An engene passed away on a livestream. Her last moments were filled with hate and anger from others spreading vile comments. Cyber bullying isn’t okay and never will be. If you love the enhypen members so much that you will threaten or harm another person because of them, take a break from the fandom. These fans have gone crazy and can’t call themselves real engenes. You really bullied her into death and then tried to put the blame on Ni-Ki, are we serious? You guys made someone lose a life and then attempted to blame another person… that also counts as cyber-bullying.
Stop being parasocial and insane, enhypen won’t recognize you.
You are NOT the member’s friends, you are their fans.
Get your head out of your ass and stop threatening people for 6 men who don’t personally know you.
Your life is so much more expensive than k-pop and you didn’t deserve to go this way, rest in peace to Mina 🕊️🤍
Since we are both on our summer vacation, we simply didn't have any time to come here. This blog is just a hobby of ours; please keep that in mind!
Now, regarding the current situation, as we all know what happened, we would first like to express our deepest condolences. Mina also known as sweetener_nk, she was a very kind girl, and we also were allowed to share her fantaken photos of ni-ki. May her soul rest in peace 💔 No one should experience such an awful situation! Both of us were deeply shocked after hearing about it.
Also, the other important thing is, if you happen to have NI-KI's DMs, please leave him kind messages! Furthermore, there are currently very disgusting things being said about him. If you ever come across any accounts, please report them urgently to HYBE! Ni-ki is not at fault for what happened! This was all done by "fans'" hurtful words. We even shared the part of his Weverse life where he said it. And the words were never directed at the girl; he simply spoke about fans who don't have fun at concerts. People, though, use his words and twist them into their own meaning, which is completely inappropriate. Once again, please report any kind of hate towards NI-KI or ENHYPEN to HYBE!!
We will share the link on here
One more important thing: bullying other people is never the right way! No matter if it's a fan or the artist! Please keep in mind these are real people with feelings, and you never know what someone is struggling with. Let’s be nice to each other and support each other. And if you happen to struggle with anything in your life, please talk to people you trust about it; it's very important.❤️
im so SICK of you parasocial fans. it actually makes me so disgusted to be a kpop fan in general sometimes but mainly i hate to be a part of this fandom when these times come across.
first of all, rest in peace, mina. you didn't deserve all of what happened to you and i hope you find love and happiness in heaven. i offer my condolences to your friends and family for the loss they shouldn't have had.
second of all, i cannot believe you all harassed a poor girl to the point where she unal*ved herself. all over the fact that she was disappointed that sunoo picked up the bouquet she bought for ni-ki (her bias) and posed w it instead of ni-ki.
it will never be understandable the need to bully a girl and make up things about her despite her apologizing and clearing up the situation for multiple days over such a small thing like this.
then the fact that you guys thought ni-ki was talking about her in his live and used that to harass her even more. what makes it worse is that 1) he had made it clear what kind of people he was referring to and 2) even if he was referring to her, there's no need to cyberbully people like this even when they have cleared the situation up and apologized.
this extends to the people who are hating on the female lead in enhypen's new album teasers. she is doing her JOB. same goes to people who hated on the female dancers from bite me, you guys ruined an amazing choreography.
you parasocial fans need to step away and realize that enhypen do not belong to you. they are humans and are allowed to interact with both men and women. they are not our puppet dolls.
additionally not everything a fan does is for their idol's attention. i hope you realize that you parasocial fans are projecting your incredulous desires of being noticed by your idols onto the rest of us regular fans who simply just want to show appreciation for our idols and the hard work they put in.
i hope everyone involved in this poor girl's suffering reflect on your actions and realize how deeply horrible you have been. you both may be behind screens but that doesn't mean your words do not have an impact. i hope you understand how your words affected this girl and unlearn your parasocial relationships and cruel ways to become kinder people in the future.
I don't know if everyone on this platform is aware, but a young woman has taken her life herself on live yesterday due to online bullying.
even simple remarks and taunts go beyond surface level twitter slander. a few words here and there on social media are enough to destroy someone entirely from inside out. I seriously need everyone to realise how deep and serious social media has gotten in our day to day lives, so much that our lives revolve completely around it. and when you use this social media platform to spread hate and hurt, you do no less than a crime. everybody on enhypen fan radar is just as accountable, you guys are horrible beings the way some people are moving recently.
this sweet sweet girl was attacked by engenes after she supposedly asked sunoo to hand sunflowers/roses (?) to niki, later, fans assumed the message niki tried to get across his live (about concert ethics) was referring to this girl and these fans blatantly started attacking her.
even during her last moments, where she was on live, the comments are so disheartening and upsetting it actually makes me sick to the stomach, some fans have lost the fucking plot. social media bullying is real and has its consequences. I hope everyone who displayed any form of unnecessary hate speech or mock towards this girl faces lashings 2x as so.
In the name of stantwt, and the enhypen fandom, people tend to forget you are not entitled to saying whatsoever just because you've got a profile picture of a kpop idol. reflect on your actions today, and choose your words wisely.
hope this sweet girl rests in peace. my condolences.
—𝑶𝑹 𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑵 you walk into a tattoo shop drunk just to prove a point, and walk out with the best thing to ever happen to you. Except he’s hiding something. And between the secrets and your stalker classmate closing in, you get it twisted before you get it right.
playlist… hanging out to dry — florence road // vampire — dominic fike // addicted — lovelace // fallen star — the neighbourhood // real people — hozier // nothing’s gonna hurt you baby — cigarettes after sex
pepa speaks!! hii so this is my first time writing a fic and I’ve been working on this for like a longgg time and decided to post bc I’m a bit nervous LOL uhm so yeah there will be a part 2 btw and also my taglist is open! pls enjoy and I’d really appreciate likes and reblogs 🤭💐
The thing about a girls’ night with Ria was that it always ended somewhere it wasn’t supposed to. The club had been Hana’s idea. The fourth round of shots had been Soo’s.
The part where all four of you ended up on the pavement at eleven-forty-five, heels in hand, looking at a tattoo shop with a red light glowing in the window like it was personally inviting you in — that had been Ria. “We’re going in,” she said.
“We are not going in,” Soo said.
“It says open.” Ria pointed at the sign. Studio 13. Like that settled it.
“It’s almost midnight.”
“They put the sign out.”
“Ria—” But you were already looking at the door and thinking why not, which was the alcohol talking, and also you were cold and your feet hurt and the red light looked warm from out here on the pavement. “I want a piercing,” you said.
Ria grabbed your hand. “She wants a piercing.” Soo looked at the sky. Hana was already moving toward the door.
The club outfit had been Ria’s fault entirely. The top was small — that was the only word for it, small and black and doing everything a top could reasonably be asked to do. The skirt wasn’t much better. You’d spent the whole night at the club feeling like the main character, which was the intended effect, and the cold air outside had done nothing to make you feel less exposed.
You pushed the door open and the warmth hit you first. Then the smell — ink, clean soap, something faintly chemical underneath it. Black walls covered in flash art. Low red lighting that made the whole place feel like a deliberate secret. Something slow playing from speakers you couldn’t locate.
Two guys inside. One in the back with his head down over a drawing tablet. One at the front counter. The one at the front counter looked up.
He was tall even on the stool, long legs stretched out in front of him, forearms resting on the desk like he owned the surface and everything past it. Full sleeve on his left arm. Silver rings on most of his fingers. Dark hair pushed back slightly. One earring. The kind of face that got you in trouble if you looked at it for too long — sharp jaw, dark eyes, a mouth that was currently sitting in the very early stages of a smirk.
He took in all four of you in about two seconds. Then his eyes found you and the smirk finished forming. “We’re open,” he said. “Barely.”
Ria and Hana peeled off toward the flash wall immediately. Soo planted herself near the door with her arms folded. Which left you walking up to the front counter alone, bare legs, tiny skirt, heels clicking on the concrete floor.
You watched him watch you walk over. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching. Didn’t do the polite thing where you glance away and back. He just watched, easy and unhurried, the way someone looks at something they find genuinely worth looking at, and when you got to the counter and leaned on it his eyes moved — slowly, and with complete lack of apology — from your face down to your chest and back up again. Held eye contact like nothing had happened. You’d been looked at before. This was different. This was a man who had decided he wasn’t going to pretend. “Hi,” you said.
“Hi.” His voice was low. Even. The smirk hadn’t moved. “Can I help you?”
“I want a piercing.”
“Yeah?” He leaned back on the stool, arms folding across his chest, the sleeve shifting with the movement. His rings caught the red light. “What are you thinking?”
“Tragus.” You reached up and tapped the outer ridge of your ear, which meant your arm lifted and your top shifted and you watched his eyes drop again, briefly, before they came back to yours like he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. “I’ve been putting it off. I’m in a decisive mood.”
“Decisive,” he said.
“Very.”
“I can see that.” He said it like it meant something else. Then: “How much have you had tonight?”
“Enough to be excellent company.”
He looked at you. Really looked — quiet and thorough, taking in your face, the flush across your chest, the way you were leaning on his counter in that top — and then his tongue pressed briefly against his cheek like he was trying not to smile properly. “Can’t pierce you with alcohol in your system, baby.”
Baby. Like he’d been calling you that for years. Like it was already established. “That’s a rule?” you said.
“That’s the rule.”
You leaned further onto the counter, closing some of the distance between you. His eyes went exactly where you expected them to go and stayed there for a beat longer than was professional before dragging back up. His expression didn’t change. He was completely comfortable with being caught, which was — honestly — impressive. “What if I promised to be very good?” you said.
“I’m sure you would be.” His voice was smooth, unhurried. “Still no.”
“What if—”
“You can come back tomorrow,” he said. “Sober. I’ll pierce your tragus.” A pause, his eyes dropping once more, quick and deliberate, before landing back on yours. “Or whatever else you want.”
The air between you did something. “That sounds like more than a professional offer,” you said.
“I’m a professional.” The smirk was fully settled now. “The offer’s professional. What you do with it is up to you.”
You held his gaze. He held yours back without any effort at all, completely at ease, like this was just how Tuesday night went for him. It was annoying. It was also working. “I don’t know where this place is sober,” you said.
He was already reaching under the counter. He slid a card across the desk with two fingers — didn’t look down to do it, kept his eyes on you the whole time. STUDIO 13. NISHIMURA RIKI. PIERCING.
You picked it up. “Your personal card,” you said.
“Goes straight to me.”
“Bold.”
“Efficient,” he said.
You looked at the card. Then at him. “I’m Y/N.” His eyes went down again — unhurried, completely unapologetic, a slow look that started at your face and made its way south before coming back up — and then he said, “Y/N,” like he was just trying the name out. Like he’d be using it again. “You gonna remember that?” you said.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “I’m going to remember that.”
The way he said it made it about more than your name. Behind you, Ria made a noise she covered poorly with a fake cough. You didn’t turn around. “Come back sober,” Riki said. “I’ll take care of you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I’m going to do it.” He picked his phone back up, easy as anything, like the conversation was filed away now and he was done performing — except the smirk stayed. “Get home safe, Y/N.” Dismissed. Warmly, cockily, with complete confidence that you’d be back.
You picked up the card, slid it into your bag, and let Soo steer you to the door because your own legs had made a decision to co-operate with his energy and you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.
Outside Ria grabbed your arm with both hands. “Y/N. The way he looked at you—”
“Ria.”
“He looked at your tits like—”
“Ria.” Hana was fanning herself. Even Soo was quiet, which was its own verdict. The Uber was three minutes away and you looked at your phone and felt your face doing something warm that you were crediting entirely to the alcohol.
Inside, Heeseung finally looked up from his drawing tablet. He’d watched the whole thing. Ten feet away. Nobody had noticed. He looked at Riki.
Riki had his phone in his hand but he was looking at the door — at the space where you’d just been standing in that top, leaning on his counter, letting him look — with an expression Heeseung couldn’t quite name. Something had landed and settled behind his eyes.
“Who was that?” Heeseung said.
Riki looked down at his phone. “Some hot girl.”
“Some hot girl,” Heeseung repeated.
“Wanted a tragus piercing.”
“Uh huh.” Heeseung looked at the counter. At the space where Riki’s personal card had been sitting ten minutes ago, now somewhere in your bag on the way home. “You give clients your personal card often?”
Riki said nothing. Heeseung looked back at his tablet. “Right,” he said quietly, and said nothing else.
Three weeks later you were standing outside Studio 13 again and this time you were completely, annoyingly sober. “I don’t know why I’m here,” you said.
“Because Riki said come back sober and you kept his card for three weeks,” Ria said, pushing the door open.
“I kept it by accident.”
“In your purse.”
“That’s where cards go.”
“You don’t keep any other cards in your purse, Y/N. I’ve seen your purse. It’s a graveyard of receipts and one lip liner.” You followed her inside because the alternative was standing on the pavement arguing with her and you’d already lost this argument six times on the way over.
Ria had a tattoo appointment. That was the reason you were here. You were just here for moral support. You were going to sit in a chair and look at your phone and not think about the guy who had looked at you like that and said I’ll take care of you with complete sincerity and a smirk that should have been annoying.
The door swung shut behind you. Same as before — black walls, flash art, red light, the slow dark playlist. A different energy in the daytime though, busier, more lived-in. Jay was at the side counter doing something with ink caps, talking loudly to no one in particular. Jake was sweeping near the back. Heeseung was visible through the half-open door of the back room, head down, working.
No one at the front desk. You relaxed slightly. Ria was already at the counter, checking in for her appointment, and you drifted toward the flash wall and started looking at the art because it was genuinely good and also because you needed something to do with your eyes.
You heard the door from the back open. Heard footsteps. Heard someone say, “Riki, someone’s here—” You turned around because you were a person with normal human reflexes and not because your body had already clocked the name.
Riki came through the back door with a pair of gloves half-on, looking down at the appointment book, and then he looked up.
He saw Ria first. Then his eyes moved — one smooth, unhurried slide — and found you standing by the flash wall in your jeans and your jacket looking like someone who was absolutely only here for moral support. “Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” you said. There was a pause that lasted slightly too long for two people who didn’t know each other.
“You came back,” he said.
“Ria has an appointment.”
“Right.” He looked at you. “And you’re just here for Ria.”
“Correct.”
“Nothing to do with the card.”
“I forgot I even had it.”
“Uh huh.” He pulled the second glove on, still looking at you, and the smirk had settled into something warmer now — less performance, more genuinely pleased. “How’s the tragus feeling? Still decisive?”
Ria made a sound from the counter that she turned into a cough. You didn’t look at her. “I’m considering my options,” you said.
“Good answer.” He turned to Ria, professional now, easy switch. “Ria, yeah? Heeseung’s got you, he’s just finishing up. Five minutes.”
“Perfect,” Ria said, and then immediately looked at you with an expression that meant she was storing everything and you would be debriefed extensively later.
Riki came around the counter. Didn’t go back to the desk — came and stood near the flash wall, close enough to talk, far enough to be plausibly looking at the art. “You look different,” he said.
“I’m sober.”
“That’s probably it.” His eyes did the thing — a brief, easy drop and return, taking in the jacket, the jeans, the way you were standing — and then he was looking at your face again like that was just how he operated. Open about it. Unbothered. “Still good though.”
“You’re very confident,” you said.
“I’m accurate,” he said. You looked at Riki. He looked back. This close you could see the bar through his tongue properly — silver, subtle when his mouth was closed, noticeable when he talked — and the ring in his ear and the way his rings shifted when he crossed his arms.
“So,” he said. “You actually want the piercing or did you come all the way here just to tell me you forgot my card existed?”
“I could still want the piercing.”
“You could.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you?”
You held out for three more seconds. Then: “Yeah.”
His smile did the thing again — the slow, settled version, the one that looked like satisfaction and something warmer underneath it. “On the house,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He was already moving back toward the piercing station, unhurried, like it was decided. “Come on.”
The piercing chair was in a partitioned section near the back — semi-private, its own mirror, a tray of tools laid out with the kind of precision that told you he took this seriously. He snapped a fresh pair of gloves on and gestured to the chair and you sat down and tried to look like you were not thinking about the last time you’d been in this general vicinity, considerably less sober, telling him he had criminally pretty eyes. You were thinking about it.
He adjusted the chair height without asking, tilted the light, and then stepped in close to look at your ear. His fingers were gentle when they touched the outer ridge — thumb pressing lightly to test the cartilage, professional and careful — and he was close enough that you could smell whatever he was wearing, something dark and clean. “Tragus is a good choice,” he said, still examining your ear. “Suits you.”
“You can tell that from my ear?”
“I can tell from your face.” He stepped back, reached for the marking pen. “You’ve got good bone structure. Something small here draws attention without being loud.” He met your eyes in the mirror. “You’re already loud enough.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It was one.” He marked the spot with the pen — quick, precise — and then held up a small mirror so you could check the placement. His hand was steady. Everything about him was steady, which was both reassuring and slightly irritating. “Good?” he said.
“Good.”
He put the mirror down. Reached for the needle. And then paused, looking at you in the main mirror with an expression that was more direct than the smirk — more level. “You nervous?” he said.
“No.”
“Your jaw is doing something.”
“My jaw is fine.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m a little nervous,” you said. “About the needle. Not about—” You stopped.
“Not about?” he said.
You looked at him in the mirror. He looked back. The smirk was quiet right now, just his face, just the question sitting there. “The needle,” you said. “I said what I said.”
He let it go. Looked back at your ear, positioned his hands. “Breathe in,” he said. You breathed in. “Out.”
You breathed out and he moved — quick and precise and over before you’d finished processing it. A sharp bite of pressure, brief, clean, and then his hands were already switching out the needle for the jewellery, smooth and practiced. “Done,” he said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He stepped back to let you see in the mirror. Small flat-back stud, exactly where the mark had been, sitting perfectly. “What do you think?”
You looked at it. Turned your head slightly. It was — actually exactly right, the placement, the size, the way it sat. “I think you’re good at your job,” you said.
“I know.” But he said it lightly, without the edge, and when you looked at him in the mirror he was looking at the piercing with something that read like quiet pride. Like he actually cared that it was right.
He peeled his gloves off. Started going through aftercare — saline spray, what to avoid, how long to leave it — and you listened and watched his hands and thought about how he’d looked at you when you walked in. That slow, settled smile. You came back. Like he’d known you would. “Any questions?” he said.
“No.”
“Good.” He handed you the small aftercare card. His fingers brushed yours when he passed it over and he didn’t move his hand immediately, just let the contact sit there for a second before stepping back. “You should come back in four weeks so I can check it.”
“Is that standard?”
“For you it is.”
You looked up at him. He was close still, leaning against the counter beside the chair, arms crossed, completely at ease with the proximity and what he was saying and the way he was looking at you. “That’s a very smooth way to make a follow-up appointment,” you said.
“I’m a smooth guy.”
“You’re a cocky guy.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” He smiled properly. “Four weeks, Y/N. I’ll be here.” From the main floor, very clearly, you heard Jay say to Jake in a voice that carried: “Twenty says she’s back in two.”
Heeseung appeared in the doorway of his room as you were walking back out to wait for Ria. He looked at you. Then at Riki, who was cleaning up the station behind you. He said nothing.
When you were out of earshot, he leaned in the doorway and looked at Riki with a level expression. Riki didn’t look up. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Heeseung was quiet for a moment. “She coming back?”
Riki stacked the packaged jewellery back in the tray. “Four weeks.”
Heeseung looked at the ceiling. Looked back down. “Right,” he said, and went back into his room.
Riki looked up once — just once — at where you’d gone back to sit with Ria, talking and laughing, your hand coming up to touch the new piercing gently like you were checking it was real. He looked back down at the tray. Picked up his phone. Set it down again. Four weeks was a long time.
You were back in two weeks. You told yourself you had a legitimate reason. The piercing felt slightly tender on one side and the aftercare card said to come back if anything felt off and this was a medical concern, essentially, and had nothing to do with anything else. Ria, when you told her this, said “uh huh” in the exact same tone Riki had used and you’d hung up on her.
You pushed the door to Studio 13 open at four on a Thursday afternoon.
Jay was at the front counter this time. He looked up, recognized you, and his whole face did something delighted. “Y/N,” he said, like you were a returning champion.
“Hey.” You unwound your scarf. “Is Riki—”
“In the back.” Jay was already leaning back in his chair, tilting toward the hallway. “Riki.”
“I could have just—”
“RIKI. Your girl’s here.”
From the back, a pause. Then footsteps. Riki appeared in the doorway with a black coffee in one hand and his phone in the other and when he saw you something moved across his face — quick, controlled — before it settled into the usual. “Two weeks,” he said.
“I know.”
“I said four.”
“The piercing felt off.”
He looked at you. You looked back. He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Come here,” he said. Back in the piercing section again. The chair, the mirror, the tray. He set his coffee down on the counter and snapped gloves on and tilted your chin to the side with two fingers, turning your head so the light hit the piercing properly.
He was quiet while he looked. Close, the way he’d been last time, close enough that you were aware of exactly how tall he was and exactly how little space existed between you. “Looks fine,” he said.
“It felt tender.”
“New cartilage piercing. It’s going to feel tender.” He turned your head a fraction more, examining the entry and exit points. “You sleeping on it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Don’t.” His thumb pressed gently just below the piercing, checking the tissue. “You’re not rotating it, are you?”
“The card said not to.”
“People do it anyway.”
“I follow instructions.” He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. His fingers were still at your jaw, light but there, and in the mirror you could see him looking at the piercing with that focused, careful expression he got when he was working — like the rest of him went quiet and it was just this, just the task, just making sure it was right.
“It’s fine,” he said again, quieter this time. “A little irritated but nothing bad. You’re cleaning it?”
“Twice a day.”
“Good girl.” He said it the same way he said everything — even, unbothered — and went right back to examining the piercing like he hadn’t just said it, like it was nothing, like your entire nervous system hadn’t just done something embarrassing.
He stepped back. Pulled one glove off. In the mirror you watched him look at you — your face this time, not the piercing — and the focused work expression shifted back into something more personal. His eyes moved down briefly, back up. Unhurried. Unapologetic. “You didn’t just come for the piercing check,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. “I was in the area,” you said.
“Y/N.”
“I was.”
“Okay.” He pulled the second glove off, dropped them both in the bin. Leaned against the counter beside the chair with his arms crossed, looking at you with that steady, patient expression. Like he had all the time in the world and was fully prepared to wait you out.
The rings on his fingers caught the light. The bar through his tongue was visible when he spoke and sometimes when he didn’t, a small flash of silver that your eyes kept going back to without your permission. “Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Go ahead.”
You nodded toward his mouth. “Does it affect anything? The tongue piercing.”
The corner of his mouth pulled up. He knew exactly what you were asking and you both knew you both knew it. “Depends what you mean by anything,” he said.
“Talking,” you said. “Eating.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t affect talking or eating.”
The way he said it made the implication sit in the room like a third person. “And what about—” you started.
“Yes,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back at you, completely relaxed, the smirk at about thirty percent, like he was letting you sit in the answer rather than pushing it.
“That was going to be a different question…” you said.
“Was it?” It wasn’t.
You looked away first, which you were counting as a tactical retreat rather than losing, and he made that almost-laugh sound again and pushed off the counter. “Come out front,” he said. “I’ll get you the saline to take home.”
Jay was now pretending to organize a drawer he had clearly already organized when you came back out. Jake had appeared from somewhere and was leaning on the wall near the door with his phone out. The effort to look casual was extraordinary.
Riki went behind the counter, got the saline, slid it across to you.“Stop sleeping on it,” he said.
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try. Just don’t do it.”
“You’re bossy,” you said.
“I’m thorough.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms were right there, the sleeve on full display this close — you’d been trying not to look at it properly but it was a lot of work. Intricate blackwork, something that looked botanical near his wrist, darker geometry climbing toward his elbow. “Like the sleeve?” he said.
You looked up. He’d caught you. “It’s good work,” you said.
“Heeseung did most of it.”
“Heeseung tattooed you?”
“First one when I started here.” Something shifted slightly in his face — not closed off, just more considered. “Kind of a thing between us.”
You wanted to ask what kind of thing. Something in how he’d said it made you not push. “You do your own piercings?” you said instead.
He tilted his head so you could see the earring. “This one.”
“Doesn’t that hurt more when it’s yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“And you did it anyway.”
“I do most things anyway,” he said. He said it lightly but there was something under it, something matter-of-fact about pain being a variable he’d simply accounted for. You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to. “Four weeks,” he said, quieter now, just to you. “Come back in four weeks and I’ll check it properly. And if you’re in the area before that—” he held your gaze — “you know where we are.”
“Very smooth,” you said.
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep proving it.” He smiled. The real one — not the smirk, not the performance, the actual smile that did something to his whole face. You’d only seen it once before, the night you came in drunk when he laughed at something Ria said, and it was worse up close and sober.
You picked up the saline. Shouldered your bag. “Thanks for checking it,” you said.
“Anytime.”
You were halfway to the door when Jay said, loudly, to no one: “Two weeks. Called it.”
“Jay,” Riki said, flat.
“I’m just saying—”
“Jay.” You pushed the door open and let it close on whatever Jay said next. On the pavement you breathed in cold air and stood there for a second. I do most things anyway. You thought about that the whole way home.
You texted Ria that night.
you: the piercing was fine btw. just irritated.
Ria: sure
you: it was a legitimate medical concern
Ria: how did he look
you: that’s not relevant
Ria: how did he LOOK
You stared at your phone. Put it face down. Picked it up again.
you: good. he looked good. go to sleep.
Ria: 😭😭😭 Y/N YOU ARE SO DOWN BAD
You put your phone on the charger and lay on your back in the dark and stared at the ceiling. The bar through his tongue caught the light when he talked. Yes, he’d said. Like it was nothing. Like he said it every day. You put a pillow over your face.
Across the city, Studio 13 was closing up. Heeseung was cashing out. Jake was wiping down surfaces. Jay was retelling the afternoon to Sunghoon, who had come in for his evening shift and was listening with the specific expression of someone enjoying information they could use later.
Riki was at the piercing station. Cleaning the tray. Doing the same task he’d done a hundred times. “She came back in two weeks,” Jay said.
“I heard,” Sunghoon said.
“I called it.”
“You did call it.”
“Riki,” Jay said. “You owe me twenty.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Riki said. “We didn’t make a bet.”
“Spiritually we did.” Riki said nothing. Put the tray away.
“She’s coming back in four weeks,” Jay told Sunghoon.
“Or two,” Sunghoon said.
“Or two,” Jay agreed.
“Both of you,” Riki said, without heat, “can shut up.”
They did not shut up. He let them talk and went back to the tray and thought about the way you’d looked at his mouth when you asked about the piercing. The way your eyes had gone somewhere specific and come back and you’d tried to cover it with a different question.
He’d watched the answer land. Had watched you process it and look away and call it a tactical retreat when it wasn’t. He was good at reading people. He’d had to be, for a long time, for reasons that had nothing to do with tattoo shops or piercing chairs.
You were going to come back before four weeks. He put the tray away and picked up his coffee and didn’t say any of that out loud.
You were back in ten days. You didn’t have a reason this time. You’d run out of reasons. You showed up at three on a Wednesday with two coffees and the vague awareness that something had shifted from I’m in the area to something you didn’t have a word for yet. Jay opened the door before you reached it. “She’s got coffee,” he announced into the shop.
“Jay—”
“Is one of those for me?” He was already holding the door open, looking at the cups in your hand with genuine hope.
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“I brought two.”
“There are multiple people here who drink coffee.”
“There are two coffees,” you said. “Do the math.”
Jay looked wounded. You walked past him into the shop and he let the door close and called after you: “I’m telling Riki you were mean to me.”
“Please do.” Riki was at the front counter. Actually at the counter this time, not coming through from the back, sitting on the stool with his forearms on the desk and his phone in his hand. He looked up when you came in and his eyes went straight to the cups. Then to your face. Then he smiled — not the smirk, not the performance, just a real and immediate thing that he didn’t seem to think about first. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You put one of the coffees on the counter in front of him. “I didn’t know how you take it.”
He looked at the cup. Looked at you. “Black is fine,” he said.
“Lucky guess.”
“Is it?” He picked it up. His fingers overlapped yours on the cup for a second before you let go — brief, probably accidental, neither of you addressed it. He took a sip. Put it down. “Ten days.”
“I know.”
“Getting closer to two weeks, not further.”
“I’ve been busy,” you said. “This was the first chance I had to—”
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“You don’t need a reason,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back, completely even, like he’d just said something neutral about the weather. “Sit down.”
That was how it started. Not with anything dramatic. Just you sitting on the other side of the counter on a Wednesday afternoon with a coffee while Riki worked through his admin, and the conversation that happened around it — easy and unhurried, drifting from one thing to another, the kind of talk that didn’t feel like it was going anywhere because it didn’t need to.
You learned things without asking for them. That he’d been at Studio 13 for two years. That he and Jay had met here. That he had opinions about piercing placement that were borderline philosophical and he’d share them unprompted if you let him.
He learned things back. That you were in your final year. That Ria had been your best friend since you were sixteen. That you had three other piercings already and had done two of them yourself, which made him look up from his phone with an expression that was equal parts impressed and horrified. “You did your own helix,” he said.
“With a kit.”
“A kit.”
“People do it.”
“People also do a lot of things I have to fix,” he said, and leaned across the counter to look at your ear without asking. His fingers found the helix piercing, examining it with the same careful focus he brought to everything, and you sat very still. “It’s crooked,” he said.
“I know.”
“I can fix it.”
“I know.”
He was still looking at your ear, close, his thumb light against the cartilage. “Why haven’t you?”
“I kept meaning to.” You paused. “And then I found Studio 13 and I figured I’d—”
You stopped. He pulled back just enough to look at your face. His expression said he’d heard the end of the sentence even though you hadn’t said it. “Figured you’d what?” he said.
“Come here eventually,” you said. “For things.”
The smirk appeared. “For things.”
“Piercings.”
“Right.” He stepped back, let you breathe, picked his coffee back up. “I’ll fix it whenever you want.”
“Add it to my tab.”
“You don’t have a tab. Everything I do to you is on the house.” He said it completely straight and then looked at his phone, leaving you to sit in the everything I do to you by yourself.
Jay appeared from the back at that exact moment, looked at you both, looked at the counter between you, and went directly back the way he came without saying anything, which was somehow more powerful than if he had.
Hana came with you the following Wednesday. She had been angling to see the shop since Ria had described it in approximately four hundred texts and the second she walked in she stopped in the middle of the floor and looked around with wide eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Oh this place is cool.”
Jake, who was at the side counter, looked up. Hana looked at Jake. Jake looked at Hana. You filed that away.
Riki was with a client in the piercing section — you could see him through the partition, gloved up, talking the client through something in that low steady voice. You hadn’t told him you were coming. You weren’t sure why, except that you’d wanted to know what it felt like to walk in and see him before he saw you. It felt like something, as it turned out.
He was focused on his client, head tilted, hands precise. He’d pushed his sleeves up and the full length of the tattoo was visible now — blackwork that climbed from his wrist to somewhere past his elbow, detailed and dark. He was saying something that made the client laugh. Patient and calm and completely in his element.
You stood there and looked at him for maybe four seconds too long.
“Y/N,” Hana said quietly beside you.
“What.”
“You’ve got a face on.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You’ve got a very specific face.” She looked at Riki. Looked at you. “Oh you are done.”
“I’m looking at the flash art,” you said, and turned to look at the flash art.
Jay materialized at your shoulder. “She does this every time,” he told Hana, like you weren’t standing right there. “Comes in, looks at him, then looks at the wall.”
“I can hear you,” you said.
“I know.” Jay smiled. “Coffee?”
Riki’s client left at half past three. He came through from the partition still pulling his gloves off and stopped when he saw you and Hana at the counter with Jay. The gloves came off slower. “You didn’t text,” he said to you.
“Spontaneous visit.”
“Hm.” He dropped the gloves, came around to the main counter. His eyes moved to Hana briefly, assessing, friendly. “Friend?”
“Hana,” you said. “She wanted to see the shop.”
“Welcome.” He said it to Hana and then his attention came back to you in that way it always did — like you were the fixed point and everything else was peripheral. “How’s the piercing?”
“Fine. Good.”
“You sleeping on it?”
“Mostly not.”
“Y/N.”
“Mostly not. I’m a side sleeper, it’s a process.”
He leaned on the counter. His coffee was cold by now but he picked it up anyway. “I’ll fix the helix today if you want. While you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
“Chair’s free.” Hana’s elbow found your ribs with surgical precision. You ignored it.
“Okay,” you said.
The helix took ten minutes. Precise, careful, the same focused quiet he brought every time. Afterwards he checked the tragus — habit, he said, like that was a normal thing, like of course he was checking it — and you sat in the chair and let him and looked at his face in the mirror while he was looking at your ear.
Up close like this you could see things you couldn’t from the other side of a counter. The small scar through his left eyebrow, barely visible. The way his jaw set when he was concentrating. The rings on his fingers — he took them off for client work and put them back on after, and watching him slide them back on was a thing you were apparently noticing now.
He caught you in the mirror. Didn’t call you out. Just held your gaze for a second and then looked back at the piercing, and the corner of his mouth moved slightly. “Good,” he said. “Helix looks better. You’ll need to re-do the aftercare cycle.”
“I know.”
“You actually know or you’re saying you know?”
“Riki.”
“I’ll write it down.”
“I literally work a piercing counter in my memory called things Riki has told me,” you said.
He went still for a half second. Then: “Yeah?”
“You’re very thorough,” you said. “It sticks.”
He looked at you in the mirror. Steady, quiet, something behind his eyes that was more than the usual easy confidence — something that had weight to it. “Good,” he said, quieter.
He stepped back. Started cleaning up. Normal, routine, the way he always moved through the shop like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. “Same time next week?” he said. It wasn’t really a question.
“Sure,” you said.
In the main shop, Hana was sitting on the counter watching Jake explain the difference between traditional and neo-traditional tattooing with the energy of someone who had found religion. Jay was watching this with profound satisfaction. When you came back out Hana looked at you and then at Riki behind you and then at you again. “We should go,” you said.
“Should we,” Hana said.
“Yes.”
“Jake was just explaining—”
“Hana.” She got up, reluctantly, and said goodbye to Jake in a way that suggested she was also going to be back before four weeks. Jake watched her go with an expression that Riki clocked and then looked away from like he hadn’t seen it.
At the door you turned back. Riki was at the counter, already on his phone, or pretending to be. “Thanks for the helix,” you said.
“Anytime.” He didn’t look up. “Wednesday?”
“Wednesday,” you said. Jay made a noise. Riki didn’t look at him. You pushed the door open and the cold air hit you and behind you you heard Jay say, quiet and satisfied to no one in particular: “Regular.”
The Wednesday visits became a thing. Not every week, sometimes every ten days, but consistent enough that Jay started having your coffee order ready. Consistent enough that Jake stopped looking surprised when you walked in. Consistent enough that Heeseung, who said little and noticed everything, started nodding at you when you arrived like you’d passed some quiet assessment he’d been running.
Riki never texted first. You did sometimes — nothing significant, a meme about piercings, a question about aftercare that you probably knew the answer to. He always replied. Never with much. But always.
The counter between you was becoming a problem. Not the physical one — the metaphorical one. The distance that was exactly the right size for this isn’t anything yet and felt increasingly inadequate for what was actually happening in the space between you every Wednesday afternoon. He looked at you like you were a decision he’d already made. You were starting to think you had too.
Daniel texted on a Thursday.
Daniel: hey, haven’t seen you around much. you ok?
You stared at it. You and Daniel had two seminars together and a loose group chat and approximately nothing else, and this was the third text this week.
you: yeah all good, just busy
Daniel: we should get coffee sometime
you: I’m pretty slammed rn, sorry
You thought nothing of it. You mentioned it to Riki the following Wednesday — offhand, in the middle of a conversation about something else, not thinking. “This guy in my seminar keeps texting,” you said. “It’s starting to get annoying.”
Riki was writing something on the appointment book. His pen slowed.“What guy?” he said.
“Daniel. We’re in the same module. He keeps asking for coffee.” Riki’s pen stopped. You looked up. His face was the same — neutral, easy — but something had shifted underneath it. Something had gone very still in the specific way of a thing that was actively being held still.
“You said no?” he said.
“Obviously. I’m not interested.”
A pause. He looked back at the appointment book. Wrote something. “Good,” he said.
Just that. Good. You looked at him for a second. “Riki.”
“Hm.”
“Are you—”
“Helix check,” he said, and stood up from the stool. You let him redirect you. Sat in the chair. Let him check the helix he’d fixed two weeks ago and didn’t need to check again. His hands were as steady as they always were. His voice was as even.
But when you looked at him in the mirror his jaw was set in a way it wasn’t usually and his eyes, when they met yours in the reflection, had something in them that was more than the usual warm certainty. Something that looked a lot like mine with nowhere to go yet. You looked away first. Neither of you said anything about it.
Daniel was waiting outside your seminar on Tuesday. Not accidentally. He was leaning on the wall opposite the door with his phone out, and when you came through he pushed off and fell into step beside you like it was coordinated, like he’d timed it. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You kept walking.
“Good seminar?”
“It was fine.”
“I thought Professor Kim made a good point about the—”
“Daniel.” You stopped. Turned to face him. He was decent looking, objectively — tall, friendly face, the kind of guy who probably did well in situations where persistence read as flattering. “What’s going on?”
He smiled. Easy, practiced. “I was thinking we could grab that coffee.”
“I said I was slammed.”
“You’re not slammed right now.”
“I have somewhere to be.”
“Where?”
You looked at him. “That’s not really—”
“I’ll walk you,” he said. Like that was a reasonable response. Like the answer to I have somewhere to be was I’ll come.
“Daniel.” You kept your voice even. “I appreciate it but I’m not interested. Okay? Not trying to be harsh, just being clear.”
Something moved across his face — not anger, more like recalibration, like he was filing this away as a temporary obstacle. “Maybe just as friends,” he said.
“I’m good. Thanks though.” You walked away. Heard him say something behind you — see you Thursday — and didn’t respond. You texted Ria about it on the bus.
you: the Daniel thing is getting annoying
Ria: what happened?
you: he waited outside my seminar
Ria: ew
you: I told him straight I’m not interested
Ria: good. are you telling riki?
You stared at that.
you: why would I tell riki??
Ria: because you tell riki everything now??
you: I do not tell riki everything
Ria: you told him about your mum’s cat
you: that came up naturally and I’m not telling him, it’s not a big deal
You put your phone in your bag. You didn’t tell him.
Wednesday came and you sat at the counter with your coffee and talked about other things — Hana and Jake’s ongoing situation, which was developing at a glacial pace that was driving Ria insane. A new flash piece Heeseung had drawn that you’d been looking at for twenty minutes when you came in. Whether you should get a second tragus on the other ear. “Yes,” Riki said, without hesitation.
“That’s a very immediate answer.”
“It’s an obvious answer.” He looked at your ears, both sides, that assessing look. “Symmetrical double tragus. Come in next week.”
“Maybe I want to think about it.”
“You don’t need to think about it.”
“Riki.”
“You came in drunk wanting a tragus piercing,” he said. “You knew then. You know now.”
You looked at him. He looked back with the patience of someone who was completely certain and was willing to wait for you to catch up. “Fine,” you said.
He smiled. “Next week,” he said.
The following Tuesday Daniel was outside your seminar again. This time you saw him before he saw you and you changed direction, took the long way to the exit, added seven minutes to your walk. Small, manageable.
On Thursday he was in the coffee queue behind you. “Coincidence,” he said, and smiled at you, and you smiled back tightly and paid for your coffee and left.
On Friday he messaged. Again.
Daniel: hey saw you in the queue yesterday, why’d you leave so fast?
You didn’t reply. And he messaged again on Saturday.
Daniel: did I do something wrong?
You showed it to Ria over the phone that night. She was quiet for a second. “He’s not taking the hint,” she said.
“I didn’t hint. I said directly I wasn’t interested.”
“Then he’s not taking the direct statement.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause. “Tell Riki.”
“Ria—”
“Y/N I’m serious, tell—”
“It’s fine. I can handle it.”
“I know you can handle it, that’s not the—” She stopped. “Just tell him. You know you want to.” You didn’t answer that.
Wednesday came around, you’d been at the counter for forty minutes. Jay had come and gone twice. Jake had shown Hana something on his phone that made her laugh and Riki had looked at that for approximately one second before very deliberately looking elsewhere.
You were mid-sentence about something — your dissertation, probably, you’d been complaining about your dissertation — when the door opened.
Sunghoon came in from his afternoon off, still in his jacket, unwinding his scarf. He was unfairly attractive and moved through the shop like he knew it, dropping his bag behind the counter and immediately coming over to where you were sitting. “Y/N.” He leaned on the counter beside Riki’s stool, friendly, easy. “How’s the tragus?”
“Good.” You touched it briefly. “Riki’s doing the other side next week.”
“Nice. You should let me draw something for you. Little custom piece, just here—” he touched his own collarbone— “would suit you.”
“Yeah?”
“Hundred percent.” He looked at Riki. “Right?” Riki was looking at his phone. “Riki,” Sunghoon said.
“Hm.” He didn’t look up. Sunghoon looked at you with a small what’s his problem expression. You looked back with a I genuinely don’t know expression.
You talked to Sunghoon for twenty more minutes. He was easy to talk to — funny, straightforward, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. He showed you his portfolio on his phone, talked you through a couple of pieces, asked about your university course with actual interest.
Riki stayed on his stool. He wasn’t on his phone. You could tell because you kept looking over and the screen was dark. He was just sitting there in the specific stillness of something being actively held in place, forearms on the desk, jaw set. When Sunghoon went to the back to change into his work clothes you turned to Riki. “What’s wrong with you?” you said.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said four words in the last twenty minutes.”
“I’ve been busy.”
You looked at the dark phone screen. Looked at him. “Riki.”
“I’m fine.” He finally looked at you. His face was even, controlled, the expression he wore when he was putting effort into the expression. “You want more coffee?”
“No.” You kept your voice low. Jay and Jake were across the room but still. “Talk to me.”
Something moved behind his eyes. For a second you thought he was going to — actually going to, drop whatever this was and say it. His jaw shifted. His eyes moved over your face and then away. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”
You looked at him for a long moment. He looked at the counter. You picked up your bag. “I’m going to head,” you said.
He looked up then. Quick, like he hadn’t expected it. “You don’t have to—”
“I have stuff to do.” You stood up. Your voice was even, you’d made sure of it. “I’ll see you next week for the tragus.”
“Y/N—”
“Bye, Riki.” You said goodbye to Jay on the way out. Waved at Jake. Pushed the door open into the cold.
Behind you, through the glass, you heard Jay say something. Heard Riki’s voice, short and clipped. Didn’t hear the words. You walked to the bus stop and stared at the road and felt something hot and frustrated sitting in your chest that you didn’t have a clean name for.
He texted at nine that night.
Riki: I’m sorry about today
You stared at it.
Riki: I get like that sometimes. I don’t like it.
Another one, a minute later.
Riki: It wasn’t about Sunghoon. It wasn’t about you.
Riki: ok it was about Sunghoon.
You sat on your bed with your phone in your hand and read that three times.
you: do you want to tell me what “getting like that” means??
A pause. Longer than his usual response time.
Riki: Not over text. Wednesday?
you: yeah
you: Riki, Sunghoon was just being friendly
Riki: I know. I know that. It doesn’t always
The message cut off. Like he’d deleted the end of it and sent what was left.
Riki: Wednesday. I’ll explain.
Riki: night Y/N
You got there at three. Jay handed you your coffee without being asked and then found somewhere else to be, which meant Riki had said something to him beforehand, which meant he’d been thinking about this. Riki was at the counter. He looked up when you came in and the usual ease wasn’t fully there — not gone, just quieter, like he’d dialed something back. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You sat down. Wrapped both hands around the coffee. “So.”
“So.” He exhaled. Looked at the counter for a second, then at you. “I get possessive.” He said it straight. No build up, no softening — just put it on the counter between you like something he’d decided you should see.
“Okay,” you said.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it your problem. I know Sunghoon wasn’t doing anything. I know you weren’t doing anything. It just—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “It sits wrong. Someone else in your space. Being the thing making you laugh.”
You looked at him. His eyes were on the counter, which was unusual — Riki who held eye contact through everything. “Has it always been like that?” you said.
“Yeah.” Simple. “Better than it used to be.”
“What was it like before?”
He looked up. “Worse.” A pause. “I dealt with it badly. I’m not—” He stopped again. “I’m not like that anymore. I don’t act on it. But I feel it and sometimes it makes me go quiet and disappear into my own head and that’s not fair to you.”
You sat with that. “Why are you telling me this?” you said.
He held your gaze. “Because you asked.”
“People don’t always answer when you ask.”
“I know.” Something in his face. “You should know what you’re—” He stopped himself again, and you heard the end of that sentence clearly even without the words. What you’re getting into. What I am.
“Riki,” you said. “If Sunghoon had been doing something—” You held his eyes. “Or anyone. I’d handle it. That’s not— I’m not someone who needs protecting from other people’s attention.”
“I know that.”
“But I’m also not—” You paused. Chose the words. “I’m not interested in other people’s attention. Okay? That’s just—” You shrugged. “That’s just where I’m at.”
The silence that followed had weight to it. Riki looked at you. Really looked — the way he did sometimes, like he was reading something underneath the surface of what you’d said, like he was checking if you meant it.You meant it. “Okay,” he said quietly.
“Okay,” you said.
He exhaled. Something in his shoulders dropped slightly — barely visible, but there. “Tragus,” he said.
“Tragus,” you agreed. He stood up from the stool. And as he passed behind the counter his hand came down briefly on yours where it rested on the surface — just for a second, just his fingers over your knuckles, warm and solid — and then he was moving through to the piercing section and the moment was gone.
You sat there for a second. Then you followed him. Across the room Jay looked at Heeseung in the doorway of his office. Heeseung looked back. Neither of them said anything.
It happened on a Friday. Not a Wednesday. Not planned. You’d come in with Hana at five because she’d finally committed to a small piece on her ankle and wanted moral support, and by the time Jake was finishing up the linework the shop had emptied out — Sunghoon’s last client gone, Jay heading out with his jacket half on, Heeseung locking his office with his keys already in his hand. “You good to close?” Heeseung said to Riki.
“Yeah.” Riki was wiping down the front counter. “Go.” Heeseung looked at you. Brief, unreadable. Looked back at Riki. Said nothing and left. Jay pointed finger guns at you on his way out. You ignored him.
Jake finished Hana’s piece at half past six. She sat up and looked at it in the mirror with the expression of someone who had just made a very good decision, and then she looked at you and at Riki and made a different kind of decision entirely. “I’ll get a cab,” she said.
“I’ll come,” you said.
“You don’t have to.” Serene. Innocent. Absolutely deliberate. “I’m fine on my own.”
“Hana—”
“I’ll text you when I’m home.” She hugged you, said goodbye to Jake, said goodbye to Riki with a smile that communicated volumes, and then she was gone and Jake was heading out behind her and the door swung shut and the shop was quiet.
Just you and Riki. He was at the front counter. You were near the piercing section. The red light was low and the playlist had shifted to something slower, something with bass underneath it, and the flash art on the walls looked different when there was no one else here — more intimate, like the shop had exhaled. “You can head,” Riki said. He wasn’t looking at you. Wiping the counter, routine.
“I know,” you said.
You didn’t move. He stopped wiping. The silence lasted four seconds. You counted. Then he looked up. The expression on his face wasn’t the smirk. Wasn’t the work focus. It was something stripped back — something that had been running underneath everything for weeks and was apparently done waiting. “Y/N,” he said. Low.
“Yeah,” you said. Like you were answering a question he hadn’t asked yet.
He put the cloth down. He came around the counter and crossed the floor and he didn’t stop until he was right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly, and his hand came up to your jaw — not grabbing, just his fingers along the side of your face, tilting you toward him — and he looked at you for one more second like he was making absolutely sure.
Whatever he saw made his mind up. He kissed you and it was nothing like the slow build you’d been expecting — it was immediate, certain, his mouth on yours like he’d been thinking about it for weeks because he had been, and you got your hands into his shirt and kissed him back and the sound he made low in his throat did something catastrophic to your ability to think.
His hands moved — jaw, then your waist, pulling you in until there was no space left between you — and you felt the rings on his fingers through the fabric of your top and his body was solid and warm and there, fully there, nothing held back.
You bit his lower lip without planning to. He pulled back half an inch. His eyes were dark, his breathing had changed, and he looked at you with an expression that rearranged something in your chest. “Do that again,” he said quietly, “and we’re not stopping.”
“Good,” you said. And you did it again. He walked you back until your shoulders hit the wall beside the piercing partition — not rough, controlled, one hand flat against the wall beside your head and the other at your waist, and he kissed you deeper this time, slower, like he had you exactly where he wanted and wasn’t in any rush now that he did.
His tongue — god, his tongue, the bar was there and present and you felt it and made a sound into his mouth that you would have been embarrassed about if his hand hadn’t tightened on your waist the second you did it. “There it is,” he said against your mouth.
“Shut up,” you breathed.
“You’ve been thinking about it.” Not a question. His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, unhurried. “Since I told you.”
“Riki—”
“Yes,” he said, quoting you back to yourself, and you felt him smile against your throat.
“You’re so—”
“I know.” He pulled back to look at you. His hair was slightly wrecked, his eyes were very dark, and he looked at you with the kind of focus he usually reserved for his work — total, precise, like you were something he intended to get exactly right. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to stop talking,” you said.
“No you don’t.” He was right. You didn’t.
“I want—” You stopped. His thumb had found the hem of your top, tracing the skin at your waist, barely moving, just there. Your brain was doing something unhelpful. “I want you to keep going.”
“Keep going,” he repeated. Like he was logging it. “That’s not very specific.”
“Riki.”
“I want to hear you say it.” His voice had dropped, lower than usual, and there was something in it — not a demand exactly, more like an invitation with weight behind it, like he already knew and wanted you to catch up. “Tell me.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, patient, his thumb still tracing that small arc at your waist.
“I’ve wanted you for weeks,” you said. “You know that.”
“I know.” He leaned in, his mouth at your ear. “I wanted to hear you say it.” His hands moved — both of them, finding the hem of your top, sliding underneath to your bare waist, warm palms spreading across your skin — and you exhaled shakily and his mouth came back to yours and the patience dissolved.
Somewhere on the walk from the counter to the wall you got his shirt off and you put your hands on his chest and then his stomach and then lower and found the waistband of his jeans and his breath caught — actually caught, an involuntary thing, the first crack in the steady control — and you looked up at him.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark and fixed on your face. “Keep going,” he said. His own words back. Low and rough. You undid his jeans. Your hand found him and he was — there was a Jacob’s ladder — you stopped. He watched your face process it.
“Riki,” you said.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough now, the evenness wearing thin at the edges.
“When were you going to—”
“When it came up.”
“It’s come up.”
“It has,” he agreed, and something in his expression was almost amused except he was too far gone for amused, too focused, his hands gripping your waist with more pressure than before. “Still want to keep going?”
You looked at him. “Are you serious right now.”
He laughed — real, brief, surprised out of him — and then his forehead dropped to yours and you felt him exhale and then his mouth was on yours again and the laughing was done. Your jacket off your shoulders and it hit the floor and his mouth was on your throat before it landed — open, hot, his tongue against your pulse point and the piercing bar cool against your skin and you made a sound that echoed off the black walls. “Riki—”
“I know.” His hands were at the hem of your top, shoving it up, impatient in a way that cracked the usual control wide open. “Off.”
You got it off and his hands were on your tits and his mouth came back to yours.
He walked you back into the wall beside the piercing partition — not slow, not careful, just direct — and pinned you there with his body and his hands were everywhere and yours were too and it was nothing like the slow careful thing you’d half imagined. It was desperate. Both of you. Weeks of it.
“You have no idea,” he said against your jaw, your throat, lower, his mouth on your collarbone, “how long I’ve—” He stopped. His teeth grazed your skin. “Fuck.”
“Tell me,” you breathed.
“Since you walked in here in that dress,” he said into your skin. “Since you leaned on my counter and looked at me like that. I’ve been—” His hands found your jeans, the button, the zip. “Since then.” He shoved your jeans down your hips and you kicked them off and his hand pushed between your thighs and found your pussy through the thin fabric still there and pressed and your hips rolled forward hard.
“There,” he said. Low, rough, satisfied. “There you are.” His fingers moved — slow, deliberate, feeling the heat of you through the fabric — and he looked at your face while he did it. Watching. Taking everything. “Soaked already,” he said. “Were you like this the whole time?”
“Don’t—” you started.
“You were.” He pushed the fabric aside and his fingers touched your folds directly and you choked on a breath. The rings were cold, the contrast of it shocking and good and — “Riki—”
“Good girl,” he said quietly. Like it meant something. Like you’d done something right just by responding to him. His fingers moved through your folds and found your clit and you grabbed his shoulders and held on. “So wet. So fucking — look at you.”
“Please—”
“Please what.” His fingers kept moving, unhurried despite everything, despite the fact that you could feel how much he wanted this — felt it against your hip, hard, his own breathing gone ragged at the edges. “Say it.”
“I need—”
“Say it, Y/N.”
“I need you to fuck me,” you said. “Now, Riki, please—” He made a sound low in his throat and his fingers disappeared and he was shoving his own jeans down, just enough, barely, one hand braced on the wall beside your head — and then he looked at you, dark eyes and wrecked hair and jaw set hard.
“Here?” he said. Rough. “Right here?”
“Yes—”
His hand found your pussy again, two fingers pushing inside, testing, and you made an embarrassing sound and he groaned at the feel of you — “fuck you’re—” — and then his fingers were gone and he was there, the head of his cock at your entrance, and you hooked your leg over his hip. He pushed in. Both of you went still. His forehead dropped to yours. Your nails were in his shoulders. The Jacob’s ladder — you felt every single one and your mouth fell open and you heard him exhale shakily above you. “Riki—”
“I know.” His voice was barely there. “I know, just — fuck — just give me a second—”
“Don’t stop,” you said. “Don’t stop, keep—”
He moved. There was nothing controlled about it. That was the thing — Riki who was steady and certain and always in possession of himself — gone. Completely. He fucked you against the wall with his jeans half down and yours on the floor and his rings cold against your thigh where he’d hooked your leg higher and the bar of his tongue in his teeth when he looked at you and it was overwhelming, the closeness of it, the sound of it in the empty shop.
“Good,” he said, rough and low, his hips rolling into you, setting a pace that had your head dropping back against the wall. “Good girl, just like — yeah, just like that—”
“More—”
“Yeah?” He shifted his angle and you cried out and he did it again, deliberate, watching your face. “There?”
“Yes — yes, don’t stop—”
“I’ve got you.” His mouth found your throat. “I’ve got you, you’re doing so — fuck, Y/N, you feel—” He broke off. His rhythm stuttered and recovered. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
The praise landed somewhere it had no business landing, warm and devastating, and your hips were moving to meet him and your clit was grinding against him with every thrust and you were already… “Riki I’m going to—”
“Do it,” he said immediately. “Cum for me. Come on.” His hand moved between you and his thumb found your clit and pressed and you shattered — your whole body going taut, his name in your mouth, your nails breaking skin on his shoulders — and he fucked you through it, relentless, not letting up—
“That’s it,” he said against your ear, rough and wrecked. “That’s it, good girl, god you’re—” He followed you over the edge not long after — his rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his forehead hard against the wall beside your head — and the sound he made when he came was low and helpless and you felt it everywhere.
There was silence that followed apart from the playlist over the shop speakers. The red light under the door still illuminated. Both of you still against the wall like butter of you planned to move soon, his weight partly on you and partly on his arm and neither of you in any hurry to fix that.
Your leg slid down from his hip. He pulled back enough to look at your face. His hair was completely wrecked. His mouth was slightly swollen. He looked at you with an expression that had nothing performed in it — just open, just him, something that hadn’t had a name all this time and still didn’t quite yet. “Hi,” he said.
You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. He smiled — the real one, the one that changed his whole face — and pressed it briefly into your hair.
You found the back room couch eventually. His shirt on your shoulders. The rings back on his fingers because he’d put them on out of habit and then looked at his own hands like he hadn’t noticed himself doing it. You lay on your back. He sat with his back against the couch, forearm on his knee, looking at the floor. “So,” you said.
“So,” he said.
“What happens now?” you said.
He was quiet for a moment. “What do you want?”
You thought about the card in your bag. The Wednesdays. The way he’d looked at you across the counter every single time like you were a decision he’d already made. “I don’t know yet,” you said. Honest.
“Okay,” he said. Easy. No pressure in it. His hand found yours in the dark. Didn’t make anything of it. Just held on. You stayed on the couch until the playlist rolled over twice. At some point the I don’t know yet became irrelevant because his mouth found your throat again and his hands were back under his shirt on your skin and the question got buried under something more immediate.
You left at nine. He walked you to the door. Held it open, leaned in the frame. The cold air hit you and you turned back. He looked wrecked and unbothered about it. Shirt on, jeans done up, rings on every finger. Hair a disaster. Looking at you with that expression — the settled one, the certain one. “Wednesday,” he said. You nodded.
Neither of you said anything about what it was. That was the agreement, unspoken, the way most things between you and Riki were unspoken. You came in on Wednesdays. Sometimes other days. Sometimes he texted at ten at night — nothing explicit, just you up or studio’s empty — and you went, and nobody named what that meant. It worked. Mostly.
The sex was — there wasn’t a word for it that didn’t sound inadequate. Compulsive was close. Inevitable was closer. Like once the wall had come down neither of you had any interest in rebuilding it, like your bodies had been having a conversation for months and were now just speaking plainly.
He learned you fast. Faster than anyone had. What made you gasp versus what made you come apart completely. The difference between what you asked for and what you actually wanted. He paid attention the way he paid attention to everything — totally, precisely — and used it with a focus that should have been illegal.
You learned him too. That the control was real but thin in the right circumstances. That his jaw set right before it cracked. That he made sounds he didn’t seem to know he was making. That he said your name differently when he was close — shorter, sharper, like he didn’t have room for the full shape of it. That he always, always pulled you back when you tried to move away after. Not possessive. Just — unwilling to let the warmth go yet. You were trying very hard not to think about what that meant.
Three weeks after the first time, on a Tuesday night, you were in the back room of Studio 13 with Riki’s shirt on the floor and your jeans somewhere near the door and his mouth on your throat and his hand between your thighs and the playlist coming through the walls and everything was fine, everything was exactly what it was, unnamed and manageable —
And then he said I’ve got you in that low rough voice right against your ear and something in your chest did a thing it wasn’t supposed to do. You filed it away. Dealt with it later. Later didn’t come because he did something with his tongue that made later completely irrelevant.
Wednesday afternoon. Counter. Coffee. Normal. Easy. The same as it had always been except for the part where it wasn’t because now you knew exactly what his hands felt like and what sounds he made and what his face looked like when the composure cracked and sitting on the other side of a counter from him in the middle of the afternoon was — a different experience than it used to be.
He was telling you something about a client — complicated custom piece, back and forth for weeks on the design — and you were listening and also watching his hands move when he talked, the rings catching the light, and thinking about those hands on your waist last night and… “Y/N.”
You looked up. He was looking at you with the quiet knowing expression. “I was listening,” you said.
“You weren’t.”
“I was. Custom piece. Back and forth on the design. Client keeps changing their mind.”
He tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth. “What were you thinking about?”
“The flash art.”
“Hm.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms right there, the sleeve on full display, and he looked at you with that unhurried certainty. “You were looking at my hands.”
“I was looking at your rings.”
“Y/N.”
“They’re interesting rings.”
He held your gaze for a long moment. Then he looked down at his hands, turned them over slowly, looked back up at you with an expression that was doing something to your ability to function. “Come back tonight,” he said.
“I was here last night.”
“I know.”
“And the night before.”
“I know.” He didn’t look remotely apologetic. “Come back tonight.”
You looked at him. “We should probably — this probably shouldn’t be—”
“Probably,” he agreed, like the word meant nothing.
“Riki.”
