bulletproofbirdy

🍉 she/her. thirties. fuck 🧊 No AI ever.

[lac4ygal]

SUNFLOWER — s.jy

-ˋˏ⚘ pairing: jake sim x female reader

-ˋˏ⚘ genre: neighbors to lovers · single dad au · fluff · angst · smut · found family · slow burn

-ˋˏ⚘ summary: You have lived in apartment 3B for two years. You know your neighbors the way you know background characters — familiar, unremarkable, just part of the scenery. Which is why it’s strange that you’ve never properly noticed the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door and you open it to find not him, but her. Small. Round-cheeked. Duck pajamas. Absolutely certain of herself. You fall for his daughter first. Jake is just the complication that comes after. But god, what a complication.

-ˋˏ⚘ word count: 21.1k

-ˋˏ⚘ content warnings: explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, praise kink, soft dom/sub undertones, strong language, single parent theme, child abandonment (mother leaving), brief parental guilt, an absent parent reappearing, emotional manipulation attempt, jealousy, mention of custody, legal procedure, alcohol, crying, found family theme, a toddler who will ruin your life in the best way

-ˋˏ⚘ song: You Are The Best Thing by Ray LaMontage

-ˋˏ⚘ authors note: i started this fic because i wanted to write a soft single dad jake but the mia took over everything, she was supposed to be a supporting character but how can i make someone that cute not a main. she picked reader first and she always knew and i think that’s the whole story. jake deserved softness. reader deserved to be chosen. mia deserved a mama who showed up. everyone got what they deserved. if you’re reading this — thank you. comments, reblogs, feedback and likes keep me writing and i am so serious about that. enjoy💛

-ˋˏ⚘ my masterlist

You have lived in Apartment 3B of Wattle Grove Building for two years. You know Mrs. Kim in 1A leaves her recycling out on the wrong day every single week without fail. You know the guy in 2C plays guitar badly but enthusiastically every Sunday morning. You know the building super Danny will fix anything you need as long as you leave a coffee outside your door first.

You know your neighbors the way you know background characters in a movie you’ve seen too many times. Familiar. Unremarkable. Just part of the scenery.

Which is why it’s strange that you’ve never properly noticed the man in 3A. You’ve seen him, obviously. In passing. At the mailboxes. Once in the car park when you were both leaving at the same time and did that awkward thing where you both reached for the door simultaneously and then laughed and said sorry at the same time. He’s tall. Dark hair. Has a nice face in the vague way that you register nice faces without really looking at them.

He moved in about eight months ago. Keeps to himself. Quiet. You’ve never heard a peep through the wall you share, which you appreciate deeply after two years of listening to the previous tenant’s aggressive taste in late night television. You know his name is Jake because it’s on the mailbox.

That’s it. That’s the extent of your knowledge of the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You are not a morning person. You are, in fact, the opposite of a morning person. You are someone who sets four alarms and ignores three of them and considers getting out of bed before eight a personal attack. Your first class doesn’t start until ten. You were planning to sleep until at least eight thirty, mainline coffee until nine, and leave with approximately four minutes to spare.

So when someone knocks on your door at 6:58 AM you lie there for a full thirty seconds convincing yourself you imagined it. Then it happens again. Small. Rhythmic. Insistent. knock knock knock

You groan into your pillow. Drag yourself upright. Pull on the hoodie hanging off your desk chair and shuffle to the door, hair catastrophic, eyes barely open, prepared to be deeply unpleasant to whoever is on the other side.

You open the door. There is no one there. You blink. Look left. Look right. The hallway is empty and quiet and— “Hi.”

You look down. There is a child sitting on the floor outside your door. She is approximately three years old, round-cheeked and bright-eyed, wearing a yellow pajama set covered in tiny ducks. Her dark hair is escaping from two lopsided pigtails. She has a serious expression on her face like she has somewhere important to be and is merely pausing here briefly.

She is, without any competition, the most adorable thing you have ever seen in your entire life. You stare at her. She stares back. “Hi,” she says again, very patient, like she’s giving you time to catch up.

“Hi,” you manage. “Um. Who are you?”

She considers this question with great seriousness. “Mia.”

“Okay. Hi Mia.” You look up and down the empty hallway again. “Where did you come from?” She points at the door directly across from yours. 3A. “Are you—” You crouch down to her level. “Did you come out of your apartment by yourself?”

“Mr. Bunny is lost,” she explains, as if this answers everything. And apparently, in her world, it does. She stands up, remarkably steady on her feet for someone so small, and peers past you into your apartment with undisguised curiosity. “Is he in there?”

“Is who— Mr. Bunny? I don’t think so, sweetheart. I haven’t seen any—”

“Can I look?”

“I— well—” She’s already walking past you into your apartment.

You stand in your doorway, blinking slowly, watching a three year old you have never met toddle into your living room and start investigating with the focused energy of a tiny detective. She checks under the coffee table. Behind the couch cushions. She picks up one of your throw pillows, examines it, puts it back. “He’s not here,” she announces, sounding genuinely disappointed.

“I’m sorry.” You’re fully awake now, adrenaline doing what four alarms couldn’t. “Mia, does your dad know where you are?”

She looks at you. Blinks. And then, for the first time, something flickers across her face that isn’t complete confidence. Something small and uncertain. “Daddy’s sleeping,” she says quietly.

Oh no. Oh no.

“Okay,” you say, very carefully, going into full calm adult mode even though internally you are having a minor crisis. “Okay, that’s okay. Let’s go wake daddy up, yeah?”

You take her hand — she gives it to you immediately, tiny fingers wrapping around yours with complete trust, and something in your chest does something weird and unexpected — and you walk her across the hall to 3A.

You knock. Nothing. You knock louder. A crash. Muffled swearing. Footsteps. The door flies open.

Jake Sim, your neighbor from 3A, looks absolutely terrible. He’s in gray sweatpants and no shirt, hair destroyed, eyes wild with the specific panic of a parent who has woken up to find their child missing. There’s a pillow crease down his left cheek. He looks like a man who has just experienced the worst thirty seconds of his life.

He looks down at Mia standing beside you, her hand still in yours, looking up at him with the expression of someone who has done absolutely nothing wrong. The relief that crosses his face is so profound it’s almost painful to witness. “Mia.” His voice comes out wrecked. He drops to his knees right there in the doorway, gathering her up, holding her against his chest. She pats his back tolerantly. “Mia, I— you can’t— how did you—”

“I was looking for Mr. Bunny,” she explains into his shoulder, very reasonable.

“You can’t leave the apartment by yourself, baby, I’ve told you—”

“But Mr. Bunny—”

“I don’t care about Mr. Bunny right now—”

“Daddy.” She pulls back to look at him, deeply offended. “Mr. Bunny cares.”

You press your lips together very hard to keep from smiling. Jake looks up at you over Mia’s head, and he looks so mortified you almost feel sorry for him. Almost. It would be easier to feel sorry for him if he didn’t look — even rumpled and panicked and creased from sleep — really quite unfairly attractive. You file that observation away to examine later, when a child is not present.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry, she’s never done this before, I don’t know how she got the door open—”

“She knocked,” you tell him. “Very politely.”

He closes his eyes briefly. “Oh god.”

“I used my reaching stool,” Mia informs him helpfully. “For the handle.”

“We’re getting rid of the reaching stool,” Jake tells her.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Daddy, no—”

“Mia.” He pulls back to look at her properly, and his voice goes soft but serious. “You scared me. Really scared me, okay? You cannot leave without waking me up first. Ever. Do you understand?”

She looks at him. Her lip wobbles, just slightly. “I just wanted Mr. Bunny.”

“I know, baby.” He pulls her back in, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I know. But you have to wake me up. Promise me.”

“Promise,” she mumbles into his neck.

He holds her for another moment, and you feel like you’re witnessing something private. Something that belongs to them. You take a small step back. “I’ll let you—”

“Wait.” Jake stands, Mia on his hip, and looks at you with an expression that’s somehow equal parts exhausted and sincere. “I really am sorry. And thank you. Genuinely, thank you for— I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if she’d gone downstairs instead of just across the hall.”

“She was perfectly safe,” you say. “She was very focused on her investigation.”

“Mr. Bunny is lost,” Mia reminds both of you gravely.

“We’ll find him,” Jake tells her. Then to you: “I’m Jake, by the way. Since apparently we’ve been neighbors for eight months and I’ve never actually introduced myself, which is—”

“Terrible,” you supply.

“Yeah.” He winces. “Yeah, it really is. I’m sorry about that too.”

“Y/N,” you tell him. “3B.”

“I know. I’ve seen your name on the mailbox.” He shifts Mia on his hip. She has turned to look at you with renewed interest, the Mr. Bunny crisis temporarily suspended. “I kept meaning to knock and introduce myself properly but then time just—”

“It does that,” you agree.

He smiles. It’s a tired smile, still coming down from the panic, but it’s genuine. It does something to his face that you also file away for later. Mia is still staring at you. “You have pretty hair,” she announces.

“Mia—” Jake starts.

“Thank you,” you tell her seriously. “Yours is very pretty too.”

She reaches up and touches one of her lopsided pigtails, considering. “Daddy did it,” she says, with the tone of someone being very diplomatic about a disappointing situation.

You look at Jake. He looks back at you. The pigtails are genuinely quite bad. “I’m working on it,” he says.

“We could—” You stop yourself. You don’t even know this man. You’ve spoken to him for approximately four minutes. “Never mind.”

“No, what?”

“I was just going to say I could show you. If you wanted. It’s not— it’s easy once you know the trick.” You gesture vaguely. “But you probably have things to—”

“I would love that,” Jake says immediately. “Genuinely. Every morning is a disaster. She came home from daycare last week and her teacher had written a note that said ‘we love Mia’s creative hairstyles’ and I’m pretty sure that was a polite way of saying—”

“Daddy can’t do hair,” Mia explains to you, very straightforward.

“I cannot do hair,” Jake confirms.

You laugh. Actually laugh, fully awake now, standing in the hallway at seven in the morning in your old hoodie with your own hair catastrophic, and it surprises you a little. How easy it is. How natural. “Come over tomorrow morning,” you find yourself saying. “Before daycare. I’ll show you a couple of things.”

Jake looks at you like you’ve offered him something much more significant than a hair tutorial. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” You crouch down to Mia’s level. “I hope you find Mr. Bunny.”

She studies you with those serious dark eyes. Then she reaches out and puts her small hand on your cheek, very gentle, the way toddlers sometimes do when they’re deciding something important about you. “You’re nice,” she declares.

“So are you,” you tell her. She nods, satisfied, like this has confirmed something she already suspected.

Then she tucks her face back into Jake’s neck, done with the interaction, and Jake gives you a helpless sort of smile over her head. “Thank you,” he says again. “Really.”

“Anytime.” You stand up and take a step back toward your own door. “And Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe put a chain lock on. Up high. Before tonight.”

He looks at the door. Looks at Mia. Looks back at you with the expression of a man who has just realized how many things there are to think about when you’re doing this alone. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, good call.”

You don’t go back to sleep. You make coffee and sit on your couch and think about the way Mia put her hand on your cheek like she was taking your measure. The way she gave you her hand without hesitating, tiny fingers trusting yours completely.

The way Jake held her when he found her safe. Like she was the most important thing in the world, which she obviously was, which was obvious in every single line of his body.

You think about his apartment, which you caught a glimpse of through the open door. The small pair of shoes by the entrance. The sticker on the light switch at toddler height. The general chaos of someone who is managing, but only just. You think about the note from the daycare teacher and the terrible pigtails and the way he said I’m working on it without a single drop of self pity.

You finish your coffee. Make another one. You have a feeling that next door is going to become a lot more complicated than background noise and a name on a mailbox.

You’re not sure yet if that’s a good thing. But when you close your eyes you can still feel the ghost of small fingers wrapped around yours and you think— yeah. Yeah, you’re probably already in trouble.

Mr. Bunny turns up two days later. He is in the freezer. Neither Jake nor Mia can explain how he got there.

You laugh about it for five minutes straight when Jake texts you, and then you look at your phone and realize you’ve been texting your neighbor for two days like it’s completely normal and you’ve known him for years. You put your phone down. Pick it up again. Type back: at least he’s preserved.

Jake sends back a string of crying laughing emojis and then: Mia wants me to tell you that Mr. Bunny says thank you for looking for him

You smile so hard your face hurts. You are, you realize, completely and utterly done for. And you haven’t even properly met him yet.

The hair tutorial happens on Wednesday morning. You hear them before you see them — Mia’s voice carrying clearly through the wall at seven fifteen, a stream of cheerful commentary about something, Jake’s lower voice responding, the particular domestic chaos of someone trying to get a toddler ready for daycare on a schedule. Then a knock at your door.

You open it to find Jake holding Mia like a football under one arm, a hairbrush in his free hand, and the expression of a man who has already lost this morning’s battle comprehensively.

Mia is upside down and completely unbothered. “Hi,” she says, from her inverted position.

“Hi,” you say. You step back and open the door wider. “Come in.”

They troop inside, Jake setting Mia down on her feet in your living room where she immediately begins a thorough reinvestigation of the space, picking up where she left off two days ago. She examines your bookshelf. Touches the small succulent on your windowsill very gently with one finger. “Plant,” she observes.

“His name is Gerald,” you tell her.

She looks at you. Looks at Gerald. Looks back at you with the gravity of someone receiving important information. “Hi Gerald,” she says politely. Jake makes a sound that might be him trying not to laugh.

“Okay.” You take the hairbrush from him. “Sit her up on the couch and I’ll show you.”

What follows is twenty minutes that you will think about for the rest of the week for reasons you can’t entirely explain.

Mia sits between your knees on the couch, remarkably patient once she’s settled, holding Gerald the succulent in her lap because she asked and you said yes and Jake gave you a look that suggested he has learned to pick his battles. You work through her hair slowly, showing Jake each step — how to section it, how to hold the hair so it doesn’t pull, how to make the pigtails sit even.

He watches with the focused attention of someone who is genuinely trying to learn this. Not just nodding along but asking questions, asking you to slow down, watching your hands. At one point he leans in close to see what you’re doing and you’re very aware of how near he is and the fact that he smells like clean laundry and something warm underneath.

You focus on Mia’s hair. “The trick,” you tell him, “is that you do both sides before you tie either one off. Otherwise the first one pulls when you do the second.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing wrong,” he says. He sounds genuinely relieved, like you’ve solved something that’s been bothering him for months. Which, apparently, you have. “I couldn’t work out why they always went lopsided.”

“They were very lopsided,” Mia agrees pleasantly.

“Thanks, Mia.”

“You’re welcome, Daddy.”

You finish, tying off the second pigtail with the elastic, and smooth a hand over her hair. Perfect and even and neat. She reaches up and touches them carefully. “Pretty?” she asks.

“Very pretty,” you confirm.

She twists to look up at you, satisfied. Then she holds Gerald out. “You can have him back.”

“Thank you for taking care of him.”

“He was scared,” she explains seriously. “He doesn’t know me yet.” She places him very carefully back on the windowsill, patting the pot once. “It’s okay Gerald. I’m nice.”

Jake is watching his daughter with this expression — quiet and soft and a little undone at the edges — and when he catches you looking at him he clears his throat and looks away. Picks up the hairbrush from the cushion beside him. “Right,” he says. “We should get going. Daycare at eight.”

“Nooooo,” Mia says, without any real conviction. She’s already moving toward the door with the pragmatic acceptance of someone who knows the schedule.

“Thank you,” Jake says to you. He means it. You can tell he means it in that way where the words are bigger than they sound. “Seriously. This was—”

“It’s just pigtails.”

“It’s not just—” He stops. Starts again. “She talks about you. Since Tuesday. You’re the pretty lady from across the hall.”

Your face warms. “That’s very generous of her.”

“She’s got good taste.” He says it simply, matter of fact, and then looks slightly like he didn’t mean to say it quite like that. “I mean— she’s a good judge of character. Generally.”

“Y/N,” Mia calls from the doorway where she is putting her shoes on the wrong feet with great confidence.

“Yeah?”

She looks up at you. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

Something squeezes in your chest. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”

She nods, satisfied, like this is settled. Like you have made a commitment and she is holding you to it. Then she holds her foot up at Jake. “Daddy. Shoes.”

Jake crouches down to fix them, and you lean against your doorframe and watch, and you think about what Liv said to you once about knowing when something is going to change your life. How you can feel it sometimes. The specific weight of a moment that’s about to matter.

You feel it now, watching Jake tie his daughter’s shoes in your doorway at seven forty in the morning while she holds your door handle for balance and hums something tuneless to herself. You feel it, and you file it away with everything else, and you tell yourself it’s too early for any of this and you need coffee.

You leave cookies outside 3A that afternoon. You don’t examine why. You made a batch because you were stress baking about an assignment and you made too many and they were just sitting there and Jake mentioned once — in the mailbox, months ago, one of those nothing conversations you’d forgotten until now — that Mia liked anything with chocolate.

You leave them outside the door in a container with a post it note that says for Mia (and you, if you want) and then you go back inside and finish your assignment and don’t think about it.

At nine fifteen that night your phone buzzes: jake 3a: she ate four before I could stop her and is now absolutely feral and won’t sleep. I’m blaming you

You grin at your phone. you: that’s fair

jake 3a: they were really good though like genuinely really good. Did you make them from scratch?

you: yes

jake 3a: of course you did

jake 3a: I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means, that came out weird. I just mean they were better than anything I could make. I’m a terrible baker.

you: how terrible?

jake 3a: I made Mia a birthday cake in August and it came out flat and she cried

you: oh no

jake 3a: not because of the cake. She thought it was funny. She cried laughing. It was actually one of the best moments of my life which probably tells you everything about my standards right now

You’re smiling at your phone like an idiot. you: I’ll make the cake next time. You send it before you’ve fully decided to, and then stare at it. It’s October. You’ve just committed to being in this man’s life until at least next August.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. jake 3a: you really don’t have to

you: I want to. she told Gerald not to be scared because she was nice. I feel like she deserves a good birthday cake.

jake 3a: yeah she really does

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The drawing appears under your door on Thursday morning. You almost step on it when you come out of your bedroom, a folded piece of paper on your doormat. You pick it up and unfold it and find a crayon drawing — several figures of varying heights and proportions, all labeled in Jake’s handwriting because Mia clearly directed and he transcribed.

Mia. Daddy. Gerald. Mr Bunny. And then, on the end, slightly larger than the others, with yellow crayon hair: Y/N. She’s drawn you into her family portrait.

You stand in your kitchen holding a crayon drawing with yellow-haired you standing next to a rectangle that is apparently Gerald and you feel something crack open in your chest so softly and so completely that you have to sit down.

You take a photo of it. You put the original on your fridge. You text Jake a photo of it on the fridge and he doesn’t respond for ten minutes and when he does it just says: jake 3a: she worked on it for an hour last night

jake 3a: kept starting over because she wanted to get your hair right

You stare at that message for a long time. you: tell her I love it

jake 3a: she’s going to lose her mind. also she asked if you want to come to the park with us Saturday

Three dots. Then: jake 3a: I want that too, for what it’s worth. If you’re free.

You look at the drawing on your fridge. Yellow-haired you, standing in a row with Mia and Daddy and Gerald and Mr. Bunny like you’ve always been there. you: I’m free Saturday

Saturday at the park is easy in a way that surprises you. You’d half expected it to be awkward — the three of you, still essentially strangers, trying to fill silence in an open space. But Mia eliminates the possibility of silence entirely. She has opinions about the swings (good), the slide (excellent, requires multiple repetitions), and the ducks by the small pond at the park’s edge (deeply suspicious, do not approach).

“They’re just ducks,” Jake tells her.

“They’re watching,” she says.

“They’re not watching.”

“Daddy.” She gives him a very patient look. “They are watching.”

Jake looks at you. You shrug. “They do look pretty focused,” you offer.

He points at you. “Don’t encourage her.”

Mia takes your hand and pulls you toward the swings, away from the ducks and away from Jake’s protests, and you go because she’s three and determined and her hand is in yours and you’ve decided that’s reason enough for basically anything at this point.

You push her on the swings while Jake sits on the bench nearby, and you watch him watching the two of you. He has his elbows on his knees and his face is open in a way you’re starting to learn is rare for him — in a crowd or with strangers he goes carefully neutral, pleasant but contained. But here, watching Mia go higher and higher and shriek with delight, he looks unguarded. Younger, somehow. Like something in him relaxes when it’s just the three of you. “Higher!” Mia demands.

“You’re already very high,” you tell her.

“Higher.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please.”

“Nice try.”

She cackles. Pure delighted toddler sound, head thrown back. And you find yourself laughing too, pushing her at this very reasonable height, and when you look over at Jake he’s smiling at you with an expression you don’t quite have a name for yet. You look away first.

After the swings, Mia finds a stick, which becomes the most important object in the world for the next twenty minutes. She examines rocks. She makes Jake carry her on his shoulders. She falls asleep on the walk home with her cheek on his head and one fist clutching his jacket, completely unconscious, utterly trusting.

Jake walks carefully, holding her legs, talking to you in a low voice so he doesn’t wake her. “She doesn’t do this with many people,” he says.

“Fall asleep?”

“Trust people.” He adjusts his grip on her. “She’s friendly, obviously, she’ll talk to anyone. But she doesn’t— she doesn’t hold hands with people she doesn’t know. She doesn’t draw people.” He pauses. “She drew you in four days.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say, “she’s special.”

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet. “She really is.”

You walk in silence for a moment, the easy kind. “How long has it been?” you ask. “Just the two of you.”

He doesn’t tense the way you half expect him to. Just exhales, slow and steady. “Since she was four months old. Her mom left.” He says it flat, without bitterness, which somehow makes it worse. Like he’s had a long time to practice saying it that way. “Just— left. Packed a bag while I was at work. By the time I got home it was just us.”

“Jake—”

“It’s fine now.” He glances at you sideways. “It wasn’t, for a long time. But it’s fine now. It’s good, actually. It’s really good.” He looks up at Mia’s sleeping face. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much.”

You look at him. At the way he holds her. At the careful tenderness of it. “She knows,” you say softly. He looks at you. “That she’s loved like that. You can tell.” You hold his gaze. “She knows.”

Something moves through his expression. Quick and unguarded and gone before you can name it. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

You walk the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, Mia asleep above you, the afternoon sun going golden through the trees lining the street. It is, you think, a very good Saturday.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It becomes a routine without either of you deciding it should. Wednesday mornings, Jake knocks with the hairbrush. You do Mia’s hair while she holds Gerald and narrates her thoughts about the day ahead. Jake makes coffee in your kitchen like he knows where everything is, which after three weeks he does.

Saturdays are the park, or the farmers market two streets over, or just the three of you on one of your balconies eating whatever Jake has cooked because it turns out that while he cannot bake to save his life he is an genuinely excellent cook and he seems to enjoy having someone to cook for.

Evenings sometimes, when Mia’s in bed and Jake knocks quietly and you sit on his couch and watch something and talk about nothing in particular until one of you falls asleep.

It is domestic and soft and easy. It is also, you are increasingly aware, becoming something that would hurt to lose.

Mia calls you her Y/N now. Not just Y/N. Her Y/N, possessive and certain, the way she says her daddy and her Mr. Bunny and her Gerald. You are hers in her taxonomy of the world and the certainty of it does something to your chest every single time.

She tells the woman at the bakery you buy her the jam scroll she likes every Saturday. She tells a child at the park. She tells Mrs. Kim from 1A who coos and looks between you and Jake with an expression that makes Jake find something fascinating to look at on the middle distance.

You’re folding laundry in your apartment on a Thursday evening, three weeks in, when Jake knocks. You open the door. He’s holding two containers of leftover pasta, still warm. He holds one out. “Made too much,” he says.

You take it. Step back to let him in. This is how it goes now. “Mia asleep?” you ask.

“Out cold. She had daycare and then apparently spent an hour reorganizing her stuffed animals by color.” He sits on your couch. “It took everything she had.”

You sit beside him, open the pasta. It’s good — it’s always good. “Did the reorganization meet her standards?”

“She made me come and approve it before bed.” He pauses. “Mr. Bunny is in the orange section even though he’s gray.”

“He has warm undertones,” you say seriously.

Jake looks at you. Starts laughing. Not the polite laugh of someone being friendly but the real one, the one that takes over his whole face, and you’ve been cataloguing that laugh for weeks now, the way it comes out surprised sometimes like he forgot he was allowed to do it.

You’re laughing too, both of you over toddler stuffed animal color theory at eight PM with pasta containers in your laps, and when the laughter settles it leaves something warm and quiet in its place.

Jake is looking at you. Not the quick sideways glances you’ve been trading for weeks. Really looking, steady and open, and you feel it the way you feel a change in weather. The pressure of it. The way the air shifts. “Y/N,” he says.

“Yeah?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks down at his pasta container, turning it in his hands. “Nothing. Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

He looks at you again and this time he doesn’t look away. “I really like spending time with you.”

You hold his gaze. “I really like spending time with you too.”

“I haven’t—” He exhales. “I haven’t wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. Maybe ever. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

The honesty of it lands softly. No performance, no deflection. Just him, telling you the truth. “I don’t either,” you say. “But I don’t think I want to stop.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he leans in, slow and deliberate, giving you every opportunity to pull back. You don’t pull back.

His mouth finds yours, gentle at first, questioning, and then you lean into it and it stops being a question. It’s warm and unhurried and it tastes like the pasta and something underneath that is just him, and when you finally break apart you’re both quiet, foreheads almost touching.

“Okay,” he says softly.

“Okay,” you agree.

He pulls back just slightly. His expression is open and a little nervous and more serious than the moment requires, or maybe exactly as serious as it requires. “I need to say something,” he says.

“Okay.”

“If we—” He pauses, choosing his words. “Whatever this is. Whatever it becomes. Mia comes first. Always. That’s non negotiable for me. I need you to know that going in.”

You look at him. At the set of his jaw, the quiet certainty in his eyes. A man who has built his whole life around a three year old with lopsided pigtails and a stuffed rabbit and absolute confidence in the people she decides are hers. “Jake,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“I know.” You hold his gaze. “I love her. She’s— she put her hand on my face the first morning and I was gone. I was completely gone.” You shake your head a little. “I think I fell for her before I even fell for you.”

Something moves across his face. Deep and quiet and undone.“Yeah?” he says, and his voice is rough at the edges.

“Yeah.” He kisses you again. Softer this time. Like something has been settled, like the last lock has clicked open. His hand comes up to cup your jaw and you lean into it and outside the window the city is doing whatever cities do at eight o’clock on a Thursday and in here it is warm and quiet and it feels, very specifically, like the beginning of something.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The first time Mia is at the babysitter’s overnight, it’s an accident.

Not the overnight part — that’s planned. Sandy, Mia’s regular babysitter three streets over, has been asking for weeks if she can have Mia for a sleepover because her own grandchildren are visiting and Mia and the youngest, a boy named Theo, have formed the specific intense friendship that only exists between toddlers who have decided they are best friends after forty five minutes together at a playground.

Jake agrees because Mia asks with her whole body, bouncing on her toes, and because Sandy has been his lifeline for two and a half years and he trusts her completely. What’s accidental is what happens after.

He drops Mia off at four on a Friday afternoon. You’re not there — you have a late class — but when you get home at six thirty and knock on 3A because it’s become reflex, Jake opens the door and the apartment is quiet in a way it never is.

You’ve been in this apartment dozens of times now. You know its sounds. The particular creak of the second floorboard in the hall. The way the kitchen tap needs an extra turn to stop dripping. The constant ambient noise of Mia — her commentary, her singing, her negotiations with various stuffed animals about bedtime.

The silence is enormous. “Weird, right?” Jake says, reading your face.

“Really weird.” You step inside. “How long has she been gone?”

“Two hours.” He closes the door. “I’ve cleaned the whole apartment and reorganized the pantry and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

You look at the pantry, which is indeed immaculate. You look at Jake, who is in dark jeans and a simple white t-shirt and looks simultaneously very attractive and genuinely a little lost. “Have you eaten?” you ask.

“No.”

“Cook me something.”

Something in him settles. He moves into the kitchen, and you sit on the counter the way you’ve started doing, and he makes pasta — different from the other night, something with lemon and herbs — and you open the wine you brought from your apartment and it is easy, it is so easy, the way everything with him has become easy without you noticing it happening.

You eat at his kitchen table. You talk about your classes and his current project — branding for a new café opening in the city — and the book you’ve both apparently been meaning to read for months and never have. You talk about Mia, because you always talk about Mia, about the things she’s said recently that have floored you both. “She told me yesterday,” Jake says, “that she wants to be a paleontologist.”

“She’s three.”

“I know. I asked her what a paleontologist was and she said ‘a person who finds old bones’ and I have no idea where she learned that word.”

“That’s— that’s genuinely impressive.”

“She then said she also wants to be a cat.” He takes a sip of wine. “So. Range.” You’re laughing, and he’s laughing, and the kitchen is warm and the wine is good and at some point the laughter fades and you’re just looking at each other in the quiet.

It’s been two weeks since the kiss on your couch. Two weeks of nothing changing and everything changing — the same routine, the same easy rhythm, but with this new current running underneath it. His hand finding yours sometimes. The way he says goodbye now, at the door, that takes longer than it used to. The awareness of him that hums in your chest constantly, warm and insistent.

You haven’t had a night without Mia before. You’re both aware of it. “Y/N,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Can I—” He stops. Starts again. His jaw works slightly, that tell you’ve learned. “I’ve been thinking about this. About us. And I want to— I want to do this properly. Take you on an actual date, not just—” He gestures at the table, the apartment, the comfortable domesticity of it. “Not just this. You deserve—”

“Jake.” You set down your glass. “I like this.”

“I know, but—”

“I mean I really like this.” You hold his gaze. “I don’t need a restaurant. I don’t need— I just want you. This. Whatever this is.” He looks at you for a long moment.

Then he pushes back from the table and crosses to you and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all evening, one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist. You slide off the counter and into him and he makes a low sound against your mouth that does something devastating to your concentration. “Stay tonight,” he says against your lips.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”

You end up on his bed.

It happens slowly, the way things happen when there’s no rush, when the whole night stretches ahead and neither of you is going anywhere. He takes his time, unhurried and thorough, like he wants to learn you. Like you’re something worth learning.

He lays you back against his pillows and looks at you for a moment, just looks, and something about being seen like that — careful and wanting and completely focused — makes heat pool low in your stomach before he’s even touched you. “Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” you say back.

He leans down and kisses you again, and it’s different from the doorway kisses and the couch kisses. Deeper. More deliberate. His hand slides up your side, pushing your shirt up, warm palm against your skin, and you shiver.“Cold?” he murmurs.

“Opposite.” He smiles against your mouth. Keeps moving, finding the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms and let him pull it off. He sits back to look at you, and his expression is so openly appreciative, so uncomplicated in its wanting, that you feel heat rise to your face.

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Look away.” His thumb traces your collarbone. “I want to look at you.” You keep his gaze. He keeps his.

He gets rid of his own shirt and you run your hands up his chest, his stomach, the way you’ve been wanting to since— longer than you’ll admit. He’s warm and solid and he watches your face as you touch him like your expression is telling him something important.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He catches your hands, pins them gently above your head, leans down to press his mouth to your jaw. Your neck. The soft skin below your ear. “Just thinking about how long I’ve been wanting this.”

“How long?”

He mouths at your pulse point and you gasp, arching up. “Longer than I should admit,” he murmurs. “Probably since the morning with Mia. You opened the door half asleep with terrible hair and you crouched down and talked to her like she was a real person and I thought—” He lifts his head to look at you. “I thought I was in serious trouble.”

“Your daughter was upside down under your arm,” you manage.

“I know. Terrible timing.” He releases your wrists, hands moving to the button of your jeans. “Is this okay?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

He undresses you slowly, pressing his mouth to each new piece of skin like punctuation. The inside of your wrist. Your hip. The soft skin of your inner thigh that makes you grip the sheets and breathe out his name. He looks up at you from there, chin resting on your thigh, expression somewhere between fond and wrecked. “Jake—”

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “Okay? I’ve got you.” And then his mouth is on you and your head falls back and you stop being able to think in complete sentences.

He takes his time the way he does everything — with complete attention, reading every sound you make, every shift of your hips, adjusting until he finds exactly what makes you come apart. He slides one finger inside you and then two, curling them just right while his tongue works your clit in slow, devastating circles, and you fist your hand in his hair and try to remember how to breathe.

“Jake— fuck— I’m—”

He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t change what he’s doing. Just keeps that perfect steady rhythm like he has all the time in the world, like getting you there is the only thing on his agenda, and you come with your thighs clamped around his head and his name on your lips and it crashes through you in waves that don’t seem to stop.

He works you through every second of it, only easing off when you tug at his hair, oversensitive and shaking.

He moves up your body, pressing a kiss to your stomach, your sternum, your mouth. You can taste yourself on him and somehow that makes heat flare through you all over again. “Hi,” he says again, soft and amused.

“You,” you manage, “are very good at that.”

“Yeah?” He looks pleased.

“Don’t get smug about it.”

“I’m not smug.” He is a little smug. You find you don’t mind. “You okay?”

“More than okay.” You reach up, pull him down to kiss him properly, deep and unhurried. “Your turn.”

