bruises into your thighs from how tightly he holds you.Â
âJesus, I missed this,â he groans. âMissed the way you feel. The way you sound. Iâve been going fucking insane without you.â
He nearly kicks the door open.
The second your back hits the bed, he follows, never letting go. His hands are everywhere, sliding up your ribs, pushing your shirt up, cupping your breasts through the fabric with a groan.
âSo fucking perfect,â he murmurs, burying his face between them, sucking the curve of one, then the other. He strips himself, rips the shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him, then goes for yours, his mouth glued to your skin the moment itâs off.Â
Your fingers are shaking as they move to his jeans, tugging the button open, sliding the zipper down. You push the denim off his hips and he kicks it away, breath ragged. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy and leaking at the tip. You bite your lip at the sight, thighs squeezing together.
âI need to be inside you,â he rasps, crawling up your body like he owns it. âNeed to feel you.â
You nearly cry from how empty you are, grabbing at him, wrapping your legs around his hips. âThen do it,â you whisper against his lips. âDonât you fucking dare tease me right now.â
That earns a growl low in his throat. He fists his cock, lines it up, and presses in slow. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. Itâs deep, too deep after going so long without it, and your head hits the pillow with a strangled moan. âOh my God, you feel-, fuck-â
âSay it,â he pants, burying himself all the way. âSay who you belong to.â
âYou,â you gasp, hands clawing at his back. âYou, always-â
He starts to move and itâs chaos after that. The rhythm is rough, relentless, desperate. His hips snap into yours like heâs chasing every second he lost, every moment you spent not tangled up in him. His hands are on your jaw, your throat, your waist, gripping like heâs trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.
âTurn around for me,â he whispers suddenly. âWanna see you ride me.â
You barely register the words before he pulls out, already reaching for you. He tugs you up by the hips and you straddle him without thinking, bracing your hands on his chest as he guides his cock back to your entrance.
âTake it slow,â he says, voice low, hands gripping your thighs. âLet me watch you.â
You do. You sink down onto him slowly, gasping at the stretch from this angle. His head falls back, lips parting, chest rising in heavy breaths as you take every inch of him. He doesnât move, just lets you settle, eyes flicking down to where youâre joined.
âShit,â he groans, hands sliding up your waist. âYou-, fuck, you look so good like this.â
You start to roll your hips, finding that rhythm again, slow and grinding. His hands drift everywhere, your thighs, your waist, your back, your ass, pulling you down harder when you move just right. His voice is wrecked now, quiet curses and praises tumbling out between groans.
âJust like that, baby. Fuck, ride me-, ride me just like that.â
You grind down harder, hands splayed on his chest, riding that perfect drag of him, the way he hits so deep like this, the way his cock twitches inside you every time you moan his name.
âFeels so good,â you whisper, voice cracking. âYou feel so fucking good-â
He sits up suddenly, mouth hot against your collarbone, arms wrapped tight around you like heâs afraid youâll disappear. One hand slips down to your ass, gripping hard, and he moves with you, deeper, harder, like he needs to carve himself into you.
Your breath shatters as you clutch his shoulders, shaking under the weight of it all. âI shouldâve told you,â you choke out against his skin, voice breaking apart. âI shouldâve said something, I didnât know how-, fuck, I was so confused-â
He mouths at your throat, your jaw, your cheek, but you canât stop now. Youâre unravelling.
âI didnât mean to hurt you,â you cry, hands shaking as you hold onto him. âIt wasnât supposed to be this. I was only supposed to be here for the summer-, I thought I could leave-, I thought I could fuck you and feel nothing, but you-, God, you-â
His mouth finds yours before you can say anything more. Kisses you like heâs trying to memorize it. Like he already knows. His hand slips into your hair, keeping you close, and when he finally pulls back, his voice is rough but steady.
âI donât care where you go,â he says, forehead pressed to yours. âIâll love you anyway. No matter where you are. Iâll fucking love you from anywhere.â Then he thrusts up harder, making you cry out, and everything gets sharper. Faster. Wetter. Needier.
Thatâs when it breaks.
âIâm sorry,â you cry out, your voice cracking open around the words. âIâm so sorry-, I didnât mean to-, I didnât mean to fall like this, fuck-â Youâre shaking in his arms, tears hot on your cheeks, your fingers digging into his back like youâre afraid heâll vanish if you let go. âDidnât think youâd want me like this. I didnât think-â
âToo late,â he growls, voice almost breaking, and he holds you tighter, thrusts deeper, grounding you in him. Sweat beads on his forehead, his jaw clenched, neck straining, but his eyes are locked on yours like heâs memorizing this, memorizing you. âYouâre mine,â he groans, voice wrecked as his hands grip your hips, keeping you moving, guiding you harder. âYou always fucking were.â
Your clit brushes against the taut muscle of his abdomen with every thrust, sending sparks skittering down your spine. Your whole body starts to tighten, pulse quickening, breath catching.