“Tonight, Y/N.”
You looked at your coffee. At him. At the rings on his hands that you had been thinking about and were now not admitting to thinking about. “Fine,” you said.
He picked up his own coffee. Satisfied. Like there had never been any other outcome. From across the shop Jay said nothing. He had learned, over the past three weeks, that saying things got him absolutely nowhere and had adapted accordingly. He simply made eye contact with Sunghoon across the room and they had an entire conversation without words.
That night after Studio 13 closed, which had become its own specific thing — the red light, the quiet, the shop breathing differently when it was empty. Riki had barely locked the front door before you were crossing the floor toward him and his expression when he turned around and saw you moving like that— “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” You reached him. Your hands went to his chest, his jaw, pulling him down, and he came without resistance, his hands finding your waist immediately, already knowing where to go.
He kissed you slow this time. Deliberately slow, like he was making a point, like the urgency of the last few weeks had shifted into something that wanted to take its time. That was somehow worse. “Riki,” you said against his mouth.
“Hm.”
“Stop going slow.”
“No.” He kissed your jaw. Your throat. Slow and deliberate, his hands sliding under your top to your bare waist. “I spent all afternoon thinking about this.”
“So did I, that’s why—”
“That’s why we’re taking our time.” His mouth at your collarbone. “I want to—” A pause. His lips against your skin. “I want to take you apart properly. Not fast.”
Your hands tightened in his hair. “That’s not fair,” you said.
“No,” he agreed, and kept going. He got your top off and looked at you in the low light the way he always did — that slow, unapologetic assessment that moved over you like you were worth looking at carefully — and then his mouth found your tits and your head fell back.
His tongue. The bar of it, cool and present, circling your nipple, and you made a sound and his hands tightened on your waist. “Good girl,” he said against your skin. “Just like that.”
“Riki—”
“I’ve got you.” He moved to the other side, same slow attention, his hands holding your waist like you might float away. “I’ve got you, just — yeah, just feel it.” You were going to lose your mind. Your hands found his shirt and he let you get it off and then he was walking you back to the couch in the back room and laying you down and looking at you from above with dark eyes and that expression — the open one, the one that had no performance in it.
He got your jeans off slow. His hands running down your thighs as he pulled them, his mouth following, pressing to your hip, the inside of your knee, and by the time he got back up to your folds you were already soaked. “Riki, please—”
“Please what.” His breath against your inner thigh. Close, not close enough.
“Please—”
“Tell me what you want.” His lips brushed your folds, barely, just the suggestion of pressure. “Tell me.”
“Your mouth,” you said. “Please, your mouth—” He gave it to you. The bar of his tongue against your clit and you grabbed the back of the couch and held on. He ate your pussy like he had nowhere else to be — thorough, focused, the same attention he gave everything — and the sounds he made against you, low and hungry, like he was getting something from it—
“God—” your hips rolled and his hands held them down, firm, keep still, and the loss of control of that made it worse in the best way. “Riki I’m — don’t stop, don’t—”
“Not stopping,” he said against your clit. “Cum for me. Come on.”
You did. He worked you through it until you were pulling at his hair telling him too much, too much and he pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh and came back up your body and looked at your face with an expression that was — satisfied wasn’t the right word. Reverent was closer, which was a thing you were absolutely not processing right now. “Good girl,” he said quietly.
“Stop calling me that,” you said, breathless.
“No,” he said simply, and kissed you.
When he finally pushed inside you both exhaled like something had been solved. Slow, this time. Deep. His forehead against yours, his arms bracketing you, his rings cool against the side of your face where his hand was. “Okay?” he said.
“Yeah.” Your voice wasn’t working right. “Yeah, keep — please keep going.”
He moved. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that had you feeling every ridge of the ladder on every stroke and your mouth kept falling open and he watched it happen. “You feel it,” he said. Low, not a question.
“Yes—”
“Good.” His hips rolled deeper and you gasped. “That’s good, you’re so — fuck, Y/N—” His composure was fraying at the edges, the rhythm getting less controlled. “You take me so well. Every time. Like you were—” He stopped himself.
You looked up at him. His jaw was set, his eyes dark, something moving behind them that he’d just pulled back from saying. “Like I was what,” you said.
He looked at you. For a second — just a second — something was right there on his face, unguarded, something that went past the physical and landed somewhere neither of you had named yet. He kissed you instead of answering.
You let him. Filed it away. Pulled him closer and let the question dissolve into the drag and heat of him moving inside you and his mouth on yours and his hand sliding between you to find your clit— “Riki—”
“I know,” he said. “I know, come on, cum for me again, you can—”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” His thumb on your clit, his cock deep, his voice at your ear. “You can, good girl, come on, let me feel you—” You came with his name in your mouth and your whole body shaking and he followed you with his face pressed into your throat and the sound he made was low and broken and yours.
After his thumb moving slow at your hip. The ceiling. The playlist. You were thinking about like you were— and what came after it. You were thinking about I’ve got you and how he said it every time, always, like a reflex, like something that came from somewhere deeper than the moment.
You were thinking about the fact that you knew what his laugh sounded like — the real one, the surprised one — and that you’d been collecting these things without meaning to and the collection was getting heavy. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.”
“What are we doing.”
Silence. His thumb stopped moving. Then, carefully: “What do you want to be doing.”
You stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
He was quiet for a long moment. You could feel him thinking — that specific quality of his silences, weighted, considering. “I’m not good at this part,” he said.
“What part.”
“The—” A pause. “Saying things.”
“You say things to me all the time.”
“Not these things.”
You turned your head to look at him. He was looking at the ceiling, jaw slightly tight, the expression of someone navigating something carefully. “What things,” you said quietly.
He turned his head. Your faces close in the dim light. His eyes moved over yours. “I don’t want you going anywhere,” he said. Finally. Quietly. “That’s — that’s what I’ve got right now.”
It wasn’t everything. You both knew it wasn’t everything. But it was Riki, who didn’t say things, saying a thing, and it landed with the weight of something much larger behind it.“Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he said. His thumb started moving again. You looked back at the ceiling. The unnamed thing stayed unnamed. But it was there, in the room with you, and you both knew it.
The thing about not naming something was that it didn’t stop it from being a thing. It just meant you had no language for it when it started to matter. Four weeks into whatever this was, Ria staged an intervention.
Not a dramatic one — she didn’t have people over or make a presentation, she just showed up at your flat on a Saturday morning with coffee and pastries and sat across from you at your kitchen table with the expression of someone who had been patient for a very long time and was cashing that in now. “Talk,” she said.
“About what.”
“Y/N.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Ria.”
“I want you to say what’s happening with Riki.”
You picked up your coffee. “We’re—”
“If you say friends I’m leaving and taking the pastries.”
You put your coffee down. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it? Or is it simple and you’re making it complicated because you’re scared?”
You looked at her. She looked back with the patience of someone who had known you for six years and had seen every version of your avoidance. “We haven’t put a name on it,” you said.
“Why not.”
“Because—” You stopped. Because he’d said I don’t want you going anywhere and you’d said okay and neither of you had pushed past that. Because every Wednesday and every late night felt like building something and neither of you would say what you were building. “It’s working the way it is.”
“Is it.”
“Yes.”
“You like him.”
“Obviously.”
“Like like him.”
“Ria—”
“Y/N.” She leaned forward. “You went back to that shop every week for two months before anything happened. You know his coffee order, his schedule, what makes him laugh. You’ve met his friends. He checks your piercings as an excuse to be close to you.” She paused. “That’s not complicated. That’s you being terrified.”
You stared at the table. “He’s not easy to read,” you said. Finally.
“He gave you his personal card the night he met you,” Ria said. “Heeseung told me he’d never done that before.”
“When did you talk to Heeseung?”
“Jake texts me sometimes.”
“Jake texts you.”
“That’s not the point.” She pushed a pastry toward you. “The point is that boy is absolutely gone for you and you both keep dancing around it and it’s making everyone at Studio 13 insane, apparently.”
“Everyone?”
“Jay’s exact words were if they don’t sort it out soon I’m locking them in the back room.”
You put your face in your hands. “I don’t know how to do this with him,” you said, muffled. “He doesn’t say things. I don’t push. We just—”
“So say something first,” Ria said simply. “You’re not someone who waits, Y/N. That’s not you. You’re doing it because you’re scared he won’t say it back.” You lifted your face. Said nothing. She was right and you both knew it.
You didn’t say anything that Wednesday. You came close — sitting at the counter, coffee in hand, Riki talking about something, his rings on the desk, his eyes finding yours every few sentences the way they always did — and the words were right there, and you looked at his face, and you thought about Ria’s voice saying terrified, and you said nothing. He looked at you at one point like he knew something was moving behind your eyes. “What,” he said.
“Nothing.” You smiled. “Keep going.” He held your gaze for a second. Let it go.
The following Saturday Sunghoon texted you. Not unusual — you’d exchanged numbers for shop-related things, flash piece ideas, scheduling. He was easy to talk to, straightforward, the kind of person whose texts read exactly like his voice.
Sunghoon: hey, you said you were thinking about a collarbone piece right
you: yeah still thinking
Sunghoon: I drew something. wanna see
He sent a photo. Small, delicate, blackwork — something botanical, two thin stems crossing, minimal and precise. It was exactly your taste and you had no idea how he’d known that.
you: sunghoon this is gorgeous
Sunghoon: right? come in monday, I’ll show you the full size version. riki’s off monday so it’ll be quiet
you: sounds good, see you then
You didn’t think anything of it. Sunghoon was your friend. He’d drawn something for you. You were going to look at it. You didn’t mention it to Riki because there was nothing to mention.
Monday the shop was quieter without Riki in it, which was a thing you noticed and filed away as information you didn’t love having. Sunghoon had the drawing laid out on the counter when you arrived — full size, done properly on transfer paper, and it was even better than the photo. You stood over it with him pointing out the details, his hand close to yours on the paper, talking through placement and sizing and whether to add a third stem.
Jay was pretending to do something at the other counter.bHeeseung was in his office with the door open. “Here,” Sunghoon said, and pressed the transfer paper lightly to your collarbone to show you the placement. His hand steadied it against your skin, professional, and you looked in the mirror and thought yes, that was exactly right. Your phone lit up on the counter.
Riki: you at the shop?
You looked at it. Jay looked at it. Sunghoon didn’t see it.
you: yeah, sunghoon drew something for me. just looking at placement
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Riki: k
One letter.
Riki: looks good?
you: really good actually. he’s talented
The dots again. Then nothing. No reply. You put your phone down. Sunghoon was still talking about the third stem. You looked at the transfer in the mirror and tried to pay attention and felt something uneasy settle in your chest.
Riki was at the counter when you arrived Wednesday. You knew within ten seconds that something was wrong. Not visibly wrong — he looked the same, said hey the same, had your coffee ready the same. But his eyes when they met yours were flatter than usual. The warmth was there but dimmed, like something had been turned down. You sat. Picked up your coffee. “How was your day off?” you said.
“Fine.” He was looking at his phone.
“Did you do anything?”
“Not much.” Jay appeared from the back, clocked the atmosphere in approximately two seconds, and disappeared again.
You watched Riki scroll his phone. His jaw was set. Not dramatically — just tight, controlled, the way it got when he was holding something still. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.”
“Look at me.” He looked up. The flat quality was more visible face to face. Something was moving behind his eyes that he was keeping on a very short leash. “What’s wrong?” you said.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said twelve words since I got here.”
“I’ve been busy.”
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the effort of it — the effort of sitting in whatever this was and keeping it even. “Is this about Monday?” you said.
Something shifted in his jaw. “No.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not about Monday.”
“So it is about Monday.”
He put his phone down. Flat on the counter. He looked at you with an expression that was very controlled and also not controlled at all if you knew what to look for, and you knew what to look for now. “You went in on my day off,” he said.
“Sunghoon drew something for me. I told you.”
“I know what you told me.”
“Then what—”
“His hands were on you.” Quiet. Final. Like he’d been sitting on it for two days and it had compacted into something very small and very dense.
You stared at him. “He was showing me placement. For a tattoo. That’s his job.”
“I know that.”
“Then—”
“I know that, Y/N.” His voice was still even but something was pushing at the edges of it. “I know it doesn’t mean anything. I know Sunghoon wasn’t — I know.” He looked at the counter. “It doesn’t stop it feeling—” He stopped.
“Feeling what,” you said. He was quiet for a long moment.
“Wrong,” he said. “It feels wrong. Someone else’s hands on you feels wrong and I don’t know how to make that—” He stopped again. His thumb pressed against the counter. “I’m trying to be rational about it.”
“You went quiet for two days,” you said.
“I know.”
“That’s not — Riki, you can’t just go quiet every time something—”
“I know.” He looked up. His eyes were direct now, no flatness, just the real thing underneath — something frustrated and raw and tired of itself. “I know it’s not fair. I’m telling you I know that. I just—” A breath. “I don’t know how to feel it and not do that. I’m working on it.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “You went quiet instead of talking to me,” you said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me now because I pushed.”
“Yes.” He held your gaze. “I would have told you. I just needed to — I needed it to be smaller before I could say it without it being—” He gestured vaguely. “A lot.”
“Is it smaller now?”
“Somewhat.”
You picked up your coffee. Looked at it. Put it down. “You know that there’s nothing—” you started.
“I know.” Immediately. “Y/N, I know. This isn’t about you. This isn’t about Sunghoon. It’s mine, it’s a me thing, and I’m not trying to make it your problem.”
“It becomes my problem when you disappear.”
“I know.” His jaw shifted. “I’m sorry.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, the thing behind his eyes open now in the way it only got when he’d pushed past the control on purpose — when he was giving you something deliberately. “Don’t disappear,” you said. “Whatever it is — just say it. To me. Not in your head for two days.”
“Okay,” he said. His hand moved across the counter and covered yours briefly — the rings cool, the weight of his palm familiar. “Okay, Y/N.”
The touch lasted a few seconds. He didn’t make anything of it. Just let it be there and then pulled back. From the back room, completely audibly, Jay said to someone: “finally.”
“Jay,” Riki said flatly.
“I’m just saying—”
“Jay.”
That night, late. He was in your flat, his idea — he’d texted at nine, not you up or studio’s empty but just your name, which was new. He was on your couch with his legs stretched out and his head back and his eyes on your ceiling and you were beside him close enough to feel the warmth of him and neither of you had moved toward the other yet. Just sitting. Existing in the same space. “Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Yeah.”
“The possessiveness.” You kept your voice even. “Where does it come from.”
A pause. He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer. “Control,” he said finally. “Or — fear of losing it. Things I care about.” His thumb moved against his own knee. “I spent a long time in situations where things got taken. People I — things I couldn’t protect.” He stopped. “I don’t talk about it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” A pause. “I want to. I just — not yet.”
Not yet. Not never. Not it’s not your business. Not yet meant there was a timeline. Meant he was thinking about it. Meant you were someone he was moving toward telling.
You leaned your head against his shoulder. He went still for a second — surprised, you thought, by the smallness of it, the casualness — and then his head dropped against yours and you felt him exhale. “The collarbone piece,” he said eventually. “Let me do it.”
You lifted your head. Looked at him. “You do tattoos?”
“Heeseung taught me. I’m not on the books for it but—” He met your eyes. “I want to do it. If you want.”
Sunghoon’s drawing. Riki’s hands. “Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”
Something settled in his face. Quiet and satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with the smirk. “Okay,” he said.
You put your head back on his shoulder. His arm moved — slow, like he was checking it was allowed — and settled around you. The unnamed thing pressed closer. Neither of you named it. But his arm tightened slightly and you let it, and that was something too.
The collarbone piece took two sessions. Riki had been clear about that upfront — small piece, delicate linework, he wanted to do it right and doing it right meant not rushing. You’d sat in the chair in the back room of Studio 13 on a quiet Tuesday morning with his hands on your collarbone and his face close and his full attention on the work and tried very hard to be normal about it. You were not normal about it. “Stop tensing,” he said, without looking up.
“I’m not tensing.”
“Your shoulder is up by your ear.” You lowered your shoulder. He glanced up briefly — dark eyes, the focus in them softening for just a second when they met yours — and then back down. “First line’s the worst,” he said. “Then you’ll settle.”
“I’ve been tattooed before.”
“Not by me.” He said it simply. Like it was just a fact. Which it was. But the way he said it landed like something more — like not by me was its own category, its own distinct experience, and he was right, as it turned out, because when the needle touched your collarbone the small shock of it dissolved almost immediately into the warmth of his hands steadying you and his voice saying good, just like that, breathe — and you settled.
You watched his face while he worked. This version of him — the work version, focused and quiet and completely present — was one of your favorites. All the usual energy went inward. The smirk was gone, the easy confidence was still there but different, channeled into precision. He moved the machine in small careful arcs and his free hand was always on you, always steadying, always aware of exactly how much pressure to use. “You’re staring,” he said.
“You said that to me once before.”
“You were staring then too.”
“Maybe I just have a specific staring problem.”
The corner of his mouth moved. He didn’t look up. “Maybe you do.”
He kissed you after the session. Not immediately — he’d finished, stepped back, examined the work with that quiet critical eye, declared it good. You’d looked in the mirror and felt something warm move through your chest at the sight of it — the two stems, thin and precise, sitting exactly right on your collarbone. “It’s perfect,” you said.
“I know.” He was already at the sink, washing his hands, and you could hear the smile in it even without seeing his face. You got up from the chair. Crossed the small space between you. And when he turned around you were right there and his expression shifted — from satisfied work-focus to something more personal, more immediate — and you put your hand on his jaw and kissed him.
He kissed you back with his damp hands at your waist, careful not to touch the fresh tattoo, and it was slow and unhurried and tasted like coffee and something that was just him and when you pulled back his eyes stayed closed for a second. Opened. Looked at you. “Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi,” you said. His thumb moved at your waist. The rings. The warmth of his palms through your shirt.
“Come back Thursday for the second session,” he said.
“I know, you told me.”
“Just making sure.” He kissed you again before you could respond — quick, soft, his mouth on yours for just a moment — and then stepped back and handed you the aftercare sheet and was professional again, mostly, except for the way his eyes followed you to the door.
Thursday’s second session was longer. More detail, more shading on the stems, a small shadow that made the whole thing lift off the skin. You sat in the chair and he worked and you talked — properly talked, the way you did at the counter but quieter, more contained, just the two of you in the partitioned space.
He told you about growing up. Small things — not the things he kept locked, but around the edges of them. A younger brother. Moving schools twice. Being good at things with his hands from early on, carving things, taking things apart to see how they worked. “Is that why the piercing?” you said.
“Partly.” He shifted the machine slightly. “Partly because it’s — immediate. You do it right and you see it right away. No waiting to find out.”
“You like knowing things work.”
He glanced up. “Yeah.”
“Control thing.”
A pause. “Yeah,” he said again, quieter. You let that sit. Didn’t push.
“Tell me something else,” he said, after a moment. Deflecting but not — more like redirecting, like he wanted the conversation to keep going just in a different direction.
So you told him things. About your course, your family, the flat you’d moved into two years ago that still didn’t feel completely yours. The way Ria had been your anchor through everything since you were sixteen. How you’d wanted to study abroad and hadn’t and sometimes still thought about it. “Why didn’t you?” he said.
“Felt like running away from something.”
“Were you?”
You thought about it. “Probably.”
He looked up. His eyes on yours, level. “What were you running from.”
“Someone,” you said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
He held your gaze for a moment. You watched something move through his expression — something careful, something that might have been jealousy at its very distant edges but was mostly just — paying attention. Storing it. Like everything you gave him went somewhere it would be kept.
“Their loss,” he said. Simply. Looked back down. You looked at the top of his head and felt the unnamed thing press against your ribs from the inside.
He finished the piece in two hours. You both looked at it in the mirror — his chin near your shoulder, your reflection side by side — and neither of you said anything for a moment. “Well,” you said.
“Yeah,” he said. It was exactly right. Better than right. The kind of thing that looked like it had always been there, like your skin had been waiting for it.
You turned. He was right there, closer than you’d clocked, and you put both hands on his chest and looked up at him and he looked down at you and the moment expanded slightly. “Thank you,” you said.
“Don’t thank me.”
“Riki—”
“It was for me as much as you,” he said. Quiet. Direct. No smirk in it. “I wanted to put something on you. That’s—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “That’s a me thing. Don’t thank me for it.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, and the naked quality of what he’d just said sat between you — I wanted to put something on you — and neither of you moved for a second.
Then you kissed him. Slow, deliberate, your hands spreading on his chest. He made a low sound and his arms came around you — gentle because of the fresh tattoo, careful, his hands at your back instead of your waist — and he kissed you back like he had time, like he wanted to use it.
When you broke apart he kept his forehead against yours. “Stay,” he said. Low. “Tonight. Just—” A pause. “Just stay.”
“Okay,” you said. You ate takeout on the floor of the back room because the couch was small and the floor had more space and Riki sat with his back against the couch and you sat between his legs with your back against his chest and it was so domestically comfortable that it was almost alarming.
He ate with one arm around you. His chin occasionally dropping to your shoulder to look at whatever you were showing him on your phone. His thumb making that small absent arc at your hip that he did when he wasn’t thinking about it.
“Ria thinks we need to define this,” you said, at some point. His arm didn’t tighten. Didn’t loosen. He was quiet for a moment.
“What do you think?” he said.
“I think Ria is right about most things.”
“Hm.” His thumb kept moving. “What would you define it as.”
You turned your head slightly. His face was close — close enough to see the detail of the scar through his eyebrow, the silver of his earring, the way he was looking at you with that careful open expression he only had when there was no one else around. “I don’t know,” you said. “What would you.”
“Mine,” he said. Quiet. Simple. Like it was the most obvious answer.
Your heart did something inconvenient. “That’s very you,” you said.
“Is it wrong?”
You turned back to face forward. His arm around you. The takeout. The red light. “No,” you said. “It’s not wrong.”
You felt him exhale against the back of your head. Slow, like something had released. His lips pressed briefly to your hair. Not a kiss exactly — too soft, too absent, more like a thing he did without deciding to.
You stayed on the floor until midnight. Talked about nothing important. Everything slightly important. He told you Jake was obviously falling for Hana and was handling it terribly, which you already knew, and you told him Ria had started texting Jake directly to speed the process along, which he did not know and which made him laugh — the real one, sudden, surprised. You stored it.
“I should go,” you said eventually. You had a nine AM seminar and the responsible thing—
“Yeah,” he said. Made no move to untangle himself from around you.
“Riki.”
“Five minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Five more minutes.” You leaned back into him and gave him the five minutes. He pressed his mouth to the side of your head again — that soft, absent thing, lips in your hair — and you closed your eyes and thought about mine and the way he’d said it like it was just the truth.
When you finally stood up he walked you to the door the way he always did. Unlocked it. Held it open. You turned back. He kissed you in the doorway — unhurried, thorough, one hand cupping your jaw and the other flat against the doorframe — and you kissed him back and it went on longer than a goodbye kiss needed to, longer than was practical, until he pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes and slightly wrecked composure.
“Wednesday,” he said. His thumb traced your jaw once before dropping.
“Wednesday,” you said. You made it to the end of the street. You looked back. He was still in the doorway, leaning on the frame, watching you go. When he saw you look he didn’t pretend he hadn’t been watching. Just held your gaze across the dark street. You turned back around and smiled at the pavement the whole way to the bus stop.
Heeseung had told everyone to come to his flat for dinner on Saturday — no occasion, just food, just all of them in the same place — and you’d arrived with Ria who had told you she’d been waiting for this invitation for weeks, which meant Jake had told her about it before Riki had told you, which meant something.
Heeseung’s flat was calm and dark-walled like the shop, art everywhere, music at a volume that allowed conversation. Jay was already there and immediately pulled Ria into an argument about something. Jake appeared from the kitchen and the way his face changed when he saw Ria was something you were going to tell Riki about later.
Riki was on the couch. He looked up when you came in and the smile that happened was immediate and unguarded — no performance, no build up, just his face doing the thing it did when you appeared, the thing you didn’t think he knew it did. He moved over without being asked. You sat beside him. Close. His arm went across the back of the couch behind you — not around you, but there, present, the rings near your shoulder.
Sunghoon arrived twenty minutes later and dropped onto the armchair across from you and looked at you both with an expression of great satisfaction. “You two sorted?” he said.
“Sunghoon,” Riki said.
“What? Last month you were—“ He stopped. “I’m just asking—”
“We’re sorted,” you said. Sunghoon grinned. Riki’s arm moved from the back of the couch to actually around your shoulders, like Sunghoon asking had given him permission to stop pretending he wasn’t doing it.
Dinner was loud and easy and everyone talked over everyone and Jay told a story about a client that got more elaborate every time he told it and Ria fit in like she’d always been there and Heeseung sat at the head of the table and said little and watched everything with quiet satisfaction.
After dinner you ended up back on the couch. Riki beside you, your legs across his, his hand resting on your ankle. The conversation had split across the room — Jay and Sunghoon, Ria and Jake in what looked like an increasingly interesting exchange, Heeseung in the kitchen. “You good?” Riki said quietly, just to you.
“Yeah.” You looked at the room. “This is nice.”
“They like you.”
“Jay likes everyone.”
“Heeseung doesn’t,” he said. Simple. “He likes you.”
You looked at him. “How can you tell?”
“He invited you.” He said it like it was obvious. “He doesn’t do this for everyone. He did it because—” A pause. His hand moved slightly on your ankle. “Because you’re—” He stopped.
“Because I’m what,” you said softly.
He looked at you. The room was noisy around you but it felt like it had contracted to just this, just his face and yours and the thing he was about to say. “Important,” he said. Quiet. “Because you’re important.”
Your heart did the inconvenient thing again, harder this time. “Riki,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“That word—”
“I know what word I used.” You looked at him. He looked back, steady, not taking it back, not softening it. Just — sitting in it, the way he sat in most things, patient and certain.
Across the room Jay said something loud and everyone laughed and the moment breathed. Riki’s hand moved from your ankle to your calf. Warm. Present. “Stay tonight,” he said. Low enough that it was only for you. “Not at the shop. Mine.”
His. His flat, which you hadn’t been to, which was a different thing than the back room couch. A different kind of staying. “Yeah,” you said.
He nodded. Looked back at the room. But his hand stayed on your leg and his shoulder was warm against yours and you sat in the important and let it settle into something that felt permanent.
Later, when most people had gone and Ria was helping Heeseung with something in the kitchen and it was just you and Riki by the door putting your jacket on he turned you by the shoulders. Kissed you slowly, his hands on your face, thumbs at your jaw. The kind of kiss that had no agenda, no direction, just wanted to exist. When he pulled back he looked at you for a long moment.
The word boyfriend was right there in the room. Neither of you said it. But his hand found yours and held it, and he didn’t let go the whole way to his flat, and somewhere in the space between mine and important and his fingers between yours on a dark street — the unnamed thing finally had a shape. You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.
His flat was on the third floor of a building that had seen better decades, the kind of place that was held together by good bones and someone who actually cared about the space inside it. You didn’t know what you’d expected.
More of the shop, maybe — dark walls, flash art, the deliberate aesthetic. And there was some of that. Dark furniture, a few framed pieces on the walls, one large canvas above the couch that was either very expensive or done by someone he knew and you suspected the latter. But it was also — lived in, in a specific way. Books stacked in an order that made sense only to him. A record player in the corner with a small collection beside it. The kitchen clean in the way of someone who cooked properly and cleaned as they went.
It was a home. Actually a home. That surprised you and you didn’t know why it surprised you and then you thought about what he’d said — I spent a long time in situations where things got taken — and understood it. He’d built this. Deliberately. Piece by piece. “Stop analyzing it,” he said from the kitchen.
“I’m not analyzing it.”
“You have your analyzing face on.”
“I don’t have an analyzing face.”
He appeared in the kitchen doorway with two glasses of water and looked at you standing in his living room in your jacket still on and raised an eyebrow. “Take your jacket off,” he said. “You’re staying.” You took your jacket off.
You fell asleep on his couch. Not intentionally — you’d been talking, the record player on low, and somewhere between one subject and the next the warmth of him beside you and the late hour pulled you under. You were aware of it happening distantly, the conversation getting slower, your eyes getting heavy, and you didn’t fight it.
You woke up in his bed. He’d moved you. At some point while you slept he’d carried you — or walked you, half-conscious — to the bed and put you in it and the duvet was pulled up and his pillow smelled like him and you lay there in the early grey morning and stared at the ceiling and felt something enormous and inconvenient sitting on your chest.
You heard him in the kitchen. The quiet sounds of someone who knew how to exist in the morning without disturbing anyone. You lay there and thought about mine and important and the collarbone tattoo and his hand in yours on the dark street and the back room couch and two months of Wednesdays and the card he’d slid across the counter the first night like he’d already decided.
You thought about Ria’s voice. You’re terrified. You were terrified.
He was at the kitchen counter with his back to you when you came in. Making coffee, unhurried, still in the clothes from last night minus the jacket. Rings on his hands already. You didn’t know if he’d slept. He turned when he heard you. Took in your expression with one look. “Hey,” he said carefully.
“Hey.” You stood in the kitchen doorway. Your heart was doing something loud. “You moved me.”
“You were asleep on my couch.”
“You could have woken me up.”
“You looked tired.” Simple. Like it was nothing. Like carrying you to his bed was just a practical thing he’d done without thinking. “Coffee?”
“Riki.” He looked at you. Really looked — reading whatever was on your face with that careful focus, taking it in.
“What’s going on,” he said.
“Nothing. I just—” You stopped. Started again. “I woke up in your bed and it—” You pressed your fingers to your mouth briefly. “It felt like something.” He was quiet. Waiting.
“I think this is something,” you said. “I think it’s been something for a while and we keep not saying it and I’m—” You exhaled. “I’m tired of not saying it.”
The kitchen was very quiet. Riki leaned back against the counter. Crossed his arms. His expression was the open one — no performance, no control layered over it, just his face and whatever was behind it. “Say it then,” he said quietly.
You looked at him. “I want this to be a thing. A real thing. I want—” You. “I want the name.”
He uncrossed his arms. Crossed the kitchen in three steps and he was right in front of you and his hands came up to your face — both of them, palms at your jaw, tilting your face up — and he looked at you for one long second. “It’s already a thing,” he said. “It’s been a thing.” His thumb moved at your cheekbone. “I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”
“That’s very smug,” you said. Your voice wasn’t fully steady.
“I know.” He wasn’t smiling. His eyes were serious, dark, right there. “Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not good at the words,” he said. “You know that. But this—” his thumbs traced your face, gentle and deliberate “—this is not nothing. This hasn’t been nothing since you walked into my shop.”
Your hands found his wrists. Held on. “Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he said. He kissed you. Soft, slow, his hands still on your face like he wanted to hold the moment still. You kissed him back and felt the unnamed thing finally, finally settle into something with a shape and a weight and a name you’d figure out the exact word for later.
When he pulled back he pressed his forehead to yours. “Boyfriend is a weird word,” he said.
You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. “It really is.”
“But yeah.” His mouth curved. “That.”
“That,” you agreed. He kissed you again, brief and warm, and then stepped back and handed you a coffee and the domesticity of it — his flat, his coffee, his hands, the morning — hit you somewhere soft.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“You cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Riki I’ve known you for months and I’ve never seen you eat anything that wasn’t takeout or coffee.”
“That’s at the shop.” He was already at the fridge. “At home I cook.”
You sat at his kitchen counter on a stool and watched him move around his kitchen with the same ease he brought to everything — competent, unhurried, knowing where things were — and drank your coffee and felt the warmth of the morning settle around you. “What are you making?” you said.
“Eggs.”
“Just eggs?”
“Good eggs.” He glanced back. “Don’t underestimate eggs.”
They were good eggs. You ate at his kitchen counter side by side, your shoulder against his, and the conversation came easy the way it always did — drifting, unhurried, one thing opening into another. He told you about the record player, how he’d found it at a market two years ago and had to carry it up three flights on his own. You told him about the flat you’d wanted that you hadn’t got and ended up in your current one instead and how it had turned out better. “Things usually do,” he said.
“Philosopher.”
“Just paying attention.” His hand found yours on the counter between you. Covered it. Not making anything of it — just there, warm and present. You turned your hand over and his fingers slid between yours. You sat like that until the coffee was cold.
He walked you out two hours later. Down the three flights and out onto the morning street, quiet at this hour, pale winter sun doing its best. He had his jacket on, hands in his pockets, walking beside you in the direction of the bus stop. “You don’t have to walk me,” you said.
“I know.” He walked you anyway. His shoulder bumping yours occasionally. Not holding your hand now — just beside you, present, taking up the right amount of space. At the bus stop he turned to face you. “Wednesday,” he said.
“Wednesday,” you said. Then: “Actually I might come Tuesday. I need to talk to Heeseung about extending the collarbone piece.”
Something moved across his face. Quick, then gone. “You want to extend it?” he said.
“Just the stems, maybe. One more.” You looked at his expression. “What?”
“I’ll do it,” he said. Immediate.
“I know you’ll do it—”
“I mean — the extension. Let me do it.” His jaw was doing the thing. “Not Heeseung.”
You looked at him. Understood. “Okay,” you said.
“Okay.” The jaw relaxed. A short exhale.
You reached up and kissed him — he leaned down to meet you before you’d fully extended, like he’d been waiting for it — and it was brief and warm and tasted like coffee. “Tuesday,” you said against his mouth.
“Tuesday,” he said. The bus appeared at the end of the road. He stepped back. Hands back in his pockets. Watching you with that settled, certain expression. “Text me when you’re home,” he said. New. That was new.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “Okay.”
You texted Ria from the bus.
you: we sorted it
The reply was immediate. She’d been awake, waiting.
Ria: WHAT
you: it’s a thing. officially.
Ria: I KNEW IT I HAVE BEEN SAYING does he even know the word boyfriend???
you: he said it’s a weird word
Ria: oh my god he’s so him
you: he made me eggs
Ria: Y/N!!!
you: they were really good eggs
Ria: I am going to cry. IM SO HAPPY!
You put your phone in your pocket and looked out the bus window at the city going past and felt something settled and warm sitting in your chest where the unnamed thing used to be.
Daniel saw you get off the bus. You didn’t notice him. You were texting Riki — something small, a photo of a dog outside the coffee shop you were passing, the kind of thing you sent now because you could — and you walked past him without looking up.
He watched you go. Watched the way you were smiling at your phone. He knew about the tattoo shop. He’d heard you mention it. He’d put things together — the visits, the name that came up, the way you’d brushed him off every time since October.
He pulled out his own phone. Started looking. It didn’t take long. Public record. The charge, the conviction, the sentence. He read it twice. Read the name again. Looked up Studio 13. He sat with it for a long time. Then he texted Soo.
Daniel: hey, you’re friends with Y/N right. I need to tell you something about someone she’s seeing.
The thing about finally naming something was that it changed the texture of everything. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just — small shifts, accumulating. The way he texted now, more often, nothing significant but there. The way he said my girlfriend to a client who asked about the collarbone piece, casual, not looking at you when he said it, and you’d had to look very hard at the flash wall for a moment. The way his hand found yours in public without him thinking about it first. Small things. Heavy things.
You were catastrophically gone for him and had been for a while and now there was nothing to hide it behind.
The first Tuesday after you came into Studio 13 at noon and Riki was with a client so Jay made you coffee and sat across from you at the counter with the expression of someone who had been waiting to say something. “So,” he said.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I just want to say—”
“Jay.”
“I called it.” He held up both hands. “First week you came in. I said to Sunghoon, I said that girl is going to wreck him, and I was right—”
“I didn’t wreck anyone—”
“In a good way.” He was grinning. “He’s different. He’s — I’ve known Riki for two years and he texted me last Sunday morning just to talk. Riki. Texting. On a Sunday. Because he was in a good mood and wanted to—”
“Jay.” Riki’s voice from the piercing section, flat. He’d finished with his client without you noticing.
“I’m just saying—”
“I heard what you were saying.” Riki came around the partition and looked at you and the expression on his face when it landed on you was the thing Jay had been describing without being able to name it — something unlocked, something that had been held tight for a long time and wasn’t anymore.
He came to the counter. Leaned down and kissed you hello like it was something he’d been doing for years. Brief, warm, his hand on your jaw for just a second. Jay made a noise. Riki sat on his stool without acknowledging him. Picked up his coffee. “How’s the collarbone?” he said.
“Good. I want to talk about an extension.”
“I know what I’ll doing with it.”
“I haven’t told you what I want yet.”
“I know what you want.” He met your eyes. Completely certain. “Trust me.”
You looked at him. Thought about the first piece — how right it had been, how it had looked like it had always been there. “Fine,” you said.
Jay, very quietly, said: “He’s so different.”
The extension happened the following Thursday. One more stem. Slightly longer than the others, curving toward your shoulder, a small bud at the end that he’d added without asking and that was so exactly right you hadn’t been able to speak for a moment when you saw it. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.” He was examining the placement, focused.
“The bud.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No.” He glanced up. Brief, the focus breaking for just a second. “Do you like it?”
You looked in the mirror. The three stems, the new one curving outward, the small closed bud at its tip. Something that looked like potential. Like something about to open. “Yeah,” you said. “I like it.”
He looked back down. Said nothing. But his free hand, steadying your shoulder, pressed slightly. Small. Deliberate.
Three weeks in and the shape of things had settled. Wednesdays at the shop. Tuesday evenings at his flat, which had become a specific thing — you’d bring food, he’d already have the record player going, and you’d eat on his couch or his kitchen floor and talk until one of you fell asleep. Some Fridays at yours, which he’d come to twice now and moved through with the particular attentiveness of someone learning a space they planned to know well.
His things had started appearing at your flat. A hoodie, first — left behind, not retrieved. Then a phone charger. Then a record he’d brought over to show you something and hadn’t taken back. You didn’t point any of this out. Neither did he.
You had a key to Studio 13. That had happened without discussion — Riki had taken it off his keyring one night when you’d arrived before him and handed it to you and gone back to what he was doing. You’d stared at it for a full ten seconds.
This was how he said things. Not in words. In the key. In the bud on the stem. In text me when you’re home and Sunday morning texts and the way he always, always knew when something was wrong before you’d said anything. You were learning his language. It was quieter than most people’s but it was fluent.
Four weeks in, on a Wednesday night after Studio 13 closed as usual. But tonight the energy was different from the second you’d locked the front door behind you — something in the way he’d looked at you across the shop all evening, something that had been building since you’d arrived and had nowhere to go while there were other people present.
He kissed you against the front counter the second the lock clicked. Not soft. Not the hello-kiss or the goodbye-kiss or the slow deliberate thing from his kitchen. This was four weeks of officially named wanting, his hands in your hair and your hands in his jacket and both of you breathing differently inside ten seconds. He pulled back. Looked at your face. “Hi,” you said.
“Hi.” His voice was rough already. His hands moved from your hair to your waist, sliding under your top to bare skin, and you felt his rings and exhaled. “Been thinking about you all day.”
“I was here all evening.”
“I know.” His mouth found your jaw, your throat. “Worse.”
“Riki—”
“I know.” He pulled your top up and off and looked at you in the low red light the way he always did — that slow, deliberate sweep that moved over you like you were something he was committing to memory. The collarbone piece. His hands on you. “God,” he said quietly. Not performing it. Just — reacting.
“Come here,” you said. He came. He got you onto the front counter. Which was new. Which was — you looked around the shop, the dark windows, the closed door, and then his hands were on your thighs spreading them and he was standing between them and the location became very irrelevant. “Here?” you said.
“Here.” He kissed you again, deep, his tongue against yours and the bar of it doing what it always did to your ability to think. His hands pushed your skirt up your thighs, found your underwear, pushed it aside — and his fingers were there, at your folds, and you grabbed the edge of the counter.
“Riki—”
“Already.” His fingers moved through your folds, slow, feeling you. “Fuck, Y/N, already—”
“Don’t be smug—”
“I’m not.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, your throat. “I’m really not.” His fingers found your clit and circled and your hips rolled forward. “That’s it. That’s—” A breath. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me,” you breathed.
He pushed two fingers inside you and your head fell back. “This,” he said, low, watching your face. “Every time. Every fucking time you walk in here I want—” His fingers curled and you gasped. “Yeah. That. I want that sound.”
“More—”
“More?” He kept the pace slow. Deliberate. His thumb finding your clit while his fingers moved and the combination was devastating. “You sure? We’re not in a rush.”
“Riki I swear to god—”
He laughed — low, warm, real — and his fingers moved deeper and his thumb pressed harder and you grabbed his shoulder and held on. “Good girl,” he said against your throat. “So good. So wet for me, every time, like you spend all day—”
“I do,” you said, breathless. “I do, okay, is that what you want to hear—”
“Yes,” he said simply, and meant it, and his fingers moved faster. You came with your face pressed into his neck and his name in your mouth, his fingers working you through it, not stopping until you pulled at his hair and told him too much, too much—
He pulled his hand back. Pressed his mouth to your temple. Your cheekbone. The corner of your mouth. “Good girl,” he said again, softer. “You’re so—”
“Don’t you dare say something nice right now,” you said. “I can’t handle it.” He pressed his smile into your hair.
You got his jeans open. Got your hand on his cock and felt him exhale sharply against your neck —that involuntary thing, the crack in the control — and stroked slowly and felt every bar of the ladder and heard him make a sound that was almost pained. “Y/N—”
“Yeah?”
“I need—” His hips pushed forward slightly. “Fuck, I need you to—”
“Need me to what.” You kept the pace slow. His own medicine.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “Please.” The please from Riki — rare, wrecked, genuine — landed somewhere it always landed and you let go of him and pulled him forward by his waistband and he understood, got his jeans down, stepped between your thighs.
He pushed inside in one slow stroke and you both went still. His hands braced on the counter either side of you. Your hands on his chest. The shop around you, the red light, the flash art on the walls watching everything. “Okay?” he said. Rough. Always asked.
“Move,” you said. “Please, Riki, move—” He moved.
The front counter was cold under your hands and he was warm everywhere else — his chest against yours, his mouth at your throat, his hips rolling into you in a rhythm that started slow and deliberate and got less controlled as it went. “You feel—” He broke off. His jaw set. “Every time. Like the first time, every—”
“Don’t stop talking,” you said. “I like it when you talk.”
He made a rough sound. “You like it.”
“Yes—”
“Good girl for telling me.” His pace shifted deeper and you choked on a breath. “Good girl for always — fuck — for always telling me what you want—”
“Riki—”
“I’ve got you.” His hand slid between you, found your clit, and you arched. “I’ve got you, come on, cum for me, you can—”
“I just—”
“I know.” His thumb circled. “Do it again. Come on. Let me feel you cum on my cock, Y/N—”
The degradation and the praise all tangled together and his thumb and the ladder on every stroke and his voice at your ear and you shattered again — harder this time, your whole body locking up, his name loud enough that it bounced off the dark walls—
He followed you. His rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his hands gripping the counter so hard you heard his rings knock against it — and the sound he made when he came was the broken one, the helpless one, the one you collected and kept.
After the both of you on the front counter, you sitting, him leaning against it beside you. Still not fully dressed. The playlist had long since ended and the shop was quiet except for both of you getting your breathing back. You looked at the flash art on the walls. “We just did that on the front counter,” you said.
“We did.”
“Where clients sit.”
“I’ll clean it.”
You looked at him. He looked back with the wrecked-and-unbothered expression, his hair completely destroyed, his rings catching the low light. “You’re not even slightly embarrassed,” you said.
“No.” Simple. His hand found your knee. “Are you?”
You thought about it. “No.” He smiled. The real one.
You leaned your head on his shoulder and he turned his face into your hair and you sat on the front counter of Studio 13 at midnight and the warmth of it — the us of it — felt like something you could live inside. “Stay,” he said. Into your hair.
“At yours?”
“Here. Couch in the back.” His hand moved at your knee. “Don’t want you to go yet.”
You lifted your head. Looked at his face. “Riki. I’m not going anywhere,” you said.
His eyes moved over yours. The thing behind them — the possessive, careful, quietly terrified thing that drove the jealousy and the silence and the hand always finding yours — settled. “I know,” he said. Like he was practicing believing it.
“I know you know.” You put your hand on his jaw. “I’m telling you anyway.” He turned his face into your palm. Brief. Eyes closing for just a second.
Then he stood up, pulled you off the counter, kept your hand in his. “Couch,” he said.
“Couch,” you agreed.
You were asleep within minutes with Riki’s jacket over you and his voice low in the background talking to someone on the phone — his brother, you thought, distantly, the conversation too quiet to hear properly — and the red light under the door and the smell of ink and his hoodie under your cheek.
You were asleep and warm and his and the storm was three weeks away. It felt like nothing could touch this.
Daniel texted your friend Soo on a Wednesday night. She didn’t tell you immediately. That was the first thing — she sat on it for four days, turning it over, looking at the record he’d sent her, reading it and rereading it. The charge. The conviction. The length of the sentence. Assault. Grievous bodily harm. Victim: female.
She read those words and thought about you and made a decision she believed was the right one. She texted you on a Sunday.
You were at Riki’s flat. Sunday morning, late, the good kind of late — his record player going, both of you in the kitchen, you on the counter watching him make coffee with the focused competence he brought to everything. His hair was wrecked. He had a bruise on his collarbone that was your fault and he’d looked at it in the mirror that morning with an expression of complete satisfaction that had made you throw a pillow at him. Your phone lit up on the counter beside you.
Soo: hey can we talk today. it’s important.
Soo: it’s about Riki.
You looked at the screen. “What,” Riki said. He’d clocked your face without turning around. He did that.
“Soo wants to talk.” You kept your voice neutral. “About you.”
He turned. Read your expression. His jaw did the thing — the subtle set — but his voice stayed even. “What about me?”
“She didn’t say.”
A pause. He looked at the coffee. Back at you. “When?”
“Today apparently.” He nodded. Said nothing. Turned back to the coffee and you watched his shoulders and thought about the tension in them and didn’t ask.
You met Soo at the coffee place near yours at two. She was already there when you arrived. She had her hands around her cup and her expression was the one she got when she was about to say something she’d rehearsed — careful, prepared, slightly guilty around the edges. You sat down. “Just tell me,” you said.
She put her phone on the table. Turned it to face you. A screenshot. A public record database. The name — Nishimura Riki — and below it the details, dry and legal and devastating in their simplicity. Charge: Assault occasioning grievous bodily harm. Victim: Female, 28. Sentence: 14 months. Probation: 12 months.
pairing: angrynerd!riki x professorsdaughter!reader (afab)
synopsis: riki couldn't stand his professor, the one that sadly was the one who stood the most before the whole lecture hall and did his shit lecturing. was there a better way to have his revenge than fuck his daughter that attended the same course — on his table.
genre: smut
contains: profanity, dubcon, unethical behavior, evil nerd!riki, scared!reader, morally grey behavior, violent behavior, reader wears glasses, riki is just so bitter
His nails dug into your jaw. The back of your thighs hit your dad's table as he made your neck strain, getting you to look up at his taller frame. You gulped, hands gripping the edge of the wooden desk as his grip tightened even more.
Riki's jaw ticked, eyes going over your face, the heavy glasses on your nose, the features that so obviously reminded him of the person he hated so much. From the depth of his soul.
Your tender hand shot up to his wrist, grabbing it and trying to pull it off of you. His slanted dark eyes bored through your soft ones. You shouldn't have came here, you should have just told your dad it doesn't matter. That you will get the charger that you forgot at the lecture tommorow when he is here in his office, let him bring it to you tommorow maybe. Join your parents on a family dinner right after your last lecture ended.
But here you were now; pushed into the table as the boy who came here to get the detailed report on his last exam about what he did so wrong that he almost failed. The low percentage jabbing at his chest between all the almost hundred percents of other courses in his student card.
He hated your dad's guts. Hated.
And now finding and having you here, alone, in your dad's faculty building office this nice afternoon as the setting sun came through the windows was definitely the best thing that happened in the last semester.
Since your shit-ass dad started teaching his and your department fused and his GPA started dropping.
Riki's eyes flicked down your body. Down your stupid tomboyish style so painfully similar to his own. The baggy jeans hugging your hips, a belt holding the heavy denim up. The tank top that hugged your waist, your chest as the too big hoodie stood dangling unzipped by your sides, exposing your front.
Your nails dug into his wrist, fingers tender but still firm with something painfully fearful. "Let me go..." You uttered out, eyes trying to avoid his heavy and angry gaze, but there was no use. Riki's jaw tightened again, his other hand coming up to your hair as his knee came between your thighs and pressed you harder against the desk that it sent it scraping against the linoleum floor.
You winced at his grip on your jaw and the tightness of his fingers in your hair. "You think you get to decide?" He tilted his head at your trembling state, his taller frame engulfing your smaller one, intimidatingly telling you he is in charge. And your words do not matter. Riki let his eyes move over to you lips, small trembls catching his attention.
"R-Riki—"
He cut you off by pressing his mouth against yours. It sent your body jolting from the aggressiveness of it as he gripped your hair harder. Riki's lips moved emotionlessly against your stiff ones but when his knee pressed harder higher against your core, you lips moved unsurely against his. Messy smacking sounds filled the empty big room, echoing in your head as a reminder of what is actually happening and you attempted to pull away. But he angled your head, pulling you harshly against his front as his tongue forcefully entered your warm cavity. He pulled back an inch. His grip tightened when you tried to pull away—not enough to lose control.
His grip didn't loosen when you struggled, simply just melted more into your jaw. If anything, it tightened—just enough to stop you. Your fingers pressed harder against his wrist, nails digging in, but he didn't react. Didn't flinch. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and sharp, like he was waiting for you to realize something you hadn't yet.
"You're really fighting me?" He muttered, almost under his breath. There was no humor in it but something colder. Not louder—worse. Your fingers pressed harder against his wrist. "I-I didn't do anything to you—"
"Yeah." He interrupted again tongue darting over his bottom lip, this time with a quiet, humorless laugh. "That's kind of the problem, isn't it" He just watched you struggle for a second longer than necessary then leaned in slightly, his breath brushing your slick lips.
"You don't get to tell me what to do."
And he smashed your lips together again, forcing his own hard over yours, like trying to bruise, to make you quiver.
You stood there stiff, muscles locked in on their own. His warm tongue forces itself again through your lips meeting your pliant one as you tried to fight his dominance away. Away from you. A breathless whine was released against his mouth, half protest and half something you tried to push back. His palm dropped from your jaw to your throat as he pulled back just slightly. "Your dad is a fucking shit professor..." He squeezed your throat, a warning. Riki's eyes flicked over your glasses, the way they were slightly askew from the way he kissed you just a second ago, cheeks hot and flushed.
His knee pushed up against your core, pressing right onto the most sensitive part, as if knowing exactly where. You inhaled deeply, eyes closing as he started rhythmically thrusting his knee against your pussy.
And you hated that he was slowly but surely luring the wanted arousal from you.
Your thighs quivered, eyes closed as your head dropped forward with low pants leaving your lips. Hips moved in a search of better friction. You couldnt raise your head to look at him. To spare him a glance when you were the one that was now humping his leg desperately, borderline humiliating moving after the protests.
Your palms moved down, clutched the edge of cold work desk, eyes going tight shut as you tried to supress the sounds that tried to crawl their way out of your throat. Riki's thumb dug harder into your pulse point, urging you to look at him. And you did. Over the rim of your glasses.
Riki chuckled darkly, the deep sound echoing the empty and quiet office. "You love this shit?" He asked amused, knee pressing hard against you, making you yelp in the discomfort that followed instead of the teasing drag. You didn't answer, just stared back at him, pupils blown eyes peering through your lashes and dripping with shame.
He finally released your neck, both of his hands shooting down to your belt. "Too fucking bad..." He aggressively started undoing it, jaw tight as he kept your still figure right there. "... Since you won't like it for long." You just stood there unable to process what was happening. When your jeans hit the ground, leaving you only in your underwear, your eyes shot up to his face. Riki observed your naked bottom, the bunched up baggy denim on your feet.
His knee pressed against you, hard. A gasp of sudden pain escaped you, eyes pressing closed as you gripped the edge of the cold office table. Your gasp hadn't even fully left your lips before he stopped.
Not completely—his knee still pressed against you, firm, unrelenting—but everything else about him stilled. Riki's eyes lifted from where your jeans had fallen, dragging back up your body slowly. Taking his time. Like he was memorizing every reaction you couldn't hide. Your grip tightened on the desk.
The silence stretched.
Too long.
Your chest heavied, the burn between your legs grew. Riki's hand tugged at your hair, angling your head right up to his face. His other hand came up to adjust your glasses back in place. He huffed out a breath, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes didn't leave yours. "Must be nice." He muttered. A quiet scoff followed, breath brushing your face.
"Never having to prove anything."
Your brows pulled together despite everything, fingers tightening against the edge of the desk as you tried to steady your voice. "You don't know anything about me." The words came out almost a whisper, unsure. His grip in your hair tightened instantly at that making you hiss out in pain.
His fingers flexed, not enough to snap—just enough to remind you. Riki tilted his head slightly, studying you like you just said something mildly interesting. "No?" He said quietly, his free hand moving gently around the string of your underwear at your hip — a contrast to the way he was holding your hair. His long slender finger hooked onto the thong string, pulling and letting it snap against your hip. His eyes flicked down again.
"A thong?" He asked, sneering under his breath as he let his cold ringed fingers graze you exactly where your thigh met your mound. Your muscles tensed, a sharp inhale followed. "Didn't expect you to be that kind of girl..." He taunted, fingers now moving right between your tense thighs, slipping harshly over your mound and right on the embarrassing wet patch that started forming. You reflexively tried to close your thighs together, when his fingers ran over your most intimate part, fingertips digging into the fabric. But he was quick to fully slip in between your legs, knees pushing your weak ones apart. He chuckled, but there was a harsh bitterness behind it — the anger that was fueling him.
You gripped the table, your arms trying to push you away from him, so you ended up sitting on the edge of the table — balancing so you wouldn't fully feel his overwhelming touch. You whimpered at his tug in your hair, the feel of his fingers pressing harshly against your pulsing heat. "Don't fucking run from me." He spat out through gritted teeth, getting in your face. Before you could react, before you could even pull another breath in—his grip shifted. Rough.
His hand yanked at your hair, not just holding you in place this time but moving you, dragging you forward just enough to throw you off balance. Your hands slipped against the desk, a startled sound leaving your throat as your body pitched. "Think you get to pick how this goes?" He muttered, voice low, strained with something harsher now— less controlled, more cutting.
You tried to push back, palms pressing against the desk, but he didn't give you the chance to recover. His hand left your hair only for a second, just long enough to grab you properly. Firm and unyielding. And then he turned you.
Fast.
The world spun in a blur of wood and light as your front hit the desk, a sharp gasp ripping from your chest at the impact. The surface was cold against your skin, grounding and overwhelming all at once. Your fingers scrambled for purchase, nails dragging against the wood as you tried to push yourself up but his hand was already there. Between your shoulder blades, forcing you down.
He chuckled at your attempt to raise yourself, squirming against the cold surface. The set of pencils tumbled down to the ground a moment ago, a empty mug rolled against the linoleum floor somewhere far in the room. Your breath stuttered, chest pressed against the desk as you twisted your head slightly, trying to look back at him—but his grip tightened instantly, pushing you flat again with a flexing forearm that was furiously pressing his palm into your back.
"Don't." He snapped, the warning clear. The room felt too big. Too empty. Riki's eyes scanned the desk, a set of papers and books by your side catching his attention. And he harshly pushed it off, letting the books tumble and papers scatter all over the floor. You gasped at the sound of papers flying and harsh hardcovers hitting the ground, head snapping toward the echo of it. Your lips trembled, a lump forming in your throat at the sudden realisation of the situation. You. Bent over your father's work desk. In your underwear. And a boy you barely ever spoke to right behind you. Your voice resonated the tight space, chest heaving against the flat wooden surface as you spoke quietly. "Someone's going to walk i—"
"I don't give a shit!"
A hand found your hip, fingers digging in—not gentle, not careful, just enough to hold you exactly where he wanted you. His bulge rubbing all up on your ass as his hand gripped your flesh harshly.
Your body tensed under his touch, breath uneven, fingers curling tighter against the edge of the desk as you braced yourself. Heat burned through your face—anger, humiliation, something tangled deep in your chest—but your body betrayed you, still tense, still reacting, still there. The burn between your legs grew, aching desperately and humiliatingly.
His fingers grabbed your thong string, playing and toying with it against your skin as he hooked his fingers on it. "You're gonna stay right here..." He said, low and controlled. Not a question — a decision. "And let me fuck you however I fucking want." He harshly pulled the string that dipped right between your asscheeks, the underwear digging painfully into your puffy folds, swallowing the fabric and straining against your slit. You gasped in pain, squirming and trying to get on your tippy toes, to ease the uncomfortable feeling between your thighs. You whined, hips trying to get away, but the more you moved the more the desk scraped against the floor and the edge dug into your pelvis as Riki pressed his hard bulge against your ass, keeping you in place.
A yelp left you, legs kicking by his thighs as you trashed under him. "Stop..." You cried out, tears clinging to your lashes. He only pulled your thong harder, the thin material pressing at your clit, getting swallowed by your wetness as the heel of his palm dug harder into you back. "Make me." He spat out with disdain, a control he had in the moment making him smirk right after.
Riki's eyes dragged down your figure, from the back of your messy hair to the exposed shoulders and the straps of the tank top. The hoodie loosely clung to your upperarms, all messy and exposing your upper back as it rested on your waist. And finally, your ass all plump against his throbbing cock that hid under the baggy denim.
Riki's slender fingers played with the string, pulling and slightly releasing it before tightening it again. The stimulation hitting your puffy throbbing bud just right that you bucked your hip against the pull, chasing the friction. A broken sound left your throat, knuckles white from all the gripping of the sharp edges. Your toes curled inside of your sneakers, the pressure against your slit rubbing off so good, digging and pressing your folds.
A low moan caught in your throat, your body betraying you with every small movement, hips shifting despite yourself as the pressure built and built. A low, humorless chuckle left him, the sound rough, edged with something bitter as his hand pressed you down—keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
"Yeah…" He muttered under his breath. "That's what I thought."
Your fingers slipped slightly against the desk, breath uneven, glasses sliding further down your nose from the way your forehead pressed against the surface. You tried to push up—just a little—but his hand came down harder against your back, stopping you instantly.
"Stay down." He snapped. Your breath hitched, a quiet whimper escaping before you could stop it.
Behind you, he shifted—close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the layers, the presence alone enough to make your stomach twist. "Acting like you don't want it." He went on, voice low, dragging each word out like he was testing your reaction. "But you're not even trying to get away anymore."
"That's not—" Your voice broke, cutting off as your body tensed again, the words losing their weight before they could even form properly as he let your thong back in place. His hand slid from your back to your hip, fingers digging in, holding you still as his other hand traced back down slowly—deliberate now, not rushed.
That contrast made it worse.
Your breath stuttered, head turning slightly to the side, cheek pressed against the desk as your glasses tilted awkwardly. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but the way he moved, the way he took his time.
"Can't even decide what you want." He murmured, quieter now, almost to himself as his fingers cupped your heat. "Fucking annoying." Your nails scraped against the wood again, a weak attempt to ground yourself as his hand paused, just for a second, like he was waiting.
Waiting for you to react. Waiting for you to realize. Then he moved again, firmer this time, more certain. His fingers moved your soaked thin underwear to the side, the air hitting your pulsing pussy. Riki moved his hips back slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of your slick folds. The way they were glistening under the dim lights. His fingers moved, grazing the burning and wet flesh, two digits dipping into your mess as they entered you harshly. His touch was no longer teasing, no longer testing, but deciding. A sharp inhale left you, your body jolting under him, back arching slightly before his hand pressed you down again.
"Don't fucking move." He said, voice low, controlled. He started pumping them, massaging your walls in fast motions as he felt you squeeze him. Your breath came out in uneven bursts, chest rising against the desk as your fingers curled tighter, the pressure building in a way you couldn't ignore anymore—no matter how much you wanted to.