You get his jeans off, and his boxers, and you wrap your hand around him and he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking slightly.“Sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” you tell him. You stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him, and he drops his forehead to yours and just breathes. “Tell me what you like.”

“That,” he says roughly. “Exactly that. Just—” He covers your hand with his, adjusts the pressure slightly. “Yeah. Like that.”

You watch his face — the way his jaw goes tight, the way his eyes flutter. He’s trying to stay composed and not quite managing it and you find that incredibly satisfying. “Y/N.” His voice has gone rough. “I want— can I—”

“Yes,” you say. “Please.”

He reaches into his nightstand drawer. You take the condom from him and roll it on yourself, slowly, which makes him close his eyes and exhale hard through his nose.“You’re going to kill me,” he says.

“You’ll be fine.”

He settles between your thighs and you feel him there, pressing in, and you both go still for a moment. He pushes forward, slow and careful, watching your face, and the stretch of him makes you exhale hard, fingers pressing into his shoulders. He stops halfway, checking. “Good?” he asks.

“So good.” You shift your hips, urging him on. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t stop. He seats himself fully and you both breathe through it, foreheads together, and then he starts to move and everything else falls away.

He fucks you slowly at first, deep and thorough, finding the angle that makes you gasp and then staying with it. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and you make a sound that you’d be embarrassed about in any other context.“There?” he asks.

“There,” you confirm breathlessly.

He keeps going. Steady and focused and impossibly good, hitting that spot inside you on every stroke while his thumb works you in tight circles, and you can already feel it building again, embarrassingly fast. “Jake— fuck— already—”

“Let go,” he says against your temple. “I want to feel you.”

You come clenching around him, and he groans deep in his chest, the rhythm stuttering, and you feel him follow you over with your name on his lips, buried deep, shaking.

Afterward you lie tangled together in the quiet. He traces absent patterns on your arm. You listen to his heartbeat slow. “Hey,” he says eventually.

“Hey.”

“That was—”

“Yeah.” You tilt your head up. “It really was.” He presses a kiss to your hair. You feel him smile against it.

Outside, the city is doing its Friday night thing, indifferent and ongoing. In here the lamp is warm and the sheets are soft and Jake’s heartbeat is steady under your cheek and you think about the drawing on your fridge and the hand on your cheek and Mr. Bunny in the freezer and all the ordinary extraordinary things that have built this without you quite realizing. “Stay,” he says.

“I’m already here.”

“I mean—” He tightens his arm around you. “Stay. Not just tonight.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “You’re going to have to define that.”

“I know.” His thumb moves slow on your arm. “I’m working up to it.”

“Okay.” You settle back against him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Mia comes home at eleven the next morning. You’re still there.

You’re in Jake’s kitchen making coffee, wearing his hoodie and your underwear, when the front door opens and Sandy’s voice floats through — “here we are, my love, home sweet home” — and small feet thunder down the hall.

Mia appears in the kitchen doorway. She takes in the scene. You, in her daddy’s hoodie. The two coffee cups. The general evidence of your presence. Her face does something complicated and then completely simple. “My Y/N,” she says, delighted, and launches herself at your legs.

You crouch down and catch her, and she wraps around you like a koala, warm and sleep-soft and smelling like Sandy’s house, and you hold her and look up at Jake in the doorway and he’s looking at the two of you with that expression again. The one that’s bigger than his face can hold.

“Hi baby,” you say into Mia’s hair. “How was Theo’s?”

“We found a worm,” she says. “His name is Dave.”

“Did you bring Dave home?”

“Sandy said no.” A pause. “I think that was wrong.”

“Dave is probably very happy in Sandy’s garden.”

She considers this. “Okay.” Then, muffled against your shoulder: “Are you staying for breakfast?”

You look at Jake. He holds your gaze, steady and warm. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m staying for breakfast.”

Mia pulls back, satisfied. “Daddy makes good eggs.”

“I know he does.”

“You can sit next to me.”

“I would love that.”

She takes your hand and tows you toward the table with the authority of someone who has decided how this morning is going to go, and Jake moves to the stove, and outside the kitchen window the Saturday morning is doing its soft unhurried thing, and this— this is everything.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The weeks that follow are the best of your life. You don’t say that out loud. It feels too large, too exposed. But it’s true in the quiet way that the truest things are — not dramatic, not announced, just sitting solidly in your chest every time you’re aware of it.

The three of you fall into a rhythm so natural it’s almost hard to remember the before. Jake knocks on your door with the hairbrush and leaves with coffee. You come to theirs for dinner more nights than not. Mia insists on showing you everything — every drawing, every discovery, every development in the ongoing organization of her stuffed animal collection.

The farmers market becomes yours. Every Saturday, the three of you. Mia on Jake’s shoulders, small hands wrapped in his hair, pointing imperiously at things she wants to examine. You buy her a sunflower from the flower stall in week two and she carries it home with both hands like it’s precious, and after that it becomes the thing — every week, a sunflower for Mia, who has decided they are her favorite and cannot be argued with on this point.

Jake watches you with her constantly. You catch him doing it — that soft unguarded look — and he doesn’t stop when you catch him, just holds your gaze until you look away first, which you always do because the directness of it does something to your chest that you haven’t found words for yet.

Mia tells her daycare teacher about you. You know this because Jake texts you a screenshot of a drawing she brought home — the same configuration as before, Mia Daddy Gerald Mr Bunny Y/N, but this time you and Jake are holding hands.

jake 3a: her teacher asked who the people were, she said ‘that’s my daddy and my Y/N they’re in love’

You stare at the message. you: she’s three

jake 3a: three and apparently very perceptive

you: what did you tell the teacher

jake 3a: I said she wasn’t wrong

You put your phone face down on the desk and press both hands over your face and sit there for a full minute. Then you pick it up. you: jake

jake 3a: yeah?

you: are you in love with me

A pause. Longer than usual. Your heart does something complicated in the silence. jake 3a: I’ve been trying to find the right moment to say it properly not over text but yes, very much yes. I have been for a while

jake 3a: is that okay?

You read it three times. you: yes, it’s very okay. also I love you too

jake 3a: yeah?

you: yeah

jake 3a: okay, good. I’m going to say it properly tonight with Mia asleep so she doesn’t narrate it

you: she would absolutely narrate it

jake 3a: she would make it about herself somehow

you: she would bring Mr Bunny as a witness

jake 3a: he’d be very moved

You’re smiling so hard your face hurts, alone in your apartment at two in the afternoon, and you think about the morning you opened your door and found a small person sitting on your doormat in duck pajamas looking for her rabbit.

You think about tiny fingers in yours on the way back across the hall. You think about you’re nice delivered with complete certainty by someone who had known you for four minutes.

That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake says it properly. Standing in the kitchen, cup of tea going cold on the counter, both of you knowing it’s coming and neither of you in any rush because there’s no need to rush anymore.

“I love you,” he says. Simple and direct. “I love you and I love that she loves you and I don’t want to do any of this without you.”

“I love you too,” you say. “Both of you. The whole— all of it. Everything.”

He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like coming home, which is a thing you didn’t know kitchens could taste like until now.

Later, in his bed, you press your face into his shoulder and listen to the particular quiet of the apartment at night — the creak of the building, the distant city, the soft sound of Mia breathing through the baby monitor on the nightstand. “Hey,” Jake says quietly. “You know what Mia asked me today?”

“What?”

“She asked if you were going to live with us.”

Your heart turns over. “What did you tell her?”

“I said I hoped so.” He tilts his head to look down at you. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s okay.” He pulls you closer. You close your eyes. Outside, a siren somewhere. The building settling. Mia’s breathing through the monitor, slow and even and completely safe.

In here, you think. Everything is in here. You never see it coming. That’s the thing about a knock at the door when you’re happy. You don’t brace for it. You don’t clock the risk. You’re just— there. In the warm. Thinking about nothing that isn’t good.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s a Sunday. Mia is at Sandy’s. Not overnight this time — just the afternoon, a regular arrangement while Jake works on a deadline.

Except Jake finished his deadline by noon and texted you and you came over and the afternoon became the best kind of afternoon, the kind that starts with coffee and talking and turns into something else entirely when Mia isn’t home, when there’s nowhere to be and no particular reason to leave the bedroom.

You’re in his bed. Late afternoon light coming gold through the curtains. His hand on your back tracing lazy patterns on your spine. You’re boneless and warm and half thinking about nothing and half thinking about whether Mia will want to show you the worm situation at Sandy’s when Jake picks her up.

“Sandy said she asked to bring Dave home three more times,” Jake says, like he’s reading your mind.

“Persistent.”

“She gets it from somewhere.” His hand moves up to the back of your neck, squeezing gently. “You hungry?” “Not yet.”

“Okay.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “We’ve got a couple of hours before I pick her up.” You hum. He pulls you closer. The afternoon light shifts.

Then someone knocks at the door. Jake’s hand stills on your back. “Expecting anyone?” you ask.

“No.” He frowns slightly. “Sandy would call.” He sits up, reaching for his t-shirt. “Probably Danny about the tap.”

You stretch out across the warm space he’s left, drowsy and content, listening to his footsteps down the hall. The sound of the door opening. Silence.

Not the brief silence of oh hi Danny it’s fine. A longer silence. A loaded one.

Then a voice you don’t recognize — a woman’s voice, careful and slightly uncertain — saying his name. “Jake.”

You go very still.

Jake says nothing for a long moment. When he speaks his voice is completely flat in a way you’ve never heard from him before. Like all the warmth has been removed surgically. “What are you doing here?”

“I just— I wanted to—” The woman’s voice. “Can I come in?”

“No. How did you find me?”

“Your mum. She didn’t— she thought I knew the address, I think. I don’t think she realized—”

“Why are you here.” Not a question. A demand.

A pause. “I want to see her,” the woman says. “I want to see Mia.”

The name lands in the apartment like something dropped. You sit up slowly, pulling the sheet around yourself, and the drowsy warmth of the afternoon has gone completely. In its place something cold and alert.

“You need to leave,” Jake says.

“I know I don’t have the right to—”

“You left,” Jake says, and his voice is still flat, but underneath the flatness there is something enormous being held very carefully in check. “She was four months old and you left. You’ve been gone for three years. You don’t get to knock on my door and say you want to see her like it’s a reasonable thing to say.”

“I know.” The woman’s voice cracks slightly. “I know that. I just— Jake, please, I just want—”

“To see her? Or to see me?” Silence. “Yeah,” Jake says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

You get up. Quietly. You find your clothes in the soft afternoon mess of the room, pull them on, and you stand in the hallway outside his bedroom door and you look at the front door.

She’s standing in the doorway. Tall, dark-haired, pretty in a way that might have been beautiful before whatever she’s been carrying got into her face. She’s looking at Jake with an expression that mixes guilt and want in proportions you don’t have to be a genius to read.

She sees you. Her eyes move over you — your rumpled clothes, Jake’s apartment behind you, the obvious geography of the afternoon — and something hardens in her expression that you recognize. The specific hardening of someone who wanted to find a door open and has found it closed.

Jake turns. He sees you in the hallway. Something moves through his face — protective, apologetic, something else underneath that you don’t have time to read. “Y/N,” he says. “Hi.” You keep your voice steady. “I’ll— I can go.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay.” You look at him clearly, trying to say with your eyes what you can’t say in front of her: I’m fine. I’m not going far. Handle this. “I’ll be across the hall.”

He holds your gaze. His jaw is set, his eyes tight at the corners, but he gives you the smallest nod.

You pick up your keys from the bowl by the door — yours, in the bowl by Jake’s door, which happened so gradually you can’t remember it beginning — and you step past the woman in the doorway without looking at her.

You go into 3B. You close the door. You sit on your couch and you listen to the muffled sound of voices through the wall, and you hold yourself very carefully together, and you wait.

You sit on your couch for forty minutes. You know because you watch the clock. Not obsessively — you’re not counting seconds — but every time your eyes drift to it another chunk of time has passed and the voices through the wall have not stopped.

You make tea you don’t drink. You open your laptop and close it again. You pick up your phone three times and put it down without texting anyone because what would you even say.

My boyfriend’s ex showed up. The one who left when their daughter was four months old. She’s been there forty minutes and I’m sitting in my apartment trying not to think about the way she looked at him.

You put your phone face down on the cushion beside you.

The thing is — and you know this, you do — you trust Jake. That’s not the part that’s making your chest tight. You’ve watched him for months now. You know who he is. You know the way he holds his daughter and the way he laughs and the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. You know he means what he says.

The part that’s making your chest tight is her face when she saw you. Not guilt. Not embarrassment at the intrusion. Something proprietary. Something that said what are you doing in my space even though she is the one who left. Even though she forfeited any claim to this apartment and this life and this man the day she packed a bag while her four month old daughter slept.

You’re familiar with that expression. You’ve worn it yourself, briefly, watching other women talk to Jake at the market or at the park. You know what it means. She wants him back. Mia is the reason she knocked. But she wants Jake back.

You’re still sitting with that when your phone buzzes. jake 3a: she’s gone, can you come back?

You’re across the hall before you’ve fully decided to move. He opens the door before you knock. He looks terrible. Not falling apart — Jake doesn’t fall apart, you’ve figured that out, he goes very still and very controlled when things get bad, which is almost worse — but there are lines around his eyes that weren’t there this morning and his jaw is set in that way that means he’s been holding something in for a while.

He steps back to let you in. Closes the door. You turn to face him and he looks at you for a moment like he’s checking that you’re real, that you’re still here, that the afternoon hasn’t completely dismantled itself. “You okay?” you ask.

“I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine. I was across the hall.” You hold his gaze. “Are you okay?”

He exhales. Long and slow. Runs a hand through his hair. “She wants to see Mia. She says she’s been in therapy. That she’s been— working through things. That she made a mistake and she knows that and she just wants—” He stops. His jaw works. “She was here for forty minutes and Mia’s name came up maybe three times.”

Your stomach tightens. “What did the rest of it cover?” He looks at you with an expression that answers the question without words. “Jake—”

“I told her no,” he says. “To all of it. I told her— Mia doesn’t know her. She’s three years old, she has no memory of her, and showing up out of nowhere and announcing herself as her mother would be— I’m not doing that to her. I’m not letting someone walk in and blow up her world because they’ve decided they’re ready now.”

“That’s right,” you say quietly.

“Is it?” He looks genuinely uncertain, and that more than anything tells you how rattled he is. Jake is not an uncertain man. He’s careful, he’s considered, but when he’s decided something he holds it steady. Watching him doubt himself is unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “Because part of me thinks— she’s her mother. Biologically. Does Mia have a right to know her? At some point? And am I—”

“Jake.” You cross to him. Put your hand on his chest, flat over his heart, and look up at him. “You are the most present, devoted, thoughtful parent I have ever seen. You have been both of them for three years. Whatever you decide about this, it comes from that. Not from fear, not from jealousy. From knowing your daughter.” He looks down at you. His hand comes up to cover yours. “She’s not here because of Mia,” you say gently. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “Yeah, I know that.”

“So you handle the Mia question in your own time, with proper advice, on your terms. Not because she showed up at your door on a Sunday afternoon.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “When did you get so—”

“Wise?”

“I was going to say steady.”

“Same thing.” You press your palm flatter against his chest. “You’re okay. Mia’s okay. This is just— a thing that happened on a Sunday. It doesn’t have to be more than that right now.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Something in his face shifts — the held-in thing loosening slightly, the lines around his eyes easing. “I really love you,” he says quietly.

“I know.” You reach up, press your hand briefly to his jaw. “I love you too. Go get your daughter.”

He comes back with Mia at five thirty. You’re in his kitchen making dinner — you’d found pasta and vegetables and half a block of good parmesan and it seemed like the right thing to do, to be here, to have something warm happening when they got home.

Mia comes through the door at full speed, as always, and finds you at the stove and absolutely loses her mind with delight. “My Y/N is here!”

“Hi, my Mia.” She barrels into your legs and you crouch down and catch her, and over her head you watch Jake close the front door and lean against it for just a second, eyes closed. Like he’s taking a breath. Like he’s counting the things still here and finding them all present.

Then he opens his eyes and sees you watching him and something in his face goes soft. “Dave update,” Mia says urgently against your neck.

“Tell me everything.”

“Sandy said he moved.” Her voice is full of significance. “She doesn’t know where he went.”

“Dave is living his life.”

“That’s what Sandy said.” She pulls back to look at you. “I think he went to find his family.”

“That’s a very hopeful interpretation.”

“Worms have families,” she tells you solemnly. “Probably.”

“Definitely,” you agree.

Jake has moved into the kitchen. He comes up behind you — Mia still in your arms — and presses a kiss to the side of your head. Quick and quiet. Gratitude and love in a single gesture. “Smells good,” he says.

“Twenty minutes.”

“Can I help?”

“You can set the table.”

“I want to help,” Mia announces.

“You can put the napkins out,” you tell her, and she accepts this responsibility with great seriousness, and Jake sets her down and gets the napkins and she carries them to the table one at a time with both hands like they’re fragile, and Jake catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths thank you and you shake your head slightly because there’s nothing to thank you for.

You’re exactly where you want to be.

Later, after dinner, after Mia’s bath, after two bedtime stories and one negotiation about the structural integrity of a fort she wants to construct in the living room (tomorrow, baby, it’s bedtime), after small arms around your neck and a kiss pressed very seriously to your cheek and night my Y/N into the dark—

You and Jake sit on his couch in the quiet. He has his legs stretched out on the coffee table. You’re tucked into his side, his arm around you. The lamp is the only light. The apartment has the particular peace of a small child asleep in the next room. “She’s going to come back,” Jake says quietly.

“Probably.”

“I’m going to talk to a lawyer. Get clear on where things stand legally before she does.” His thumb moves on your arm. “She signed over custody voluntarily. I don’t think she has grounds for anything. But I want to know for certain.”

“That’s smart.”

“I don’t want Mia to know about this until I do. I don’t want her picking up on anything.”

“She won’t hear it from me.”

He turns his head to press a kiss to your hair. “I know.” You sit in the quiet for a moment. “She looked at you,” he says. “The way she looked at you when she saw you there.” His arm tightens slightly. “I need you to know that whatever she came here wanting, it was never going to— she left, Y/N. She made her choice. There’s nothing there.”

“I know that too.”

“I just—” He exhales. “I don’t want you to have any doubt. About this. About us.”

You lift your head to look at him. His face in the lamplight, tired and earnest and completely, simply honest. “I don’t,” you tell him. “Not even a little.”

He holds your gaze. “Good,” he says quietly. He kisses you softly, and you let yourself melt into it, and outside the window the night is doing its ordinary thing, indifferent and ongoing.

When you break apart you settle back against his shoulder. “Stay,” he says.

“Obviously,” you say. He pulls you closer.

In the next room, Mia sleeps, completely safe, completely loved, completely unaware that someone knocked on the door today and was turned away.

She’ll know, eventually. Jake will tell her, carefully, at the right time, in the right way. That’s the kind of father he is. But tonight she just sleeps. And you and Jake stay on the couch until you both drift off, warm and quiet and whole.

The lawyer’s name is Ms. Park and she is very thorough.

Jake comes back from the meeting on a Wednesday looking lighter than he has all week. He finds you in his kitchen — where you are most afternoons now, it’s become accepted fact — and he leans in the doorway and says:

“She has no legal standing. She relinquished custody voluntarily and completely. If she wants any kind of access she would have to apply through the courts and demonstrate sustained rehabilitation and it would be a long process with no guarantee.”

You set down the mug you’re washing. “Okay.”

“She came here once and I turned her away and she hasn’t come back.” He exhales. “I don’t think she’s going to pursue it. I think she came here for me and when that didn’t work—”

“She has no reason to stay.” You cross the kitchen to him. Put your hands on his chest. “How do you feel?”

He thinks about it genuinely, the way he does. “Relieved,” he says. “And— sad, a little. That it’s this way. That Mia doesn’t have—” He stops.

“She has you,” you say. “She has Sandy and Mrs. Kim and the daycare teachers who love her and Theo the worm friend and—” You meet his eyes. “She has me. For as long as you’ll both have me.”

Something moves through his face. “Forever, then,” he says simply.

Your heart turns over. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Forever works.”

He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like relief and sunlight and something settled and permanent. From the doorway comes a small voice. “Are you kissing again?”

You break apart to find Mia standing in the hallway in her socks, Mr. Bunny under her arm, regarding you both with the patient exhaustion of someone who has seen this many times and has opinions. “Sorry,” Jake says, not sounding sorry at all.

“It’s fine,” Mia says, generous. “You can kiss. But after can we do the fort?”

“We can do the fort,” you confirm. She nods, satisfied. Turns and toddles back down the hall.

Jake looks at you. You look at Jake.“The fort,” he says. You nod in agreement and follow him and your daughter down the hall.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Three months later, Mia stops calling you my Y/N. She starts calling you mama.

It happens on a Tuesday. Not a special Tuesday. Not a significant one. Just an ordinary Tuesday in February where the sky is doing that flat grey thing it does in late summer when the heat hasn’t broken yet and everything feels slightly sticky and slow.

You’re doing her hair. The Wednesday morning routine has migrated — it’s every morning now, most mornings, because somewhere between October and February the question of which apartment are you sleeping in stopped being a real question. You’re here. You live here, functionally, in every way that matters except the technical one. Your toothbrush is here. A drawer is yours. Gerald the succulent has been relocated to the kitchen windowsill where he gets better light and Mia waters him every second day with great ceremony.

Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Mia is between your knees on the couch, holding Mr. Bunny, and you’re doing two neat braids because she has decided braids are her preference this week and you’ve been practicing. “Tighter,” she instructs.

“If I go tighter it’ll pull.”

“I want tight braids.”

“You want braids that feel comfortable and also look good.”

She considers this negotiation. “Okay,” she concedes.

You keep going. She hums something to herself, swinging her feet, and you work through the second braid, and it’s quiet in the good way, the way that only exists when everyone in a space is completely comfortable. “Mama,” Mia says.

“Hmm?” You tie off the braid.

“Can I wear the yellow dress today?”

You’re reaching for the second hair tie when it lands.

Mama.

She said it like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural word in the world. Like she’s been saying it her whole life, which — you realize, with your heart doing something enormous and unsteady in your chest — maybe in her head she has been.

“Yeah,” you manage, and your voice comes out almost normal. “Yeah, baby, we can find the yellow dress.”

She scrambles off the couch and heads to her room, completely unbothered, Mr. Bunny trailing from one hand. You sit there. In the kitchen, the coffee maker finishes its cycle.

Jake appears in the doorway with two mugs, takes one look at your face, and stops. “What happened? Are you okay? What—”

“She called me mama,” you say.

The mugs go onto the coffee table. Jake sits beside you and looks at you with an expression that is doing the same enormous unsteady thing yours probably is. “Just now?”

“Just now.” Your voice is not quite steady. “She asked if she could wear the yellow dress and she called me mama and then she just— walked off. Like it was nothing.”

“Y/N—”

“I’m not upset.” You turn to him, urgent, needing him to understand. “I’m not— I’m not upset, Jake, I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he takes your face in both hands, careful and deliberate, and presses his forehead to yours. “I do,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You say yes. That’s what you do. You just— say yes.”

From down the hall: “Found it!” A pause. “Mama, can you do the buttons?”

You close your eyes. “Okay,” you breathe. Yeah.” You open your eyes. Look at him. “Yeah. Okay.”

He kisses you, quick and soft, and then you get up and go down the hall to do the buttons on a yellow dress, and Jake stands in the living room doorway watching and the expression on his face is the most complete thing you’ve ever seen on a human being.

That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake asks you to move in. Not impulsively. Not as a reaction to the morning. You can tell he’s been thinking about it for a while — there’s a particular quality to his stillness when he’s been working up to something, and you’ve learned it the way you’ve learned all of him, gradually and permanently.

You’re on the couch. Late. The lamp on, the city quiet outside. His hand in yours. “Move in,” he says. You look at him. “Properly,” he says. “Not the drawer and the toothbrush. All of it. Gerald and everything.”

“Gerald’s already here.”

“I know.” The corner of his mouth moves. “Consider it a trial run.”

You look at your joined hands. At the apartment that has been yours in every meaningful sense for months. At the hallway where Mia is sleeping with Mr. Bunny and her color-organized stuffed animals and absolute certainty that you will be here in the morning. “Yeah,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“Obviously yeah, Jake.” You lean over and kiss him. “Obviously.”

He pulls you in and holds you there, and you feel him exhale slowly against your hair. “She’s going to lose her mind,” he says.

“She’s going to tell Gerald first.”

“She’s going to tell Gerald, then Mrs. Kim, then Sandy, then everyone at daycare.”

“In that order.”

“In that exact order.”

You’re both laughing, quiet so you don’t wake her, and it settles into something warm and certain. “Hey,” Jake says. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You press your face into his shoulder. “Both of you. The whole thing.”

“The whole thing loves you back,” he says simply.

You tell Mia in the morning. Jake does it, at breakfast, with the careful measured approach of a man who has learned that toddlers receive important news better when they’re eating something. “Hey Mia. You know how Y/N stays here a lot?”

Mia looks up from her toast. Looks at you. Looks back at Jake. “Yes.”

“How would you feel if she stayed here all the time? Like, lived here. With us.”

Mia blinks. Puts down her toast. Looks at you with enormous serious eyes. “Like forever?” she asks.

“Like forever,” Jake confirms.

She stares at you for a long moment with the focused intensity of someone making a very important assessment.

Then she gets down from her chair, crosses to you, climbs into your lap uninvited and completely certain of her welcome, and wraps both arms around your neck. “Okay,” she says into your shoulder. “You can live here.”

“Thank you,” you manage, arms tight around her.

“Gerald will be happy,” she adds.

“He really will.”

She pulls back. Looks at your face. Puts her small hand on your cheek exactly the way she did on the very first morning, in the hallway, four months ago when she was looking for her rabbit. “Don’t cry,” she says kindly. “It’s good news.”

“I know.” You laugh, wet at the edges. “Happy tears.”

“Oh.” She considers this. “Okay.” Then, satisfied, she climbs back down, retrieves her toast, and resumes breakfast.

Jake is looking at you over her head with an expression that could power something. “Told you,” he mouths. You shake your head, still smiling, still blinking hard.

The whole thing loves you back. Yeah. Yeah it really does.

The move takes a weekend. It’s not a big move — your apartment was small and you’ve been migrating things gradually for months without meaning to — but there’s something significant about doing it officially. Carrying boxes across the hall. Hanging your clothes properly in the wardrobe. Arranging your books on the shelves beside Jake’s.

Mia supervises. She is a very involved supervisor, offering opinions on where everything should go and occasionally redirecting items she feels would be better placed in her room. You negotiate firmly on the throw blanket. You surrender the small lamp without a fight because she’s put it next to Mr. Bunny and it does look good there, objectively.

By Sunday evening the apartment is a comfortable chaos of rearrangement and you’re all sitting on the living room floor eating pizza from the box because no one has the energy to locate the table under the moving debris.

Mia is in your lap. Jake is beside you, shoulder to shoulder, pizza slice in hand, looking around the apartment that has shifted and expanded and settled into something new. “Looks different,” he says.

“Good different?”

He looks at you. “Yeah. Really good different.”

Mia tilts her head back to look up at you from your lap. “Can we build the fort now?”

“We live in a fort,” you tell her, gesturing at the surrounding box landscape.

Her eyes go wide. She looks around. Looks back at you. “We live in a fort,” she breathes.

“We live in a fort,” Jake confirms solemnly. She is overcome.

You and Jake look at each other over her head, laughing, and it is — this moment exactly, pizza and boxes and a delighted three year old and the lamp in the wrong place and Gerald on the windowsill — it is everything. Absolutely everything.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

A year later

The morning of the wedding, Mia wakes up at five forty-three AM. You know this because she comes and stands beside the bed and breathes on your face until you open your eyes. “It’s today,” she whispers.

“It is,” you confirm.

“I’m the flower girl.”

“You are.”

She absorbs this with great seriousness. Then: “I need to practice.”

“Mia, it’s not even six—”

“I need to practice.”

Jake makes a sound beside you that is him absolutely not laughing. You elbow him. “Okay,” you say. “But quietly. So we don’t wake the neighbors.”

She nods, solemn and focused, and turns and walks very slowly back down the hallway, scattering invisible petals with great ceremony, narrating under her breath — and then I walk here, and then here, and then I find mama—

You lie there in the early morning grey and stare at the ceiling and think about the word mama the way you have thought about it every day for the past year and a half. The way it still does something enormous to your chest. The way you don’t think it will ever stop.

Jake rolls toward you. Presses his face into your neck. “Morning,” he murmurs.

“Your daughter is practicing flower girl technique in the hallway.”

“She’s been planning this since we told her.” His arm comes around you. “She asked Sandy if she could practice at her house. She practiced at daycare. She made Theo be the groom so she could practice walking toward someone.”

“She’s extremely prepared.”

“She’s extremely her.” He presses a kiss to your jaw. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” You turn to face him. His face in the early light, sleep-soft and certain and completely, permanently yours. “Really good. You?”

“Best day of my life,” he says simply. “After the day she was born. And the day you moved in. And the day you said yes when I asked.” He pauses. “Top five, at minimum.”

“That’s very good company.”

“You’re very good company.” He kisses you properly, slow and warm, and from the hallway comes the sound of small feet completing another practice lap.

“…and then I find mama, and she’s the prettiest—” You pull back from Jake, blinking hard. He looks at you. Reaches up and brushes his thumb under your eye, gentle.

“She’s not wrong,” he says.

“It’s five forty-five in the morning, I look terrible—”

“You look like the person I’m marrying today.” He holds your gaze. “Which means you look perfect.” You press your face into his shoulder and hold on for a moment.

From the hallway: “Okay I’m ready. Can we have breakfast now?”

Sandy comes at nine to take Mia for hair and getting dressed — a situation Mia has been anticipating with the focused excitement of someone who has been told she gets curls and a flower in her hair and has not stopped thinking about it since.

She submits to the process with remarkable patience, sitting very still while Sandy works, only turning her head twice to update you on developments. “It’s getting curlier,” she reports.

“I can see that.”

“Do I look like a princess?”

“You look exactly like a princess.” She nods, satisfied, and returns to stillness.

When it’s done she stands in front of the mirror in her small white dress — simple, with a yellow sash, because she requested yellow and you would move mountains before you’d say no to that — and looks at herself for a long, serious moment.“I look nice,” she concludes.

“You look incredible,” Sandy says.

“Yeah.” She turns to look at you. Her eyes go wide. “Mama. You look so pretty.”

You’re in your dress — simple, exactly what you wanted, nothing complicated — and your hair is done and you’re holding your bouquet and you’re trying very hard not to cry and failing slightly.“So do you,” you tell her.

She crosses to you. Reaches up and takes your hand, the way she did in a hallway a long time ago, completely certain of her welcome.“Don’t be nervous,” she tells you.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Good.” She squeezes your fingers. “Daddy loves you the most.”

“He loves you the most.”

She considers this with genuine fairness. “He loves us the same,” she decides. “Equal. Like a tie.”

“That’s exactly right.”

She nods. Pats your hand once, settling the matter. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go get married.”

The venue is small and warm and full of people who love you.

Mrs. Kim is in the third row in her best jacket, already dabbing her eyes. Sandy is beside her. Jake’s parents flew in from Brisbane — his mother cried when she met you and his father shook your hand for a very long time and said thank you for making them happy and you’d had to excuse yourself to the bathroom for five minutes after that.

Your own family. Your friends. The people who have been the walls of your life. And at the end of the aisle, Jake.

In a dark suit, hands clasped in front of him, hair the way you like it. He’s talking quietly to the celebrant and then someone touches his arm and he looks up and sees Mia in the doorway.

His face does what it always does when he sees her. That open, completely unguarded thing. She waves at him. He waves back.

Then he sees you behind her and his face does something else entirely.

The music starts. Mia goes first. She has been told, approximately as many times as you can tell a four and a half year old anything, that flower girls walk slowly. Measured. Elegant. She lasts four steps.

Then she spots Jake at the end of the aisle and she goes — there is no other word for it — feral with excitement, sunflowers clutched in both fists, petals going in every direction except down, grinning so hard her whole face is the grin, half walking half skipping half something entirely her own.

“DADDY I FOUND HER” she announces at full volume to the entire assembled gathering. “I FOUND HER SHE’S HERE”

The room erupts. Not polite wedding laughter. Real laughter, the kind that comes from somewhere genuine, rippling through every row. Mrs. Kim is crying laughing. Sandy has her hand over her mouth. Jake’s mother is gripping his father’s arm.

Jake is crouching down to catch Mia as she reaches him, scooping her up, pressing a kiss to her chaotic curls, the flower in her hair somehow surviving the sprint. “Good job,” you hear him tell her.

“I practiced,” she says, very serious.

“I know you did, baby.” He sets her down. She takes her position with great dignity, as though the sprint did not happen, as though she has been standing here elegantly the entire time.

And then Jake looks up at you. You walk toward him. The room goes soft around the edges — not blurred, just quiet, the way things go when you’re paying attention to the only thing that matters. The faces on either side are warm and familiar and you see them without seeing them because you’re looking at Jake.

Jake, who opened his door on a panicked Tuesday morning and showed you his worst fear and his whole heart in the same thirty seconds.