âFuck, Iâm close,â you gasp, voice pitched high, wrecked. Your nails rake down his back. âHarder, fuck, right there-â
He wraps one arm around your back to hold you flush against him, grinding into you so deep it makes your thighs tremble. âI got you, baby,â he growls. âI got you. Come for me.â He grabs your face with one hand, pulling you down into a kiss thatâs all tongue and teeth and raw emotion.Â
You break the kiss, moaning as you ride him faster. âI love you,â you whisper, voice cracking.Â
âI love you,â he breathes against your mouth, like itâs a vow. âGod, I love you.â
Thatâs what does it.
You shatter around him with a cry, clutching his body like heâs the only thing anchoring you to the earth. His cock pulses deep inside you, stretching you wide, the thick drag of him enough to push you to the edge all over again.
âShit, fuck, baby-,â he chokes, and then heâs spilling inside you with a broken sound, grinding into you as he pumps thick and hot, ropes of cum flooding your tight, soaked heat. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you there as his body jerks through every last twitch of release.
Youâre both panting, still clinging to each other, your chest pressed to his, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His heartâs pounding so hard you can feel it against your own. His hands stay on your back, sliding up and down, stroking your skin.Â
Youâre still joined, still shaking, still wrapped around each other like you canât believe it finally happened.
Because this wasnât just sex.
This was the shift.
The one where everything changed, where love stopped being a dangerous thought and started being the truth, spoken between broken kisses and whispered confessions, claimed through every thrust, every gasp, every slow grind of your bodies trying to say what words canât hold.
***
You were supposed to leave Saturday.
But then you saw the way he looked at you, like losing you would destroy him. Like heâd just found something worth crashing for. So you changed your ticket. Just three more days.
Three more days with him. Three more days of being completely, wildly, his. And he doesnât waste a second of them.
He keeps you in his bed and barely lets you come up for air. He fucks you like heâs starving, like heâs never going to get enough of you, because he knows he wonât. You come apart under his mouth, his hands, his voice in your ear whispering mine while he pulls you over the edge again and again.
He moans your name like itâs holy. Tells you he loves you between kisses, between thrusts, in the shower while shampoo runs down your back. You say it back every time. You mean it more every time.
You wear his jacket everywhere. Like itâs a flag. Like itâs armor. His crew barely blinks anymore.
At the races, youâre glued to his side. He spins you into his space, your back pressed to his chest, one hand resting heavy across your lower stomach. His fingers tap against your waistband like a warning. Youâre his center of gravity, his magnet, his anchor.
And heâs not subtle about it. Heâs got one hand on you at all times, like someone might be stupid enough to try something. His eyes track every guy that lingers too long, like heâs daring them to make a move, just so he can remind them exactly who the fuck you belong to.
He doesnât just show you off, he marks you with every touch. Pulls you in by the belt loops, kisses you hard in front of everyone, talks to you with that low voice that turns your insides molten. Heâs not sweet with it, not shy. Heâs proud. Like claiming you is the boldest, smartest thing heâs ever done.
And you? You kiss him at red lights. Whisper filthy things in his ear just to watch his jaw clench. Youâve never been more yourself. Never felt more wanted.
Itâs messy. Loud. Bare. Real. The sex is addictive. The love is worse.
He holds you like heâs scared youâll disappear every time you fall asleep. You run your fingers through his hair and pretend youâre not counting down the days in your head. He tells you youâll be okay when you leave.
But you both know thatâs a lie.
Your last night in the city feels like a fever dream. He keeps you in bed for hours, touching you like itâs the last time, because it is. He doesnât hold back. Neither do you. You cry a little. He kisses it away. When you finally collapse together, bodies soaked in sweat and love, he holds you tighter than ever and doesnât let go until morning.
And then itâs time.
The morning you leave, it rains.
Not enough to drown the city, just enough to make everything feel heavier. Dimmer. Like the world knows youâre about to break your own heart. His arm is heavy across your waist, one leg thrown over yours, his nose pressed to the curve of your neck like heâs trying to memorize your scent. You feel the steady thump of his heart against your back, strong and fast, like he never really fell asleep.
You donât move. You canât. Because if you do, itâll be real.