Your slick covered his whole hand in seconds, the embarrassing amount of arousal oozed out of you with each plunge of his long ringed fingers inside of you. The way he split you with harsh and precise moves was overstimulating, on the thin line between pain and pleasure. Your tried to get away, raising your head and clawing at the poor desk that was the only witness to this sinful act, but Riki held you — painfully pressing your lower back down, the edge digging into your bladder and bones.
"Your dad stands there..." He went on, each word deliberate and his thrusts calculated. "Talking like he knows everything—like everyone else is just too fucking stupid to understand him."
A strangled sound left your throat, your glasses slipping further down your nose as your head dropped, lashes damp, vision blurring. He curled them inside of you, the sloppy sounds getting to your ears with each hit of his knuckles against your damp folds.
Your breath hitched, something tight and humiliating curling in your chest, but your body didn't stop—couldn't stop—every small movement pulling another reaction out of you. Low moans that you tried to conceal poorly, to let escape your dry throat without him noticing went awfully bad. He heard every breath you took, each one you let out against the desk.
"Walks around like he's so fucking perfect—" His tone twisted, mocking, fingers pistoning into you. "—like everyone else is just too slow to keep up with him."
Your fingers tightened painfully against the wood, eyes closing shut as the pressure inside of your pelvis grew.
"Stop—" It came out broken, barely there.
He didn't.
Instead, he leaned in slightly, his rock hard bulge grazing your ass as he continued abusing your velvety walls, fingertips dragging against them mercilessly. "All that shit he talks in lectures." He continued, disdain dripping from every word. "Can't explain a single thing properly—and somehow I'm the one who gets screwed over."
"And you just stand next to him." He continued, harsher now, fingers thrusting into you even harder. "Like that makes you something." Your head shook weakly, a small, broken sound leaving you, eyes tight shut. "I'm not—"
"You are."
The interruption was immediate. Cold.
His grip tightened, holding you down as your body reacted again, your breath catching, thighs tensing as everything inside you coiled tighter, dangerously close. You kicked your legs by his side, calves grazing the rough denim of his jeans. He pulled back again, eyes flicking down to the mess you created and he scoffed.
"Same attitude." He muttered, eyes gazing over your shaky shoulders and your messy hair. "Same fucking look."
Your chest pressed harder against the desk as your breathing lost all rhythm, your body betraying you completely now, every nerve pulled tight, every thought slipping. You stilled, offering yourself to him as you slightly arched your lower back, surrendering to the oncoming burst that avaited you. Just a little, just one more thrust—
A very needy moan escaped you, cheek pressing against the cold wood, glasses tilting awkwardly as your legs cramped by his side. The burning sensation was about to spill all over you. About to tip over.
Riki felt you offer your hole to his fingers, arching your lower back against his hand. Seeing you brace your hands against the edges, cheek pressing against the surface was enough of a sign. You are going to cum.
His fingers didn't let up, only pushed you closer and closer. Riki's eyes shoot down to his digits getting swallowed by your cunt. The way you sucked them in, the slimy wetness all clinging and sticking to his whole hand. He groaned at the sight, the filthy scene fueling him as he curled them inside of your clenching hole.
"Riki..."
You panted his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head. Your pussy burned with each smack of his hand against your ruined slit, your thighs feeling the trickles of wetness drag down. His forearm was getting tired, veins popping and muscles flexing but he didn't dare stop, not yet.
Just as a tight coil in your abdomen sparked, ready to snap and overflow your senses, he pulled his fingers out. The flutter of your hole around nothing made you whine. Cold sweat covered your skin, glasses slightly fogged from your hard breathing against the table.
Your muscles started relaxing again, the tenseness evaporating as you tried to steady your breathing. You gulped at the arousal that only throbbed more, aching for the release he ripped from you. Riki watched a string of slimy arousal snap as he brought his fingers up, watching them glisten under the afternoon sun that illuminated the space.
Riki's gaze lingered on his hand for a moment longer, jaw tightening as something unreadable flickered across his face. Then, slowly, his attention shifted back to you—spread out, breathless, still trembling from what he'd just taken away.
A quiet exhale left him, sharp and controlled. His hands dropped to his belt. The metallic click echoed louder than it should have in the room, cutting through the haze in your head. Your fingers twitched against the surface beneath you, body still hypersensitive, still waiting and aching for something you weren't sure he'd give.
Your breath hitched at the sound, thighs pressing together instinctively, but it only made the ache worse—more obvious. Your puffy folds drooling and inviting his raging cock. He finally undid his belt, hand unzipping the jeans and letting them cling to his hips. His hand dipped down his abs and into his briefs, wrapping his hand around his throbbing shaft and pulling it out. He stroked himself, brows furrowing with a sharp inhale leaving his nose. He leaned over your limp body, his hips attaching to your ass as he poked your entrance. His big head teasing your gaping hole, making you twitch under him. You jolted at the feel of him suddenly dipping into you, the tip throbbing against your entrance begging to be swallowed. You tensed under him. Your breath stuttered, your body going still in a way that didn't feel like control—more like you lost it completely.
And he noticed.
Of course he did.
A quiet, almost amused exhale left him as he hovered over you, his presence heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore. One hand came down beside your head, the other settling firm against your hip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
"Not a word now." He muttered, pushing himself inside of you in one fast stroke. All the way in.
Your fingers twitched against the flat surface, a squel left you, nails scraping the desk faintly. You clamped around him, walls tensing against his heavy lenght that came in uninvited.
He huffed quietly. Bottoming out and slamming back in, slowly building the rhythm as he dragged inside your cunt, filling you up and then pulling back repeatedly.
"Yeah… That's better."
Your chest pressed harder into the surface as you swallowed, heat burning up your neck, your glasses slipping slightly again as your head turned just enough to breathe, to face away from his strong hand right by your head. The desk moved with each snap od his hips against yours, rough and unrelenting as he fucked his frustrations into your sopping pussy.
"You sit there every lecture like you already know everything." He went on, voice low, controlled—but sharper now. More personal.
"Don't even have to try, right?"
Your fingers curled tighter, breathy pants escaping you as he kept on sliding in, even through all the resistance your walls provided, tensing around his big cock, begging him to slow down, to stop and let you adjust.
But Riki was unyielding, hips slamming harder and harder into you with each passing second. Smacks filled the room together with your whines and pants. He let his eyes wander again, take in your smaller figure under his tall and big one. The way his hand was the side of your head almost. The way your small shoulders trembled with each plunge of his throbbing dick into you, knuckles white from the gripping against the edges of the table. Supporting. Bracing yourself for each one of his merciless thrusts.
His eyes flicked down. Lower. To where you two connected. Where your small puffy cunt swallowed his thick base, watching the way he stretched your entrance. He groaned, his hand landing on your ass with a harsh smack echoing the already filthy atmosphere. "Ah—" You moaned in pain, body weak and fragile under his aggressive torture.
His fingers dug into your flesh, groping the place he just marked with his large hand. "Thought you had more fight in you." He murmured, voice low and faux. You let out a sob of restraint, the drag of his tip against your walls too overwhelming. "Where did all that attitude go?" He muttered, voice dipping lower.
The desk moved under you scraping against the floor, making you gasp in terror. Someone could come up, open these door to check what was the all the noise and catch you.
Your head throbbed violently, ears buzzing at every snap of his hips against your wetness, the sound becoming too loud for the tight space. "Didn't know you were such a whore..." He continued, feeling you tense the more he glided in, each thrust easier and filthier. Riki's grip on your ass faltered, fingers quickly hooked onto the same thong string that dug into your hip. And he violently pulled it, ripping the thin fabric.
You gaspedy feeling the loose fabric slid from your front, only clinging to the wetness that seemed to stick it to your inner thighs. But Riki pulled it completely off, letting it fall down between your legs.
"What do you think about leaving these filthy thongs here? Hm?"
His hips didn't let up, still smacking into you with the unrelentinh force, sending you completely jolting against the desk. Your pelvis felt already bruised, hip bones colliding with the sharp edge repeatedly and surely leaving promising purple marks. "Letting your dad know what a slut his daughter is. Make him fucking disgusted." He added through gritted teeth.
Your eyes teared up, was it because of his words, because of his abuse of your pulsing and sore pussy — you didn't know. But when tears rolled down your cheeks and your lashes fluttered shut for the nth time you felt the pulse all the way in your ears. Too deep. He was fucking you too deep.
"Please slow down..." You pleaded, voice trembling and almost a whisper. Begging him in a silent way you would never dare to actually say aloud. You raised your head, hands trying to push you back up, but you had no strength left. Your thighs quivered, legs felt like jelly. The constant rapid smacks of his heavy balls against your sore and aching folds were too much. You felt your own insides burning from the way he split you.
He chuckled at that, watching you glance over your shoulder. A breathy broken sound escaping you as he hit that one spot deep inside you, sending your glasses completely sliding of your nose and clinging to the side of your face. Riki reached over, his hand harshly bringing the glasses back in place. "Keep those on..." He growled, deep voice looming over your trembling figure as the familiar warmth started forming in the pit of your stomach. You whimpered, and before you could utter another sound Riki's fingers entered your warm cavity. He pushed your head back, facing straight, fingers hooked into your mouth as he kept on ramming into you, his own breathing raged. You moaned against his salty fingertips, closing the lips around the digits with remnants of you from earlier and feeling them heavy on your tongue.
Your toes curled in your sneaker, legs kicking against by his side as you whined around his fingers with tears clinging to your hot face. The sudden knot grew with every punishing thrust of his, rapidly. You moaned and moaned around his fingers, sobbing as the overwhelming sensations took over. So close. Again so close.
And Riki pulled out.
Completely.
Leaving you trembling and your sore hole clenching around nothing. His fingers also ripped out from your suckling mouth, leaving you shaking and whining in frustration. He panted, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, jeans already fallen to the ground with the hoodie still clinging to his torso. He leaned over, all the way to your ear, fingers tangling at your roots, pulling your head back to spit out right at your ear.
"You really think you get to cum?"
Your neck strained, your roots pulled at tight in his grip before he harshly released you, sending your glasses sliding down before your clumsy trembling hands pushed them back up.
You sniffed, lashed clumped and wet from all the tears. Your skin felt damp. Disgustingly messy. Before you could catch your breath Riki's rough hand grabbed your upperarm, turning you around before he fisted your hair again. You hissed in pain, hands coming up to his wrist as he dragged you off the desk and onto your legs. He forced you down. On your knees.
You looked up at him over your glasses, breath shaky and unstable — anticipating his next move. His tall figure stood over you, his cock erect and painfully red at the tip ached with pressure. You gulped, gaze flicking unsurely up to his dark slanted eyes that stared right through your soft ruined ones. The burn between your legs pulsed, the uncomfortable wetness spreading and sticking to your fused thighs.
Riki's hand was fast.
A smack echoed the room as your cheek felt the sudden sting, sending your head to the side. You stayed quiet, eyes empty and staring at the floor as the pulse between your legs seemed to get embarrassingly worse.
"You really think a slut like you gets to cum on my cock?" He scoffed, a humorless laugh escaping him as he grabbed your jaw and forced you to look up at him. The other hand gripped the base of his cock, titling it right over your closed lips. "Open your mouth. Baby." He mocked you, the nickname bitter on his tongue as the voice resonated the office and you stared at him deadpan — but your lips still parted.
His warm tip grazed your plump lips, closing around it as he pushed inside of your warm cavity. Your tongue pressed against the underside of him as he slowly filled you up. Your cheeks hollowed, making sure no teeth comes in contact with his throbbing lenght.
Riki hit your uvula, feeling your throat constrict against his pulsing head and he groaned. He started thrusting against your mouth, fingers digging into your jaw as he held you exactly where he wanted you. Your eyes closed tightly, grounding yourself so you could bare his thrusts.
"Aren't you my sex toy from now on? Hm?" He spoke, voice breathy but steady. "Yeah, I think I like that idea." His eyes scanned your poor state, the way your mouth struggled to take his thrusts as he hit the back of your poor throat. Your closed eyes, furrowed eyebrows and the tense shoulders. He chuckled, feeling his own release being close.
He pulled out from your mouth, fingers still holding your face up. Your lips and his cock glistened with spit, a string of saliva connecting them as he wrapped his other hand around his lenght. Riki's hand glided rapidly against his shaft, tugging aggressively against the slippery skin as his abs constricted. His chest heavied up and down, the sharp inhales following. "Going to paint your stupid face..."
The squelching sound filled the room. His warm hand jerked his cock in front of your face, the rhythm nothing but filthy. Your throat tightened, eyes closing tightly and preparing for the shame that's going to flood you when his cock releases the seed right onto your flushed face. "Fucking leave my cum all over you..." He muttered under his breath, every word laced with resentment. His hand firmly squeezed his cock as he kept on sliding against it. He panted, whiny moans escaping him now, a sudden contrast to the persona as he delivered one last harah tug and the pressure eased.
White ropes of cum shot from his bulbous head, coating your glasses and dripping down your face. You opened your mouth in shock at the sudden gush, feeling some of it drip on your brows, clinging to your lashes and even ending up in your mouth. Riki made sure even the last drop ended up on your face as he gripped your jaw harder, pushing the tip onto your plump lips and wiping the last bit of his release.
He panted heavily, cock used and twitching with after shocks as he let it go. Both of his hand came to your cheeks, cupping it as his thumbs went over your glasses, wiping the semen and clearing your view.
He blankly stared at you, his breathing steadying as he held your head. He grimaced at your state, disgust painting his sharp and perfect features. You licked the salty fluid from your lips, feeling it spread on your taste buds before you swallowed it, never breaking the tense eye contact.
Riki couldn't look at you anymore.
And he spat on you.
His glob of spit ending up right on your face, trickling down your skin as it mixed with the white thick substance.
"That's what you fucking deserve."
And before you could defend yourself, say something back, at least utter a simple 'no' — you stayed quiet, eyes tearing up as he released your head. Riki picked his baggy jeans up, pulling up and zipping them in place and putting his belt on. The metal clanking in the quiet room as you sat down your legs, calves supporting your weight as you blankly stared at the thorn underwear right by your bare thigh.
Riki run a hand through his hair, eyes going once more over the messy office. Books and papers scattered, mug and pencils all over the floor, desk pushed out of place — so obviously askew.
And you.
His most precious possession right by his own desk, covered in cum of one of his students. Ruined and sticky with the mess Riki himself made.
He smirked, eyes flicking down your figure one last time, feet already getting ready to move toward the door.
"Not my fault you were here..."
A pause.
"Don't clean it up too fast."
_____
! this is all work of fiction. in no way this is a representation of enhypen members nor do I believe this is how they behave in real life or condone these actions!
SUMMARY: the artsy guy in your class offers to paint you; who knew he meant in more ways than one? (10.7k)
PAIRING: artsy!riki x afab!reader
CONTAINS: praise +petnames! oral + unprotected sex, paint play, guided masturbation w/ a paintbrush, slight insecure reader, rik paints you w/ his....y'know, dark-haired ki w/ streak!! consent king ki :)
NOTE: based on colors by halsey! w/ a sexy twist :) my first smut writing so please feel free to provide any feedback
he tapped the end of the brush to his lip in thought, before dipping the bristles into the blues of his palette.
you wondered, in that moment, what it would be like to understand that feeling. taking merely seconds in thought instead of minutes before creating the next stroke. how effortless it seemed to him, the ideas that he'd spend those quiet moments pondering before bringing them to life on canvas. you'd been in the back of the class, staring at your own blank canvas for the last hour.
whoever said art class was an easy elective clearly didn't understand the concept of creative block, absent talent, and nishimura riki. though if you're truly feeling cynical, you could say that with time, a bit of guidance, maybe the first two could be helped. but not him, not riki.
he'd been the biggest distraction since day one.
it started with his paintings, of course. you'd look over during class only to be met with a canvas brilliantly decorated with deep and vibrant hues, bursts of color depending on the day. sometimes you'd see a sunset, with the soft shades of burnt oranges in a stark contrast against cloudy blues. other times you'd see a moonlit sky, with acrylics that made the stars shine so brightly you'd sworn they'd been plucked from the night. campfires, adorned with embers and surrounded by lush trees, detailed depictions of swans, beautiful, beautiful work that you never seemed to have the talent to achieve.
you swore it was just envy. plain and simple. you wanted to be like him, nothing else. that the only reason your eyes kept wandering over to his side of the classroom, had simply been for bits and pieces of inspiration.
but then you noticed it. not just his painting; him. the way he'd spend moments in between his strokes, looking at his art with such an intensity you'd wonder if the painting itself would break into a sweat. you'd watch as he created images with pursed lips and pinched brows. the way he'd bite his lower lip as he made intricate 'corrections' to such minuscule mistakes along his board. but above all, you would notice the level of reverence he'd seem to have for his creations, from start to end. how he never seemed to eye a blank canvas as a sign of failure, but a chance for a new story to tell. how he seemed to care for every aspect, shade, and 'accident' he'd make along the way.
you could learn from him in that regard. maybe even learn a couple more things from the class overall if you stopped staring at him so much, too.
from the stool upon which he sits, your eyes inevitably float back to your very own canvas, shining the same shade of snow it did as when you first began, without so much as a stroke. it's evident you won't be getting much done today, and the time on your wristwatch, confirming the soon approaching end of your class, aids in the thought. you began to pack your items up amidst the sea of chatter from other students, hoping to slip out earlier than the formal end of the lesson.
but it's as if your professor senses the end too, calling everyone to attention in a voice that almost instantly quiets the noise. her pale legs reveal themselves as she hobbles from around the desk, mentioning how quickly the time seemed to have passed without her noticing. you wondered what that was like, too, being able to get so deep and into art; instruction, or the doing, that you lost track of time. the class itself never claimed your attention that drastically, though riki had been a close second.
"class, before you all are dismissed-" professor jona begins, grabbing the thin-framed glasses from her desk and slipping them past her nose. "i'd like someone to share their piece, and the story behind it."
her green eyes search the room for a victim, and you don't bother stopping the packing up of your items. she'll pick riki; she always does. can't say you blame her, really. not when he's clearly one of the most skilled ones in the class. his painting always told a story, the same way his eyes, hands, and teeth-bitten lips did as he created them.
but it's your name instead, you hear ring out from the front of the classroom, freezing you in motion as heads from around the room turn toward the back.
"(y/n)!" professor jona speaks again, as if the state of shock you remained in, backpack suspended in mid-air, wasn't enough to indicate that you'd heard her the first time. "would you like to turn your easel around, tell us about your work today?"
no. not really, you think. especially considering the blank state it's remained in for the past hour, the only story you'd be able to tell is how you'd simply propped the canvas onto the wooden frame, not much else. unless they really want to hear about how you spent the entire class looking at riki's fingers rock back and forth along his own art.
"i um...." you began, throwing the bag over your shoulder with a low huff. maybe if you act as if you're still about to leave early, she'll ultimately end up choosing someone else. "i'd rather not, really."
"oh don't be so bashful!" professor jona persists, her wrinkled hands gesturing to your canvas again, with the pursuit of several eyes following the direction. "we'd all love to see what you have; you don't have to go too into depth."
if there was any depth at all, you would gladly have shared. but just like the stares from your peers and professor alike, the canvas was simply blank.
you wondered if this was your fault. the only reason why you'd gotten by in this class had been coasting on last-minute assignments, turning in poorly depicted attempts at abstract art, void of any true feeling or real emotion. simple lines and splashes of color thrown together in a manner that screamed you were acting out of time constraint, no real passion. your realistic art had always been an inadequate imitation of the theme you'd gone for, never truly able to capture the true 'essence' or feelings the others seemed to channel. something too tethered, controlled with little to no artistic tone or voice. nothing ever effortless, true, or deep. nothing like riki's.
maybe this was inevitable. only a matter of time before she'd stop picking him. after all, you were nearly halfway through the semester, and there had of course been plenty of students with their own, deep, abrasive, and abstract stories to tell. you just wish she hadn't started with you.
but as you held your backpack close to your side; you'd realize that she had no intention of giving up. so in a quick attempt to get the humiliation ritual over with, you picked up your easel and gave it a turn.
silence at first, then the soft attempts to stifle snickers, low mutterings from amongst the class that made you want to burrow into the ground beneath you and hide.
the red curls hanging along the side of your professor's head shook as she gave you a nod: as if both validating and trying to understand the vision herself. "oh, well that's just....."
"missing something." you hear a classmate murmur from beside the professor. upon a glance to your right, you see it's jake whose lips the words leave, followed by hushed chuckles among his surrounding group.
you resist the urge to roll your eyes, quickly flipping the stand back around in part annoyance, part embarrassment. it was bad enough that you seemed to have this massive block regarding creation on your own. but putting it on display, for everyone to see and judge, hadn't made it any easier.
there's a warmth that floods your cheeks upon the remembrance that riki is likely one of those doing the same. he didn't seem like the type to chuckle to himself or make jokes about your disposition, though the thought hadn't calmed you at all. ultimately it had been the principle; the guy you'd spent all the time watching in class had now probably been eyeing you back with an opinion of his own amongst many. artsy, effortless riki. you didn't even want to peer in his general direction to find out.
instead, you let out a quiet huff. "sorry, profesor jo, i just-" you pause, eyes flickering up to meet hers; and only hers for the sake of your dignity. "haven't been able to find much inspiration."
her head bobs faster now, serving as what she surely intends to be an empathic response, despite her already calling you out in front of the entire class. "and that's okay!" she says, a wrinkled smile forming upon her features. "we've all been there," she remarks, tilting her head down to meet eyes with you from above her frames.
she turns her attention back to the overall class, using your sorry canvas as an example of how not to deal with creative block. she mentions the importance of looking into the world around for inspiration and ideas for creation, taking moments of quiet to truly observe before painting.
what she doesn't understand, is that you've tried this before. spent more time than you can recall staring at your own works of art, quietly waiting and hoping to create something that felt real, true to you. any organic idea that you could transfer onto the canvas just as effortlessly as so many others seemed to do. that the whole 'just start painting' thing hadn't worked for you, often ending in a horrid mess of color, devoid of any true explanation or story. all she saw, ultimately, was your apparent lack of effort at all.
"....and i'd like to mention that there are so many wonderful artists in this class!" she drones on, aiding further in your embarrassment. "connecting with other artists helps, especially-" her eyes return to you as she says this.
"take riki for example!"
of course, you think, watching as she gestures over to his stool just next to the left side of her desk. "riki, you'd help out a classmate if asked, right?"
a groan that you manage to suppress, claws at your throat, the heat in your cheeks grows hotter with each second when you see it. riki, from the corner of your eye, giving a slight nod in return to the instructor who thought it wise to air you out.
he can hardly get his verbal response out before she interrupts him, noting once again how class is coming to a close. funny, she'd have more time for instruction had she cut the tangent about leaning on each other altogether. "well isn't that just splendid!" she drawls, turning back to you with a knowing smile. "i suggest you two get together right away!"
you wanted to melt into the floor.
"with all that being said," she clasps her hands together. "i'd still love to hear about someone's piece.....riki, if you will?"
unbelievable. there's just actually no way.
but when the streaked hair giant turns his canvas toward the majority of the class, you close your eyes in acceptance. listen to his annoyingly charming voice as he tells the story of his piece. it's a simple one, so far at least. incomplete, but still containing all the depth yours lacked. he says he'd just playing around with colors for a while, but when your eyes finally peel open to see it, you're amazed how structured it actually looks. how familiar the gently drawn out lines of the picture seem to look. you think it may be a shelf he's working on. whatever story may come of it, you'd inevitably hear about it when he got called on again.
the rest of the class has followed your lead, stuffing items into their respective bags as you pop up from your stool. your professor gives praise to riki (of course) and the last bit of instruction before you finally turn toward the door. you're finally about to leave when you hear it.
hurried footsteps making their way behind you, your name on his lips as he approaches.
you whip around faster than lightning. because there's no way he's actually trying to talk to you.
but when you look back, all six foot two of nishimura riki stands, looking back at you with an expression of gentle curiosity in his features.
he's handsome up close. with long lashes that flutter rapidly as a small smile forms upon his features; he extends his hand in an effort to grasp yours. "(y/n), yeah?" he grips the same hand you hadn't even realized had been drifting upward. "are you busy this weekend?"
you nearly let out a bitter laugh, realizing exactly what this is about. "i'm not, but," a swish of air sounds as you let your hand fall from his gentle grip. "you don't actually have to help me with painting, despite what professor jo says."
although as you eye him carefully, you can't say it wouldn't be nice. you imagine making time to spend with him outside of the classroom. the deep voice of his booming from behind you as he shows you how to make your way around a canvas, stroke by stroke.....
but alas, you know he's got more than enough on his plate. being the arts (to include dancing, singing, and rapping in other curricular areas), prodigy, and all. it was considerate that he'd said what he did upon being called on by professor jo, but truth be told, what else could he have said? can't help her these days, professor jo; i'm busy carrying the world? the comments he'd given were to be nothing more than a courtesy, not an obligation. "besides, i'm sure i'll find my inspo at some point."
"actually," he says, his smile seemingly growing softer in what you presume to be an element of quiet admiration. shyness perhaps? "it'd help me too, if anything." he says.
"i was hoping i could paint you, if you'd let me."
oh. you think. he wants to paint you?
your hand has seemingly drifted up again, because he lets out a low chuckle as your pointer finger finds your chest in confusion. "m-me?"
another low laugh leaves his lips, this time with a nod in confirmation. "yeah, you." he says, his dark orbs glistening with delight under the harsh blue light from overhead. "we'd be helping each other out, really."
then, his voice drops a tone as he tucks his hands into his side pockets. "you inspire me," he says, his eyes shifting gently along your face in a way that feels sincere. you almost miss the way your heart stutters at his words due to pure shock.
because....how did you inspire him? by staring at the back of his head every class? you aren't sure what kind of inspo he usually derives his creations from, but it's quite a shock to say that you've made the list. especially considering that glorious works of art he's decorated his pieces with. maybe he means your essence, truly. the way you'd sit quietly in the back of class, unassuming and clearly out of place.
maybe he needs help depicting a trainwreck.
brushing the thought off, you roll your shoulders, shifting your weight for a brief moment before responding. "oh, well," you clear your throat as the palms that clutch your canvas begin to moisten. "alright, then."
when you offer a smile of your own, he quickly pulls his phone from his back pocket, handing it over to you in a swift movement. you hope he doesn't notice the way your fingers tremble upon typing in your digits before handing the device back over to him in a matter of seconds.
he doesn't seem to, because upon receipt of your contact info, he offers nothing more than a bitten back smile before he sends you a message, confirmation that he's got the right number. "great," he says "how does....." his eyes roll upward as he ponders the thought. "saturday at noon sound?"
"perfect," you say, not giving yourself the chance to overthink the next words. "sounds good to me."
"saturday, then." he reiterates, pulling his hands from his pockets to retrieve his canvas as he makes his way to and out of the door. just before he crosses the threshold, it's as if he remembers to say something. because he pauses, turning back toward you with a slight amusement in his features. "it may not be much help and.....you've probably heard it before, but,"
he gestures to your blank board lazily, biting back another soft smile that threatens to reveal itself at any moment. "just.....try to paint what you feel."
and in a flash, he's gone. leaving you in a manner that far more in need of air than before.
when you finally do return home, it's as if the inspiration that you'd been waiting to hit you for weeks strikes you with a bat. the only thought on your mind is him, and when your fingers finally touch the canvas to adorn it with washed-out watercolors, the image forms underneath the low light of your apartment living room.
you picture his smile from earlier, the shy one before he asked to paint you and tucked his hands away. the stubborn part of your brain recalls the way the ends of his lips seemed to twitch as they formed the words. the recollection makes you feel excited, and a flash of bright orange appears in a flash, straight and long, across the canvas.
sprinkles and specs of purple appear next as you recall his voice, your heart refusing to let go of the way it stuttered when he'd called your name out at the end of class in a manner that made you feel thrilled. they line the edges of the once white board as your fingers move frantically, should they forget even for a split second what he sounds like.
red is next. it's the brightest one that glides effortlessly along the board as you imagine his plump lips, how he'd bitten them up as he spoke to you the same way he'd do so when creating a work of art of his own. you want to project yourself into the image itself, as if to surround yourself with the very color you'd associated with his lips. you wanted to be swarmed in it; and the feeling of warmth you'd imagine they'd give. you picture the lovely pair making their way up your chest, down your back, along your shoulders, before switching to blue.
even if his eyes were brown, it's the one color you feel captures the essence of them. the strength and unwavering gaze they'd seem to trap you in earlier, the same way they'd do with his own art. the color is light as you make broad strokes with your thumb, index, and pinky fingers. because in that sense, his eyes can be that way as well. gentle, soft, in a glint amidst them, like when he'd told you to paint what you felt, before he'd left you in the classroom for the day.
and so you did exactly that; looking at the abstract work now, with its bright blend and fusion of colors, is something you'd never thought you'd be able to do. the work that sits before you now is a highlight of this afternoon, every feeling you'd felt toward him encapsulated in those mere moments before you'd gone your separate ways. bright, intentional, beautiful, and anything but void of emotion.
--
saturday comes sooner than expected.
he offers you a water when you take a seat on the cushioned chair he has set out for you, to which you politely decline. it's sweet of him, truly, but being without a bottle leaves you less opportunity to fiddle with anything. "this is....a nice place."
and it is. the living room of his apartment was spacious, the walls lined with small portraits; some drawn, painted, or taken with a camera. the only spot that wasn't practically littered with images or depictions of art was the wall you sat in front of. instead, it had been lined with shelves of books, serving as the backpiece for the picture he'd soon create.
he offers a small smile as he pulls a stool in front of his easel. "thanks," he says, before setting up an array of various paints in front of his canvas. "make yourself comfortable, please."
you'd worn a dress for the occasion: flowy and floral. light and loose enough to feel comfortable. but it wasn't every day that you'd be offered the chance to be painted by an artist, specifically not from one as talented and handsome as he was. so despite his words, you found yourself shifting within the seat, trying to catch the low hum of bossa nova that played lowly in the background.
he looked comfortable, though. in his black top and grey sweats, you watch as he assembled his items with the same ease and carefree nature he'd always carried with regard to art. the sunlight that peered through the curtains captures the blonde streak of his hair and the delicate features in a manner that makes your chest stir. you wonder if he's ever created a self-portrait: ever tried bringing his own beauty to life on a canvas.
but you don't ask. because you're only slightly more curious about why it's you specifically who sits in the chair amid the backdrop of books. as he settles into a comfortable position on the stool, the words finally leave your lips. "so.....i have to ask," you start, tilting your head in inquiry. "why paint me?"
he pauses his set-up for a second, looking up at you with the same glimmer of amusement behind his eyes as that day in the classroom, as if the answer had been quite obvious. "i think you're pretty."
the words leave his lips so matter-of-factly, you almost feel foolish for asking. a new color that you hope won't last long enough to be captured in the portrait floods your cheeks as you blink in shock. "t-thank you,"
you aren't sure what else to say, really. you didn't think he ever noticed you, not really. from where you sit in the classroom, it was a semi-surprise to you that he had even known your name.
he simply murmurs a hum in acknowledgment, turning his attention back to the partially done canvas. "and a bit frustrating." he says with a sly smile.
that earns another tilt from you. the tone is light, playful, but the truth in his words still clear. "frustrating? how?"
he dips the thick-rimmed brush into the water that sits in the center of his palette, the same way you've watched him do countless times. "i've done countless portraits before; so many sketches," he says, bringing the bristles toward the browns for the background. "beautiful works, people would try to buy them off of me, y'know?"
"but this," he taps the bridge of his nose with the end of the brush, brings it to the space underneath his eyes, then his lips. "you," he says, dark eyes shadowed by even darker hair fall upon you. "i can never seem to get you right."
your heart hiccupped as the words left his lips. he's tried before to capture you, or your essence, by the way he's phrased it. he speaks of you as if you're the art itself, that he's only done his best to replicate it. you almost ask him again; why you? but the answer has been made clear. especially with how he looks now, as he moves his fingers along the whites of his page, etching it with color.
so you ask something else. "i....inspire you that much?"
he doesn't even pause again, nodding ever so slowly as his slim fingers clutch and control the brush. "of course," he says, with a smile "everything does." he continues; and the way the light captures his adam's apple as it bobs isn't lost on you. "the ducks by the pond on campus, the fog in the early mornings before classes,"
"the cherry blossoms by the park," the way his expression shifts as he eyes his painting lets you know something is coming together. "pretty girls that sit in the library," he says, with a gentle wink. "it's hard not to be inspired."
you'd let out a snort if the last remark didn't make you flustered. undoubtedly, there was beauty everywhere, especially the sakura trees and the formation of ducks by the pond. but to be so inspired by it to try to bring it to life was a completely different thing. and to be so inspired; to see it in you, had been something you hadn't even fathomed.
the piece, you begin to realize, is in fact a continuation. this was most certainly the one from class, with shelves arranged to form the image. it was only upon hearing his words that you understood they'd been proper bookshelves, like the ones you'd sit under in between courses. the same thing he'd tried to replicate somewhat in the living room of the apartment.
you suppose this really had been helpful for him. maybe in a matter of moments, he would be able to capture you the same way he does a bright sunset, or a vivid horizon upon a beach. "well," you say, eyes falling onto the way his hands drift. "glad i could help."
the room grows with a soft quiet as riki works. he watches you intently from across his stool before turning back to his piece to drag his hand across it. his brows furrow in that same familiar way they would in class, and he wears the unmistakable expression of concentration when creating something beautiful, something real. it's funny, being on this side of it. you'd never thought you'd be the focus of it when it came to his works.
but here you are, sitting as he moves with pinched brows and quiet precision. it's only the sound of bristles meeting cloth, accompanied by quiet jazz that fills the room, your lips hesitant to even so much as quiver. it's only when he lets out a sigh of frustration that they finally twitch.
"is...everything okay?"
he nods slowly, dark hair bouncing with the subtle shake. "yeah, i'm just..." he huffs, moistening the bristles. "a bit scared is all."
never in a million years did you think you'd hear those words leave his lips. riki, the class prodigy, who'd generated creations worthy of praise and even more....was scared? he, who the professor had looked to as an example to project, promote, and constantly acknowledge. the artist whose minimal 'mistakes' only aided in his works coming alive?
"scared?" you ask now, squinting. "for the....features, right?"
he nods lowly, biting at his lower lip. "i just don't want to mess it up, y'know?" he mutters, as a battle wages behind his eyes. "i don't want to ruin it."
funny, how all the times you'd spent looking at him in the classroom, this is the first time you truly see him. sitting now before you, in a pair of gray sweats and wearing an expression of worry, is when you finally feel as if you recognize him; the real him.
your classmate and peer, the boy who shows to the world the fruits of his labor, the beauty in his works, but deep down deals with the same challenges and worries as you. the boy who feels and experiences the same points of block when creating. the boy who feels stuck in his own work because of: you.
only the pressure for him was ten times worse. often looked at as the example, golden boy of the field, you realized he didn't get to have these rare moments of block, let alone show up and leave his class with a blank canvas the way you did.
maybe, you begin to wonder that you are both more alike than you realize.
he smiles a soft one before shifting back to work, but you've already seen it. the flicker of vulnerability in his features. the gentle frustration behind his eyes at himself for being unable to bring his vision to life. a feeling you know all too well.
before you realize it, you clear your throat. "i tried what you told me the other day," you say, returning the soft smile as you speak. "about just painting what i felt."
when his dark eyes meet yours, you hope the words provide him any kind of consolation, any help as you continue. "my piece was a little more abstract, but.....it worked."
it's true. his advice on a random afternoon had done more than a dozen art lessons, videos, and lectures from professor jona. you'd only hope that even if he hadn't been able to capture what he'd been going for, at the very least, the image could make him feel something other than frustration.
of course, it had helped that you had a very handsome, tall, and downright gorgeous muse in mind as you created it, but maybe: he needed a reminder of his own words to do exactly that. especially if in his eyes; you were as pretty as he said you were.
riki nods, his hands moving slower as he works, as his attention shifts to the words that leave your lips. "that's good," a genuine tone echoes through the room. "what'd you paint?"
"it was....a bit of everything," you say, thinking of the flurry of colors you'd produced mere nights ago in your living room. "but it's better than anything I've done in....a while."
you shock yourself with your own honesty. perhaps it's something in the air; the warm silence in which you two safeguarded within the four walls you sit in, up until this point. there's an ease the energy of the room has shifted into, the jazz being an excellent choice to aid in it.
in a moment's notice, he stops working completely to offer another sweet grin. though it's not unlike the smiles he's given you before, this one is most certainly softer; more authentic. "that's really awesome, actually," he says, a soft glimmer in his eye. "hoping i can do the same, hm?"
before he can even do so much as shift back into his perpetual 'flow-state' you quickly tell him that he can. "i took the advice you gave me a bit literally, but," you start. "whose to say you can't do the same?"
this question seems to intrigue him, because he places both the brush and palette down nearby, before raising a brow. "what do you mean?"
so you tell him. explain that even though the piece you worked had been shapeless, lifeless, it held thousands of words and feelings beyond it. that expression, in that moment, relied more on color, the feeling itself it'd drawn from you. not a series of shapes and angles aligned in a manner that could change at any moment.
"it's like this," you say, practically itching in your seat to tell him about it. "think about what you're feeling and... choose a color that best represents it."
he squints in thought, and you can practically see the art critic in him willing itself out of his body. "that does seem to better fit abstract art, though."
a scoff nearly leaves your lips upon hearing his words. it's as if another switch flips in your body because in that moment, you finally understand the persistent debates and arguments held within class. the snarky remarks jake and other classmates would make amongst each other from and across their sides of the classroom. the rebuttals against those who taught and thought of art as a clinical process, a study; something to be perfected and achieved.
those who thought of the field with deep intricacies and nuances as a craft to be improved upon. the very same people whose views contain such constraint that seep into your subconscious, blocking out any imperfect thought or paralyzing you as you stand before your own page. one to be graded, critiqued, and misunderstood by anyone who didn't quite 'get it' or feel what you felt.
and to be quite frank, it'd be a shock to see if he were one of those people. so you challenge the very thought.
"whose to say it does?" you ask, a newfound confidence rising within your voice and body as you squint back at him. "it may end up capturing more than you think."
and there it is. the flicker of worry, concern, and unease that brings his eyebrows together and purses his lips. the expression seems to rip the words out of you before you can register them.
"you won't mess it up, riki."
there's a sensitivity in your voice that manages to simultaneously ease him and you as it floods the room. professor jo would be in shambles upon seeing this. the class wreck, trying to ease the expert into something new? unfathomable.
but your professor hadn't been there. in the living room sat only two art students, sharing quiet thoughts and confessions in the shadows of their own vulnerabilities across the thin veil of paint and cloth. no prodigies nor washouts; only you and riki, and the gentle hum of jazz the record player provides.
the pause he takes is relieved momentarily, and his eyes dance along the features of yours he'd so longingly tried to imitate. they flicker back to the painting, then to you, as he purses his bottom lip as if to say why not?
"show me." he then says, though if there weren't so much humility in his voice, you'd think it a command; one you easily oblige to upon hearing it.
accompanying this feeling, is a quiet ache in your chest upon hearing his words that sticks with you. a subtle feeling of regret that sits in your core upon the realization of the truth; that no matter how it seemed, he'd only ever been just like you. intrigued, thoughtful, and curious about the true meaning and value of art. maybe you'd have realized it sooner if you'd spent time with him, rather than merely looking at him from the back of the class. or even at times judging how 'perfect' his presentation had always seemed.
a pang sits in your chest for all lost time, but the curiosity in his tone makes you want to make up for it. in a flash, you're on your feet, crossing the room to stand in front of him. he only watches with intrigued brown eyes as you pop the canvas from the easel, and set it on the floor. "join me?"
he nods quickly, picking up the paints and setting them next to the piece on the floor as you take a seat next to the work. to the record player he goes, to turn up the bossa nova before he returns to sit next to you on the floor. you're grateful, truly: you were beginning to wonder if he'd hear your stuttering heart over the low tone of music.
he sits along the carpet, shifting the paints along the hardwood portion of the floor to prevent any major messes. "so....a color for a feeling?"
"exactly," you respond, watching as he mixes a deep blue with a gentle red, before dropping the tool. "exactly like that."
"so like....red for anger? green for envy?"
"not quite," you say, wracking your brain for the words. "it's more so what something makes you feel."
the images from that night flash in your mind; the recollection you'd had of his smile, voice, and their coinciding colors. a hue of greens, purples, and oranges across the canvas as the emotion had been pulled out of you. "for instance....." you look at the partially done image and faceless depiction of you that lies before you both. "libraries make you feel....."
"warm." he says lowly, an ease in his voice that stirs a new feeling of it's own in your chest. "cozy."
you're just about to ask what color he associates with the feeling, but he's already reaching for the brush again to dip into a slightly dried brown on his palette. instinctively, your hand grips his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. you pull away almost instantly, as if you've burned yourself upon the realization of what you've done.
"sorry," you say quickly, gesturing back to the palette. "i just....i also only paint with my fingers."
a tip he didn't necessarily need to take, but one you'd felt important to mention. he'd been using watercolor this whole time, so you'd felt safe to mention it. had it been acrylic or oil, you'd have been hesitant. though the ease with which you'd be able to work with the material, to you, at least, had made you feel more connected to the creations in a way.
but he does take it, wetting his fingers in the muddled water before connecting them with the brown, drawing lines along the canvas. then, suddenly, "what was your inspo when you did it?" he asks, looking up at you as his fingers dot the blank portions. "any muses of your own?"
you almost don't register the question, looking at the way his pale fingers run themselves along the whites of the board. in a flash, though, it hits you, earning a low, ironic chuckle that flies from your lips.
under different circumstances, you'd have dodged the answer completely; insisted on giving a vague answer or simply telling him "a guy". but in the spirit of revelations about each other and the unguarded ease with which you two had slipped into moments ago, it felt right to tell him. after all, he'd been the one who'd opened that door. insisted on calling you 'pretty' and apparently, the inspiration for his own works.
so, looking up from the piece his hands shuffled across; you attempted to use the same matter-of-fact tone as he did earlier when answering your question. "i thought of....." you give the same genuine smile as he did. "you, riki."
you aren't sure what to expect when the words leave your lips. a flood of color tints his cheeks as he looks back at you, and he bites back a surprised smile. "oh," he says, amusement skirting his tone. "guess i should have known, hm? you are always staring at me in class."
the record player may as well have scratched, because in that moment, you feel your heart plummet.
this entire time, he had noticed.
"i-" for a brief moment, you wondered if this had been what it was like for your brain to actually short-circuit. "i-"
he lets out a soft, throaty chuckle at your perturbation before gripping your wrist in his hand. "relax, pretty," he says, gesturing to the work with stained fingers. "clearly i noticed you, too."
his eyes capture yours under the cast-in light the windows provide. they hold you with a reverence for a brief moment, and upon feeling your once-tense hand loosen a bit, he doesn't let go. not even when he turns back to work the page.
with one hand lining the canvas and the other holding yours, he dots the lines of the depiction of your hair with a mellow yellow. after a moment of watching him sprinkle the color along the edges, you ask what it means.
he looks up at you, before a look of awe unfolds upon his features. "hopeful." he says, running the color along the lines of the portrait.
he spreads the color amongst many along the features of the canvas, slowly making his way toward the portions he'd once been hesitant about. you're tempted to ask what each of them means, but let him move in silence for some time, leaning into the way he clutches your hand.
then, by surprise, you feel a cool sensation against the back of it as he reaches to press the same color of yellow along the smooth skin, streaking the tone in a stark contrast. your heart practically trips over itself upon the contact, and you glance up at him to clarify. "hopeful?"
he nods, and doesn't stop there. before you can ask why, he dips his index finger in a shade of orange before dragging it along your arm, avoiding your floral dress as he does. he mutters something quietly, personal, in a tone so intimate you could melt. the jazz nearly drowns it out, but you think he says the word; "happy."
the sensation of his fingers running along your arm is enough to make you twitch; something you're almost positive he catches as he works the paint along your skin.
but you don't pull away, try to stop him as he continues. you only turn toward him, allowing him to work the paint up toward your collarbone, earning a low gasp from you as he shifts and adjusts his palette.
"shy," he chuckles, gliding his fingers along the curve of your neck. his eyes glimmer with the exact emotion he claims to experience upon exposure to the specific feature, as shown in how his fingers start to tremble upon nearing your face.
it's a feat of your own, trying not to twitch or shudder as his fingers dance along the corners and curves of your body, as if marking you like a portrait itself.
as he dons you in colors, you'd wonder how long he'd been connected to the feeling of them. how often had he grown shy upon seeing you in halter-tops on the way to and during class? how happy had it made him when you'd rolled up your sleeves to reach a book on the top shelf of a section in a library? did it always give him hope to see the ways in which you'd styled your hair on a specific day?
as the questions float in your mind, it seems as if he has one of his own. because after a moment, he pauses, then glides a swatch of blue along your chin as he lifts it up, as if you ask if the very movement is alright. as if to make sure no lines had been crossed.
it's only when you nod that he continues, muttering a soft "nervous." he wipes the blue along your cheek with his thumb, as he cups it before leaning in. "really nervous."
the words rip a gentle gasp from your throat, and you feel your breathing grow shaky as the gap between both of you begins to shrink. the feeling had been more than mutual, and by the way your hands fumble as they reach for the fabric of his clothes, it had been for some time.
finally, without taking his eyes off of you for even so much as a second, his nimble fingers manage to find the color red, but not before dipping into the water, and gliding the vibrant shade just beneath your lip, along the edges of your mouth. "desire," the words comes out closer to a groan as they tumble from his lips. "want."
you're leaning into his touch, eyes darting along his features, which solely concentrate on you. in that moment, it's as if you completely understand what it must feel like to be the subject of his art. he eyes you in the way he would a canvas, his dark brows drawn together and his plump lips pouting in veneration.
only, as his eyes circle yours, there's something softer behind the brown orbs, a gentleness in the way they glide along the colors of your cheek; and a new question. one that he chooses to now verbalize as he gazes into your eyes underneath the sunlight. "(y/n)," he breathes, blinking softly, as if he could etch the image of you behind his lids. "would you do me the honor of letting me paint you?"
and when you give a shaky nod, accompanied by a soft 'yes', he snaps into action.
the gap is closed with a gentle tug of your face towards his. the lips you'd long thought about feel softer than you could have ever imagined as they move against your own. there's a burst of your own red that seems to flood your chest, want spilling from you like a fountain as you nearly stumble over the painting in an attempt to lessen any further space.
he seems to understand this, because the strength you hadn't realized he had reveals itself as he pulls you into his lap. the flap of your dress rises slightly as he does, and his reaction isn't lost upon you as he steadies your thighs, shuddering lowly.
there's a reverence to his movements, a quiet restraint as he holds you as if you are something fragile, something delicate. his paint-stained fingers make their way up your exposed thigh, each finger tinting your skin a new shade. he stops upon reaching the waistband of your lace panties, before pulling his lips away to inspect your features.
you should feel silly when he does, the gentle features of your own colored in with washed shades of red, blue, and orange alike. admittedly, there's a low chuckle that he can't suppress as he eyes you, which welcomes a warm smile in return as you bring your hand up to wipe his own smudged cheek. but beneath it all is the clear and undeniable expression of sheer want.
so he presses forward, adjusting your body in his lap so that your back is against his chest. you lean into his warm embrace, tilting your head back to look at the delicate, unwavering features of his again.
you think he's going to take your lips between his again, when his arm reaches across the painting you both sit before, and he grabs the paintbrush. "riki..." you mutter, eyes following his fingers as they make their way back to you. "what-"
he silences your concern with a kiss, only breaking apart to whisper the gentle words that send tingles along your skin. "wanna try something first."
and then you feel it.
the drag of the thick-rimmed wooden brush along your skin, along the dips and line of your collarbone. a gasp leaves your lips as he continues moving it down the line between your breasts, the soft fabric of your dress sliding with it.
his other hand pops the clips of your bra mere seconds upon the dress making it's way down, the restraint in his actions growing thin. "riki..." you say again, although it's fathomed more out of a plea than simple concern.
a plea that he moves quickly to fulfill as your satin bra slides off your shoulders. "hm, pretty?" he says, bringing the end of the brush to your now exposed breasts, rubbing small circles along your nipples. then, lower, "feel good?"
you will the words to leave your throat, but they seem to be suspended there with each flick of the hardened material against the peaks of your chest. all you manage to get out is a low whimper as your back arched away from his chest to chase the contact of the brush.
but that doesn't seem to be enough. his lips find new spots along your neck to kiss and bite along as he lets out a low hum. "need to hear you say it, hun."
an unruly shiver emits itself from you as you feel his lips press themselves along your erogenous zones, marking them in a manner that will most certainly leave colors that can't so easily be washed away. the sensation of his bites paired with the lazy glide of the brush just past your areola almost proves too much to handle.
he seems to feel it too, his breathing growing heavy as he watches your lashes flutter every so often from the contact. his sweats don't help much, either; they easily give way to the shape of his hardening cock as it presses into your back while kissing you.
but it's only when you let out a weak. "yes, riki," between ragged breaths that he finally acts.
his nimble fingers move to spread your thighs apart, hiking up your dress as his other hand with the brush moves downward. the handle drifts along your chest, past your waist, then to your slick panties. shockwaves are sent through your body as he glides the wood across your clothed clit, bringing it up and down in an agonizingly slow pace.
your hips buck at the sensation, willing him to apply more pressure along your pussy with the brush, a low moan threatening to erupt from your throat as you grind.
"easy, baby." riki purrs, applying just enough contact to drive you insane if prolonged. "wanna take this slow."
but you don't. not with how much time you'd felt had been spent with inaction, watching and waiting from opposite sides of the classroom, but ultimately wanting the same thing. each other.
so you wrap your fingers around the base of the brush, keeping his touch there in alignment with yours in an attempt to bring it closer. "rik, please,"
his restraint seems to fray at your given nickname, and his grip on the handle eases at your touch. he pauses from neck kisses against your shoulder to peer over it instead, watching as you push the end of the brush closer towards your clit. he cracks only slightly as he watches you buck into the thick handle.
"fuucck," he hisses, adjusting his hand on the handle so that it clutches yours along the wood. "okay, baby....just....lemme guide you, hm?"
you nod fervently, loosening your own grip in submission as he changes the tempo and pace with the brush, flicking the tool from side to side in a way that makes your core ache. before you can stop them, whimpers are tumbling from your lips, soft, high-pitched squeals that grow with each movement along your panties. he lets you tilt the brush at a devastating angle to shallow along your lips now, your underwear sticking to the wet folds as you both move.
"shiitt, riki," you finally moan, your handle on the brush growing weak as you succumb to the pleasure that lights up every nerve in your body. "so....fucking good."
riki nods into your shoulder, the pounding of his heart thudding from behind your back as he grunts lowly. "i know, baby," his free hand drifts up to caress your exposed breasts, adorning them with specs of color; reds of course, deep hues and expressions of devastating want. "keep rubbing that pretty pussy for me, wanna see you do it in circles."
there's something about the low tone in which he speaks that makes you wish to obey. so in mere seconds, you switch to the circular motion he's told you to, mouth agape from the sheer pleasure it brings.
"oh," you moan at the contact, feeling his hand tighten around yours in an attempt to maintain the pressure. "oh my fucking god, riki,"
you won't last long. not with the way he picks up the tempo as your hands go slack with delight. the sounds of moisture sliding against the tool and material of the fabric rival with the heavy breaths between moans you let out. "i'm gonna fucking....mmgh.."
the dizzying spell of his hands against your chest leaves you breathless, and the struggle to find words pursues as he presses down harder, drawing out longer, deeper circles. "mm gonna what, pretty?"
the sudden jerk and twist of your body is the answer as you let out a drawn-out moan, clawing at his clothes for any semblance of grounding. your orgasm shoots through you, a sharp jolt that spreads from your pulsing clit along the nerves and veins of your empty walls, past your shaking thighs. the sensation is enough to make your skin along every exposed part of your body tingle as you squeak the words out. "mm....fuckin' coming,"
the sound that erupts from riki upon your undoing is nothing short of feral. he groans as he watches you twist in pleasure, only slowing down the pace of the brush when you push against his hand, whimpering as you ride out the sensation. "my fucking god, baby," he grunts into your ear. "you're so damn beautiful."
your hand is still clutching his clothes when he drops the brush and pulls away. in mere seconds, he slides the dress up and off of your figure, before guiding you out of his lap and onto the carpet. you watch intently as he hovers over you, pulling off his own shirt without doing so much as letting his eyes leave yours.
and boy, is he a work of art.
tattoos along his rib, you see dark letters that spell out 'CHOSEN' in a stark contrast against his skin. just above his waist, you see a bright red kiss mark, the vibrant in the same hue he'd painted his 'desire' toward you with. the same shade that stains your cheek, after he'd dragged his finger across it with watercolor.
instinctively, your finger comes up to palm it, circling the pair of lips in awe as he throws his shirt to the side. "so are you." you respond, a bit breathless from the high of the climax and the way he looks at you.
you don't miss the flood of pink in his own cheeks as he leans down to kiss you, peeling at your underwear with his fingers. when he gets them off, they are neglected just as easily as the thought of the jazz music that hums lowly in the back, drowned out by the noise of wet, sloppy kisses exchanged between you both.
the kisses grow messier, louder, as his lips move down toward your exposed cunt as he places several along your thighs, then a harsh lick along your clit.
a gasp leaves your throat, and you nearly squeeze your thighs shut as he suckles and rolls your sensitive parts around his tongue. the image is almost too much to bear; his head between your thighs, streaks of paint from his fingers that line them in an attempt to keep them open. your fingers make their way through his locs as you grip his hair, moans from your throat flying freely now.
"shiit, riki, i'm gonna-" your voice cracks at the devastating pulsing his tongue performs against your swollen clit. "m'gonna cum again, fuck." you manage to whimper out.
your eyes squeeze shut, though between flashes, you can see hues of yellow and blues have accumulated within the pale streak of his hair. whether it had been from the paint he'd coated your hand with from earlier, or the flecks from the tip of the paintbrush you'd both held, you weren't sure. but it all added to the image you'd never be able to forget; not now, not ever.
you come with a harsh shudder as he flicks his moist tongue through and around the folds of your pussy. "ngh!" you cry out, gripping the locs of his dark hair even harder as your thighs tremble.
he clutches them as you ride out your high, letting out a deep groan and bringing his head upwards to place another kiss along your cunt. "mhm, such a pretty girl,"
you can only twitch in response, growing weary as the second flood of pleasure washes over your senses. riki is already making his way back up your face with a line of kisses as he mutters sweet words into your skin.
he takes his time making his way up, running his fingers along the sides of your waist, the sticky sweat of it alone enough to activate a new blend of colors he spends on you.
the feeling of his hands along your skin is something you don't think you'll ever get used to. not with how every gentle stroke seems to set you on fire, sending you into a frenzy. the same, you begin to realize, can be said with regard to satiation. because as you lie, trying to recover from your last high, you practically ache to become close to him again. the once skin-tingling pleasure begins to shift to one of want when his lips find yours. "ki...." you mutter between kisses. "need you, please."
"i know, hun," he hums into your lips, the taste of yourself spilling onto your tongue as he kisses you. "gonna give you everything you need, promise."
but he's so agonizingly reverential. his hands move along your sides as if he'll break you should he grip too hard. he treats your body as if you were the painting from earlier, restraint of expression holding him back from painting you with all the brightest colors of his own.
you couldn't wait a second longer. not when you'd already waited for what felt like an eternity for a moment even remotely close to this; to him. so a slight push, you lift his weight from atop you, breaking the kiss.
"ki, i'm not like the painting, okay?" you say, running your hands along the base of the artwork that adorns his own body. "you're not gonna ruin me," you say, tugging at his sweatpants; which does a poor job at hiding his now leaking tip.
the darkness that falls upon his eyes is instant, and the once careful painter you'd known from earlier seems to fade away as the words leave your lips. it's as if he'd been waiting for you to say them all along, because his response is almost instant, his low voice practically dripping with need as he looks down at you. "what if i want to?"
this only makes you tug harder at his sweats, a low plea sliding off your tongue in desperation. "then do it, ki please do it." you gasp. "please ruin me."
and at your words, the last of his resolve crumbles. he practically rips his pants away, willing the space between you to ultimately disappear. "fuuckk, hun," is the only throaty, guttural warning you get before he lines himself up, and pushes into you.
the sensation is instant, hitting you as nearly as hard as the orgasm from mere moments ago, as the sheer width of his cock fills you with pleasure. you claw at his arms, pulling him down for any kind of support as he slams into you, a feeling that leaves you breathless.
a yelp emerges from your throat as you feel a sharp sting across your ass, accompanied by the echo of a slap. the sensation is so sharp you feel your eyes begin to well; that, just like his other markings, will leave a bright hue for you tomorrow, if it hasn't already.
the moans that erupt from him upon entry nearly send you over the edge again. it's as if you can feel the last of his restraint fray as he pounds into you mercilessly. he holds down your arms onto the carpet as he fucks you; as if you could go anywhere, anyway. as if you could do anything more than moan his name as he kissed, sucked, and nibbled at any exposed part of your body.
the moisture that spills between you sends the exchange of color down the valley of your breasts, and along his shoulders. it's a lovely shade of lilac that you've decided feels like passion, harmony, lust; all at once. and maybe one day, something more.
it's the same gorgeous shade you see when he breaks the kiss to look into your eyes. a gasp is evoked from you upon seeing the smudges materialize along his neck, a mix of the blue and red he'd given you.
you wonder how you look underneath him, smeared in the material with your mouth hanging open, willing your teary eyes to stay open as his cock drags in and out of you.
"beautiful," he says, as if reading your mind before picking up the pace. "long way from the back of the class, huh?"
you'd answer him if you could, but the only thing that seems to be able to leave your lips are the high-pitched moans that rival his low, deep groans as he speeds up.
his brows furrow as he presses his forehead to yours, his mouth parting in awe as he loses himself in the velvety warmth of your cunt. "i'm....not gonna last, baby." he mutters, biting his lip between grunts as the slap of his balls sounds throughout the living room. "i'm so close."
you felt yourself nearing the end, too, the coil in your stomach twisting and swelling with a sensation that threatens to spill over at any minute. the long lashes that riki peers through flutter every so often he watches you twitch beneath him. then, his brown eyes manage to stay open for just long enough to give a plea of their own, and a question, low, wrecked tumbles from his gasping lips.
"can i- fucckk, ngh," he starts, gripping your thighs with the tenacity of a man who longed for this just as deeply as you had. a man who took great pride in ruining you the way you insisted. "can i come on your belly, baby?"
you nod gently, whimpering out a soft "yes" as he tastes the salt along your skin with each sloppy kiss along your face. in a few quick, deep strokes, you're sent over the edge, gripping him with your walls as the nerves of your pussy flood with waves of euphoria. "sshiiittt, riki!" you hiss, the tears that formed from your pupils spilling over as he rams into you.
his eyes roll back after he sees you unravel beneath him. through visions of flashes of white you see his sharp jaw slacken as the heat of his breath glides along your cheek. "shit, (y/n) i'm gonna...."
the last of his resolve is used to pull out of your twitching cunt before your skin is pricked with liquid, hot and white, along the curve of your breasts, stomach, and facial features alike. "fucckkk" he groans, his chest heaving in delight. his lips find your face again, now adorned with streaks of his cum. "there she....fuckin' is." he croaks, as his eyes dart along the paint and cum littered portions of your figure.
he wills himself not to collapse on you, as if he'd ruin the very art he'd work so hard to create. but alas, he grows weak, succumbing to the fatigue as he eases himself onto your body, careful not to put all of his weight on you. there's a deep, low chuckle that sounds in your ear as he runs his hands through strands of your hair. "mhm, finally," he says, low, fucked-out. "got you right."
a swell of pride enters your chest, because his words, and the gentle expression of joy in his features as he kisses along your face, you know he's done it. finally brought to life the essence and emotion he'd been trying to for months; if not on canvas, he'd undoubtedly captured the image in his mind for many more months to come.
soft sighs and chuckles erupt from you two, and he takes his fingers to swirl the remaining color around your body gently. he does so the entire time eyeing you as if you'd truly been a mosaic, a mural, and the portrait all at once; as if you had been the real art this entire time. the once-forgotten bossa nova reemerges from the player, no longer drowned out by the sounds of bliss you'd created only seconds ago.
in a swift movement, he pushes off, and pulls you back into a gentle embrace, in no rush to clean either you or him, as if erasing the very proof that what had occurred would undo him completely, all over again.
so there you lay; breathless, weary, blissful, and content. the very words that described the body you claimed, and adorned in colors and the essence of love alike, his masterpiece.