Jake, who makes coffee before you ask and remembers every small thing and says what he means with a simplicity that still sometimes catches you off guard.

Jake, who watched you fall in love with his daughter before you fell in love with him and let it happen without trying to manage or protect or preempt it, because he trusted you, because he looked at you and knew.

You reach him. He takes your hand and holds it like he’s been holding it his whole life. “Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hi,” you say back.

Beside him, Mia has taken your other hand. She holds it with both of hers, feet planted, present and accounted for, witnessing this with the gravity it deserves.

The celebrant begins. The vows are Jake’s own words. You knew this. You wrote yours too, separately, privately, the way you’d agreed. But hearing them — in his voice, in this room, looking at his face — is different from knowing.

He talks about the morning Mia escaped into the hallway and how he stood in your doorway afterward watching you crouch down to his daughter’s level and felt something shift that he couldn’t name yet and didn’t try to.

He talks about Wednesday mornings with the hairbrush. About leftover pasta and late night texting and the drawing on the fridge.

He talks about the way you love Mia — not as a condition of loving him, not as an extension of it, but first, entirely and separately first, because that’s who you are.

She picked you, he says, before I had a chance to. And she has never once been wrong about anything important. Beside you, Mia straightens slightly at this. You feel her grip on your hand tighten.

I’m not a man who believed in easy, Jake says. I thought love was supposed to be something you work and worry at. And then you moved in across the hall and you were just — easy. Everything with you has just been easy. Not without difficulty. Not without fear. But easy the way breathing is easy. The way I can’t imagine not doing it. His voice has gone rough at the edges.

I love you. I loved you in October and I loved you in February and I love you today and I’m going to love you when Mia is grown and gone and it’s just us and I’m going to love you in every ordinary Tuesday that comes after this one because that’s where you live. In the ordinary Tuesdays. And I want every single one of them.

The room is very quiet. You are absolutely crying. You decided before today that you weren’t going to cry until after the vows at the earliest and you have failed completely. “Don’t cry,” Mia whispers, helpful. “It’s good news.”

Laughter moves through the room like a wave. Jake laughs too, wiping his eyes, and you laugh through yours, and it breaks the solemnity just enough, the way the best moments always do — serious and true and then suddenly full of light.

Your vows. You talk about duck pajamas and a stuffed rabbit and a small hand in yours in a hallway. You talk about a crayon drawing on a fridge and a child who put you in her family portrait before you knew you belonged there.

You talk about a man who carried his daughter on his shoulders through a farmers market and came home to make dinner and knocked on your door with leftover pasta and showed you what it looked like when someone decided that loving people well was the most important thing they could do.

You taught me that, you say. Both of you. You showed me what it looks like when love is a decision someone makes every single day without drama and without conditions. Mia does it for everyone she meets. You do it quietly and completely and I want to spend the rest of my life doing it back. You look at Jake.

I love you. I love our ordinary Tuesdays. I love Wednesday mornings and Saturday markets and bedtime stories and all the Gerald updates and every single version of this life we’ve built in an apartment across the hall from where I used to live alone. I love your daughter.

You look down at Mia. She is watching you with her whole face. Completely still, completely focused, taking this in with the seriousness it deserves.

She is the best thing, you say. She is the absolute best thing, and I promise her, today, in front of everyone who loves us, that I am here. I am not going anywhere. She is mine and I am hers and that is permanent and unconditional and nothing will ever change it.

Mia’s lip wobbles. Just slightly. You watch her decide, with great effort, not to cry, because she is a flower girl and flower girls are professionals and she has a reputation to maintain. She squeezes your hand instead. Very hard. You squeeze back.

I now pronounce you married.

Jake kisses you, and the room rises, and somewhere in the noise you hear Mia announce to no one in particular and everyone simultaneously:

“THAT’S MY MAMA NOW. THAT’S OFFICIALLY MY MAMA.”

And then, apparently satisfied that this has been adequately communicated, she inserts herself between the two of you and takes both your hands and holds on.

Jake looks at you over her head. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

The reception is everything. Mrs. Kim dances with Mia for forty-five minutes straight and neither of them stops. Sandy cries every time someone gives a speech. Jake’s father gives a toast that makes the whole room laugh and then immediately cry. Your own people hold you and tell you they knew, they always knew, from the moment you started talking about the little girl next door like she’d hung the moon.

Jake dances with Mia first — tradition, he’d decided, she gets the first dance — and you stand at the edge of the floor and watch her stand on his feet, both of them swaying to something slow, her head against his chest, his hand spanning her whole back.

You take a photo. You will look at that photo for the rest of your life.

Then he passes her off to his mother and comes to find you, hand extended, and you take it and let him pull you out onto the floor. “Hi wife,” he says, like he’s trying the word out.

“Hi husband.”

He smiles. Pulls you closer. “How’s it feel?”

“Same,” you say honestly. “Exactly the same. Just— more settled.”

“Yeah.” His hand moves on your back. “Like it’s been true for a while and now the paperwork caught up.”

“Exactly like that.”

You dance. The room moves around you, warm and full of people you love, and Mia is somewhere in it, probably telling someone about Dave the worm or Gerald or the structural integrity of forts, and it is — all of it, every piece — everything. All of it everything.

She falls asleep at nine fifteen. Mid-sentence, apparently — Jake’s mother told you later she was explaining the color organization system for the stuffed animals and then she simply stopped explaining and was asleep, curled in the chair with her flower crown half off and her shoes long since abandoned and the last of her sunflowers still in her hand.

Jake carries her out to the car at the end of the night, limp and certain and completely trusting the way only sleeping children are, and you tuck the seatbelt around her and push the flower crown gently back from her face. She doesn’t wake up.

She won’t remember being carried, won’t remember the drive home, won’t remember being tucked in. But in the morning she’ll wake up and come and stand at the side of your bed and breathe on your face until you open your eyes, and you’ll ask her how she slept and she’ll say good and you’ll ask if she had fun at the wedding and she’ll say yes I was the flower girl with the proprietary satisfaction of someone who performed their role excellently and knows it. And she’ll be right. She was, without any competition, the best part.

Later. Much later. His penthouse — your penthouse, it still catches you sometimes — quiet and dark except for the city light through the windows. Mia asleep down the hall. The flower crown on the kitchen counter. Your bouquet in a glass of water because you couldn’t throw it, it was too pretty.

Jake’s jacket over the chair. Your heels by the door. You and Jake on the couch the way you’ve been a hundred times before, his arm around you, your head on his shoulder, the easy comfortable weight of each other. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey.”

“Mia told Theo’s mum today that she picked you.”

You lift your head. “What?”

“At the reception. Apparently she walked up to Theo’s mum completely unprompted and said—” He’s smiling. “She said I picked her first. Before Daddy even knew.”

You stare at him. “She’s four and a half,” you say.

“I know. She’s extremely perceptive,” Jake says. “Always has been.”

You think about a Tuesday morning and duck pajamas and the end of a hallway. The hand on your cheek. You’re nice. The absolute certainty of it. The way she gave you her fingers without hesitating like she already knew. “She did pick me first,” you say softly.

“Yeah.” Jake presses a kiss to your hair. “She really did.”

The city does its quiet nighttime thing outside the windows. Down the hall, Mia sleeps. You and Jake stay where you are, warm and settled, in the ordinary extraordinary life you built one Tuesday at a time.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Three weeks later, on an ordinary Wednesday morning, Mia sits between your knees on the couch.

You’re doing her braids. Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Gerald is on the windowsill. Mr. Bunny is in the orange section of the stuffed animal shelf. Everything exactly where it should be. “Mama,” Mia says.

“Hmm?”

“When I’m big can I be a flower girl again?”

“When you’re big you can be whatever you want.”

She considers this carefully. “I want to be a flower girl and a paleontologist and a cat.”

“All three?”

“On different days.”

“That seems manageable.” She nods, satisfied. Swings her feet.

From the kitchen, Jake: “Braids today?”

“Braids,” Mia confirms, with the authority of someone whose hair decisions are final. You finish the first one. Start the second. The morning does its ordinary thing around you.

Mia tilts her head back to look up at you, upside down, grinning. “I love you, mama.”

You smooth a hand over her hair. “I love you too, baby,” you say. “So much.” She rights herself. Goes back to swinging her feet.

Outside the window the morning is doing what mornings do, indifferent and ongoing and full of ordinary things.

In here it is warm. In here everyone is exactly where they are supposed to be. This is just the beginning. And it is everything.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hi lovelies! If you made it all the way to the end I hope you enjoyed. I’ve had a few people ask for a drabble or two based off this. if you want to see this click this and comment below your suggestions and what you want to see.

anyway thanks for reading!!💛

[twilightt-siren]

𝐇𝐢! 𝐌𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧. 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 & 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠.

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟎

𝐎𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐄𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐬: 𝐄𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫, 𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐧, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞, 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬.

𝐌𝐲 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬: 𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐫, 𝐈𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨 𝐎𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐢, 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐤𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐲𝐮, 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢, 𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐢 𝐀𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐋 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐭, & 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬: 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲!

𝐒𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞: 𝐈'𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐈 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥!

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: 𝐀𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞!

𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬. 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐛𝐨𝐱 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 (𝟏𝟖+ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐬)!

[bulletproofbirdy]

If you follow @softyoongiionly , they are starting a new blog! If you loved Aqua’s stories, I’m sure you will love the new stuff!

[softyoongiionly]

Major Changes & The Future

Okay hello hello!

So I have several announcements I'd like to make. i have been working on making my blog more aesthetic, but this post is just way too long to worry about that LOL so pls forgive me ^-^

In this post, I will be discussing the future of softyoongiionly as well as introducing you to my brand new blog and providing much needed updates for my writing. Please feel free to send me an ask if anything is confusing.

Everything will be below the cut, love you <3333

Regarding softyoongiionly

I have enjoyed 7 years (on & off) writing for BTS and interacting with so many of you. It has truly been an honor.

However, I am no longer interesting in writing for BTS anymore, and although I still support their music, I am not active in the fandom.

i am eternally grateful for all your support over the years, it has truly allowed me to indulge in this passion of mine in ways I didn't think possible.

This blog will remain alive and well, but I have no plans to be active on here aside from checking in every so often

Regarding Unfinished Works

My masterlist has been updated. All fics currently on there are complete, with the exception of Fear & Dumplings.

Two fics have been removed from my masterlist: Tea and Tourniquets & Sour Skittles as I have decided I may want to rework those plots for future stories. They can no longer be accessed.

I will be posting an 'update' regarding the Fear & Dumplings universe in the coming days ^-^

Regarding My New Blog/Ao3

If you're still interested in following my work, I have relocated to @twilightt-siren <333 under the pseudonym of Siren.

You can still refer to me as Aqua though hehe

i will be posting all new work over there and interacting with anyone who wants to join me ^-^

My new fandoms are: Demon Slayer, Elden Ring, Attack on Titan, Death Note, and many more!

I am actively working on a piece for Demon Slayer (Obanai x Reader) and Elden Ring (Messmer x Reader)

I will be posting on Ao3 as well under the name twilight_siren

I would love for you to join me there, but I understand if you're ok with sticking around here!

I love you all so much, I am so excited for this new journey!

Happy Endings Only!

[yoongiofmine]

Illicit Favors | MYG | Oneshot

Pair: Min Yoongi x f!reader 

Summary: When your editor tells you to re-write the chapters of your book because the sex scenes are weak, suggesting you write them from experience, what do you do when you lack any kind of sexual experiences in general? You go to your friend and ask him for help with it.

Genre: ONESHOT. Fluff, tiny angst, smut, non idol au. Friends to Lovers. 

Warnings: Producer Yoongi, virgin and inexperienced reader, teaching-sex au. From Yoongi’s POV. Yoongi is relatable and slightly overthinks and is a little socially awkward, but he’s whipped for her and cute as fuck. There’s lots of smut in this. Long hair Yoongi. Side pairing Jikook. Some text messages edited, but not a smau. 

A/N: Happy birthday to our favorite cat boy! The love of our lives, the man who gets proposals on the daily! 

WC: 29k.

MAIN MASTERLIST I If you want another Yoongi Oneshot

SEPTEMBER 18TH | 19:35

Ever since Yoongi met you at a coffee shop four years ago, when you simply asked him to look after your computer while you used the bathroom, coming back with an orange muffin for him as a ‘thank you’, visiting him in the studio wasn’t a rare feature in itself for you. But Yoongi knew those eyes. 

Even in emoji form, the pleading, puppy-kitty eyes told him you wanted something from him. And, chances were, you’d get it. No matter what it was. From picking you up in the middle of the night because you were craving convenience store corn dogs, to going to the bulk supermarket with you once a month because the prices were better and he could reach things you simply could not. 

It didn’t help that he had a spring in his step as he got up from his rolling chair and walked to the door of his production studio, quickly typing out the code that unlocked it. And there you were, standing in the slightly dark hallway, heavy backpack thrown precariously over a shoulder –even if he always told you to put on both straps, lest your back get crooked–, a pout on your lips and the perfect copy of the aforementioned pleading eye emoji. 

You were already stepping out of your shoes, knowing Yoongi didn’t like them inside his space, and throwing your arms around his middle as you hid your face on his chest. Now that wasn’t a common occurrence at all. Yoongi didn’t like people in his personal space, a fact you very much knew and respected. Then again, you weren’t just people. 

“What happened?” he asked, arms wrapping around your smaller frame almost instantly, resisting the urge to sniff the top of your head.

“Kibhamun.” was your muffled reply, making him chuckle. 

“What was that?”

“Kim Namjoon.” you corrected, pulling away from him to step into the studio properly, placing your bag on the floor as you dropped to his couch. 

Ah, yes, Kim Namjoon. 

Yoongi’s best friend, the chairman of a family run publishing company. 

Call it nepotism, but Yoongi had introduced the two of you and put in a good word for you, so that his dongsaeng would read your manuscript; the one you had been working on on that fateful day at the coffee shop. To this day, Yoongi still insisted you got a publishing contract –and now had three books out in bookstores of South Korea– all on your own. 

Namjoon took every opportunity to tease Yoongi about his obvious crush on you, which was a small price to pay for not only the friendship that blossomed between you and Joon, but for the fact you were able to kickstart your career as a writer. 

“I'm trashing my book.” you said with the jutting out of your bottom lip, folding your arms on your chest and your legs under you. 

“What–why? You were so excited to hand in the new chapters last week.” Yoongi sat down on the couch beside you, with one seat cushion still between you. His brows were knitted together as he wondered just how wrong your meeting with your editor had gone down this afternoon. 

“Yes, but your best friend changed that.” you grumbled with a tiny shrug of your shoulders, leaning sideways against the couch to lay your head on the backrest. 

With a sigh and the tilting of his head to mimic yours, Yoongi asked: “What did he do now?”

“He said my new chapters are shit.”

“He did not say that.” Yoongi reasoned. 

He was the blunt one of the two, there’s no way Namjoon would ever say something of that nature to you. If your chapters were bad, he’d give you pointers and ways of making them better. But you were resolute. 

“Not with so many words, but the sentiment was there!” you complained with a pretty pout that made Yoongi’s gaze flit to your plump lips. 

“What happened, doll?” he asked, a little softer, knowing how to work you into telling him what really happened. 

You sighed dramatically, back straightening as you looked down to your hands on your lap. Yoongi followed the movement, watching how you fiddled with the ring on your middle finger of your left hand; it had belonged to your grandma once, he knew, and you always wore it when you needed that little extra pick-me-up. 

“Apparently I can't write smut.” you told him so quietly he barely heard you. 

Your new book, the one you’ve been working on for the past three months, had adult scenes in it. Not necessary essential to the plot but not gratuitous fucking either. Just something to spice it up, to open up to a different market. You were never scared of trying something new and Yoongi admired that. 

Yoongi himself was the kind of person that never even changed his coffee order, sticking to it forever when he found the one he liked. You were brave and adventurous, while Yoongi liked his routine and comfort zone.   

“What makes you say that?” he asked you once you didn’t elaborate. 

“Joon said I got many things wrong. I believe his exact words were 'it doesn't happen like that, that's not how it tastes, or how it feels’–” you said with a roll of your eyes, which made Yoongi bite back a chuckle. But then your fire was aimed at him: “You've read the chapters! Why didn't you tell me it was shit?!”

“It wasn't shit–”

How could he tell you the reason he didn't notice some things were off was because when reading your smut, all he could do was picture you? And him. In the various situations you wrote in rich descriptions. Like a fucking creep, he got off to his friend's writing.

“Yeah, well, I'm a fraud.” 

“You're not a fraud, doll.” the pet name he had for you came out a lot more natural now than the first few times he blurted them out on slips of the tongue, but it still made his neck flush. 

“No, no, Joon is right. I know he wasn't trying to hurt me, and I don't want to publish something bad either.” you insisted, quieting the fidgeting of your hands after turning the ring on your finger a few times. “Just... he said I should write from experience.”

“Oh. Yeah, that usually helps when writing lyrics, too.”

Yoongi felt cold sweat clinging to his back as he wouldn’t want to read about your sex adventures, if you started writing about them in your new book. Some of the things you wrote about were pretty wild, Yoongi could only imagine what you were up to in your private life. You never really told him about it, but he guessed it was something you shared with your girlfriends. Or Jimin. Not with him.

“That’s the problem.” again, you spoke too quietly. “I don't have them.”

“Don’t have what?” he asked with the nervous nibbling on the inside of his bottom lip. 

“The experiences to write about.” you supplied with a small grit of your teeth, as if you were pretending you weren’t the one saying those words. 

“Sure you do. I'm sure you can change a few things to make it fit the plot–”

“No, Yoon.” you interrupted, crestfallen, rubbing your hands on your thighs in what should be a self soothing manner. “I haven't... Done anything.”

The weight of those news was shocking to him, but Yoongi tried not to let it show in his face. He watched you for a while, too, trying to decide if you were joking or trying to pull one on him, but your pink cheeks of embarrassment were too real and you weren’t that good of an actress. 

It just didn’t really make sense to him. You were a few years younger than him, but not by much, and you were so pretty and clearly attractive. Whenever he agreed to go to a night out with your group –most likely being dragged out by a lying Hoseok that told him it would be chill– guys hit on you all the time, much to his own chagrin.

“Ever?” Yoongi hushed with a frown. This whole conversation had his forehead hurting from how confused he was. 

“Ever.” you shook your head, a stray piece of hair moving out of place and Yoongi’s fingers flexed in want to fix it. “I'm not ashamed of it, okay? I'm also not saving myself for marriage or anything. I just never had a boyfriend and I didn't want to just hook up with a stranger for a night.”

“Yeah, no, that's... dangerous.” he agreed with a single nod of his own. 

“Mhm! I mean, I thought that would happen with Jungkook the night we met. He was nice enough and just my type.” you said, not meaning much by it, but damn if it didn’t feel like a punch in the gut. Ouch. “But he turned out to be gay and only chatted with me to get to Jimin.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” Yoongi was there the night Jungkook showed up in their lives and would later become part of their small group and subsequently Jimin’s boyfriend. 

“I don't know what to do, Yoon. I had so many hopes and plans for this book!” you cried, a hand running through your hair in frustration.

“I know, maybe... maybe you should read more smut? To be able to write it better?” he tried, but it only made you huff. 

“If you look at my search history you'll think I’m a sex addict that should get an intervention.” you shook your head. “I’ve read it all.” 

“Didn't Joon give you some advice? Isn't that his job as your editor?”

Yoongi might need to have a chat with his bestie, as his job was to help you out, not leave you feeling lost and defeated. Yoongi knew first hand how happy you were with your latest project, all of the twists and turns you had planned for it. And here you were, sulking on his couch, questioning whether or not you should throw it out. 

“He did, and I'm starting to think he's right.” you said, and it gave Yoongi a glimmer of hope, giving up on scolding Namjoon. At least for now. 

“There we go, what did he say?”

“He said that if I don't have any experiences to write about, then I should create some.” you avoided Yoongi's eyes as you said it, which didn’t help his choking on air. 

“He said what–”

“It makes sense.” you insisted, gathering your courage to finally look at him. 

“It does not– you can't possibly think that going out to find someone random to be your first is a good idea!” Yoongi couldn’t help how worked up he was getting over this. The mere hypothesis of you getting out there to find someone to lose your virginity to just for the sake of experiences was making his blood boil. “It's dangerous, and borderline traumatizing, and you can't expect to write well after that–”

“No, that's not what he said at all!” you waved a hand in the air, reaching for his arm with the other. Your touch was firm, but gentle at the same time. As you wanted to make sure he understood. “Joon didn’t mean I should find someone random.”

There Yoongi went, with the choking again. Because your eyes… Those eyes that were the front door to your soul. They told him so much. And Yoongi was slightly scared to read what they were trying to tell him at that moment. 

“He said I should consider talking to a friend.” you continued after Yoongi didn’t say anything, but your hand stayed in his arm. “Someone I trust, someone I know won't use me, and that won't let things get awkward after.”

Okay, Yoongi would have to have that chat with Namjoon afterall. He could just about imagine his best friend sitting in his suburban house right now, with a drink in his hand, chuckling to himself, thinking he was a mastermind. 

Of course he planned all of this. Namjoon knew of Yoongi’s feelings for you, and he knew that he’d be the one you’d come to with this. He just hadn’t decided if Namjoon was trying to play cupid or pull a prank on him. 

“You're considering it?” Yoongi asked, not wanting to believe what was happening right now. 

“I've decided. I'm either doing that or throwing the whole book away and starting something else.” you sounded so sure of yourself that Yoongi really started to worry. “Which would just be stressful, because I'm already way into the deadlines. So what's it gonna be?”

“Wha-why are you asking me?” Yoongi’s heart was going a mile a minute inside his chest, and it most definitely wasn’t the caffeine he’d been drinking all day. 

“Are you going to make me say it?” you pleaded, squeezing his bicep just once.

“Yes, because I don’t know what you want from me.” he wheezed. 

“I trust you.”

“No, you're not serious. You want me to–” 

“Teach me, yeah.” you assured him, tugging on the sleeve of the cardigan he was wearing. “Or at least have those experiences with me so that I know how things work.” 

Yoongi was about to start hyperventilating. Maybe he had drunk so much coffee all his adult life that it didn’t work on him anymore and he fell asleep on his desk and this was all a dream. Because there’s no way in hell that the girl he had a crush on for the past four years –yet wasn’t brave enough to do something about it– was asking him to–

“Are you even attracted to me?!” his voice came out more high pitched than he wanted, making him cough behind his fist.  

With a deadpan, you stated: “I have eyes, Yoongi.” 

“And also a nose and a mouth, what does that have to do with anything?”

“I think you're hot!” you specified with a giggle and Yoongi went back to the dream axiom. “Especially ever since you decided to let your hair grow long. And I like your face.”

“Thanks.” it should have come out as sarcasm, but his face was too red and the word sounded too breathy. 

“And you’re... strong and tall.” you continued, eyes obviously settling on the width of his chest. 

“Hoseok is taller, why didn't you ask him?” Yoongi didn’t mean to ask that, not one bit, not for a second. It was just one of those things that came out of his mouth when he was nervous. 

“I can. I'll go to him after I leave here, if you really say no.” you were clearly taken aback, hand finally dropping from his arm as you pulled back just a little further away from him. You blinked a few times before offering him an awkward smile. “Which you're already doing. Yeah, sorry, no, I just assumed that you'd be up for it because, after Jimin, you're my closest friend. But I guess being close to someone doesn't mean you're attracted to them? God, this is awkward, I don't know why I just assumed that.”

You were getting up and Yoongi was panicking. Because he didn’t want you to think that he wasn’t attracted to you, and he didn’t want to offend you. But, above all, he didn’t want you to bring this to Hoseok. 

Because Hoseok might say yes. 

Honestly, not many people he knows would ever say no to you. 

“Wait, that's not what I meant.” Yoongi insisted as you were already standing and on the way of going after your backpack. 

“No, Yoon, it's fine!” you waved him off, as if trying to take the burden you had dropped on him off. “Might be better to do it with someone I'm not that close to, anyway. I'll try Hobi.”

“Doll, stop, hang on.” Yoongi reached for your wrist as you walked in front of him and you stopped your stride. “Let me consider this.”

“You don't have to.” you repeated, but didn't take your wrist from his grasp and didn’t walk away. 

“What is it you want, exactly? And please be honest with me, so we both know what we're getting ourselves into here and so there's no misunderstandings.” if he was even entertaining the idea of saying yes to this crazy plan, then he needed you to be as straightforward as possible. 

“I haven't thought this far? But I guess we could do stuff.”

“I said to be specific.” Yoongi pressed. 

You huffed and, dare he say, squirmed, as you sat down on the couch again, this time closer to him. “I mean, would you fuck me? You know, so I know how it works? And, uhm. Stuff?”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah, we should probably start with, like... Kissing. Handjobs? I'd like to suck you off if you're okay with that?” 

Nevermind his dreaming theory, Yoongi might have died and this was his personal version of heaven. Or maybe hell, depending how long it would take for you to start laughing in his face, saying that Namjoon was right and he would fall for it. But that wasn’t like you at all, too sweet and nice for your own good, and –despite his little hours of sleep and caffeine intake– Yoongi was pretty healthy to have died all of a sudden. 

“You can't be serious.” Yoongi was still incredulous. 

“I am! And I can ask Hobi, you don't have to feel pressured.” you told him as the wrist he was still holding on to finally slipped from his grasp, but just so you could hold his hand instead. “Even though this is all Namjoon’s fault and you're the one who introduced me to him and so this is also your fault, and I think you should fix it.”

There it was, the arguments, the innocent guilt trip, your special little way of getting Yoongi to do what you wanted, while not actually forcing him to do anything he didn’t want. And this? You? This was something he wanted. For a really long time. This might not be the way he ever thought he would get to be with you, but if anything, Yoongi was an opportunist. 

And he wasn’t about to let you walk into the studio next door to ask Hoseok to do this favor for you. He’d never forgive himself if he let you walk away now, if he handed you over to one of his closest friends. You might fall in love with each other, get married, and make Yoongi give a speech during the ceremony. You might even name your first born after Yoongi. 

“So.” you squeezed his hand, looking at the difference in size of your palms. “What do you say?”

“You're crazy. But if you're gonna do this anyway.” his shrug was supposed to be nonchalant. 

“Yes! Yoon, thank you! Okay, so what do we do? I promise I'll pay attention!” your excitement made him chuckle, despite the weight of reality slowly sinking in, and untamed butterflies going haywire in his stomach. 

“Calm down, we're not starting right now.”

He needed time to let this new reality settle and tame his anxiety and the voices in his head that were screaming at him. Besides making a list of everything that could go wrong by having agreed with this. 

“Right, I should probably shave down there.” you said with a side pout, as if you were thinking hard about what you had to do to prepare. 

“You– that's not a problem.” Yoongi wanted to make sure you understood you were perfect, just as natural as you wanted to be, but he couldn’t just say that. “Just do what you feel comfortable with, this is not about me. You shouldn't have to worry about things like that, unless you want to.”

“Okay. I should still get on the pill, right?” you asked him, too innocently for the type of conversation you were having. 

“I mean... maybe? You should talk to your doctor about it?” he had no idea really, as that question made Yoongi wonder just how much you needed help with. “There are side effects and long term commitments with that kind of stuff, that you shouldn't put yourself through just for a few experiences? And I'll get tested too, just so you're sure I'm clean.”

“I trust you, Yoon, I don't want you to go through that trouble.”

“It's no trouble, really, I've been meaning to do it anyways, just to be safe.” not that his own sex life was a particularly crazy one at that, and he always wore a condom. 

“This is exciting. Nerve-wracking but exciting.” you giggled, looking at him as your fingers gently traced his knuckles. 

This was the longest you had ever touched each other, even if it was just a simple hand holding. And his insides were already churning and he felt like he could pass out at any given moment, blood wasn’t reaching all the way to his brain apparently. He couldn’t even comprehend what it would be like to be intimate with you. 

“I'm glad you think so.” he said with a low chuckle. 

“Now we just... set up a time and place?” 

“Mhmm.” he nodded, as there wasn’t much else he could do with how mentally frozen he was. 

“Okay, but I really want to start fixing these chapters, so can you give me something today?” you asked sheepishly, fingers tightening around his. 

“What?” 

“Can you show me how to kiss?” was your request, and Yoongi’s eyes fell to your mouth on command.

“You've kissed before.” it wasn’t a question, but an affirmation. In fact, Yoongi had seen you kiss someone before. 

It was years ago, during a stupid game of truth or dare –which was Jimin’s idea– during one of Taehyung’s house parties. Namjoon had thought it would be a good idea to make the two of you play, no doubt another ploy to get something to happen between the two of you. But luck was never on Yoongi’s side and you were dared to kiss another guy; some dude named Seo-joon that Tae knew from acting class. 

“Yeah, but it was never satisfactory and I lack skills.” you told him, bringing him back to the present. “Besides, it might be good to break the ice. Make sure things don’t get awkward between us after I leave.”

“Why would things get awkward–”

“Are you saying you’re not going to overthink everything that just happened as soon as I walk out of this studio?” you challenged with a little grin and Yoongi rolled his eyes. “That’s what I thought.” 

“Alright, I’ll kiss you.” he agreed, and there’s no way he ever thought he’d be saying those words to you. 

“Gee, Yoon, thanks.” you were giggling as you got up from the couch to stand in the middle of the studio. “Try to pretend to be into it, at least.” 

If you only knew. 

Yoongi got up on wobbly legs, but pretended to stretch his back to get his body work properly. Walking the two steps it took to reach you was the most nerve wrecking course he ever had to take. But at least you looked as nervous as he felt, even if you were doing your best to mask it. 

You stood in front of each other, awkwardly staring at one another, hands on your sides. And Yoongi knew he had to move. He had to take the lead, he was the one meant to be showing you how things worked, of course you wouldn’t take the first step. And unless he wanted you to change your mind and actually go to Hoseok instead, he had to act fast. 

“Do you need a step by step guide?” he asked in a low voice, as if sharing a secret. 

“I know how it works, I’m not that inexperienced.” you giggled, hitting his chest playfully. 

Yoongi took your wrist as your hand landed on his chest in your pillowy light attempt of provoking him, bringing your hand up to rest it on the back of his neck. He didn’t miss the way your breath hitched, or your giggles replaced a soft gasp as his other arm circled your waist to bring your body flush against his, or even how your fingers softly threaded through the long hairs at his nape. 

A lot was on the line when it came to this kiss, Yoongi realized wearily. It would be your first kiss together, something he only ever daydreamed about before. And it would set the tone for your future interactions. You could just as well change your mind after it, and it would not only be a blow to his self-esteem, but also his pride. 

“It’s just me.” you said in a meek voice that did nothing to calm his nerves. 

“I know.” 

That’s the problem, he wanted to say. 

Yoongi’s free hand touched the side of your face to tilt it up towards him, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. With a teeny sigh, your eyes fluttered closed and Yoongi took that chance to study your face, as he had never seen you so up close like this before. Even if you changed your mind later, he still committed your every trace, every little detail about you that he possibly could. 

From your dark, long lashes that kissed the apples of your cheeks, to the outline of your cupid’s bow and your plump bottom lip. As you were about to open your eyes again, Yoongi pressed his lips to yours and you pulled back. Not enough for your mouths to part, but with a little surprised reaction. Thankfully, and before Yoongi’s anxieties could settle in, you moved closer to him again, pulling him towards you by the back of his neck. 

Yoongi’s lips started moving against yours, hesitantly, but his second guessing went out the non-existing windows of his studio as you followed his lead and moved yours along with his. 

Your mouths moved together slowly, his tongue sliding between his lips to lick between yours and you crooned; a small sound that Yoongi didn’t want to focus on, unless he wanted all of his blood to run south. 

“Relax your jaw for me.” Yoongi mumbled, not wanting to go too far. 

Your hand tensed on his neck as your breath grew a little heavier and you did just as he requested, lips parting wider so his tongue could finally slip into your mouth. Yoongi cradled your face by your jaw, feeling it move as your tongues brushed together. 

He could taste your peach flavored lip balm and right then he decided it was his favorite flavor in the world. Your other hand was resting on his chest and Yoongi wondered if you could feel just how fast his heart was beating as you tipped your head sideways so he could deepen the kiss. 

It made his own hand slip to the back of your neck, hold turning firm as he kept you in place to lick around your mouth, exploring it as if he wanted to map it out. 

You pulled away first, having a hard time breathing, which did wonders for Yoongi’s swelling pride, but he wasn't ready to let you go just yet, acting on instinct and taking your bottom lip between his teeth. 

It was worth it as your surprised gasp turned into a moan, making the man smirk. It eventually made him let go of your lip and he watched as your eyes opened; as blown out as his probably were. 

“That was… Good, right?” you asked in a breathy tone that Yoongi wanted to hear more of. 

“Really good, yeah.” he nodded, so close to your face, hands still holding you close. “If the rest of it is anything like this, you don’t have anything to worry about.” 

SEPTEMBER 23RD | 17:41

Yoongi’s apartment wasn’t the biggest one, but his producer salary allowed him to have enough room to fit all of his friends comfortably whenever they decided to use his place as a hang out spot. Is not that he hated to have friends over, if anything Yoongi really enjoyed hosting and cooking for everybody. But the bunch could get rowdy, and Yoongi was left cleaning up the aftermath alone most of the time. 