You let yourself have one more minute. One more heartbeat of pretending this is just another morning, just another day where youâll stay in his bed until noon, steal his shirt, kiss him slow and lazy like youâve got forever.
But you donât.
He stirs when you shift. His fingers curl tighter around your waist like he already knows. âNo,â he rasps, voice wrecked with sleep and something heavier. âDonât.â
âI have to,â you whisper, swallowing hard. Your throat burns. His hand slides up your side beneath the sheets, warm and possessive, tracing every inch he already knows by heart. He presses a kiss behind your ear and then another to your bare shoulder, lips lingering. You turn in his arms and heâs already looking at you. His eyes are swollen with sleep but open, searching your face like heâs trying to carve it into his memory. You reach up to trace his jaw, soft and slow, and the second your fingers graze his skin, he leans in.
The kiss is gentle. Painfully so. Thereâs no hunger in it, just grief. The kind that sits low in your stomach and makes your chest feel tight. And when he pushes the sheets down and moves between your thighs, itâs not fast, not frantic.
Itâs reverent.
When he pushes into you, itâs quiet but not silent. Thereâs breathless gasps and whispered names. Little nothings and everything at once. He whispers Iâll miss you into your skin. You breathe donât forget me into his mouth. He makes love to you in the grey morning light, slow and devastating. Thereâs no performance, no rush. Just his mouth on your neck, your shoulder, your chest. His hands gripping your hips like he can anchor you here a little longer. When you come, you clutch his back like youâre scared you wonât feel him again, and he kisses your tears without even teasing you for them.
When itâs over, he stays inside you as long as he can. Breathing heavy against your neck, arms wrapped around your back. You just lie there, tangled up in sheets and sweat and each other, listening to the minutes tick away.
âI should get up.â you say softly.
âNo.â
You huff a laugh into his neck. âIâm gonna miss the flight.â
âGood.â He says it like a reflex. You lift your head and meet his eyes.
âYou know I have to go.â
âI know.â He cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. âDoesnât mean I have to like it.â
Eventually, you pull yourself from the warmth of his bed. Pull on yesterdayâs clothes. Start shoving things back into your bag. It feels mechanical. Distant. Like youâre packing someone elseâs life. He watches you the whole time. Silent, jaw clenched. Then he steps out of the room, just for a second, and comes back holding the leather jacket.
His jacket.
The one thatâs been through hell and back with him. The one that smells like gasoline and wind and everything he is. He holds it out. Doesnât speak.
You freeze. âYouâre giving me this?â
He shrugs. Looks away, jaw tight. âWhat, you thought Iâd let my girlfriend fly across the country without it?â
Girlfriend.
The word sucker punches you right in the chest. Not because itâs new, youâve both known what you are, but because hearing him say it like itâs obvious, like itâs real, undoes you completely.
Your throat burns. âSay that again.â
He meets your eyes. âYouâre my girlfriend.â
Your lip trembles. He notices. Steps forward and cups your face with both hands.
âYouâre mine,â he says, softer now. âI donât care where you go. Youâre still mine.â
You drive to the airport in his car. Of course you do. Thereâs no way heâd let you leave the city in anything else.
His hand stays on your thigh the entire ride, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin. His knuckles are white on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes locked on the road like itâs the only thing keeping him from turning around and driving the opposite way.
He doesnât say much.
You do.
You talk, not because the words matter, but because the silence feels like a countdown. You ramble about airport food, how youâll probably get something stupid like a soggy sandwich. You joke about your job, how itâs going to eat you alive the second you clock back in. You even try to make him laugh by telling him how weird itâll be to sleep without the sound of engines in your dreams.
His fingers tighten on your thigh once, and you know itâs coming before he even opens his mouth. âYou could stay.â
Your heart stutters. You stare ahead. The traffic light turns green. âI canât,â you say quietly.
âDonât say âcanât,ââ he mutters. âYou can do anything.â
You reach for his hand on your thigh. Squeeze it hard. âYou know I want to.â
He exhales, almost like a laugh. Itâs not a happy one. âI know.â
You lean your head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the side of his face. âI have a life back there,â you say. âMy job, my apartment, my familyâŚâ
âI know,â he says again. But this time his voice is softer. Distant. Like maybe heâs already watching you walk away.
The rain gets heavier. A full-on downpour now.
When he finally pulls up to the airport drop-off, everything looks washed out, the sky, the pavement, the shape of people dragging suitcases beneath umbrellas. It all feels unreal. In a few more minutes, youâll be nothing but a silhouette walking away through security. And heâll be just a boy behind the glass, watching everything he wants disappear.