𑣲⋆ ⌗ (🚬) You’re the kind of girl who gets peonies for breakfast, so Riki Nishimura would really like to know why you’re buying weed from him.
西村 力 riki nishimura x cheer captain! reader
˗ˏˋ riki as a plug, i promise its not as bad as it sounds, romcom, fluff, crack, profanity, homewrecking but not really, cheating (not really) but not on riki dw, explicit content, smut, oral sex, m receiving, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dom ni-ki, size kink lowk, weed, toxic, mdni !
wc: 20 766
p: d.a.m. - fetty wap ; homewrecker - sombr ; i get lonely - drake ; lowkey - niki (fcking hilarious)
Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means possible, and even prides himself as a law-abiding citizen to the normalized standards.
He does think some fractions of the government system can totally be tweaked, but he isn’t some reformist that would go out of his way — he actually really likes the stability of society and how it’s structured. He’s comfortable with the status quo.
That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts.
Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed.
He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little.
Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.
So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.
You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him:
you:
hi
you sell right
The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.
Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.
This was not how the structure worked. Nope.
He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this.
Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.
riki:
????
is this a test loll
you:
?
its a question
riki:
u fr????
you:
js tell me if its a no
i have money
riki:
3pm behind the science building
you:
ok thanks
But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.
And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.
You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.
Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”
The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.
You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”
Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.
“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”
Your mouth opens. Then closes.
“What kind.” he repeats.
You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”
A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says.
You bristle. “So?”
“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”
Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”
This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.
Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“
“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”
When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.
And it makes it worse.
You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention.
He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”
You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.
His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.
Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years.
But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.
And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy.
Also, he’s 6’1.
“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.”
He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that.
Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say too fast.
He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”
He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.
“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount.
You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”
That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.
“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.
He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.
“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”
For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.
“Oh,” you say.
Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”
Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.
“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”
Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”
He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”
You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.
You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.
The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings.
He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.
Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.
He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —
Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”
Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.
He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.
Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.
“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.
“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.
“Mhm.”
Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them.
Until he bumps into someone.
For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.
But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing.
“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.
His name on your mouth does something stupid to him.
“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.
You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”
You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.
“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say.
He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.
“You don’t usually look,” he says.
It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.
Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”
Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”
You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him.
“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.
His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.
When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”
“Specific.”
“He’s with his friends.”
Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.
Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.
You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”
Riki blinks. “The stuff?”
You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.
For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”
Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”
Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”
You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.
He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”
You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”
Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching.
Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now.
“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”
You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.
He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.
He really, really knows better.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.
He shouldn’t do this.
He really shouldn’t.
Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.
You:
bathroom upstairs
The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.
“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”
He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”
You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.
He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.
“Like this?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”
You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”
“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”
You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.
You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.
“Sorry,” you say, breathless.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”
You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.
“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”
Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”
You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”
He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.
He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.
Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”
He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”
Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.
You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.
You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.
Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”
“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”
“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.
“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.
He quickly looks away, trying not to smile.
“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.
He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”
You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.
“Is that so bad?”
The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”
“Why not?”
Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet.
For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.”
You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”
He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”
The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.
You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”
“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable.
“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”
That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.
He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.
“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”
He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.
Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”
Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”
“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.
You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”
He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.
You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.
You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.
You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.
You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.
He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.
“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.
He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.
He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall.
Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.
You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.
“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.
He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.
Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”
He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.
“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.
But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.
Riki exhales, then lifts it.
He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.
He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.
He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.
After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks.
That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.
He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after.
Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.
It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.
You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.
No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.
“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”
Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”
Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.
“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.
“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”
Riki blinks. “No.”
“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”
Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”
Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”
Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”
“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”
Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught.
Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”
Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.
Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”
Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”
Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”
Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”
It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.
You’re where you’re supposed to be.
You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.
Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.
Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.
You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.
Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.
The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.
“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”
You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.
You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.
Well, you push the door open.
Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.
For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”
His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”
This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.
“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”
Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”
You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”
That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint.
“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.
You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap.
“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”
He tilts his head. “Should we?”
“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.”
He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”
“Probably.”
“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”
“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.
You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.
He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.
Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”
Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”
When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s.
You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.
-
McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.
“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.
Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.
He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.
Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”
“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.
Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”
“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.
“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.
Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”
He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all.
Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.
Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall.
Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.
Your boyfriend is cheating on you.
What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution.
He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.
“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.
He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”
While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.
“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”
You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.
“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.
“Outside,” he says easily.
The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.
He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too?
Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”
Your smile falters. “What about him?”
“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”
You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something.
Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.
What the fuck is happening?
It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.
No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.
Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”
You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”
Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.
That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.
He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”
You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.
That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.
“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”
He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”
You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”
“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”
You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.
Because this is new information.
Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.
You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.
“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.
Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?) cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.
It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.
So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”
“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”
He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.
You notice. You just don’t say anything.
Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low.
The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.
“Thanks. For caring.”
He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.
Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual.
If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.
Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.
He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”
You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”
He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”
You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.
You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”
Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.”
You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand.
He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”
You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”
“You tell me.”
The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts.
You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”
“No.”
“Just me?”
His mouth twitches. “You asked.”
You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”
“I know.”
Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.
“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”
Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.
You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.
“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”
He looks at you for a moment.
Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”
He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.
You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”
“How?” he snickers.
You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”
He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”
Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.
“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”
You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face.
Your throat tightens.
“With me,” he adds.
He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.
The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out.
You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”
“I just guessed one fucking thing.”
You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”
“With me?”
Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it.
You huff. “You’re so annoying.”
Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.
You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat.
He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.
For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.
So you take control of things you can handle.
You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.
You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”
Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”
You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat.
“Are you a virgin?”
The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.
He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.
“You always ask things like that?”
“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”
You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”
He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.
“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”
Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”
Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.
You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”
He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”
“And?”
“And you look like that.”
For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”
That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.
Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”
You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”
He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.
“Not really,” you agree.
You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.
“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”
Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.
You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.
When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away.
Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt.
“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.
You frown. “Why not?”
He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.
“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.
You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”
He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about.
“This is so fucked,” he mutters.
Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.
His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.
“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.
When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long.
His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.
“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.
You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.
When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.
His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.
“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw.
So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples.
You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.
After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.
From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.
“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.
At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all.
He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”
You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”
His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”
“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”
“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,”
The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.
“You think I’d use you?” you ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.
He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”
You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”
You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.
“Ask me when we’re not high.”
Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”
Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer.
“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.
“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”
You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods, agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.
Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you.
The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.
“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”
Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”
Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.
He looks away first.
PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.
He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.
You’re already looking too.
It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.
Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”
Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”
Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”
“Okay.”
The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.
“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.
“I am.”
“You’re really not.”
Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.
He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.
Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.
You bite back a smile.
When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.
Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.
His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.
Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.
You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.
His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"
You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."
He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."
Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.
And that he’s enjoying the view.
You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."
His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."
The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.
In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board.
You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.
You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.
This is so inconvenient.
“Babe.”
Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.
“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.
You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”
“Yeah, but where?”
You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.
“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.
Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.
He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little.
Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.
Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).
You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.
You just feel tired, especially on the way home.
Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.
Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.
Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth.
Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.
you:
he actually sucks so bad
like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance
You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.
You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you.
Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.
And maybe that makes you painfully average.
Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.
You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.
Until something taps three times against your window.
Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.
Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.
You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame.
You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.
Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.
For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.
“Hi.”
You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.
“You sounded sad.”
“Is that supposed to be an answer?”
“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”
The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.
This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.
Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.
Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”
Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”
He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.
So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.
“I got you these.”
Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.
Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.
You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.
“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”
He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”
You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”
“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.
You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.
“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.
You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”
He raises his brows. “That means yes.”
You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”
Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.
The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.
You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.
You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”
“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”
You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.
Which is not good at all.
He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.
You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.
This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.
You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.
You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume. “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.
Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.
Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”
Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.
You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.
He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was high.”
“And what’s your excuse now?”
Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.
Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.
You are none of those things anymore.
Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses.
Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”
You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”
Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”
The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully.
You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text.
Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?
You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly.
You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.
His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.
Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.
Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.
“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”
His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.
He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”
You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.”
Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck.
For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.
Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.
Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.
That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.
He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”
“I need to do something.”
His brows pull together. “Right now?”
You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.
Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.
He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.
The call rings twice.
Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.
Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”
You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”
There is a pause. “What?”
You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”
Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes.”
“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”
You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.
He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.
Your eyes widen. “Riki.”
He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”
On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone.
Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.
That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure.
The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.
Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.
You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours.
“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.
His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.
You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.
Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.
Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you.
"Words, baby," he whispers.
He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.
You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."
Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor.
Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.
He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.
You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.
“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward.
You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.
And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs.
His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.
Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.
You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”
You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him.
“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.
You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?”
You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.
And he’s still too fucking long.
You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.
Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”
You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control.
And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths.
Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.
“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”
He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.
“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.
“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches.
Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”
You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt.
“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.
“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.
Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,”
His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”
Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.
Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears.
“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”
The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.
“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.
He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him.
Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you.
“W-what are you —”
“On your stomach.”
You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”
You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought.
“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.
You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.
“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.
Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.
You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm.
Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.
You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.
Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely.
Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”
“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.
“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder.
You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.
Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.
Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.
“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw.
“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.
You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”
WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.
Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful.
He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.
You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.
He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"
He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.
“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”
You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”
Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”
Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.
Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”
He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.
“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”
You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”
He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you.
You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.
"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.
Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.
“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.
You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.
A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.
touch me like you still know me ⧽ two exes locked in a room, one psychological experiment. 6 hours. no escape.
❪ 9441 𝒘 ❫ ｡ ❛ 西村力❜ 𝑓! reader. 𓈒𓈒
𝓦herein; you and your ex unknowingly sign up for the same psychological experiment disguised as research on intimacy and arousal. Paired as “strangers,” you’re locked in a room together; forced to follow escalating instructions while answering deep personal questions that strip you both bare— physically and emotionally.
AROUSAL METRICS : nsfw, minors do not interact! breakup topics, psychological experiment, a little bit of angst, smut with a lot of plot i’d say? oral, body worship, instructions during sex (from an external source) a lot of dirty talk and talking during sex, they’re forced to face their feelings basically, unprotected sex, multiple positions, squirting, choking, praising, “good girl”, long ass smut omfg
Being known, really known— was a luxury you hadn’t felt in months. See, people often offer a shallow kind of knowing, in passing conversations, careful dates— but nothing feels as authentic as crashing and burning in someone’s arms until you’re just loose limbs and flesh.
A few months ago— 18 to be exact— someone remembered how you took your coffee; someone knew that every time you were about to say something cruel, you tilted your head ever so slightly. And after that kind of intimacy, everything else felt like surface noise— like bodies that never quite fit the hollow spaces he had left behind.
You had grown used to the ache of it, almost comfortable in its familiarity. Even so, some nights you still woke up reaching for a warmth that wasn’t there, cursing yourself for the weakness.
With that lingering emptiness came the decision to join the study; a well-paid psychological experiment on intimacy and cognition. Six hours. One stranger. Clinical detachment in silk robes and signed consents— maybe it was a way to prove to yourself that you could still be touched without falling apart.
Because what’s worse ? Never being known again? Or never being felt again, in the fear of it?
You’d found the ad late one sleepless night, scrolling through a forum for research participants. “Seeking emotionally mature adults for a paid study on human connection and decision-making under controlled conditions. Generous compensation. Strict confidentiality.” It felt gerneal enough to be safe, intriguing enough to tame the voice in your head that whispered you were only doing this because you were awfully lonely.
You’d hesitated, of course. For days you left the tab open, rereading the description, weighing the risk against the numbness that had settled in your bones since the breakup.
What if the stranger is awful?
What if their hands feel wrong?
What if being touched by someone who doesn’t know you only makes the emptiness louder?
The apprehension sat heavy in your stomach— being touched without being known sounded almost clinical, transactional; skin on skin with no history, no shorthand, no one who understood that you liked your neck kissed softly at first, then harder when you started to tremble. Just a body. A stranger’s hands mapping territory that once belonged to someone else.
And yet, here you were. Because after eighteen months of dating apps and god-awful dinners that led nowhere, the idea of feeling something— even if it was manufactured— felt better than feeling nothing at all.
In the sleek waiting room that felt more like a high-end spa than a laboratory— a calm woman in a white coat greeted you with a smile. “Good afternoon, y/n. I’m Dr. Ellis. You’ll be subject A today.”
All around you— it felt less like the reception area of a research facility and more like the lounge of an impossibly expensive wellness retreat. Soft amber light spilled from recessed fixtures hidden within the ceiling, casting a gentle glow over pale stone floors and curved ivory walls that were so seamless they looked sculpted rather than built. Minimalist furniture sat deliberately spaced apart— cream armchairs, glass tables with no visible joints, and a single arrangement of pristine white orchids that seemed almost too perfect to be real.
There were no reception desks cluttered with paperwork, no ticking clocks, no magazines left on tables; instead, sleek touchscreens were embedded discreetly into the walls, their displays dim until someone approached.
Everything about the space had been designed to soothe, yet its perfection felt strangely unsettling, as though every texture, every light, and every silence had been calcutated long before you arrived.
“Subject A?” you asked, clearing your throat awkwardly.
“It’s simply how we identify participants during the study.” the woman smiled oddly.
“So there’s a Subject B.”
“There is.” she fiddled with some papers, like this was all normal and nothing to be concerned about.
“Am I.. supposed to know who they are?”
“No.”
You considered the situation, what could go wrong, right? It’s not like you had anything worth celebrating in your life, you hadn’t taken any risks in a long long time— and surely this one was undeniably huge but the point still stands.
“Do they know who I am?” you asked.
“No they don’t.” she simply shook her head, “Before we begin, I need you to review and sign these consent forms.” She slid a tablet across the low table. “The session lasts six hours in a controlled environment. You’ll be paired with another participant— someone we’ve matched based on compatibility metrics. Instructions will appear on a screen, and remember ! You are free to give or withdraw verbal consent at each stage, but full participation is required to receive payment.”
You scanned the dense paragraphs, heart picking up speed. “And… what exactly is the goal of this? The real one, I mean.”
Dr. Ellis folded her hands. “We’re studying how prior emotional experiences influence physiological and psychological responses during guided intimacy. Arousal patterns, decision-making, emotional regulation. It’s part sexology, part attachment research really. Everything is recorded for data purposes— biometrics, audio—but visual privacy is maintained within the room. You’ll wear a silk robe provided and no personal information will be exchanged unless the protocol requires it.”
After a pause, you signed and surprisingly your hand barely trembled. You’d thought about it a lot, it seemed like the right path to take— as controversial as that sounds— you wanted, needed, to feel something.
“Excellent. There’s a changing room just through that door. Remove your clothing, put on the robe, and we’ll proceed once you’re ready y/n.”
You stood in front of the full-length mirror of the changing room for a long moment, letting the robe hang open. Your eyes traced the familiar lines of your body; the curve of your waist, the faint marks time had left, the places his mouth used to worship. He used to kiss right here, you thought, fingertips brushing your hip. Like he was memorizing me.
You closed the robe, tied the belt with deliberate care, and stepped back out.
Dr. Ellis waited with a black silk blindfold. “This is for the transition, it helps reduce pre-session anxiety.” She tied it gently behind your head.
The world went dark, soft and complete all the while her hand rested lightly on your arm as she guided you forward. “Breathe normally. The room is private— audio monitored for consent and safety, but no visual feed inside. You’ll be fine.”
With that lingering emptiness still wrapped around your ribs, Dr. Ellis guided you forward one last time. The blindfold stayed firmly in place as you were led through a final door and cool air brushed against your bare legs beneath the silk robe they had given you— thin, luxurious, and far too intimate for what this was supposed to be. You heard the soft click of another door closing behind you and tthe lock sliding into place.
You stood there, heart thudding slow and heavy, the world reduced to darkness and the faint scent of clean linen and warm skin. “We’ll proceed now,” she said quietly, and then her footsteps retreated. The door clicked shut.
Silence.
You sat there, nervousness making your fingers fiddle with the edge of the robe. The fabric whispered against your thighs as you crossed your legs, uncrossed them, heart hammering. Sensory deprivation made every sound louder: the air circulation, the mechanical click of something locking into place. Then footsteps approached from the opposite side of the room— measured, familiar in weight.
And … that scent— cedar and warm skin, with the faintest trace of the same cologne only he used to wear. You’d recognize it anywhere, god— even in a crowded room, even after all this time. It was all a cruel joke, a stranger wearing his scent like it was the most normal thing ever.
But it wasn’t possible, you didn’t believe in fate, kismet and whatnot.
So then, gently, almost carefully, you removed the blindfold from your eyes as you’d been instructed to do.
And the first thing you noticed— was a funny thing— there was no stranger, no unknown, because the man who sat before you, blond hair tousled, ditching his own blindfold— was only a person you knew too well.
Riki. Nishimura Riki.
The man you’d loved for so many years looked… healthy, the same way you’d always remembered him— his posture still effortlessly straight, shoulders broad beneath the silk robe, dyed hair had grown just enough to soften around his forehead, a few loose strands falling carelessly where you knew he’d brush them back without thinking.
Time had sharpened him in beautiful ways— his jaw a little more defined, the lines around his eyes ever so slightly deeper—but none of it was enough to make him unfamiliar.
He was still unmistakably Riki. The kind of face you’d once memorized in every light imaginable, from mornings to nights, now standing only a few feet away as if eighteen months had been nothing more than a badly remembered dream.
And somehow— it turned out that time had done everything except teach your heart who to belong to. You looked at each other the way abandoned homes remember their owners.
It was a peculiar kind of silence really —the kind reserved for funerals, churches, and people who had once known the shape of each other’s souls. No sharp breaths. No widened eyes in shock. No words at all actually. Just the heavy, crushing weight of recognition settling between you.
And somehow, despite everything, the years folded themselves away— and god, it was almost insulting how quickly it happened. Like someone familiar taking their old seat, you looked at him, he looked back— and there was no anger left. Only evidence that there had once been too much love.
Tears built slowly in your eyes, inevitable, blurring the sharp familiar lines of his jaw, the curse of his mouth.
His own eyes glistened in answer, water gathering there and a single tear tracing down his cheek before he brushed it away wordlessly, almost absentmindedly.
And you couldn’t take your eyes off him.
Even if the world had caught fire around you, your gaze remained locked on Riki’s face. The tears that had been building finally slipped free, tracing warm paths down your cheeks, but you made no move to wipe them away. He didn’t either— instead, a small, broken smile curved his lips through the tears— sad, aching, and so painfully familiar it twisted something deep inside your chest.
It wasn’t a happy smile, it was the kind of smile that carried every quiet moment when he must have wondered the same thing you did: What if we had fought harder?
God, this fucking hurt.
After a long silence, you lifted a trembling hand toward the mirrored wall without breaking eye contact with him. Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“There’s been a mistake…”
No response. No voice crackled through a hidden speaker. No footsteps outside the door.
Eventually, the large screen on the far wall lit up with soft white light and an automated, calm female voice filled the room, utterly detached:
“Subject A and Subject B have been paired based on compatibility metrics. You may not leave the room for six hours and you must follow every instruction in sequence. Refusal ends the session and forfeits payment. Verbal consent will be recorded at each escalation. Reiterate consent to proceed.”
The words landed like stones in still water.
You felt your breath hitch— this couldn’t be happening. A bitter, broken laugh almost escaped your throat, but it died before it could form, tears falling instesd.
Riki’s smile faded slowly, replaced by something else unguarded; he swallowed hard, jaw tightening, another drop slipping down his cheek and his hands flexed at his sides almost automatically, as if fighting the instinct to reach for you. He gave the smallest nod— barely there—his dark eyes never leaving yours. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, thick with emotion.
“I consent.” It’s almost as if he hadn’t even needed to think about it twice, an instinct, or more-so the lack of a survival one.
In response, you closed your eyes for half a second, overwhelmed. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. When you opened them again, Riki was still watching you with that same devastating patience— the same intensity that had once made you feel like the only person alive.
You didn’t want to leave.
Even after all this, even with the clinical voice echoing in your ears and the weight of eighteen months crashing down in one devastating instant, the thought of walking out felt impossible. Because if you left now— if you said no and ended the session— there was no guarantee you would ever see him again. No guarantee that life would ever grant you this kind of impossible second chance. The universe had already been cruel enough to rip him away once.
What were the odds it would ever align like this again? Zero. None.
You thought about the empty months stretching behind you. The way every new touch from anyone else had felt like a pale imitation— the way you still reached for him in your sleep. Walking out might protect your heart in the short term, but it would condemn you to wondering what if for the rest of your life.
Because of that, staying felt like the only sane choice. Even if it destroyed you, even if it tore open every wound you had tried so desperately to stitch shut. At least here, in this sterile room with its one-way mirrors and biometric sensors, you would have six hours. Six hours of him. Six hours where science itself forced you close enough to breathe the same air, to remember what it felt like to be known.
Strangely enough, the mechanics of it all made the decision feel almost fated— the locked doors, the no-escape clause, the payment dangling like an excuse you could hide behind later. Because of course, you had bills to pay, you had a broken washing machine, and loans to pay off.
It wasn’t my choice, you could tell yourself. The experiment made me stay.
But deep down you knew the truth, so you drew in a shaky breath, eyes still locked on his. “I consent,” you whispered, voice cracking.
The automated voice responded immediately, neutral and efficient: “Consent recorded for both subjects. Stage one will begin in thirty seconds.”
Riki’s gaze softened further, that heartbreaking little smile flickering back to life for just a moment— sad, tender, as if he knew exactly what storm was raging inside you. As if he was fighting the exct same one.
The automated voice returned, slicing through the thick silence: “Stage one: Sit facing each other on the bed, two feet apart.”
Without hesitation, you moved first, your legs felt unsteady as you crossed the short distance to the large bed. The mattress dipped softly under your weight. Riki followed in one smooth motion, settling directly across from you. Exactly two feet.
Close enough to feel him, far enough to not reach.
You looked at each other and in response, his eyes— those dark, familiar eyes—held yours without flinching. You were shaking, you couldn’t stop it— your hands rested on your thighs, fingers curled tightly into the silk robe, trying to anchor yourself.
“Maintain eye contact for ten minutes while answering researcher questions aloud,” the voice instructed.
The first question appeared on the screen. “Describe your history with this person in one sentence.”
Riki went first— ever the bravest; he swallowed hard, throat working visibly and his voice came out hesitant, cracking under the weight of emotion.
“She was my… my first love.”
After a pause, it was your turn— inevitably you’d have to talk, to purge yourself of this unpleasant feeling. But god were you petty…
“He was someone I knew very well. We um… used to date.”
Even then, the words felt like a lie on your tongue, too small to contain the entirety of him. You didn’t date— you felt, and you broke, you crashed hundreds of times with each other like planets colliding— as dramatic as it all sounds. It had been nothing short of a destruction.
But the voice moved on to the next question. “What is your strongest memory of this person?”
You spoke first this time, the memory rising unbidden.
“The day we broke up,” you said slowly, voice trembling. “How quiet it got, i guess.”
Riki’s eyes shimmered as hi jaw tightened. When he answered, his voice was barely above a whisper,
“I remember watching her cry because of me.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks again but you didn’t bother wiping them. They were the same that had fallen that night, after what seemed like the hundredth fight.
“What do you still feel when you look at this person?”
That cruel voice stripped you bare until suddenly— you were there, saying things you’d never thought you’d say.
“The same thing I feel looking at someone I used to know… I don’t know, familiarity I guess… stuff I thought I outgrew.”
Riki looked surprised, not by your confession— but more by your stability, the way you kept walls all around you, walls he’d teared down long before and you’d quickly rebuilt.
“The happiest part of my life.” he answered.
You wanted to agree; god knew you wanted to, but you couldn’t. Agreeing would mean defeat and defeat would mean you had something to loose. The years you’d spent with Riki had been your happiest too, a lifetime of laughter, pleasure and complicity… but still, that had never been enough.
The questions continued mercilessly, like a vague health questionnaire. “Do you consider this person a part of your past, present, or future?”
“Past,” you said quickly, without giving it a thought.
Riki shook his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “I don’t think you can put someone like her in one category.”
Had he thought about it a lot? Had he spent hours staring at the ceiling wondering whether you were a thing of memories, or a constant? Because you had— but that wasn’t something you were ready to admit.
“Do you believe your feelings for this person are resolved?”
“No,” Riki answered immediately.
“Yes.” you said. He wasn’t even offended— because the thing with people who know you existentially, is that they can tell when you’re lying.
Riki knew you, knew how your tongue loved to tell tales, how you couldn’t even help it— that’s just the way you were, way too proud for your own good.
But thankfully, he was honest enough for the both of you.
“What part of your connection with this person do you not miss?”
You swallowed. “Feeling like I had to wait for someone who was always somewhere else.”
Riki’s expression crumpled slightly. “The moments when I made her feel alone.”
“And what part of your connection with this person do you miss the most?”
Too many possibilities tangled in your mind, where to begin? Would you be shameless enough to say you missed the way his hands fit against your cheeks? The way he knew your defence mechanisms like the back of his hand? The way he’d never blamed you for how loud and how inhibited you were?
There were an infinity of things to say— but all that came were grudges.
“The way I used to be before him.”
Riki’s voice softened, letting out a small breathy chuckle, truly amused by your ability to dodge the real questions. “I miss the ordinary things. Just… existing in the same space.”
“Do you believe this person knows you?”
“He used to.”
“Yes,” the man said without hesitation. “Still does.”
Did you though?
“What do you believe they should apologize for?”
“Nothing.” The word left your lips too quickly.
Riki took a shaky breath. “For thinking she had to leave before I could hurt her again.”
“Do you forgive this person?”
You nodded, “yes”
Dr. Ellis’s voice came through the speaker for the first time, gentle but probing. “Do you mean that, y/n ?”
You answered tightly, “I said yes.”
Lie.
Riki’s gaze was steady, full of sorrow. “I don’t have anything to forgive her for.”
He did— god he did, but he was so good, too good to say it.
“Did your physical response change when you first saw them?”
“No,” you said, but the heart-rate monitor attached to your chest beeped sharply, the line spiking on the screen.
Dr. Ellis spoke again. “Your monitor indicates otherwise.”
Maybe the monitor was right— your heart seemed to be beating out of your chest, but to your credit? It was hot inside that room, and your robe was too tight.
“Then it’s inaccurate,” you muttered, voice tight with frustration.
Riki’s answer? It was simple, “Yes.”
“And were you surprised by your reaction?” the voice prompted.
“No.” you shook your head.
Dr. Ellis asked, “Why?”
“Because I expected it to happen,” you replied, almost absentmindedly brushing a tear from your cheek.
That was a lie, (once again), you hadn’t even expected to be confronted to so many things today, you thought. you were in for a new experience, a way of feeling a little bit.
Instead you were feeling way too damn much.
When it was his turn, Riki answered, “Yes… I thought i was over it.”
The final questions landed like blows. Too much, too precise.
“Do you still love them?”
You didn’t even think about it— maybe if you had you would’ve said the truth, “No.”
Riki’s voice broke completely on his answer. “Yes.”
“If this person asked you to stay, would you?”
“No.”
Your ex lover looked at you for a long moment, eyes glistening. “I don’t know.”
Dr. Ellis prompted gently, “You don’t know?”
“Because I’d want to,” he finished, voice barely holding together.
See, anyone listening could think you were indifferent— cold, but youd spent eighteen months learning how to live without him, not eighteen months learning how to stop feeling. This was more or less your way of removing pieces of yourself before anyone else could touch them, before it could cause actual damage.
You refused to give the past anything soft to hold onto, because once this was over— once the 6 hours were done, there would be no excuses for you and Riki to be alone in a room dancing around feelings.
“Stage two: Touch only hands and arms. Trace each other’s arms, shoulders, and face. Maintain eye contact. Answer all questions aloud.”
After a long silence, you both moved toward the center of the bed like an evidence. You told yourself it was for the money but in all honesty?
You’d die if Nishimura Riki didn’t touch you right now.
As if any sudden motion might shatter the fragile tension holding you together, you sat facing each other, knees almost brushing. Riki lifted his hands first, palms up in quiet offering and you placed yours over his wordlessly.
The moment your skin met, everything got louder in your head.
Riki’s fingers trembled against yours— the old electricity was instant and terrifying, familiar, dangerous and terribly alive. It raced up your arms like lightning remembering its favorite path home.
Fuck, you thought, breath catching. This is too much.
The screen lit up with yet another invasive question.
“Rate your current arousal 1-10.”
Riki answered first, almst absentmindedly stroking his thumb across your palm.
“Eight,” he murmured. Then, softer, “Maybe nine.”
You swallowed hard, your skin was already burning where he touched you. “Seven,” you whispered.
The heart-rate monitor betrayed you instantly, the line spiking on the distant screen and in turn, the next question appeared.
“Does their touch feel different from strangers?”
You let out a shaky breath, his fingers tracing your palm slowly, carefully, following every line like he was reading a map he had once memorized by heart. There was no adequate answer; of course? obviously? definitely?
All you knew was that you hadn’t felt alive in months and his touch had given you that long-searched feeling.
“Yes,” you admitted, voice barely holding. “It feels… good.”
Riki’s eyes darkened, almost automatically, his fingertips moved to your wrist, tracing the delicate veins there with heartbreaking gentleness— his touch was warm, slightly calloused in the way you remembered, sending shivers racing across your skin.
“It feels like the only touch that’s ever made sense,” he said quietly.
Even then, the sensors were drinking it all in—pulse racing, skin conductance rising, pupils dilating. The room felt smaller; the silk robes suddenly too thin as his fingers continued their journey, slowly gliding up your forearms, tracing the sensitive inner skin with such tenderness it made your chest ache.
You followed, your hands moving to his arms. The muscle you found beneath your palms was warm and solid; yoou traced the veins on his forearms, remembering how you used to fall asleep with your head on this exact spot. God, you’d missed it, and you hated how much you’d missed it.
After a pause, the screen asked again:
“Rate your current arousal 1-10.”
“Nine,” Riki breathed, voice cracking slightly as his hands moved higher, brushing over your shoulders— his thumbs stroked along your collarbones with aching care.
You were trembling harder now. “Eight,” you managed. The lie tasted bitter— it was definitely a good old twenty.
His hands eventually moved to your face; in one smooth motion, he cupped your cheeks with both palms, thumbs brushing away the fresh tears that had fallen. You did the same, cradling his jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath your fingertips.
The touch was so intimate, so full of history, that it hurt.
Somehow, despite everything, the electricity between you only grew. Terrifying. Addictive. Making it impossible to let go even for a breaths moment. Riki’s forehead nearly rested against yours, his breath mingled with your own, “Still you,” he whispered, so softly the microphones might not have caught it. “Even after all this time… still you.”
You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. You simply kept touching him— tracing the line of his jaw, the shell of his ear, the slope of his neck, as if your hands were trying to memorize him all over again before the experiment could take this away too.
The automated voice cut through the charged air again, “Stage three: Remove robes. Kneel facing each other. Kiss only.”
You sat there for a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest. Riki’s hands were still cradling your face, thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin like he was afraid you might regret thi.
Even then, despite the clinical detachment of the room and the monitors quietly tracking every spike in your pulse, heat pooled low in your belly.
You looked around the room— making sure there were no cameras, or maybe you knew there weren’t any, but you just wanted to take a breath without feeling like the whole world was pressing inside your chest.
With that, you reached for the belt of your robe first, fingers trembling only slightly as you untied it. The silk whispered open, cool air kissing your bare skin and Riki watched you, dark eyes drinking in every inch like a man starved. Almost out of pure unbidden instinct, he mirrored you, shrugging the robe from his shoulders in one motion. The fabric pooled around your knees on the bed, forgotten.
God, he looked exactly the same— broad shoulders, the lean muscle that had always made you feel safe and wild at once, the faint trail of hair leading down from his navel. Your gaze traced lower before you could stop yourself, and heat flooded your cheeks.
You both shifted, kneeling now, facing each other in the center of the large bed. Knees brushing, close enough that the warmth radiating from his body made the air between you feel electric.
Then the voice prompted again: “Begin kissing. Maintain contact. Describe aloud what you missed most about the other’s body.”
It felt so silly— but you’d take anything, to feel his touch again.
Riki leaned in first, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away— but you didn’t. You met him halfway, and the first press of his lips was soft—hesitant, almost reverent, just a brush, warm and familiar, tasting faintly of salt from the tears still dying on both your cheeks.
Eventually your hands found his chest, palms flat against the steady thud of his heart. The kiss deepened gradually, his mouth opening against yours, tongue tracing your lower lip with care. A soft sound escaped you, half sigh, half whimper, and he swallowed it like it belonged to him.
“Describe it,” the voice reminded neutrally.
You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth, breath mingling. “I missed… your hands. The way they’re big enough to cover so much of me at once.” Your voice cracked, but you kept going, fingers tracing down his arms. “And your mouth. And… and the way you used to kiss me like you were trying to crawl inside my skin.”
He made a low, wrecked sound in his throat and kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, devastating rhythm that made your toes curl. His hands stayed on your face for now, but you could feel the tension in them, the restraint.
Against his will, he broke the kiss just enough to whisper, “You’re so pretty. Still so goddamn pretty it hurts to look at you, my girl—” He froze, eyes widening slightly as the old endearment slipped out. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t— fuck.”
Tears welled up again in both your eyes, mixing into the kiss as your lips met once more. Salty and desperate now, the tenderness fracturing into something raw- you tasted the apology on his tongue, felt the way his breath hitched when your hands slid up to grip his shoulders.
Even so, the kiss didn’t stop— it grew deeper, hungrier, slow drags turning into wet, open-mouthed presses that left you both breathing harder. Your nipples tightened against his chest as you leaned closer, skin on skin for the first time in eighteen months, the contact earth shattering.
Riki’s hands slid into your hair exactly the way they used to— fingers threading through the strands at the nape of your neck, tugging just enough to tilt your head how he wanted. The familiarity of it made your stomach flip as h pulled you impossibly closer, forehead pressed to yours between kisses, breath hot against your swollen lips.
“This is so fucking unfair,” he whispered, voice breaking.
The screen lit up again almost immediately, the automated voice cutting in: “Subject B: Explain why you left.”
Riki stilled against you, hands still tangled in your hair and you felt his heartbeat stutter under your palm. For a long silence, he just breathed with you, eyes closed, lips brushing yours like he was gathering strength.
Oh God. . .
Finally, he spoke, strained, each word pulled out like it cost him something vital. “I left because I was terrified I’d ruin you. Because every time we fought, I saw how much it broke you, and I convinced myself you’d be better off without me fucking it all up again. I thought… if I stayed, I’d only hurt you more. So I ran like a coward. And every single day since, I’ve regretted it.”
You swallowed hard, tears slipping free again, but you didn’t pull away— instead, your fingers traced down his chest slowly, deliberately, finding the spots you knew would make him shiver— nails grazing lightly over his nipples, then lower, following the lines of his abdomen.
In turn, Riki’s hands moved too, one staying in your hair while the other slid down your back, palm warm and possessive against your spine. He knew exactly how to touch you— still. The perfect pressure, the exact rhythm that had always undone you. His fingertips danced along your sides, then lower, cupping your ass and pulling you flush against him so you could feel how hard he already was.
You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, kissing you deeper, tongue stroking yours with devastating precision. He knew you like no one else ever had— the way a firm tug on your hair made you melt, the way being held tight while you trembled always pushed you closer to the edge.
And you knew him just as well. Your hand slipped between you, wrapping around his cock with a slow stroke that made him groan against your lips, hips jerking forward instinctively. You weren’t even sure if you could— or if you had to follow instructions, but undoubtedly, it would be okay.
Nobody could see what you were doing anyway, how your hand moved on his length, tugging just the way he liked, thumb swiping over his tip like it had countless times before.
Somehow, despite everything, the years apart only made the knowing dangerous,evry touch loaded with memory. Every kiss felt like coming home and setting the house on fire at the same time.
The voice returned, a third wheel in the whole situation : “Stage four: Oral exploration phase. One gives, one receives. Then switch. Maintain eye contact at all times. Verbal consent required to proceed.”
You knelt there, still pressed close to Riki, his cock hard and hot against your stomach, your own arousal slick between your thighs.
After a long silence, he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes fully. “I consent,” he whispered, voice hoarse’ his thumb brushed your lower lip, tender despite everything.
You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs. “I consent,” you managed.
“Excellent. Subject B will give first. Subject A, lie back. Subject B, position yourself between her legs. Begin slowly.”
With that, Riki guided you down onto the bed, the sheets were cool against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins and you lay back, propped slightly on your elbows so you could keep eye contact.
Riki moved with are, settling between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders pushing your legs wider. He looked up at you the entire time, eyes locked on yours.
His hands slid up your inner thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, parting you open for him. You were already wet, embarrassingly so, and the cool air made you shiver.
Riki leaned in slowly, pressing a soft kiss to the crease of your thigh first, then another higher up. His breath ghosted over your core, making your hips twitch.
“Describe what you feel, Subject A,” the voice prompted.
You hated it, you wanted it to shut up so you could focus on his mouth. But it dragged the honesty out of you, things you would’ve never said unprompted.
You bit your lip, “I feel… i feel attraction, like i want him closer.”
Riki’s eyes softened, and then his mouth was on you. A slow, broad lick from your entrance up to your clit, warm and wet and devastatingly familiar until your back arched instinctively, a broken gasp escaping your lips.
“Fuck— Riki…”
“Tell him how it feels,” the voice instructed calmly.
“It feels so good,” you whispered, voice trembling as he licked you again, slower this time, circling your clit with the flat of his tongue. “So… good.”
It made you hate how much you’d missed it. Like your body had never forgotte his.
He moaned against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. With that, he settled in deeper, arms wrapping under your thighs to hold you open, hands gripping your hips.
Riki ate you out like a man starved— long, luxurious strokes of his tongue, savoring every drop of your arousal; he alternated between broad licks that covered your entire pussy and precise flicks right against your swollen clit, sucking gently, then harder.
“Subject B, how does it feel?” the voice cut in.
Riki pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your wetness, “She tastes so good, so sweet and tangy and so fucking addictive. I hate how much I need this— still so fucking perfect for me.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for leaving you empty like this pretty girl.”
Tears slipped down his cheeks as he dove back in, tongue thrusting inside you now, fucking you with it in shallow, deliberate strokes while his nose nudged your clit. You reached down, fingers threading through his hair, not pulling, just holding on as your own tears started to fall. The overload hit like a wave— love, resentment, all consuming need all crashing together.
Itd be a lie to say the pleasure didn’t build in slow, relentless waves. Riki knew exactly what to do: how to flatten his tongue and drag it up slowly, how to suck your clit into his mouth and hum, how to press two fingers inside you and curl them just right against that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. But he didn’t rush. He drew it out, edging you, pulling back whenever you got too close.
“Subject A, how does this make you feel emotionally?” the voice asked, pushing deeper into the wound.
“It makes me feel known,” you sobbed, hips rolling against his face despite yourself. “Like he still owns every part of me. It hurts— god, it hurts so good because I love him… and… and I fucking resent him and I need him so much it scares me.”
Riki whimpered against your core, the sound muffled and desperate. Tears mixed with your slick on his cheeks. as he licked broader, messier now, devouring you with filthy, wet sounds that filled the room. “My girl… you’re dripping for me. Still so responsive. I missed this pussy so much. Missed making you fall apart on my tongue.”
He didn’t even bother correcting himself this time— that’s what you were at the end of the day, his girl. No matter how far, no matter how close.
The voice continued its relentless probing: “Subject B, does performing this act stir unresolved feelings?”
“Yes,” Riki gasped between long licks, tongue circling your clit relentlessly. “It makes me remember every time I made her come like this and then held her after. It twists the knife because I threw it all away.”
You cried harder, the intimacy almost unbearable— the clinical voice forcing you to confront every sensation, every buried emotion, while Riki’s mouth worshipped you.
Your thighs trembled around his head as he slid three fingers inside you now, pumping slowly, curling, scissoring, stretching you open while his tongue flicked fast and light over your clit.
“Fuck…,” you moaned, voice wrecked. “I’m so close…”
You didn’t want it to end, you were desperate for it to last a lifetime, even as your legs shook.
Riki doubled down, sucking your clit firmly, fingers thrusting deeper, faster. The wet, obscene sounds mixed with your sobs and his muffled apologies. “Come for me, baby— please. Let me have this.”
The orgasm built like a tidal wave, slow and inevitable. He coaxed it, drawing it out for long minutes, edging you right to the brink and then easing back, only to push you higher again. Your fingers tightened in his hair, tears streamed down your face in an incoherent mess.
Love, pain and pleasure braided together so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“It’s too much— too deep. I’m gonna —fuck, Riki—”
He moaned encouragement against you and finally let you tip over. The orgasm crashed through you in powerful, rolling waves, your back arched off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as you came hard on his tongue, pulsing around his fingers. He licked you through it, gentler now, savoring every aftershock, murmuring praise and apologies into your soaked flesh.
You lay there panting, tears still falling, as the voice spoke again: “Switch. Subject A will now give. Subject B, lie back.”
God, give a girl a break.
After a long recuperation pause, you moved, limbs shaky. Riki lay back, cock achingly hard and leaking against his stomach and you knelt between his spread legs, eyes locked on his tear-streaked face. He looked wrecked already—beautifully so.
You started slowly, pressing kisses along his inner thighs, nuzzling the crease where leg met hip. His cock twitched in anticipation and you licked a long stripe up the underside, savoring the salty taste of him.
“Subject A, how does it feel,” the voice demanded.
“It feels good” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Bitter because I know exactly how he likes it.”
Riki’s hand came down to cup your cheek, thumb stroking gently even as fresh tears slipped from his eyes. You took him into your mouth gradually —first just the head, swirling your tongue around it, sucking softly; then deeper, inch by inch, until he hit the back of your throat. You hollowed your cheeks and bobbed slowly, one hand stroking what you couldn’t fit.
“Fuck— yes, just like that,” he groaned, hips twitching but staying controlled. “Look at you… baby…”
The voice interrupted: “Subject B, describe the sensations and emotions this evokes.”
“It feels like… fuck— i can’t, s’too much” Riki panted, eyes never leaving yours. “Her tongue is driving me insane— I missed her mouth so fucking much.”
You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, nose brushing his pelvis as you swallowed around him. Tears blurred your vision too— resentment flaring because he left, love swelling because he was here, raw need making you suck him with devotion. You pulled off to breathe, stroking him firmly with a twisting motion while your tongue laved his balls, sucking one into your mouth gently.
It made you feel so powerful and so small at the same time. Like you could ruin him and he could ruin you.
Riki moaned quietly, hand in your hair now, you returned to his cock, sucking harder, faster, but still deliberate— drawing it out. Long, slow bobs interspersed with teasing licks along the vein underneath, paying special attention to the sensitive head.
You knew every spot: the way he liked your hand twisting at the base, the way humming around him made his thighs tense.
Minutes stretched and yes, the voice kept prompting— “Subject B, does receiving this act make you confront why you left?”—forcing words between moans and sobs.
Riki’s answers grew more broken: “I left because I was scared I’d need her forever and fuck it up. Now I know I do.”
Your jaw ached a you poured everything into it— love, anger, longing— sucking him deep, stroking, worshipping. His hips started shallow thrusts, meeting your mouth.
“I’m so close but I don’t want it to stop,” Riki spoke, unprompted this time.
You redoubled your efforts, taking him as deep as possible, swallowing around him, one hand massaging his balls. Long, thorough minutes of wet heat and tight suction until his breathing grew ragged, thighs trembling.
Only when the tension became unbearable did he finally tip over, with your name on his lips and tears in his eyes. He came hard, pulsing thick and hot down your throat and you swallowed every drop, milking him gently through the long, shuddering orgasm, not pulling off until he was spent and oversensitive.
You crawled up his body afterward, both of you crying, clinging.
The voice announced a brief pause for biometric reset, but you stayed tangled together, foreheads pressed, breaths shared, the knife still twisting deep.
The automated voice returned after a brief, “Stage five: Full penetration. Timed pauses enforced. First position: Subject A on top, controlling pace. Answer researcher questions aloud. Consent required.”
Riki’s eyes met yours, dark and desperate. His cock was still hard, slick from your mouth, resting heavy against his stomach.
“I consent,” he rasped.
“I consent,” you echoed.
“Begin.”
You moved first, crawling over him with shaky limbs; straddling his hips, you braced your hands on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. Riki’s hands settled on your thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles even as fresh tension coiled in his muscles. You reached down, wrapping your fingers around his thick length, stroking him once, twice, lining him up at your entrance.
He didn’t thrust up, he waited, eyes locked on yours, giving you control. Slowly, you sank down.
You didn’t stop until he was at the hilt, so snug where he resided, overwhelming— burning, perfect, familiar. Syllables were left to die in your mouth, falling into the back of your throat as it clogged with a shaky inhale. You sat fully seated, pelvis flush to his, trembling as your walls fluttered and clenched around every inch of him.
“Fuck… Riki,” you whispered.
The voice prompted immediately: “Do you forgive them?”
There it was, the big question. With him so deep inside of you, you couldn’t even tell if your thoughts were real or implanted by the raw pleasure. You thought about it— in the limits of your own imagination— because if you were giving him your body right now, it had to mean something, right?
You rolled your hips experimentally, a slow grind that made stars burst behind your eyes. The drag of his cock inside you, thick and hot and hitting every sensitive spot, stole your vry breath. You rose slightly and sank back down, setting a deliberate, torturous pace.
“That’s right, beautiful… take this cock.. fuck, just like that.. you’re doing so good.” he praised, thrusting up just a tiny bit.
“It feels… so full.” you gasped, tears slipping free again as he throbbed inside.
Riki groaned beneath you, hands sliding up to grip your hips, not guiding yet— just holding. “Do you forgive me?” he asked, voice breaking, echoing the researcher’s question even as the voice waited.
You rode him slower, grinding deep on every downstroke, anger and longing twisting together. Your palm came down on his chest in a sharp slap, not hard enough to truly hurt but enough to sting. “I want to,” you sobbed, rising and sinking again. “I do and I don’t. You left me empty for eighteen months.”
The indecency of the words, the shame coming with them, made you forget the very setting you were in. The pleasure taking over your entire body, submerged in everything Riki gave you until you had no choice but to shake.
He thrust up to meet you on the next drop, deeper, and you moaned loudly. “Mine,” he whispered fiercely, eyes glistening. “Even if you hate me, you’re still mine.”
You clenched around him involuntarily at the possessiveness, and he hissed. “Shh baby, I’m not going anywhere. Give me a little breathing room,” he murmured, voice strained with pleasure.
Tears streamed down your face as you alternated between presses to his chest and leaning down to kiss him like you’d die without his mouth on yours.
“Subject A, rate your emotional state,” the voice demanded mid-thrust.
Oh fuck off.
“I… fuck,” you cried out, bouncing harder. “Riki I need you to fuck me deeper— ah—until I forget you ever left.”
Riki sat up slightly, wrapping one arm around your back to pull you closer, mouth latching onto your nipple as you rode him. He sucked hard, tongue flicking, while his other hand guided your hips in a punishing rhythm. The new angle made him hit that spot inside you relentlessly— pleasure coiling tight and vicious.
The first orgasm built fast and vicious, you thighs shook as you bounced harder.
“Ah, there you go. There’s my baby. Poor thing, it’s okay, you can come,” he murmured, pushing your hair back behind your ear.
You shattered around him with a broken cry, walls pulsing and fluttering wildly as pleasure ripped through you, your nails dug into his chest, tears streaming freely. But the orgasm didn’t stop at waves of clenching— it crashed harder, sudden and wet.
You squirted around his cock for the first time in months, soaking his abdomen and the sheets beneath you in hot, pulsing gushes. The release left you shaking violently, as the pleasure blinded you.
Still, you kept moving, overstimulated and desperate, fucking yourself on his cock like you could erase the past somehow.
Riki sat up, wrapping strong arms around you, mouth latching onto your breast. He sucked hard, tongue flicking your nipple as you rode him faster.
One of his hands slid up to your throat, wrapping gently but firmly, applying just enough pressure to make your head spin in the most delicious way, vision blurring at the edges with overwhelming sensation.
“So fucking good for me… look at you, soaking my cock like this. My perfect girl.”
Riki flipped you suddenly, moving you onto all fours in one smooth motion, he knelt behind you, gripping your hips possessively. He rubbed his slick cock along your folds once, then pushed in deep.
The new angle stole what little air remained in your lungs. He felt even deeper like this— you were going to loose your mind.
Riki started thrusting immediately, possessive strokes that rocked your entire body, one hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just right, while the other wrapped around your throat from behind, choking you lightly as he fucked you. The combination made your eyes roll back, pleasure so intense it felt like drowning and dying at the same time.
“Mine,” he moaned against your ear, fucking you harder. “Still fucking mine. Such a good girl, taking me so deep.”
You pushed back to meet him, messy and frantic, tears dripping onto the sheets below and hee reached around to rub your clit in tight, relentless circles, never slowing his punishing rhythm.
“Look at you, creaming all over my cock. So fucking pretty when you fall apart like this. My baby— always so perfect.”
“Does this feel like love or just lust?” the voice demanded, reminding you of y the current setting.
You couldn’t even answer, incoherent babbles tumbling out of your pathetic mouth but Riki grabbed your jaw, whispering in your ear, “Answer baby, come on.”
Another orgasm tore through you without mercy . Your body convulsed, another rush of wetness flooding out around him as you squirted harder, thighs quaking uncontrollably. Riki’s praise never stopped, filthy and tender all at once. “That’s right, baby… fuck, just like that.. you’re doing so good. Let it all out for me.”
The peak left you shaking, barely holding yourself up on trembling arms, your body gave out completely, collapsing forward. Riki followed you down, chest pressed to your back, still buried deep.
His thrusts grew erratic, desperate, and impossibly deeper. You could feel every twitch and throb of his cock inside you as he chased his own release; hiss breathing turned ragged against your ear, hot and uneven, broken groans vibrating through his chest.
The hand in your hair tightened, the one on your throat loosened into something almost protective as his hips snapped forward one final time, burying himself to the absolute hilt.
Riki came with a shattered, guttural moan of your name, his entire body seizing against yours. Thick, hot pulses of cum flooded deep inside you, each powerful spurt accompanied by a helpless roll of his hips, as if he couldn’t stop trying to push even deeper.
You felt every single jet filling you until it started to leak out around his cock with every tiny after-thrust. His cock twitched and pulsed for long, drawn-out moments, the release seemingly endless as he poured months of pent-up longing into you. His thighs trembled violently against the backs of yours, muscles locked tight, a full-body shudder ripping through him as the pleasure wrung him dry.
“Fuck— baby… still you,” he gasped brokenly against your neck, voice cracking with as the last weak spurts emptied him completely. He stayed buried to the hilt, grinding slowly through the aftershocks, savoring the tight, wet heat of your pussy still fluttering around his oversensitive length.
Fresh tears slipped from his eyes onto your skin as he held you close, body draped over yours like he was afraid you’d regret the second he pulled out.
See… studies show a lot of things, for example that long-term partners can remain neurologically significant long after a breakup. They say it’s often a question of whether unresolved emotional attachment predicts involuntary sexual responsiveness between old partners.
But what it doesn’t say though, is how easily that same attachment can twist into something far more dangerous— how six hours in a sterile room can hook itself so deeply under your skin that it becomes impossible to ever truly pull free again.
The experiment ended exactly on schedule, six short hours later, the doors unlocked. Dr. Ellis’s voice offered neutral congratulations and payment confirmations.
You and Riki dressed in silence, eyes lingering too long, hands brushing with the kind of accidental-on-purpose touch that said everything words couldn’t.
When you finally stepped out into the real world, the city lights felt too bright, the air too cold, the absence of his body against yours already unbearable.
Somehow, that single night cracked you both open wider than the original breakup ever had. But it’s not like you hadn’t expected it just a little bit.
In the weeks that followed, the addiction set in slowly at first, then all at once. You told yourself it was just closure, just one text to check if he got home safely. Just one late-night call because you couldn’t sleep without hearing his voice.
But soon the messages grew longer, the calls stretched into early mornings, and the excuses became paper-thin.
Riki? He was no better.
He started “accidentally” showing up at places he knew you frequented— the cafe where you took your coffee exactly the way he still remembered, the bookstore you loved on quiet afternoons.
Each encounter left you both raw and starving for more and more and more.
Even then, you tried to fight it. You blocked his number once, only to unblock it three hours later when the emptiness felt louder than any self-respect.
He showed up at your door at 2 a.m. one night, eyes hollow, whispering that he just needed to see you. You let him in. That night turned into another desperate, tear-soaked reunion against your hallway wall, his hand around your throat and your nails down his back, both of you chasing that same devastating intensity the experiment had forced upon you.
Undeniably, the codependency only deepened. You became each other’s secret again— sneaking into hotel rooms, fucking in the back of his car like teenagers, meeting in abandoned parking lots just to feel his hands on you. The sex grew darker, more possessive, he’d choke you a little harder, hold you down a little longer, whispering “mine” like a vow and a curse while you cried and came and begged for more— addicted to the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him sane.
Months blurred together. You stopped dating other people entirely and so did he.
Friends noticed the change— how distracted you were, how you’d disappear for hours with no explanation. But nothing else filled the void.
The experiment had proven what your heart already knew: no one else would ever jnow your body the way he did. No one else could make you break and sob and feel so painfully alive.
Eventually, the sneaking stopped being enough.
One evening he showed up with a suitcase and the quiet admission that his apartment felt like a tomb without you in it. You let him stay the night, then the week and then… indefinitely.
The dangerous liaison wrapped around both of you like chains you no longer wanted to escape. Fights still happened— ugly, tearful, screaming matches that ended with him fucking you against the nearest surface until the anger melted into desperate “I love you”s and “never leave me again”s.
You were linked now, deeper than before, codependent in the most beautiful and terrifying way.
The study had been meant to observe intimacy, istead, it had created an obsession neither of you could—or wanted—to break.
In the quiet moments after sex, when his cum was still leaking down your thighs and his arms held you like a fragile thing, you sometimes wondered if this was ruin or salvation.
But even then, with his heartbeat steady against your back and his whispered praises in your ear, you knew the truth: you were his, and he was yours.
And that felt like the only kind of knowing worth having
⌞ SYNOPSIS ⌝ Some say there’s a very thin line between hatred and desire, & maybe it is true after all. You and Riki are the worst of enemies; you hate him with your whole chest— he hates you right back. The question is, how long does it take for a line like that to dissolve and for bodies to finally speak their truths? playlist ♧
❪ 18k ❫ ｡ 西村力 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 𝑖𝑛 leniency !
warnings: heavy degradation, sabotaging, enemies (i don’t say this lightly), idolxidol, toxic and awful behaviours, slutshaming, name calling. not an enemies to lovers ! forced proximity, physical violence, bruising, hitting, throwing up, NSFW tags : hate-fuck, wet dreams, heel kink/ leg kink, lots of sexual tension, unwanted arousal, size kink, degradation, choking, dry humping, hair pulling, scratching, violent sex, unprotected sex, humiliation, brat taming, scratching just filth.
Hatred is a strange thing, really; it remembers what love forgets. Given enough time, love begins to sand away the roughness until all that's left is nostalgia— hatred, however, does exactly the opposite.
Eventually, there comes a point where you stop asking who's right and who's wrong because the years blur the details until only the feeling remains. You no longer remember the first offense—only the certainty that if a room catches fire, you'll check whether Nishimura Riki is still inside before you leave.
After all, neither of you ever fought fair— honestly, why would you?
See, mercy is naturally reserved for people you love and indifference is for strangers. Hatred, on the other hand— real hatred—is far more intimate. It learns your habits, memorizes your weaknesses, and waits until you're already bleeding before deciding exactly where to press.
That's the part people never seem to understand.
They like to believe hatred has humble beginnings because it reassures them that it can also be undone; they tell themselves that, given enough patience, enough time, someone will eventually show forgiveness.
But leniency is reserved for those who believe the other deserves it.
You never did.
Nishimura Riki never deserved— nor earned—that leniency.
There's this thing called irony. You've had enough of it, yet it just keeps coming back anyway— unwanted, unprompted—as if it simply can't help itself. As if its sole purpose in life is to ruin yours every single time it decides to show up.
Funnily enough, today is no exception.
The automatic doors of Incheon airport slide open, spitting you and the rest of R3SET into the humid Seoul air. Cameras flash somewhere in the distance— paparazzi already swarming your arrival; Hye-ri walks on your left, Mina on your right, and Sera trails a step behind with her hood pulled low.
You're finally— finally—done with the world tour.
By now, every city has bled into the next; hotels all smelled the same, airport lounges became second homes, and every day dissolved into the same cycle of soundchecks, stages, and performances so loud you had to get your hearing checked on a regular basis. Somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten what it felt like to wake up in the same bed twice.
But today, for the first time in months, you're home.
Which, as irony would have it, is exactly where everything is about to go wrong.
You’re clutching a water bottle in your hand, trying to make sure your face is shielded from the flashes with the other yet your pathetic little instinct says it’s a good idea to reach for your phone when it buzzes in your pocket.
As you glance down to the screen— expecting a welcome-back email from your manager or something absolutely useless like that— you see instead the HYBE logo staring right back at you.
Subject: Year-End Special Collaboration Project – Confirmed Pairing
Your thumb hovers but you already know. Deep in your gut, you fucking know.
But you open it anyway.
...R3SET's Y/n will be paired with ENHYPEN's NI-KI for the 4-minute original dance performance piece. Joint choreography development begins immediately. Mandatory attendance at all scheduled practices, filming days, and rehearsals. Non-compliance will result in...
The rest blurs, it doesn't even matter.
"Fuck." The word slips out under your breath, low and venomous.
Your fingers tighten around the phone until your knuckles crack hard— nails digging crescents into your palm. You keep squeezing until the skin breaks and warm little lines of pain bloom.
Hye-ri notices, her eyes flick to your white-knuckled grip, then away, and Mina's shoulders stiffen. None of your members speak, hah, they know better. Everyone knows talking about the devil is a no-go.
See, some people pray before they sleep, some people do skincare, or meditation. You? You rehearse arguments with Nishimura Riki, you plot his downfall, and you clench your teeth so hard they might break in your mouth.
It's become routine, really, and now you can already hear his stupid voice in your head— sharp, accented, dripping with disgust. "Ugly bitch. Always ruining shit for everyone else."
The same things he's muttered under his breath every time your paths crossed at award shows. The same venom you've always returned by feeding your private hate account the most unflattering behind-the-scenes clips you could find of him.
Usually, if he dared looking smug on stage, you made sure someone clipped the moments he stumbled or looked exhausted.
Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Abso-fucking-lutely.
A staff member in a Hybe windbreaker rushes past, nearly colliding with you and your shoulder slams into his. Pain flares, but you barely register it, you're too busy being angry.
"Shit— sorry," you mutter automatically, voice flat. The staff blinks at you, startled, but you're already moving again, eyes burning holes into the floor.
Mina finally breaks the silence, voice low enough that only the group can hear. "You good?"
"No." Your laugh is bitter, barely a sound. "They paired me with that fraud, of course I'm not good."
Sera's hand brushes your arm in silent support, but she doesn't say anything. What is there to say? Erm...Good luck? Don't kill each other? The company doesn't care if you hate Riki, they want the drama and the numbers— the "tension" that fans already whisper about in forums.
You force your fingers to unclench, blood dots your palm in tiny red half-moons but you wipe it discreetly on your sweatpants.