The group-chat had decided that their Saturday plans should include movie night at Yoongi’s place, just because of his soundproof walls and surround sound system that matched his big flat screen TV. Yoongi enjoyed few things in life, not really one to flaunt his status as one of the most sought out Korean producers of present times, but he was proud of his entertainment set up. 

A light rain was falling outside, the pitter patter of the drops of the early autumn falls being drawn out by the music video playing on the television as he and his so-called-best-friend organized the living room before the rest of the group arrived. 

“I don't know why you're mad at me.” Namjoon was saying as he pulled out the seat cushions of Yoongi’s dark gray couch to make it just a little longer and more comfortable to be laid on for the duration of the movie. 

“Really.” Yoongi deadpanned from the kitchen as he rummaged through his food cupboard in search of the kind of microwavable popcorn you liked.  “You have nooo idea?”

“I mean, yeah, sure, I might have acted with mischief, but I meant what I said–”

“In what world did you think that telling her to find someone to have sex with was a good idea?” Yoongi finally snapped, letting the popcorn packets drop to the kitchen island with a smack. “What if she went after some rando at a club?” 

“I see your point, hyung, but she didn't!” Namjoon tried to apologize by doing a better job of fluffing the cushions. “She went after you!”

“Thank fuck for that.”

Namjoon stepped away from the couch to look at his OCD-friendly set up, making sure the decorative cushions were symmetrically parted from each other and the wool blankets Yoongi always had laying around were folded in perfect squares. Yoongi liked his apartment to be a little on the colder side, and he wasn’t ready to let go of summer just yet, but he also got cold easily. 

“Shouldn't you be thankful that you got to kiss the girl of your dreams?” Namjoon turned to his older friend, walking to the kitchen to inspect the snacks that were already littering the dark marble island. “And you'll be doing a lot more than that–”

“I don’t know if I am.” Yoongi confessed with a sigh, which picked Namjoon’s curiosity. 

“Why not?”

“She– It’s been a week and nothing else happened.” Yoongi shrugged, as if trying to downplay it and mask his disappointment. 

“Haven’t you seen each other again since that day at your studio?” Namjoon leaned over the island to read the label on the honey and mustard chips, but his attentive eyes always went back to him. 

“We have. We were never alone, though, because Jimin and Jungkook were there when we had takeout, and then everyone was at Jin's on game night.” Yoongi recalled all of the times he managed to see you during this past week. 

“True, but you did look closer during game night.” Namjoon offered, but Yoongi scoffed. “I'm serious! She was always touching your arm, sitting closer to you... hugging you when you scored a point.”

“She's always like that with everyone, I'm not reading into it.” Yoongi refused to see things where there weren’t, because he knew that he would be the one broken hearted at the end of whatever this was. 

“Yeah, but she wasn't like that with you.” Namjoon pointed out. 

“Because she knows I'm not clingy like the rest of you.” Yoongi rebutted. 

“She picked you to be on her team, and you're a bad player!” 

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong?” Namjoon arched an eyebrow, dropping the bag of chips back onto the counter, which made Yoongi flinch, thinking about the broken snacks. “Didn’t think so. She usually goes for Kook because that kid is good at everything.”

“Of course, just something else I come second in.”

Yoongi didn’t mean to sound so bitter. He didn’t even intend on speaking out loud in the first place. But he did, and Namjoon raised an eyebrow at him. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” his friend prodded, and Yoongi had no choice but to turn his back and pretend to be searching for something as he replied:

“She said Jungkook is her type.”

“Really? So... gay af, pouts like a baby, dresses like a hobo most of the time?” Namjoon chuckled fondly of the maknae of their weird friend group. 

“I think it's more like muscles, piercings and tattoos.” he couldn’t sound more dejected if he tried. 

“Is that why you're wearing your hoops again?” Namjoon’s laughter grew louder, pointing at his own pierced ears as he looked at Yoongi’s. “And why are you going to the gym again?”

“No– how do you know I went to the gym?”

“Hobi told me he ran into you. It's cool though. I’m not here to judge.” 

Namjoon better not judge him, as he was the one to get Yoongi in this mess in the first place. Yeah, he had unrequited feelings for you, and yeah, he imagined plenty of what if scenarios where he grew the balls to ask you out, or make a move on you. But was this the way his friend had to help him out? By planting ideas in your head and making you offer him something like this? 

Yoongi’s heated thought process was interrupted as his phone started to buzz inside his pants pocket and his heart skipped a beat when he read the name on the notifications.

“Oof, that friendzone gotta hurt.” Namjoon said, over Yoongi’s shoulder. His height gave him an advantage that was almost as annoying as his nosy tendencies. 

“I swear to fucking god–” Yoongi rasped, shutting his phone and shoving it in his pocket. 

“Hey, at least you might get a handy today, huh?” the younger man wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, running away before Yoongi could throw a bag of chips on his head. “And clearly your kiss can't have been that bad, if she's coming to you for help again.”

“Not helping, Joonah.” 

Your text did light him up a little bit, and Namjoon wasn’t all that wrong. If you were asking him for help with whatever it was you needed, you didn’t change your mind about this, and you didn’t go to someone else for it; friend or foe. 

You didn’t specify just what you needed help with, but Yoongi took a longer shower just in case, scrubbing his body from top to bottom, brushing his teeth just a little harder, blow drying his hair just a little fluffier. Just in case. 

You might just ask him questions and not actually want to do anything, but on the off chance that you did, Yoongi wanted to be ready for you. 

He wasn’t proud to say that he spent just a little longer inside his decent sized closet deciding on what to wear. Yoongi didn’t want to try too hard, as it would make things too obvious, but he also didn’t think sweats and a white t-shirt were good enough either. But then again, if Jeon Jungkook was your ideal type, maybe he could grab oversized black clothes and call it a night. 

“Everyone is already here, hyung.” Namjoon said from the outside of his door, and that’s when Yoongi started to rush. 

He ended up picking a pair of jeans with holes on the knees, but that was nicely fitted on his hips, and a soft blue sweater with some green at the end of the sleeves. Hoping he didn’t go too hard on his favorite cologne, Yoongi left his bedroom to find the seven of you already taking over his living room and kitchen space. 

Jimin and Taehyung were being disgusting on his couch, giggling as they looked over something on the former’s phone. Jungkook and Seokjin were sitting on the floor, looking up at the TV as they clearly searched for something to watch tonight. Hoseok and Namjoon were in the kitchen, helping you make popcorn. 

Microwave popcorn shouldn’t be so hard that it took three people to make it, but you had a routine. You hated it when you took it out too early, meaning half the corn didn’t have time to pop, but it was even worse to leave it in the machine for too long so that it burned. So it took one of you sniffing for any hint of burnt popcorn, another one to pilot the STOP and ON buttons, and a third one listening in for the popping sounds. 

And, of course, it took giving you a good look over to almost stop Yoongi’s heart altogether. 

Just because you had no business looking so damn pretty all the time. 

Today you were wearing one of Yoongi’s favorite styles on you; a lilac suede overall dress that made you look like a cute gardener with a long sleeved shirt under it. Your hair was falling in soft waves, as if you had taken the time to style them before coming, which made Yoongi wonder if you had the same thought process as he had. 

“Hyung! There you are!” Hoseok announced his presence for everyone to hear, in that chirpy way of his, and Yoongi’s ears burned a little as the attention of the room landed on him. “The popcorn is almost– wait, wait, stop!” 

“Stopping!” you announced, clicking on the button to pause the microwave. “That was a close one, commander.” 

Yoongi couldn’t help the little chuckle he let out while watching you and his two best friend’s dramatics, shoulders shaking a little, gums probably out for the others to see. 

“Have you gotten from here, Joon?” you turned to the taller man, who nodded while taking the last popcorn packet from the microwave. 

You turned towards Yoongi again, who seemed frozen in place until that very moment. You grabbed the three tubs of popcorn that were already ready and took them with you to the couch, nodding your head for Yoongi to follow you. And he was a little socially awkward by nature, but he didn’t think he made a fool out of himself as the others knew he was more on the quiet side most of the time. 

“Alright, who let the maknaes choose the movie?” you were saying as you stepped on the soft black rug that took over half of the living room. 

“Who are you calling a maknae–” Seokjin threw a glare over his shoulder, one you answered with a scrunch of your nose. 

“What’s wrong with our movie taste, noona?” Jungkook asked you, about to pout. 

You handed Jungkook and Seokjin a tub of popcorn, and another one to Taehyung and Jimin, keeping the last one for yourself as you sat down in the middle of the couch, having to scoot a little awkwardly as if your overall-dress made it hard for you to move. 

“The problem is not your taste in movies, but you never agree on anything.” Yoongi supplied, making you nod in agreement. “Jungkook-ah is going to either pick a superhero movie that we’ve all seen before, or a horror movie, and hyung will be too scared to watch anything with serial killers or ghosts and shit.” 

“That’s because I live alone and have an old man's bladder and don’t like having to run from demons on the way back from the bathroom, in the middle of the night, thank you very much!” Seokjin complained in that rushed way of his, making you giggle. 

Namjoon and Hoseok joined the rest of you in the living room, with the last tub of popcorn. The packs of chips and other snacks were already on the center table, alongside glasses of soda. 

Yes, Yoongi was still standing, but that’s because he always had to be the last one to sit down. Everyone always complained that they didn’t know how to work the lighting system of his smart home, and Yoongi had to be the one to dim the lights low enough so the television was the focus point, but not dark enough that they couldn’t see anything else. 

When Yoongi finally made his way to the couch, everyone was already paired up and laying down with their snacks of choice. 

Jimin had exchanged his best friend for his boyfriend and was now sitting between Jungkook’s legs, resting against his chest. Tae was still sitting beside them, never minding the third willing. You were right in the middle of the couch, where it was your preferred spot. Hoseok was right next to you, followed by Namjoon and Seokjin. 

Before Yoongi could walk to the edge of the couch, to join the hyung, you spoke: 

“Hobi, can you scoot over a little?” you asked the man with little taps to his thigh. “Come sit next to me, Yoon.” 

The living room was silent as everyone stared at Yoongi once again, just another proof that the only person oblivious to his feelings toward you was, well, you. But at least Yoongi wasn’t completely awkward when it came to you; there was no stumbling, no hesitating, no fumbling around as space was opened on the sofa so he could sit between you and Hoseok. 

You handed him the popcorn you were about to share as you unfolded one of the wool blankets and threw it over your legs, more concerned about covering your legs and getting comfortable than actually escaping the cold. While the younger boys bickered over the final movie choice and which sound configuration was best for the settled genre, the three other guys started a heated discussion over something political they heard on the news.

When Yoongi looked at you, you were already looking at him. 

“I like your ripped pants.” you said with an easy smile, reaching to slip two fingers inside the wide holes on his knees. “Didn’t know you had things like this.” 

“That’s because hyung’s fashion sense only includes either a blazer and white shirt or dress pants and a hoodie.” Jimin teased from the other side. 

“I’m sorry I’m not into Chelsea boots and skinny jeans.” Yoongi scoffed, which wasn’t really a jab at Jimin’s fashion sense. Even Yoongi could admit the blonde man knew how to dress better than most. 

“You’re forgiven.” Jimin was grinning, which was noticeable even in the dimmed atmosphere of the room. 

Your fingers were still tracing random patterns on his knee as you said: “Don’t listen to Jiminie, I like your style.” 

“Thanks. I like yours too.” he said, which somehow made you giggle. 

“You don’t think I look like a little girl?” you asked in what must have been a moment of self doubt. 

“Nah, just cute.” 

You smiled appreciatively at him, throwing half of the blanket over Yoongi’s legs so you could share. He handed you the tub with popcorn and the movie finally started; the thumping of the bass from the intro not the only thing making his heart accelerate. 

The group ended up deciding on a new movie with a few known actors, like IU –the only woman Jungkook would ever turn straight for–, no demons to scare Seokjin, and no blood to make Taehyung queasy. 

The drama wasn’t Yoongi’s particular cup of tea, but he wouldn’t be paying attention to it anyways. Not when you felt so warm sitting so close to him, smelling so good. And not when his brain was filled with the possibilities of what was coming next, after everyone had left. 

You and Yoongi shared the popcorn, hands brushing every now and then as if you were in a teen movie. You didn’t seem to notice it, however, engrossed in the movie. You had tears in your eyes during some of the more emotionally heavy scenes, but held them in pretty well. 

While you could. 

Thirty minutes into the movie and the popcorn was over, the tub resting somewhere on the floor, and you were aggressively wiping tears from your eyes with your sleeves. 

“Just let her keep her baby.” you said under your breath, moving your arm under Yoongi’s so you could hug it like a safety blanket, cheek pressed hard against his shoulder. “They will be okay, right?” 

“Mhm, yeah. Everything is going to be fine.” 

Yoongi had no way of knowing that, especially when it came to this kind of movie. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try to soothe you. You nodded softly in response, snuggling into his arm a little harder, pressing your body to his completely. You were exactly like this, Yoongi told  himself. You’d be clinging to whoever was sitting next to you, and it just so happened to be him. 

That was okay, he told himself as he quietly sniffed your hair, because, at least right now, it was him you were clinging to. 

SEPTEMBER 23RD | 22:15

It wasn’t surprising the way Yoongi was a lot more relaxed by the end of the movie, but it was a little shameful that he grew more and more at ease as his friends started to take their leave. Yoongi dealt better with smaller groups of people at a time, even if he loved every one of his friends; yes, even Jungkook and all his piercings and tattoos. It wasn’t the maknae’s fault that you were apparently so attracted to him when you first met. 

Hell, even Yoongi caught himself gawking at Jungkook whenever he put a little more effort into looking good; like when he combed his hair off his forehead, or wore the black jeans that may or may not belong to Jimin. 

“You guys can leave it, I’ll do it.” Yoongi insisted as you and Hoseok continued to clean up the living room. 

“It’s alright, hyung, I don’t mind.” Hoseok told him as he knelt on the rug to pick up stray pieces of popcorn and chips that eventually made it to the floor. “We’ll just finish it up and go. I’ll drive you home when we’re done.” 

“Me?” you blinked, as Hoseok clearly meant you, eyes moving to Yoongi as you silently asked for help. “Thank’s, but I’m not going home yet.” 

“Oh.” Hoseok nodded. Then stopped. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second and his neck almost snapped with how fast he turned to Yoongi’s direction, sending him a sly grin. “Ohh.” 

Yoongi was shaking his head at Hoseok, with wide eyes and behind your back, telling his friend to cut it out as you picked up the empty boxes of pizza. Hobi winked in slow motion and sent Yoongi a thumbs up, which made him sigh. 

The job of tying it up the living room and kitchen was a lot easier now that he had more help, and fifteen minutes later, the dishes were washed, the couch was clear of any mess, and Yoongi was walking Hoseok out of his apartment. 

“So.” Hoseok spoke quietly, which Yoongi appreciated, but it still made him cringe a little on the inside as his friend teased: “You two, huh?” 

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Yoongi stated, holding the front door open while the younger man put his shoes on. 

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.” Hoseok squinted his eyes, but his knowing smile was enough to make Yoongi’s ears burn. 

“I can assure you.” Yoongi chuckled, as there was no way his friend would ever be able to guess why you were staying longer tonight. “Night, Hobah.” 

Hoseok waited as the elevator dinged and walked in after the automatic doors opened for him, singing: “Goodnight, hyung. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” 

And, just like that, he was gone and Yoongi could breathe a little easier. And, just like that, you were alone together after what felt like ages. 

Yoongi found you sitting on the couch, looking a little tired, eyes still a little red from when you cried at the end of the movie. He mustn’t look so hot either, social battery on its lowest setting. At least he never felt like he needed to try hard with you, surprisingly. There was never a need to be entertaining, to talk more than he wanted to, to constantly search for something to do. 

He could just sit next to you and do nothing, and it didn’t feel awkward, you were never bothered by his quieter moments. You also had a way of bringing out his other sides, too; the joker, the one with the weird noises and funky dances, and also the deep one that could talk about music for hours and had random facts to spill. 

“Movie nights are fun, but you always look a little dead after.” you giggled, and it wasn’t even an insult. Yoongi felt a little dead as he sat down next to you, relaxing into his couch cushion. 

“I know I’m not that much older than them, but sometimes I feel like I can't keep up.” he chuckled with closed eyes, basking on the quietude that was only ever broken by your giggles.

“Okay, grandpa. Do you want me to leave?” you offered, which made Yoongi open his eyes and look at you. 

By now, the mood lights in the living room had been put into a brighter setting than during the movie, but not uncomfortably so. Yoongi could still see the blush on your cheeks, the hesitation in your eyes and the way your fingers fiddled with each other. 

Yoongi didn’t want you to leave, however. No matter how tired or drained he felt, this was the first time he had a chance to be alone with you all week. And when the last memory he had of a moment like this came along with the feeling of your lips on him, he really wanted you to stay. 

“Not really.” he replied, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but he thought he saw you breathe a little easier. “You, uh, needed help, right?”

“Yeah, but I can just come back another time, I don't mind.” you assured him, always one to worry about his boundaries and need for the occasional alone time. It warmed his heart, in more ways than one. 

“I promise I'm fine, doll. You said something about your book?” Yoongi wasn’t trying to push, in case you changed your mind, but your eager nod as he mentioned it made him sit up a little straighter on the sofa. 

“Okay, so, I was reading chapter eleven again and I really agreed with Joon's notes on it.” you said as you turned a little more to the side, so you were facing him. 

“Which were?”

“It wasn't realistic, the, uh, sexy scene.” you explained with a nibble on your bottom lip, the blush was dusted on your cheeks again. “Just because there are things that I don't exactly know how they happen.”

“Okay. You wanna ask me about it?”

“Sure. But I was hoping that showing me might work better?” there it was, the hesitation again. Your words were already causing something to stir in Yoongi’s lower belly, but he kept his cool. “Maybe. If you're okay with that.”

“You need to tell me what it is first, doll, or I can't tell you that.” he chuckled, hoping it would help you relax a little more around him. 

Not that Yoongi wasn’t having a little moment of nervous anxiety himself, this was you, he didn’t think he’d ever be completely cool about any of this. But he wanted to help you, and he wanted to be good for you. Even if the only chance he ever got to do that was purely platonic. 

“Right, right, just... I feel kinda bad now that we're here.” you said with a frown, reaching out on instinct to thread your pinky through his. 

“Did you change your mind? Because that’s okay, too, we can just forget about it.” Yoongi had to swallow a lump in his throat, but he meant every word. 

“No, not at all... I just feel like I'm using you in a way.” you said, eyes downcast as you looked at your linked fingers. You let out a small laugh, but it was a bitter one. “This is ridiculous, right? I'm sitting here, about to ask you to show me how you get hard. And what do you get in return?”

Yoongi’s breath intake was a little harsh as he held back a groan, fingers flexing of their own accord. In what should be a joke to lighten the mood, but that immediately made him fluster, he said: “An orgasm, maybe?”

“Be serious.” you rolled your pretty eyes, but an even prettier smile broke on your face. 

“I am! Unless you want to see how it goes down naturally as well?” Yoongi really hoped you said no. 

“No, that's not part of it. There's something else I want, but–”

“Oh?”

“–we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” 

The possibilities were making Yoongi’s mind go a little hazy, butterflies that felt more like bats in the cave of his stomach, and his dick was already twitching in his pants. So much so that he feared  he might get hard before you even had the chance to actually see it happen. 

“Kay. How do you wanna do this?”

“Uh, I really didn't think this far.” you admitted sheepishly. 

“Do you wanna help?” Yoongi asked, wondering if you wanted him to pull it out and touch himself into full hardness, or if you wanted in on it. “I can guide you.”

“That might be better, yes.” you nodded, too cute for what was about to happen, and scooted even closer to him so your knees were pressed against his thigh.

Was he really about to do this? Was Yoongi actually going to drop his pants, show you his cock, and let you study him like a guinea pig? God, don’t let this get awkward, he was reasoning to whoever was out there listening. He didn’t want to scare you with it either, as it wouldn’t be good for your kinky-field-search, and even worse for his own pride, so he asked: 

“You don't want to start the chapter with the guy just pulling it out, right?” bringing it back to your book might be easier to set the scene for the two of you, too. “You wanna tease the reader as much as you wanna tease your character.” 

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“You might wanna start with some light making out?” he offered, words taking a turn and missing his brain filter altogether. 

Your eyes widened just a little, instantly dropping to his lips. “Should we?”

“We don't have to. I'm just telling you what might work well on a scene.” he lied. 

“What if I want to?”

Yoongi thought he might be dreaming again as you moved first, leaning closer to him to press your lips together just once, just a peck. Nervous eyes stared up at him as you pulled back but didn’t go all too far. 

“Is this okay?” you asked in a whisper.

“Mm. Shouldn't I be asking that?” Yoongi spoke as quietly as you, his hand reaching out to push your hair behind your ear. 

“I'm not sure.” you looked at his lips again, with a small nervous laugh as your hand rested on his thigh. 

“I’m okay with it.” he told you, holding back from lunging for your lips again. 

“Me too. Definitely.”

That was all Yoongi needed to slip his hand to the back of your neck and drag you into another kiss. This time it was longer, a little harder than the soft peck. He moved his mouth first and you followed suit, slightly parting your lips for his tongue to slip into yours. Your little breathy sounds, paired with the tightening of your hand on his thigh, were making Yoongi a little dizzy. 

You were melting into his kiss, following every lick and every flick of his tongue, allowing him to dictate the pace, deepen the kiss when he wanted. It wasn’t missed on Yoongi how much trust you actually put on him to have these experiences with, and he would make sure you never regretted it. 

Even if nothing ever came of this, he wouldn’t burden you with his broken heart, but continue to support you and be there for you regardless. 

As your hand started moving on his thigh, hiking up, Yoongi groaned against your lips and you swallowed the noise, replying to it with a tiny moan. Yoongi took your bottom lip into his mouth and sucked on it gently, which made your hand squeeze at his thigh and he parted his legs for you in an invitation. 

You didn’t move it to where Yoongi wanted and when he let go of your lip and studied your face, he understood why. He could see how reluctant and shy you looked, eyes pleading with him to help you just a little more. 

“It’s okay.” he assured you, voice coming out raspy. “Give me your hand.” 

You put your palm in his and when Yoongi gently tugged it closer to his ever growing bulge, there was no pulling back, no halting. Just the fear of not knowing what to do. You let out a little gasp as Yoongi placed your hand over the outline of his cock, molding your fingers around it so you could feel all of him. 

“Oh my god.” you breathed out with a little laugh. 

“Too much?” he checked, loosening the hold on your hand in case you wished to pull back. 

But now that you were let go of, you didn’t retreat, but started touching him, over his pants, at your own accord. You squeezed a little, testing the pressure, tracing the length, and Yoongi’s head fell against the back of the couch, eyes hooded and stuck on you, reading your every reaction. 

Small sighs and groans left his lips each time you did something he really liked, which made you ask:

“Does it feel nice?” your whole hand was palming at his crotch and he had to suppress the need to push his hips into your hand, only managing to nod. “You look so good like this.” 

The praise was too much, and he didn’t want to cum inside his pants, just from this, so he chose to stare into the ceiling instead. It did little to quell his worries of not lasting long as you took it as an invitation to kiss his neck. Your lips felt as soft as they did against his and the way you let your tongue lick at his heated skin made him bite back a moan. 

“Can I see you?” you asked in a whiny tone, delivered to his ear, making his cock jump. He wondered if you could feel it. 

“Yeah.” Yoongi nodded and you moved your hand back to his thigh, leaving his neck with one last kiss under his jaw. It was his turn to become a little embarrassed as he said: “Uh, you should know, dicks are pretty different from one another, so.”

“I know, I’ve seen dicks before.” you giggled. “I’ve watched porn, Yoon.” 

Right. 

Yoongi cursed at himself, because of course you knew what a dick was supposed to look like. You might be inexperienced when it came to having practice, but you weren’t sheltered, you weren’t naive, and you clearly weren’t innocent; not with the type of stuff you wrote about. At least your giggle calmed him down a little, and his own embarrassment made his impending release recede. 

He pushed his sleeves all the way up to his elbows and pulled the hem of the sweater from the inside of his pants, revealing a small strip of skin of his lower stomach for you. Yoongi didn’t know what your little gasp meant, but he chose to believe it was positive. You adjusted yourself on the couch as his fingers reached his pants’ button and fly, squeezing your thighs together as he pulled them down. 

Not trying to drag this out or make a mystery of it, Yoongi lifted his hips to push his pants and underwear to the middle of his thighs; a quick pull off of a bandaid, so to speak. His cock jumped free, resting against his lower belly. Hard, leaking pre-cum, the tip a familiar shade of darker pink. 

He really regretted not masturbating in the shower before everyone arrived, because at least the edge would be off and Yoongi wouldn’t need to fear getting off the moment you touched him for the first time. 

You didn’t do much at first, and Yoongi was almost afraid to look at you and find disappointment in your eyes. Your eyes were a little glossy as your tongue poked between your pouty lips. When you noticed his gaze was on you, the spell broke and you reacted. 

“You– Uhm. That’s a big one, right?” you asked with a flushed face and neck. “I know I said I’ve seen them, and I know what it’s supposed to be like, but. I didn’t expect it to be so long? And fat.” 

Your choice of words made Yoongi laugh, an actual belly laugh, shaking shoulders and everything. It made your eyes widen as you blinked cutely, clearly embarrassed. 

“Thanks, doll.” he grinned as his laughter subsided. “And yeah, I’m a little above average.” 

“A little?” your eyebrow arched in suspicion as your eyes followed the movement of his hand as he held his cock, squeezing a little to alleviate some of the ache. “Since when are you modest?” 

“Alright, I have a big dick.” he agreed with a shrug as he took a leap of faith and kissed your cheek with a hot smack. 

“That’s more like the Yoongi I know and love.” you giggled, clearly oblivious to the way your words affected him. 

Yoongi knew you meant in a friendly kind of love, he felt the same way towards you. But his feelings went a little beyond that, which caused his heart to clench and expand in his chest as he basked in your love, however innocent and platonic it was. 

“Can I touch you?” you asked and Yoongi really wanted to say you could do anything at all to him. 

“Go ahead.” 

This is the part Yoongi thought would be weird. In his mind, maybe he pictured you poking him in the dick, giggling like a schoolgirl, maybe frowning or looking a little disgusted. God knows that he didn’t really know what to do when he saw a pussy for the first time. 

But you were gentle with the way your fingertips touched him, following the vein on the underside of it, using your thumb to spread the leaking pre-cum around his velvety tip. You were paying attention, yes, and studying him. But it didn’t make him feel under a microscope. If anything, it made Yoongi feel appreciated. 

Your small hand wrapped around his cock and Yoongi sighed, his free hand was resting next to you on the sofa and he had to hold back the urge of touching you. Your thigh was so close to his hand that he could feel the warmth emanating from you, but you hadn’t talked about it yet and he feared you might not like that. 

For now he had to appreciate the feeling of your hand on him, which was more than he ever thought he’d get. 

When you let go of him, Yoongi feared that might be it, all you needed from him tonight, that you’d tell him you gathered all the information you needed for the chapter. He missed your touch already and having to touch himself after you left would not only be sad, but a little pathetic. 

You were full of surprises, however, as you brought your hand to your lips and sucked on your tongue, letting your spit fall on your palm. You did know what you were doing after all, as he didn’t need to instruct you when your hand got back to his cock and you spread your spit all over him. 

There were things you were trying, Yoongi noticed as he let go of his shaft in order to allow you to take over. The more you touched him, the more confident you grew, tugging him a little harder, jerking him a little faster. When you fisted at his tip, your small hand wrapping around it and squeezing as your wrist flicked, Yoongi’s moan was too loud. 

“Oh, you like that.” it wasn’t a question, but an affirmation as you repeated it one more time before dropping your hand in a tight ‘o’ all the way down to his base. 

“Yeah, it’s uhm–sensitive.” 

Yoongi was breathing heavily as you tugged and stroked his cock. You were a little messy, a bit awkward at times, not really following a steady rhythm, but Yoongi found out that he liked that. 

“I can feel you pulsing.” you commented in awe, letting out small whines that were half the cause for that very throbbing you were feeling against your palm. “Does that mean you’re close?” 

“Not always.” he shook his head, not sure if he rather look at his cock disappearing and poking out from your fist, or your pretty face as you were obviously getting hot and bothered by this. “But I am.” 

That last information seemed to light a whole new fire within you, making your movements a little more firm and determined. You teased his slit with your thumb as the rest of your hand worked on the underside of his head, making him let out raspy moans, sweat starting to cling at his skin. 

It took him completely by surprise as your free hand dipped into his hair and you stared at his lips until Yoongi took the hint and leaned in the rest of the way to capture your lips with his. He couldn’t really kiss you properly, not in the way that he wanted to, and it basically meant that he was moaning against your lips and licking around your mouth more than actually kissing, but it was tearing whines from you either way, and your movements never stopped. 

“Gonna cum, baby–” 

The term of endearment was a slip, one that Yoongi would justify by being in the throes of the moment if you ever asked him about it, and not because he dreamed about calling you baby for years now. You didn’t complain, however, as you flicked your wrist in an upstroke, in that way you already knew he liked, and you squeezed at his hair just as he couldn’t hold back anymore. 

Yoongi felt his lower stomach tense, his cock throb as it felt impossibly hard and borderline painful. He let go of what was holding him back and allowed himself to enjoy the pleasure the girl of his dreams was giving him; thick ribbons of white shooting out of his tip as he groaned what sounded a lot like your name. 

You pulled away from his lips to look as the last strings leaked out, movements slowing down, but not completely stopping. 

“That was beautiful.” you said in that breathy tone that let Yoongi know you were affected. “You’re so beautiful, Yoongi.” 

“Stop that.” he chuckled, cheeks flustered as he watched you milk his cock of the last drops. “I’m the one who had an orgasm, you’re not supposed to be the delirious one.”

“I mean it.” you assured him, not an ounce of doubt in your words. “You’re incredible.” 

"You're the one who did all the work, doll." 

You giggled softly because you agreed, letting his softening cock go as you rested it against his stomach. Clearly you didn't know what to do next, and Yoongi intended on getting up to clean himself up, grab some tissues to clean your hand, he just needed a couple of minutes to catch his breath. 

Yoongi watched as you brought your dirty hand to your face to sniff his release and then swipe your tongue, licking at his cum. It made him groan and intake a breath, wanting to laugh at your childish curiosity. Your nose scrunched a little, obviously surprised, but you weren't gaging, which was a good thing. 

"That's stronger than I thought." was your conclusion. "Not horrible, though."

Yoongi wanted to tell you that the taste and the way cum looked changed a little,  depending on how many times and how often people with dicks had sex or masturbated, but that would include telling you that his sex life was practically nonexistent and even his solo time was cut short by his long studio hours. 

"Can I wash my hands on your sink?" you asked  already up from the couch and walking a little funny as you tried to play it cool. 

"Sure."

Yoongi could only imagine why you were walking like that, wondering if your panties were so wet with your arousal that you were a little uncomfortable. Of course that would mean that you actually enjoyed yourself while jerking him off, that it wasn't purely for your research. 

And then again, didn't he already know that? He saw the way you looked at him, he heard your little mewls and moans and you didn't have to kiss him like that but you still did. 

When you got back to the couch, your hand was clean and you were offering him a paper towel so he could clean himself too, realizing then that he was just sitting there, pants still around his thighs and cock out. He felt a little silly, but took the paper and wiped himself as best as he could before tucking himself back into his underwear and buttoning his pants in place. 

"I had fun tonight." you told him, in what should be a way of saying goodbye, but it didn't match the way you settled on his couch once more, folding your legs under you  

"Yeah? You seemed to enjoy the movie." Yoongi turned toward you after bunching the paper towel in a sticky ball and throwing it at his center table. 

"I mean with you." you half whispered, tapping your bottom lip as an irrational movement, which inevitably dragged Yoongi’s eyes to them. "I'm glad I came to you with this."

"So you haven't changed your mind?" 

You shook your head, lighting up with a smile as you said: "I'm excited to try more." 

"Like what?" Yoongi had suggestions of his own, but this was about you so he didn't want to project his own wishes and wants on you. 

And, thankfully, you were pretty good at telling him what you wanted, despite how shy you got while at it. 

"Maybe you could do something to me next time?" you offered, Yoongi nodded. "Like… whatever you feel like."

"Want me to eat you out?" 

"Are you offering or asking me?" you replied, eyes a little wide, breath a little dragged. 

"Same thing, doll." 

"Okay." 

You agreed softly and it was all Yoongi needed to pull his legs up and crawl to you. Your eyes only grew as you watched him approach, hands resting on his chest as he began laying you down on his couch, gazes stuck to each other. 

“Y–you mean n–now?” you stuttered and even that sounded cute to Yoongi. 

“Is that okay?” he paused, nose an inch away from yours. 

“Yeah.” you sighed, letting your back fall against the couch, head resting on the arm of the sofa. 

“Stop me anytime you want.” Yoongi told you, leaning forward to peck your lips. “Or tell me to keep going when you like something.” 

“I’m convinced I’ll like everything coming from you.” you admitted with a shy chuckle, hands on each side of Yoongi’s neck as you kept him there to kiss his lips a little longer. 