Your hand slips from his, and even that feels like too much, like a wound tearing open. You reach for your bag in the backseat and open the door before the storm of emotion inside you can make your legs freeze.
The rain hasnât let up, but neither has he.
Wooyoung is out of the car in an instant, rounding the front before you can even lift your suitcase. He takes it from your hand like always, like muscle memory, like second nature.
He doesnât speak much as you both walk through the terminal, but his hand doesnât leave the small of your back. He keeps you tucked close, his fingers spread possessively across your side like heâs still trying to convince the universe that youâre his.
Every time you glance up at him, his expression is unreadable. Stoic. But you know him now. You know what it means when his jaw locks like that, when his throat moves like heâs swallowing something back. You know what it means when he wonât look directly at you too long, because if he does, he might not be able to look away.
Check-in. Baggage drop. Security line.
The minutes disappear too fast.
He stares at you like heâs trying to etch you into memory. Like he canât decide which part of you to commit to first, the curve of your mouth, the crease between your brows, the tears welling in your lashes that youâre trying so hard to blink away.
He exhales hard through his nose. He steps forward, crowds into your space, and cups your face with both hands like heâs trying to hold you in place, to stop time, to stop you.
âCanât believe Iâm letting my girlfriend get on a fucking plane without me.â
Your stomach turns over. You choke on a laugh thatâs more sob than smile. âIâll come back.â
âYou better,â he says, voice breaking on the edge of it. âIf you donât, Iâll come find you.â
You close your eyes. Press your forehead to his. You can feel his breath. His pulse. The heat of him, even through the thunderstorm building in your chest.
âIâm serious,â he whispers. âIâll show up in your city. At your job. At your apartment. I donât give a shit. Youâre not getting rid of me.â
âI donât want to.â
âGood.â
He kisses you then, hard. With teeth and tongue and something frantic behind it, like heâs trying to brand himself into your mouth. Like it might make this less unbearable. When he finally pulls back, heâs breathing like he just ran a race. He swipes your tears away with rough fingers. Lingers on your cheek like he canât make himself let go.
You press your face to his neck and breathe him in one last time. âIâll come back,â you promise again.
âFuck,â he breathes, holding you tighter. âYou better.â
You pick up your bag. Step into line. He stays until the very end. Right up to the point where the TSA agent tells you to move forward. Right up until the barrier he physically canât cross. And even then he doesnât leave.Â
Heâs still standing there. Still watching you like youâre everything he never expected to need.
And now canât imagine being without.
***
Weeks have passed since you left the city. Since you left him.
Youâre back in your hometown now. The familiar streets, the same cracked sidewalks, the same tired coffee shops. Everything feels smaller somehow, quieter, but your heart is loud.
You wear his jacket like armor. Itâs thick, heavy with his scent, leather and a hint of something uniquely Wooyoung. You wrap it tighter around you on the cold days, pretending itâs his arms instead of just fabric.
You crave the feel of his hands on you, not the polite, careful touches, but the ones that claim, that drag you into chaos and leave you raw. You hear it in his voice when he talks, rough and low, hinting at nights heâs spent thinking about you the way you think about him,Â
You talk constantly. Texts that never stop. Calls that stretch deep into the night until youâre both too wrecked to speak. You fall asleep with the phone on your chest, wake up to good morning messages that should not be that obscene.
He tells you about the races, the wins, the near-misses. Brags about how he fucked up some cocky kid on the asphalt, then drops his voice just enough to say, âBut I was thinking about you the whole time. Thinking about your thighs around my head while I floored it. Sick, right?â
You love when he says shit like that.
He laughs, dark and low.
Most nights end the same way. FaceTime calls that start off innocent, just him in bed with the covers low, tattoos out, chain resting on his bare chest. And heâs shameless. Hair messy. Smirking like he knows exactly what heâs doing to you. Because he does.
âYou touching yourself already?â heâll ask like itâs nothing.
And then his hand is on his cock and yours is between your thighs, and thereâs nothing sweet about it. He tells you where to put your fingers. How deep. How fast. Groans when you whimper, begs you to be louder, to let him hear how ruined you are. Sometimes he talks you through it, filthy, detailed, claiming you with every word.
âWish I was there to spit in your mouth,â he growls, hips jerking under the camera. âWant to fuck you open and make you beg for it. Youâd take it, wouldnât you? All of me.â
You whimper his name like itâs a prayer.
âLouder.â
And you do. Because he owns you even from hundreds of miles away.