The roar of fans and cameras grows louder as you approach the arrival gate— bright lights, screaming voices chanting your name and phones held high are waiting for you. You pull your black facemask up over your nose and mouth in one smooth motion and roll your shoulders back, lift your chin, to let the practiced smile bleed into your eyes even if it never reaches your mouth.
Hye-ri links arms with you on cue, Mina waves with both hands, bright and bubbly and you all fall into formation like muscle memory.
"Y/n unnie! Welcome back!"
"R3SET fighting!"
You bow slightly toward the crowd, eyes crinkling above the mask in the perfect illusion of gratitude. Let's just say, inside, your mind is a storm of curses in three languages.
Nishimura fucking Riki.
You can already picture the first practice: his tall frame taking up way too much space in the studio, that stupid frown, the way he'll deliberately step on your timing just to watch you fail. The way his hands will have to touch you during lifts and turns because the choreographer will demand chemistry you'll never have.
You want to break something. Preferably his ugly nose.
But the cameras are rolling, the fans are watching and on top of everything, the company email has made it very clear— this project is non-negotiable. So you keep smiling behind the mask, waving with one hand while the other stays clenched around your bottle.
'Let's see how long we last before one of us actually tries to kill the other', you think as you move toward the waiting vans.
You already know the answer.
Not long.
You might wonder what brings a woman and a man to such lengths of hatred. And the difficult part is that there's no real explanation; it's just an accumulation really— tiny cuts over years that fester into something grotesque.
One day you're both wide-eyed trainees sweating through sixteen-hour days, and the next you're fantasizing about drop-kicking Nishimura Riki off a stage mid-performance while smiling for the fans.
That's the thing, it's not dramatic movie-villain origin shit. It's the slow poison of shared survival in an industry that chews up kids and spits out Barbie dolls.
A stolen practice slot here, a whispered rumor there, a public meltdown that paints you as the problem while he plays the misunderstood genius, and a TV scandal that ruined everything. Add in sleep deprivation, pressure, and the fact that you both watched each other's dreams nearly die, and boom— they created the perfect nemesis.
By now, you've replayed every second so many times it feels like a greatest-hits album in your brain. Riki’s smug little smirk when he nailed a combo you'd been killing yourself over. The way he'd mutter "amateur" just loud enough for you to hear during evaluations. Your secret satisfaction when his group's early promotions hit minor bumps.
It's all so stupid and so fucking deep at the same time. Because that's the problem with hatred— it doesn't have to make sense to become permanent. Some people have childhood trauma... you just have Nishimura Riki.
The flashbacks hit you sometimes like a bad smell you can't escape. It always starts the same way; elimination day on I-LAND; the lights were way too bright, the cameras too close, and the air felt thick enough to choke on. You remember the way the eliminated trainees stood in that sterile line, faces blank or streaked with tears. Riki's japanese hyung Hajime —his only real anchor in that cutthroat dorm—didn't make the final cut. The announcement echoed through the hall like a death sentence and even now, years later you can still hear it.
The kid had talent, sure, but the system didn't care. It pushed and pushed and pushed until even the strongest cracked under the weight of evaluations, rankings, and endless comparisons.
You were just trying to survive too, right? Everyone was. Thats why you did what you did that day, and why you kept doing it out of pure pettiness.
The company fed you lines about "growth" and "teamwork," when talking about the trainee program, but really it was a meat grinder dressed up in sparkly dresses. Children— literal teenagers—breaking down in practice rooms at 3 am., vomiting from exhaustion, smiling for the livestreams like nothing was wrong. Friendships formed and shattered in the span of a single ranking drop.
Loyalties? Laughable.
You did what you had to do: submitted the feedback that protected your own team. Cold? Maybe. Necessary? In that hellscape, yes.
Riki, though, didn't see it that way. He exploded in the hallway afterward, voice cracking with rage, calling you out in front of everyone. That moment branded him "difficult" and nearly cost him everything. You watched his dream wobble on the edge while yours steadied and the industry kept spinning, indifferent to the bodies it left behind.
Some debuted. Some didn't.
But we’ll get to that story another time.
Back in the present, a couple days passed since you came back to Seoul— you're now sitting in a Hybe conference room turned temporary press hall, legs crossed tightly under the table so no one sees your knee bouncing like it's trying to escape your body.
It's the kickoff press conference for the year-end special collaboration, cameras are everywhere and so are reporters with microphones poised like weapons. Your members are seated a few chairs down, shooting you sympathetic glances when they think the cameras aren't looking.
Across from you, flanked by his members, sits the devil himself: Nishimura Riki.
He looks disgustingly repulsive in his all-black fit— sharp jawline, dyed blond hair styled just right, that stupid tall frame slouched like he owns the room. You want to throw your mic at his head and watch it split open.
The MC, some overly enthusiastic guy in a suit two sizes too tight, beams at the crowd. "Welcome everyone! Today we're excited to announce this groundbreaking collaboration between R3SET and Enhypen! Let's hear from the groups themselves!"
Forced applause ripples through the room and you plaster on your idol smile— eyes bright, lips curved— the works. Inside your head it's a completely different scene:
'Smile wider, you fraudulent prick. I hope your next flip lands on your neck.'
Riki mirrors your expression perfectly. To the cameras, you two look like respectful colleagues but up close? His eyes scream 'I hope you trip on stage and eat shit in front of twenty thousand people.'
The MC shoves a mic toward you first. "Y/n! How do you feel about partnering with Riki for this high-stakes piece?"
You lean forward slightly, voice honey-sweet and professional. "I'm really honored to be working with someone as talented as Riki. We're both dedicated to this, so I know we'll deliver something amazing for the fans."
Translation: 'I would rather gargle battery acid than spend one minute in a practice room with that entitled dance prodigy asshole.'
Riki's turn comes. He chuckles lightly, the sound obviously practiced, but you catch the micro-twitch in his jaw. "Yeah, same. Y/n has great stage presence. Looking forward to creating something cool together."
'Cool?' you think. 'I'll create a crime scene, maybe.'
The MC eats it up. "Ah, such great chemistry already! Let's do a quick joint Q&A. Reporters, go ahead."
A reporter stands. "There have been past rumors of some tension between you two from trainee days. How will you overcome that for this project?"
The room goes a little quieter— your smile doesn't falter, but your nails dig into your thigh under the table.
Riki answers first, voice calm. "Trainee days were tough for everyone. We've both grown a lot since then. Right, Y/n?"
You nod, locking eyes with him. "Absolutely. Water under the bridge, we're focused on the performance now."
Water under the bridge? More like gasoline on a bonfire.
Another reporter asks, "Riki, what's your first impression of working with Y/n?"
He tilts his head, pretending to think. "She's very... determined. Always gives 110%. I respect that."
Determined. Just a way of saying 'ruthless backstabber,' for him.
You jump in before he can enjoy his little jab. "And Riki's technique is insane. It'll be fun pushing each other, right?" Your tone is light, playful even and the audience laughs appreciatively.
The press conference drags on like a hostage situation— they make you do a short segment where you both stand up and demonstrate a basic partner hold for the cameras. His hand lands on your waist— firm and professional, but you can tell he’s dying to take it off. Your skin crawls but you place your hand on his shoulder like the choreographer instructed earlier in rehearsal. Up close, he smells like expensive cologne and it makes nausea rise so violently in your throat that you want to throw up on the spot.
"Relax your grip," he mutters under his breath, smile still plastered on for the flashing cameras. "Or are you trying to claw me in front of everyone?"
"Shut the fuck up and smile, giraffe," you whisper back, voice sugary.
His fingers press harder into your waist— just enough to bruise, not enough for anyone else to notice. You dig your nails into his shoulder in return and the cameras click wildly.
You both separate after the pose, returning to your seats— of course, your members are trying not to laugh nervously while Jake leans over to whisper something to Riki that makes his jaw clench. Good, you hope it breaks.
The MC claps. "Wonderful! Now, let's hear some fan questions!"
A staff member reads one aloud: "What's one thing you're excited to learn from each other?"
You go first this time. "I'm excited to learn Riki's precision in footwork. He's known for it."
And you're also excited to learn how far you can push him before he snaps on camera.
Riki's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "Y/n's charisma in performance is next level. I'll definitely pick up some tips on audience connection."
The back-and-forth continues— every compliment laced with venom only the two of you can taste. The audience eats up the "tension" as chemistry.
Oh God, if only they knew you'd spent the van ride here mentally drafting apology tweets for the hypothetical day you actually murder him.
At one point, they project concept art for the performance on a big screen behind you— dark, intense, sensual choreography planned; close partner work, lifts and prolonged eye contact. The MC gushes about it and you nearly choke on your own spit.
Great. Just what you need—his hands all over you while yours fantasize about elbowing him in the ribs until he throws up his organs.
Riki's expression stays neutral, but you swear you see his eye twitch— he probably imagines the same thing in reverse.
Halfway through, they bring out small gifts— matching bracelets symbolizing the collaboration. You have to clasp one on his wrist while cameras zoom in; his skin is warm, you hate it— but he’s obligated to return the favor, fingers brushing yours with shameless disgust.
Then the press conference wraps with more applause and photo ops; you stand side-by-side for group shots, shoulders barely touching but close enough that you can feel his body. His hand brushes your lower back as you pose— publicly supportive, privately a threat.
"After this, I'm blocking your number again," you mutter as the cameras flash.
"Already did that months ago, ugly bitch," he whispers back cheerfully.
As the event ends and staff start herding everyone out, you catch his eye one last time across the room— needless to say, it's pure murder, zero remorse.
You smirk behind your polite nod.
Game on, Riki. Someone's going to break. You just hope it's him. (though if it's you, at least you'll take him down with you.)
The van ride back to the dorm is quiet, your members chat lightly about the schedule while you stare out the window, palm still stinging from earlier, replaying every micro-interaction. His grip. His whisper. That fucking ugly smirk.
Oh god— hatred has turned you into a creature of rage and despair, it’s starting to become pathetic.
You pull out your phone and open the secret hate account; it's time to upload that one blurry shot you sneaked during the photo op where he looks slightly constipated under the bright lights.
Petty? Yes. Therapeutic? Immensely.
For your sake— somewhere across the city, Riki's probably doing the same thing, so it’s only fair. You log into your @nishimurafraud aka “that bitch gotta go” and do your thing, quickly posting the ridiculous picture with the caption, ‘thank you to the fan who snapped this horrible shot of dickimura’.
You laugh to yourself— it’s true that it’s childish and ridiculous but no one will ever know it was you anyway.
Nishimura Riki needs to die.
Not in a cute "hahaha i hate you" way. You mean it in the bone-deep, stomach-churning, 'if I had a knife I'd turn him into human barbecue meat' kind of way.
Every time you picture his stupid face your blood pressure spikes so hard you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. He's not even attractive to you anymore— years of hatred have warped him into this tall, lanky, smug-faced asshole who moves like he's God's gift to dance but looks like a little bitch when he's off-guard.
Ugly on the inside, ugly on the outside. Perfect match.
And now —a few days after— the locked studio on the fifth floor of the Hybe building feels like a prison cell designed specifically to torture you. Soundproof walls, mirrors on every surface, no windows, and a door that clicks shut with a sound that makes your skin crawl.
Just you, him, the choreographer who already left a couple times for a "quick break" (though he’s probably hiding from the murder vibes), and four hours of mandatory choreography creation time.
You stretch in the corner, trying to ignore how his presence sucks all the oxygen out of the room— Riki’s scrolling on his phone like he has all the time in the world, legs spread obnoxiously wide on the floor, he’s wearing a pair of ugly oversized sweats and a chrome hearts tank.
He probably thought he looked oh so good that morning when he got dressed— fun fact, he doesn’t.
"You gonna stand up or just sit there?" you snap, not even bothering to look at him.
"Don't talk to me, just do your job and shut up." he clicks his tongue, knee bouncing, annoyed.
You let out a breathy chuckle, "I don't care about what you want, just stand up and let's get to work. Try not to be a lazy slop for once."
"Oh give me a break," he hisses the second the choreographer is gone, not even looking up. “Start alone if you’re so eager to work.”
What you’re gonna do is start throwing punches.
You laugh humourlessly. "Keep throwing your little fits and maybe they'll finally send you back to Japan, dickface."
His head snaps up, those dark eyes narrowing into slits. "At least I have talent worth exporting. What do you have? Average face, average moves, and a shit personality."
"Fuck you," you spit, stepping into the center of the room. "Let's just get this over with."
The choreographer left a rough structure: heavy partner work, intense eye contact, sharp isolations into fluid lifts. Of course. Because the company wants chemistry. What they're going to get though, is a motherfucking homicide report.
You start with the basics— mirroring footwork. Riki's annoyingly precise, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking impressed, instead, you mutter under your breath, "Stiff as a fucking board. Do you even bend or is your spine made of rebar?"
Riki stops mid-count, turning to you with a glare that makes you want to punch his teeth in. "Stop looking at me and then maybe you’ll realise how off-beat you are… no wonder they paired you with me— someone actually good."
"Good?" You step closer, hands on your hips. "You're sloppy as shit. The only reason it works is because you're young and pretty and the delusional fans like that overgrown baby face. One day that shit's gonna catch up and you'll just be another weirdo doing Tiktoks in your mom's basement."
He barks a laugh that sounds like it hurts. "Coming from you? That's rich. You're mid at best on a good day, repulsive on every other."
The insults fly faster as you run the first section again, every correction turning into verbal evisceration.
"You're rushing the transition, can't keep up, ugly ass?" he sneers during a spin combo.
"Shut up," you fire back. "Fix your damn posture before I break it for you."
By the time you reach the partner lifts, the air is drenched with venom; he has to grip your waist and lift you into a hold, his fingers dig in hard—bruising, punishing. You retaliate by digging your elbow into his shoulder as you balance.
"Watch it," he growls, voice low.
"Make me, bitch."
The lift goes up— for three seconds it's almost beautiful—technically. But then you shove off him harder than necessary on the dismount, and he pushes you back just enough that you stumble.
"You fucking—" You whirl on him, fists clenched.
"What do you want now?" His chest is heaving, face inches from yours. Up close he's even uglier— that stupid mole, the way his lip curls like he smells something rotten. You. "You know what y/n? I hope this stage is where your career dies, that'll finally shut you up. I think you’ve gotten way too comfortable.”
You shove him hard in the chest and he shoves right back. For a split second you're both seconds away from throwing actual punches— knuckles white, breathing ragged, eyes screaming murder. Your heart is pounding with rage and something sickeningly close to adrenaline.
The studio door clicks open before you can use your fists— a staff member walks in, freezing at the sight of you two practically snarling at each other.
"Everything... okay?" the staff asks hesitantly.
You step back first, forcing that professional mask on. "Perfect. Just working through some difficult transitions."
Riki wipes sweat from his brow, smiling like an angel for the staff. "Yeah. Great progress."
The staff nods awkwardly and leaves after reminding you of the schedule— the door locks again and you both exhale like you've been holding your breath for an hour.
"Stay the fuck away from me until we have to touch again," you mutter, grabbing your water bottle.
"Gladly."
The session drags like that for hours— insults layered between actual choreography notes, every touch turning into a power struggle. By the end you're both exhausted, bruised, vibrating with hatred and you leave without a word, slamming the door behind you.
Later that night, in the Enhypen dorm, Riki's sprawled on the couch scrolling through his phone with a scowl that could curdle milk. Jake walks in from the kitchen, humming, clearly in a good mood. He clears his throat, trying to sound casual at first. "So... choreo with Y/n today? I caught some of the teaser clips from the press conference earlier. She looks really good..."
Riki doesn't look up immediately, but his eyebrow twitches. "You're kidding, right?"
Jake continues, slower. "I mean... no, and you're probably gonna laugh but I've been thinking about her a lot lately. I don't know, man, I might... have a bit of a crush. Like, actually considering shooting my shot after this project wraps. She seems cool."
Jungwon, from the hallway, goes, "Oh shit, here we go..."
Riki slowly lowers his phone, staring at Jake like he just confessed to arson— the silence stretches for a beat before he explodes with disbelief "There's 7 billion people on this planet and you chose her? Good job man... nah, good job."
Jake chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Come on, she's not—"
Jay, overhearing from the other couch, jumps in. "She's not all that bad come on... you're lying to yourself it's dramatic."
"I'm not. She's ugly, bitchy, and dumb. What the fuck could he even see in her." Riki sits up straighter, fully committed and disgusted. "You're seriously just going to forget everything she did? All that... for a mid, ridiculous bitch?"
Sunoo intervenes, rolling his eyes, "You don't need to say all that Riki, don't call her a bitch. Honestly it's not that deep, we were young and..."
"Aaaand i don't care." Riki cuts off. "Good luck Jake, you're gonna regret this. You're gonna get herpes all over your dick— gonna start shooting your intestines straight out of your ass."
Jake is half-chuckling, half-horrified. "Dude... what the hell are you even saying."
"What im saying is, if you pursue that, I'm disowning you as a member. Find someone else. Anyone."
Jay wheezes from the couch. "Let him do whatever he wants to do. Y/n isn't even bad, she's sweet and pretty"
"You're dead wrong," Riki says, dead serious. "While you're at it Jake, do me a favor and take my place in rehearsal so I won't have to lift her disgusting ass again."
The words feel good, cathartic even, he pictures your face during that final shove in the studio and smiles spitefully at the ceiling. The satisfaction slandering your name brings him is unmatched.
Okay, you really didn’t make much of an effort these past few weeks— you’ll admit it. But, to your credit, pretending to tolerate Nishimura Riki was already taking more restraint than you possessed. The company wanted chemistry but come on— let’s be honest, subtlety had never been your strong suit when it came to him.
Back in the R3SET dorm, you’re sprawled across the couch in oversized sweats, phone glowing in your hand like a bomb that just went off. The email from Hybe sits open on the screen, the words burning into your retinas. Hye-ri pads in from the kitchen with two iced americanos, sliding one onto the coffee table before dropping down beside you.
“Oh shit, man, I’m in deep trouble,” you mutter, shoving the phone toward her.
You snort despite yourself. “Company just sent me an email… apparently people all over social media are saying me and Nishimura look like we despise each other. Like… hello? Duh? Tell me something I don’t know.”
Hye-ri winces, sipping her drink. “They really need to media train you, oh my god. You need to retake the whole class.”
You chuckle coldly, “This hatred cannot be media trained out of me, Hye-ri,” you say, half-laughing, half-serious, “I’ll drag that motherfucker down, whatever it takes. No one can convince me to stop.”
“Okay but at least be slick about it, Y/n.”
“Hell no. If I start behaving normally these crazy ass fans might start—” you gag dramatically, “—shipping me with him.”
Hye-ri hesitates, then pulls out her own phone with a sympathetic grimace. “Umm… I hate to break it to you, Y/n. Don’t be mad okay? But like… they already do.”
She types quickly, and turns the screen toward you. A random tweet stares back: “Oh i know that angry enemy sex must be sooo good. #yn #niki”
Oh fuck these people, come on.
“Ew what the heck???” You recoil, shoving the phone away like it’s contagious. “Ugh I’m gonna throw up, hold my hair.”
Hye-ri laughs, rubbing your back as you dramatically fake-heave into a pillow. “It’s just delusional fans, unnie. They ship anything that breathes in the same zip code. But yeah… the company’s not wrong about the optics.…”
You sit up, running a hand through your hair. Every interaction with Riki these past weeks had been a masterclass in restraint— smiling for the cameras while imagining shoving him off a balcony— and now Hybe was sniffing around like you’d personally ruined their precious brand synergy.
“They want me to play nice,” you say bitterly, staring at the email again. “But every time I’m in the same room as him it feels like my skin’s on fire. Like my body remembers every shitty thing he’s ever said or done and just… revolts. Literally what do they want me to do for a whole month ?”
Hye-ri lets out an awkward laugh, she knows that topic is highly sensitive and she doesn’t really know how to talk about it. “Well, just don’t talk to him, try to be neutral and don’t bother arguing with him.”
It’s so hard not to argue when Nishimura Riki is another level of messy. The kind that makes your stomach turn and your skin want to peel itself off just from sharing the same air— he’s the toxic spill that contaminates everything it touches.
And since the company doesn’t give a damn about your mutual revulsion— here you are, dragged into another locked studio at 9 PM for a forced 12-hour overnight practice because the higher-ups decided “chemistry needs time” and deadlines don’t care about your desire to see him drop dead.
It’s been a week since the talk in the dorms with Hye-ri, and you tried— god you really tried to follow her advice, but it’s impossible.
The mirrors probably make it worse— every angle reflects his repulsive presence. You can’t escape him. Your skin prickles the second the door locks and it’s just the two of you under the cold lights.
Riki’s already there, scrolling on his phone with that bored expression that says he’d rather be anywhere but near you. It’s a good thing you feel the same way.
The choreographer dips out around midnight with a vague “review the footage yourselves.” Leaving you two in hell. You start the first run-through in silence; during a simple mirroring sequence, his arm brushes yours accidentally and you jerk away like he’s diseased, skin crawling violently.
“Try not to fucking touch me,” you snap. “Are you spatially impaired or something?”
“That’s not even a thing, you idiot. And you think I wanna be touching a backstabbing bitch?” Riki’s lip tighten. “Don’t think i forgot everything you did back then.”
You roll your eyes, “Oh for fuck’s sake, just shut up for once.”
The tall man snaps, he turns to you and looks down with hatred, “No, everyone’s forgetting your little bitch act but I won’t. You sold out Hajime just to save your own ass cause you’re an egoistic idiot… Should I continue or do you actually feel guilty for once?”
The words hit like acid, your blood boils and you whip around, hatred flaring. “And your little public tantrum right after? Exploding in the hallway, screaming at me in front of everyone, nearly tanked my entire evaluation. Don’t act like you were some saint, Riki. We both know you’re the bitch here.”
He stares at you with pure loathing, “Whatever you say, one day you’re gonna have to face it y/n, let’s just finish this shit so I don’t have to look at your face anymore.”
Some time after; the micro-sabotage starts small but vicious. In the next lift sequence, he “missteps,” his foot catching your ankle just enough to make you stumble hard.
Pain shoots up your leg but you recover by raking your nails subtly down his arm as you catch yourself— leaving red lines under his sleeve. Riki hisses but keeps moving, eyes burning.
Your skin crawls every time his hands land on your waist for the holds. It feels violating, wrong. You dig your fingers into his shoulder harder than needed, hoping it bruises deep.
“Disgusting,” you mutter under your breath during one close turn.
You force some semblance of work conversation because the company is monitoring progress, but even that doesn’t work.
“Your count is off on the transition,” you say through gritted teeth, skin prickling as you reset positions.
“Yeah, because you’re rushing it like an amateur,” he replies.
It keeps going until you both have no saliva and inspiration left and around 5 am, during the most intense partner sequence— close holds, prolonged eye contact, bodies pressed together for balance—you both mistime the transition.
Your foot catches his, and his arm wraps around you instinctively as momentum pulls you down. You crash to the practice floor in a tangle of limbs, his body half-covering yours, chests heaving.
For a second, neither of you moves.
His face is inches from yours, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—thighs, chest, the press of his hand still on your waist.
“Get off me,” you whisper, but your voice comes out rougher than intended.
He doesn’t immediately, his eyes flick down to your mouth with disgust, then back up. “You’re the one still holding my shirt.”
You are, your fingers are fisted in the fabric. You release it like it burned you, bile rising in your throat.
You scramble up, heart pounding with rage— you both avoid eye contact, but the image of his body over yours lingers like a scar until you’re seconds away from throwing up.
Around 6 am, another company email hits and obviously yours is brutal: Y/n’s sections lack conviction. Visible panic affecting flow. Fix immediately or risk replacement.
You read it in the corner, alone, hands starting to shake as the pressure, exhaustion, and years of fighting catch up. Panic claws at your throat so you turn away, trying to breathe through it, hating that you’re cracking even a little.
Riki notices from across the room, of course, he doesn’t comfort— he stays in his corner of the room, a mocking smirk creeping onto his face despite the exhaustion. This, is his favorite sight, he thrives whenever he sees you break even a little.
So all he can do is laugh coldly, he despises you, hates how you get under his skin, hates that he can’t stop seeing images of your younger self betraying him over and over.
But what he loves though— is that you could be begging on your knees and he’d still want you dead.
You push open the studio door a couple hours later, legs like lead and eyes burning from the all-nighter; every muscle screams, your ankle still throbs from that “accidental” trip, and your brain is a delightful cocktail of rage and exhaustion.
You’re thinking about the long nap you’re gonna take as soon as you’re home, when you spot Sim Jake leaning against the wall a few meters down, looking unfairly fresh for this ungodly hour. He’s holding a small paper bag, shifting his weight like a nervous puppy.
“Hey y/n,” he says, offering a shy smile as you approach. “I… uh, grabbed some pastries earlier. Got extra ones I won’t finish. Want some?”
He holds the bag out and you blink at him, brain too fried to compute kindness immediately. Extra my ass, those look suspiciously hand-picked.
Before you can answer, the studio door swings open again— Riki steps out right behind you, tall frame radiating pure irritation— his eyes land on Jake, the pastries, and you standing there and his jaw tightens so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t crack. He huffs loudly- dramatic as ever—shoves his hands in his pockets, and stalks off down the hall without a word.
Jake watches him go, then glances back at your narrowing eyes as they stare at Riki’s retreating back.
He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… about those pastries. And, um… would you maybe wanna grab lunch sometime? When we’re not both half-dead from schedules.” He glances around quickly, making sure no staff is lurking.
So it wasn’t about the pastries at all.
You raise an eyebrow, suspicion kicking in instantly. Is this a trap? Is Riki putting him up to this so he can watch you crash and burn? Some elaborate plot to humiliate you?
“Is there a catch?” you cross your arms.
He shakes his head, sincere. “No catch. Just me.”
You let out a tired but genuine little chuckle. “Mhh okay then. Okay. Lunch sounds good.”
His face lights up like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket and you take a pastry from the bag— still warm—before waving him off to head toward the van waiting downstairs.
Cute. Annoyingly wholesome. The anti-Riki.
Back at the dorm you collapse onto your bed for approximately three seconds before your stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. Right. Food.
You drag yourself to your laptop, intending to quickly google whether that leftover kimchi jjigae in the fridge is still safe or if it’s entered its “biohazard” era and fingers moving on autopilot, you hit the search bar.
And remember what we said about irony? Well it seems that bitch is the main character in your life— it lives and thrives on your embarrassment.
Your search history pops up first on your phone, snapping you back to reality. Oh well.
You stare, then you stare harder. Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.
You’ve forgot to mention this part of the hatred— the one where, no matter how many times you make yourself throw up, you still can’t stop yourself from analyzing the enemy— studying his technique so you can dismantle it during practice.
Riki precision really is…. insane— it hurt to admit but it’s the truth. The way he isolates his movements, the control in those lifts, the ridiculous height giving him lines you had to match or exceed… You’ve been rewatching his clips more than you care to admit, picking apart what makes him good so you could be better.
So you could beat him.
“Fucking hell,” you groan, slamming the laptop shut and face-planting into your pillow.
Stockholm syndrome probably. Yeah.
Needless to say— a few days later you find yourself sitting next to Sim Jake while he talks about different foods he misses from Australia. Interesting— but also existentially confusing, because here’s this cutie pie of a man rambling sweetly about meat pies and Vegemite like it’s the pinnacle of human cuisine— and your brain keeps short-circuiting back to someone’s dancing skills.
“—and honestly the Tim Tams are killer, but nothing beats a proper Aussie burger with beetroot,” Jake says, his knee brushing yours under the table as he leans in a little closer. “You ever tried any of that stuff? I’d love to make you my infamous version sometime.”
You blink, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Is that an invitation?”
His eyes crinkle, clearly pleased. “It’s definitely an invitation. I make a mean one.” He steals a fry from your plate, holding eye contact the whole time like it’s a dare.
And it’s nice— really nice. Jake feels nice, and safe and everything in between. A good friend.
You laugh, reaching over to snag one of his own fries in retaliation, letting your fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. “Bold move. I see how it is— you lure me in with pastries and now you’re offering private cooking lessons.”
He chuckles, low and easy, shifting so his arm rests along the back of your chair. “What can I say? I like spoiling good company. And you…” His gaze flicks over your face, appreciative. “You make it easy to want to spoil.”
Oh. Oookay. Sim Jake’s got game.
Your stomach does a stupid little flip despite yourself— it’s been so long since anyone looked at you without layers of politeness or pure venom, that the attention feels almost foreign.
“Yeah? Keep talking like that and I might start thinking this lunch is less ‘casual hang’ and more ‘date,’” you tease, tilting your head as you take a sip of your drink, watching him over the rim. You don’t even mean it at first, it just slips out, friendly and teasing.
Much to your surprise Jake doesn’t miss a beat. “Would that be so bad?” he asks, voice playful but with a genuine edge underneath. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, schedules be damned.”
You feel heat creep up your neck but play it cool, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Ah… dangerous territory, Mr. Australia. I might actually say yes to that burger night you know?”
“Deal then,” he says immediately, his smile widening into something brighter and flirtier.
And who knows? This could be good, right? There’s not shame in wanting to hang out with sweet Jake and get a taste of normal life, burgers and all.
Mid-project evaluation hits like a goddamn truck— and honestly everyone expected it (everyone = you and your own brain).
The conference room feels narrower than usual, air thick with disappointment— suits from the creative team sit across the table like judges at an execution, projecting footage of your latest run-through on the big screen.
The choreography looks technically good in moments— your footwork clean, his lines ridiculous as always—but the notes flashing across the slide are brutal: Lacks cohesion. Emotional disconnect visible. Partner chemistry reads as forced tension rather than intentional fire. Fix by weekend or we reevaluate the performance slot.
You clench your jaw so hard it aches, nails digging into your thighs under the table. Of course it’s not cohesive, how the fuck do they expect magic when every touch makes your skin crawl like you’re hugging a venomous snake?
Riki sits a few seats away, face blank like he’s above it all, but you catch the micro-twitch in his jaw— he hates this as much as you do. Good.
The exec in the middle drones on, voice flat and disappointed. “We’re seeing potential, but the audience needs to feel something. Right now it looks like you two are tolerating each other at best.”
Tolerating? You almost laugh out loud. Try actively plotting each other’s demise between counts.
Your manager shoots you a warning glance, so you force a polite nod, but inside you’re screaming. Even in your twenties, this makes you feel like a kid getting grounded all over again—stuck in detention with the one classmate who ruined every group project. No phone, no freedom, just endless practice until you “get it right.” The infantilizing tone of it all makes your blood boil. You’re professionals… sort of— but sure, they should lock you in a room like misbehaving toddlers.
The meeting is short and soul-crushing. “We’re locking the studio for the full weekend,” one exec says flatly. “No outside schedules. Fix it.”
You don’t even look at Riki as you leave. You don’t need to— the tension follows you both like a shadow.
48 hours to manufacture chemistry out of pure hatred is a flawed way of proceeding. Give it a lifetime— and then maybe just maybe it’ll be enough.
The studio door clicks shut 7 pm that next Friday, the lock engaging like a prison cell. No choreographer. No staff. Just the two of you, mirrors on every wall as you stretch in the corner, trying to ignore how his presence sucks the oxygen out of the room. Riki’s already there, him and that obnoxious slouch.
There’s something you have yet to admit— it’s that you learned Nishimura Riki the way soldiers learn battlefields— every weakness mapped, every tell memorized, every micro-expression a potential opening for attack. You could recognize his silhouette before your own reflection: the tall frame, the slight tilt of his head when he’s about to strike, the way his shoulders tense right before a difficult transition. But no matter how much you study him, you could never pin point why you loathe him so much.
It’s like your ambition had slowly borrowed his face— every late-night practice, every ranking you clawed for, every mirror check— his standard was burned into your brain. This comes from the principle that, there are people you love because they understand you— and then there are people who understand you because they’ve spent years trying to defeat you.
Hatred kept you facing one another long after affection would’ve looked away.
It’s better this way.
Two ugly souls like yours could never be more than rivals.
The first run-through starts in heavy silence— you move into position and Riki does the same. No words are uttered, just eyes tracking every shift of weight, every breath, every subtle adjustment.
You’ve been hanging out a lot with Jake this past week— as often as the schedule allowed, and you’ve started to wonder if giving him a chance was a good think. Technically speaking— Jake was a total sweetheart, he carried his heart on his sleeve, offered amazing advice and had good cooking skills.
But— and here it comes— you really weren’t ready for anything serious. Common excuse really, but that wasn’t an excuse, you just really didn’t have time to waste on trying to flirt with a man. Busy life, it seemed.
Now currently in a very busy session, you watch the precise snap of Riki’s isolations, the way his long limbs cut through the air with infuriating control. Bastard. How does he make it look so effortless?
Your body mirrors him instinctively now— years of obsession making your muscles anticipate his timing even as your mind screams to disrupt it.
Riki circles you during the mirroring sequence, gaze sharp on your footwork— and damn it if you don’t feel it like a physical touch— analyzing, cataloging, judging. When your ankle wobbles slightly from exhaustion, his lip twitches.
The partner section begins a while after, his hands land on your waist for the lift, the contact burning. Your skin crawls with disgust, but your body betrays you— muscles relaxing into the hold for a split second before you catch yourself.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper viciously, bodies pressed together.
“Like what? Like I wanna throw you out the window?” he mutters back, fingers flexing on your waist. “Because that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
“Liar, your hands are shaking.”
“They’re not shaking, they’re restraining themselves from choking you.”
This is vile. You dig your fingers into his shoulder harder than necessary as he lifts, feeling the muscle tense under your grip and Riki adjusts his stance minutely, correcting for your weight without missing a beat. It’s almost like he knows exactly how you balance, how you breathe through the strain.
You dismount with a shove and and he pushes back just enough on the next turn to throw your timing. Still absolutely no words are uttered, there’s just a silent war in the mirrors— your reflection showing the way your eyes narrow when his hand lingers a fraction too long on your back during a spin.
His reflection shows the tight set of his jaw when your thigh brushes his during a close hold.
You break the moment by “accidentally” stepping on his foot hard enough to make him curse— and from there, insults get more creative and more personal.
“You’re nothing without the company propping you up,” he spits out.
“Says the overrated dance prodigy who throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way,” you fire back. “Hajime would be embarrassed.”
His eyes flash dangerously. “Leave him out of your fucking mouth.”
The air crackles, you’re both breathing hard, circling each other like fighters in a ring by then. You wouldn’t be honest if you didn’t mention that every lift brings unwanted awareness: the heat of his chest against yours, the strength in his arms that you catalog despite yourself, the way your bodies slot together technically perfect even as your minds revolt.
Your stomach twists with nausea and something worse— betrayal by your own nerves firing at his proximity. You hate this, you hate how the body remembers his grip like muscle memory. You want him to be a shadow, something you never notice, someone who never crosses your mind, but life’s unfair it seems.
The next sequence brings you chest to chest. His hand slides up your back for the hold— punishing. Your body reacts again, traitorous warmth spreading despite the nausea. You hate it. You hate him, you hate him you hate him. You hate yourself more for the split-second where your fingers curl into his shirt like they belong there.
“Get your hands off me properly,” you hiss.
“Make me.”
So you shove him and he shoves right back— petty as always. For a moment it looks like you might actually come to blows— fists clenched, eyes locked in pure murderous intent. You notice the vein in his neck when he’s holding back from shoving you harder— and it’s fascinating how loathing changes a person’s body.
A particularly difficult lift leaves you pressed right against him for balance. His breath fans hot across your collarbone and your heart hammers.
For three terrifying seconds your bodies move in perfect sync, like they understand each other better than you do. Disgust floods you immediately after and you shove away harder. Riki releases you like you’re poison, but not before you feel the slight tremor in his hands.
Betrayed by your own fucking bodies.
Around 2 am., you both call for a break, collapsing on opposite sides of the studio. Your muscles burn like thousand fires. When your phone buzzes, you pick it up, expecting a check-in from Hye-ri.
It’s Jake instead.
Jake: Hey… someone sent me a tweet from your account. Look, I know we’ve only hung out a couple times but I thought things were good. This doesn’t seem like you but the screenshot looks real. I’m pretty disappointed. Maybe we should just… not do lunch anytime soon. Sorry.
You click fast on the screenshot, heart hammering, and when you open it, your mouth drops. It’s a tweet, a singular tweet… of yours???
“i’m gonna break Sim Jake’s heart and he doesn’t even know it 😈😈”
You stare at the screen, dumbfounded.
What. the. fuck?
The tweet is so obviously fake— ridiculous wording, wrong tone, obviously poorly edited. You almost start giggling maniacally, because it definitely lacks effort, but Jake, sweet gullible Jake, bought it.
“Fucking hell,” you whisper, stuck between laughing and crying. Is he really that stupid to think you’d ever be that obvious?? You might need to step up your game.
You: can’t you see it’s edited??? how stupid can you be Jake please 😭😭
Jake: no i took editing classes and that’s not edited.
You stare at the message, blinking hard.
You: tell me you’re joking please.
Jake: no, im not. Take care y/n.
The chat goes quiet and you lower your phone slowly, the pieces clicking into place with icy clarity. That wording, that timing. The way it conveniently blew up your one decent thing right in the middle of this hell.
Nishimura fucking Riki.
Would anyone be surprised? He’s the only one who’s childish enough to attempt to ruin your relationships like that. Absolute lack of skills.
Rage explodes in your chest like a grenade, because who else would be this stupid? Who else would try to ruin every attempt at happiness you made?
You stand up so fast the room spins for a second, storming across the studio toward him. He’s still sitting against the wall, looking annoyingly unbothered.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, shoving your phone in his face.
Riki glances at the screen, then back up at you with zero remorse, and no intention of hiding. “Didn’t even make anything up. Everyone knows you have a loud mouth… you would’ve said it eventually.”
Your blood boils. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? I actually liked him.”
“Well i don’t really care about what you like,” he says flatly, pushing himself up to his full height. “So get over yourself.”
He towers over you, but you don’t back down an inch, tilting your chin up defiantly. “You’re so self-centered it’s insane. This had nothing to do with you, Nishimura.”
“Keep talking, Y/n. I don’t give a fuck.” Riki clenches his jaw. “If you wanna be a homie hopper go do that somewhere else, far away from my friends.”
Oh. Now he crossed a hard line. The motherfucker is gonna have to pay.
The slap happens before you can think, your palm connects hard with his cheek, the sound cracking through the empty studio like a whip. Riki’s head snaps to the side and for a second he stills, contemplating his options, his hair falling on his face.
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and he nods, trying to hold himself back.
Then he grabs your wrist in a vice grip, yanking you closer. It looks like you might actually stab each other— both of you burning with rage, chests heaving, bodies practically vibrating with it. His fingers are tight around your wrist, heat pouring off him and you glare up at him, breath ragged, pulse hammering in your ears.
“Don’t put your hands on me.” Riki says, fingers leaving a white mark on your skin.
“Well next time you call me that, i’ll make sure i’m putting my hands on your lifeless body instead.” you try to escape his grip, but he doesn’t let go.
“Watch it,” he warns, voice low and dangerous, “before I actually lose it.”
“Wouldn’t you love to?” you tilt your head.
“Oh I would.”
The air shifts— you feel it deep down pressing on your ribs as your words hang between you like a challenge
“Then hit me, come on.” Your voice drops, eyes locked on his. “Hit me.”
The second you say that, something ignites in Riki’s gaze— it’s impossible to miss. And god if you don’t love the way you destabilise him.
The grip on your wrist tightens, then loosens by fractions. You’re breathing the same air, faces inches apart, and it’s so filthy— so disgusting. His eyes drop for a split second before snapping back up.
But then Riki lets go of your wrist like it burns him, shoving you back a step as disgust twists across his face, but it doesn’t quite hide the way his breath catches.
“Get out of my face,” he spits, turning away sharply.
Without hesitation, you turn on your heel and storm out of the main studio toward the attached bathroom, slamming the door behind you. The lock clicks and you twist the faucet on full blast before you start scrubbing your wrist like you can erase the ghost of his grip.
The water’s ice-cold but you don’t care. His touch is still there. Burning. Disgusting. You scrub harder, nails digging into your own skin, until your hands are raw and red.
Even then, your stomach twists. Part of you wants to throw up right into the sink— purge the memory of his body against yours, the way your wrist fit perfectly in his hand, the split second where rage had twisted into something darker and heavier.
But beneath the nausea sits an ache low in your gut, something warm and unwelcome that you refuse to name.
No. Absolutely not. I’d rather die.
Eventually you step back into the break room because the company’s made it clear: no leaving the premises. Two couches, a mini-fridge, and dim lights are the only things between you and the devil.
Riki’s already sprawled on the far couch, one arm thrown over his eyes like he can pretend you don’t exist— so you take the opposite one, kicking your shoes off and lying down with your back to him.
Neither of you naps. How could you?
The air is thick with the knowledge that the other person is right there, close enough to stab, close enough to—
You stare at the wall, eyes wide open, hyper-aware of every shift on the other couch. He’s probably plotting how to smother you with a pillow— that would be the most logical thing. Despite the fatigue clawing at you, heavy and bone-deep after the all-night practice, your body stays wired.
Adrenaline and hatred make for terrible bedfellows.
After a long silence, Riki’s voice cuts through the dark. “You know, I thought you’d finally grow up someday and accept that what you did was wrong.”
You don’t turn around. “I don’t really care what you think. I’m trying to rest, so shut up.”
“You’re not.” A pause. “You’re not gonna be able to sleep with me here.”
You huff, “And whose fault is that?”
“Mines.” His tone is almost smug. “You’re scared, right? Scared I’ll hurt you in your sleep. Well just know I wouldn’t hesitate, not even for a second.”
You roll over to face him, propping yourself up on one elbow. “Oh and what would you do? Ruin my relationships like a childish bastard? Or what?”
Riki sits up slowly, manspreading on the opposite couch with deliberate arrogance, he looks almost manly— a shame he’s such an asshole. His eyes lock onto yours across the dim room.
“Oh come on, get over it. You really thought I was gonna let you go out with my friend? You’re funny, Y/n. Really fucking funny.”
“No, I didn’t think so either,” you snap back, sitting up fully now. “But now you’re just gonna have to pay. Im not gonna let a weak boy like you step on me like that.”
“Funny.” He leans back further, maintaining eye contact like it’s a challenge. “What are you gonna do then?”
In one smooth motion you pull out your phone, digging through your photos with angry swipes and you turn the screen toward him, a petty little smile tugging at your lips. It’s a screenshot of a pretty compromising video of him to say the least…
“I got this from a telegram group chat a while back. Didn’t think I’d ever use it but oh well… You wouldn’t want this to get out, right? I mean… everyone knows you’re a disrespectful cunt but this? Oh this is awful.”
You play the first few seconds just to taunt him— it shows young Riki, stressed and exhausted, swearing at staff member during a meltdown— the audio is grainy but clear enough. Deep down you know he was just a kid under crushing pressure, but right now you’re too greedy for revenge to care for ethics.
“You’re doing all that for some dick?” He laughs, but it’s sharp and bitter. “Damn, I knew you were desperate but wow…”
“Don’t play with me. I’m seconds away from handing that video to a hate account.”
“Goddamnit Y/n, if you’re so eager to get dicked down you could’ve asked anyone else that isn’t my friend. And you sit here and act so surprised like you didn’t have it coming.”
You scoff, you’re not bruised— far from it, but he’s touched a sensitive spot. It’s not like you were ever planning to sleep with Jake, come on, but he doesn’t have to know that.
“Well good job, Nishimura.” Your thumb hovers over the screen. “You and your loud mouth have just earned yourselves another controversy.”
Riki jolts from the couch almost immediately, lunging toward you. You scramble back but he’s faster— in seconds you’re tangled aggressively on the couch as he tries to snatch the phone from your hand. You push, hit him in the chest, elbow him wherever you can reach but he desperately grabs for the device, long limbs pinning you down in the struggle.
“I’ll kill you, Y/n. I swear to god if you posted that shit—”
“I thought you didn’t care about it?” you taunt breathlessly, still fighting him. “You were so confident two seconds ago?”
He grabs your wrist hard then, you push back with everything you have until somehow you’ve got him pinned beneath you on the couch, breathing ragged.
“Do not. Touch me.”
Riki freezes— perhaps he’s an asshole, but even he knows a hard no when he hears one. His hand drops away instantly. “Delete that video,” he warns, voice low and dangerous, “before I ruin your whole life.”
“You already ruined my life by existing, you self-centered prick.”
“Watch me ruin it more. If you post that video, Y/n…”
“Oh god, you’re so dramatic.” You roll your eyes, feigning indifference. You turn off your phone with a deliberate click. “Relax, will you? Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
Riki stares at you for a long moment, chest still rising and falling sharply, before he pushes himself up and returns to his own couch. “You better delete that shit—I swear if you—”
“Oh shut that thing up.”
The moment fades after that, leaving only heavy silence, you both try to rest again— you lie back down, pulling a thin blanket over yourself, but your eyes refuse to close. You’re too aware of his presence, too on edge.
He’s going to kidnap you in your sleep or something. Poison your water. Smother you. Anything.
But despite every instinct screaming to stay vigilant, exhaustion tugs at the edges of your mind. You breathe slowly, deliberately, trying to force your body to relax. And yet, against all reason, you become hyper-aware of his breathing across the room.
It’s steady at first, then hitches slightly every few minutes— like he’s replaying the fight, or the slap, or the way your bodies had tangled just minutes ago. You analyze it without meaning to, noting the rhythm, the occasional sharp inhale, the way it deepens when he shifts on the couch.
Somehow, despite everything, the sound of Nishimura Riki breathing becomes the only thing you hear in the dark.
You hate it. You listen anyway.
“Oh girl, Nishimura Riki wants to fuck you. Hard.” Hye-ri says from her chair, legs crossed as a makeup artist dusts highlighter across her cheekbones.
It’s been a few days since the whole weekend …thing— it’s gone excessively slow but time pays off, or whatever people say when they’re trying to sound wise. The locked studio torture finally ended, the performance notes improved just enough to satisfy the company, and now here you are— back in the comfort of your group’s dressing room at the company building, getting dolled up for tonight’s award show.
Your members are scattered around the mirrors in various states of glam, chatting and laughing like the weekend from hell never happened.
At least on the surface.
You nearly choke on your coffee. “Hye-ri, what the actual fuck?”
She grins at you through the mirror, completely unbothered, while the makeup artist dabs at the corner of her eye. “I mean, you gotta admit he looks like he wants to eat you up.”
“You’re so gross, I don’t even know why we’re friends…” you mutter, tilting your head so your own artist can blend the eyeshadow.
Even then, the memory of that charged weekend—his grip on your wrist, the way your bodies tangled on the couch, the unwanted ache that still lingers—makes heat crawl up your neck.
Disgusting.
Hye-ri laughs, “Cause we’re both freaked out, duh… but the problem with you is that you draw the line at enemies. Like come on, be young and free— what’s so wrong about a little bit of hate sex?”
Oh, so now she’s resorted to saying these freaky things in front of the staff? Oh my.
“Hye-ri what the fuck??” You whip your head toward her, much to your makeup artist’s annoyance. She gently guides your face back forward with a soft sigh.
“Just face it, Y/n,” Hye-ri continues, waving a hand dramatically. “That man wants you. Bad. But he’s just too… angry all the time. A shame.”
“No he doesn’t. Stop making stuff up.” You glare at her reflection. “And stop talking about him. I’m trying to focus.”
“Yeah yeah you’re avoiding the topic as always, but you’re right— focus on not breaking your legs with those high heels. I swear to god, this company is evil.” She turns toward the makeup artists with a sweet smile. “No offense, you’re a sweetheart.”
“None taken,” the artist replies with a chuckle, carefully applying gloss to your lips. “I know they push you guys a lot. God, I wouldn’t even know how to walk in these heels, Y/n.”
“I don’t even know how I do it either…” you sigh, staring at the deadly stilettos waiting by your chair. “I’m gonna break my legs one day.”
A while after, once the final touches are done, you slip into the high heels. In one smooth motion you stand, testing your balance— strangely enough, the confidence hits almost immediately; the heels make your legs look endless, powerful, like you could conquer the entire red carpet and still have energy left to step on someone’s neck.
Specifically a certain tall asshole’s.
You pull out your phone, snap a quick mirror pic—legs for days, sleek black dress hugging every curve, hair and makeup sharp enough to cut glass— and post it on Twitter with a caption that makes you smirk: “I step on mean boys for a living.”
A bit risky, sure. But you like the thrill of posting something just controversial enough to make people talk.
You put your phone down and turn toward the girls. “Selfie time. We look too good not to.”
Hye-ri and the other girls crowd in happily, striking poses in the mirror; you snap a few group shots— arms around each other, and save it for the staff to post on the group account later.
Eventually, you all gather your things and head out; you strut toward the waiting cars in formation, heels clicking against the floor. Inside the vehicle— you’re chatting with Sera about tonight’s award show— the KGMAs—leaning forward despite the seatbelt as the city lights streak past the tinted windows.
“I’m telling you, if we dont take anything home tonight I’m actually gonna cry. Not on camera, obviously, but later? Full breakdown. We’ve been killing it this year.”
Sera nods, adjusting the strap of her dress. “Same. You especially. That solo stage last month? Insane. They better recognize it.”
With that, your phone buzzes in your lap— you glance down and nearly laugh out loud.
@nriki.mura liked your tweet.
The notification glows mockingly for half a second before vanishing.
Oh my god. Caught him lacking.
You can practically picture it— his thumb slipping, the immediate panic, the frantic un-like. The mental image of Nishimura Riki, Mr. Untouchable himself, accidentally simping over a picture of you is almost too good.
Amused, you open your messages without hesitation.
You: You know i saw you like my tweet right?
Mina, ever the nosy one, leans over your shoulder almost automatically. “You’re talking to Nishimura?”
“Yeah,” you say, chuckling. “He accidentally liked my tweet.”
Hye-ri, from the seat across, perks up immediately. “See??? I was right. He does wanna fuck you.”
“Oh drop it, Hye-ri,” you laugh, shaking your head even as heat creeps up your neck.
Riki texts back almost immediately.
Riki: wtf are you talking about.
You: you just liked my tweet then deleted it, pathetic 😭
Riki: shut your mouth. I thought it was someone else for a second.
You: so you’d like the pic if it wasn’t me?
Riki: Everything you do is ugly because you make it ugly. You’re repulsive, so yeah i’d like if it wasn’t you.
You: Yeah i bet. Even my dancing’s ugly right? Must be why you’re always analyzing it.
Riki: what are you even talking about. Get a grip.
You: I think deep down you’re very jealous of me.
See, that’s a personal conviction you’ve had for years— Riki hides behind all that hatred but there’s a deep respect there. Something he’s never been able to accept but you’ll shove it in his face ever so often.
Riki: Youre funny.
You: yeah yeah, it was envy all along wasn’t it?
Riki: Shutup y/n
You: Shhh, answer me. You want to be me, right?
You: actually don’t answer, i already know the answer.
You drop your phone in your lap with a satisfied smirk as the van slows to a stop at the venue. Got him. Hye-ri glances at you, eyebrow raised. “That whole exchange looked tense as hell. You good?”
“Peachy,” you reply, stepping out carefully.
The heels are already murdering your feet, but you make it look effortless because that’s the job. Paparazzi flashes explode around you as you wave, smile, bow politely toward the chanting fans, all while your mind replays the text thread.
Pathetic, indeed.
Inside, the atmosphere buzzes— you spot Enhypen across the hallway and Jake nods awkwardly in your direction, the unresolved drama still hanging between you like an awkward third wheel.
You have to admit you didn’t really try to fix things or clarify things— if a man jumps to conclusions like this? He’s not worth the hassle.
Riki, standing beside him, glares with professional precision— polite smile for the cameras, murder in his eyes when they flick toward you. You return the energy with a sweet wave.
Eat shit, giraffe.
A little while later you’re called on stage with the girls for a quick pre-award segment. You sit gracefully on the tall stool, bare legs crossed in front of you, the dress riding up just enough to show the deadly heels. You tap your foot distractingly as you chat with the MC, answering questions about your group’s comeback with charm.
“There’s so many things happening for you guys this year! A string of collaborations, new album coming soon, are you excited?” The MC asks you.
“We’re super excited, and we’re sure the fans are gonna love it, we’ve been working hard on it. We can’t wait !” you answer with a gentle smile, looking out at the audience.
All the while, from his seat in the venue, Riki’s forced by the idol image to look at the stage. He’d rather do anything else, but it’d make him look really bad if he didn’t pay attention— unnecessary drama. So he looks, half-listens and nods, almost like he gives one too many fucks. His eyes trace the backdrop, the stage floor, anything really— to not have to look at you.
But after a while, he’s run out of things to observe, so he lets his eyes drop to your hands, the ones clasping the mic like it’s a hammer. You look graceful, a complete opposite of the girl he knows privately— you smile and nod gently, speaking with a calm and polite tone.
No curse words, no filthy mouth.
Then Riki’s attention shifts down, to where your heels are tapping on the floor, rather distractingly. Your legs are classily crossed in front of you, slightly extended, creating a vision of horror in his mind, they’re smooth, reflecting the lights of the venue— and the heels— they’re evil. High, black with a red sole, they look absolutely illegal; not to him though, he doesn’t really care.
But his eyes trail down your ankles, to the way your foot bends, taps and goes back up again. It’s hypnotic, better than having to stare at your face at least. Then your legs uncross, stretch, and Riki’s breath catches for a split second— he straightens in his seat, pinching his thigh through his slacks, and forces his gaze upwards.
Mistake, big one. Because the second he does, he’s looking at your thighs, right where the hem of your dress hikes up. And soon enough— he finds himself unable to tear his eyes away, captivated by the way they lead like a path all the way down to your footwear. Ironic, right?
He keeps telling himself it’s anatomy, bone. Muscle. Fabric. Leather. Anything.
But the first mistake was looking, the second was realizing he wanted to look again.
He slips out during the commercial break almost automatically, heading straight for the bathroom, the door clicks shut behind him and he braces against the sink, stomach churning.
Riki throws up, harsh and sudden, the taste of bile burning his throat. Disgusting. He’s disgusted by the way his body reacts— knows it’s excessive, knows it’s pathetic, but he can’t help it. He needs to throw up in hopes of getting your out of his body, his system.
He couldn’t stop looking at your stupid legs tonight. Ever since that picture you posted.
Heels are something that links to you— you’ve always worn a lot of heels—and he can’t deny that your legs do look aesthetically pleasing in them.
But he despises that he feels this way.
The bathroom mirror reflects someone he doesn’t recognize— a man repulsed not by what he’s seen, but by what he’s felt. It’s to wonder if revulsion and desire are closer relatives than anyone likes to admit.
Riki splashes water on his face, gripping the edges of the sink until his knuckles turn white. Against his better judgment, his mind replays the image: the endless line of your legs, the sharp heel, the way you tapped your foot almost absentmindedly while talking. Clinical, he tells himself. Just observation. Professional obsession. Nothing. more.
And yet, even now, the image lingers.
Heeseung finds him a few minutes later when he returns to the seats. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah,” Riki mutters, forcing a neutral expression. “I’m fine.”
He sits back down, but the thoughts don’t stop. He keeps wondering what it means to feel like this about a part of your body. The hatred is still there, burning strong— but somehow, despite everything, so is something else he refuses to name.
Irony has caught you in its nettles once again. A few days after the award show, you trip on the stairs at the company building, miss a step like a clumsy idiot, and sprain your ankle badly enough that the world tilts sideways. The pain shoots up your leg like fire, sharp and unforgiving. Of course. Because the universe clearly isn’t done laughing at you yet.
Physical therapy becomes your new hell. You can’t come to rehearsals anymore, which means blessed silence from Nishimura Riki for a little while— instead of dealing with his bullshit, you spend the days propped up on your dorm couch, ankle elevated, ice packs rotating, and your nose buried in self-help books.
Atomic Habits. The Body Keeps the Score.
Anything to understand why your brain keeps betraying you with unwanted thoughts about that asshole— his grip, his breathing in the dark break room, the charged way he looked at you after the slap.
Maybe you’re the one who needs fixing, you think bitterly, flipping another page. The books talk about trauma bonding and nervous system regulation, but none of them have a chapter titled “What to do when your mortal enemy makes your stomach ache in ways you refuse to name.”
Eventually the company, with its infinite lack of mercy, decides you’re “habilitated enough.” They shove you into another industry event— heels and all.
Fans lose their minds, flooding social media with concerned threads: “Y/n’s ankle is clearly injured, why is she in stilettos again???”
“Protect her at all costs!!”
“Hybe is evil, make it make sense.”
You see the posts but say nothing. Complaining would get you labeled irresponsible or difficult— so you smile through the pain, walk like everything’s fine, and silently curse the entire system. One day I’ll burn it all down. Preferably while wearing flats.
A couple of hours after that specific event, back in the dorm with your ankle throbbing, your phone lights up.
Riki: is the injury gonna impact our rehearsals
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.
You: don’t worry you’ll get your 5 minutes of fame eventually just let me fucking heal my leg first
Riki: i’m just asking goddamn
You: yes it is, i can’t dance for a while
Riki: ok well i’ll talk to the choreographer to change the pairs
You: ok
There’s a pause before he sends another message.
Riki: did you leave your charger in the dance studio ?
You: no i didnt ?
Riki: oh okay
You: why the fuck are you even talking to me istg it’s all you do these days
Riki: i’m not i’m just asking stuff about work
You: well you know i never bring my charger
Riki: no i don’t
You: yes you do asshole
Riki: ok and what’s your point?
You: my point is stop talking to me
Riki: no
You: are you trying to make me mad?
Riki: no, is your leg okay?
You: and why do you care
Riki: i don’t. i’m asking if it’s gonna take long to heal because im trying to finish the dance. and why were you even in heels today, are you stupid?
You: cause company told me to.
Riki: and why didn’t you defend yourself
You: cause i can’t hello??
Riki: yes you can, you’re such a pussy sometimes, your legs’ fucked up and they got you walking in heels, and somehow that’s fine with you. It’s stupid.
You: you’re stupid
Riki: you need to stop wearing heels
In response, you snap a quick photo of the heels you’re still wearing— bare legs in the frame, nothing crazy, just skin and straps and the faint bruise blooming around your ankle. You caption it simply: “how about no?”
Riki: why are you sending me this??? wtf y/n delete that shit
You: they’re just legs chill. I know you think i’m disgusting and all but these are just motherfucking legs.
Riki: it’s not that, just delete it. it’s weird
You: nah, deal with it, throw up for all i care
Jokes on you, he did the other day. And because you love pissing him off more than is probably healthy, you send another photo. This one riskier not necessarily explicit though— leg extended, heel dangling from your feet, the angle deliberately provocative.
You: there u go, one more so you can really really throw up
He takes a bit to answer.
Riki: stop sending me that shit
You: aw, is nishimura scared of throwing up or something?
Riki: i don’t even want to. i’m gonna block you
You: don’t even want to what?
Riki: throw up
At the same moment in Riki’s dorm room— it’s quiet except for the hum of the airco. He was sprawled on his bed, phone in hand when the first picture came through. With that, something in his stomach flipped hard— he told himself it was disgust. Pure, simple disgust.
But his body betrayed him completely.
Right now? The second photo hits harder. Your bare legs, the sharp line of the heel, the way it dangles teasingly from your foot makes Riki’s mouth open, he throws the phone on the bed like its burned him, and he smacks his palms on his face, tugging at the roots of his own hair. He loathes it— loathes how quickly he is to replay it in his head, to try and remember every detail because he can’t be caught dead looking back at it.
It’s just goddamn legs. Goddamn heels.
So why is blood rushing south almost immediately? Maybe because irony is the biggest factor in this story— he’s hard within seconds. Riki doesn’t even know why. He’s not a teenager anymore, he can’t just get boners from stupid photos like that— especially not from someone he despises.
Horror slams into him like a truck. What the fuck is wrong with him? He detests it. Detests you. Detests the way his cock twitches at the sight of your stupid legs in those stupid heels.