“I sure hope so.” his laugh was easy, as was everything when it came to you. No matter how complicated his feelings were. 

Yoongi dragged his lips against your skin, from your jaw and down to your throat. Your legs parted for him to fit in between them and as your hands got lost in his long hair, making him grunt appreciatively each time you pulled, it felt like an invitation for him to touch you, to feel you. He trusted that you would stop him if you didn’t want any of it, and you never did. 

This didn’t feel like an agreement, didn’t feel like he was doing you a favor by showing you how things worked, making you feel things for the sake of gathering experience for your book. So it was easy to forget that’s all it was, and even easier to feel like you were lovers. 

Yoongi’s hands were roaming your body, touching your sides until he reached your thigh. His mouth was opening and closing against your neck, tongue licking at your skin as you squirmed under him, letting out the prettiest moans. More than anything, he wanted to bite you, leave a pretty bruise on your skin, mark you as his. 

But you weren’t. So he couldn’t. 

“Yoon, please.” you pleaded, so sweetly that it made his cock stir inside his pants. 

Yoongi could never deny you, he wasn’t about to start now. Pulling back from you to kneel between your legs, he was slow with the way he raised the skirt of your overalls, just enough to let him see your bottom half, the softness of your lower stomach and your cute belly button. He didn't want to seem too greedy and raise it up too much. 

Even though he was. 

You were wearing black panties, a little sheer, delicate fabric, with tiny lace frills around the elastic band and an even tinier bow at the front. It wasn’t the kind of underwear one wore if no one was about to see them. It made him wonder if you picked those for him. 

Did you wear them just in case? Did you worry about him liking it? 

The way you were staring at him expectantly let him know that you did. 

“I like these.” he told you and you smiled with pink cheeks. “Were you thinking of me when you chose to wear them?” 

“I bought them for you.” you admitted with a squirm, threatening to close your legs, but his body was on the way. “I didn’t really have any reasons to own lingerie before.” 

Does the top match? He wanted to ask, but refrained from it. All in due time. 

Yoongi touched your knees, thighs, feeling your smooth skin under his fingertips, all the way up your hips to hook his fingers on the elastic bands. “Is it okay if I take them off?” 

“Uh–” you hesitated, which made Yoongi worry. He started to retrieve his hands when you held onto his wrists to keep them there. “Yeah, it’s fine, just– What if you think I look weird?” 

“You could never look weird, doll.” he marveled. 

You huffed in a ‘how would you know’ way and chided: “I hope you know you’ll be the first to see me like this.” as if he didn’t know. As if he wasn’t fucking proud of that. “Well, you and the brazilian lady from the waxing place yesterday, but I don’t think she counts.” 

“I can live with that.” 

He could also live here. With you under him. On his couch. Sharing his space. Your laughs filling the silence of his home, your touches filling the empty spots of his heart. 

When you let go of his wrists and lifted your hips, Yoongi pulled your underwear down your legs, trying not to stare, but unable to look away as you were revealed for him. You were perfect, but he knew you would be. Soft lips, looking a little puffy as your arousal clinged to you, making you all shiny and delicious. 

You spread your legs a little wider, opening yourself to him, inviting him in. You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, there was no question about it. Yoongi had never been rendered speechless like this before, hands resting on your legs as he just… Breathed. 

Hard. 

Heavy. 

You reached out for his wrist, squeezing it, thumb caressing his skin in a way that was soothing, as if he was the one that needed reassurance. It was enough to make him snap out of whatever trance he was under and lean down to lay on the couch, between your legs, and start to kiss the inside of your thigh. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

He had never heard you curse like that before, and it made him greedy to hear more of that. Yoongi trailed kisses on your skin, moving closer and closer to your pussy until he reached it. Yoongi didn’t want to overwhelm you, but he couldn’t really go slow, not when he was dying to taste you. 

His tongue slipped out of his mouth and dipped between your folds, licking a stripe all the way up. Your moan was worth it, your taste was better than he could have expected. 

“How’s that?” Yoongi checked in with you, peppering kisses all over your lips before moving his tongue up and down your soaking cunt. 

“That–shit, I– my god, Yoongi!” 

“That good, huh?” he chuckled close to your pussy so you would feel the vibrations and it made you arch your back. 

“Can you just– keep going?” 

Yoongi looked at you from between your legs, noticing the lip worried between your teeth, your half lidded gaze, the hands resting on your lower stomach as you squeezed the suede fabric of your dress. 

His hands slipped under your thighs and he pulled you down with strong arms, making you squeal and cry out as his mouth latched onto your pussy and he ate you like a man starved. Yoongi was good at it, if he said so himself, and he was about to prove it to you. 

His tongue was quick and purposeful as he explored your pussy, teasing your hole with little circles, only to drag all the way up to your clit. He was drinking from you, swallowing hard, using his lips and tongue to make you feel good. You weren’t able to stay quiet, it seemed, hips starting to rock at their own accord. 

“You taste so fucking good.” he told you, and it was true. 

“You feel really good, too.” you admitted with a long, dragged moan. 

His lips formed a pout around your clit and Yoongi held it there, sucking softly with rhythmic movements of his tongue around it. That’s when your hand grabbed onto his hair and you held on for dear life, keeping him there. Not that he would dare move as your moans and the clenching of your cunt under him were telling him you were close. 

It was more than a little exciting, to know he was the first to taste you, the first to make you unravel like this, the first person to make you cum. In a way, even if nothing serious came out of this, Yoongi would still forever be your first. He hoped you’d always remember him like this, with his face shoved between your legs. A more selfish part of him hoped no one would ever be this good to you, no one would make you moan and cry so loud that the neighbors might hear. 

Yoongi could worry about those implications later, for now he would focus on making you cum on his tongue. 

“Oh fuck, I’m so close, please don’t stop, please–” 

Your pleas and moans were desperate, making Yoongi almost start to hump his own couch just to find relief for his bulge that was already swollen and begging for attention. The sting on his scalp was painful, but he loved it, especially because it meant you were enjoying yourself. 

Yoongi’s sole focus was on your clit, drawing quick circles with the flat of his tongue, until a cry of his name made his ears buzz and his eyes roll to the back of his head as you started trembling underneath him, your orgasm washing over you. Your thighs closed around his head, keeping him there, and he continued to lick you through your climax, a little gentler this time, so that you could enjoy that feeling for as long as possible. 

Only when your hand dropped from his hair and your legs fell open, did he stop. 

You were both breathless when Yoongi pulled away to lay down next to you. He was so drunk on you and your taste on his lips that he didn’t let his overthinking get the best of him. Yoongi simply pulled you into his chest, and you willingly clung to him, laying on your side, as you tried to regulate your breathing. 

“If that’s how it always feels, I’m really fucking mad at myself for not doing this before.” you giggled, but it was muffled by his chest. 

“That’s how it always feels with me.” Yoongi pointed out, letting himself brag. “Unfortunately, most guys out there don’t know where anything is.”

“Oh.” you looked up at him with somewhat wet eyes and red bitten lips. “Well. I might just keep coming back to you, then.” 

“That’s fine with me, doll.” 

OCTOBER 11TH | 16:05

If one wanted to find Min Yoongi, chances were, he’d be in his studio. His workspace, located in a tall building in Yeongsan, was where he spent most of his days, including weekends. The studio, affectionately named Genius Lab, had everything Yoongi needed; his desk filled with the best equipment for recording and producing, a couch where he could nap whenever he was too tired to function properly, a mini fridge where he kept a few drinks and quick snacks, and dark decor and lighting that made the space entertaining and homey enough. 

On a good day, he’d be in the zone. So focused on whatever he was working on that day that the world could be falling to pieces outside of his soundproof walls, there could be a zombie outbreak, and Yoongi wouldn’t even notice it. 

But then there were days like today. 

Yoongi had been going over the same verse for what felt like the thousandth time and he simply did not like how it sounded, his metaphors weren’t good enough, the flow was weak. And the producer, lyricist and rapper wasn’t the kind to just easily move on to the next project, come back to this later with a clearer mind. No, Yoongi would obsess over something and only actually move forward once he fixed what needed fixing. 

His back was killing him from being hunched over his keyboard for the last however many minutes, his neck felt stiff, and he was stressed. Grabbing for his phone on his desk, Yoongi noticed two things. 

Firstly, it was the middle of the afternoon already, when he thought it was just after lunch, so maybe he was stuck on this one song for longer than he hoped. 

And, secondly, Yoongi missed you. 

Now, he didn’t have it that bad for you that simply looking at the time reminded him of you, no. But your face was the image that greeted him when he awoke his sleeping phone, staring back at him, right on his screen background. Again, he was that obsessed to have made you his wallpaper, you had done it yourself, just five days ago, in what he was sure was supposed to be a joke, a lesson to not leave his phone unattended next to you. 

Yoongi just didn’t have the time to change it back to the picture of his family dog just yet. 

Things between the two of you had been going steady for the past few weeks now, almost a whole month ever since you walked into this very room and asked him to help you learn things for your book. You saw each other a few times every week, either with your friends or just you and him, but something always happened. 

Either hidden kisses and stolen moments behind the boys’ backs, or you’d go to his apartment over the weekend and stay the night. Your sessions usually involved a lot of making out, some heavy groping, handjobs, fingering or he’d eat you out. You always had lots of questions for him, which he did his best to answer with examples and practicing time. 

Yoongi wondered if you were as affected by it as he was. Sometimes he asked himself if your yearning eyes, long lasting touches and sweet kisses even after you were done meant something to you as much as they meant to him. He didn’t think you were a cruel person to pretend not to notice how infatuated he was with you, but there were only so many times one could call another person baby or fall asleep holding each other, before one starts to wonder if there’s something more there. 

As Yoongi’s phone turned dark again, he wondered if you were busy. You lived fairly close to his work, everyone in the building pretty much already knew you, so he wouldn’t get in trouble if you came over. He could use a distraction, maybe you could have something to drink at the coffee shop downstairs, it’s been a while since you met there for an afternoon snack. 

To say that escalated would be an understatement. Yoongi didn’t message you with those intentions in mind, but after reading the text conversation again, he could understand how he sounded. The man was slightly awkward when it came to texting, much preferring calls or talking in person. You were always full of emojis and funny ways of communicating, which he thought was cute. 

But then again, Yoongi thought everything you did was cute. 

And he had exactly twenty minutes to get his shit together and stop acting like such a simp, as that was the time that it took for you to walk from your apartment to his studio. A little more than that if you were in your pajamas and had to change before leaving the house. 

At the knock on his door, Yoongi got up to unlock his studio and let you in, but before he could even say hello, you were throwing your arms around his neck and pressing your lips against his. Just a smack of your lips, but still enough to surprise Yoongi. 

“Hi.” you whispered with a little smile. You had never greeted him like this before, especially not in the middle of the hallway, where anyone could see. 

“Hey–” Yoongi finally snapped out of it as you slipped your shoes off and walked into the room, going straight to the couch. “I swear this isn’t a booty call.” 

He didn’t really know why he felt the need to reiterate his pure intentions, lest you think that’s the only reason he had to want you over. 

“I know, I was just messing with you.” you giggled as you folded your legs under yourself and Yoongi took a breath of relief. “I just guessed you either wanted to show me something new or a distraction from your genius creations.” 

Yoongi scoffed lightly as he walked back to his chair, dropping down onto it with a squeak. “Got nothing genius to share today, I’m afraid.” 

“New project giving you a hard time?” you asked, leaning forward and tilting your head as you watched him. 

“You could say that.” Yoongi nodded, bringing a thumb to his mouth to bite and pull at the little piece of skin that had been bothering him for the past hour. 

“Is it for the important meeting you have next week?” you asked as you pulled his hand away from his mouth and brought it to your own lips to kiss at the corner of his finger as you noticed how red it looked. 

And this shit right here, this is exactly what he meant. There’s no way you didn’t feel something for him, when you did things like these, right? Wishful thinking or not, it made Yoongi’s heart swoon and his cheeks feel hot. 

“Not at all, so I guess I have two reasons to be worried.” his laugh was void of amusement and filled with self-deprecation. 

“Oh, no.” you scrunched your nose, only now letting go of his hand. “Honestly, Yoon, you have no reason to worry at all. Not about the meeting, not about whatever project is being annoying. You’re great. You’re more than great, you’re the best producer I know.”

“Do you know many producers?” Yoongi challenged you with a cocked eyebrow, and this time his laugh was a little more real. 

“At least two.” you pointed out in a matter of factly way. “And don’t tell Hobi, but you’re my favorite one.”

“How can I be sure you don’t tell him the same thing?”

“I guess you’ll never know.” you grinned, white teeth behind a dark lipstick smile. Now that autumn was in full swing, your wardrobe and seasonal makeup were changing, it seemed. “Is that for Agust D or someone else?”

You were nodding at his computer screen behind him, which was still opened in the latest mixing program he used to add his vocals to the melody he already had.  

“That’s mine, yeah.”

“What’s the problem with it?” you got up from the couch, walking to the desk and leaning over it with your hands flat on the wood top. Yoongi turned his chair to face you, smiling at the lines on your forehead as you tried to figure out what all of the lines, splits and soundwaves meant. 

“Not sure I like it.” he told you with a long, dragged out sigh. 

“Can I hear what you have so far?” you asked as you turned to him instead of the monitor. 

And, the thing was, Yoongi never let anybody hear his songs before he was 100% happy with it. Not Hoseok. Not Pdogg. Not even Bang PD and that was his boss. But you were looking at him so expectantly, and you were always so excited to be one of the firsts to hear his music that he couldn’t say no to you. Ever. 

Yoongi nodded and your sweet smile was already enough to calm his nerves and ill intended feelings towards his music. 

Yoongi rolled his chair a little closer to you, so he could reach for his mouse and move the song back to the start so he could play it for you, but you took it as an invitation to sit on his lap. Not that he wouldn’t actually invite you if he thought it was an option. Which he didn’t. But he was glad that it was. 

The producer was also glad for the way that you so naturally fit there, sitting on his leg, one arm naturally circling his shoulders as his wrapped around your waist to make sure you were balanced. 

“What is it called?” you were asking, looking at him from so close that he could see the little freckle on your eye. 

“People.” 

Yoongi pressed the right button with the mouse and adjusted the volume of the song so you could hear everything as one and not be deafened by the bass that he was working on previously. The song sounded a little different from what he was used to putting out, like ‘Agust D’, ‘Give it to me’ or ‘The last’, which was probably the reason he was feeling so weird about it in the first place. 

It’s not that he didn’t like the song itself, but he was worried that it was not what people expected of him. 

You were nodding your head as you both listened to it playing, trying to school your features in an attempt to not let it show how you felt about it. But when it got to the chorus, you couldn’t hold back the smile that was pushed onto your lips as you heard him sing. 

Yoongi avoided looking at you after that, as his own smile was difficult to contain. 

When the song came to an end, you turned to him with the biggest grin, and Yoongi’s cheeks were puffed as she smiled at your reactions; internally rolling his eyes at himself and his inability of keeping a straight face when it came to you and his music. 

“So, what’s wrong with it?” you asked as the hand that was around his shoulders touched the back of his neck, nails scratching at his nape. 

“I–” Yoongi sighed, almost purred, relaxing into your touch, forehead resting on your cheek as he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t remember.” 

“That sounds more like it.” you giggled, wrapping the other arm around him as he did the same to your middle. “All you needed was to get out of your head a little, huh?” 

“I guess.” 

And you. He definitely needed you. To wordlessly assure him his song was good, to enjoy listening to it, making him laugh and breathe and stop overthinking. You barely did anything at all and yet it felt like so much. 

“Glad I could help.” you were smiling. Yoongi could feel it even if he couldn’t see it. 

“You always do.” 

“I can… You know?” you started softly, almost hesitantly, and Yoongi pulled back enough to look at you. Explaining, you said: “Help you.” 

“You just did.” he insisted, but Yoongi could read it in your eyes that there was something more. 

“No, I mean… This arrangement doesn’t have to be just for me.” your eyes dropped to his lips and Yoongi licked at his bottom lip on instinct, something inside him stirring into life. “I’m here if you need me. For whatever.” 

“Doll.” 

It was a warning, but Yoongi wasn’t sure of what. Was he warning you that he might say yes? That he might be falling for you? At this point it felt like it was too late to warn you about that last one. 

“Would you let me?” you asked, a little more steadily, hand touching the side of his face, thumb running across his cheek. “Let me take care of you.” 

“Okay.” 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Yoongi nodded, even if you didn’t even have to ask. This was dangerous, at least for the man, as kissing you was easily becoming one of his favorite things to do. He hugged you a little tighter as you started placing tiny kisses against his lips, just because. And then your mouth pressed against his, properly this time, and it stayed there for a while longer. 

You were dictating the pace and the intensity of the kiss, and Yoongi let you. He wanted to see how far you would take this, how you intended on taking care of him, so he followed your lead, moving his lips against yours only when you did so. Your tongue slipped past your lips to lick at his and Yoongi parted his mouth and chased yours.

Only for you to pull back with a teasing little smile and playful eyes. 

“What a greedy boy.” you whispered, the hand on his nape slipping into his hair. 

“Baby, please.” Yoongi heard himself saying, avoiding your eyes. 

“Hm. I like that.” with a stronger hold of his hair, you made his neck bend backwards. 

Yoongi gasped in surprise and asked: “When I say please?” 

“When you call me baby.” 

You were smiling against his neck as you kissed just under his jaw, teeth nipping at his skin and Yoongi wanted you to claim him just as much as he wished he could claim you. 

Yoongi’s hands were around you, squeezing you, pressing his fingertips as he tried to feel more of you. Your sweet smile was the last thing he saw when his eyes fluttered closed and you kissed his lips. Really kissed, squeezing his long hair between your fingers once more, slipping your tongue past his lips to lick at his. 

Your lips moved in sync, dragging over each other’s, with so much more familiarity than the first time you kissed, but the bat-like butterflies were still there. Yoongi knew the taste of your lips, and he knew you liked it when he sucked on your bottom lip or pushed his tongue deeper into your mouth to take control back.

Your little, breathy moan was swallowed by Yoongi as his hand dropped to your ass and he squeezed. 

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you, babe.” you said with a little whine and Yoongi’s body twitched with the new pet name. 

“How are you planning on doing that?” he challenged, staring at your swollen bottom lip, taking it into his mouth before you had the chance to reply. 

With a new moan, eyes closing shut, your hand slid down Yoongi’s body, between his legs, to palm his growing bulge. Yoongi hissed and let go of your lip, spreading his legs wider and shamelessly so you’d have more space to work with. 

“Let me show you.” 

With one last press of your mouths, you left his lap and sunk down to the floor, sitting on your feet between his legs, thighs pressed together as your small hands rested atop his. Yoongi’s breath got caught up in his throat as this was a sight he longed to see for longer than he’d ever openly admit. 

Up until this point in your arrangement, you hadn’t yet done what you were so clearly hinting at. You hadn’t reached that part of your book just yet, but it was just another proof that today wasn’t about your book, but about Yoongi. As long as you wanted it too, so he checked:

“You know you don’t have to, right?” his hand landed softly on top of yours as he caressed your smooth skin. 

“I want you, Yoongi.” 

The way you said those words made Yoongi believe in much more than what you were about to do right now. It gave him hope that, maybe, one day they would be true the way he wanted them to be. 

You scooted just a little closer to his legs, cheek rubbing on the inside of his thigh as you laid your head there, staring up at him with uncertain eyes that told him you weren’t quite sure what to do. But Yoongi didn’t hurry you, more than okay with following your pace, letting you explore and experiment. 

Just as long as he could keep looking at you like this. 

A gentle hand touched your face, tracing the curve of your nose, down to the shape of your cupid's bow, pulling gently on your bottom lip to see it part. You closed your eyes as you basked in his caresses, mouth opening to lick at the pad of Yoongi’s thumb making not only his breath grow heavy, but his dick twitch in his pants. 

“My pretty girl.” Yoongi’s words left him without much thought. 

“Yeah?” you sighed, eyes fluttering as your face pulled away from his legs and your hands reached for the waistband of his pants. “Are you claiming me?” 

Yoongi felt hot all over, in his cheeks, in his chest, toes curling inside his studio slippers. You had no idea just how badly he wanted to claim you, in every sense of the word. 

He lifted his hips higher as you pulled his trousers down his legs; not sure if this was the best day to not wear anything else under his soft cotton pants. It made your job easier and it cut back on the teasing, but when his cock sprung free, already hard and ready, your eyes widened slightly with overwhelming. 

You tried not to let it show, or maybe you were just a little more eager to see him bare, letting the pants fall around his ankles as he spread his legs just a little wider. Yoongi was past the point of feeling self conscious about showing himself to you like this, letting your curious eyes roam all of him, but this was a new angle for you, and he wondered what you were thinking. 

You held his cock from the base, raising a little on your knees to reach his tip. Your hand wrapping around him was familiar, he knew your grip, the feel of your smooth fingers. But the feeling of your lips dragging up his shaft was brand new, as was the wetness of your tongue as you licked at the tip. 

Yoongi pushed the backrest of his chair a little further back to recline it, hands holding tightly onto the arm rests on each side of him. Suddenly his shirt felt too hot as it started clinging to his chest, but removing it felt like too much for right now, even for him. 

You teased the slit of his cock with the tip of your tongue, swirling it around the crown, hand moving up and down slowly, as if you had done this a million times before, as if you knew what Yoongi liked. The slide of your hand was a little dry, so you pulled away from him to spit on your palm and make it better. 

Yoongi’s breath hitched and came out as a slow moan as you wrapped your lips around his tip once you returned to what you were doing, looking up at him as if asking if it was okay. 

“You’re doing so well, baby.” he told you in a raspy voice that made your eyes flutter. “Keep going.” 

You nodded, seemingly forgetting you had a cock in your mouth, which made it slide just a little deeper into your mouth. It made Yoongi moan a little louder as he felt more of the warmth of your mouth, and you liked that, sinking down just a little further until you both felt the moment he hit the back of your throat. 

You sputtered with surprise, pulling off of him as you held back a cough with a hand over your lips. 

“Easy, baby. Don’t want to hurt you.” he assured you with a fond smile. “You’ll learn to deepthroat with time.” 

“Wanna make you feel good, Yoon.” you pouted, bringing your lips to his cock again. 

“You are.” he nodded through half lidded eyes, fingers twitching on the arm rests as he controlled the urge to hold you by the hair or back of your head. “Just put it in your mouth. Suck a little.” 

You did exactly that, wrapping pouty lips around the tip, moving your tongue around it inside your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you gave it experimental sucks. You hummed as his pre-cum dribbled out of him and onto your tongue, and Yoongi’s eyes rolled as he heard you audibly swallow. 

“Fuck, that’s it.” he cursed low and heavy. 

A little more confident, your lips dragged down his cock, pushing a little more of him inside, sliding on the flat of your tongue. Whatever you couldn’t fit inside –which was a lot–, you worked with your hand in tugs and strokes. You looked so perfect like this, spit coming out of the corners of your mouth, tears brimming your eyes, jaw probably aching to accommodate his girth. 

When you pulled out again it was in search of air, breathing as hard as he was. Your hand stroked Yoongi’s cock in that way you already knew he liked, closing a fist around the head as you twisted your wrist and pumped up and down. You were mouthing on his shaft, licking and sucking on his skin, tracing the engorged vein. 

Instead of making it up to the top again, your lips dragged down and down and Yoongi’s heart was in his throat. Your mouth was hot and wet as you took one of his heavy balls into your mouth, eyes on his face as if to ask if that was okay. 

“Shit, that’s nice–” he made sure to tell you, no longer able to control his hands on his sides. 

He held you by the back of your neck with a firm hold, squeezing  your nape to encourage you to suck a little harder, which he instantly regretted as it made his lower stomach tense. Yoongi tugged gently on your hair to pull you off his sac and it should be illegal how innocent and wide eyes you looked during such an act. 

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” you asked with a scratchy voice, which made you frown and Yoongi chuckle. 

“No, doll, that was too good.” he sighed a breathy gasp. 

“Oh.” you smiled, a little shy, hand never stopping the long tugs of his cock. With a giggle, you admitted: “I think I like sucking you off.” 

“Yeah?” Yoongi’s smile was still fond, despite the tension on his limbs and the sweat covering his body. “Think you can make me cum like this, hm?”

You nodded with vigor, not an ounce of doubt in your stance. Yoongi chuckled, but it would hardly be a challenge when you were getting him so close to his end already. 

A jolt of hot, white pleasure coursed through him as you mouth was on him again, fingers tightening on your hair as you covered your teeth with your lips as you sunk down and sucked harder as you pulled off. You started bobbing on his cock, pumping his shaft, fist connected to your lips to give Yoongi the feeling of being buried deep into your wet mouth. 

You started sinking lower and lower, not taking him all the way, but Yoongi felt your throat open and contract around him as you tried and tried to push him as deep as you could. Yoongi was a mindless mess, nothing else existed outside of his studio, nothing else mattered but the pure bliss you were inflicting on him. 

With droopy eyes, Yoongi watched you make a mess out of him, spit leaking from your mouth and covering your fingers and his cock. His cock was throbbing, painfully hard, twitching in time with his untamed moans that only made you keep going. 

Your free hand cradled his balls gently, squeezing as they felt heavier, drawing up as his lower stomach tensed. He wanted to hold your pretty face in place and fuck his cook deep down your throat, but it was much too soon for that. Instead, he just sat there, about to go insane with how good you were making him feel. 

Yoongi had no warning words for you, but you didn’t need them as you read the familiar signs of when he was about to cum; the pulsing of the fat vein on the underside, the twitches of his muscles, the groans and rough moans he wasn’t trying to contain anymore. 

Your lips stayed around his crown, tongue swirling and twirling around it with little sucks of your mouth as your fist twisted just under the tip. That and the harder squeeze of his balls was too much for him to hold back from. Yoongi felt his whole body flush, jolting with pure ecstasy that pushed him a little deeper, just as his orgasm hit him like a truck. 

He spilled inside your mouth with thick ribbons of white and you closed your eyes as you let him use your mouth. You were humming, he thought he heard it through his ringing ears, as you swallowed his load like a good girl. 

Some of it escaped from the corner of your mouth and you licked it clean after you pulled off of him once you milked the last drop of his release. Yoongi was breathing hard, with a stupidly proud grin on his face as you gave his softening cock little kisses. 

“Was that acceptable?” you asked with those innocent eyes again. 

“It was great, doll.” he nodded with a gummy smile, eyes closed as his hand dropped from the back of your head. “More than great. It was perfect.”

You were giggling as you stood up on wobbly legs, pulling Yoongi’s pants along. “I’ll believe you once you're not drunk on your orgasm.” 

“Ask me again in ten minutes then.” he laughed, settling his pants around his hips and reaching for you. 

“Does that mean I get to stay a little more?” you beamed, sitting on his lap, resting your red cheek against his shoulder. 

“You can stay all day if you want.” You could stay forever.

OCTOBER 19TH | 17:26

Yoongi avoided leaving his studio in the middle of his workday. Not only did he have deadlines he had to match, but it was his safe space. A place that more often than not felt like his home more than his own apartment. But he didn’t mind leaving Genius Lab if it meant he got to see you for an hour, share a cup of coffee in the place that meant so much for the two of you. 

The coffee shop across the street from the music company he worked for was the very place the two of you had met all those years ago. In an afternoon much like this one, where the autumn leaves were stuck to the wet pavement, a light rain was falling over central Seoul and the weather made you dress a little warmer. 

That day you had been searching for a change of scenery as you wrote what would soon become your first published book, and Yoongi was looking for a different background after staring at his computer screen all day. 

As he crossed the street, hands deep in his military-green jacket, hair partially hidden by a black beanie, Yoongi could already see you sitting at your preferred spot, by the big glass wall. Yoongi much rather sit deep into the shop, as the busy passers-by always posed a distraction to him whenever he tried to write lyrics outside of his usual set up. 

You, however, always said that you liked to watch people walking by, often getting lost in watching the life outside the café. You were both writers, he supposed. But while he wrote songs to sing or rap, you built worlds for people to get lost in. 

Yoongi could never do what you did. 

He was about to knock on the glass, wave at you to show he arrived and was coming in, but as a guy approached you and took your attention completely, Yoongi froze. He knew who the guy was, having been served by the man many times during his visits to the coffee shop. And he also knew that Kai had a not so secret and very obvious crush on you. 

Yoongi couldn’t blame the guy, he was in the same boat afterall, and you seemed oblivious to both of their infatuations with you. But it always rubbed Yoongi the wrong way, especially now. Even if he knew that this agreement you had going on gave him absolutely no claim over you whatsoever. 

In fact, it made Yoongi’s throat feel a little dry as he realized that he wasn’t just teaching you things you could use in your book, but you could also use in real life. With other guys. With guys like Kai. 

Not that hooking up with him –if he could even really call it that– would mean any great changes in your life. You were naturally flirty, but not obnoxiously so. And you were already confident, never afraid of speaking your mind, a social butterfly that made friends with anyone, anywhere. 

All Yoongi was doing was taking the pressure off. 

By sharing these experiences with you, all he did was make sure that your “firsts” were with someone you trusted, someone you wouldn’t regret down the line. Even if virginity was just a concept created by society to control and overpower women over the centuries and dictate their values, it was still kind of a big deal. 

But once you were done with that unnecessary pressure, you’d be free to have all of the one night stands and adventures that your heart desired. You said so yourself, you never had them before because that’s not how you envisioned your first time. 

Yoongi didn’t think that’s what you had in mind when you asked for his help, and he was positive you were focused on writing your book and that was it. But it didn’t mean that you wouldn’t realize this once you were done with the novel. Once you were done with him. 

“Hey!” the knocking on the glass, coming from the inside, made Yoongi jump. You were looking at him expectantly with that sweet smile of yours, a little wave as you called him in. "Aren't you coming?"

"Yeah, yeah." 

By the time Yoongi walked into the neutral colored coffee shop, Kai was already gone and you were closing the lid of your laptop, waiting for him to walk to you. 

The smell of coffee and fresh pastries attacked Yoongi’s stomach, reminding him he had skipped lunch; a fact you’d definitely scold him for if you found out. He’d order something to eat in a bit, Kai never spent too long without an excuse to go back to your table anyway, at least he could do some work while blatantly flirting with you. 

“What were you doing out there?” you asked him with an amused smile, looking cute in your mustard-yellow knitted sweater. 

“Thought I forgot my phone for a sec.” he lied, patting the device on his pocket just to make sure he hadn’t actually. 

“I highly doubt you would, that’s like an appendage to you at this point.” you joked, pushing the plate with an orange muffin towards Yoongi. “Here. Eat.”

“How–”

“How did I know you didn’t eat? Call it an educated guess.” you jutted out your chin, resting back against your chair and taking a sip of your drink. You were having a hot chocolate today, which wasn't surprising as it was your drink of choice whenever the weather started to turn cold. “I like to think I know you pretty well, Yoon.” 

“If you really knew me, you’d have coffee waiting too.” Yoongi grumbled, using it to cover the fact that the knowledge you had of him and his habits made him a little giddy. 

“Nope, not until you eat. I don’t want you developing stomach problems with the amount of caffeine you already drink.”

You shook your head, blowing on your hot chocolate before taking another sip. Yoongi listened to you, as he always did, and plucked pieces of the muffin to take into his mouth. This was his favorite baked good from this coffee shop, something he had never tried before you showed up in his life. 

Now it was his usual order, his guilty pleasure to indulge in whenever he had a craving for something sweet. It didn’t have anything to do with you, he always tried to convince himself, it was just another one of his habits. 

“Were you writing?” Yoongi asked as you seemed distracted watching a woman walk a small dog outside. The dog was wearing even smaller rain boots, which was no doubt the reason for your delighted smile. 

“Mhm, I’m making progress, thankfully.” you nodded, attention moving back to him. “Thanks to you.”

“You’re the writer, I’m not doing anything.” he shrugged noncommittally, swallowing the last piece of his muffin.  

“We both know that’s not true.” after noticing he was done eating, you looked at the counter of the shop, lifting your hand in a thumbs up that made Kai nod in the distance. “You’re helping me in an unconventional way, but you are.”

“As long as it’s really helping.” 

Not even a minute later, Kai was back at your table, greeting Yoongi with an ‘afternoon, hyung’ and placing a coffee in front of him. One Yoongi hadn’t ordered or paid for. You had a proud little smile pulling on your berry-lipstick-lips, raising an eyebrow as if challenging Yoongi to say you didn’t know him again. 

“I think I managed to fix most scenes.” you got back on the subject, leaning forward on the table with your elbows, holding the hot chocolate mug between your hands. 

“Already?” Yoongi was surprised to say the least, but he knew what it was like to be under pressure to make through deadlines. 

“Yes, but the first chapters are pretty tame, so.” you justified. “Nothing I really need to delete and start over.”

“Good.” 

Yoongi got a little lost on the way you brought your drink to your lips, watching as your lipstick left a stain on the rim of the mug. He wondered how good that color would look staining his skin instead; his lips, his neck, his chest. 

“What about you? How did that meeting go yesterday?” you asked him earnestly, reaching out to hold his hand on top of the table and Yoongi felt little shocks where your hands met. 

“Ah, it went well, yeah. Pretty well, actually.” a tight lipped smile turned into a gummy one as he said: “I’m going to be working with Jae-sang sunbaenim.”