He groans your name like it hurts. Tells you how good you look falling apart for him. How no oneâs ever going to touch you like he does. And then he says the things that make your toes curl and your heart twist.
âMy girl,â he mutters, low and breathless as he strokes himself. âYou hear me? Youâre my fucking girl.â He always smiles then, dangerous and soft all at once.
And when itâs over, when youâre both wrecked, sweaty, boneless in separate beds, he stays on the line. Tells you about the engine heâs rebuilding. The fight he almost got into at the garage. How nothing feels the same without you there.
And then, after it all, the silent goodnights come heavy with promise. The way he says, âSoon,â like itâs the only word you both need to hear. Because it is.
Today starts like any other shitty weekday.
The sunâs setting slow and syrupy, casting everything in burnt gold. Your feet ache from standing too long, your shoulders are sore from stress. Work was a mess. Your phoneâs dead. You forgot to eat lunch. You just want to collapse.
You step off the bus with a sigh, your breath fogs in the air. You pull his leather jacket tighter around yourself, the weight of the worn leather and the scent still faint but unmistakably his.
Then, out of nowhere, something shoves its way into your thoughts, a flash of black, sleek and familiar, parked right across from your building. Your heart stops. You freeze mid-step. The shape, the shine, the way the fading light glints off the leather interior, thereâs no mistaking it. His car. His goddamn car. Here. Outside your apartment.
Your heart stutters. You stop dead on the sidewalk, stare at it, like if you blink it might vanish.
No fucking way.
Your steps quicken, your pulse louder than your footsteps. You glance around, heart in your throat. Thereâs no sign of him. Your fingers twitch, itching to reach out, to touch something real. You drag your palm over the hood, still warm from the engine, the heat pulsing faint against your skin. Itâs so tangible, so utterly him.
You swallow hard and turn toward your building, your steps quickening. You race up the stairs, every echo of your shoes against the concrete sounding impossibly loud in the silent hallway. Your keys shake in your hand. You donât even remember making it to your floor, you're too frantic, breath shallow, thoughts spinning.
You reach your floor and immediately stop. There. At the end of the hallway, by your door, leaning against the wall like he owns the space. His silhouette is sharp against the dim light, casual but magnetic. One foot crossed over the other, his head tilted down just enough for the loose strands of hair to fall over his eyes.
You canât move. You canât even think. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze. His eyes find yours. And that smirk, that fucking smirk, spreads across his lips. Itâs cocky and knowing, the kind of smirk that says heâs been here all along, waiting for you to notice, waiting for this exact second.
His voice, low and rich and dripping with everything heâs been holding back and all the fire heâs ready to unleash.
âHey, trouble.â
And just like that, everything shifts. Time slows, your world narrows to the space between you two. The city, the distance, the ache, none of it matters anymore.
Because it was always going to be him.And you were always going to be his.
TAGLIST: I only have one main taglist, so if you wish to be added/removed, then let me know! xx
@lveegsoi @vixensss @yizhou-time @imgenieforyou-boy @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @ateezswonderland @cozypaint @blutiny @aerangi @arigakittyo @femaholicc @queenofdumbfuckery @mingiatz @hwaskookies @vent-stink @desanslogique @taestrwbrry @hannahstacos @tinyteezer @gold--gucciempress @zhangyi-johee @sunnysidesins @spenceatiny18 @yunhoswrldddd @beljakovina @soso59love-blog @trivia-134340 @skzfangirl143 @spicxbnny @h0rnyp0t @mingimangomu @no-nottoday @roguesthetic @hwas-star @tsuukamori @londonbridges01 @nayutalvr @purplelady85 @lover-ofallthingspretty @awkward-fucking-thing @luvbgy @thuyting @p1ecetinyzen @eumpappasmom @marsofeight @maidens-world @girlblogger-04 @renapersa @lol-imtrash2000 @melitadala @yoonglesbae @bby-boo4u @babymbbatinygirl @dalsuwaha @diekleinesuesse @beccaskz @les4heeseung @oddin4ry @manu2004 @mingimangomu @intowxnderland @chaotic-floral @toxicstrawberries @musicconversedance @insanityz @therealcuppicake @darkdayelixer @soobieboobiebaby @thevintagefangirl @ââfireseo @smileyishere92 @faerouzia @zerefdragn33l @lover-ofallthingspretty @yup-thats-me @trivia-134340 @mochi13 @mishtique-blog1 @desiatiny @hwaromi @tournesol155 @staytinyluva
this is beyond perfection. this characterization was so so so good. HOLY SHIT. wow.


