Riki locks his bedroom door without thinking, breathing ragged. He blames it on the stress, perks of being mister worldwide famous, and grabs his phone to delete the picture— screw that, the whole chat.
He tries to look away. He really does. But against his better judgment, his eyes keep drifting back— and images burn into his retinas.
See, heels have always been your thing — long before this, you wore them constantly, strutting around like you owned every room.
Now? They’re weaponized against him.
Riki opens the chat again, scrolling through the two photos guiltily. Over and over. His hand moves almost absentmindedly to palm himself through his sweatpants, breath hitching.
This isn’t about you. It’s the heels. Just the heels.
He then pulls up pictures of other models in heels, random Instagram posts, anything to convince himself it’s not you. Riki stares at these women’s legs, analyzing their footwear like an expert.
But it doesn’t work.
His mind betrays him completely. The images shift— his brain being the most traitorous creature in the whole world, shows him your heels digging into his back, your legs wrapped around him, plays the sharp click of stilettos against the practice room floor while he fucks you senseless-
“Fuck… you,” he mutters through gritted teeth.
In seconds he’s up and running to the bathroom to throw up for the nth time this month.
Riki relieves himself, hating you more than ever. Hating himself even worse.
The company building feels eerily quiet on your break day as you hobble through the familiar halls with your sprained ankle still wrapped and aching, clutching a thin folder of paperwork you came to retrieve. The quick meeting with the exec goes smoothly enough— some signatures on scheduling adjustments, a few polite nods about “taking it easy,” and the usual nonsense about image management. Nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times before.
You’re almost out the side entrance, already dreaming of crashing on your dorm couch with takeout and zero responsibilities, when you bump straight into Jake.
Literally.
Your good foot catches on the edge of the hallway carpet and you stumble— Jake’s hands shoot out instinctively, steadying you by the elbows before you face-plant. For a second, both of you freeze.
“Shit— sorry,” you mutter, stepping back carefully. Your ankle throbs in protest.
Jake’s eyes drop almost automatically to your injured leg, the careful way you favor it. “Hey… you okay?” His voice stays soft, concerned, but the awkwardness between you thickens the air like smoke.
You haven’t spoken properly since the fake tweet disaster, not a single text, not a single clarification. You can’t say it wasn’t convenient, you’d hate to admit you find no interest in explaining yourself to Jake.
“Yeah. Just… clumsy,” you say, forcing a half-smile. “What are you… erm, doing here on a break day?”
“Picking up some lyric sheets for next week.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing around the empty hallway. After a pause, he adds quietly, “We’ve… um, never really talked about what happened. With the tweet and all.”
You cross your arms, leaning against the wall to take pressure off your ankle. Here we go. “Yeah. About that, you didn’t even let me explain, it was Riki.”
Jake blinks, tilting his head like you spoke another language. “What?”
“It was Riki,” you repeat, irritation already bubbling. “The whole thing was fake, he made it up to fuck with me.”
Jake stays silent for a long moment, processing. Then, almost gently —like he explains something to a child—he says, “Well… I think we gotta talk about this at some point, Y/n.”
“About what?”
“About your obsession with him.”
You stare at him, disbelief shooting through you “Excuse me?”
He can’t be serious right now.
“Y/n, seriously.” Jake’s voice stays calm, patient, which only pisses you off more. “Why would you even come to the conclusion that he’s the one who invented some kind of grand scheme…”
“Because he told me, for fuck’s sake.”
“I don’t know… why would he even do that?” Jake sighs, rubbing his temple. “And if you hate him that much, why’s he all you ever talk about then?”
And there you thought Jake was sweet, turns out he’s just clueless.
“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you scoff.
Right because when has it ever been his business?
“Yeah.” He meets your eyes steadily. “It’s honestly… obvious how Riki’s occupying all your emotional life. You were too caught up in your hatred that you didn’t even notice me, I’m pretty sure.”
“Um? Yes I did. I went out with you, didn’t I?” You laugh, sharp and humorless. “I thought you’d understand that with everything Riki’s done to me, it’s obvious I’m gonna hate him.”
It feels like you’re being scolded for some reason, and you don’t like that. Not one bit.
“You’re obviously hurt and you feel things deeply,” Jake continues, still in that gentle, patronizing tone. “But you gotta wake up and realize how fucked up it all is.”
You feel irritated as fuck, he’s talking to you like you’re a two year old, spelling out basic emotional logic as if you haven’t lived it for years.
The day was going smoothly and now some totally out of line weirdo is making it hard for you to be patient.
“Like, if I ask about your day, you answer in three words,” Jake continues, almost absentmindedly gesturing with his hands. “But if someone mentions him, you suddenly have a whole thesis. He’s said awful things to you and so have you. I just don’t get why you still bother.”
“Well I’m sorry that bothers you, Jakey,” you reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. You tap his shoulder lightly, ironic and vain. “Have a great day, yeah?”
You turn to leave, but Jake’s words keep echoing as you limp down the hallway. He speaks facts, deep down, you know it— come on you’re not that dumb; but what you are though, is too proud to admit out loud.
Even after all this, part of you feels attracted to the violence. Used to it. Addicted, maybe. The constant flight mode becomes your normal— at least it feels more alive than any soft conversation with Jake ever could.
Hatred feels familiar, secure in its own twisted way. It demands nothing soft from you, no vulnerability. That’s just the way things are.
Some people like their food sweet, others don’t like it at all— and prefer eating nails.
Riki’s a master at pretending nothing’s bothering him— he wears indifference like second skin— untouchable, the golden dancer who smiles for cameras and carries the weight of millions without flinching.
He knows something’s essentially missing inside of him, knows he’s looking for something that’s not here, and that will never be. But he constantly tones that part of him down.
That’s why, tonight, in this high-end hotel suite with its dim lights and silk sheets, he tries to slip into that role again.
The girl beneath him is pretty, sweet, all soft curves and gentle laughs, she kisses him back eagerly, fingers threading through his hair as he presses her into the mattress. Her skin is soft, her dimples press against his cheeks when she kisses— and for a while it works.
His hands roam her body, lips trailing down her neck until she sighs his name like a prayer; and he tells himself this is what he wants. He deepens the kiss, hips rolling against hers, heat building in a way that should feel right.
But something shifts.
With that, sudden unease crawls up his spine like ice water, his stomach twists and the air feels wrong. Riki tries to push past it, kissing her harder, hands gripping her waist almost automatically. Focus. She’s pretty. She’s lovely even. She’s not—
It just doesn’t work.
He pulls away after a long silence, considers telling her the usual excuse of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, but when he opens his eyes it is not her face he sees.
It’s your sharp eyes glaring up at him. Your mouth twisted in that familiar sneer, your hands gripping his forearms.
Riki jumps back like he’s been burned, heart slamming against his ribs. What the fuck.
He’s definitely going crazy, he concludes, the room spinning slightly as panic claws at his throat.
“I— sorry,” he mutters, voice hoarse. He stands up in one smooth motion, running a hand through his messy hair. “I need a minute.”
The girl sits up, confusion flickering across her pretty features, she looks hurt. “Riki… are you okay?”
He forces a soft smile, the one he saves for people who deserve his leniency, sweet. “Yeah. I’m sorry. Got a lot on my mind tonight. Work stuff. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I’m not into this.”
She watches him carefully as he walks to the mini-fridge and grabs a bottle of whiskey. He twists the cap off and takes a long swig, the burn grounding him for half a second.
“It’s fine,” she says quietly, already reaching for her clothes. “I can go if you want.”
Riki feels a pang of guilt. She’s sweet, too sweet for a walking shit-show like him. “No, you don’t have to… I’m really sorry. You’re great. This is on me.”
She dresses slowly, offering him a small, understanding smile. “It’s okay. Really. Take care of yourself, yeah?”
He nods, watching her leave with gentle eyes, the door clicks shut behind her and the silence rushes in like a wave. Riki collapses back onto the bed, bottle in hand, he stares at it for a second like he’s gonna start confessing his sins to it, then he drinks.
He drinks. And drinks. And drinks some more until the edges of the room blur and his thoughts turn hazy.
Tipsy now, he turns on the Tv for noise, he hates the silence, he needs something to focus on. A commercial flashes across the screen— some luxury brand, a model’s legs strutting in high heels. The camera zooms in and Riki instantly buries his face in the covers with a groan.
Eventually, when he’s proper drunk and the world is tilting pleasantly, he decides it’s enough, his stomach hurts.
His phone feels heavy in his hand as he tries to text Heeseung— something incoherent about needing to talk or needing someone to pick him up.
Riki recoils, embarrassed even through the alcohol haze.
He doesn’t need any fucking help.
Or does he? Maybe he does need therapy—
But his thumb slips as he tries to figure that out, and by some force of nature— he ends up calling the very ghost that haunts him instead.
You pick up after a few rings, voice dry and annoyed. “Why the fuck are you calling me?”
Riki tries to click the ‘hangup button’ but his fingers are shaking with adrenaline.
Screw that, on second thought, he doesn’t really try to hang up all that hard…
He laughs instead , low and miserable, rolling onto his back until the ceiling spins. “Are you so mad at me, Y/n?”
You scoff on the other end, “When am I not? Anyway let me repeat myself— why did you call me?”
“Yeah but you’re different mad, I should’ve known…” His words slur together incoherently as he closes his eyes, the room still turning.
“Huh?” your thoughts are a mess of ‘whatthefuckishesaying’
“You don’t even fight with me anymore.” Riki’s voice comes out as a whisper, almost like he knows he’s stepping in a dangerous zone.
He hears you scoff on the other line, all superior and bitchy— and he has to fight not to laugh in your face, because honestly with that level of alcohol in his blood, it would sound much more like a happy giggle than anything else. He doesn’t want that now, does he?
“Are you… drunk?” you suddenly seem to come to your senses.
“Yeah…” He nods stupidly at the ceiling. “But you didn’t insult me today.”
It sort of reminds Riki of when he was a kid— staying underwater in his parents’ swimming pool until there was not an ounce of air left in his lungs. He would push himself deeper, lungs burning, vision spotting, just to see how long he could last before breaking the surface gasping.
That same reckless thrill sits in his chest now, however unrelated— talking to you while drunk feels like holding his breath too long. Dangerous. Addictive.
He knows he should come up for air, but he stays under, waiting for the moment you push him harder.
“Are you a masochist or something? You want me out of your life but here you are basically begging me to insult you.” you huff on the other end.
“I’m not. I kept waiting.” he shakes his head like you can see him.
“Waiting for what, you weirdo?”
Riki’s waiting for the moment you’re finally going to be done with his bullshit and hang up— because he couldn’t possibly bring himself to be the one to do it— blame it on the whiskey.
“For you to start a fight.” he answers solemnly.
“Oh god, you’re so weird. You’re drunk, you’re not even making any sense… just hang up and go fuck yourself.”
“Don’t ignore me. Don’t ignore what I said.” Riki’s voice goes lower, a little firmer maybe.
“I didn’t even see you today, what the fuck are you even talking about?” he can hear you anxiously slap your thigh in annoyance.
“I don’t like it when you ignore me. You piss me off, I piss you off and—”
“Stop conjugating verbs, Nishimura. I don’t have time for your bullshit.” you cut him off, proper angry.
“You know, normal people don’t live like this.” He rolls over clumsily, nearly dropping the phone; he’s not even making any sense, just casually assembling random thoughts that have been in his head and mashing them together in hopes you’ll understand his point.
“Good job genius, thanks for pointing that out. Now call Heeseung or Jay, I’m gonna block you. Or don’t call anyone, I don’t give a fuck if you choke in your sleep or something.”
That’s it, that’s the moment you’re finally done with his bullshit and you’re about to hang up and he’s… confused?
“Don’t block me Y/n wait—” Riki groans, not even realising how pitiful he sounds.
“Literally what the fuck is wrong with you.” you snap. “Why are you being like this, you sound so pathetic.”
After a beat, his mind drifts to different topics he’d like to address, but the only thing he can think of is that little stunt you pulled. “The post you made. Was it about me?” he asks, naively.
You almost laugh, incredulous and also very much embarrassed for him, “What are you even talking about?”
“The one with the heels.”
“No it wasn’t.” you say immediately, hating that he thought it was about him (although it clearly was).
“It waaaas,” he sing-songs, burying his face in his pillow. He’s half trying to hide how affected he was, and half trying to tease you.
“You’re so self-centered it’s insane, it wasn’t even about you.” you chuckle mockingly, “God Nishimura you’re being my little bitch right now, you know that?”
“Stop calling me that. I’m… mean to you. So you step on mean boys. So it was about me,” Riki goes on, persuaded.
“Well do you want me to step on you or something? Cause it sounds like you’re begging for it.”
That’s it. A couple words— he doesn’t even count how many— and he’s sent back to the state he was in a couple days back.
It’s all so pathetic, and he’s drunk out of his mind, but at the same time it’s you. It’s your fault, you’re doing this to him, you’re making his blood spike like a pervert, you’re dissecting him unknowingly, revealing things he didn’t even know about himself.
Notwithstanding, it’s impossible that it could be you, it has to be something else.
It’s like teenagers when they suddenly discover they have a penis and they wanna jump everything and anything; that’s probably what’s happening. He’s discovered he may or may not have a tendency to… enjoy women wearing heels, and he’s totally projecting.
“Fuck.” Riki throws his head back, palming his forehead. “Don’t say that.”
But his tone of voice only pumps you meaner, “Get off my phone then if you’re not happy. What’s your problem anyway? Can’t handle a little bit of alcohol? You’re a pussy.”
“See? I like you better when you’re like this. Mean.” he breathes out.
“Well get help.”
“I know I should.”
“Yeah you should. Now bye, I’m blocking you.” You hang up without a second thought and it’s over just as fast as it started.
Riki stares at the ceiling, phone still pressed to his ear even after the line goes dead. What the fuck are you doing with his head?
Eventually he grabs his phone again, thumbs clumsy as he opens his notes app— his writing is messy, drunk letters stumbling across the screen.
She blocks peple (people) when it starts to get a little bit intse (intense).
He stares at the words for a long time, the screen blurring. Even drunk, even miserable, he cannot stop cataloging you. Cannot stop thinking about you. And cannot stop adding to the list of things he’s noticed about you.
The hatred burns hotter though. Always has.
Kwn is an amazing artist you know? Especially in that one video clip where she kisses Kehlani near the car and all— that’s just a fact. You love her tracks, her voice, everything. But right now? You beyond hate her.
The past week’s been a blur of physical therapy, awkward silences, and the lingering ghost of Riki’s drunk phone call. He never mentioned it afterward and neither did you; it just sits between you like an unexploded grenade— ignored, but always there. A moment of vulnerability that echoes with a lot of ‘what ifs’.
What if he was under the influence all the time? Would he be softer, funnier with his words? More honest?
Your ankle’s better now, enough for light practice, but the company wastes no time dragging you back into the studio. No mercy. No rest. Just endless work.
That’s why now, you stand in the practice room, mirrors reflecting your slightly stiff posture, the choreographer flipping through self-tapes on his tablet with a deep frown. Riki leans against the wall a few feet away, fiddling with the strings of his sweatpants between his spread legs, looking as unbothered as ever.
The choreographer sighs heavily. “It looks stiff. The company’s not gonna like this at all.” He rubs his temples. “Come on Y/n, you’re usually excellent. I’ve worked with you for years and I’ve never seen you so out of it.” He turns to Riki. “And you, Riki— what’s going on?”
What’s going on, is that a leech is sucking out every ounce of talent out of you and leaving a distracted woman hollowed out by rage.
That’d be the appropriate answer but instead you say force a neutral expression. “It’s just stress.” and you make the mistake of adding, “It’s the song. It’s probably too fast.”
The choreographer looks at his tablet for a beat, thumb hovering over it, then nods slowly. “Well, how about we try something else, yeah? This choreo’s pretty simple. Get a good view, learn it, and I want you guys to prepare it for the end of the evening. I’ll come back when you’re done. Just work through it. This one’s slower and it’ll get you in the right headspace.”
He hands you the tablet but Riki snatches it from your hands almost immediately— ever the childish one. He’s a little bit too confident for someone who called you begging you for insults…
You doubt he even remembers it, but you want to rub it in his face. Instead— because workspace doesn’t allow it— you stay professional, snatching it right back and pressing play.
The opening notes fill the room. ‘Touch Myself’ by Kwn. You let it play for a bit, the rnb beat mellow and nice but when she starts singing it’s a whole different story.
See, the thing is, the lyrics are extremely explicit, pornographic arguably— or maybe you’re just being dramatic but that’s what being too close to Nishimura Riki does to one.
You glance up at the choreographer, wondering if he even speaks enough English to understand “I touch myself just thinking about you.”
Probably not.
Riki’s English is trash, but he knows that much and you see it in the way his jaw tighten.
The other man leaves with a casual wave, dismissing your obvious discomfort and the door clicks shut behind him.
You hate Kwn and her stupid song.
You stand up immediately, crossing your arms, “I’m not doing that.”
“Erm, yes you are,” Riki says flatly, like he’s talking to a toddler.
“Fuck no.”
At that, he rubs his temple, letting out a long exhale.
“They should terminate your contract. Can’t even get over yourself for the sake of your job...” he lets out a small huff, looking down at you like you’re the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.
“Have you seen the choreo? Are you really agreeing to this?” you tilt your chin towards the tablet. “That shit is vile. I’m not doing that.”
“Well it’s not like we have a choice. Trust me I’d rather be eating nails right now, Y/n. So get over yourself and just learn the goddamn thing.” he snaps.
You sit back down with a huff and get a good look at the choreo on the tablet. It’s heavily sensual—nothing insane certainly, but paired with the nature of the lyrics… damn. Slow body rolls, close proximity, lingering touches, prolonged eye contact. The kind of performance that sells sex and tension— definitely not something you’d like to be doing with that smug prick. But either way you need to get over yourself, it’s not like you have a choice…
So after a while of sitting there, hearing his annoying breathing, you finally get the hang of it, it’s not really complicated, just an easy routine; the complicated part is the tension you need to bring to it, something you don’t have. Or rather, not in the adequate form.
You stand up and move to the center with him, the mirrors reflecting you both as you start running it. You rehearse a few steps, tablet in hand, trying to figure out the footwork while he watches through the reflection.
“Your other foot, dumbass.” he goes, pointing at your left foot.
You listen, because unfortunately, he is right— it was the left foot; and you move along, following the movements of his body in the glass.
The tension simmers immediately— albeit it not being the required one, it’s still tension right? Every brush of his hand on your waist feels deliberate, every step brings you closer and the lyrics pulse through the speakers like a taunt.
Every now and then, you deliberately sabotage the whole thing, pushing a little on the left until he fumbles it, stepping on his foot while maintaining a neutral stance.
The thing is, and you’ve admitted it— you don’t just hate Riki. You need him to hate you back. It’s that or you’d rather die.
So you push and push, until his pupils drown in anger and he’s seconds away from pinning you to the nearest wall— devoid of any good intentions.
During the chorus is the part when you have to look at each other the most, it’s prolonged eye contact.
You unconsciously lipsync the words “I touch myself just thinking about you” as you focus on the dance and miss a count, distracted by the little something in his eyes.
You’re stupid.
Riki looks right back, eyes dropping your lips as you mouth those filthy words— and he messes up his part a little bit.
“Stop fucking looking at me. Just dance,” he says defensively, voice low.
“Am I supposed to just look at the goddamn ceiling?” you spit back, rolling your eyes.
Riki stops dancing all of a sudden, gets closer, towering over you. “Well I don’t care. Just don’t look at me.”
You follow, the song still playing but you’re both unmoving, “Why does that bother you so much?”
“It doesn’t. You’re just annoying.” His dyed blond hair falls on his forehead, sweaty and so awfully disgustingly delicious you want to die.
Wait what?
“It clearly does if you’re bringing it up.” you distract yourself with counter attacks, it’s easier this way.
“Just stop arguing and listen to me before I—”
“Before you what? Huh?” You get closer, menacing even though hes taller.
He snickers, looking down at you like you’re a crumb under his shoe. “Who do you even think you are, acting like that? You know it’d take me two seconds to make you trip and faceplant right?”
He’s so infuriatingly mocking it sends a chill down your spine, it’s not even the words, it’s the tone itself— like he could push you right now and feel nothing but contempt.
That’s the way things have always been, so why does it feel so confusing?
“Stop talking to me like that.” you glare at him, titling your chin like you can somehow surpass him in height.
“Yeah? What are you gonna do?” he’s so smug it drips with it.
“I swear, Nishimura, I’ll punch you right now.”
Riki looks down at you, a small cruel smirk tugging at at the corner of his mouth, “Go ahead, brat. All yours. Hit me.”
The words shouldn’t sound like this, they shouldn’t sound so dirty. But it’s like lately, all he says has a subtle undertone to it— and why is his voice so goddamn low and velvety?
“Well thanks for the consent, motherfucker.” You push him back hard so he can’t crowd you. “Now get back.”
He grabs your wrist in turn, pushing you close to him menacingly. “I said hit me, not push me. Are you scared of me or something?”
You chuckle, defiant. “Scared? Oh give me a break.”
Riki grabs your fist; you’re surprised he isn’t even flinching at the contact. He tightens your fingers deliberately until you’re ready for a punch, and then holds it over his own cheek.
“Come on. Do it.”
His fingers burn around yours. He’s dying for it, he needs the fight, needs the violence. He craves the collision— the crack of bone, the bloom of pain, the certainty that comes with a hit landed cleanly. Anger is familiar territory— violence is the only conversation he’s ever known how to finish.
“Don’t touch me.” you say, in vain, because it comes out as a breathy plaint.
“We’re way past that.”
“You’re so disgusting. You get off on doing disgusting things like that, don’t you? Fucking pervert.” your eyes are bored in his now, more honest that your bodies have ever been.
Then Riki does something so out of character— yet so him, and your lungs suddenly become a mere accessory rather than organs.
He grabs your throat suddenly, long fingers wrapping around it, squeezing not too tight but firm enough to make your pulse jump under his fingers. The pressure is controlled, thumb pressing lightly against the side of your neck where your heartbeat flutters wildly. His grip’s warm, steady, dangerous and you can feel the restrained power in his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating how much tighter he could go.
It sends a rush of heat through you despite everything.
“Don’t call me that,” he says, triggered.
His shoulders broaden as he squares himself, every tendon in his forearms standing out beneath taut skin.
Riki’s so close now, nose brushing yours, eyes burning with pure fury, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t dying from how exhilarating it feels.
“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want.” You push his buttons on purpose, loving the way his anger tastes— like something filthy and sour on your tongue.
“Fuck you, Y/n.”
There’s a thin line between hatred and desire—and only then, you’re starting to feel it dissolve until you can no longer tell whether the pounding in your chest is fury or fascination, whether you want to shove him away or pull him closer just to understand why he gets beneath your skin like that.
“Mm, fuck me?” You tilt your head, defiant, lips inches from his.
Riki loses it. Air sticks in his lungs and his eyes flutter shut for a split second— he’s forgotten how to breathe now, the words ricochet through him, splintering whatever fragile restraint he’d been clinging to.
His jaw tightens so hard it aches, a muscle feathering beneath his skin as he swallows back something he can’t afford to say.
“Don’t say shit like that.” he goes instead, but it comes out breathy.
“Why? Scared?” You get closer, pushing every button you can reach.
Because close just isn’t close enough— and flustered isn’t nearly flustered enough. Because you want him reeling, struggling to even function, you want him to be putty in your hands— just out of pure spite.
Riki’s stuck between two different worlds— he wants to push you off, watch you fall and trip but at the same time he wants to fuck the attitude right out of you— teach you a lesson.
He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he feels it somewhere low, warmth spreading. He’s too far gone.
Your mouths hover dangerously close, so much so that you can feel his breath, hot and ragged against your lips. His hand tightens slightly on your throat, not hurting, just holding. Claiming almost, in all its irony.
But the choreographer’s voice echoes faintly from the hallway, and you’re both forced to pull away instantly, breathless, chests heaving.
The moment’s over and the bodies are done speaking.
Riki turns sharply and stalks toward the bathroom, fists tight at his sides while you scratch your arm anxiously, nails digging into skin as if you can claw the tension out of your body.
Three days after the practice room incident, Hybe decides to play nice— characteristically… They organize a mandatory “team bonding” dinner for everyone involved in the collaboration project—R3SET, Enhypen, choreographers, and a few other staffs.
The official reason is to “build chemistry” and “celebrate the upcoming performance.”
The real reason, you suspect, is damage control after too many rumors about visible tension between you and Riki.
The company hates bad optics.
“Touch myself” hasn’t really resulted in anything good, apart from fuelling your self hatred.
The choreographer wasn’t exceptionally happy, and so were you— for fucks sake, because of him, you’d been forced to confront that you were an entirely too deprived woman.
It’s true, that’s the only viable answer, you haven’t done anything with anyone in years, and so it’s only natural that any physical touch sends you into a whole different headspace— even if it’s not one you’d desire. Desperate times.
So, the dinner is held at a private restaurant downtown, dim lighting, long wooden tables, expensive hanwoo beef, and enough soju to drown in. You show up with your members, ankle mostly healed but still a little stiff, wearing simple black pants and a sophisticated top. You tell yourself it’ll be just fine, Riki’s most likely forgotten about it already.
But the second you walk in, your eyes find him across the room. You end up near the middle of the long table, directly across from him.
He looks annoying in all black, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, his eyes flick to you every few minutes— totally unreadable. You don’t look away, god you never do.
Jake sits a few seats down, trying to make polite conversation with Sera— you wouldn’t fail to mention you’re still slightly annoyed at him, but that feels like background noise compared to the live wire stretching across the table.
Rage is merely just rage when it’s not directed at Nishimura Riki.
Hye-ri leans toward you at one point, whispering, “He keeps staring. You good?”
“I’m fabulous,” you mutter, stabbing a piece of beef harder than necessary.
Riki’s voice cuts through the chatter a moment later, directed at no one in particular but clearly meant for you. “Some people should probably stay off their feet more. Wouldn’t want another dramatic injury right before the performance.”
You smile sweetly, tilting your head. “Some people should probably mind their own fucking business.”
The table quiets a little. Jake shifts uncomfortably and Sunoo coughs into his drink amused.
Riki leans back in his chair, lips curving into that infuriating half-smirk. “Just looking out for the team. Wouldn’t want you to trip on stage because you’re too stubborn to rest properly.”
“Touching,” you reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Didn’t know you cared so much about my well-being, Nishimura.”
“I don’t.” His eyes lock onto yours. “I care about the performance not sucking because of you.”
The air crackles and Hye-ri kicks you under the table. Of course you kick her back.
The rest of dinner is a masterclass in passive-aggressive warfare; every time someone mentions the collaboration, Riki finds a way to slip in a subtle jab. Every time, you fire back sharper until by dessert, the tension feels thick enough to choke on.
You excuse yourself to the bathroom just to breathe, splashing some water on your neck— soothing the physical reaction he’s inflicted upon you. When you come out, Riki is leaning against the wall in the hallway, waiting.
“Running away already?” he asks, voice low.
“Fuck off.”
He steps closer, crowding you against the wall without actually touching you. “You’ve been quiet lately. No insults. No nothing. Almost like you’re avoiding me.”
You lift your chin, refusing to back down. “What? You’re gonna beg me for insults again?”
Riki’s jaw tightens and for a second, something dangerous flickers in his eyes, you’re not sure he knows exactly what you’re referring to though. “You wish.”
Then he walks away, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding and your hands clenched into fists.
That night, you dream— you dream like you haven’t dreamt in months. See, you had the habit of dreaming about totally incoherent things, your older brother getting kidnapped by aliens, your step mom catching a cold and growing wings… and that dream doesn’t differ, it’s totally incongruous.
In it, the studio’s empty, mirrors stretching endlessly in every direction, the lights are low and warm. You’re dancing, but it’s no longer really choreography.
Riki’s hands are on your waist, pulling you flush against him— there’s no hatred in the movement this time— only hunger. You shove him, but he spins you around and presses you against the mirror, cold glass against your front, his body hot and solid behind you.
“You talk so much shit,” he whispers against your ear, one hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. “But look at you now.”
You gasp as his fingers find bare skin. “Fuck you.”
“Yeah?” Riki’s voice is rough, dangerous. “You want that?”
In the dream you hate him and want him in equal measure. You push back against him, grinding, feeling how hard he is, his hand wraps around your throat from behind— not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make you arch. His other hand slips between your legs, teasing, stroking, making you moan despite yourself.
“You’re so fucking wet for someone who hates me,” he murmurs, biting your shoulder. “Say it. Say you want me to fuck you.”
“I hate you,” you breathe, but your hips roll back against his hand anyway.
He laughs, low and dark, pressing you harder into the mirror. “Liar.”
The dream shifts and suddenly he has you on the floor, legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts into you— deep, angry, perfect. Every snap of his hips feels like punishment and reward at once. You scratch down his back, drawing blood and he bites your neck hard enough to leave marks. The mirrors reflect a hundred versions of you two like fucking animals— sweat-slick, desperate, beautiful in the worst way.
“I hate you,” you moan as he fucks you harder.
Riki’s eyes are wild. “Then prove it.”
You wake up gasping, sheets tangled around your legs, heart hammering, and a slick heat between your thighs that makes you want to scream. You sit up in the dark, pressing your palms to your burning face.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The body has always been a terrible liar.
The mind can sharpen hatred into something clean— something so easy to hold. It can rehearse every reason to leave, every wound, every insult, every unforgivable thing. It can swear that this person disgusts you— that you’d sooner bite your own tongue than admit they’re the only thing you want to loose yourself into.
And then your pulse betrays you. Your breath catches when they get too close to the real thing, your pupils widen before your pride has the chance to object. Every nerve ending reaches for what your conscience insists it should reject. The body doesn’t understand morality; it understands chemistry and biology; doesn’t distinguish between danger and desire nearly as well as you’d like to believe.
Maybe that’s why hatred and longing have always lived so close together. Both consume. Both obsess. The difference is thinner than anyone admits— a line so delicate that all it takes is one glance, one accidental touch, one moment of vulnerability, and suddenly you no longer know whether your racing heart is preparing you to fight them or kiss them.
That’s why, after that dream, you avoid him like the plague. The following weeks are a careful dance of deliberate distance; you show up to group meetings late and leave early. You switch practice times when possible, you bury yourself in solo schedules, self-help books (that don’t help with anything actually) and long conversations with Hye-ri that always circle back to the same frustrating question: why does suffering attract you more than living a gentle life?
You delete the drunk call from your call log like it never happened, you tell yourself the dream meant nothing. Just stress. Just exhaustion. Just your body playing cruel tricks.
But the avoidance only makes it worse, every time you catch a glimpse of him in the hallway, your stomach flips. Every time his name comes up in conversation, your jaw tightens.
But today he’s inevitable. Duty calls. And so here you are, stuck in the dance studio again with him.
The choreographer wanted you both to review the latest self-tapes alone— auto-evaluation before the final run throughs. No dancing today, just critique; so you came straight from another schedule, still wearing the black heels from the event and the black skirt they’d told you to wear—because you just couldn’t be bothered to change.
Now they click sharply against the floor as you pace, hands on your hips, eyes glued to the small television screen playing the footage.
Riki stands a few feet away, arms crossed, watching with that same unreadable expression. He’s wearing a goddamn chrome hearts tank top, one that highlights the muscles in his back, makes him look unfairly lean and does a poor job at keeping you focused.
The footage plays— and technically, it’s flawless. The lines are clean, the timing’s sharp. But the chemistry is nonexistent. You both look like you’d rather murder each other than touch, naturally.
You point at the screen. “Your shoulder drops there. Sloppy.”
Riki scoffs. “My shoulder is fine. You’re the one rushing the transition.”
You whirl on him. “At least I commit. You move like you’re scared to touch me. Afraid I’ll stab you in the back or something?”
He steps closer, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I am. We both know what you’re capable of when you want something.”
The jab lands harder than you expect, you feel heat rise in your cheeks. “Fuck you. At least I don’t throw tantrums like a spoiled kid every time things don’t go my way.”
That one hits and Riki’s expression darkens. In response, he pushes you with his arm— not hard, but enough to make you stumble back. Your injured leg buckles slightly, still weak from the sprain. Pain shoots up your ankle and you lose balance, arms flailing.
Riki moves instinctively— ironic isn’t it?— his hands catch you—one on your waist, the other gripping your arm— steadying you before you fall. It’s almost laughable… the force that sent you stumbling is the same one that keeps you upright.
For a moment, everything stops, his touch’s firm but careful. Not the bruising grip from before. Not the angry shove. Just… support. His fingers press lightly against your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your top. It feels almost like pity. Like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to break yet.
The silence stretches until your eyes meet his. His breath is close and for once, thereis no venom in his gaze— just surprise.
You shake him off almost immediately, stepping back like his touch burned you. “Don’t touch me.”
Riki’s hands drop and the mask of indifference slides back into place. “Whatever. Don’t fall and blame me later.”
“Youre the one who just pushed me.” you mutter under your breath, boiling.
The footage loops again and again, but neither of you is really watching anymore. The real performance is happening right here— two people circling each other with words like weapons.
Eventually the tape ends and you exhale sharply. “We’re done. I’m leaving.”
You grab your badge, and purse, turn toward the door in one smooth motion, heels clicking. But when you push the handle, it doesn’t budge. You try again. Nothing.
“What the fuck?” You rattle the door harder. “Did you lock it?”
Riki raises an eyebrow. “Why would I lock it?”
You try again, panic starting to creep in. “Open the damn door, Riki.”
He sighs, walks over, tries the handle and it doesn’t move. “It’s stuck.”
You reach for your phone, heart hammering and you text Hye-ri a hundred times in rapid succession.
Door won’t open. Studio 4. Come get me. Help. HELP. Help. HELPPP. SOS.
But no reply comes, so you call her, it goes straight to voicemail. You text Heeseung next— because what wouldn’t you do for an escape? Still nothing.
"Aren't you gonna do anything??" you turn to Riki.
"My phone's dead" he shrugs.
“I’m gonna call the police, I swear to god,” you mutter, pacing.
Riki rolls his eyes, tapping his foot on the floor repeatedly— the sound grating on your nerves.
“Can you stop tapping on the floor before I eviscerate you?” you snap.
“Get over yourself”
You try the doorknob again, naively. Of course it’s not gonna budge, why would it ? The universe wants you in a secluded room with Nishimura Riki— probably natural selection or something…
You rattle the handle a little harder anyway, as if stubbornness alone might intimidate the lock into cooperating. It doesn’t. It only rewards your efforts with another dull metallic clunk that echoes through the room like it’s laughing at you.
“Why aren’t you charging your goddamn phone anyway? To call people. At least be fucking useful.” you turn to him.
He leans against the wall, watching you with that infuriating calm— and sweat beads on your skin as you fight the punch that you want to give him.
“Oh god, I hate you,” you finally hiss, stepping closer.
Something in him shifts, not visibly— but you catch it because you’re looking; his shoulders loosen by a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatens to betray him. Your words don’t land like an insult; they settle somewhere far more dangerous.
Hatred’s always been your most honest language with himx Every glare, every cutting remark, every venom-laced sentence means you’ve looked at him long enough to feel something. It means he’s gotten under your skin again. That he’s occupied another corner of your mind he had no business claiming.
To anyone else, your words would sound like rejection.
To Riki, they sound like proof.
Proof that he still affects you.
Proof that indifference’s never been an option.
He lets the silence stretch, savoring the confession hidden beneath the hostility before his gaze locks onto yours, dark with unmistakable satisfaction
“Say that again.”
You step even closer, heels making you taller but still smaller than him. “I. Hate. You.”
His gaze flickers over your expression for a second longer than it should, like he’s memorizing the contradiction in front of him: someone who claims to despise him yet keeps moving closer, someone who throws daggers with their words but refuses to walk away.
Riki looks down and you catch him staring at your legs almost instantly. “Stop looking at my fucking legs, you perv.”
“Well then stop wearing heels in a practice room maybe?”
“I’ve got somewhere to be after this, dipshit.” you roll your eyes, suddenly feeling small under his scrutiny.
“Then put them back on after this, like a normal person.”
“We just came in here to review the footage. Stop acting like I’m dancing in heels or something. Or maybe—who knows— maybe I just like pissing you off.”
“It doesn’t piss me off. It’s just annoying as hell. You make a lot of noise. Walking around like you wanna get my attention or something.”
“Get your attention? Please. You’re ridiculous. You know why I put them on? Because deep down my biggest wish is to step on you with them till you choke and die or something.”
Riki’s breath catches, you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows and he takes a careful step back. The topic of heels is a no-go.
“Stop saying nonsense and just go work on getting someone to open the door.” He sounds slightly breathless.
“I’m trying, fucker.”
“Well try harder, bitch.”
“Keep calling me that name and I’ll really step on you. And I won’t be gentle.” you raise your chin, defiant.
“Oh, cause you think I want you gentle?”
Heat floods your face and chest. Then something dark and dangerous twists in your stomach— equal parts fury and unwanted thrill.
You step closer instead of recoiling, eyes narrowing, lips parting on a sharp, incredulous exhale. The implication hangs between you like smoke—thick, filthy, impossible to ignore. Your mind flashes with vivid, unwanted images: his hands rough, your nails digging in, bodies colliding with nothing soft or kind between you.
The thought disgusts you but it also makes your thighs press together instinctively. How much of a contradiction could you be?
“You’re so perverted it’s disgusting.” you resort to insults, because that’s all you know.
“Perverted? You’re the one who came in here wearing these.”
“They’re just heels. You’re a weirdo. You think I put them on for you or something? Don’t you remember when you called me drunk the other night? You seemed to like them just then.”
Riki freezes. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you don’t remember?” You lean into it, savoring the upper hand and sprinkling a little bit of lies. “Nishimura, you called me. Said a bunch of shit. Got really vulnerable. Told me exactly how the heels made you feel, pathetic, really.”
“I didn’t say all that, Y/n. Stop.”
Air’s gone rancid, thick with the stink of want, choking you both, but you only step closer, voice low and taunting. “You did though. You probably wish you could touch them, stop being such a pussy and admit it.”
Riki’s eyes flash and that shakes off the last thread of self control and inhibition, “Yeah? And what if I did?” His voice drops dangerously. “What if I grabbed your thighs and spread them right there? Would you still act like you hate me then?”
What. the. fuck.
There’s the moment, where the truth comes out. Where the line shatters. Where hatred and desire melt together and become one.
There’s no fury like trying to contain such levels of want. Like trying to contain something that was never meant to be contained.
Because the hardest battle was never between you and him, no it was between what you felt and what you were willing to admit.
The space between you vanishes, your back hits the wall. His hand braces beside your head and you tilt your head back until the tip of your nose touches his, heart thundering. “Fuck… I hate you.”
You’re like prey and predator— except you’re the embodiment of both. And in the end, how do you run from something that exists inside you? How do you fight an instinct that is just as much a part of you as the fear trying to resist it?
You’re the one who bares your teeth, the one who strikes first, the one who convinces yourself that staying sharp means staying safe. But you’re also the one who freezes when he gets too close, the one who feels every shift in the air between you, the one whose body reacts before your pride has the chance to intervene.
A contradiction wearing the shape of a person.
You want to win, but you also want to be understood. You want to push him away, but some reckless part of you keeps stepping closer. You hate the power he has over you, yet you keep giving him opportunities to use it.
“I hate you more.” Riki says, comforting the both of you into thinking this is still strictly hatred. “Hate you so bad it hurts.”
Thats when it happens. Between a hitch of breath and a gasp, you loose it.
The kiss is sudden, angry, desperate. Mouths crashing together like a collision— teeth and tongue and pure adrenaline. It’s hate and want— months of a cutthroat chase. Two bodies finally allowing theirselves to feel something other than destruction.
His hand slides into your hair, gripping hard, you bite his bottom lip. He groans into your mouth and presses you harder against the wall.
Your fingers fist in his shirt as Riki’s thigh presses between yours. The kiss is messy, violent, it’s a murder of pride— until there’s nowhere left to hide because he’s all over your body, gripping, binding.
He bites on your lower lip and you bite back just as hard, sinking your teeth into his lip until you taste the sharp metallic tang of blood. He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and in response he shoves you back against the mirror with enough force to make the glass rattle.
Your back hits the cool surface first. Then the rest of you— shoulders, hips, thighs. The mirror is cold while he’s burning hot. The contrast makes you gasp into his mouth and he takes advantage immediately, tongue sliding deep, claiming, devouring.
One of his hands fists in your hair, yanking your head back so he can kiss you harder, deeper, filthier. You tug right back, fingers twisting in his strands, pulling until he hisses in pain and pleasure.
You’re both predators now. No prey. No bunnies. Just two starving animals finally allowed to tear into each other.
Riki’s thigh presses between your legs, grinding up hard against your core— you roll your hips down to meet him, desperate and violent, chasing friction through your clothes. Every roll of your hips makes the mirror shake behind you and his cock’s already so hard, straining against his pants, pressing insistently against your thigh. You can feel how much he hates how badly he wants this.
“Fuck you,” he snarls against your lips, biting down on your bottom lip in retaliation. “You’re such a brat.”
You moan into his mouth, the sound muffled and broken. He wraps one large hand around your throat and squeezes— not enough to hurt, but enough to make your head spin. The pressure’s perfect, making you clench around nothing, drunk on the pain. Your pulse flutters wildly under his palm and he squeezes a little tighter until you moan louder, the sound vibrating against his fingers.
“There it is…” Riki pants, lips brushing yours, voice dark “See? Your body doesn’t lie. It fucking loves me.”
His cock presses against your clit through the fabric, a delicious friction that makes your head foggy, hands clawing at him for more, more, more and everything. His free hand goes to your ass, digging in and pushing you closer to him, hardness rubbing right where you need him the most. And in second— his mouth’s on your neck, canines poking at your tender skin until you’re moaning, hips moving like they have a mind of their own.
“Look at you— moaning like a desperate little slut just from this.” you feel Riki’s smirk even if you can’t see it.
You try to snap back, but he bites down again and your words dissolve into another broken moan. He laughs, low and mean, grinding harder between your legs.
“Pathetic,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your jaw. “All that hate and your pussy’s still soaking for me.”
The fucker doesn’t even bother taking your clothes off properly. In one rough motion he yanks your skirt up around your waist, the fabric bunching messily and his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. Then, he rips them clean off with a sharp tear that echoes in the studio, and throws them somewhere. The cool air hits your soaked cunt and you shiver.
He looks down, cock twitching in his pants as he witnesses the sheer amount of wetness coating thighs and pussy. “Fuck” he breathes out, fingers hooking to collect your arousal and toy with it. “Look at that…”
Riki brings his soaked fingers to your mouth and pushes them pas your lips without a second thought. When he feels you suck your juices off of them, his hips jerk, bulge pressing right against your dripping cunt, the front of his pants covered in your arousal.
“Messy girl.” he forces your mouth closed by pressing your cheeks together, “Swallow”
You do— because there’s nothing more exhilarating and humbling that getting a direct taste of what you used to call “hatred.”
“Fuck you— just fuck me already, get this over with.” you say, chin held high like he didn’t just humiliate you.
He smiles tauntingly, frees himself from his pants with impatient hands, cock hard, flushed and leaking. And dammit— you’d never admit it to his face, but he’s big, thick and dripping at the tip. You stare at it for a split second, wondering if it’ll hurt. But you don’t couldn’t care less about the hurt, as long as it makes you feel something.
“You want it?” Riki rasps, lining himself up with your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your soaked folds. You nod, because it’s obvious you do, and he retaliates, “Then beg for it properly, you brat. Or i’ll leave you here dripping and desperate like the pathetic liar you are.”
The words burn through you— your pride screams at you to shove him away, to spit in his face, to keep hating him like you always have. But your body is a merciless traitor— clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs, aching so badly it hurts. You’re trembling with rage and need, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
“Fuck you,” you hiss, voice shaking. “Just fuck me already. Please.”
“There it is. See? You’re not that useless.” He nips at your neck, all condescending.
In one brutal thrust he buries himself inside you to the hilt, stretching you open so suddenly and so deep that your head falls back against the mirror with a broken cry. The burn is delicious. He’s thick, hot, and so fucking hard it feels like he’s splitting you apart in the best worst way.
You both groan at the same time. He’s so deep it hurts, you can feel him everywhere, invading your body like a sickness. Your walls clench around him like a vice, wet and greedy and Riki’s head drops to your shoulder with a guttural curse.
“Fuck… so tight,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Your pussy’s choking me. Greedy little cunt— hates me but still sucks me in like it was made for me.”
He starts fucking you hard right away. No warmup. No leniency.
Each thrust slams you back against the mirror, the glass rattling dangerously with every brutal snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the studio, wet and obscene and your heels scrape against the back of his thighs as he drives into you deeper, harder, faster.
But Riki’s eyes keep dropping.
To your legs.
To those fucking heels.
His hand slides down your thigh, gripping the back of your knee and hiking it higher around his waist. His fingers trace the sharp edge of it, thumb pressing into the arch of your foot through the strap.
“These goddamn heels,” he utters against your neck, voice rough and filthy as he pounds into you. “You know what they do to me. You fucking know.”
You hook your leg to his waist, heel digging into the back of his thigh.
“Shit —look at you,” he pants, eyes dark as he fucks you stupid. He can finally admit just how much he loves your legs, anything that’s yours really.
You claw at his back, nails digging through his shirt and hhe yanks your hair, forcing your head back so he can bite down on your exposed throat.
“Say it,” he demands, pounding into you relentlessly. “Say you fucking need this.”
You moan loudly, eyes fluttering. “Fuck… you—”
Riki laughs darkly and slams in harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That’s what I thought. Bratty little whore. Can’t even lie properly when I’m balls deep inside you.”
He edges you mercilessly, every time you get close, thighs shaking, walls fluttering around him, he slows down or pulls almost all the way out, leaving you clenching desperately around nothing. You whine, hips chasing him, pride crumbling under the overwhelming need.
“Beg for it,” he taunts, voice rough as gravel. “I know you can do that, can’t you?”
You shake your head, teeth gritted, stubborn to the end even as tears of frustration prick your eyes. “Fuck… you…”
Riki pulls out completely this time, leaving you empty and throbbing. You moan in frustration and snap, before he can say another word, you grab his cock— hot, slick with your arousal—and shove it back inside you yourself, forcing him deep in one rough motion.
Riki groans loudly, forehead dropping to yours and you kiss him viciously, biting his lip again as you roll your hips, taking control for one glorious second.
The pace turns frantic after that— he fucks you like he wants to break you. You meet every thrust with equal violence, legs wrapped tight around his waist.
He wraps his hand around your throat again, squeezing just right as he drives into you harder.
“You gonna cum for me?” he says against your mouth. You let out a pathetic moan at that, “Yeah I know… you’re taking it so well for such a bad girl.”
This time Riki doesn’t stop. The orgasm crashes into you like a freight train, your whole body seizes, walls clamping down around him like a vice as pleasure rips through you in violent waves. You cry out, nails raking down his back, thighs shaking uncontrollably. It feels endless— white-hot, devastating.
The best thing you’ve ever tasted— no matter how hard it is to admit.
Riki follows right after you, burying himself deep with a broken groan. His hips stutter, cock pulsing as he spills inside you, cum painting your walls messily— he keeps thrusting through it, riding out every last twitch, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling in harsh pants.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the studio are your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the mirror behind you. His cum drips from where you’re connected, painting your thighs in the proof of his need.
Then silence.
Heavy, stunned, devastating silence.
After that day, everything changes—and somehow stays exactly the same. Finding out Heeseung was the one who locked you both in the rehearsal room to mend for yourselves is nothing short of a surprise. But you couldn’t care less— youre way past that, way past pretending you weren’t thriving when the attention Riki gave you was —albeit still embedded within the rage— pleasurable.
You grow addicted to it, almost like an addict coming back to a terrible drug. You’d go to rehab eventually, when there’s finally enough of you left to want saving.
But not today. Today, you let yourself sink deeper— you relish in the ruins of your past, the violence that consumes you.
You know exactly what it does to you— you know how it hollows you out, how it leaves your hands shaking long after the high has worn off, yet you return anyway, chasing the familiar ache because it’s easier than learning how to live without it.
Healing can wait. Right now, there’s still comfort in the catastrophe.
You and Riki continue to ruin each other.
You spread rumors, run your mouth to whomever wants to hear it— rant about how awful he is. He leaks old trainee footage that makes you look difficult; you sabotage a schedule overlap. He makes sure a stylist “accidentally” gives you the wrong outfit for a performance. The company watches, the fans speculate. The hatred becomes public performance and private war.
But the sex never stops.
He strokes himself many times in the following weeks; in the shower, in his bed at night. Even through the thick, choking layer of disgust that never fully leaves him, he cannot stop wanting you. He comes hard every time, hating himself more with every stroke, but he keeps doing it anyway.
Touching happens anytime you can get away with it. In the locked studio again, late at night. He fucks you bent over the piano,
“Fight me while I fuck you,” he groans against your ear, one hand fisted in your hair. “I love it when you’re angry.” You scratch his arms bloody and he only rails you harder.
In the back of a company van after a late schedule, windows fogged up, his hand clamped over your mouth while he rails you from behind; you bite his fingers until they bleed and he calls you his little pain slut.
You don’t even take it personally— you’ve learned to live with the idea that the insults are a mere reflections of your self hatreds. When Riki calls you names, he’s only damning himself for falling into temptation, for needing you the way he does. You let him. Because you hate yourself just as much.
In an empty waiting room during an award show, your dress hiked up, his pants barely undone; he makes you ride him while still wearing your stage heels, the sharp points digging into his thighs as you bounce on his cock. “Look at you,” he pants— although he’ll never tell you just how devastatingly beautiful he finds you, he makes allusions to it, letting you unveil it bit by bit. “Faster, you can do it can’t you?”
Encounters multiply, Riki chokes you until you see stars— it’s a language you master by now. You slap him across the face and he laughs, blood on his lip, before flipping you over and spanking you raw; and every single time you come out bruised, wrecked and markd. He edges you for hours until you’re crying and begging and you end up riding his face until he can’t breathe, grinding down on his tongue like you want to smother him.
It’s violent, ugly; there’s nothing worth wanting about it. Nothing tender. Nothing enviable. Just two people mistaking collision for connection, trying to quiet feelings they’ve never learned to hold without destroying each other.
Your bodies are perfectly aligned. They crave each other with a violence that borders on worship. But your minds? Your souls? They cannot stand each other.
The incompatibility reveals itself slowly, then all at once. The fights grow uglier. The sex grows rougher. The silences between grow heavier.
You start avoiding each other’s eyes even when you’re buried inside one another; the hatred no longer fuels the fire—it poisons it. You hurt each other too deeply, too often, too deliberately— until there’s no coming back from some wounds.
No amount of orgasms can erase the years of betrayal.
One night, after another brutal fuck in a hotel room, you lie beside him in silence. The sheets are tangled around your legs, damp with sweat and his cum is still leaking slowly down your thighs, warm and sticky, a filthy reminder of how deep he’d been inside you just minutes ago. The room smells like sex— musky, salty, desperate. The only light comes from the city glowing through the half-open curtains, casting long shadows across the bed.
You’re both on your backs, shoulders barely touching, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers— your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. Your body still hums with the aftershocks— thighs sore, throat raw from his hands, lips swollen from biting and being bitten.
The ache between your legs is deep and satisfying in the worst way.
Riki’s breathing is just as ragged— his hand twitches once like he wants to reach for you, then stills. He doesn’t.
The silence stretches, until finally, you speak, voice hoarse and bitter.
“…This is so fucking stupid.”
Riki lets out a low, humorless laugh that sounds more like a exhale of pain. “Yeah. It is.”
You turn your head slightly, just enough to see his profile in the dim light. His jaw’s tight. A fresh bite mark blooms red on his collarbone— your doing. You feel a twisted sense of satisfaction, then immediate disgust at yourself. He’s not yours, you shouldn’t make him look like he is.
“I don’t know why we keep doing this” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Theres no point.”
Riki doesn’t answer right away. He runs a hand over his face, then lets it drop heavily onto the mattress between you.
“Things don’t always have to have a point” he says eventually, voice rough. “we can do things that aren’t… good. Who cares.”
You swallow hard. “I do,” you admit quietly. “I let you fuck me like you want to break me.”
Riki turns his head toward you, his eyes are dark, unreadable. “You do the same thing to me. You know that right? You can say whatever you want but we’ve always been equals.”
A long silence falls again.
You feel the familiar ache in your chest— the one that has nothing to do with the rough sex and everything to do with the fact that this, whatever this is, can never be anything more.
“We’re going to destroy each other,” you say softly, almost sadly.
Riki’s jaw clenches. “Yeah. We are.”
He doesn’t reach for you and you don’t reach for him. You both lie there, bodies still tangled, hearts completely separate, knowing full well that you’ll do it all over again the next time the opportunity arises.
Because that’s just what you do. Because the heart isn’t a courtroom; it doesn’t grant leniency, it only delivers its verdict. And the verdict, in the end, is simple: some people are destined to destroy. You and Riki were never going to be the exception— you were always going to be the cautionary tale.
pairing: theology professor! yang jungwon x fem reader x academic rival! nishimura riki
synopsis: You and Riki Nishimura have been each other's competition, torment, and strange company since your first day on campus. When your theology professor—young, warm, and entirely too easy to trust—steps into the space between you two, the balance shifts. And Riki, who has never known how to love anything gently, does the only thing he knows how to do.
wc: 27.1k
cw: arachne and athena theme (explained on page), psychological drama + warfare, slowburn, riki is a bully :/, morally and ethically grey characters, verbal abuse and degradation, manipulation, controlling, emotional repression, anxiety, low self-esteem, power imbalances and unethical relationship (forbidden love kinda but please it’s not weird dw), implied threats, gaslighting, mild dissociation, victim blaming, one kms joke, bpd and depression, unhealthy attachment, isolation, negative self talk, pining, age gap (minor. but worth noting. reader & riki are 21. and jungwon is 24.), crying & emotional breakdowns
this definitely the darkest fic i've written which is saying a lot. let me know if i missed any tags. reader’s discretion is advised.
authors note: dude i haven't posted a fic fr since november. that's wild. BUT HIII hopefully yall didn't forget abt me. but i've had this in my drafts for a lil over a year and something told me to stick it out and hopefully you like it. it's a long summer and i have so many things in store. works that are personally fulfilling for me as well as you (hopefully) so i love you all and thank you <3
Your university library has become your third home: your actual home, your dorm, and now here. For your quotidian study sessions, you had your cute laptop to your left and your notebook to your right. Stationary all spread as you marveled your gel pens lined up in the order of the rainbow: ROYGBV.
Your headphones softly played some lo-fi, the soft beats soothing you as you prepared to focus. You got to scribble some notes to prepare for your next math assignment.
This section of the library was dead around this time, three hours to midnight. You enjoyed the extra quiet that this gave you, very little movement. No shuffling of bodies as they muttered minor complaints of aching posteriors. No stifled laughter from friends just trying to kill time between their next classes. Just peace and quiet.
The sensitive illumination from the moon was gracious to the entire room you were sitting in. There were a few people scattered throughout the space and that was something that kept you motivated. At least you’re not the only one here. Now within this peace and quiet, you wrote and wrote and used your patented study methods to really lock in this information.
You felt a tap on your shoulder and without thinking you checked the time on your laptop. The library didn’t close for another four hours. Pulling your ear pad to the side you turned and your mood immediately deflated.
There—standing over you—was your classmate, Riki Nishimura. He was tall, distractingly so. In a crowd he stood out and above almost everyone at an astounding six feet and one inch. Riki was lean, arms gorgeous as ever. Riki was handsome, alluring. His sharp features shrouded in felinity. His eyes were piercing, like he could either stare a hole into you or love you. His nose was like a cute button. His lips were plump and pillowy—kissable.
In case you didn’t get it, Riki Nishimura was sex appeal and a panther personified. But he was also your archrival and one of the worst people you’ve met.
"Good evening, beautiful. Working hard, are we?" He tilted his head as he leaned his hand on the table, hovering over you slightly.
You didn’t answer right away. Mostly because you were trying to calculate the odds of getting away with a perfectly executed slap, but also because your brain had short-circuited for point-three seconds trying not to stare at his mouth. "What are you doing here, Riki?" You roll your eyes as you toss your pen onto the notebook, letting out a light plop at it hit the thick paper.
The guy shrugged with a smirk on his face. "Just printing out some things. I should be asking you, little one. Don’t you have a speed bump to climb?" He pouted his lips mockingly as he reached his hand out to pat your head.
You swat his hand off, jaw tight. "Don’t touch me."
He laughs—low, unbothered, amused. "You always say that, but your eyes say otherwise."
"My eyes say ‘I wish you were dead,’" you snap, narrowing them.
Riki pulls out the chair across from you without asking. Of course. Because asking would require basic manners. "You know," he says, lounging like he owns this library, "your notes are cute. All that rainbow color-coding and tiny handwriting. Adorable. Almost makes me forget you’re my competition."
You stare him down. "You can’t compete where you don’t compare, Riki."
He clicks his tongue. "There it is." He shook his finger. "That little bite." He nodded with a sarcastic smile as he took one of your pens—your orange pen—and pointed it at you. Almost as if he was warning you of something. "It could almost make me think you want me."
At this point, your entire mood was ruined. The cute little setup you had curated for yourself wasn’t even cutting it anymore. You stood up with a frustrated sigh, gathering your things to put away. "I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than ever give you that impression." You snatched your pen from his grasp.
Riki blinked, taken aback for half a second. Then he started laughing. Full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of laugh.
"You’re seriously unhinged," he said, grinning as he watched you shove your notebook into your bag. "Like, clinically."
"And you’re seriously delusional if you thought this was a bonding moment," you shot back, slinging your tote over your shoulder.
He leaned back in the chair, folding his arms behind his head like he was settling in for a show. "Aw, c’mon. Don’t be like that, you looked so cozy before I got here."
"I was until you got here."
He furrowed his brows, feigning pity and sympathy. "Sorry,"
You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly hit the back of your skull. "I swear to God, I would genuinely pay to never see your face again."
"Well…" a new voice cut in smoothly from behind you. Low, warm, like melted honey and clean-cut authority.
You froze.
"…you won’t see much of anything if you two don’t get some sleep soon."
You turned slowly, and sure enough—standing in the moonlight like a poetic warning—was Dr. Yang. Dressed in all black, button-down rolled at the sleeves, coffee in hand, and an unreadable look in his eyes.
"Professor," you breathed, your voice unintentionally softer.
"Didn’t expect to find two of my brightest students sparring after hours," he said, gaze flicking briefly to Riki and then back to you. "You alright?"
Riki, still in the chair like a parasite, answered for you. "She’s fine. We were just chatting."
You gave him a hard side-eye. "Yeah…chatting."
Dr. Yang smiled faintly. It was subtle, but something about it made your stomach dip—like he already knew more than he let on. "Hm. You should head to your dorms. It’s late."
You opened your mouth to respond, but Riki beat you to it again. "She likes the quiet at night. Says it helps her focus."
The way Dr. Yang’s brows lifted just slightly made your ears burn. Riki grinned, clearly enjoying himself.
"I’ll walk you out," your professor said, voice gentle but final.
And for once, Riki had no snarky comeback. He just watched you collect yourself, his smirk softening into something unreadable.
You followed the professor toward the exit, not looking back at all. Though Riki was still there, watching. Watching you follow him like a moth to a flame, dog on a leash. With wide eyes and a gentleness that he felt he could never get out of you. And he watched.
Eyes narrowed. Jaw tight.
And for the first time since the beginning of this interaction, he wasn’t smiling.
—
Riki and you had this unrelenting rivalry going since the beginning of your first year at university. Sharing the same major, it started off as a slight nod of respect. A silent acknowledgment of the hard work you had both put into every assignment. The competition was friendly, nothing intense until you both found that your GPAs were entirely too close. Then the casual ‘hey, how’d you do on the socio exam?’ stopped being out of curiosity and started to be firmly interrogative.