Your scoff was pained as you frowned: “I’m sorry, am I so out of the loop that I don’t know who that is?”

“You know him as PSY.”

The squeal that escaped your lips was high pitched enough to catch the attention of the table next to yours, but you never minded that and this time Yoongi didn’t mind the looks from strangers either. 

“What?!” you hissed, a lot more contained this time. “No way!”

“I’m pretty excited about it, actually.” Yoongi let out a small sound of his own; one that sounded like a squeak as he wanted to get up and do a little dance. But he didn’t. 

“You should be! That’s huge!” your hold on his hand was a little firmer, smile a little brighter. 

Yoongi had worked with famous musicians many times before. The main part of his job was writing and producing for other artists, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have his own mixtapes, and his own collaborations with stars that be admired; like IU –much for Jungkook’s delight and Jimin’s panic–, Suran, MAX and Lee Sora. But none of those had the potential of really making it internationally as this collab with PSY had. 

“He wants me to feature on it, too.” he told you, and your jaw dropped. 

“Yoongi! That’s amazing!” your other hand reached for his and you held it between yours. “You deserve it so much. I’m so proud of you, I hope you know that.”

“Thanks, doll.”

“We should do something to celebrate.” you stated before he had the chance to deflect. 

With a shrug, and the desire to hold onto your hands for the next three hours, he said: “We’re having coffee at our spot, that’s good enough.”

“Not for a collab with PSY it’s not.” you sounded almost offended. “I’d say we should go to Serendipity, but you hate clubs.” 

“Please don’t make me go there again.” his laugh was one of suffering and despair, which made you giggle. 

“Oh! I know!” you chirped, letting go of his hands in order to clap excitedly, just once. “I’m going to cook for you!”

“I thought you wanted to do something nice–”

“Hajimaaaa!” you complained with another laugh, one so contagious Yoongi found himself mimicking. “Maybe I’ll order something from Jin’s restaurant then, and put it in pans and dishes, so you think I cooked.”

“Sounds good, doll.” Yoongi agreed, which was the easiest thing to do. 

“Perfect! It’s a date then.”

OCTOBER 21ST | 18:03

By the time Yoongi made it to his car, he had already opened and buttoned up his shirt all of five times. He did trust Jimin when it came to fashion choices, but not when it came to mischief. And that group chat screamed ‘dongsaengs up to no good’. But the two boys did make Yoongi feel good about his choice of clothing, how he did his hair and the little bit of makeup he added to his lids just to make them pop. 

He could only hope you didn’t think he was trying too hard. 

Even though he was. 

Even if this wasn’t a date. 

Yoongi’s routine each time he sat in his car was always the same: Sit down, make sure the mirrors were all in the right position, start the car, connect his phone to the bluetooth sound system, pick a playlist he was in the mood for, seatbelt, drive. But this afternoon as he drove out of the parking lot of his not-so-modest-building in Hannam, the soundtrack for Yoongi’s drive was the beep of a connecting call. 

“Hyung!” Namjoon’s voice was the one fill his car as the call was connected. “You know you’re the only person who even makes calls these days, right? A text would have been fine.” 

“I’m driving, can’t text.” Yoongi provided as he leaned a little further front to see that his road was free and he could go. 

“Oh. Ohhh, are you going to see our favorite writer for your celebratory date?” Namjoon’s all knowing tone made a tiny smudge of heat taint his cheeks, but at least he wasn’t there to see it and tease him about it. 

More to himself than to his best friend, Yoongi felt the need to clarify: “Not a date, but yeah, I’m on my way.”

“And you called me to get tips on her latest chapters?” on the other line of the call, Yoongi could hear Namjoon’s voice turning a little clearer, as if he’d closed the door of his office. “I just read the edited ones and damn, hyung! Who knew you had that dirty mouth–”

“That’s not– She doesn’t write what we do word by word.” Yoongi panicked for a second, thinking about not only Namjoon, but the rest of the world reading what the two of you had been doing. With a whisper, he hissed: “Right?”

“Don’t worry, I’m just messing with you.” Namjoon laughed and Yoongi shook his head, fingers relaxing on the steering wheel. “But she’s been doing well, I don’t have any new pointers for the chapters. She’s a lot happier too, it seems, and I don’t think the book is the only reason why.”

“You know, that right there is the reason I’m calling you.” Yoongi scoffed for no one to see as he drove out of his neighborhood and into the busy roads of Seoul. So much for avoiding rush hour when the capital was hustling 24/7. 

“What did I do this time?” Namjoon sighed on the other side. 

“Not this time, still the same thing.” he said. “Why did you put this crazy idea into her head?”

“Hyung. It's been weeks.” his best friend sounded tired, as if they went over this time and time again. And they had. 

“Over a month and I already regret this–”

“Do you regret accepting it? Or do you wish she never asked you?” Namjoon had a way of using hard phrases and poetic analogies sometimes, the perks of being an editor and a published poet, no doubt. 

“What's the difference?”

“Well, in one scenario you realize you work better as friends, and in the other it means you got it bad.”

“I got it so fucking bad is not even funny.”

Admitting that to his best friend was easier over the phone. Even if Yoongi knew Namjoon and all of their other friends also knew about it. It was a miracle that you didn’t, at this point. Unless you did, but had been ignoring it in order to not make things awkward. 

If that was the case, Yoongi wasn’t sure if he should be thankful or worried.

“Ahh, I see. So your feelings are growing impossibly fast and you're starting to feel bad because you don't think this means the same for her as it means for you?” Namjoon summed it up as Yoongi stopped his car at a red light. 

The trees were in full autumn colors, all shades of red, yellow and orange. If Yoongi rolled his windows down, he was sure he could smell the pumpkin spice and cinnamon in the air, which always brought him a nice, warm feeling inside.  

“Was this part of a master plan to get back at me for senior year?” Yoongi asked after a lightbulb moment.

“What?”

“You know, Jiheun?”

Jiheun was a girl Namjoon had a massive crush on, back when they were both in High School. And Yoongi might have read the signs wrong and told his best friend that the girl liked him back. Only for poor, string bean, bowl cut, awkward Namjoon to ask her out and get rejected in the middle of the school cafeteria. 

“Wha- hyung! Of course not, it's been years I’m not that petty.”

“Okay, okay.” not that Yoongi thought Namjoon would do something like this as they were both adults now, but his anxiety-filled-brain still asked stupid stuff sometimes. 

“Besides, I have a simple solution to your problem.” Namjoon stated.

“Do tell, because I'm almost at her place.” not completely true, he still had one more stop on the way to your apartment. 

“Have you thought about confessing?”

Yoongi’s answer was the love child between a wheeze and a snicker. 

“If you're not happy about this agreement, but you still wanna help her, and be with her for real,” Namjoon continued, seeing as Yoongi was too gobsmacked to reply. “Then tell her how you're feeling.”

“What part of that solution is simple?” Yoongi asked with a glare directed to the panel of his car, hoping Namjoon could feel its heat. 

“It’s simple because it’s telling the truth.”

“The truth that could ruin everything. Her book, our friendship–” Yoongi argued, being interrupted by his best friend:

“Are you so afraid of rejection that you would rather keep hurting yourself? You know this arrangement won't last forever.”

“I know.”

“And maybe she feels the same way.”

Yoongi’s fingers tightened against the steering wheel just a little harder as he said: “That’s a big fucking maybe.”

“Didn’t you say she’s been calling you babe and shit? And you like… cuddle now?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Those are good signs, hyung!”

He knew that, it’s been plaguing his mind for the past couple of weeks. But to hear someone else say it, someone as rational as he was, made him feel like maybe it wasn’t just wishful thinking on his part. 

As if the universe was on his side for once in his life, Yoongi found a parking spot right in front of Maybell Bakery. You had promised to cook for Yoongi tonight, but he said he’d bring dessert. And you really liked the double layered, pumpkin pie that was only sold during the month of october and was extremely overpriced, so he placed an order and paid a little extra for it to be done by the time he was able to pick it up. 

“Alright, I’m here. Gotta go.” 

“Okay. Call me if something happens, I’m invested in this.” Namjoon said and Yoongi could picture his little grin that would most likely poke a dimple in his cheeks. 

“You better be, you’re the one who threw me into this mess.” Yoongi took his seatbelt off, but didn’t move, waiting for his friend to hang up. 

“You fail to remember that she’s the one who asked you, I didn’t tell her to go after you.” Namjoon pointed out in that know-it-all tone that fit him so well. “If I’m being honest, I thought she’d go for Hoseok hyung and not you.”

“What?!” Yoongi frowned at that new piece of information, hand freezing on the way to his key to turn off the car. 

“He’s more… Dom, you know? That seems to be more like her type.”

“Great–”

Yoongi did take control with you, and he had his moments in bed before, where he had girls and guys begging for him to let them cum, but he wouldn’t define himself as a Dom. Not the way Hoseok was, Namjoon was right about that. 

“But she still went after you, hyung! That counts for a lot.” Namjoon tried to backtrack but the damage was done. 

“I know, okay.” Yoongi took a deep, calming breath that didn’t do much to quell his nerves; of seeing you, of considering the ideas Namjoon was planting in his mind. “Nice going on telling the kids about this, by the way. Jiminie and Jungkook were teasing me about this date.”

“First of all, stop stalling and get out of your car already.” Namjoon laughed on the other side and Yoongi nodded to himself. “And second of all, I didn’t tell anybody.”

“Then how did they know–”

“Well, hyung. Have you ever thought that maybe she told them? And she’s thinking of this as a date?”

Yoongi had not, in fact, thought about that possibility. Not only were you a lot closer to the three younglings –who were closer to you in age– than Namjoon, you usually told each other everything, seeing as Jimin had been your best friend since way before he even met you. 

So to say it gave Yoongi all kinds of butterflies, the simple chance of you telling your best friend and his boyfriend that you were having a date tonight, officially, would be an understatement. 

“Go get your girl.” 

Namjoon’s encouragement was the last thing he heard before leaving his car to pick up your pie in the bakery. 

On the drive to your place, Yoongi’s nose was being attacked by the fresh baked goods resting on the passenger’s seat of his car, as his mind was plagued with the thoughts of you and him. 

You, who had walked into his life by mere chance, and stayed in it from your own insistence, as Yoongi hardly made new friends. You, who had the most expressive eyes Yoongi had ever seen. You, who owned his heart in a tight grip and you didn’t even know. 

You, who were already waiting for him at the front door of your apartment as the elevator dropped him off on your floor. 

“You don’t have to call me to buzz you in everytime, Yoon, you know the code to the gate.” was the first thing out of your pretty mouth as you walked him into your apartment. 

“So, what, am I supposed to just let myself in?” Yoongi’s smile was easy as he slipped out of his shoes. “Why don’t you give me the key to your apartment while you’re at it?” 

You giggled as you said: “Because then you might come in and steal all of my tangerines.”

Yoongi was rolling his eyes at your words, pink cheeks as you called him out on his small addiction to the fruit. You reached for him after you locked the door of your apartment, raising on your toes to kiss his lips in that way that made Yoongi feel like you were something more. 

“You look so handsome tonight.” you told him so, a hand smoothing the black silk shirt he was wearing.

“Thanks. You’re always looking pretty.” Yoongi told you in an unbribed moment of boldness, making you smile sweetly, hand still on his chest. 

You were wearing a black sundress with a tiny red cherries pattern that was too light for the weather outside, but perfect for the toasty ambiance you kept your apartment in. 

“Thank you.” you beamed, walking deeper into your apartment and leading him inside. “What’s that you got there?”

“Can’t you take a guess?”

Yoongi saw you eyeing the cardboard box with the pretty fall themed design when he walked in, and there was no way you couldn’t smell the festive pie. But you were still playing coy, as you usually did whenever anyone gave you gifts or did something nice for you; never one who liked to assume. 

You and him were pretty alike in that sense. 

“I know what I want it to be, but that would be impossible, because I’ve been calling Maybell and they keep telling me they are booked for the double layer pumpkin pie until next year.” you told him with a pretty pout. Yoongi had just felt your lips, but he wanted more. 

Focusing on the matter at hand, he placed the box on top of your small kitchen counter and pushed it closer to you as he said: “Why don’t you open it, then?”

You did so, pulling apart the dark orange bow to open the box, letting out a high pitched squeal as you saw the pie. Yoongi’s mouth watered at the sight, he could only imagine your excitement. 

“Yoongi!” you gushed with a small jump. “How the hell did you do this?!”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” he said, not really calculating his words and offering you a tight lipped smile as he realized how he sounded. 

“Cheesy.” you giggled, but reached out to squeeze his arm. “Thank you.”

“What smells so good?” Yoongi deflected. 

“That would be the bulgogi!” you chirped, pointing to the pan in the oven. “We can eat in a bit, and I hope it tastes as good as it smells.” 

“Well, you’re making it, so I’m sure it probably won’t–”

“Than–hey!” you laughed at his joke, huffing as you pretended to be mad, which made Yoongi laugh along. 

You shook your head and walked to the fridge, opening it to grab a wine bottle that Yoongi could recognize the label of. It was the brand and kind that he used to have at home, alongside his many bottles of whiskey. 

“Should we open this? It’s supposed to go well with the food, according to Naver.” you offered, and your eyes were pleading. 

“I’m driving, doll. If you had told me you wanted to drink, I would have taken a lift.” it hurt him to say that, and Yoongi didn’t like the way it made you bite your lip, uncertain. 

“You can spend the night.” you told him, avoiding his eyes as you placed the bottle on the counter. Not moving to open it, but not putting it away either. “Or you can leave your car here and I’ll drive it back to you tomorrow.” 

You didn’t like driving in Seoul, Yoongi knew that. You did have a license, and you drove whenever you absolutely had to, but it wasn’t something you’d offer lightly. Not only wouldn’t he put you through that, but the option of sleeping over at your place tonight was an inviting one. 

You had spent the night at his place before, shared a bed, so it wasn’t the end of the world and wouldn’t make Yoongi spiral. But this was the first time that you’d share your bed. And somehow that felt like a new step you were taking in whatever this was. 

Yoongi moved around you to take the bottle opener resting on the counter behind you and you smiled at his acceptance grabbing the two wine glasses you had already left out. 

Once the drink was poured into the glasses, you made the move to sit on the small couch of your modest apartment and Yoongi followed you closely. 

Your apartment was a small one bedroom unit, with a tiny kitchen and small living room. Enough for a single woman living alone in Seoul. It was filled with creams, whites and a few pops of color here and there. Yoongi could already notice the pumpkin shaped candle holder on top of your center table, and the cookie jar that looked like a ghost on your kitchen counter. 

“I see you’re getting ready for halloween.” Yoongi pointed out.

“Oh, those have been out since October first.” you smiled, following his line of vision. You pulled a maple leaf printed cushion and rested it over your legs to sit comfortably.  “You have to see my room, it’s really cute.”

Yoongi chuckled, because he could imagine the sheets that must be in autumn colors, maybe some bunting and pumpkin shaped fairy lights. 

“I’m thinking I want to do Halloween differently this year.” you started again, softly swirling the wine in your glass.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Jiminie wants to go to Serendipity for costume night.” you were nodding as you told Yoongi of the plans. 

“Of course he does.” he mused. “What are you thinking about dressing as? Sexy Anne Rice again?”

“Oh my god, that wasn’t supposed to be sexy!” you giggled with a cute blush on your cheeks, hiding your eyes behind a hand. 

“The fang marks on your neck made it sexy.” Yoongi hadn’t seen you dressed in the costume that was supposed to represent your favorite writer, that would mean he actually went to the halloween party last year, but he got many selcas and pictures of the night. 

“Well, it was an homage to her Interview With a Vampire world.” you explained and he smiled, because that was just so you. 

“What are you thinking of changing this year?” he asked and you moved a little on your seat. 

“I’m thinking about a couple's costume.” you said, not looking at him, and Yoongi’s blood ran cold. “Maybe I’ll dress up as Agatha Christie. Now I just need to find my Poirot.”

“That’s, uhm–” Yoongi nodded, gaining time to drink a few long sips of his wine. 

How was he supposed to answer that? You were thinking of going to a club with someone else? Wearing a couple’s costume? You knew Yoongi didn’t go to clubs or parties, so you obviously didn’t mean you thought you and him should go together. It was easy to wonder if you were talking to someone on the side. 

On the side of what? Yoongi asked himself bitterly. It’s not like you two were dating in the first place. It was easy for him to forget about it, but you clearly didn’t. 

“Are you thinking of doing anything?” you pushed as the silence grew too thick. 

“Nah. My building might have trick or treaters again, so I’ll just give out candy.” he shrugged, bringing the glass to his lips. 

“I can help you with that!” 

“I’m sure you’ll find your Poirot by then and will be too busy for your friends.” 

That was a jab at himself, a way for him to get it through his head that that’s what the two of you were. You were just offering him help to be nice, because you were really nice. So nice you’d have anyone wishing to go to a club with you as your date. 

Yoongi included. If you asked him. 

“Yeah, we’ll see.” you sounded a little disappointed as you sipped quietly on your wine, but that could have been his own projecting. “So how’s the collab with PSY coming along?”

As you both sipped on your wine, Yoongi told you all of what he knew so far about That That. He’d have a meeting with the artist again this following week, to talk about their expectations and schedules, but he was staying positive. 

You were so excited for him, hanging off to his every word, asking questions and being so supportive of him and everything he did that his hunched shoulders turned a little straighter and his breathing got a little easier. 

There was no need to be worried right now, Yoongi decided, the more wine he drank, the further away the lump in his throat got. No matter what happened tomorrow, he still had tonight. 

“I really hope he makes you dance.” you were saying as you brought the dinner to the small table, making Yoongi scoff. 

“There’s no fucking way I’m dancing.” he told you with a squint, following you with the last of the banchans. 

“Oh, come on, you’d be so good at it!” you told him without an ounce of doubt, giggling as you turned to face him. “I’m sure you can move those hips!” 

Yoongi had a bowl of kimchi in one hand and another of fresh cabbage slaw in the other, so he had no way of protecting himself when you held him by the hips, making him turn this way and that as if you were proving he could dance. 

“Hajimaaaa.” he warned you with closed eyes and a laugh on his lips. 

“Admit it, you’d be great at shaking that ass!” you continued to sway him, both of your laughs mixing together as he was just trying to put the food down. 

“I will do no such thing.” 

With each step forward Yoongi took, you took one backwards, until you both reached the table and he could place the banchans down. His hands were now free, so he could take yours away from his hips and pin them to his chest. 

“Hajima.” he repeated, a little lower this time, as he could smell the wine on your breath from close to each other you were. 

“Or what?” you challenged with a pretty, innocent smile. 

“Or I’ll have to stop you myself.” 

“I think Min Yoongi is the greatest dancer this country has ever–”

Yoongi felt your smile against his as his lips pressed against yours, softly, but determined. He let go of your hands in order to hold both sides of your face as his lips moved against yours, tongue licking between your lips for you to part them for him. You were holding onto his shirt, little gasps leaving you as his tongue swiped at yours. 

Yeah. At least he had tonight. 

OCTOBER 21ST | 21:17

As it turns out, Yoongi did not have tonight. 

Towards the end of the dinner –which was delicious, by the way–, you started to grow a little restless. Too stuck in your mind at times, not really answering Yoongi’s questions as if there was something worrying you. And Yoongi knew not to push you, you’d tell him whatever was bothering you whenever you felt comfortable to do so. 

He knew something was really wrong when he got up to take the empty dishes to the sink and you didn’t try to stop him, nor did you move to help. You stayed in your spot, looking at the top of the table as if you were reading something really important there. 

And then it came, the three words that made Yoongi’s stomach drop: “Can we talk?” 

Yoongi left the dishes where they were, too nervous and hands too trembling for him to attempt to wash any of them. When he turned to you, you weren’t sitting at the table anymore, but standing in the living room, looking over at the city lights outside your window, arms around yourself as if you were trying to self soothe. 

“What’s up?” he asked you, voice wavering. 

“I’m not sure how I feel about this agreement anymore.” you were blunt and straight to the point. The dinner and the wine were trying to make a comeback, but Yoongi held himself together. 

“Oh.”

“I mean, I did learn a lot–I am learning a lot. Each time we… do something, it’s fun and nice and I really enjoy myself.” this is when you turned around to face him and it wasn’t fucking fair that you looked this good while you were about to break his heart. 

“Okay.” 

“Maybe you were expecting to have sex tonight–”

Hearing this made Yoongi take a couple steps to close the distance between you, but stopped short of touching you. “No, doll. Stop, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, you know I’d never push you.”

“I know.” you nodded softly, avoiding his eyes, twirling the ring on your finger. 

“We can just drop everything, I told you from the start.” he assured you once more, having to stick his hands into his pocket to stop himself from reaching out to touch you. He’d never get to touch you again. Pretending this wasn’t hurting him, that his hands wouldn’t shake if they were out of his pockets, that the lump in his throat wasn’t back. “There’s no pressure. You’re free to walk away whenever you want.”

“Yeah, okay.” you sniffed, as if you were about to cry. Yoongi’s heart broke for a whole different reason. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” he shrugged, even if he was positive nothing would ever be right again. 

“It’s not. I really didn’t mean for this to happen… God, I’m so silly.” you chuckled, but it was a heavy one. You took a step back, both hands on your waist as you shook your head. 

“You’re not silly, you wanted to make your book better.” Yoongi supplied. 

He wondered if he should just count his losses and leave, walk away with the little bit of dignity he still had left, make this easier for you as well. And he couldn’t even drive home, not with how much wine he had. He could take a cab and ask one of his friends to come back for his car tomorrow; what annoyed him was that he couldn’t even have Namjoon do that as payback when the man didn’t drive. 

“Yeah, and what do I do?” you asked, obviously a rhetorical question as you laughed at yourself.  “I ask the guy I have a crush on to help me.”

“What–”

“As if that crush wouldn’t turn into feelings!” you continued, waving a hand in the air. 

Yoongi’s mind was a mess as he tried to make sense of your words. His voice came out as a high pitched sound as he asked: “Feelings?”

“I know I made this awkward. I’ll understand if you need me to step away for a little while.” you said, still not looking at him, still talking to yourself as you started walking from one side to the other, hands and arms making random gestures. “You know what, if anything, Namjoon made this awkward.”

“Doll.”

“He knows how I’ve always felt about you, and you know what he told me just this afternoon?” you looked at him then, but it was fleeting. “That I should just confess! As if that was so damn easy.”

Yoongi’s lips split into a grin and suddenly the weight was lifted. His stomach stopped turning, but the butterflies were still there. His cold sweat wasn’t of anxiety anymore and the trembling in his body was from excitement, not dread. 

“Doll.”

“Well, this is the last time I’m ever listening to that giant fool–”

“Baby.”

At the term of endearment your mouth closed and you looked at Yoongi with wide, sparkling eyes. He walked to you then, hesitance flying out the window. When his hand touched your face, you didn’t flinch or pull away from him, leaning into his touch. 

“Why are you doing this?” you asked softly, eyes closing, bottom lip pushing out. “Shouldn’t you be running?” 

“I should be doing exactly this.” Yoongi pressed his lips to your forehead and you let out a shuddering breath. 

“Yoon, it will only hurt more when you leave.” you pouted, and the producer guessed it was a good time to let you in on a little detail you seemed to still be missing. 

“What if I don’t leave, hm?” he lifted your face when you avoided looking at him. “What if I have feelings for you too?” 

“Well, that would be great, but–” you were about to start spinning again when you gasped. “Do you?” 

“Thought it was obvious.” he chuckled, gums out and everything. 

“Nuh-uh!” 

Your jaw dropped and you blinked slowly, kinda like a cat, letting his words sink in, the small brushing of his thumb on your cheek that dragged down to touch your bottom lip. Then your lips kissed the pad of Yoongi’s digit, he looked at your eyes to find nothing but joy. 

“Will you take me out on a date, then?” you asked, hands circling his torso in a hug. 

“I think we just had our first date.” Yoongi looked over his shoulder to the table where your dinner had been perfectly pleasant until the moment you got in your head. 

But Yoongi understood now why you were so restless, why you sunk in on yourself and barely touched your food towards the end of the dinner. He could imagine exactly all that had been plaguing your mind, as the same thing was running through his. 

“But I’ll take you on a second one.” he said, kissing your cheek. “And on a third one. And fourth one.” 

You were giggling and squeezing him as he kissed all over your face, just to hear more of your sweet noises. “Does that mean you’re my boyfriend now?” 

“If you want me to be.” Yoongi nodded, pulling his face away from yours so he could look into your eyes as he asked: “Do you want to be mine?” 

“I’ve been yours, babe.” your arms unwrapped from his middle so you could hug his shoulders. “You have no idea for how long.” 

“Let’s keep it that way, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You were smiling as Yoongi held your face a little firmer, pressed his lips to yours a little harder. It was just supposed to be a celebratory kiss, really, one that marked the end of your arrangement and the start of your relationship. Until he swiped his tongue between your lips and you parted them with a moan. Your hands slipped into his hair, his dropped to your waist. 

The wet sounds of your mouths sliding together were turning Yoongi’s happiness and elation into pure desire, greed and desperation. You were his now. Properly. Truly. You were with him because you had feelings for each other, not because of a silly book.

With the way you were pressing yourself to him, as if trying to melt and mold the two of you into one being, he could guess you were feeling the same way. When you pulled your lips from his, they were red and slightly swollen, and your eyes were like a kaleidoscope, pulling him in, making him dizzy with all of your colors and shapes. 

“You wanna see my room?” you invited, making Yoongi’s stomach do a flip. 

“I do wanna see your Halloween decor.” he nodded with a grin. 

You smiled and took his hand with yours, palms and fingers slotting together as if they belonged just like that. You dragged him out of the living room, through the short hallway and into your bedroom, turning the lights on to let him see the space. 

Your bedroom followed the same color patterns as the rest of the apartment, lots of whites and creams, but the apricot orange bed sheets complimented the halloween decorations sprinkled here and there. Your double bed was pressed against the furthest wall, right under a high window. Your dresser was cluttered with makeup, an opened jewelry box, a few papers and your laptop. On the headboard of your bed, a string light with little white ghosts was hanging, which you turned on as soon as you walked into the room. 

Next to your bed, on top of the white nightstand, was a book, a case of wireless earbuds Yoongi had gifted you on your last birthday, and a printed picture of you and him. It had been taken months ago, by Hoseok and one of his many disposable cameras, but Yoongi didn’t know you had kept it. 

“Ah.” you said with a small laugh, wrapping your arms around Yoongi’s middle as you noticed what he was looking at. “I was hoping you might see that and realize I’m in love with you.” 

“You could have my face as a blanket and I still wouldn’t have realized that.” Yoongi chuckled, pulling you to his front and bending down to pick you up. “It’s nice to hear it, though.” 

You squealed as he lifted you with strong arms, biceps bulging in his tight shirt as you wrapped your legs around his waist and held on. Your gasp made him feel really good about himself. 

“Bed?” you offered with a smile and an eyebrow wiggle. 

“Bed.” 

Yoongi was nodding as he took the two steps to reach your bed, holding you with a tight grip until he sat down against your headboard. The little plastic ghosts clinked and poked him in the back of the neck as he settled with you on his lap, making you giggle. 

“Come here.” Yoongi urged and you complied. 

Your small hands were on his chest, sliding on the silk fabric until your fingers came in contact with the triangle of skin created by the three buttons he left open –per Jimin’s advice–. Each of your legs were on one side of Yoongi’s hips, straddling him as you sat right on top of him. 

“Did I tell you that you look pretty tonight?” you asked him as you dragged your nails on his skin, nose touching his, lips brushing together. 

“Did I tell you that you look pretty every night?” he countered, eyes closing as he took your bottom lip between his teeth. 

You mewled softly, chasing Yoongi’s mouth once he let go of your lip. Your kiss was heated, deep, full of tongue and little moans that grew louder and louder as you started to rock your hips back and forward, dragging your core on Yoongi’s erection, making it feel harder and harder with every slow sway of your hips. 

Yoongi’s hands were moving up and down your legs, slipping under your dress and growing bolder as you pushed into his hands when they settled on your ass. He squeezed the flesh, fingertips dragging on the tiny material that felt like lace under his touch. 

His hips flexed up at the same time that you pressed down and the pressure on your core must have felt good, for you to throw your head back with closed eyes and parted lips. Yoongi took that as an invitation to kiss down your jaw, covering your throat in kisses, choosing a spot at the side of your neck to latch on. 

“Yes, babe–” you breathed out, a hand slipping into his hair as if you were trying to keep him there. 

“Mine.” he growled against your skin. 

Yoongi licked your neck, as if preparing the skin to take his mark, sucking on the soft patch once he deemed it warm enough. Yoongi suckled hard enough to hurt, but you were lighting up with the sting, skin blooming with a red and purple bruise. 

“All yours.” you nodded breathlessly, moaning as your hips never settled. 

With one arm around your waist, Yoongi trailed kisses on the length of your shoulder, knocking the tiny strap of your sundress down. Your movement made Yoongi pull back a little to watch you push the other strap of your dress down, looking at him with an inviting bite on your bottom lip. 

He was looking at you, gaze boring into yours, as his hands moved from under your dress to climb up your ribs to touch your breasts. They felt so full and soft and perfect as he squeezed both on each palm, your lips falling open with a sigh as he pulled the top of your dress down. 

Your breasts spilled free and Yoongi groaned, looking at your pretty, perky and pebbled nipples, shade a little darker than your own skin. 

“My eyes are up here.” you giggled, but you weren’t able to mask your nervousness. 

“Mhm, and I love them too.” Yoongi nodded, but his gaze stayed where they were, watching the mounds of your breasts move as he cupped them both, rolling your nipples with his thumbs. You gasped and whined, which prompted the question: “Sensitive?” 

“Guess so.” you nodded shyly, nails scraping at his scalp. “My own hands never really did much, but guess your fingers–ooh.” 

You gasped, closing your eyes as Yoongi watched your face contort in pleasure as he pinched your nipples between his pointer fingers and thumbs. 

“My fingers?” he probed, just to hear more of your shaky tone. 

“I love them.” you mewled. “You have really sexy hands, did you know?” 

Yoongi chuckled, not thinking much as he said: “Yeah, I’ve been told.”

Your grasp on his hair tightened as you stared at him right in the eye, lines between your eyebrows as you frowned. 

“Only I can have them now.” you stated with a hint of possessiveness that made Yoongi shiver. “Just so you know.” 

“I know, doll.” he told you so with a little chuckle that didn’t last long as his mouth met the heated skin of your collar bones. 

“Yeah?” you whined, squeezing his hair between your fingers. 

“Mhm, I’m all yours.” he told you in hopes of quelling your worries, even though your jealousy was hot. “And you’re all mine.” 

You whispered a tiny ‘okay’ that turned into a moan as Yoongi kissed his way to your breasts, choosing a nipple to latch on. His lips wrapped around the bud and he sucked it into his mouth, dragging his tongue around it to hear you make more of those delicious sounds, just for him. 

Pushing your chest harder against his face, you resumed the rocking of your hips, making him groan around your nipple, pulling off of it with a pop. As Yoongi switched to repeat the same treatment with your other nipple, you started to unbutton his shirt, button by button, getting a little worked up when your trembling fingers took longer to pop one open. 

“Can you lay down for me?” Yoongi asked as his kisses changed direction and his hands squeezed your hips. 

“Are we really doing this?” you asked with a nibble on your bottom lip, which made Yoongi pause. 

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” 

“No, no, I do, just… Don’t want you to think I asked to be your girlfriend so I could get in your pants.” you reasoned, making him laugh. 

“Shouldn’t I be telling you that?” he mused. “You’ve been in my pants, baby.”

“Ahh, yeah, okay.” you giggled sweetly, moving off of his lap to keel on your bed. 

“Cute.” 

Yoongi was smiling like a fool in love as he moved to give you space to lay on your pillows, in the middle of your bed. While he pushed his shirt off his arms and let it fall on the floor, you pulled your sundress off the rest of the way. Yoongi’s breath got caught as he looked at you like that, for the first time, only a flimsy pair of panties on, which you removed even before you laid down for him. 

He wanted to tell you that you were absolutely perfect, gorgeous all over, but the way you spread your legs for him, as your hands rested on your lower stomach, lip worried between your teeth, Yoongi didn’t know any words anymore. 

Except maybe ‘want’ and ‘now’. 

Yoongi was lowering himself between your legs, laying on his stomach as he kissed your inner thighs, sucking on the signs of your arousal that he found there. You smelled so good and looked so wet that he couldn’t resist bringing two of his fingers to your pussy, spreading your lips so he could see all of you. 

You mewled as your back arched off the mattress, spreading your legs even wider for him. 

“You’re so tight, baby.” he teased as the tips of his fingers circled your little entrance, watching as it clenched at his words. “How am I ever going to fit here, hm?” 

“Been wondering the same thing, if I’m honest–” you chuckled breathlessly, hands falling to grab onto the comforter under you. 

“I’ll be gentle.” Yoongi told you as his middle finger pushed deeper inside you, just the tip, pulling it out to bring it to your clit. “Stretch you nice and slow at first.” 

“Yoongi–” you moaned as he flicked your bundle of nerves. 