When he showed you his A over your A-, you decided it was war.
To say you were envious of him was an understatement, severely understated. In some strange way, you wanted to be him. You wanted to be attractive. You wanted to be well-liked by your peers. You wanted to get the invites to the parties and have a boatload of friends. You wished that you could study for like thirty minutes a day then just ace everything.
But fortunately, you weren’t ugly at all. But every part of you felt so. You didn’t wear amazing clothes, usually opting for the hoodie and jeans or shorts. A cute, form-fitting long sleeve on a good day. Guys never looked at you. Not that you equated your worth to the attention you got from men. But sometimes you wouldn’t mind if a guy stopped you, if you got a double-take even.
You wore light makeup, finding it cute but far too lazy to commit to a full beat. You idolized and respected the people that did though because you never thought you could. Feeling like a fish out of water when you would look in the mirror. So blush, mascara, and some lip gloss is your go-to!
You had no friends. With all—if not most—of your time spent locked in the library or dorm. The social life that you promised yourself upon high school graduation just hadn’t found you yet. You hated crowds and your social battery depleted quickly, still you tried and tried to make friends. Going to club fairs and following classmates on social media didn’t help—they never followed back. Going out to bars that your classmates frequented in hopes of befriending someone all fell through as well. Every random person you approached looked at you like you were something on the bottom of their shoe. Like you were crazy for even trying to talk to them.
But of course, Riki didn’t have any of these issues. He commanded every room he walked into with minimal effort. Riki was bewitching. Guys and girls either wanted to be with him or be him—shit, maybe both. Nonetheless, he was funny, outgoing, ingenious, and just such an interesting person.
To everyone else.
He made fun of you, picked on you, patronized you, ensured that no matter what he never let you win. He never gave you the one-up nor did he let you live it down when something of his turned out better than whatever you did.
You resented him and hoped that with every part of you that he would either drop dead or fail at something entirely so you could finally rub it in his face. Just once.
Even with that, you hated that he was the only person you interacted with on this campus. Yet somehow you didn’t want to let it go considering that he was the closest, yet furthest thing you had to a friend here.
Riki was all you had.
—
Every Monday and Thursday, you had your Theology 101 class with Professor Jungwon Yang. You didn’t care for Religious Studies that much but your school required it for some reason. Something about them wanting its students to be well-rounded which, fair enough?
You show up to class early like usual, around twenty minutes. It gives you time to settle in and make some progress on some miscellaneous things for other classes. But just as you were typing up an outline for your Media Ethics paper, a sudden voice broke through the silence.
"Oh—you’re early!"
You startled so hard your laptop nearly slid off the desk. Looking up, your eyes locked with said Professor.
"Jesus—" you hissed, then immediately regretted the blasphemy. "Sorry. I mean. Not literally."
He laughed—an easy, bright sound that didn’t feel professorly at all. "You’re fine. Though I should dock your participation points for that." He jokes.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.
Dr. Yang was young—too young to be teaching undergrad theology without causing minor distractions every lecture. Word on campus was he’d graduated with a doctorate at twenty-five and took up this adjunct position "just for the experience," like it was a part-time internship. He always dressed sharp but casual—sweaters layered over button-downs, wire-framed glasses that somehow made him more intimidating, not less. He had the kind of face that belonged in a student catalog.
Unfair.
"Anyway," he continued, setting his bag on the desk. "What are you working on?"
You paused. "A paper for my media class."
"You’re a comms major, right?"
You blinked. "You…remember that?"
"I remember most things," he replied, like it was no big deal. "Your essays always have a strong tone. Confident. A little sarcastic. I like that."
Your face went warm. Not blushing, obviously—you were way too emotionally detached for that. But warm.
He leaned back against the podium, arms crossed. "If you ever want to do your final paper on religious media or spiritual commodification, let me know. It’d be an interesting lens. And I think you’d kill it."
You blinked. Twice.
"Thanks," you said, suddenly feeling like you forgot how to blink altogether.
He smiled as he nodded gently, "Class starts in fifteen. Don’t let me keep you." He circles his desk as he takes a seat, soaking in the silence and tapping of your keyboard echoing throughout the room.
It was nice actually, the quiet of the room. Never in your life have you ever really felt fully comfortable in the presence of another person. Not even your own mother.
He’s calm, quiet, knows when to shut up (thankfully), and Dr. Yang being around…doesn’t bother you. You don’t feel antsy, squeamish, repulsed, or irritated at him being in the same room as you.
But of course, you never know peace for long. Go figure!
"Dr. Yang! I brought your favorite," Riki’s voice rang out like a curse echoing through a cathedral as he strutted into the room holding iced coffees both hands.
You didn’t even look up. You already knew. Of course he was holding your favorite drink.
Dr. Yang looked up, slightly amused. "You remembered my order?"
"Nah, I guessed," Riki grinned. "But if it’s right, then I’m just that good."
Yang raised a brow. "I don’t usually take bribes before midterms."
"No bribe." Riki shook his head with a gentle smile.
You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw your laptop at his face, if we’re being honest.
"Also," Riki added, walking right past you to the row behind and tapping your chair with his foot, "they were out of your basic vanilla syrup, so I made an executive decision and got you hazelnut."
Your eye twitched. "I didn’t ask for anything."
"I know. That’s what makes me so generous." He plopped down in the chair behind you and leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms. "You still mad about the pen thing?"
You didn’t respond.
Dr. Yang quickly spoke up, trying to fill the silence as he sensed your discomfort. "Mr. Nishimura, I’m happy you’re joining us a little early." He smiled as he stood and started to write the date on the whiteboard in preparation for the lecture.
"Good habits," Riki said, tossing his bag down just next to his feet. "Gotta keep up with the competition, y’know?"
You didn’t look at him, but you knew he was staring. That smug grin practically burned itself into your peripheral vision.
Dr. Yang smiled, oblivious to the landmine he just stepped over. "I didn’t know you two were competitive."
You both answered at the same time.
"She’s obsessed with winning."
"He’s annoying on purpose."
There was a beat of silence before Jungwon let out a small laugh. "Right. Well, maybe a little healthy rivalry will do you both good."
You rolled your eyes. Riki just smirked.
He leaned back in his chair, the picture of smug comfort. "Some people work well under pressure. Others…get snippy."
You finally turned to glance at him, just for a second. "And some people mistake being tolerated for being wanted."
He mock-gasped. "That was a little rude. Professor, are we allowed to verbally assault each other before class starts?"
Jungwon didn’t even look up from the notes he was scribbling. "Only if it’s educational."
You pressed your lips together, suppressing a smile. Damn him for being witty.
Riki, still unfazed, leaned forward again and lowered his voice just for you. "I also told the barista your name was ‘raging nuisance.’ She wrote it on the cup and everything."
You turned slightly in your seat, expression flat. "I hope they spelled ‘annoying narcissist’ instead."
"Oh, they didn’t have enough room." He shook his head as he pursed his lips to keep himself from laughing.
You hated how easily he made you want to laugh. It was infuriating. You hated it even more that Jungwon was watching now, with that little curious crease between his brows like he was trying to figure out if this was flirting or warfare.
—
Class had ended five minutes ago, but you were still in the lecture hall, hovering awkwardly at the front while Dr. Yang packed up his laptop and notes.
He glanced up, surprised but not unkind. "Everything okay?"
You cleared your throat. "Yeah. I just…I wanted to ask if I could take you up on that religious media idea? For the final."
He perked up a little. "You serious?"
You nodded, arms crossed tight over your chest like you were keeping your organs from spilling out. "Yeah. I think it’d be interesting to look into faith-based marketing, especially in, like, TV or influencer culture. Plus, you said it’d be a strong angle. So…"
He smiled—just a little, enough to make your stomach twist in that annoying way. "Well, I stand by that. You’d do it justice."
You bit the inside of your cheek, hesitating. "Also…is there any extra credit I can do?"
That made him pause. "Extra credit? You’re stellar as is."
You nodded. "Not because I’m failing or anything," you added quickly, waving your hands. "I just want to buffer my grade. Just in case. You know. If something crazy happens. Like if, I don’t know, the guy who ruins my life recreationally decides to make me fail through psychic sabotage."
Dr. Yang blinked. "You want an assignment…to help you prepare for another assignment that’s not for two months?"
You hesitated. "…Yes?"
He huffed a laugh under his breath, rubbing his forehead. "You really are a comms major."
You shake your head, tasting the self-deprecation. "No, I’m just me."
"You’re just anxious," he corrected gently, though not unkindly. "But alright. How about this—bring me three examples of religious commodification in media by next class. Ads, shows, music videos, whatever. Annotate them briefly. If you do that, I’ll knock off your lowest quiz grade."
Your heart sank. "My lowest grade is an A."
He blinked. "...Okay?"
"So that doesn’t help me."
Dr. Yang looked at you for a second, then slowly set down his coffee. "Are you asking for extra credit on top of your already perfect grade?"
You hesitated. "No?"
He stared.
"…Yes."
There was a long pause. You stared at each other, the air thick with silent judgment—most of it coming from him.
"I’m gonna say something, and I need you to promise you won’t take it personally," he said finally.
You braced yourself.
"You’re insufferable."
You frowned a little, clutching your chest but still trying to stifle a laugh. "That’s not very nice of a Theology professor."
He smiles, "God forgives." He points at you, "I, however, am still working on it."
"So what do I do in the meantime?"
He smirks, folding his arms. "Do the assignment. Consider it a bonus...for your own amusement."
You raise an eyebrow. "So, like extra credit...but with zero reward?"
He shrugs. "Exactly. Just the satisfaction of knowing you could win at everything, if you wanted to."
Oh, this lit a fire in the pit of your stomach. "Thanks, Dr. Yang." You stood with a smile. "Hopefully this will be as enriching as you say."
"It should," he sighed. "I think it’s fun. Y’know? Something people your age should be having?"
You roll your eyes, "I should’ve taken the philosophy requirement instead." Walking away with a small laugh, you wave at him.
He calls out after you, "Then you’d be anxious and confused."
He’s absolutely correct.
But you don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that, just for the fun. To humor him. You leave the room with a smile, glad that he gave you something fun to think about.
—
You turned the corner out of the lecture hall with that small smile on your lips and that funny feeling in your stomach.
Your fun little banter with Dr. Yang was always enjoyable, fun, super casual and it was nice to have an interaction with someone other than your stuffed animals and the beanpole that likes to nag you every chance he gets.
It’s fucked up really, everytime you think about him, he just pops up.
You make a right out of this hallway and suddenly clash into a lean figure. Your bag hits the wall closely on your right. Like a pinball hitting the walls in the machine. But lucky you, Riki huffs out a small laugh as he moves his hands up, holding your biceps as he walks you to stability against the wall. "Mmm…" He hummed, "let’s watch where we’re going." As if he wasn’t waiting there for you, hoping you ran into him.
You nudged him off of you, "You did that on purpose, Riki." You sighed as you brush the residue of his hands off of you.
He smiled down at you, then held up a brown paper bag. The same one he had earlier from the café that he either just got for himself or never gave to you. "Muffin for my muffin?"
Any other time, this would be cute. This is cute. This honestly just felt like another instance of him just being weird. He never took anything seriously, not your time, patience, or anything. And you don’t expect him to.
"Kick rocks," You scoff as you start walking toward the exit.
"You’re welcome," Riki calls after you, jogging a few steps to catch up, the paper bag still in hand like he’s delivering a peace treaty.
You ignore him, pushing open the exit door with enough force that it slaps the frame behind you. You should’ve kept walking. You wanted to keep walking. But of course, he follows.
"It’s banana walnut," he says, a little sing-songy. "That’s your favorite, right? Or is it just the one you pretend to like when you’re trying to seem quirky and approachable to baristas?"
You stop walking.
He bumps into you again.
This time, you don’t shove him. You turn—slowly, dramatically, and with the kind of death-glare that could reduce lesser men to ashes. Fortunately, Riki doesn’t waver. "You were smiling on your way from class. Why?"
Your brows furrow, "I wasn’t smiling and if I was, it has nothing to do with you. Just like I want nothing to do with you." You throw your hands up flippantly.
The same smile stays on his face as he shoves the bagged muffin into your hand. "Yeah, I don’t actually care." His tone mellows out to one more straight-foward and blunt. "But I did find you to make you aware that I will be applying for the summer internship. You know, the same one you’re applying for? The one that now that you have no chance of getting as long as I’m alive?" He tilts his head as the smile settles into the patronizing one you were oh-so-familiar with.
Your university had an internship promise for all students due to its very strong programs and alumni network. With this, business students (like yourself and Riki) were already a shoo-in for solid jobs and careers upon graduation.
But this is the thing, there are always internship opportunities because there are thousands of students. Meaning that there are hundreds to thousands of internships.
Yet, of course, Riki just wants to take this one.
"I’m not applying for an internship this summer," you crossed your arms as you feigned indifference. Maybe having him think you didn’t would somehow wane his unshakeable tenacity.
He saw through you though, "You are." He nodded, "The consulting group one. You don’t have to lie, I overheard you talking to your mommy about it last week."
Every summer, your school works closely with consulting groups where they choose one student from each business college within the university (there only being three separate colleges) to fly to a major city to work on real-world business cases for Fortune 500 companies.
While like any other internship, it’s a great way to gain experience and network—however it is extremely competitive. Out of the thousands of students in this pool, only three are chosen. You had been super excited about this opportunity considering you are a Communications major—ironically enough given that you don’t know how to communicate with anyone—and you truly do want to have this chance to get your name out there. To dip your toes into this career path.
But naturally, Riki didn’t find appeal in those. He wanted yours. Because really, why not?
"Can’t you just apply for all of the other dozens?" You turn, trying to get ahead to the dining hall for your lunch. A nice, greasy batch of french fries really sounded up your alley today. "It’s not like you’d lose them."
He followed in step with you. "So by that logic, I should apply for this one. Because I wouldn’t lose." He smiled, biting his lip dreamily as he looked up in the air at the trees. "I mean, really think about it. What’s the score now? Riki, a million and one. You, zero?"
You hadn’t looked at him since you started walking and you definitely weren’t going to look at him now. That familiar twist in your stomach, the burning sensation right at the bottom. You had known it all too well and you didn’t miss it.
"Now that I think of it, you’re not good at anything, really." He shook his head thoughtfully. "Though you were right about one thing. You can’t compete where you don’t compare." Riki grabbed your arm to stop you forcefully, ensuring you looked him dead in the eye. "But you weren’t talking about me."
"I don’t know when you’ll learn, sweetheart. But in case those books you read hadn’t exactly informed you well enough, then I will." The smile he once had is now extinct. "Quit while you’re ahead. Wait—" he stopped for a beat as he looked down, feigning thought. "You’re not even ahead!" He let out a semblance of a laugh. "And you never will be. So just save yourself the heartache, go hole back up in that dorm. Bury yourself into those cute little romance books just wishing for the love you’ll never have and forget about it." The distance between you two had gotten smaller than you could comprehend. And conveniently barely anyone was around either. Everyone either in the classroom buildings or somewhere else. Some stragglers running amok, most likely late for classes.
But in this position, it didn’t even matter. You could be in a sea of people and still feel as vulnerable as if you were in the wilderness. Riki’s eyes weren’t teasing, weren’t funny, weren’t cool.
His eyes held pure venom. Just disgust and repugnance, and that had no place on a face like his.
You blink, once, slowly. Like your brain’s buffering because surely he didn’t just say all that to your face.
But he did. And now he’s looking at you like he’s proud of it. Like he’s already won.
For a second, you wonder if he has.
Because yeah, maybe your confidence is stitched together by duct tape and quiet desperation. Maybe your hands are clammy, your throat’s tight, and your eyes are starting to sting like they always do when you’re angry but can’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.You looked over his shoulder, at the bark of a tree because you simply couldn’t dare to look at him without so much as bursting into tears. Because you know it just like he does, you’re not confident. You don’t measure up to him. In anything. And in a perfect story where you’re supposed to be the badass that has this amazing comeback and he sits there, gobsmacked and ready to tongue you down, this just isn’t the case.
You are weak. You froze.
Smart people like you are a dime a dozen.
Intelligent, brilliant people like him are once in a lifetime.
So you do nothing.
You don’t shove him. You don’t scream. You don’t drop a monologue that sends the birds scattering.
You just stand there. Breathing too hard, blinking too fast.
And Riki knows it. Of course he does. That’s why he’s still staring at you with that smug little expression, like this is just another check on his running list of victories. Like he already knows how this ends. He walks away, you crumble, and the world spins on its axis. Business as usual.
But the thing is—you’re not mad at him. Not really.
You’re mad at yourself.
Because even after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted him to be wrong. Still wanted him to look at you like you were a challenge. A threat. Like you were someone worth worrying about.
Instead, he looks at you like you’re predictable.
And maybe that’s worse than hate. Maybe it’s worse than anything.
You swallow around the lump in your throat. Try to breathe through your nose, like the therapist you stopped seeing after two sessions told you. It doesn’t work. Nothing works.
Because Riki’s right.
And you hate that. God, you hate it. The way he always seems to know what he’s doing, what he wants, who he is. And the worst part is? He’s probably not even trying. He’s probably not even thinking about you anymore.
You tighten your grip around the muffin, its paper wrap crinkling beneath your fingers like your composure.
So he smiles gently, sadistically at your now cowered demeanor. He snatched the muffin out of your hand. "You weren’t gonna eat it anyway, right?"
Your eyes finally moved, looking down at the concrete you stood on just as he let you go.
He noticed your expression, how defeated and distant your irises were beyond what he could see. So he crouched a little, still as patronizing as ever. "I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings." Pouting as he gently moved your face to look at him. Thumb caressing the flesh of your scorching hot cheek. So delicate, like if he put even the smallest bit more pressure he would put a dent in you. "Someone’s gotta tell you the truth. It’s not like you have anyone else to do it…"
Oh, fuck him. You thought.
"I’m just looking out for you, hm?" He let go just as easily. "Same time tomorrow?" He waved as he rubbed your shoulder, wandering off to God knows where as you stood there. Burning, aching, and barely able to stand the sight of yourself.
—
Dr. Yang’s office is warm. On the fourth floor, tucked in at the very end of the hallway. The type of offices you see in movies or create in your imagination from books.
His desk was in the middle, right behind it was an expansive recessed bookshelf with media from 1984 to Cold War textbooks to Wuthering Heights. For some reason it was very earthy, everything was made of strong, sturdy wood and he always got just the right amount of sunlight.
You knock, just lightly enough not to scare him.
He’s leaning over a stack of papers, glasses slipped to the tip of his nose. "Office hours miracle?" he asks, smiling when he sees you. "Come in."
You slid in and closed the door back behind you. "Hey, sorry to bother y—"
Dr. Yang immediately shook his head. "You’re not bothering me. You’ve never even been here before. Sit, sit." He nodded to the chair in front of the desk encouragingly. "What’s up?"
Sitting down smoothly, you pull out a notebook, flipping it open to a page cluttered with highlighter scribbles and sideways questions. "It’s about the assignment," you say, tapping the corner of the page. "The first paper? I swear I read the prompt like…six times. And I’m still not sure I’m doing it right."
Dr. Yang smiles, easy. "That’s a promising start. Confusion means you’re thinking."
You raise a brow. "That sounds like something people say right before you fail."
He laughs—warm, unbothered. "Maybe. But it also means you’re trying to find the right angle, not just the easy one. Let me see."
You pass him your notebook and he scans it, nodding slowly. "You’re writing about digital spaces and moral identity?"
You nod. "Yeah. Like, how people perform goodness online. But it’s so abstract that every time I try to put it into a thesis, it feels fake-deep or pretentious."
"Fake-deep," he repeats, amused. "I should make that a grading category."
You smirk faintly, despite yourself.
He leans back in his chair, setting the notebook on the desk. "Here’s the thing—you’re asking big questions. That’s not a flaw at all. It’s direction, if anything. The key is narrowing it without dumbing your words down."
You shift in your seat, chewing your bottom lip. "I just don’t want it to sound like I’m pointing fingers. Or worse, like I don’t even know what I’m talking about."
He tilts his head, considering you. "May I ask something?"
"Sure."
"What made you afraid of sounding unsure?"
You blink. The question hangs in the air, soft but weighted.
"I don’t know," you lie. Instinctively. Because saying his name out loud makes your skin crawl. And you’re not ready—not here, not yet.
Dr. Yang doesn’t push. He just nods, like he heard what you didn’t say. "Well. You’re allowed to sound unsure in a draft. That’s where you figure things out. It’s part of the process."
You look down at your hands, fingers still curled around the edge of the notebook. "Okay."
"Also," he adds gently, "I hope you know it’s okay to be a little lost. That’s kind of the point of college…and life itself."
You let out a shaky laugh. "You sound like a fortune cookie."
"A well-read one," he says. "Want help outlining it? Or would that ruin the illusion of academic suffering?"
You smile, a little crooked. "Honestly? I could use the help."
He grabs a pen. "Great. Let’s de-suffer this together."
And just like that, it’s easier to breathe. The weight on your chest isn’t gone, not by a long shot—but it shifts. Just enough to remind you: there are still places in the world that feel soft. That don’t ask you to be clever or composed. Just you.
And maybe, slowly, that’s where you’ll start.
—
After a solid hour of brainstorming and bouncing off of each other, you and Dr. Yang had actually slowly let go of the outline. At this point, you had finished it seeing as you had quickly begun to understand the topic. The young professor was actually great at explaining things without making you feel like an idiot or silly for being confused.
Now, you two were chatting about everything and nothing, mild debates over books. Movies. Who knew that he actually enjoyed hate-watching fanfic movies?
"Okay wait no, The QB and Me wasn’t even that bad, though." You smiled as you pointed at him, chewing on the snacks that he offered you. Gladly, he munched on some with you to not make you feel lonely while eating. Which is always fun.
He smiles, amused. "Just hearing the ‘I’m so sick of your main character energy’ line from the best friend was enough to make me want to off myself."
You’re currently sitting on the brown leather couch that smelled of cologne. The material was slightly worn but for some reason, couches like this always felt the best. You could tell he definitely slept on this couch more often than not.
"No, I won’t lie, the best friend did piss me off at some points. Like girl, we get that you got denied from Princeton but your friend also broke up with a guy she really liked. Sorry she didn’t just jump to your aid when she was already hurting?" You ranted, and honestly, this was the most you’ve ever spoken to someone about something this niche in a very long time.
"It’s not even that," he waved his hand as he tried to muffle his laugh. "The fact that at the party they went to, she left Dallas there knowing she was drinking. Then!" He sighed dramatically. "Hear me out, she left with the main guy’s brother. My thing is, you knew she was drinking so why didn’t you at least make sure she was good before you left?" He shrugged with irritation in his eyes. "Could’ve dropped her at home on the way to wherever y’all were going. Or could’ve had the main guy keep an eye on her and ensure he took her home, like this is your best friend!"
You’re giggling into the sleeve of your hoodie now, half from the sugar rush and half from how serious he sounds about this plot hole. "Bro, she did not care. At all."
"I was actually rooting for their friendship more than the romance," he says with a thoughtful look. "Because I love a meaningful friendship arc. But when she just started to be weird then she lost me. And I’m usually forgiving. That’s a work in progress."
You laugh into your sleeve again, the sound bubbling out of you without resistance. It’s strange—how natural this feels. Like the conversation has been happening for years instead of just an hour. No pressure, no grades, no expectations. Just two nerds slandering messy fictional girls.
Eventually, your laughter fades into a smile. The room settles into something softer, more open.
Jungwon leans back on the couch, tilting his head toward you. "I’m really glad you came today," he says, voice quiet but clear. "I hope I was able to help you with what you needed."
You nod, returning the smile. "Yeah. I feel a lot better about the outline. And…everything."
A beat passes. He glances at you again.
"You can call me Jungwon, by the way," he says, casual but intentional. "If you want."
You blink, surprised for a second—but then something settles in your chest. It feels like a trust fall you didn’t know you were invited to. "Jungwon?"
He nods, waving you off with a casual expression. "Yeah, I mean—I’m not really one for formalities."
"…Okay. Jungwon." You say it slowly, like tasting something new. "Thanks."
He looks like he might say something else—but instead just gives a soft, content nod.
—
When you’re standing up to leave, hoodie sleeves pulled over your wrists and your bag hanging off one shoulder, you pause near the door.
"Thanks for walking me out that night," you say, voice gentler than you intend. "At the library. I know it was late."
Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly remembering. "Of course. You looked like you needed an out."
You hum. "Yeah. Riki was…being Riki."
He eyes you carefully now. "What’s going on between you two, anyway?" he asks, lightly. "You a thing? Like slow-burn enemies-to-lovers or something?"
You scrunch your nose immediately. "What? No. Definitely not. I think you’re the one who reads too many books."
He smirks. "Didn’t even hesitate."
You shrug, trying not to reveal too much. "Riki’s not…a very nice person?" You adjust your bag on your shoulder. "I don’t know, he just…can be very weird sometimes."
Jungwon furrows his brows as he crosses his arms, leaning against his desk. Something he tends to do but you noticed this is his analytical stance. "Weird, how?"
"Like…" you look up in thought as you tilt your head, trying to turn those cogs in your brain. "Riki and I aren’t friends. He thoroughly enjoys making my life even more difficult than it is. But I think he knows the power he has over me and really isn’t afraid to make me aware of it."
Jungwon’s brows lift slightly, arms still crossed. "That’s…a lot," he says carefully. "The ‘power he has over you’ part—what does that mean?"
You blink, suddenly aware of how much you just gave away. The words had spilled out too fast, too unfiltered, like a truth you didn’t mean to say out loud.
You let out a dry laugh, trying to wave it off. "I mean, not like…real power. He’s just annoying. Egocentric. He knows how to get under my skin, that’s all."
Jungwon doesn’t look convinced. "Still sounds like someone who’s in your head a lot."
You glance toward the floor. "Unfortunately."
There’s a quiet pause. Not awkward, but a bit tense rather. He watches you a second longer, eyes thoughtful but not judging. Just trying to understand. "Just—be careful with people like that, okay?" he says softly. "Competition can go south very quickly. I’d hate for you to lose yourself in something like that." He stops himself. Doesn’t want to overstep.
You nod slowly. "I know."
Jungwon pushes off the desk and walks over to the door, opening it again for you. "You don’t deserve that type of worry," he says casually, almost like a passing thought. "Friend or foe. But if it ever gets to be too much, my email and office are at your disposal always."
You manage a small smile. "Thanks, Jungwon."
He gives a half-smile back. "Anytime." He nods, his smile now expanding. "And tell Dallas we deserved better."
You snort, shaking your head as you step into the hallway. "You’re never letting that go, huh?"
He shrugs, still grinning. "I’d sooner die."
The door shuts behind you with a soft click, but the words—and the warmth of them—linger. You tuck that somewhere deep, somewhere safe.
And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re walking away from something heavy. You feel like you might’ve left a little of it behind.
—
Since you and Jungwon’s fun ‘office hours-turned-hangout’ last week, he’s been thinking.
Like really thinking.
He prides himself on being very observant and someone that can truly read people. So as he stepped into class today, he was going to do that. He was going to do more of that. He was going to really try to understand what you meant exactly by weird. Because somehow it felt like every answer you gave was something that you couldn’t exactly describe. Something you had to just see for yourself.
"Hey guys," he smiled as he entered the lecture hall. You and your fellow classmates all chorused some greetings. ‘Hi’ ‘Good morning’ ‘Hello’ all heard from throughout the room.
Jungwon surveyed the room after he set his stuff down. Acting as if he was noting attendance but he was really trying to find you and the guy whose name seemed to send you over the edge—not in a good way.
You were always easy to spot because you always occupied the same seat. Or at least a seat in the general area so he never had to look too far. And low and behold, there was Riki. Sat directly behind. He never seemed to be far from you.
Jungwon’s gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary before your shy little smile caught his attention. A barely-there wave, hand lifting just off the desk, like it was meant for no one to notice. A soft Hi mouthed across the room.
He smiled back.
Jungwon kept his expression casual as he started the lecture. But his brain? Fully elsewhere. Yet his subconscious just knew the material. It was like he was on auto-pilot.
He wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting to see—but this? This dance? The barely-there glances and stilted body language? It wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t hate either. It was…something uncomfortable. Intimate. Sharp like a paper cut.
Throughout the lecture, Jungwon would make a joke or pose a question, and you’d smile or laugh—and Riki would react. Not directly. Not outwardly. But there was a flicker of something behind his eyes every time you were pulled into someone else’s orbit.
Possessiveness? No. Not quite.
Awareness. He could work with awareness.
At one point, Jungwon asked a discussion question. The room went silent. You didn’t raise your hand, but Riki did. Voice calm, confident, and direct.
Jungwon watched you react to that. A blink. A shift. The faintest look toward him like you were waiting for a punchline.
But Riki didn’t look at you. Not even once. Which almost made it worse. Like he didn’t have to.
By the time class ended, Jungwon had filled three mental pages with observations he wasn’t sure what to do with. He wasn’t trying to meddle. Wasn’t even sure if he could. But he’d seen enough to know something wasn’t sitting right.
So as students packed up, he walked to his desk and clicked his pen closed. Then, for no reason at all, his gaze flicked back to Riki. And Riki was already looking at him.
—
The last backpack zips, chatter fades, doors clap shut. Jungwon closes his laptop but keeps his eyes on the tall kid who’s still lounging like the room’s a private suite. "Mr. Nishimura—got a sec?"
Riki pauses mid-scroll, thumb hovering over whatever meme he’s pretending to be enthralled in. "Sure, Professor."
The casual swagger is turned up to eleven, but Jungwon’s already perceived the tension hiding in his shoulders. He motions to the front row. "Sit."
Riki drops into the seat, a smirk ready-made. "What’s up? You wanna roast my paper, too?"
"Your paper’s fine. This is…different." Jungwon folds his arms, leaning on the desk. "I’ve noticed you and her have a lively…dynamic."
Riki’s grin wobbles one millimeter. "Dynamic. Nice word."
"Of course," Jungwon deadpans. "Listen, healthy competition is great. But when one person looks ready to bolt every time the other walks in? That’s not just rivalry."
Riki shrugs—classic slow roll of broad shoulders. "She and I mess with each other. It’s mutual."
"Is it mutual when she’s gripping the edge of her desk like a life preserver?"
Silence. A muscle jumps in Riki’s jaw.
Jungwon softens his voice. "I’m not here to police friendships. But I am responsible for how my students treat each other in my space. And I care about her well-being. I hope you know the same would apply if it was the other way around."
Something flickers in Riki’s eyes—gone before Jungwon can name it. Guilt? Offense? Both? "She’s tough," Riki says finally, quieter than before. "She’s fine."
"Maybe. It still doesn’t hurt to be considerate."
Riki exhales through his nose, gaze sliding to the classroom door. "You done, sir?"
"For now." Jungwon straightens, giving him an out. "Just think about what I said."
Riki stands, slings his bag over one shoulder. "Thinking’s dangerous."
Jungwon smiles slightly. "I’ll take my chances."
Riki huffs a laugh—more breath than sound—then heads for the exit. Jungwon watches, filing away every micro-expression for later. He isn’t sure he got through, but at least a seed’s been planted.
—
Later that day—
You knocked on Jungwon’s door, waiting for his permission to enter. As you heard it, you poked your head through the door. "Hi," you smiled. "Are you busy?"
Jungwon slightly closed his laptop as a way to let you know you had his attention. "No, what’s up?" For some reason, seeing your face warmed him. He couldn’t explain the feeling.
"Nothing, I was just wondering if I could chill here? I still have a ton of things to do and I don’t wanna go to the library beca—" You ranted frantically but he held up his hand to interrupt you.
"Please, you don’t need an excuse to come here. It’s okay, you’re my friend." He nodded as he eyed you warmly. "Make yourself comfortable."
Somehow, hearing the word ‘friend’ sent something warm through you too. Stepping through the door and closing it behind you, you sat down on that brown leather couch. "Thanks, um…so do you have any classes or are you done for the day?" You took your laptop out of your bag and opened it, waiting for it to power on.
"With classes, yeah. But I have a meeting in like ten minutes." He said, eyes locked in on his own stuff.
You frowned, feeling like you were in the way. "Wait—then I can just go or come back later—"
He laughed a little, "If I didn’t want you here I would’ve said so. It’s just a department meeting." Again, waving you off.
"I don’t wanna be an impudence, you know? I can just go then come back after."
Jungwon tilted his head as he looked at you. "Are you gonna steal or break anything?" He muffled a laugh as he asked baseless questions.
Your brows furrowed, "No,"
He shrugged, "Okay, I trust you. It’s not a big deal."
You nodded silently, ultimately deciding not to fight him on this as you retreated back to your laptop. Working on some assignments and today’s Wordle.
Though as things fell into a silence, you looked up to see him gathering his things.
He slipped on his adorable blue sweater-vest and tossed a couple of papers into a folder before sliding it into his bag.
"You sure you don’t mind me being here?" you asked again, quieter this time.
Jungwon looked over his shoulder at you as he adjusted the strap on his bag. "It’s no sweat,"
You shrugged, sheepish. "I just don’t wanna overstep."
He walked toward the door but paused before opening it. "You won’t. Seriously."
You offered a small smile, and he smiled back before pointing at you like he was making a very official declaration. "Don’t burn the place down. You know where the snacks are. There’s a blanket in the cabinet. Water is in the fridge but you can have whatever. And if anyone asks, I did not leave you unattended."
You snorted. "What kind of things do you think I get up to?"
"I’ve seen the way you rage at your laptop," he teased. "I don’t trust that thing’s lifespan."
You opened your mouth, offended. "Wordle betrayed me the last time!"
"Mhm," he hummed, already opening the door. "If my office’s on fire when I get back, I’m blaming Wordle."
"Tell your department it was worth it," you called after him, watching as he disappeared down the hall.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed wasn’t heavy or awkward. Just peaceful. You took a deep breath, leaning back against the couch, the glow of your laptop illuminating your face.
But you closed it, figuring that you just weren’t in the mood for your history assignment. It wasn’t due for another three weeks anyway. You slipped it back into your bag and stood up, as now you could finally get a feel for Jungwon’s space now that he was absent.
You started with the walls, inspecting them but not touching anything out of fear that a sudden clumsiness would overcome you. Like any other professor, he had his degrees on display. Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts, then Doctor of Philosophy. All under thirty, how did he do it? You wonder. Or maybe it may very well be possible, you didn’t know the first thing about graduate school at this juncture.
But none of the things on the wall seemed entirely too personal. Besides the degrees, there were cute paintings—one he had done himself and another one that he seemed to have bought.
But the real magic was in the bookshelf. The enormous recessed bookshelf that took up the entire wall was made of media spanning a myriad of genres, authors, topics. From Hughes, Dickinson, Orwell, to Vonnegut. To sci-fi, horror, nonfiction, romance, contemporary, etc. He even had textbooks with the sticky tabs and annotation stickers in them. Multiple to one page.
To which it wasn’t like any of this didn’t make sense. As established, Jungwon was an academic and the thing about academics is that they don’t like to be wrong in anything. That if they find that there is something they don’t know then they do everything in their power to know everything there is to know about that topic.
That seemed to be the case here. It was either that or they’re especially skilled in a subject matter and fall short in literally everything else.
Out of curiosity, your eyes fell on The Souls of Black Folk and you plucked it off the shelf. With a content sigh, you go back to the couch and make yourself comfortable. Lying down on the cushion, the leather rubbing together and giving way beneath your weight—you rested your head on a soft throw pillow and opened the book to sink your teeth into it. Of Our Spiritual Strivings.
For the next twenty minutes you flipped through the pages, digesting the heavy content but nonetheless—enjoying the serenity that comes with Jungwon’s space.
Everything about him was just so calming and forgiving. Whether he was here or not, Jungwon ensured that you were safe no matter what. Not just physically but emotionally and really it felt nice to finally have someone in a place where you felt like you didn’t belong.
You heard fidgeting at the doorknob and sat up with a slight smile, gosh—you felt like a fucking dog. You put the book down in your lap and quickly…fixed your hair?
But on the other side of the door, came in a slightly taller guy. The feline, the panther you were all too familiar with and you had never felt your mood deflate so hastily. "Hey, Dr. Yang, I was won—oh…"
Riki stood in the doorway, hand still on the knob, blinking at the sight of you curled up on Jungwon’s couch like you belonged there. His brows lifted, and something unreadable flickered across his face—like he had walked into a room expecting applause and got dead silence instead.
"Oh," he repeated, stepping inside anyway. He didn’t bother masking the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. "Didn’t know this was a friends-only zone now."
You sat up straighter, subtly sliding the book off your lap like it hadn’t just become your emotional support paperback. "He’s not here," you said simply.
Riki’s gaze dropped to the book as he walked in further. "Yeah, no shit." He tilted his head, surveying the space like he owned stock in it. "Didn’t think I’d find you here though. What’s this? Weekly playdate with your fave professor?"
You narrowed your eyes. "I’m studying."
He glanced at the lax body language, you were sitting up now but clearly from the dent—you were comfortable. Then at the open book. Then back to you, all amusement. "Yeah. Real intense study session you got going on. You highlight with your eyes, huh?"
You rolled your eyes, grabbing the throw pillow behind you and tossing it lightly at him. "You’re so annoying."
He caught it easily, holding it against his chest with a mock expression of betrayal. "You wound me. I come in here, innocent, curious, seeking intellectual growth—"
"You were looking for Jungwon."
"Jungwon?" He tilted his head with a shock behind his smile. Laughing—almost maniacally through it. "You’re on a first name basis?"
You shrugged, "There’s nothing wrong with making friends with a professor or getting to know people." Playing with the sleeves of your knitted sweater as you avoided his eye contact. But Riki was anything—but he wasn’t stupid. A beat of silence.
"You like him."
Your eyes snapped up, and for a split second, your mouth opened like you were about to fire back something clever—something—but nothing came out.
Riki was already smirking slightly.
"I don’t like him," you said finally, a little too fast, a little too sharp.
He held your gaze like he was testing it for cracks. "Yeah? ‘Cause you look real comfortable for someone who’s just friends with their professor. Got your little pillow fort going, reading Du Bois like you’re about to rock yourself to sleep."
You scoffed. "You act like I broke into his office."
"I wouldn’t put it past you," he said, stepping closer, tossing the pillow gently back onto the couch—your couch now, apparently. "We all know how much of a weird freak you are. You probably write about him in your diary. Sniff his seat. Snort his eraser shavings."
"I don’t like him," you said again, this time slower. Firmer. "He’s nice. That’s it."
Riki nodded, almost like he was accepting that. Almost. "I don’t blame you if you did. He’s good-looking, mature, stable, and kind. Accepting. Which is something you really need more than ever." He snickered toward the end of his statement. "But I think it’s best if you told your boyfriend that I’m no bully." He said, tilting his head as he tried to muffle his frustration. "Sending your new bestie to press me about our friendly little ‘dynamic’ is a fucking cop-out and you know it." He crosses his arms as he peers down at you.
Again, as confused as ever, you shook your head as if it would somehow let loose anything that you may have forgotten. "What are you—I never—"
"Stop fucking lying to me." Riki said firmly as edged closer to the couch. "If me and you have our spats that’s one thing, but siccing a professor on me is low. And I’m sure that you know that by now I can go lower."
This was classic Riki. Conversations with him always started as teasing, maybe a little lighthearted but he never failed to remind you of who he was and who you were. He always flipped the script—started with a smirk, ended with a knife.
You stood up slowly from the couch, the book in your lap forgotten, still open on your last page. "I didn’t send anyone after you," you said, voice steady, though your hands were starting to feel too warm. "I don’t even know what you’re talking about."
"Don’t play dumb," Riki snapped, tone just shy of venom. "Yang cornered me after class. Real casual, real calm. Asking me what’s up with you, how I treat you, what our history is. Sounded like a concerned boyfriend trying not to sound like one."
You blinked. "And that automatically means I sent him?"
"Yes," he snapped again, "who else?"
You paused, because…okay, fine. He had a point there. But still.
"I didn’t tell him to do anything," you repeated. "He just—cares. People can care, Riki. Not everyone is out to get you."
"Right," he scoffed. "But I’m the manipulative one, right?"
You didn’t answer. Mostly because you weren’t sure what answer would even matter to him right now. There was silence. A thick, electric kind that made the small office suddenly feel like it had no oxygen.
Then: Riki exhaled through his nose and looked away. "You know what pisses me off?" he muttered. "You say I have power over you, like I’m holding something over your head. But you let me get to you. And I don’t know if it’s because you want me to or because you think I deserve to."
He looked at you again, softer this time, but somehow that made it worse. "But either way, you always pretend like I’m the only problem. And you don’t even see how much of a liar that makes you. It’s almost like you get off on it. On me, ‘making your life miserable’ when you invite this."
It was a quiet kind of blow. The kind you don’t dodge because it didn’t come with fire—it came with fact. And the worst part was that you didn’t have a defense. "Look," he put his hands up in concession. "All I’m saying is be careful. We wouldn’t want Dean Park to find out just in case this camaraderie teetered just over the edge of Bible study." He smiles, but like always there was nothing behind it.
"You wouldn’t." You mumbled in disbelief.
"You don’t know what I would do." He smiled as he tilted his head. "Right?" Riki scans your body language: defensive, slightly worried. Much to his shame—which he doesn’t know if he has any—something horrid, deep-seated loves to see you squirm.
Just the power he exercises over you and stirs something in the pit of his stomach. Something about you cowering under the weight of his gaze ignites a flame somewhere inside of him.
He doesn’t even know if he likes you, he just likes the reactions you give him because he knows you don’t have the gumption to really stand up for yourself.
Huh, so maybe it was improper to blame you.
Your throat tightened, but you didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because he was right—at least about some of it. Maybe most of it. You didn’t know anymore. It was like every word from his mouth rewrote the rules of the game you didn’t even realize you were playing.
Riki took a slow step forward, like a predator testing the limits of a snare he’d already set. "See," he said, voice low, almost sweet, "it’s not that I want to make your life hell. I don’t wake up thinking, ‘how do I ruin her day today?’" He paused. "Most days."
That grin again. Wolfish.
"But you let me. And I think you like being the victim more than you’d admit. It’s easier, right? To play helpless? To act like you don’t have choices. Like I’m the one who pulls every string when half the time, you hand me the scissors."
You hated that his words sank deep enough to sting. Hated even more that part of you wasn’t sure if it was guilt, or just shame for being so easily read.
"I’m not helpless," you muttered, quiet but firm.
He nodded slowly, eyes glinting. "Prove it."
The challenge hung between you like smoke. But you didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you didn’t know what proving it even meant anymore. So Riki just gave a short, dismissive exhale and backed away again, straightening his hoodie as he nodded in acceptance. "That’s what I thought."
He didn’t look at you when he opened the door this time. Didn’t give you another smirk or threat. Just paused, hand on the knob, and said, "you and your ‘friend’ better keep my name out of your mouth."
Then he walked right out—closing the door softly in his wake.
—
Not even five minutes later, the door clicked open again.
"Meeting ended early," Jungwon said brightly as he stepped in, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up and his messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder. "Thank God, too. I think if one more person said the word ‘interdisciplinary’ I was gonna—"
He stopped short when he saw you.
Your posture was stiff. Book in your lap, but your hands weren’t turning the pages anymore. You weren’t even looking at it. You were just…sitting. Quiet. Still. Something about the air shifted. Jungwon’s smile dipped, just a little. "Hey," he said more gently now. "You okay?"
You blinked like you’d been underwater. "Huh? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine."
"Are you sure?" He moved toward you slowly, setting his bag down. "You look kinda out of it."
You shook your head, trying to wave it off, forcing a laugh. "Just tired. My bad. I think your couch tricked me into feeling too cozy. I think I’m gonna call it a night."
Jungwon didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. He didn’t argue. Didn’t laugh it off or try to fill the space too quickly. He just studied you for a beat, then walked over—slowly—and crouched by the couch so you were eye-level.
"You sure?" he asked, gently.
Your throat tightened. You didn’t mean to look away, but you did.
Then, quieter: "You don’t have to say what happened. But you don’t have to leave either. Not unless you want to."
You finally looked at him. There was no pressure in his gaze, no pity. Just that same calm, open patience that always felt like an invitation. And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was weak—but you didn’t want to go. You didn’t want to be alone.
So instead of grabbing your bag, you let out a breath and nodded. "Okay," you whispered.
Jungwon offered a small smile—barely there. "Good." He stood and moved to the small kettle tucked in the corner. "Chamomile or lemon?"
You closed your eyes for a second. Let your body sink into the couch again.
"Lemon," you said. "Please."
—
He brought two mismatched mugs to you, handing you one like it was sacred. That if you even touched it with the wrong finger it’d burn you. Which is true, it could’ve.
"Okay, okay," he said. "Wanna hear something truly embarrassing?"
You glanced at him, suspicious. "More embarrassing than pretending to be an expert in garbage rom-coms?"
"Tragically, yes."
You gestured grandly. "By all means."
He exhaled, already laughing at himself. "Alright. When I was like thirteen, I went through this huge Greek mythology phase. Like, read every book, watched every documentary, made a family tree of the gods...I was in deep."
You squinted. "That’s not embarrassing. That’s just being a gifted kid with a hyperfixation."
"Wait for it." He held up a hand. "So one day, I decided I wanted to live like a demigod. I carried a plastic sword around the house. Made my mom call me ‘Son of Athena.’ Tried to sneak ambrosia—which was just honey and Gatorade—into my lunchbox."
You choked on your tea. "Stop."
"I even made a Camp Half-Blood bead necklace out of macaroni." His voice cracked from the shame. "And wore it. To school."
You leaned forward, wheezing. "Oh my God, you LARPed?!"
"I trained," he said, dead serious. "In the backyard. My neighbors thought I was a sword-obsessed theater kid."
"Were they wrong?"
He shrugged. "Honestly? They weren’t too far off."
The two of you dissolved into quiet laughter again, and for a second, the tension that had been clawing at your ribs all afternoon just...let go.But when the giggles subsided and your tea had cooled, you finally glanced at him sideways. "Jungwon…"
He looked at you over the rim of his mug. "Hm?"
"I know you pulled Riki aside after class."
A beat. "What…? No."
You didn’t answer. Just raised an eyebrow to communicate that he already knew how. Jungwon sighed, looking almost bashful. "Yeah. I did."
"Please don’t do that again." You sigh as you put the mug on the couch-side table and turn to him with a slight frown.
His eyes snapped to you, surprised.
You tucked your legs up on the couch and turned to face him. "I appreciate you looking out, really. I do. But I don’t need you to defend me. I’m a big girl."
There was a pause. Then a quiet, almost guilty: "I get that. I just…I’m your friend. And—"
"You are my friend," you interrupted softly. "But you’re also our professor."
You saw it in the way the glint in his eyes dimmed, just slightly. Like he hadn’t thought about it that way until right now. He quickly suppressed these feelings. Because after hearing that and the way it made him feel, he started to panic. Just a bit though, he didn’t want to think too much into it.
So he nods curtly, "Yeah. No, yeah. Totally. You’re right, I overstepped. I’m sorry."
You shook your head fervently, "No, you’re good." You put your hand out to rest onto his instantaneously. And neither one of you moved. "You didn’t have any ill intentions at all and that’s fine, I’m not upset. I just didn’t think you would say something to him." Laughing awkwardly, you look down at your lap.
Jungwon looked down at your warm hand that covered his own, and it wasn’t until he looked at them that he felt some tingling in his stomach. "I know…I just—you’re genuinely so compassionate…and lovely. No one deserves to be treated the way you are. And I may not have seen exactly what he’s done but I see the way you look around him. Like…your body shrivels up, you feel threatened or something. So I figured that if I’m in the position where I could stop it then…" He sighed as he nodded in understanding. "I wanted to…I just wanted to advocate for you."
You smiled faintly at his words. Small, but sincere. Because even if it stung before, hearing it from him now—so earnestly—it softened something in you.
"I get that," you murmured. "And…thank you. Really. You didn’t have to, but you did."
He let out a breath through his nose, some tension loosening in his shoulders. "It just didn’t sit right with me. The way he talks to you, like he’s always trying to win something. It’s on the cusp of bullying. He’s weaponizing his own strengths against someone he perceives to be inferior. I think it’s improper to not call it what it is."
You didn’t respond to that. Mostly because he wasn’t wrong.
Jungwon caught your silence and added gently, "I’m sorry if I made it worse. I wasn’t trying to step in for you, I just…I wanted him to know someone was paying attention. That somebody cares."
You nodded slowly, thumb brushing absentmindedly against the back of his hand. "I think I needed to hear that more than I realized."
He looked at you then—really looked at you—and it made your heart skip. Not because it was romantic, but because it felt like he saw you. Like he’d been seeing you this whole time, even when you tried so hard to disappear into the background.
For a second, you sat in the quiet, hand in his, both of you absorbing the moment. Then you said, more to yourself than to him, "It’s...hard to accept help when you’re used to feeling like a burden."
He didn’t try to offer some corny fix-it response. Didn’t say "you’re not a burden" or "you should talk to someone." He just gave your hand the lightest squeeze. "Whatever it is, I got you. I won’t do that again unless I feel that there’s serious danger. Mental, physical…you know." Jungwon pursed his lips, showcasing his small dimples. Took everything in you not to poke them.
But you sighed of relief, "Thank you,"
He smiled at you—soft and genuine, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything in return. "Of course."
You let your eyes fall to your intertwined hands again, then gave his a gentle squeeze back before slowly pulling away. Not because you wanted to, but because any longer and you were scared of what it might start to mean. Thus, you just started to fill the silence. "You know, I actually had a Greek mythology phase too."
Jungwon’s brows perked up, "Really?" He leaned back on the couch as he grabbed your mug to pass it to you as he grabbed his.
Smiling, "Yeah, I watched this entire video on the history of Greek mythology. It was like…from the very beginning with the sun, the moon, all that. Then to like the stories of Arachne and the achilles heel thing." You looked down at your mug, your finger slowly circled the rim of it. "Basically the chronology of it." You sipped the tea, letting it warm your insides.
He smiles, "Arachne? I don’t quite remember that one—"
You perked up, "Oh my gosh, I get to teach the brilliant professor something?"
Jungwon laughed gently, eyes not leaving you. "I guess so," he sipped his chamomile. "Do tell,"
You adjusted on the couch and put the mug down again. Sitting in the butterfly position on the couch and you hugged one of the throw pillows to your chest. "Okay, so basically Arachne was a very skilled weaver. By the way, there are a few different tellings but I’m just going by Ovid’s—the Roman poet’s—account. Okay wait," You smiled brightly as you started, getting excited as you love to show off your knowledge. But you also felt some sort of catharsis of having someone to listen to you.
"So yes, Arachne was so boastful of her skills as a weaver that she challenged Athena—we all know Athena—to see who could weave the best. So they did and whatever," you waved your hands around as you rambled. "So get this, Athena weaved a tapestry that showcased idiotic mortals like Arachne that dared to challenge the gods. Arachne depicted gods—specifically Zeus, Athena’s dad—abusing mortal women. And she did so beyond well—are you following?" You put your hand out to make sure he was listening.
Jungwon grinned as he leaned in a little, eyes warm with amusement and interest. "Yes ma’am."
You beamed, encouraged. "So Athena was pissed because she saw that for one: Arachne not only outdid her—but also disrespected her and the gods with her tapestry. So she breaks Arachne’s loom, tears her tapestry, and beats her. Arachne—so humiliated—tries to hang herself but Athena stops her. Cursing her and turning her into the first spider."
Jungwon blinked. "Wow…"
"Mhm," You nodded, "This is where people say ‘arachnid’ and ‘arachnophobia’ originate. But in a way, it’s an onus probandi of how those in power treat others that just aren’t on their level. Just the overall politics behind it…"
He hummed thoughtfully, letting the silence fill with your excitement. "So it wasn’t about arrogance?" Jungwon smiled gently, enjoying your tirade. And while the story itself was dark—seeing you feel fulfilled at getting to recount something you knew felt good enough.
"Actually no," you shook your head, pursing your lips as you tried to mentally unravel. "It’s just more so about the discomfort. Like the dissonance of it. Athena knew what was wrong, but seeing yourself in the mirror isn’t always nice."
He already knew that—all of it. You spotted Metamorphoses tucked between a collection of Yeats and some worn poetry journals on the shelf behind him. But you didn’t call him out. Didn’t ruin the game. Instead, you just let yourself enjoy the way he looked at you like every word out of your mouth was brand new.
It hit you then, quietly, how carefully he was listening. Not out of obligation, or boredom disguised as politeness. He was fully tuned in—not just to the story, but to you. And maybe it was the tea, or the late hour, or the way your hand had still not quite forgotten the shape of his—but the realization made your chest feel a little too full.
So you smiled, softer this time, letting your eyes drop from his face to the spine of that familiar book. You said nothing.
But a part of you—traitorous and stupidly hopeful—filed it away anyway.
—
Riki walked back to his dorm as he’s never felt so sick to his stomach in his life.
Seriously, you like Dr. Yang? Even if you denied it, he could tell. How you were just left unattended in his office, laid up on his couch, a random book on your lap? He saw the tenderness in your eyes, how protective you already were of him. The way you said his name like if you did then all of your prayers would be answered.
A part of Riki knew that he had nothing to worry about, you were the student and he was the professor, the educator. As young as he is and as much as he’s accomplished thus far, there’s no way he’d throw all of that away for you. Someone like you.
You were awkward, had low self-esteem, anxious, and only mildly neurotic. Okay, maybe a little more than mild but it was sort of endearing. At least to Riki.
Actually, what did that fucking dork do to deserve you? Riki’s been here all along. Doing his best to be a friend, he hasn’t been the best but that’s okay! At least you have someone beside yourself.
Sure, Jungwon was cool. Funny, warm, radiant, irritatingly handsome, and everything that anyone could swoon over. He was accomplished and considerate.
All of the things that Riki was or could be. He just so desperately wished you could see it.
Yes, he sort of bullied you. He did call you pathetic and frequently belittled you, but it was all in good fun. He got off on seeing you cower, see that fear in your eyes when he even looked at you for more than three seconds.
Riki entered his dorm, slamming the heavy metal door behind him as he slid out of his sneakers. Stepping out of them by leaning his weight on the back of them, then recklessly throwing his sweater down on the floor. Pacing the space between his bed and the desk, he ran his hand through his hair as he felt himself slightly tugging at the roots of it.
His breath was labored, stomach burning and twisting, hands shaking, sweat building on his forehead. Riki was losing himself, falling short of the cool façade that he had always been so good at maintaining.
He was unraveling.
And for what? A girl who flinched when he raised his voice? Who could barely hold eye contact when he leaned in too close?
But still—you were his. Not officially, not romantically, maybe not even in any real way that held weight in the world outside his head. But in his gut, deep in that dark, corrosive part of him, Riki knew: you belonged to him. Not in the healthy, reasonable way. In the ‘you get under my skin and I don’t know how to live without it’ kind of way. The kind of way that made him feel both powerful and powerless all at once.
He clenched his fists and sat down on the edge of the bed, bouncing his knee, shaking. He couldn’t get your face out of his head—the way you smiled at Jungwon, that stupid, soft, precious smile like you trusted him.
It made Riki’s stomach churn. Because he knew what that trust looked like on you. How rare it was. And how quickly it could be broken.
"Fuck," he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. His voice was hoarse with resentment, like the emotion had been smoking cigarettes in his chest all night. "No, no, no."
He couldn’t stop thinking: did Jungwon touch you?
Not like that. No—God, he hoped not like that. But like...did he touch your hand? Your arm? Did you let him? Did you lean into it?
Riki leaned forward though, elbows on his knees, eyes dark as they burned into the floor.
You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.
But what if you already did?
What if you looked at Jungwon the way you used to look at him?
Before all of this, you used to look at him shyly. That at the beginning, the little banter and wit used to be fun. Beneath the little competition was some sort of lightness. But even before that, Riki could tell that you had thought he was cute at least, a little crush. Which he’s used to from people. Lingering glances, how your posture shifted talking to him, you could never look him in the eye as you laughed softly at his jokes even when he wasn’t trying.
But he saw you struggling to make friends, struggling to get on with your peers. Getting rejected left and right by others and a part of him wanted to step in to defend you. To tell them that you weren’t weird or a loser. But he never did, he just agreed with them. He conformed and followed along with them because he’d rather be accepted by all than just you. Someone miniscule that was easily forgotten to most.
But not him, never him.
You were never forgettable to Riki. You were the first one to laugh at his jokes before you even really knew him. The one who always showed up on time, even when nobody else did. Who had a weird way of tapping your fingers when you were anxious and tried to act like it was just fidgeting. You were so easy to read and so damn hard to shake.
So yeah, maybe he liked when you looked at him like he could ruin you. Maybe he leaned into it. Maybe he said things that made you flinch—watched you crumble just a little, because it meant you were still his. Still reacting to him.
He didn’t even care what he said to you, he just cared that this beautiful girl that didn’t comprehend her beauty—was reacting to him. He had gotten used to your attention and affections and hated how dependent he was on you for that high every single time.
Jungwon didn’t understand it, at least not from his perspective. And he never would, he’d never understand what you and Riki had.
But he was going to make him understand.
—
Do you ever get a sense of impending doom?
Like you wake up with a pit in your stomach and you can’t explain why. Nothing has happened yet, but something feels…off. Like the day has already decided it’s going to go badly and you’re just the last one to find out.
Those are the kinds of days where everything starts slightly wrong.
Your phone dies overnight even though you swear you plugged it in. The sky outside is gray and heavy, but you convince yourself it’s fine—until you step outside and realize it’s way colder than it looked from the window. Too late to go back for a jacket now, because your class is all the way across campus and you’ve already been late twice this week.
So you suck it up. It’s fine. You’ll deal with it. Maybe eat some ginger later so you don’t catch a cold.
Just this cloud looming over your head as it dampened a side of you that tried to mask. But that’s all you could do right now, nothing bizarre happened. Nothing that could start to have you misaligned. At least not now anyway.
—
Across campus, Jungwon was being called into the dean’s office.
He hadn’t thought much of the email at first. It had come in early that morning while he was reviewing lecture notes, subject line simple and clinical: Please stop by my office when you have a moment.Not unusual. Professors were called in all the time for scheduling issues, department updates, student concerns.
Still, something about the wording had been…oddly stiff.
Jungwon adjusted the strap of his bag as he walked down the administrative hallway, the quiet there always a little heavier than the rest of campus. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps.
When he reached the door, he knocked twice.
"Come in," a voice called from inside.
Jungwon stepped in with a polite smile already prepared. "Good morning, Dean Park. You wanted to see—"
He stopped when he noticed the expression on the Dean’s face. Not cavalier, not angry. Just stern. Too serious for a routine check-in. "Please," Dean Park said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
Jungwon sat. And that was when the pit started forming in his stomach too.
"So…Mr. Yang—it’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been spending a considerable amount of time with one of your students outside of class." He straightens, folding his hands on the mahogany desk. The only noise being the pendulum on the other end of it.
Jungwon blinked. "I’m sorry?"
"A report was filed this morning."
"I…" Jungwon shook his head in disbelief, silence insisting as he tried to formulate a semblance of a word. His mind was scrambling to catch up with what he’d just heard. "I’m not sure what you mean by ‘outside of class,’ sir. And what report?"
Dean Park studied him for a moment, expression unreadable.
"A student has expressed concern," he said carefully. "Specifically regarding the nature of your interactions with them in your office."
Jungwon’s stomach dropped. Your face flashed across his mind before he could stop it. He sat up a little straighter in the chair. "With respect, Dean Park," he said, voice steadier than he felt, "my office hours are open to any student who needs help. If someone came to speak with me about coursework or academic concerns, that’s well within university policy."
The dean didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he opened a folder sitting on his desk. "That may be," he said slowly. "However, the report suggests the interactions may have gone beyond that."
"Again, sir. I’m not sure what you—"
"Mr. Yang."
Dean Park’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm enough to cut cleanly through the room. "This is a serious allegation."
He folded his hands again, fingers steepled now as he regarded Jungwon across the desk.
"I am not making any conclusions about your guilt at this time," he continued evenly. "But if the claims outlined in this report are accurate, the repercussions would be…significant."
Jungwon felt his stomach twist. Significant. That word alone carried enough weight to sink a career.
"Which is why," Dean Park said, tapping the folder lightly with one finger, "I need you to be completely honest with me."
A beat passed.
"Have you been meeting privately with this or any student outside of your scheduled office hours?"
Jungwon’s heart was beating in his ears, drowning out of the click-clacking of the pendulum on the desk. For the first time in a very long time could he finally identify what it felt like to be a fucking hypocrite.
He has a PhD in Theology.
Years of his life were spent studying moral philosophy, religious ethics, the long, complicated history of human temptation and restraint. He had written entire papers about the responsibility people carried when placed in positions of power. About the dangers of blurred boundaries. About the quiet arrogance of believing you were the exception to the rule.
If Jungwon knew anything besides Greek mythology, it was that people rarely believed they were doing something wrong while they were doing it.
It always started smaller than that. A conversation that lasted a little longer than it should. A door left closed instead of open. A student lingering on the couch while he pretended not to notice how comfortable the moment had become.
None of it had felt inappropriate at the time. But sitting here now, under the weight of Dean Park’s gaze, it suddenly looked very different. Jungwon swallowed.
"No." He shook his head. "No. I’ve never spent time with any student outside of my office hours."
—
You got up to your usual routine. Despite the nagging feeling—you had deadlines. The agitating, fluorescent lights above hummed in the quiet library.
In the small nook that you were in, there weren’t many people in your line of sight. All you could see where the metal shelves were starting to collect dust. The setting sun that shone through the stained glass window reminded you of just how old this building was.
The table you sat at, so small—but just enough space for you and your laptop. Which was all you needed right now.
You typed, typed, and typed away but felt you weren’t getting anywhere. The cogs in your brain were useless without some sort of direction. You kept typing, then deleting, typing half sentences—then rearranging them. Writing things that really had no meaning.
Fuck…this is pointless.
With a grunt, you closed the lid of your laptop. Sighing, as you pout—leaning against the back of your chair—and hold your head. Eyes looking down as they trace every last detail of the wooden table—you could practically feel your head throbbing from the outside.
You were hard pressed for these deadlines and you had the motivation. But nothing to help you to actually conceptualize it and put your words to text. Not a single coherent thought to put on the page.
But fortunately, you had as much luck as a broken mirror.
It happened in a flash. You closed your eyes, blinking as you started to carefully massage your temples. Then the moment you opened them again—a strong hand was played firmly on the table. Right before your eyes.
Only then did you flinch, placing your hand on your heart as you gasped. "Oh shit!"
A slow chuckle followed. "Relax," Riki said, pulling the chair across from you without asking. "So jumpy…"
He leaned his elbows on the table, eyes flicking over your laptop.
"Still stuck on that paper?" he asked lightly. "You’ve been staring at that screen for, what…twenty minutes now?"
Your eyes flit to the side, "you’ve been watching me for twenty minutes…?" You didn’t think your instincts were so inconsistent.
He interlocked his fingers together, setting his chin on them as he shrugged. A small smirk playing on his face. His eyes glinted, like there was a fun little secret that he just couldn’t wait to share.
"What do you want, Riki?" You huffed, rubbing your eyes as they burned from staring into the bright screen.
For once, he smiled. Genuinely. A small flutter in his stomach as he finds that his mood lifts. "Nothing. I just…wanted to see what you had planned this weekend."
You blinked at him, that wasn’t the answer you expected. Your brows knit together slightly. "Why?"
Riki shrugged, leaning back in the chair like he had all the time in the world. One ankle crossed over his knee, posture loose, relaxed. "I was thinking," he said, tapping his fingers once against the table, "maybe we could hang out."
You couldn’t remember the last time Riki had asked to spend time with you without it sounding like a challenge or a joke at your expense. If anything, he was the one daring other people to talk to you. He was seconds from putting a ‘kick me’ sign on your back.
Your gaze drifted down to the table. "That’s…random," you murmured.
"Is it?" His tone was light.
When you didn’t immediately answer, Riki tilted his head slightly, watching you the way someone watches a puzzle they’ve already solved. "You look tired," he added.
Your shoulders stiffened a little. "I’m just stressed about this paper."
"Ah." His gaze flicked to your laptop again. "For Dr. Yang’s class, right?"
Your fingers paused against the edge of the table. "…Yeah."
"Well, I’m sure he’s in his office now." Riki nods to the exit. "I can walk you over—"
"What’s wrong with you? We’re not friends. Nor do you actually give a fuck about me, Riki." You squint, shaking your head in disbelief.
He hums out a small laugh. "On the contrary, sweetheart. I actually care more than you think." He lets his hands go, rolling up his sleeves as he extends his long arms across the table. Flashing his strong arms and even flashier, silver watch. Without another word, he carefully grabs your hands. Tracing your knuckles with his thumbs as he feels himself start to feel a sense of vindication.
He’s close. So close to you and he can feel it. Physically and in any other sense. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him across the small table, the faint scent of his cologne, the steady pressure of his hands holding yours in place. For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
He just looked at you.
And something in his expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Like a tension finally easing beneath the surface.
Like something had just fallen into place.Riki’s thumbs were still tracing slow circles over your knuckles. "You know," he said lightly, like he was commenting on the weather, "people talk a lot on this campus."
Your brows pulled together. "What are you—"
A phone buzzed somewhere behind you.
Then another.
And another.
The quiet corner of the library shifted almost instantly. A couple of students near the shelves lifted their heads, glancing down at their screens. Someone whispered something under their breath. You barely noticed at first. Your attention was still caught on the strange look in Riki’s eyes. "Especially about professors," he added.
That made you pause. "…What?"
Riki didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifted past your shoulder, watching the room like he was waiting for something to happen.
Another phone buzzed on the table behind you.
"Did you see this?" someone whispered.
"No way…"
"Wait—is that the same guy from the theology department?"
Your stomach tightened. Slowly, you pulled one of your hands free from Riki’s grip and reached for your phone beside the laptop.
The screen lit up with a flood of notifications.
Department announcements. A campus forum thread climbing rapidly with new replies. Your chest felt suddenly tight as you opened the first message.
Campus Notice – Department of Religious Studies
Professor Jungwon Yang has been placed under temporary administrative review following allegations of inappropriate conduct with a student. Until further notice, all classes and office hours under his supervision are suspended.
For a moment, the words didn’t make sense.
You read them again.
And again.
Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs. "That’s…" you whispered.
Your vision flickered across the screen as more messages poured in.
Didn’t he just start teaching here?
I heard it was with a student from one of his level one classes. Apparently someone reported seeing them alone in his office.
The air around you suddenly felt too thin. "That’s not—" Your voice cracked.
Across the table, Riki finally leaned back in his chair—letting your hand go. He looked almost relaxed now. Like someone who had just finished something difficult.
Or satisfying. "You okay?" he asked casually.
You looked up at him, eyes wide.
And for the first time that day, the pit in your stomach dropped all the way to the bottom. Because Riki wasn’t surprised. Not even a little. "Did…did you do this?" Your voice gave a little, heart thumping loudly in your ears that even if he were to answer—you may not even hear him.
Riki didn’t immediately respond.
Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you pushed back from the table. "Oh my god," you whispered. Your hands moved on instinct—shoving the laptop into the sleeve, fumbling as you tried to force it into your backpack. Your fingers wouldn’t cooperate, trembling so badly you nearly dropped the zipper.
"God, no. No, no, no." Your vision blurred suddenly, the shelves and tables melting into indistinct shapes as your eyes burned. "This isn’t real," you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.
Across the table, Riki finally stood. "Hey," he said quietly.
The sound of his voice made something inside you snap.
You shook your head, stepping back from the table like distance might somehow fix this. "Don’t," you choked. "Don’t talk to me right now." Your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t pull in enough air. "Don’t talk to me ever."
You brush past him, throwing your backpack over your shoulder as you hurried to the exit. Speedwalking to your—rather, someone else’s—demise.
Riki didn’t follow.
He just stood there for a moment, the faint warmth of where you’d been still lingering in the air between the table and his chest.
Slowly, he inhaled. Your perfume clung faintly to the fabric of his sleeve where your shoulder had brushed past him. His eyes closed.
For a second, the chaos of the library—the whispers, the buzzing phones, the shifting chairs—faded into background noise. All that remained was the echo of you leaving.
Riki opened his eyes again, staring at the empty doorway. Then, almost absently, he dragged his thumb across his knuckles—the same place he’d been tracing yours minutes ago.
—
Oxygen didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to you anymore as you ran halfway across campus—haphazardly knocking into people, you wouldn’t be surprised if your laptop had a dent in it the way that it hit a lightpost.
The elevator was too slow. So you took the stairs.
By the third flight your lungs burned, breath scraping your throat like sandpaper.
When the top of the stairs came on the horizon, your legs felt like Jell-O, threatening to buckle beneath you. You caught yourself on the rusted handrail, fingers slipping against the cold metal. The stairwell reeked faintly of bleach and something salty—old sweat soaked into concrete. Your lungs burned, each breath scraping painfully through your chest until your vision blurred at the edges.
But you couldn’t stop moving.
Your footsteps echoed too loudly in the concrete shaft and finally, you opened the door to look side-to-side—scanning the hallway only to find it empty. Almost ghostly.
But the fluorescent lights sang above your head as you ran down the hall.
When you’d make your way down this hall, you used to associate it with excitement. Comfort. A slight feeling in your stomach that you didn’t know how to put your finger on. It was the hallway where you’d first knocked nervously on his door.
Where he’d opened it with that warm, patient smile—like he had nowhere else to be, like your questions actually mattered.
Where conversations that were supposed to last ten minutes stretched into an hour without either of you noticing.
You used to slow down when you got close to his office.
Now you were sprinting.
Your shoes squeaked sharply against the polished floor as you turned the final corner—
—and stopped.
The door to his office stood closed.
And through the small window in the door, you saw Jungwon’s back turned. He reached for various books on the shelf behind his desk as he tossed them haphazardly into a cardboard box. Like it didn’t matter anymore. For a moment, you didn’t move. You just stared.
The familiar office looked wrong somehow. Half the shelves were already empty, papers stacked in uneven piles across the desk. The couch where you’d spent so many afternoons sat untouched in the corner, a forgotten book still resting on the armrest.
Your throat tightened.
He picked up another book.
Paused.
Then set it down harder than necessary inside the box. The sound carried faintly through the door.
Something in your chest twisted painfully. You lifted your hand before you even realized you were doing it.
Your knuckles hovered inches from the wood. For a second, you hesitated.
Then you knocked.
Jungwon froze.
His shoulders went rigid, hand still resting on the edge of the box. Slowly, he turned toward the door—and when his eyes met yours through the small window the color drained from his face. The springs in the door handle creaked as you slowly opened the door.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Jungwon stood behind his desk, one hand still resting on the edge of the cardboard box. A few books were stacked unevenly inside—some of them you recognized instantly from the shelves you’d spent so much time staring at while pretending not to be nervous.
The room felt smaller now.
Too quiet.
Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath from the run up the stairs, but it still felt like there wasn’t enough air in the world.
"Jungwon—" Your voice cracked, as you slowly shut the door with a click.
"It’s Dr. Yang." He said immediately. "And I’d rather you left the door open, thank you."
The words landed like a slap as your hand froze on the handle.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, stiffly, you pulled the door back open. The hallway outside hummed faintly with distant footsteps and muffled voices—proof that anyone could walk past and look inside.
You swallowed hard. "…Right."
Jungwon turned back to the box on his desk, picking up another book like the conversation was already over.
But his movements weren’t steady.
The book slipped slightly in his grip before he forced it into the box. "You shouldn’t be here," he repeated, quieter this time.
"Look, I didn’t report you." You sniffled, wiping your eyes as you wrapped your arms around yourself. That was the only form of self-soothing that you knew. "I wouldn’t do that."
"Well it doesn’t matter what you would and wouldn’t do. Because I’m out of here." He huffed, brushing his hair back and out of his face.
"What…?" Your eyes widened.
"I’ve been suspended." The words hung in the air. "Indefinitely."
"Ju—Dr. Yang," your voice shook as you tried to stifle your tears. "I’m so sorry—"
"Don’t bother," he smiled bitterly, the small dimples of his hardly showing were your surefire sign that he wasn’t as fine as he says. "This was my fault."
You shook your head frantically, "it’s not. Riki. It was him!" Your eyes stung with tears again as your breath started to thin. "It’s him! Always!" Letting out a sob as you gestured around the room. Not even caring, you shut the door to his dismay.
Jungwon’s hands froze mid-motion, a stack of papers trembling slightly in his grip. He took a sharp breath, forcing his voice to remain calm, but it carried a weight you could feel. "Riki?" His eyes searched yours, dark and unblinking. "He…did this?"
You nodded, hiccuping between sobs. "He always does! I didn’t even—he just—he…" You broke off, shoving your hands into your hair as if you could pull the chaos out of your head. "I’m telling you—I told you! He’s sick. He’s a sadistic asshole and that’s why I didn’t want you to say anything to him because he does…this!" You gesture to him. His cluttered desk. His nearly empty bookshelf. The plaques with his degrees and certifications that could mean absolutely nothing if things went even more left.
Jungwon’s eyes darkened, the dimples in his cheeks vanishing as his jaw tightened. He took a step closer, the office suddenly feeling smaller, tighter, suffocating even. "I…I had no idea it was this bad," he murmured, voice low, almost hoarse. "I thought…I thought it was just typical college rivalry nonsense. But this—"
You hiccuped again, trembling, and buried your face in your hands. "It’s not just nonsense! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He manipulates, bullies…he—he makes people fear him, including me. I—I shouldn’t have let him…I shouldn’t—" You sat down on the worn couch, burying your head in your lap as you locked your hands over your head. "I shouldn’t have dragged you into my shit. I’m so sorry." Your chest felt like an elephant sat on top of it, lurching as you wept into your jeans. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—"
Jungwon crouched down in front of the couch, careful not to loom over you too much. "Hey," he said softly, one hand hovering near yours before settling gently on your shoulder. "Stop apologizing. You didn’t drag me into anything. I…I wanted to help. That’s what friends do."
You shook your head violently, muffled sobs wracking your body. "No, you don’t understand. He—he’s…he’s not someone you deal with." Your words cracked and failed you, a choked gasp escaping instead. "He’s just—pure evil. He hates me. And he’s taking it out on you now."
Jungwon’s jaw tightened, a flash of anger flaring in his eyes, but he kept his voice low and steady. "I don’t care what he is. I care about you. And I’m not going anywhere."
You sniffled, trying to pull your hands from your face, but his presence made it harder to look away. "You can’t. You won’t be around and nearly everything in your life is about to crumble. E-everything you worked so hard for—" Shaking your head as tears come down in sheets.
"Look…if it gives you any consolation—" He sighed, closing his eyes as he felt the emotion build up further in his chest. "Gosh…" Turning his gaze away, dabbing his eyes with the pads of his fingers.
Until he turned back to you with a small smile, huffing as he steadied himself. "If it gives you any consolation…" He carefully grabs your dampened, sweaty hands. Any other time he’d be repulsed, but he couldn’t help but overlook it all. "I’m not your professor anymore. So…I can be here for you." He nods slowly, patiently. "I can be here for you like I should. Like…like I’ve wanted to all along."
"Was my name on the report?" you barely choked out. "Was there—"
"To protect the identities of everyone involved, they won’t tell me who filed it," he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped.
"But," he continued, squeezing your hands once, gently, "they also won’t tell me who the student is supposed to be."
Your brows knitted together, confused.
"They’re treating it like a formal complaint," he explained. "Anonymous. Third-party report. Which means someone claimed they witnessed something."
Your breath caught. The name didn’t even need to be spoken. Jungwon watched the realization move across your face and his jaw tightened slightly.
"Hey," he said softly, grounding your hands again. "Look at me."
You forced your eyes up.
"This is important," he continued. "You were not named. And as long as you stay out of it, there’s a good chance they won’t drag you into the investigation."
"But they will drag you," you whispered.
A flicker of something tired crossed his face. "Yes," he admitted. "But that’s my problem to deal with," he added. "Not yours."
Your eyes filled again. "But it is mine," you insisted hoarsely. "Because he did this to hurt me. And now you’re—" Your voice cracked. "—paying for it."
For a moment Jungwon didn’t say anything. Then he shook his head slowly. "No," he said. His grip on your hands tightened just a little. "I made my own choices."
Your chest tightened at the quiet honesty in his voice.
"I let you stay here longer than I should have," he admitted softly. "I closed the door sometimes. I blurred lines that were supposed to stay very clear."
He exhaled through his nose. "So if someone decided to twist that into something else…" His shoulders lifted in a tired shrug. "…then I suppose I gave them the thread."
"Why—how is it that bad? It wasn’t like we were…inappropriate or anything?" You scoot over on the couch, making space for him to sit beside you.
Jungwon hesitated for a second before lowering himself down next to you. The cushions dipped slightly under his weight. "A bit," he said quietly. "But inappropriate isn’t just physical." He rested his forearms on his knees, staring down at the floor. "But universities don’t really wait for something to happen," he continued. "They step in when something looks like it could."
Your stomach twisted.
"They said it was a ‘boundary concern,’" he added with a dry huff. "A professor spending extended time alone with a student. Door closed. Personal conversations outside coursework. Allowing you to stay here in my absence." His fingers rubbed together absentmindedly, like he was still processing it. "To them, that’s enough. And realistically that is unethical. But again, that’s on me."
"But that’s ridiculous," you whispered.
"Maybe," he shrugged slightly. "But you have to understand, it’s not like this is high school where you’re a kid and I’m this age. That’s illegal and unethical and immoral and all of the other disgusting things. You and I are both adults and it’s not immoral and illegal. It’s simply unethical due to perceived power imbalances. Things like that could make one believe that I took advantage of you, coerced you, among other things."
You heard him. Understood him in full totality. But being a part of it was a very different feeling. Jungwon was three years older than you; it doesn’t sound crazy but you just hated that this was the reality of the situation. You wanted to refute it. To say that that’s incorrect because there was no coercion, mild flirting—maybe—but these rules are in place to protect others. And you were smart enough to know that. “I’d just hate for you to be angry at me.”
Jungwon leaned back slightly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "I’m not angry at you," he said gently. "I could never be. No matter how much I could even think to try—I couldn’t."
Your throat tightened. "I know," you murmured, even though the guilt still sat heavy in your chest.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then his voice softened a little more. "And for what it’s worth…" he said, looking at you fully now, "I don’t regret the time we spent together."
Your eyes flickered to his. "You don’t?"
"No." He smiles softly, lifting his hand to place it on your hair, stroking it gently. "Not for a second." His voice broke as tears built up. Rather than his chest hurting, his stomach did.
Right as he looked you in the eye. In your red, swollen eyes. He saw everything that he worked for. Every accolade, every all-nighter, every program and research opportunity he took—Jungwon saw all of it crumbling before his eyes right before him.
Every fellowship application he rewrote six times before submitting. Every professor that told him that he was brilliant, promising, the future of academia as they knew it.
And he was easy, just like every other young man his age—hearing such praise made him feel some sort of satisfaction. His chest puffed from the battery in his back.
Up until now, he could only remember as far back as his lover phase.
His father was his best friend. Seeing him go to work, come home to him and his mother to support and care for them. Taking him to baseball and hockey games at one point. And Jungwon didn’t even care for sports—just seeing his dad cheer and fist pump whenever his favorite team scored made him feel a sense of pride. Getting to sit on his shoulders because he was too small to see over the adults in front of him.
The roar of the stadium. His father fist-pumping when their team scored. The way his mom laughed every time Jungwon tried to mimic him.
And the day a ball sailed over the fence—
Right into his hands.
He could still remember the shock of it. The weight of it in his palm. Like the whole stadium had turned and looked at him for a moment.
And he didn’t even care, he clapped. And cheered and smiled wide, kid teeth missing and all as he ruminated in the feeling of accomplishment.
Jungwon blinked. The office came rushing back into focus. The half-empty bookshelves. The cardboard box. And you sitting beside him on the couch.
He almost forgot that his hand was in your hair. Skimming his hand over and carefully tangling in your curls. "It’s okay if you do," you said, clearing your throat. Your face felt tight, sticky with dried tears. "It’s okay if you regret it. Me."
Jungwon went still. For a second he just looked at you, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then his brows drew together. "Regret you?" he repeated quietly.
Your gaze dropped to your hands. "Well…yeah." Your voice shrank a little. "You lost everything because of me."
A small breath left him—half disbelief, half something softer. "That’s not what happened."
You shook your head, stubborn even through the exhaustion. "It is."
He shifted slightly on the couch so he was facing you more fully now.
When you didn’t look up, his hand moved from your hair to your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. "I didn’t lose everything. The investigation is still ongoing and once they realize that I’m innocent and it didn’t go any further than me just providing sanctuary for you—then I’m still gonna be out of here anyway."
"No—out? Why—"
"It’s nothing for me to get another position," he said gently, shaking his head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "My reputation would be cleared. I have a PhD. I could go anywhere. Do anything." His hand slipped from your chin to your cheek, cupping it lightly. "Research. Teaching somewhere else. Maybe even traveling."
The pad of his thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone, wiping away the dampness there. "No rules," he murmured, eyes wide with hope.
"What about me?"
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Jungwon’s thumb paused against your cheek. For a moment he didn’t answer. His eyes searched your face, like he was trying to figure out whether you realized what you’d just asked. "What about you?" he echoed softly.
Your stomach twisted. "If you leave," you said quietly, "then…that’s it, right?"
The room felt smaller somehow. Jungwon exhaled slowly through his nose. "No," he said after a moment.
Your eyes lifted to his again.
"It doesn’t have to be." His thumb resumed its slow, absentminded movement against your cheek, brushing away the last traces of tears. "I’m not your professor anymore," he reminded you gently. "Which means there aren’t any rules about where you and I stand."
Your heart gave a small, startled thump.
"I don’t expect anything from you," he added quickly. "Especially not right now. You’ve been through enough today." His hand finally dropped from your cheek, resting loosely on the couch between you.
"But if you’re asking whether I’d disappear from your life…" A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Just make sure you have your passport, okay?"
For the first time today, a small—extremely minute—hint of sunshine appeared over your cloudy mind. A sense of warmth lit up in your stomach now that your vision started to clear. You no longer saw blue and gray.
Letting out a small laugh, "okay."
"Okay?" he repeated, a little amused. His grin widened just slightly, dimples finally showing again as he leaned back into the couch. "That’s a pretty big commitment," he teased gently. "You didn’t even ask where we’d go."
You sniffled, wiping under your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. "Anywhere," you murmured. "I’d go anywhere."
Jungwon’s smile faltered a bit, his spine straightening as he perceived you. As if he could see the cloud above you lifting. "Can I hug you?" The question came out quieter than he probably intended.
For a second you just looked at him, like the idea hadn’t even crossed your mind until he said it out loud. Then you nodded. "Of course."
It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t hesitate. You just leaned toward him.
Jungwon opened his arms immediately, pulling you into him as gently as if you might break. Your forehead pressed against the side of his neck, curls brushing his jaw as his arms wrapped around your back.
He held you carefully at first. Then a little tighter.
Your shoulders shook once as the last of the day’s tension finally slipped out of you, but it wasn’t the kind of crying from earlier. It was quieter. Softer.
Jungwon’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, steady and warm. "We're gonna be okay," he murmured into your hair. "Everything will work itself out."
For a while neither of you said anything.
The office was still half empty. The cardboard box still sat on the desk. The future was still uncertain. But sitting there on the couch, wrapped up in each other, the world felt a little less like it was falling apart.
—
Every step you took down the hall and to the elevator felt like there were thirty pound weights on your ankles. Leaving that office felt like leaving behind a piece of your heart and you didn’t know what you’d do for the next weeks knowing that you couldn’t go back there.
Regardless, looking Jungwon in the eye, seeing him reassure you despite how much even being in association with him screwed him over—you couldn’t help but feel a sense of indebtedness.
On paper, yes, he should’ve known better. Yes, he should’ve ensured—as a professional that there were boundaries set in place. But when boundaries become blurry, you never know the line until you cross it.
It wasn’t like you guys had sex. Kissed. Any of it. But you couldn’t lie and say that there wasn’t intimacy. Talking about your interests. From the most surface level things to deep childhood lore. Leaving you alone in his space, trusting you alone in his sanctuary. Letting you eat his snacks, touch his books and read them, nap on his couch. Spending hours talking about everything and nothing.
It wasn’t romance. Not technically. But it also wasn’t nothing.
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding. You stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor as the doors shut again with a soft thud. Your reflection stared back at you from the metal panels—eyes still puffy, curls slightly frizzed from where Jungwon’s fingers had been combing through them.
Your chest tightened again. Leaving that office felt wrong. Like abandoning something warm in the middle of winter. The elevator jerked softly as it reached the bottom floor.
Ding.
The doors slid open as cool air rushed in from the lobby as you stepped out, your mind still tangled in everything Jungwon had said. You pushed through the front doors to step outside and immediately stopped.
Riki was leaning against the metal railing at the bottom of the steps. Like he’d been there for a while. His eyes lifted the second the doors shut behind you. A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Wow," he said lazily.
His gaze dragged over your face—your swollen eyes, your flushed cheeks. "Looks like someone had a really productive meeting." Slowly, that hurt veered further along the spectrum of anger. But you were tired, exhausted. Worn down and ready to hit the transfer portal.
Seeing Riki wasn’t just bothersome anymore. Nor was it just inconveniencing. To put it simply, seeing him was like seeing a silhouette with flames around it.
Your jaw tightened. For a moment you just stood there at the top of the steps, staring down at him.
Riki didn’t move. Didn’t even straighten up from where he leaned against the railing. He just watched you the same way someone watches a show they’ve already seen before. Waiting for their favorite part.
You descended the steps slowly. Each one felt deliberate. Heavy; and by the time you reached the bottom, you stopped a few feet away from him. Up close, the smugness in his expression was even worse. "What did you do?"
Riki tilts his head, almost amused. "That’s a pretty loaded question. I do a lot of things."
"What did you do to Dr. Yang?" You say slowly, each word dripping with venom.
"You’re so stupid." He shook his head, a repulsive smirk still insisting. "Thinking that he could ever actually care. Or give a fuck about you."
Your chest tightened. You swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise to your face. "Stop—"
"I'm not done."
Not a snap nor a threat. Just a fact, delivered the way you deliver something and finally decided to put it down. "I didn’t want this," Riki said. "Any of it. I actually liked him." His jaw shifted. "But I like you more."
"Don't—"
"You were going to get hurt." Still calm and speaking as if he was fully rational. "By him or someone else eventually. Someone was going to come along and see how easy you are to hold and just—" he exhaled through his nose, "—take advantage of that."
"So you did it first," you said. Your voice came out quieter than you wanted it to.
Something moved across his face. Something as simple as recognition. "Yeah," he said simply. "I did."
You laughed, and it came out broken. "You think that makes it okay."
"No." He said it without hesitation. "I think it makes you mine."
And there it was. The thing underneath the thing. Not an apology. Not a justification. Just ownership, plain and honest and completely terrifying.
"You have been making my life miserable," you said, and your voice cracked down the middle of it. "Since the day we got here. You made me scared to get out of bed. You made me cry myself to sleep. You made me feel like I was—" you shook your head, pressing your lips together because your eyes were burning and you refused, you absolutely refused, "—like I was nothing. Like I would always be nothing."
Riki looked at you. Just looked at you. "I know," he said quietly. And that was worse than any excuse he could've made.
"You don't get to just—" you started.
"You reorganize your pens when you’re anxious." His voice was different now. Lower. Almost careful, like he was handling something fragile. "Smallest to largest. Rainbow order. You do it without realizing." His eyes stayed on yours. "I’ve watched you do it a hundred times."
Your mouth closed.
"You eat the same thing when you’re stressed. You go to the quietest corner of the library when you need to think, not the closest one." Something shifted in his expression—so briefly, so terribly briefly—that it almost looked like tenderness. "Banana walnut. Not because it's your favorite. Because it's the one thing that tastes the same everywhere."
The world went very still. Because he was right. You'd never told anyone that. You'd never even said it out loud.
And for one second—just one—you saw him. Not the smirk or the cruelty or the years of damage he’d carved into you without apology. Just a boy who had been paying attention. Quietly, desperately, completely. A boy who knows you in a particular way you can only know someone you've been watching from a distance for far too long.
The boy who could have just been your friend.
It lasted exactly one second.
"I wanted to know everything," he said. And just like that the tenderness was gone, replaced by something rawer and more honest and so much worse. "I’m still dying to. Every single thing about you." His eyes darkened. "And I ruined it. I know I ruined it." A short, humorless breath. "But I couldn't just watch you walk around this campus like you were invisible and do nothing."
"So you made me scared of my own shadow." you whispered. "You made me afraid of you instead."
"I made you feel me." His voice dropped. "There's a difference."
"There isn't—"
"You felt everything." He stepped closer and you stepped back and the back of your heel caught the edge of the curb and you caught yourself and he watched all of it and kept coming anyway. "Every single day. Even now, you’re alive with it." His eyes burned into yours. "You’re not sleepwalking anymore."
"Don't come near me," you choked out, hand flying up between you. "I swear to God, don't you dare come near me."
He stopped.
Hands at his sides. Chest rising and falling. Eyes completely steady. "I love you," he said.
Not whispered. Not performed. Not offered with trembling hands or a breaking voice or any of the softness that would've made it easier to dismiss.
Just said. The way you say something you stopped needing anyone to validate a long time ago. And the worst part—the part that would keep you up at night long after all of this was over—was the ghost of that one second. The boy with the muffin and the quiet observations and the dying need to know more.
That boy loved you too. And he was the same person.
That was the thing you couldn't untangle. That was the thing that made your eyes sting and your hands shake and your heart do something awful and complicated in your chest. You understood him. God help you, for just one second, you understood him completely.
"I could never love you," you said. And you meant it entirely. And it cost you something anyway.
His jaw flexed once, fingers curling tighter at his sides until the knuckles blanched white. The street light caught the sheen in his eyes, but he blinked it away quickly, like even that small crack in his composure irritated him. "Fine. Be that way."
Riki shakes his head, brushing past you but stopping just short of being by your side. "But when he leaves…and he will," he said quietly.
He didn’t look at you when he said it. His shoulder brushed the air beside yours as he stopped just short of passing you completely. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, but not touching. "When he leaves," he continued, voice low and steady, "don’t pretend you didn’t know it was coming."
Your chest tightened. "He’s not leaving me," you snapped, even though the words sounded thinner than you wanted them to.
Riki gave a short, humorless laugh. "He’s leaving the entire campus."
"That’s not the same thing."
"It’s exactly the same thing."
Now he turned his head slightly, finally looking at you from the corner of his eye. "You think he’s going to build his life around you?" he asked. He continued. "You think when his reputation clears he’s going to stay here for the girl who got tangled up in the scandal that almost destroyed him?"
Your throat tightened. "He said—"
"He said a lot of things, didn’t he?" Riki cut in softly. His gaze flicked up toward Jungwon’s office window again.
"Men say a lot when the moment is right," he murmured. "Especially when someone’s crying in front of them. Believe me, I’d know."
Your stomach twisted. "Shut up." But your voice didn’t have much strength behind it anymore.
Riki watched you for a second longer. But right as he passed your shoulder, he leaned slightly closer, voice dropping to a near whisper.
"And when he’s gone," he said, "when the office is empty and he’s halfway across the world chasing the next thing…"
Your breath caught.
"…you’ll finally understand what I’ve been trying to tell you."
He straightened again and kept walking down the pathway. "You don’t belong in someone’s temporary life." His footsteps echoed against the concrete as he moved farther away. "You belong with someone who refuses to leave.”
—
The parking lot was almost empty by the time he stepped outside.
Most of the faculty had already gone home, the last bands of orange daylight long gone behind the buildings. The lamps along the lot buzzed faintly overhead, casting long pale cones of light across the asphalt.
Jungwon walked slowly, the cardboard box balanced against his hip. The edges of the flaps had started to soften where his fingers had been gripping them all afternoon. Inside were the small things he hadn’t bothered leaving behind in the office—books he’d bought with his own money, a framed photo of his parents from a few years ago, a notebook full of half-finished research ideas.
His car sat alone near the far end of the row.
For a moment he just stood there, looking at it.
The silence of the campus at night felt different now. Emptier. Like something had already ended even though the official words hadn’t been spoken yet.
He popped the trunk. The lid lifted with a quiet metallic click.
Jungwon set the box down carefully inside, adjusting it so it wouldn’t slide when he drove. One of the books tipped sideways and he righted it automatically, pressing it back into place.
When he lowered the trunk again, the sound echoed softly through the lot. He exhaled, fiddling with the keyfob to unlock the driver’s seat.
Footsteps.
Fast. Thumping rapidly into the concrete.
Before his brain could even register the direction, a hand seized the front of his coat and slammed him backward against the car.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.
Metal rang sharply behind his shoulders as Jungwon’s head snapped slightly to the side before he steadied himself, one hand instinctively coming up against the hood to keep his balance.
Riki’s grip tightened in his jacket, twisting his fist as he gathered his collar. "So. You figured it out. Congratulations."
For a second he said nothing. No struggle. No attempt to shove Riki off him.
He just huffed. Then, quietly: "I didn’t have to figure anything out."
Riki’s mouth twitched. "Oh?" His grip twisted tighter in the fabric of Jungwon’s coat. "So you’re saying you always knew?"
Jungwon didn’t answer right away. The parking lot lights flickered overhead, pale against the dark.
Finally—
"Yes."
That seemed to take a little wind out of Riki’s sails. His brows pulled together, like he’d expected anger. Or accusations. Something louder. But he could feel it. He could if he just kept pushing. "You’re not even going to ask why?" Riki said.
Jungwon studied him for a moment.
Up close, Riki looked worse than he had any other time he’d seen him—eyes bright in a way that didn’t look like excitement so much as exhaustion stretched too tight.
"I’ve gotten all the information that I needed." The elder’s eyes veered off, refusing to look the manic person before him in the eye. Jungwon swipes the younger’s hand off of him. "Let me make something clear. I am an adult. I don’t play kid games, Mr. Nishimura."
Riki’s hand hung in the air for a second after Jungwon brushed it off. Then a slow smile crept onto his face. "There’s nothing kid-like about me."
Jungwon’s gaze slid back to him slowly. For a moment he didn’t speak, like he was deciding whether the comment deserved a response at all. Then his eyes drifted down Riki’s rumpled jacket, the tight set of his shoulders, the barely-contained agitation vibrating through him. "I’m aware," Jungwon said evenly. He reached up, smoothing the crease Riki had left in his collar. "There’s nothing childish about impulsivity, entitlement, or obsession. Adults display those traits every day."
Riki’s smile sharpened. "You’re talking about yourself now?"
Jungwon gave a faint breath through his nose that almost resembled a laugh. "No." His voice stayed calm, controlled. "I’m talking about you."
That landed squarely. Riki’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.
Jungwon continued like he was explaining something in a lecture hall. "As if proximity is intimacy?" His eyes lifted, finally meeting Riki’s again. “Me being there for her doesn’t mean that anything transpired.”
Riki scoffed, but there was an edge to it now. "You think you’re better than me or something?"
Jungwon tilted his head slightly, brows furrowing in confusion.
"See?" Riki shrugs, gesturing to him. "This is exactly it. You pride yourself on being so articulate. A-and well read and knowledgeable but you don’t know the first thing about her—"
"You don’t know the first thing about me." Jungwon says sharply, his voice not daring to touch a higher decibel.
"But I know that you aren’t as aware as you think." Riki’s face twisted in disgust. "There was no intimacy, are you serious?"
Jungwon’s eyes hardened slightly.
Riki let out a humorless laugh, pacing once in front of the car before turning back to him again. "Oh, right," he said, nodding slowly. "You’re going to pretend it was—what? Academic mentorship? Professional concern?" His hands spread in a mocking gesture. "You’re not any better than me. You’re just nice to her."
Jungwon didn’t move.
"You let her cry to you," Riki continued. "Let her nap on your couch like it was her living room."
His eyes burned now, sharp and restless. "You thought about her when she wasn’t around. Huh? Probably thought about how she tasted."
Jungwon’s jaw shifted slightly. "Careful," he said quietly.
Riki kept on. "Didn’t open the windows after she left your office. Wanting her scent to linger in the room."
The elder’s brows furrowed at the extremity. He wasn't this obsessive.
"Her laugh rang like a song that’s been stuck in your head for hours. Days." He pushed. "That look in her eye when she gets so excited about whatever she’s rambling about just makes you feel so…complete. Whole." Riki’s eyes darkened. "Yeah well I never got to look her in the eye. I always had to experience it through the lens of someone else!" His hand comes down on the top of Jungwon’s sedan.
The sound of his palm against the metal rang out and then dissolved into the quiet of the lot. Jungwon didn’t flinch.
"And you just—what? See I knew you were gonna be a problem. Thinking you could step to me like some knight in shining armor—well let me tell you something, Professor, she doesn’t need saving. She needs someone who’s gonna stay."
The elder man’s head tilted though his voice remained calm and gentle. "Why?"
Riki blinked. "What?"
"Why does she need someone who stays?" Jungwon’s voice was the same temperature it always was. Like he had nowhere else to be. "Why is that the thing you keep coming back to?"
"Because—" Riki started, then stopped.
The lot hummed quietly around them.
"Because everyone leaves her," he said finally. Quieter. Like the anger had found a hole somewhere and started draining out of it. "Everyone always has. No friends after high school, terrible relationship with her family. And she acts like it doesn’t bother her but it does. It—" He exhaled hard through his nose. "She puts up with it because she thinks that's just how it goes for her."
Jungwon said nothing.
"And you’re just gonna be another one," Riki continued, but the certainty in it had gone soft at the edges. "Another person that made her feel like she mattered and then disappeared."
"It bothers me deeply." He held Riki's gaze. "Which is why I’m not disappearing."
Riki stared at him. Looking away and clenching his fists in a feeble attempt at masking his tornado of emotions.
"So…what’s making you treat her this way? Since you seem to care so much, why hinder her from making friends? Why try to steal any and every chance of opportunity from beneath her?"
Riki’s laugh came out thin and hollow. "I don’t—that’s not what I was doing."
Jungwon just waited, leaning against the car. And that was just the thing about him that Riki hated. He never filled silences with noise. Simply gave you all the space in the world and let you meet him where he was.
But the silence was insisting. Insisting on letting Riki marinate in his own wrongdoings. Not mistakes. Wrongdoings.
"I was…" He shakes his head slowly, in partial disbelief. "I loved her the best way I knew how." Letting his hands down by his sides in defeat. "Fuck…" He covered his eyes with his hands as he inhaled sharply. "I tried. I really…I loved her the best way I—" Riki’s breath came out uneven, shoulders curling forward like his body was trying to protect something it had already lost. His hands hung at his sides, useless. Eyes wet and jaw tight and nowhere to put any of it.
Jungwon looked at him for a long moment. Taking in the state of him not from the perspective of a student—a human being rather. Head hung, fists clenched as the younger man stood there with what seemed to be the world on his shoulders. Like his brain was cut right in half and both sides were processing different things. Different emotions.
Shame, embarrassment, especially when you felt you were at a point of no return. Riki knew now more than ever that it was over. His time, his reign over your heart and mind was now over. No more. The empire has collapsed.
Jungwon shook his head, pitying him but it wasn’t like he’d let Riki know that. He was just as prideful as the next man. Fragile; and even then, finally coming to a realization. So he closed the distance and put his arms around him.
It wasn’t soft or comforting in any way. A hand pressed firmly between Riki’s shoulder blades. Reminding him to stay in his body. Even if it felt like it was all over. Riki went rigid for a half second, every instinct in him rearing up against it.
But then something just...gave. His forehead dropped to Jungwon’s shoulder and he exhaled—this long, wrecked, shuddering thing that had probably been living in his chest for years. His fingers curled into the fabric of the older man’s coat and he didn’t say anything because there was nothing left to say.
Jungwon didn’t say anything either. Just held him. One hand steady on his back, the other still at his shoulder. It lasted maybe thirty seconds.
Then Jungwon stepped back. Straightened his coat. Looked at Riki the same way he always looked at him—clear, unhurried, without judgment. Got in the car and drove away.
Riki stood there in the empty lot for a long time after the tail lights disappeared. The cold had gotten sharper without him noticing. His face felt tight and his chest felt scraped out and somewhere across campus you were probably in your dorm not thinking about him at all.
He put his hands in his pockets. Turning around to start walking. Unsure where, just…toward something. Somewhere.
—
Months later
—
May always smelled like cut grass and sunscreen and the particular anxiety of people who had procrastinated and waited until the last minute to move with urgency to pack their shit and get out of the dorms.
The hallway was chaotic. Cardboard boxes stacked against walls, someone’s entire closet spilled out onto the floor three doors down, the elevator perpetually occupied by carts piled so high you couldn’t see the person pushing them.
You sat cross-legged on your bare mattress and looked at your room.
It looked nothing like yours anymore. The fairy lights down. The pictures off the corkboard, leaving little ghost-holes where the thumbtacks had been. Your rainbow gel pens in a ziplock bag inside a box instead of lined up by the window where they belonged. It looked like a room that was ready to forget you.
You reached for your phone.
The texts had been sparse. Purposeful. You’d send him a question about the paper you were finishing for his replacement, something academic and safe, and he’d answer it and then ask how you were holding up and you’d say fine and mean mostly and he seemed to understand the difference.
But his last message, sent three days ago, was still sitting unanswered at the bottom of the thread.
Jungwon: Cleared officially. As of this morning.
And then, after a few minutes:
Thought you should know.
You’d read it approximately forty times. Then typed now, sitting on your bare mattress surrounded by your boxed-up life:
You: I know this is late. I’m really glad.
You stared at it. Then added:
I'm moving out today.
Sent it before you could think too hard about why you wanted him to know that.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Jungwon: Where are you going for the summer?
You smiled despite yourself. Small and private, just for the empty room.
You: Home. Unfortunately.
Jungwon: How unfortunate are we talking…
You: On a scale of one to ten. Probably an eight.
Jungwon: That bad?
You: My mom will ask me within the first hour if I’ve been eating enough.
And my dad will ask me within the first day what my plan is and I have neither an appetite nor a plan so…
A longer pause this time. You could almost feel him smiling somewhere.
Jungwon: I might be in the city. Early June so…About two weeks from now.
Your thumbs hovered over the screen.
You: Which city?
Jungwon: Whichever city you’re in.
You set the phone down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a second. The same water stain you’d been looking at for months, shaped vaguely like a misshapen star.
Outside in the hallway someone dropped something heavy and swore loudly and someone else laughed.
Then you picked the phone back up.
You: Good to know.
Let me know, of course.
Jungwon: I will.
You locked your phone and sat there for a moment in the quiet of your almost-empty room. No Riki appearing in doorways. No dread pooling in your stomach at the sound of footsteps you recognized. Just May pouring through the window and the distant sound of campus slowly exhaling.
But the envelope was plain. Just your name on the front in his handwriting, which you recognized immediately because it was annoyingly neat for someone who acted like the world’s rules didn’t apply to him.
You stood in your doorway for a second just looking at it.
Then you picked it up, went inside, and sat down atop your desk—ignoring the chair and just sitting on the wooden surface itself. Then opened it to see a solid three pages:
I don’t know how many times I started this. Enough that I have a small graveyard of crumpled paper in my trash can and my roommate thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.
I’m not going to open with an excuse. I had a lot of them prepared and I threw those drafts away too because you deserve better than my reasons. You’ve been listening to my reasons for three years and they never added up to anything good so I’m going to try something different.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for the muffin. I know that sounds small but I think about it more than I should—the way you looked when I took it back. Like you’d expected it. Like you were already braced for it. And I did that. I contributed to your lack of trust in people and I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for the internship. I didn’t actually want it. I think you knew that. I just couldn’t stand the idea of you having something I didn’t give you.
I’m sorry for the report. That one I’ll carry for a long time. He’s a good person and he didn’t deserve it and neither did you and I did it anyway because I was scared and jealous and I told myself it was protection when really it was just—me. Being exactly what I always accused everyone else of being.
I’m sorry for bullying you. Not the watered down version of that word—I mean I was cruel to you consistently and on purpose and I knew exactly what I was doing every time. I made your life harder than it already was and I did it because I could and that’s the truth of it.
I saw you and was done for. I need you to know that even if it doesn’t mean anything now. On the first day of orientation you were sitting in the third row and you had your pens lined up on the desk and you were so focused and so completely unbothered by the fact that no one was talking to you and I thought—she’s going to be someone. She already is.
And then I spent three years making sure you doubted that.
I think I loved you the best way I knew how and my best was genuinely terrible and that’s not your problem to carry, it’s mine.
But if it gives you any closure, as part of my disciplinary action—I’m on formal academic probation. I’ve been suspended from all of my leadership roles. And even better for the world (and myself, one may think) I was mandated to attend counseling. Though I’m in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy now.
I may not have a reasonable explanation for my past behavior. But I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and Depression. So yes, there is a reason. A why and how. But I'm sorry you had to suffer at the hands of that.
I put in for a transfer. I leave after the end of my probation which is in December—the end of first semester. And even if I see you, I wouldn’t approach you. Not because I don’t want to but I just don’t think I earned the right. I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel guilty or reach out or anything like that. I just thought you should know that I’m not going to be something you have to navigate anymore. You get to have this campus back. You always should have. It was always your world and however much I envy anyone that gets to be in it—you should have the best one. The happiest one.
I hope you get the internship. I hope you get everything you’ve ever wanted. Everything you see when you close your eyes.
I hope he’s good to you. He will be. I think that’s what made me the angriest—knowing that he actually would be.
You don’t have to forgive me. I’m not asking you to. I just needed you to know that I know. All of it. I know exactly what I did. But I hope that there can be a day where we run into each other by chance ten years from now and can chat over a coffee. About any and everything. I’ll hold onto that hope tightly in the meantime.
Happy Holidays, Happy Birthday, Happy Halloween, Congraduations, Congratulations on the engagement, and everything else for your future. Hopefully I’ll be lucky enough to say ‘I knew her when…’
Love,
— Riki
—
Two weeks later
—
You walked down the street with a heavy heart. But another part of you felt a sense of freedom. A lightness that you haven’t been able to taste in a very long time. Everything felt different. Waking up and looking in the mirror wasn’t as hard as it was. Eating a piece of cake didn’t make you feel guilty anymore. You actually dared to do your makeup this morning.
Even though those worries didn’t just magically disappear—you still ended up crying when you saw the letter R—you didn’t feel bad for existing anymore like you used to.
The last you heard of Riki was when that letter was slid under your door. In some way, you wondered who delivered it. Maybe one of his friends. Maybe him. And even that hurts knowing that he wasn’t man enough to look you in the eye. But after everything, you took it for what it was. Grateful for the closure that he could give you anyway. So you moved on. At least as best as you could, that is.
Jungwon and you have been in constant communication, though. From sporadic texts, to late night calls when he made it home after a long day.
Since leaving your university, Jungwon’s signed on to be an independent researcher. Loosely affiliated with other universities enough to gain resources such as funding and whatnot. The person who gets commissioned to write books, contribute to academic journals, speak at conferences internationally. But lately, he’s been at his home base before he goes off to whatever else he wants to do. You’re not sure—by the time you both speak, you like to focus on the moment.
But today, you both have arranged to meet at a cafe that you enjoy going to every now and then. It’s a decently popular spot and you don’t expect him to know about it. It’s not like he knows anything about your hometown.
You both agreed to meet at one PM—you open the door to the cafe, letting the little bell on the door jingle as it opens and closes. It was about twenty minutes until your coordinated time but you were nothing if not punctual. Or at least you tried to be for him.
Like always, you scanned the place to see if any spots were open. Fortunately, there was a perfect two-seater right in the corner of the cafe. Quiet, a bit dark though. There was nothing there but a small painting that the owners placed just for the sake of filling the space.
Then there was another space, another two-seater. Right in front of the windows. Both metal seats glinted and reflected off the glass. A small pot of daffodils hung over the center of the table from a chain that was connected to the ceiling.
You tilted your head with a slight smile—a warm feeling rose in your chest as you carefully approached the table. Unsure of what seat to take, you just stare for a moment before you just sit at any one. Maybe Jungwon will remind you of which seat he wanted when he got here.
For a while, you debate ordering anything just yet. Wanting to revel in how fun it’d be to stand in line with him. Chatting as you both browsed the menu knowing that you’d probably just order the same thing you’d order at any other cafe that you’ve been to.
The door jingles as it opens suddenly, drawing you out of the fantasy. Subconsciously, you sit up—fixing yourself and your hair as you are about to turn around. But before you could, pale hands cover your eyes—ultimately submerging your world in darkness.
“Guess who?” They sing softly, Your smile gave you away before you could even pretend to think about it.
“Took you long enough,” you said.
His hands dropped from your eyes and then he was there–sliding into the seat across from you like he’d been doing it for years, unwinding a scarf from around his neck even though it was the tail end of spring and entirely too warm for a scarf. Very him, somehow.
He looked good. That was the first thought, arriving before you could be polite about it. Rested in a way he hadn’t looked the last time you’d seen him, which had been the office, which had been the worst day the both of you shared. His glasses were slightly different—new frames, a little thinner. His sweater was cream colored and soft looking and he had the sleeves pushed up already like he was ready to settle in. “You’re early,” he said.
“I love punctuality, Dr. Yang. You know this.” You bite your lip, trying to suppress a small laugh.
He smiled at that—the real one, dimples and everything. “Well maybe be late, you know? I wanted to be here first.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, picking up the little menu card from the center of the table like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Wanted to see you walk in first. It’s what I’m used to.” The warm feeling in your chest expanded so suddenly you had to look down at the table for a second just to collect yourself.
The daffodils hung gently overhead, swaying from some draft you couldn’t locate.
“So,” he said, setting the menu down and folding his hands. Looking at you the same way he always had—like you were the most interesting thing in whatever room you both happened to be in. “How does it feel? How do you feel?”
“How does what feel?”
“Being done.” He tilted his head. “Just…turning over a new leaf.”
You thought about the almost-empty room. The letter in your nightstand drawer. The mirror that had gotten a little easier to look into. “Weird,” you said honestly. “Good-weird, though.”
He nodded slowly. “Good-weird is underrated.”
The door jingled behind you somewhere. The espresso machine hissed. Outside the window the street moved at its usual indifferent pace, completely unbothered by the fact that something inside you had quietly, finally, come to rest.
“You look different,” Jungwon said. Not analyzing, just noticing.
“Different how?” For a moment, you forgot you even had makeup on. Which was something you almost never did.
He considered you for a moment, chin tilting slightly. “Just…” For once Jungwon searches for words, which for someone like him was almost a rare occurrence. “Beautiful.” He says it, blurting it out and exhaling over it like the elephant was finally coming off of his chest. Like he was allowed to breathe now. “You look so beautiful. You always have. But…there’s an equanimity. Repose—about you now. And I’m grateful—lucky—to see it.”
Your eyes widened slightly as your hand rose to your chest. Rubbing your chest over your flowy, linen shirt where your heart was. “Uh–I…thank you, Jungwon.”
He smiled. Reached over and straightened the small pot of daffodils that had drifted slightly off center. “Good,” he said simply. “Now. Tell me what’s good here. I drove forty minutes and I refuse to order the wrong thing.”
—
The both of you were buzzing.
Spending the rest of the afternoon and evening in the same seats. Behinds aching as you both constantly adjust in the stiff, metal seats. Stomachs bloated and aching slightly from copious caffeine consumption. But neither of you cared. Neither of you could help but reach over the table as you held yourself as if either of you laughed—then your guts would spill out. Time doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore because whatever it is, you have all of it with him.
The cafe soon closes, the employees quietly starting to do inventory and wiping tables. And you’re not dense, you both made your way out. Leaving a hefty tip for them in the jar by the register.
And before the both of you knew it, you ended up on a bridge at one of the local parks. Nothing too far nor close to his car but it wasn’t like that was on either of your minds. Still, the golden hour was slowly tipping to blue. The water beneath your feet was neither loud or quiet.
You both find a worn, wooden bench to sit on. Though surprisingly enough, it didn’t groan under both of your combined weight. So that was clearly a great sign. The bench had seen more than it should’ve but it wasn’t one to complain.
The both of you stare ahead. Letting the silence build between the both of you but it wasn’t awkward. It felt earned more than anything. Finally you were looking at something outside of yourself without feeling the burden of doubt. Even though you enjoyed his company, it kills you to not hear his voice now. Him being this close to you makes you want him in any way. The sole hit of dopamine that you get when he says your name or laughs at one of your terrible jokes is enough to make you want this forever. Always.
You muster the courage to look to your left, only slightly do you turn your head to see him fully turned to you. Legs crossed over the other and hands folded over his stomach. And the moment your eyes meet, the two of you burst into a small fit of laughter. Jungwon threw his head back as his laugh was now more obnoxious than when he was in the cafe. Which you admired, you loved his mindfulness. How he minded everywhere he was and that he knew when to turn it on and off.
You’re still laughing but it’s going to fade into something softer any second now. And you’re positively anticipating it. That moment when the laughter dies down and leaves something unguarded in its place. So when it does, you’re fully turned to him with your back straightened—almost at attention—until you catch yourself. You didn’t need to perform or pretend. So you take a second to just…sink into the bench.
Jungwon’s the first to speak. “When do you have to be home?” He asks softly, now the ebb and flow of the water below crashing a bit—but it was white noise. His voice was louder than anything you’ve ever heard. At the front of your mind.
“Uh…” You shrug, twisting your bracelet. “I don’t have to be anywhere. It’s not like I have a curfew. I am a grown woman, fun fact.”
He reaches over, lightly pushing your shoulder. “Hush.” He laughs again. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
Your brows furrowed as you playfully swatted him. “Clarify for me, please.”
“I mean…” He brings his arm to rest on the back of the bench. “I’m coming through on my promise.”
Your hand stills on your bracelet. You’d thought about this moment more than you’d ever admit to anyone including yourself. Lying in your almost empty dorm room, then later in your childhood bed staring at the same ceiling you'd stared at for eighteen years before you left. Turning his words over in the dark like something you weren't sure was real.
Just make sure you have your passport, okay?
You’d told yourself it was just something people say. Something kind and warm that exists only in the moment it’s spoken and dissolves after. Like steam. Like the way people say we should catch up and never mean it. But here he is.
“Which promise?” you ask quietly. Not because you don’t know. But because you need to hear him say it.
Jungwon looks at you for a moment. That same unhurried way he looks at everything—like he has nowhere else to be and intends to stay exactly where he is. “Well, more like I need you to come through on yours.” He smiles softly, then it widens by the second.
And the blue hour settles around you both. And the water does whatever it wants below. And you think—oh. It was always going to be this. So you stop twisting the bracelet. And you lean into the arm behind you. “What did I say?” Again, you knew. You just wanted to hear him say it.
“That you’d go anywhere.” His smile softens a bit. The hand by your shoulder, brushing the exposed skin where the sleeve ended. Sending jolts through your skin. You didn’t realize how you longed for touch. Affection of any kind. Platonic, familial, romantic. Even then, you didn’t realize until now that one of those boxes was being checked. “With me.”
“Where’s anywhere?” You clear your throat, gulping down literally nothing. You wanted to look down and see his hand brush against your warm skin—just to make sure that it was real. But he may think that you didn’t enjoy it. You were still unfamiliar with these dynamics. Do you acknowledge it or not?
“Brazil.” He says.
The word sits between you both for a moment. Just breathing there.
You look at him. He’s already looking at you. Has been, you realize. Probably since before you turned. The hand on your shoulder isn’t moving anymore—just resting there, warm and certain against your skin like it belongs and is only now admitting it.
So you turn toward him fully. And the last of the golden hour catches the new frames of his glasses and the particular way he’s looking at you like you are the most inevitable thing that has ever happened to him. And you bring your hand up.
It finds his jaw before you’ve finished deciding to do it. Your thumb barely grazes the place where his dimple lives. You feel him exhale—slow and quiet—and underneath your palm he isn’t quite as controlled as usual. His eyes drop to your mouth. Just once; and that’s enough for you to close the distance.
It’s soft at first. Just the reality of it. And then his hand moves—slow, deliberate—finding your face and holding you there like you are something worth holding carefully. His other hand finds your waist and draws you in. Not urgent. Just yes. You kiss him like you have nowhere else to be. Because you don't.
When you pull back you don’t go far. His forehead finds yours. Eyes still closed. Breath slightly uneven which does something to you that you’ll think about later.
Then—
“So that’s a yes?” Quieter than usual. And when you open your eyes he’s already smiling. Dimples and everything. Like he can’t help it.
You laugh softly. “Ten times, yes.”
He takes your hand from his jaw and holds it instead. Pressing a kiss to your palm before pulling you into the warmth of his chest. And you both sit there above the water saying nothing at all.
The bench holds.
— epilogue
The sun had been up for hours but you’d only been awake for twenty minutes and already you’d decided this was the best decision you’d ever made.
The kind of heat that didn’t ask anything of you. Just settled over your skin like permission. The ocean was doing what oceans do—completely indifferent and endlessly moving and so blue it almost didn’t look real.
You shifted on the beach chair and didn’t pull at your swimsuit. Didn’t even think about pulling at it. That was new.
You’d bought it a week before the trip in a fitting room under fluorescent lights that were nobody’s friend and you’d stood there for a long time just looking at yourself. Waiting for the familiar voice that always showed up in those moments—the one that catalogued everything, measured everything, found everything wanting. But most importantly, reminded you that you were beautiful even in a trash bag.
And now here you are. Somewhere warm and far from home with salt drying on your shoulders and your hair doing whatever it wanted because you’d stopped fighting it two days ago.
You turned your head.
Jungwon was exactly where he’d been when you dozed off—stretched out on the chair beside yours, laptop balanced on a little lap desk, glasses on, expression set to that particular focused calm that meant he was either deep in thought or had been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes.
"You’re supposed to be on vacation," you said.
He didn’t look up immediately. "I am on vacation. But also not—technically."
"You have your laptop."
"I have my laptop on vacation." He turned a page of something beside him without looking at it. "It’s called balance."
You laughed, the sound coming out easy and unhurried, swallowed up by the ocean breeze. He looked over then. Just briefly, over the rim of his glasses. Something in his expression shifted—soft and unguarded in that way he never tried to hide anymore. Like he’d given up pretending he wasn’t exactly as gone on you as he was. "I love seeing you happy," he said.
"I love that you love seeing me happy."
He held your gaze for a second like he was making sure. Then he closed the laptop and set it on the small table beside him. And stood up.
You tilted your face up as he stepped over to your chair, this man who had kept every quiet promise he’d ever made to you, who had shown up in late June on a Thursday and never left after that. Who had said no rules in a half empty office once while packing up his life and meant it in a way that turned out to be true.
He leaned down slowly. One hand braced on the back of your chair, the other coming up to cup your face like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.
The sun was warm on your shoulders. The ocean kept moving. He kissed you soft and unhurried, the way he did most things—like there was nowhere else to be. Like this had been decided a long time ago and he was simply glad they’d finally gotten here.
When he pulled back he didn’t go far. Just pressed small kisses to your cheek, then neck, and collarbone. Inhaling your sweet, salty scent before smiling once he looked you in the eye. Lightly pressing his nose to yours.
And you thought about Riki’s letter sitting in your nightstand drawer back home. For the smallest unit of time possibly—like a nanosecond. About the happiest one. About coffee ten years from now and Happy Halloween and a small crumpled graveyard of false starts.
You hoped he was okay. You genuinely did. But laying here on a beach chair in Brazil, looking above. Seeing the sun cast a halo around the body of your angel—the man that saved you.
You knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
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