“Gonna have to fuck you over and over again, so your body understands you’re mine.” he told you so, fingers touching you all over as his lips met your lower ones. “That okay with you, doll?” 

“Mhmm, so okay.” 

Yoongi’s fingers dragged down to your clenching hole again and stayed there, teasing your entrance, collecting more of your wetness, pushing in slowly but retrieving whenever your moaning became pained. Yoongi didn’t want to hurt you, he wanted you to feel nothing but pleasure and love. 

The flat of his tongue met your clit, lapping slowly and repetitively, until your moans became those of enjoyment. Once he was sure you were relaxed and content, Yoongi pushed the fingers into you again. He could feel your walls stretch to accommodate the digits, cock complaining inside his pants for being so constricted as all he wanted was to be buried inside you. 

The more he sucked on your clit, the more you moaned and moved your hips in little circles, pushing his fingers deeper and deeper inside you. You were growing wetter and wetter and Yoongi was swallowing every sweet drop you gave him. 

“How do you feel?” he asked quietly, between rubs of your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

“Doesn’t hurt as much anymore… Better than I thought.” you told him with a little whine. “Want more, babe.” 

“Yeah? Think you’re ready for me?”

“Born ready!” you chirped with a little drunk giggle and the nodding of your head. “Please fuck me.” 

Yoongi hummed and left one last kiss against your clit, which made you squirm and squeal. He pulled his fingers out of you slowly, scissoring them apart for good measure, to stretch you around them so you could take his cock. 

You moved up a little on your pillows, from where you had slipped down with all your squirming, attentive eyes watching all of him, making him grow a little shy. Yoongi could read the desire in your eyes, you wanted him as bad as he wanted you and it was making him fluster a little, neck and chest feeling a little hot. 

As he pulled his wallet from his back pocket you asked: “Are you buying anything right now?” 

“I’m getting a condom, doll.” Yoongi laughed at your wide eyes as you understood. 

“We don’t need one.” you told him while sitting up to touch his stomach and chest, kissing his lower belly as your hands got to work on his belt and button. “I’ve been on the pill since we started this.” 

“A–are you sure?” his stammering was what made you giggle no doubt. 

With your little nod, Yoongi let his wallet drop to the floor where his shirt lay discarded and helped you push his pants and underwear off in one go, baring himself to you just as you were to him. You smiled sweetly and playfully licked at his tip, sending a rocking shiver all over his body. 

“Jesus–” he hissed, taking a finger under your chin to make you look at him. “Lay down.” 

“Be gentle.” you begged with a pout, which Yoongi kissed. “Go slow.” another kiss, one that became a dragged moan as your hand wrapped around his shaft. “And make me cum all over your big cock–”

“Okay, lay down, now.” 

Your giggle was high pitched as Yoongi pinched your sides and had you squirming away from him to lay down on the bed. The man pushed your knees apart so he could lay on top of you, between your legs, heavy, painfully hard cock resting between your warm and slippery folds, making you both moan. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, nails and fingertips dragging up and down his back as he pulled you into a kiss. Yoongi kissed you slowly, deeply, full of passion and want and need. Your lips moved together as your tongues clashed with one another, breaths fanning each other’s faces. 

When you started to move your hips back and forth, rubbing yourself on his cock, Yoongi moaned into your lips and you took his bottom one into your mouth to suck on and drag between your teeth. 

His hand ventured between your bodies to stroke his cock a few times, teasing himself, pumping him to make him drip beads of pre-cum on your lips. He brushed the tip between your folds to open you up to him, leading his cock to your entrance. You started breathing harshly, so Yoongi kissed your cheek and jaw to relax you, whispering praises that made you calm down. 

“I promise it won’t hurt as much as you expect it to.” he told you and you hit him with a snort that screamed ‘how would you know?’ which made him bite back a little smile. “I’ll be careful. You’ll be begging me to fuck you harder in no time.” 

“Fuck, okay, I like that.” you writhed under him as he pressed his thumb to your clit to distract you from the sting as he pushed his cock into you, just the tip, breaching you for the very first time. “Shit, that’s– a lot.” 

“Just breathe, you’re doing so well…”

Yoongi was holding himself up with an arm, chest pressed against yours, your body so small in comparison to his. Your small hands were on each side of his neck, your lips pressed against the side of his face as you let out the prettiest little sounds. 

He was gentle with you, just as he promised, allowing you to get used to him, while holding back from taking you as he wanted. You felt so warm and so fucking tight, wet as slippery as he pushed in little by little, listening to your moans and stopping whenever you showed any signs of discomfort. 

Yoongi could feel you clenching around him as his cock throbbed inside you and he made the mistake to look down, where your bodies met, and he saw the way your cunt was swallowing him, swollen clit and puffy lips. 

“You’re amazing.” he told you as an afterthought. 

“Pretty sure you’re doing all the work–” you managed to croak out. 

“I’m sorry it hurts, baby.” he leaned down to kiss the frown between your brows, the pout on your lips. 

“It feels good.” you whispered against his lips as they found yours. “Just feel so full, but it’s nice.” 

“Yeah? Can I move a little?” 

“Mhmm, you can.” 

With desperation, you parted your mouth to take Yoongi’s lips and he kissed you back, the hand between the two of you easily finding your clit to rub it in small circles as his hips pulled out and then fucked him back in, making you cry out. The more you moaned, the more he rolled your clit to distract you and little by little you opened up to him, making the slide in and out a little easier. 

Soon he couldn’t see any traces of pain in your pretty face, and that’s when he started to let go of his own restraints, starting to fuck you in a quicker pace that would catapult him into a different dimension with how hard you were squeezing him and how deep your nails were sinking in on his skin. 

Your body was rocking with each fuller thrust and harsher pace, little cries of yes, yes, yes! letting him know that it was okay and you could take it. 

“You feel so good, baby–” his voice was broken as his hips snapped back and forward. “I didn’t think anything could be better than your mouth, but–” 

“Good to know you liked my blowjob so much.” you bantered, a dopey smile on your lips. “I can suck you off anytime you–fuck, Yoongi!” 

Instead of fucking in and out of you, Yoongi tentatively rolled his hips, pressing deeper and harder, and you seemed to like that, wrapping your legs around him to keep him close to you. 

“Like this?” he gruffed next to your ear. 

“Yeah, right there–oh my god, the fuck is that–” 

Yoongi couldn’t help but laugh as his cock started to repetitively hit your g-spot with each new shallow thrust that was still enough to make you bounce under him, some so strong that it made the little ghosts on the headboard shake. 

“I’m gonna cum, babe, please–!” 

You warned but he already knew it. Could feel you squeeze him impossibly tight, walls milking him for his own release, but he wouldn’t get there before you did. His thumb rolled your clit in quick figure eight movements, despite the tight fit for his arm between the two of you, as his hips pulled almost all the way out, only to snap back in and roll against yours. 

The noises of the creaking bed under your combined weights and the skin slapping against skin only lost to your loud yelp as you let go and your orgasm washed over you. Yoongi’s mouth latched onto your nipple to suck and you trembled all over, twitching with the aftershocks as your climax lasted and lasted. 

Your cunt was clamping so tight, sucking him in so strongly that Yoongi couldn’t even pull out of you, he just stayed there, letting your pussy milk his orgasm out of him. You both moaned together, bodies sticking with sweat, hugging each other for dear life as Yoongi filled you up. 

As your breathing calmed down, Yoongi stayed close to you, peppering kisses all over your face. 

“I love you.” he finally told you, hearing your tiny chuckle of bliss. 

“I know.” 

“Do you, now?” he laughed, pulling out of you slowly to fall onto the bed next to you, trying not to crush you with his weight. 

“Mhm. You wouldn’t fuck me this good if you didn’t.” you grinned, trying to mask a wince as you were empty again, legs closing shut to keep his mess inside.

“You’d be surprised.” Yoongi joked, which earned him a slap to the chest. 

“Stop making me jealous!” you whined, but couldn’t hold onto your pout as you laughed. 

“I didn’t know you were so jealous, doll.” 

Yoongi got up from your bed, not bothering to put his clothes back on as he left your room to walk into your bathroom. There he found more makeup bits, perfumes he knew well, and a vampire soap dispenser that made him laugh. 

“You have no idea how many times I had to tell Kai you were straight.” you were saying as Yoongi looked through your cabinet to grab a clean towel, almost hitting his head on the marble top as he heard you. 

“Wait, what?” 

Once the small tower was wet, and his dick was properly clean, he made it back to your room to find your abashed little smile. 

“You know Kai, the guy from our coffee shop?” you said as if it should be obvious. “He keeps hitting on you, but you’re always clueless. So he keeps asking me what’s your deal and I always tell him you don’t like boys.” 

“You’re kinda right, I just like you.” 

Yoongi couldn’t help but be amused about this new development, but as long as Kai was into him, Yoongi wouldn’t have to worry he might be into you. And it offered many opportunities for him to make you a little jealous, maybe a little more possessive over him. 

Not that you ever had anything to worry about, as far as Yoongi was concerned, he’d belong to you for as long as you wanted him. 

He got back to the bed and helped you pry your legs open, just so he could clean the mess the two of you had made together, both choosing to stay naked as you pulled him back to lay down next to you. 

You were laying on his chest as you said:

“That was so good, Yoon.” 

“Yeah?” he squeezed you a little tighter against his chest, lips pressing to the crown of your head. “Better than the pie?” 

“The pie!”

💜 Like my work? Let me know what you thought! 💜 Wanna buy me a ☕?

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[sugar-petals]

🔥 bts comeback tweets because that’s how you make an album 🔥

[hobipowers]

family sticks together 💜

[bisexualrapline]

wise words per usual ♡

[bulletproofbirdy]

ARIRANG is so good, I love how the whole album is thoughtfully assembled and it’s worth it to listen in order. This feels like all the best parts of their solo projects melded with their hip hop roots, plus some cool sounds that I’m not used to hearing from them (the rock guitar absolutely shredding in Like Animals?!?!). I keep repeating Hooligan, Aliens, 2.0, Body to Body (when the arirang section drops omg), Like Animals and Normal, but honestly I love all of it. The beats. The BEATS. Listening to the Apple Music interview made me love it more, just hearing them talk about what went into it…just damn. Damn. I haven’t loved an entire BTS album this much since LY: Tear, I think. This album is a beautiful reminder that they make music because they love it, for themselves, and fans are invited in to vibe with it. Don’t like it? Don’t listen 🤷. I would rather have them make music they like.

[slut4kwon]

the bare minimum — k.mg

pairing: kim mingyu x fem! reader

synopsis: your dating history had been nothing but bad sex and even worse goodbyes. he showed you a patience and certainty that silenced every doubt, proving that you weren’t hard to love; you’d been loved by him all along.

wc: 10.5k

warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content | oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, dom!mingyu, sub!reader, soft power play, heavy praise kink, multiple orgasms | best friends to lovers, swearing, fluff, aftercare.

authors note: i’ve been wanting to post a mingyu fic for ages now, and as i was going through some of my older fics, this one gave me insane mingyu energy and i had no other choice but to rewrite it for him! this is a rewrite of my fic ‘tears’, and yes, the plot is based on the sabrina carpenter song! i hope that you all enjoy this as much as i do, and as always, please feel free to let me know what you think! ♡

you weren’t heartbroken; that would’ve implied there was something left to break.

you’d been on dates.

enough of them to know when there wouldn't be a second one before the drinks even hit the table.

enough to hear the same compliments repeated back to you like a script.

enough to recognize the tone men used when they were trying to impress you without actually learning anything real.

you’d slept with some of them, too.

sometimes because you wanted to. sometimes because you were desperate for relief. sometimes just to prove to yourself that you could still feel something, even if it didn’t last.

you weren’t bitter. you didn’t walk around openly hating men or rolling your eyes at every couple on the street.

you just didn’t have it in you anymore.

the hope. the performance. the energy it took to pretend someone’s bare minimum was enough.

so when you got home from yet another date that left you completely drained, you didn’t even bother with the lights.

you left your bag by the door, kicked your shoes aside, and sank onto the kitchen floor with a box of cookies at your side.

you weren’t heartbroken. you weren’t even sad. it was quieter than that; almost like resignation.

maybe it wasn’t that love never came; maybe it was that you were never the kind of person people stayed for.

being alone didn’t scare you.

what scared you was how much work it always seemed to take to avoid it.

every man felt like a mirror you kept wiping down, but no matter how clean you made it, the image was never your own.

it was smudged with their ego, clouded by their expectations, and warped by the way they looked at you like you were a puzzle they were entitled to solve.

you were tired of carving yourself down. of softening your edges. of apologizing for being too much or not enough.

tired of folding yourself smaller and smaller until there was nothing left of you at all, except whatever version might finally be enough to make someone stay.

your phone buzzed against the counter, a small sound that cut through the stillness and broke the spiral of your thoughts.

you kept your focus on the cookies in your lap, thumb working over the cardboard as though the solution to all of your problems might appear if you traced it long enough.

until it buzzed again. then again. and again.

you let out a weary sigh and reached for the phone, answering blindly, not bothering to see who it was before lifting it to your ear.

mostly because you already knew who was on the other end of the line.

“hi,” you said, voice low and a little scratchy from disuse.

“you sound like shit,” mingyu replied, warm and easy.

you smiled without meaning to. “thanks.”

fabric shifted on his end, a soft thud like he was throwing himself deeper into a couch.

“you didn’t text me today,” he spoke, not accusing, just noticing.

“mm,” you agreed quietly. “didn’t really feel like it.”

a quiet hum of understanding slipped out before his voice turned lighter. “hold on. didn’t you have that date tonight? with moustache guy?”

you shut your eyes. “unfortunately.”

“so…how bad was it?” he asked, already seeming to know the answer.

your head tipped back against the cupboard, the cool surface steadying you for a moment. “he called me dramatic,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“ouch.” he made the sound like a real wince. “what’d you do, insult his shirt?”

despite yourself, you let out a small laugh. “no. i just didn’t want to sleep with him.”

the quiet that followed was brief, but you felt it; he was biting back his first thought and thinking of something more appropriate to say.

“ah,” he said finally, voice dry. “god forbid you make a decision about your own body.”

you snorted, the sound sharp in your throat. “right? how dare i.”

“so you blocked him?” he asked, though it sounded more like certainty than a question.

“while he was walking me home,” you admitted, reaching into the box for another stale cookie.

his laugh rolled through the receiver, low and warm. “brutal and efficient…i respect it.”

the sound pulled a laugh out of you too, small and worn around the edges, before it faded back into quiet.

his voice softened in the pause. “you doing okay, though?”

you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to tell him, but because you couldn’t figure out how to shape the heaviness in your chest into words.

“i’m tired,” you said at last, the words too small for what you actually meant. “not just tonight, though. it’s the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.”

“mm,” his agreement was soft, a sound that told you he knew exactly what that felt like, and that he’d been there more times than he could count.

his breathing stayed steady in your ear, present in a way that made the silence feel less empty.

“how did you even know it went badly?” the question slipped out before you could stop it.

“because you picked up,” he answered simply, as if that explained everything.

you frowned at the ceiling, not satisfied. “that doesn’t even make sense.”

there was movement on his end again, the soft rustle of fabric and a dull thud in the background, though his voice never faltered.

“you never pick up during good dates,” he reasoned. a pause stretched, just long enough for the smile in his voice to be obvious. “not that you’ve ever actually had one.”

your mouth fell open, half offended, half amused. “you are such an asshole.”

“tell me i’m wrong,” the grin in his voice was obvious, even without seeing his face.

you opened your mouth, ready to argue, but nothing came out. you knew he was right.

“yeah. that’s what i thought,” he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction.

“you’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“and correct,” he shot back without missing a beat, the faint shuffle of noise still bleeding through the line.

you squinted, suspicion tugging. “seriously, what are you doing? it sounds like you’re losing a fight with your furniture.”

“i’m coming over,” he said easily, the kind of casual certainty that came from years of getting away with it.

“gyu—” you started, fully ready to argue with him.

“don’t even start,” he cut in. “you’re not winning this one.”

“you don’t have to come,” you mumbled, curling tighter on the kitchen floor. “my apartment is a disaster, and i look like i’ve been hit by a bus.”

“cool,” he said, not missing a beat. “and?”

you blinked. “and i don’t want you to see me like this?”

his laugh slipped through, low and amused. “please. i’ve seen worse. like that night you got super wasted, missed the bathroom stall completely, and made me hold your hair while you cried into the toilet about how you were ‘too pretty to suffer like this.’”

you let out a dramatic groan, dragging your palm down your face. “you swore you’d never bring that up again.”

“i lied,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “messy hair and a graveyard of takeout boxes don’t even crack your top ten. i’ve watched you full-body sob during tangled.”

“that was emotional,” you defended.

“it was,” he agreed easily. “your eyes were swollen for hours afterwards.”

“you’re actually unbearable,” you muttered.

“maybe,” he said lightly, “but i’m still coming over. you don’t get to argue with me about it, either. i’m already out of the house.”

you shook your head, pressing the phone tighter to your ear. “this feels like harassment.”

his laugh came easy, smug enough to make your chest tighten in spite of yourself. “yeah, yeah. file a complaint when i get there. i’ll see you in ten.”

he ended the call before you could get another word in.

you stayed on the floor a little longer, the kitchen tiles cool against your legs.

your bra strap had slipped down your arm, the dress from earlier felt too tight, and the lingering scent of ramen from your date was starting to make your stomach turn.

eventually, you peeled yourself off of the floor and padded toward your bedroom, tugging at zippers and straps as you walked.

you made it to your room without bothering to flick on the light.

the soft outline of mingyu’s hoodie was easy to spot in the dark, still draped over your desk chair like it had been waiting for you.

you slipped it on and tugged a pair of cotton shorts from the drawer without bothering to check which ones they were.

you were already turning back towards the kitchen before you’d fully registered the choice; like your body had already decided for you.

the only light came from the lamp in the living room and the soft glow above the stove, casting a dim warmth over the mess you said you’d clean hours ago.

piled up boxes. dirty dishes. the garbage you should have changed yesterday.

none of it was catastrophic; just enough to be annoying.

you lingered in the doorway, taking it all in. like maybe, if you stared hard enough, the mess would clean itself.

you thought about moving. picking up a box, rinsing a dish, doing the bare minimum to prove that you weren't completely useless.

you stood there long enough to accept it wasn't going to happen.

you couldn't help but laugh at how pathetic it all felt.

it was a five minute job at best, yet you still allowed yourself to sink back down to the floor, because avoidance had always came easier than effort.

the apartment was quiet for all of thirty seconds before his voice crashed through it, loud and certain, like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.

“yo,” mingyu called out. “sorry i’m late—traffic was actual hell, and your street is like a one-way to satan. also,” he paused, mostly for dramatic effect, “i brought some noodles and that weird mango drink you like. worship me accordingly.”

you leaned off the cupboards to glance toward the entrance. “you’re not late,” you said flatly. “i told you not to come.”

“and yet,” he replied, already kicking off his shoes. “here i am.”

he crouched down to fix them; heel to toe, perfectly aligned with yours like it was second nature.

it was just shoes. nothing more.

except most men you’d gone out with would’ve kicked them halfway across the floor, expecting you to deal with it later.

the care he gave to something so small shouldn’t have meant anything, but the heat that flickered low in your stomach said otherwise.

you dismissed it just as quickly as it came, telling yourself it was just the bad date making scraps of effort look bigger than they actually were.

with a groan, you tipped onto your back, landing against the tile with a quiet thud. one arm draped across your eyes, the other one splayed out like you’d officially given up. “god, you're annoying.”

“love you too,” he muttered, easing the bags onto the counter, careful not to knock over the leaning tower of unopened mail.

he turned and pulled the fridge open with one hand, already bracing himself. “wow. shredded cheese, expired oat milk, and…ranch? you’ve really outdone yourself.”

“oh my god,” you peeked out from under your arm to glare at him. “i literally had ramen earlier.”

he glanced at the takeout container still sitting on the counter; unopened and untouched.

“that from your date?” he asked, already tugging off the lid. “what, was the guy’s moustache so gross you lost your appetite?”

“can you not,” you sighed, laughter sneaking into your voice despite your best efforts.

he barely reacted. “you didn’t even eat this. the broth has a film.”

you rolled your eyes, not even bothering to argue. “stop inspecting my trash like a raccoon.”

“stop living like a raccoon,” he shot back. “and sit up. this is getting depressing.”

“no,” you said. “maybe i like the floor.”

“my bad,” he said, stepping over you without hesitation. “i’ll leave you two alone, then.”

he picked up your container of ramen you'd abandoned on the counter, emptied the broth into the sink, and scraped the noodles into the trash.

there was no hesitation. no second thought.

only quick, deliberate movements carried out with the kind of ease that came from knowing exactly what needed to be done.

if it were up to you, the container would have gone straight into the trash, broth and all.

yet for some reason, it stayed in his hands.

he held it under the stream of hot water, and watched it spill over the sides until the cloudy film began to dissolve. he made it look so natural, as if rinsing it had always been the obvious choice.

without breaking his rhythm, he crouched down and tugged open the cabinet beneath the sink. his hand slipped inside, bypassing the clutter you usually shoved in there, until his palm landed on the caddy tucked against the wall.

he didn’t fumble or search. his fingers closed around the sponge instantly as he pulled it free in one smooth motion.

you stayed frozen on the floor, eyes locked on the way he worked it over the container.

the water slid over his veins as if it had chosen that path on purpose, dragging your gaze there and daring you to keep staring.

every drop seemed designed to make you notice the strength in his hands and each flex of his fingers, until you couldn’t stop imagining what else they could do if they turned their attention towards you instead.

before you could spiral any further, he rinsed the last of the bubbles away and placed the container neatly into the drying rack, never once glancing in your direction.

he wasn’t doing it for praise. he wasn’t trying to make a point, either.

he simply noticed what needed to be done, and instead of judging you or making you feel guilty for letting it sit, he took care of it himself without needing a single thank you.

it shouldn’t have made your stomach drop. it shouldn’t have made your mouth go dry.

yet the heat was already there, rushing low until you felt the dampness pool against the cotton of your shorts.

you pressed your thighs together, trying to convince yourself it wasn’t as obvious as it felt, but there was no denying it.

your body didn’t care about the logic. it only cared about the way his hands moved, sure and unbothered, as if caring for the mess you’d left behind came easier to him than just leaving it.

your eyes followed him as he moved towards the garbage. he gathered the bag in his hands, twisting it into a knot with an easy strength that made his forearms flex, his muscles shifting with every pull.

it was quick and efficient; the kind of movement that never asked to be noticed.

he placed it by the door, not just to move it out of the way, but with the unspoken intention of taking it out later. the kind of small, thoughtless promise no one else had ever made you.

when he stepped back into the room, you told yourself he had to be finished by now, though every part of you already knew he wasn’t.

the fabric of his sweats pulled tightly across his thighs as he crouched again, reaching for the cabinet.

a new bag rustled open in his hands, his fingers working with quiet certainty as he slipped it into the bin. each edge was pressed down carefully, tucked into place until it held exactly the way you liked it.

a task that should’ve looked mundane somehow carried weight in his hands. your pulse climbed in uneven beats, chest tight, as if the air in the room had turned heavier just because he was in it.

there was nothing seductive in what he did, yet every precise movement drew the heat higher until your body responded as though he’d touched you directly.

too many bad dates had taught you to not expect this kind of care.

you were used to men who thought effort stopped at sending a text, and who never lifted a finger unless it benefited them.

the guy from tonight hadn't even bothered to hold the door open for you, so the thought of him replacing a garbage bag was almost laughable.

most men had always treated care as an obligation; something only performed because they felt they had to.

with mingyu, it was instinct; as natural as his next breath.

something in you gave way the longer you watched him.

it became too easy to let your mind wander, to twist the steady rhythm of his hands into something else; something meant just for you.

suddenly, his hands weren’t cleaning anymore. they were gripping your hips, sliding lower until his fingers pressed between your thighs, stroking through the damp heat he’d already put there without even trying.

you could almost feel them pushing inside, filling you with the same easy certainty he carried into every small thing he did.

the realization of what you’d just imagined made your eyes snap shut, mortified at your own mind and yet powerless against the pulse it left thrumming through you.

by the time you found the courage to open them again, he was drying his palms against his sweats, shoulders rolling back as if he’d just wrapped up a shift.

“alright,” he said, stretching with a groan, joints popping as his hoodie slid higher. “time to get up, princess.”

you didn’t budge. your cheek stayed pressed to the tile, knees pulled in close, hair half-in your face.

he tipped his head at you. “hello? earth to y/n.”

you blinked. “what?”

“i said it’s time to get up,” he repeated, flat like it was obvious. “we’re not eating dinner with you laid out like a crime scene.”

“i’m fine here,” you muttered into your arm.

he gave your hip a light kick with his socked foot. “i know i look sexy doing dishes,” he smirked, already catching the eye roll you tried to hide. “but come on. pull it together.”

your head tipped just enough to glare at him. “you’re delusional.”

“and you’re dramatic,” he shot back without missing a beat, crouching just enough to extend his hand toward you. “now get up before i drag you to the couch myself.”

your lips twitched, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a smile. “i’d like to see you try,” you mumbled, even as your hand slipped into his.

he tugged you up in one smooth pull, steadying you with a hand at your back until your feet found the floor again.

the touch was brief, casual, but your skin still burned under it.

you shook him off a little too quickly, ducking your head like maybe he wouldn’t notice. his brows lifted anyway, but he let it slide.

“come on,” he said, already reaching for the takeout bags on the counter. “i didn’t bring all of this food over just so you could mope on the floor.”

you trailed him into the living room, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders shifted under his hoodie as he carried the takeout.

he collapsed onto the couch, bags spread across the table like he owned the place.

you hovered for a beat before sitting beside him, close but not too close, hoping he wouldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your body.

“so,” he started, tearing open the first container, “soonyoung threw a tantrum when i told him you weren’t coming to rehearsal today.”

your lips tugged at one corner. “define tantrum.”

“like…fully rolling on the floor,” he said, chopsticks already clicking into place. “claimed he couldn’t get through practice without his number one fan watching.”

“sounds about right.” you said, easily picturing his dramatics in your head.

“seungkwan even backed him up,” he went on. “got all serious about how you’re ‘the glue that holds us together.’” he mimed quotes in the air, rolling his eyes.

your laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

he turned his head upon hearing the sound, like he’d been waiting for it, then reached for another container. the lid snapped open, steam spilling up between you.

“they’re ridiculous.” you said, shaking your head.

“it gets worse,” he assured, “seokmin told everyone in the studio that you were cheating on him.” he said casually, as if it wasn’t the wildest thing to say.

your brows shot up. “cheating? he and i aren’t even—” you cut yourself off with a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head again. “my god, he’s actually insane.”

mingyu’s smirk tilted, like he wanted to say more, but he just went back to portioning noodles.

you watched him work. how his hands moved quick and precise without thought. the crease in his brow when the chopsticks slipped.

the way his shoulder brushed yours when he reached for another box, like he didn’t even register the contact.

even if he didn’t, it still left you warm and restless, your shorts clinging tighter as your pulse tripping over itself.

you forced yourself still, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach, hoping he couldn’t read what was written all over your body.

without any warning, he slid the plate onto your lap, already reaching for another.

you glanced down ready to thank him, only to freeze.

every bite was exactly what you liked; no stray toppings, no sides bleeding into each other. even the noodles sat neat, twisted in their own space like he’d portioned them with care.

your brows furrowed. “wait…this is for me?”

“yeah?” his tone was flat, chopsticks already busy over his own plate.

“no, but—you separated everything.” you gestured vaguely at the plate, thrown. “none of the food’s even touching.”

he shrugged like it wasn’t worth noticing. “yeah. you hate it when it does.”

your mouth opened, stalled. “since when do you—”

“since always.” his smirk tugged faint, eyes still on the food. “i just pay attention. relax, it’s not that deep.”

you sat there, pulse loud in your ears, trying to pretend it wasn’t.

your shorts clung even tighter when you shifted, and the heat crawling up your neck made the plate almost too warm to balance on your lap.

by the time he leaned back with his own food, your eyes still hadn’t left him once.

his brows drew together, catching it instantly. “what?”

you blinked, caught off guard. “what?”

“you’re staring,” he said, chopsticks frozen midair like he’d caught you red-handed.

“am not,” you muttered, keeping your eyes locked on the plate in your lap.

“are too,” he shot back, smirk tugging as his chopsticks hovered. “seriously, what’s your deal?”

you shifted slightly, tugging your knees in closer as the words spilled out before you could catch them. “you’re just…way too thoughtful.”

he blinked, deadpan. “that’s a crime now?”

“no, it’s—” you waved a hand at the table, trying to find the words. “you cleaned, you set everything up, you made my plate exactly right without even asking—”

he glanced up mid-bite, chopsticks pausing. “uh-huh.”

“and you didn’t even hesitate, you just—” your voice pitched higher, flustered. “you just did it, like it was nothing—”

he reached for his bottle of water, lifting it toward his mouth, eyes narrowing with a half-smile. “because it is nothing.”

“it’s not nothing, gyu!” you shot back, heat crawling up your neck. “it’s—it’s hot, okay?”

he choked mid-sip, coughing and laughing all at once, nearly spraying water across the table as his shoulders shook.

at the same time, you slapped your hand over your mouth, instantly mortified. “oh my god.”

he was still coughing through a laugh, sleeve dragging across his mouth as his grin broke wide. “hot?” his voice cracked, half-raspy. “you think me scrubbing your dishes is hot?”

“nope,” you blurted through your hand. “you’re hearing things.”

his eyes lit like he’d just been handed blackmail material for life. “unbelievable. years of friendship, and this is how i find out your kink is…choreplay?”

“shut up,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face.

“no fucking way,” his hand patted at his sweats like he was checking his pockets. “where’s my phone? the boys have to hear this—”

your stomach dropped, panic snapping through you. “don’t you dare.”

his grin only widened, his hands now patting down the front pocket of his hoodie like he was already halfway to victory. “oh, i definitely dare.”

you scrambled to shove your plate onto the coffee table, causing the chopsticks to clatter against porcelain in your rush. “nope. no. absolutely not—”

he’d barely gotten his fingers inside of his pocket before you launched yourself across the couch, tackling him sideways into the cushions.

he landed flat on his back with a thud, and you climbed over him, straddling his hips while reaching desperately for his hoodie pocket.

“this is an invasion of privacy!” he gasped, twisting under you, but his laugh broke through every word.

“you don’t need privacy!” you shot back, breathless, hair falling in your face. “you need to shut up!”

his free hand darted to your side, fingers digging right into the spot he knew would make you squeal.

you squirmed against him, shrieking through your laughter. “stop, you asshole!”

he was laughing so hard his voice cracked, words tumbling out between breaths. “you picked the fight—i’m just defending myself!”

you finally slipped your hand into his pocket and yanked his phone free.

“mine!” you yelled triumphantly as you tossed it gently onto the carpet, way out of reach.

he burst out laughing, head sinking back into the cushion, chest shaking under you. “unreal,” he wheezed, grin splitting wide. “you just committed straight-up theft.”

“it was self-defense,” you corrected, still straddling his hips as you tried to hold him down. “you were about to ruin my life.”

his hands came up half-heartedly, bracing against your thighs as his laugh cracked again.

“you literally said i was hot when all i did was rinse a bowl—” he bucked his hips just enough to throw you off balance, making you squeal. “imagine if i started mopping the floors.”

“stop talking.” you slapped your hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the teasing.

he looked at you with mock innocence, then dragged his tongue across your palm.

you yanked it back with a yelp. “gross!”

he laughed so hard it broke into hiccups, chest still shaking.

your forehead pressed into his hoodie, both of you still caught in the aftershock of laughter.

the sound trailed off in little bursts, until it faded completely. silence settled around you, thicker than it had any right to be.

you lifted your head without meaning to, hair falling forward, your fists still bunched in the fabric of his hoodie.

he was right there; flat on his back, smile softening into something slower that tugged at your ribs.

the awareness of it all seeped in slowly, until every place your body touched his became impossible to ignore.

your thighs hugged his sides. your hips were pressed flush against his. his palms rested warm and steady on your bare legs, fingers splayed like he didn’t trust himself to move.

your faces hovered only inches apart from one another, the remnants of his grin fading as the air thickened between you.

the echo of laughter still hummed in your chest, but it was drowned beneath the heavy thud of your heartbeat.

the ache you’d been pushing down all night came rushing back, hot and relentless, flooding every nerve until there was no disguising it.

every slight shift of your hips made it worse. your slick heat pressed directly against him; betraying just how badly you wanted more.

his eyes held yours, steady and certain, as if he could read every thought you were trying to bury.

a quick flicker down to your lips slipped past his control; small enough to deny, but impossible for you to miss.

the second his gaze lifted to yours again, the tension snapped.

you closed the gap in a rush, kissing him with all the want you’d been choking down.

he answered immediately, almost as if he’d been holding back just as much. the kiss was deep from the start, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of certainty that stole your breath.

his palm skimmed up your bare thigh until it fit at your waist, while his other hand curled behind your neck, coaxing you closer, unable to bear an inch of distance.

the pressure of his hands anchored you as he shifted beneath you, pushing up from the cushions until he was sitting.

the movement never broke the kiss; it only dragged you closer, chest to chest, your legs tightening instinctively around his hips.

his mouth worked over yours hungrily, lips parting like he couldn’t get enough. you clutched at his hoodie, fingers knotted tightly in the fabric, pulling harder to erase whatever little space remained.

every brush of his mouth made your pulse spike harder. every drag of his lips left your lungs aching, but neither of you were willing to stop long enough to breathe.

his lips moved against yours like he already knew every secret you’d been hiding. each shift was deliberate, practiced without practice, pulling raw sounds out of you before you even realized you were making them.

his hand left the back of your neck first, dragging slowly over your skin before slipping down to join the other at your waist.

his hands slipped lower in a slow drag, following the natural curve of your body until both palms curved around your ass, pressing you down against the growing buldge in his sweatpants.

the press of him right against your center dragged a moan from your throat before you could stop it, hips rolling down on instinct, desperate to feel more of the friction you’d been aching for all night.

“breathe,” he murmured against your mouth, voice steady even through his own ragged breath. “i’ve got you.”

your hips rolled again before you could stop them, chasing more of the thick heat beneath his sweats. the noise he made vibrated through your chest, deep and broken, sending sparks racing down your spine.

you clenched around nothing, thighs tightening at his sides, every nerve screaming for more.

“gyu,” you whispered, voice trembling. “please.”

his thumb brushed slowly over your side through your hoodie, grounding you even as his mouth swallowed your plea.

“i hear you,” he said, rough and certain. “but we’re not doing this here. not on a couch.”

the protest tangled with want on your tongue, but you gave a shaky nod. “okay,” you breathed.

his grip tightened, both hands already firm at your ass, and in one motion, you were lifted off the couch.

your legs wrapped around his waist before you even thought about it, a startled laugh breaking from your chest as his mouth chased yours again.

he carried you like he’d done it a thousand times, steady even with your legs locked tight around him.

your back met the mattress before you even realized you had made it to your bedroom, the mattress dipping under your shared weight as he laid you down without once breaking the kiss.

he hovered above you, his weight balanced on one arm, while his other hand found your jaw. his thumb traced lightly along your skin as his eyes searched yours. “still with me?”

“still with you,” you whispered.

he brushed a strand of hair away from your lips, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary before adjusting the pillow under your head.

he caught the details no one else ever did; every small adjustment only served as proof that he knew exactly what you needed before you said a word.

his hand drifted lower again, pausing at the hem of your hoodie. “can i?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

“please,” you breathed, the word spilling out before you could catch it.

he pulled the hoodie over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you in nothing but your bra and shorts.

the air hit cool against your skin, though it was nothing compared to his stare, heavy with years of memorizing every detail; knowing you in ways no one else ever had.

“fuck,” he murmured as his hand lifted to your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. “you’re so beautiful.”

your breath hitched, chest pressing up into his. heat rushed over your skin, your body giving you away as your hips shifted closer, chasing him without thought.

his lips moved with purpose, each kiss a quiet claim as he trailed them along your jaw, across your cheek, down the line of your throat, and back up to your lips.

his mouth traced you in reverence, each touch tugging another tremor loose, stoking the ache already clawing at you.

his hands followed the same rhythm, palms sliding over your sides, dragging heat everywhere they lingered.

he touched you like he already knew what your body was asking for; steady where you needed grounding, firmer where you were aching for pressure.

he moved with purpose, mapping you in ways that left no part of you untouched, and no ache unanswered.

your fingers slipped to the hem of his hoodie, tugging at it clumsily, more desperate than precise. you weren’t subtle about it, trying to work it up his torso without breaking the kiss.

his mouth curved against yours in a half-laugh, half-groan. “you know you can just ask, right?” he murmured, amused even through the rasp of his breath.

you rolled your eyes, breath catching anyway. “just take it off,” you whispered, impatience clear in your voice.

he rocked back onto on his heels, and tugged the hoodie off in one smooth pull. the shirt beneath stretched across his shoulders, while his sweats slouched low on his hips like an invitation.

your gaze slipped down, dragging his with it, until you were both staring at the obvious wet mark stamped across his lap.

your stomach flipped, eyes flying wide before you could stop them. his laugh cracked out, caught somewhere between disbelief and delight.

“wow,” he said, brows shooting up. “i rinse one bowl and you baptize my pants?”

you slapped a hand over your mouth, laughter already breaking through. “oh my god—no! that is not from me!”

his grin only widened, mischief written all over it. “no? so what, i pissed myself?”

you let out a choked laugh, shoulders shaking. “maybe you did!”

he leaned closer, laughter still shaking out of him, his hands warm and steady at your hips. “mm. want me to check your shorts, just to be sure?”

you shifted in his grip, laughing helplessly even as your face burned. “absolutely not!”

his grin turned smug, laughter still ghosting in his voice. “that’s what i thought.” his thumbs pressed deeper into your hips, steady and sure. “guess initiative really does go a long way, huh?”

you rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “apparently.”

he hummed, pleased, leaning in closer until his nose brushed yours. “good answer,” he mumbled.

his mouth found yours again, the trace of a smile still there, though it melted quickly into something hungrier.

his knee slid between your thighs, nudging them a little further apart, while his hands tightened at your hips, keeping you close.

you gasped into him, the sound breaking into a whimper when he angled himself lower, kissing along your jaw.

“there she is,” he murmured, voice brushing warm against your pulse before his lips dragged down your neck.

your breath caught as your hands slipped to his chest, sliding lower, reaching for the hem of his shirt. he caught your wrists easily, pressing a soft kiss into your open palm.

“not yet,” he whispered, steady and certain. “this is about you.”

his mouth trailed down slowly, lingering against your collarbone before sinking down the curve between your breasts.

his lips lingered like he had all the time in the world, and every deliberate pause only made your need claw harder, trembling for the next touch.

he knew exactly what you needed without you ever having to say it.

he caught it in the way your legs tightened, in the way your hips tipped towards him, in the twitch of your hands gripping the sheets.

he noticed everything, always had, and now he was using it to unravel you piece by piece.

“i’ve been dreaming about this for so long,” he breathed against the lace of your bra, voice low like he almost couldn’t believe you were real.

his hand slid beneath you, guiding your back into a soft arch. the clasp of your bra gave way under his fingers like it had been waiting for him, undone without him ever breaking from your skin.

the straps slipped down your shoulders, one after the other, and his mouth followed their path in slow devotion.

every new inch of bare skin was met with his lips, each kiss a quiet vow that nothing about you would be left unseen. he traced you with patience, as though to prove that you were worth memorizing in full.

his lips found the swell of your breast, his hands steadying you against the tremor of your own breath.

his lips lingered wherever they touched, tracing the faint lines that marked your skin as though they were meant to be cherished, never concealed.

“so beautiful,” he said, voice quiet but unshakably sure, like the words had been waiting years to fall out of him. “every inch of you.”

his tongue flicked over your nipple and the moan that tore from you was answered instantly by his own; muffled against your breast, like the taste of you undid him as much as his touch wrecked you.

your thighs shifted restlessly, helpless in their search for relief.

“you’re already trembling,” he breathed, kissing down over your ribs, following the soft curve beneath your breast. “and i’ve hardly even touched you.”

your voice broke apart on his name. “gyu—”

he didn’t look up, lips still moving like prayer, heat spilling across your skin. “no one’s ever touched you like this, have they?”

the truth of it broke you open, unraveling you from the inside out. your breath faltered, stuttered, until it was nothing but gasps and moans, your hips tilting into his hands without thought.

“i—” the attempt at words dissolved into moans, “fuck—oh my god—”

his palms slid down, fingers tracing the edge of your shorts, stopping just above where you needed him most.

“yeah,” he said, already knowing the proof had been in your body all along. “i figured.”

instead of giving in right away, he bent to your waist, his lips dragging heat over the skin just above your shorts.

“they never earned this,” he said, voice quiet but edged with conviction. “never learned you like this.”

“oh god,” the sound tore out of you, thin and desperate, your fingers curling around his wrist with no strength behind them.

he took your weak hold as encouragement, not resistance.

“they didn’t take their time,” he whispered, lips tracing slowly over the softness of your stomach. “didn’t listen.”

your fingers found his hair, tugging softly, guiding him closer without words.

“p-please,” you pleaded, the word breaking before it even left your throat.

his head lifted just enough to meet your eyes, steadying you in an instant.

“oh, baby,” his voice softened as one hand left your waist, reaching for the pillow beside you.

he slid it close, eyes never leaving yours. “lift up for me, princess,” he coaxed gently. “just a little.”

you obeyed, lifting just enough for him to slide the pillow breath you. his hands adjusted it with care, easing your hips down until he was sure you were comfortable.

“there we go,” he muttered, brushing his thumb over your skin. “that’s better.”

his thumb traced idle circles at your hip, grounding you while the other hand slid lower. when his fingers brushed the band of your shorts, he lifted his gaze, catching yours with a question he didn’t need to voice.

the quiet in his eyes made your chest ache; knowing he would wait if you asked him to. your body answered before your words could, hips tilting up in silent permission.

his lips tugged into a soft smile, eyes fixed on you as he drew the fabric down.

he shifted your shorts and underwear down slowly, guiding the fabric over your hips with deliberate care; every motion unhurried, every detail handled with care.

he gently lifted your leg, his hand steady at your calf. his lips pressed to your ankle first, soft and lingering, before traveling upward in slow succession.

each kiss trailed higher — the curve of your calf, the dip at your knee, the inside of your thigh — like he was intent on worshipping every step closer to where you ached for him most.

your nails dug into the sheets as his palms splayed over your thighs, easing them apart.

“breathe for me, sweetheart,” his voice was strained, as if he was holding himself back just to guide you. “just breathe.”

your body obeyed his words before your mind could, chest lifting with a shaky breath.

he didn’t let you finish it.

his mouth found you the next second; no hesitation, no warning. just him, warm and certain, like he’d been holding back only for as long as you could bear.

the pillow lifted you right into his mouth, every inch of you exposed to the slow drag of his tongue. his mouth worked with a patience that burned, each movement a vow to remember every detail of you.

your fingers threaded into his hair, desperate for something to hold on to.

“oh my—fuck—” the words tore out half-formed before collapsing into a moan you couldn’t contain.

he groaned in response, the sound reverberating against you as his grip tightened on your thighs, steadying you when your body tried to jolt away.

the way he moved against you was unhurried, and devastating in its precision. every swipe of his tongue felt like he already knew what would break you apart.

your chest heaved, breath shattering into pieces. you tightened your grip in his hair, dragging him closer without thinking.

he let you guide him, humming low like the taste of you was everything he’d ever wanted.

heat rushed through your stomach, twisting tighter with every pass of his mouth.

you were soaked. aching. unraveling with every second he stayed between your thighs.

“feels so good—” you choked out, hand fisting in the sheets now. “i can’t—it’s—gyu.”

he paused just long enough to glance up at you, eyes dark and blown wide with need. “you’re doing so fucking good for me, baby.” he praised, voice filled with honesty.

he found you again without pause, urgency written in every motion. his lips tightened over you, his tongue pushing deeper than before.

your head tipped back, voice spilling out like prayer. “don’t—please don’t—don’t stop—please.”

another groan broke free from his mouth, vibrating through your every nerve.

pleasure ripped through you so fast it stole the air from your lungs, leaving you clinging to him as though he was the only thing keeping you tethered.

“that’s it,” he whispered against you, voice low, almost reverent. “let it happen, baby.”

your thighs quivered around his shoulders, hips twisting helplessly.

his hold only tightened, dragging you deeper into every surge of pleasure until you had no other choice but to give in.

“gyu—fuck,” you gasped, tears stinging from the intensity of it all.

he slowed his pace, pressing soothing kisses as his thumbs circled your skin.

“that’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured. “you did so good for me.”

your chest heaved, lungs struggling to catch up with the aftershock.

when his gaze lifted, the change was immediate; eyes softening on sight, like tasting you had only deepened the reverence already written into him.

your lungs were still searching for air when he started climbing back up your body, mouth brushing every inch along the way.

your thigh. your stomach. the underside of your breast. your collarbone.

each kiss softer than the last, like he was pulling you back into yourself piece by piece.

by the time he found your mouth, you were already leaning into him, reaching before you realized it.

his lips lingered, smiling faintly against yours. “felt good, huh, beautiful girl?”

a broken laugh slipped out, shaky as you tried to catch your breath. “good?” you asked, head shaking in disbelief. “gyu, no one’s ever—” you paused, voice breaking, “not like that.”

his grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, soft but smug, like he couldn’t help himself.

“yeah?” he teased gently, eyes searching yours. “that’s because they were all idiots.”

he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours before kissing the corner of your mouth. “you deserve more than they’ll ever know how to give.”

his words sank deep, leaving you trembling all over again. you tried to laugh, but it broke halfway when his lips caught yours, sealing the truth of his words right into you.

what began tender turned restless in seconds.

his mouth moved against yours, only you couldn’t help but deepen it, chasing him like you couldn’t get close enough.

his chest pinned you down as his hips dragged slowly between your thighs. you felt him, hard and thick through his sweats, sending another wave of heat to rip through you.

it didn’t matter that you’d already fallen apart once; your body lit up for him all over again.

a whimper caught in your throat, swallowed by his kiss as your hands scrambled higher, clawing at his shirt.

you tugged like you were frantic; like the thin barrier of fabric was the only thing keeping you from breathing.

“off,” you rasped against his lips, desperate, the word breaking. “please—take it off.”

“yes, ma’am.” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips, but it vanished the second your fingers brushed his waistband like you couldn’t wait a second longer.

you shoved his sweats down with shaking hands, boxers going along, nearly knocking him off balance in your urgency.

he huffed a laugh, his eyes catching the hunger in yours. “greedy, are we?” he chuckled, sounding more undone than smug.

“shut up,” you shot back, no patience for his teasing.

your eyes had already landed on him; thick and already slick at the tip.

heat rushed hot up your chest, a grin tugging weakly at your lips despite yourself. “so that’s what i do to you?”

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “you know what you do to me.”

“still,” you whispered, tugging him closer, “it’s nice to have the evidence.”

a rough laugh slipped from him, cut short as his mouth slammed back onto yours, heavy with need.

your legs wrapped around his waist without thought, but he held himself back; grinding his hard length through your slick folds with a patience that felt merciless, his lips still on yours like he needed to drink down every sound before giving you more.

“turn over for me, baby.” his voice was rough at the edges, but his touch stayed soft, guiding you onto your stomach like he was handling something precious.

as you shifted, the pillow resting underneath your hips slipped slightly.

before you could react, his hand was already there, sliding it back beneath your stomach with quiet care; making sure the angle favoured your comfort more than his own.

“there we go,” he muttered, like he was admiring a work of art. “just like that, angel. fuck—look at you.”

you could feel the heat of him behind you, hovering close, and the way his hands coasted up and down your sides; thumbs pressing in like he was trying to memorize every inch.

“you’re unreal,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “my fucking dream girl.”

his palms settled at your waist, urging your hips higher before gliding up your spine, pressing lightly between your shoulders until your chest sank into the mattress.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned as he lined himself up. “you’re gonna kill me.”

the blunt press of him at your entrance had you gasping, nails twisting in the sheets.

“gyu—” your voice cracked, the sound nothing but a plea.

“i know, i know.” his hand smoothed down your side, soothing you. “just breathe, beautiful. i’ve got you.”

he slid in with agonizing slowness, every inch a stretch that stole the air directly from your lungs.

a broken sound escaped you, and his groan followed fast, spilling into the space between your bodies.

“f-fuck—” your cried helplessly, “it’s—oh my—fuck—”

he bottomed out with a shudder, his hips pressed flush against you, both of you shaking with the effort it took not to fall apart right there.

his forehead dropped between your shoulders, breath hot against your skin.

“jesus christ—” he groaned, the sound rough and reverent all at once. “you feel—fuck, baby, you feel insane.”

your back arched, body clenching around him, another helpless moan tearing through you. “too much—no, it’s—god, gyu—it’s so good.” the words spilled broken, tumbling past your lips before you could catch them.

his hand slid to your stomach, pulling you up into him, grounding you through the dizzy stretch. “that’s it,” he murmured, kissing along your shoulder blade. “you’re doing—f-fuck—you’re perfect—fucking made for me.”

your thighs quivered, but the need to feel him move was stronger than the ache. you shifted back against him, desperate. “please…move—i need—”

he groaned again, like your words undid him. “fuck—yeah, baby, i know.”

he slowly eased his hips back, dragging himself out until you thought you’d break, then pushed in again, steady and deep.

the rhythm was unhurried but merciless; every stroke deliberate, every thrust angled like he knew exactly how to pull you apart.

after a few slow strokes, his pace quickened; each thrust sinking deeper, chasing every sound that spilled from you.

“there it is—fuck, yeah. that’s it,” he breathed, forehead tipping down for a beat before he straightened again, eyes locked on the way your body yielded to him.

your moans spilled raw into the mattress, high pitched and broken, your hips rocking back into him without thought. “oh my god—don’t stop—please, gyu, don’t—”

he answered with another thrust, sharp enough to punch a cry straight out of you.

“never,” he panted, jaw tight, reverence spilling through every word. “you feel too fucking good—i could stay here forever.”

your walls clenched tight around him, the build snapping faster than you could process.

“gyu—i’m gonna—fuck—” the cry tore out of you as your whole body bowed into the mattress, release ripping straight through you.

he groaned at the feel of you breaking around him, hips stuttering once before he forced himself to steady, dragging it out for you instead of chasing his own end.

“fuck—yeah—” his voice cracked. “that’s it, angel…let go for me—just like that.”

your thighs shook uncontrollably, but his hands steadied you; one gripping your waist, the other pressing into your stomach, keeping you grounded as you unraveled.

the sob that followed buried itself in the sheets, your release hitting so hard it fractured every breath into ragged pieces.

he bent over you, lips trailing soft kisses along your spine, his hips still moving but gentler now, easing you down instead of pulling you higher.

“i’ve got you,” he whispered into your skin, kissing your shoulder like a vow. “just breathe for me, angel…that’s all you need to do.”

he eased out of you slowly, the sudden emptiness pulling a broken whimper from your throat before you could stop it. “gyu—w-why…what are you—”

“shh, i know, sweetheart,” he soothed, palms steady as they skimmed your sides, guiding you gently. “just needed to see you. fuck—look at you. you think i could stop now?”

desire threaded through his voice, yet his hands remained careful, guiding you as if you were fragile in his hold. he eased you onto your back, settling your hips back onto the pillow with a care that made it clear he wouldn’t let you feel anything but comfort.

you let him move you, pliant in his hold, your body trembling as you blinked up at him. his hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb tracing lightly like he needed to feel you breathe.

he kissed your temple first, lingering there, before trailing down to your cheek.

his mouth wandered unhurriedly across your skin; tracing over your brow, brushing the bridge of your nose, grazing the corner of your lips.

“hi, beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, words cracked but full of awe.

your smile barely surfaced, dazed and weak, but it was there. “hi,” you breathed back.

his forehead tipped to yours, lips brushing in a fleeting kiss. “you okay?” he asked, though the look in his eyes said he already knew the answer.

your breath caught, a soft laugh tumbling out with your words. “more than okay.”

the corner of his mouth curved into a soft smile before he slid his hand down to steady your hip.

he lined himself up and pushed back in with one long, steady stroke. the stretch tore a gasp from your throat, your body clenching around him so hard it forced a groan straight out of him.

“jesus—” his voice cracked, forehead pressing to yours again. “baby, you feel—fuck—you’re so tight.”

your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, mouth falling open on a sound you couldn’t swallow down.

“gyu—” his name slipped from your lips, almost a sob. “it’s—s-so deep—oh my god.”

his palm pressed firm to your stomach, making sure you felt every inch of him. “there we go,” he rasped, kissing your jaw through ragged breaths. “you’re taking me so well, beautiful. you’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”

his hips pulled back, just enough to make you feel the loss, before he drove in sharper. the force knocked the air from your chest as your nails clawed down his shoulder blades.

“eyes on me,” he mumbled, catching your gaze. “don’t look away, baby—want to see you fall apart.”

your gaze clung to his until the next thrust stole it away, lids fluttering shut as another cry tore loose from your throat.

“no, no—look at me,” he urged, groaning when you blinked back up at him, glassy-eyed and trembling. “that’s it. good girl.”

your moans came fractured, tumbling past your lips with every push. “please—gyu, please, just like that—f-fuck—feels so good, so good—”

“fuck—” his voice cracked, hips driving harder, the sound of you begging ripping the control straight out of him.

“oh my god—i’m gonna—” the words broke into a sob, your voice splintering. “mingyu, i—fuck—i can’t—”

his thrusts faltered, a groan tearing from his chest as he forced himself deeper. “yes, you can, angel. just a little more—fuck—i can feel you. you’re right there.”

you broke apart around him, crying out his name like it was the only word left in you. “gyu—”

“that’s it—oh, fuck—that’s it, baby,” he gasped, forehead dropping to yours as his own rhythm fell apart. “come with me—yeah, just like that—fuck—”

your third release tore through you, carrying his first with it. your body squeezed around him, causing him to let out a wrecked moan as he came inside of you.

he stilled for a moment, chest pressed to yours as both of you trembled through the last shreds of release.

there was no detachment. no instinct to turn away. he hadn’t looked anywhere but at you.

when his breathing finally slowed, he pressed a soft kiss to your jaw. “are you okay?” he asked.

you nodded, unable to trust your voice.

he gave you a moment longer before easing out, slow and careful, drawing a broken whimper from your throat.

his mouth followed the loss; kissing the inside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, and the hollow below your ribs; each one gentle and deliberate in their own way.

“stay here,” he said softly. “just rest, baby.”

your head fell back against the pillow in the faintest nod, eyes glassy with exhaustion.

he lingered a second longer, his thumb brushing your cheek in a touch that felt reluctant, before finally pushing himself to stand.

he bent down to grab his boxers from where they’d been tossed, sliding them on around his hips.

the quiet between you stretched thin, filled only by the sound of his breathing and the faint creak of the floor.

by the time he reached the door, your chest was already tight. you stayed where you were, staring up at the ceiling, the fan turning in lazy circles above you.

the longer you watched, the more the quiet shifted.

at first it was just silence, but eventually, that silence turned into space, which slowly turned into panic.

you weren’t naïve. you knew the script.

sex that good, that messy, that consuming, usually ended the same way.

a roll to the side. maybe a muttered ‘that was fun’. the scrape of denim. the excuse about an early morning.

sometimes the door would shut before you’d even pulled the sheets over yourself.

your heart sank.

what if this was that moment?

what if you’d just traded years of friendship for a few hours of wreckless, selfish pleasure?

what if you’d just ruined everything?

before the thoughts could spiral any further, the door creaked open again.

“hey,” he spoke softly, not wanting to startle you.

you blinked towards him, body still draped exactly where he’d left you.

his boxers hung low on his hips, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, chest still flushed from the heat of you. a towel was slung over his shoulder, two water bottles gripped in one hand, and a warm cloth in the other.

your throat went tight. “you came back,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could catch them.

his face softened immediately, something tender breaking through. “of course i did,” he said, stepping closer. “what—did you think i’d just disappear after that?”

you tried to smile, but it wavered.

“hey,” he said again, lowering onto the edge of the bed. “don’t go quiet on me now, pretty girl. not after you already woke all of the neighbors up.”

a soft, broken laugh escaped your lips.

he bent to press a soft kiss to your knee. “scoot up a little, sweetheart. let me take care of you.”

his hands moved with quiet certainty, every touch measured and unhurried. patience lingered in everything he did; a tenderness you weren’t used to.

you felt the difference in your chest before you even felt it between your thighs.

no one had ever done this for you before.

the most you’d ever been given was a half-hearted towel tossed your way, like it was your job to deal with the aftermath alone.

but here he was, treating you like you were something worth handling with delicacy.

“i kept the pillow there,” he said quietly, “’cause i figured you’d be sore. didn’t want you shifting too much.”

he finished with quiet care, dropping the cloth and towel into your hamper before reaching for your hoodie on the floor.

he eased it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves, tugging it down until you were completely covered.

as he climbed back into the bed, you reached for him without thinking twice.

he was already leaning into you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you against him like it was the only place you belonged.

“you still with me?” he asked, lips brushing your hair.

you nodded, eyes still shut until his voice pulled you back.

you blinked up at him as he dipped his head, catching your gaze. “you scared me for a second.”

your voice was small. “i just…wasn’t expecting you to come back.”

his brow furrowed, a little hurt, though his tone stayed soft. “come on. you really thought i’d leave you like that?”

you huffed out a laugh. “it wouldn’t be the first time someone did.”

his chest rose on a sigh as he shifted to really look at you. “baby…what kind of assholes are you fucking?”

the bluntness startled a laugh out of you. “you’ve heard all the stories,” you reminded him.

“unfortunately.” his hand stayed warm at your spine, steadying you. “and i hated every single one of them.”

you froze, but he continued nonetheless.

“you don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “listening to you try to laugh off how some guy left before you could even breathe again—” he paused, exhaling hard through his nose. “i swear, prison stripes nearly sounded worth it.”

“you never said anything,” you said, genuinely surprised at his words.

his lips lifted into a small smile, but the weight in his eyes gave him away. “never felt like my place.”

“gyu…” you whispered.

he shook his head gently, already seeing where your thoughts were headed.

“you really don’t get it, do you?” his voice softened, a little rough at the edges.

“get what?” you murmured as your eyes searched his face for any clues on what he could be referring to.

his hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, so tender it made your chest ache.

“how easy you are to love.”

you froze, lungs stuttering like they’d completely forgotten how to work.

“i’ve wanted to do this right for so long,” he whispered, leaning his forehead to yours. “not just the sex. all of it. making you laugh. holding you when you cry. being the one who never leaves. giving you the kind of love you should’ve had all along.”

your lips parted, but no sound followed. the weight of his words pressed down until all you could do was hold his gaze, completely undone by the gentleness in his voice.

“and if i ever have to hear about one more guy who made you feel like you were too much, or too emotional, or not worth sticking around for…” he shook his head again, softer this time. “i’ll lose my fucking mind. because you—”

he swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to continue. “you deserve someone who worships the ground you walk on. someone who thanks god every night that you chose them.”

you blinked hard, tears threatening to fall as a soft laugh escaped you. “you’re not supposed to make me cry after sex, idiot.”

“i meant what i said, you know,” he told you, his lips curving into that same boyish grin you’ve adored for years. “and i know my feelings aren’t one sided, either, ms. choreplay.”

tears slipped down your cheeks as you let out a shaky laugh, swatting weakly at his chest. “you are such an asshole, kim mingyu.”

“am i wrong?” he smirked. “because you—” he paused, tapping your thigh, “—basically had tears running down your thighs from me washing, like, two dishes.”

you groaned, burying your face in his chest. “please never phrase it like that again.”

he laughed, the sound warm against your cheek. “don’t act like you didn’t whimper when i changed the garbage bag.”

you pulled back just enough to glare at him. “my god, you’re always so full of yourself.”

his grin only widened, cocky and unbothered. “wait till you find out i sort my laundry by whites and darks.”

taglist: @gggtabi @mayakahlo @crvshedpetals @teardoong @kyrasworldd @authorscurse @jajabro @moonqz @vynn30 @letstakeabowimoutthedoor @ilovegdragon123 @jiyongsbaby88 @serenadeonacanoe @strhwa @seungsjo @rayslilbubble @loveesiren @h0lographicsun @breakmeoff @xxxicddbr88 @my-neurodivergent-world @evasmlp @arwen-u @junnhuisworld @weasleytwins-41 @evemds

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni

notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.

You almost don’t answer.

Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.

Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.

It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.

And now he’s calling.

You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.

Then you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.

You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”

A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”

You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”

He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”

Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.

So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.

“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”

Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.

“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”

You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”

You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”

You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.

Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.

The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.

And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.

Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.

He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”

You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”

A beat. Then—“Yeah.”

Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.

You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t even seen me since—”

“I know.”

He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.

“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.

His home.

It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.

But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.

You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.

It never was.

And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.

You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”

“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”

“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.

He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”

Right. The dog.

You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.

Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.

You don’t bring it up either.

Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you say I missed you.

Neither of you say This is weird.

Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?

Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”

“For the dog?”

“For you.”

You close your eyes.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.

And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.

But the silence stays.

And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.

You wonder if it’s still there.

You wonder what else of you is.

The building hasn’t changed.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.

His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.

“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.

You roll your eyes and open the door.

It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.

You hear the growl before you see him.

Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”

He growls again. Louder.

You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”

He barks.

You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect. 

“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”

Kkami doesn’t find it funny.

You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.

You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.

Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.

“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.

A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.

Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.

“Truce?” you offer.

He sneezes. Well then.

You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.

Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.

You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.

And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.

You don’t sleep well that first night.

Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.

You get it.

You feel it too.

In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.

Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.

“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.

He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.

The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.

At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.

You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:

12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.

The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:

12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3

The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.

You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.

That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.

When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

He whines again. Low and pitiful.

“Me too,” you whisper.

You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.

You haven’t opened it. Not yet.

You slept on the couch.

Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.

So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.

The second night is worse.

Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.

You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.

Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.

And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.

You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.

12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.

You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.

But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then answer.

And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.

Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.

The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it. In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.

“Hi,” he says, quiet.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”

You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.

Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.

“God, he’s dramatic.”

“He gets it from you,” you mutter.

Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.

You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.

Then, gently:

“I left you something,” he says.

You swallow. “I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”

“I did.”

“You gonna open it?”

You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.

“Not yet,” you say.

And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”

Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.

“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.

“I’ll hang up,” he offers.

You don’t say no.

You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”

And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:

“Goodnight.”

You don’t sleep much better that night.

But Kkami doesn’t cry again.

The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.

Kkami still hates you by daylight.

He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.

But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.

Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin’s voice in the room.

You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.

He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.

“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”

“I never hated your work,” you say.

Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:

“You hated what it did to me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You did.

You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.

But you don’t say that.

You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.

“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”

Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.

He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”

You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”

“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”

“I almost didn’t.”

His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.

You look at him. Really look.

And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.

“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”

The silence after is different this time.

He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.

“Fuck.”

You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”

“Every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”

His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Another pause. Then—

“I dream about you,” he says.

And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.

You blink. “Hyun—”

“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”

You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.

Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.

You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.

Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?

None of it would come out right.

So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.

Hyunjin stills.

On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”

Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.

You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”

“I know,” he replies, just as soft.

“I want to. But…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I need more time.”

“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”

You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.

“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.

A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.

Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.

Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.

Just you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”

“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.

“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His smile softens into something quieter. More real.

“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”

You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”

Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.

And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”

You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

His jaw works. “Neither have I.”

The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.

Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.

“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”

But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.

Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”

You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.

“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”

You blink. “And tomorrow?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.

“That’s for you.”

It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.

But you know you’ll answer.

And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.

“You’re on the bed.”

Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.

You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.

You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.

But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.

You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”

“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”

You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.

Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.

“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.

You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”

His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”

You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.

Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”

He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”

Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. Right now.”

You hesitate.

But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.

“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.

His breath stutters through the speaker.

“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”

Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”

Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”

Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.

You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.

The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.

Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.

“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”

You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.

Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.

“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”

You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.

He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”

You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.

“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”

You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”

You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.

“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”

You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.

He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”

Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”

He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.

“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”

You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.

“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”

Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”

You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.

“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.

“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”

You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”

You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.

“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”

That breaks you.

You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.

“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”

You whimper, still trembling.

He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

You nod, dizzy.

He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.

“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”

You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.

“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”

And then, through gritted teeth:

“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”

Your legs tremble again.

“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.

The silence after is sharp. Breathless.

Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.

Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.

Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”

You don’t.

You just stare back.

And then you hang up.

You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.

It takes less than a minute for him to call back.

Then again.

And again.

You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.

You don’t answer.

The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.

[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up. [Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.

You don’t respond to those either.

You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.

The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.

You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.

You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.

[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.

[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.

[You]: when’s your flight again? 

You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.

How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him. 

How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.

You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.

You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.

But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.

And it’s giving you vertigo.

[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Not because of what it says.

But because of what it doesn’t.

And what you don’t know is this:

Hyunjin’s lying.

His flight lands at 3:10.

He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.

He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.

And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.

You open the door and nearly collide with him.

You freeze.

The air catches.

Time does something strange.

Hyunjin’s just… there.

Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“Hyun—?”

Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at you.

And says, low, quiet, steady:

“You were really gonna leave.”

You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”

“I lied.”

You swallow. “I figured that part out.”

His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.

Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.

All of him is focused on you.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.

Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”

You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.

For him.

“Hyun—”

“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”

His voice breaks.

He swallows it down.

Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.

“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.

“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.

Not this time.

“Go get the note.”

His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.

You blink. “What?”

“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”

You freeze.

“I know you haven’t opened it.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”

You hesitate.

“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.

You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.

You open it, and—

It’s not a letter.

Not really.

It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.

You glance up. He nods again.

“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”

You hesitate. Then you read.

“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”

You swallow hard. Keep going.

The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.

Your voice wavers.

“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”

Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”

Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric. 

He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.

“I lied,” Hyunjin says, voice low, rough. “The sitter didn’t cancel.”

You blink. “What?”

“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”

His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.

“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.

“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”

Your breath falters.

“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”

He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.

“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“And I love you now.”

You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.

All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.

Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.

Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.

You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.

You don’t care.

His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.

Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe.

He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.

He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.

Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.

“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”

Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.

His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.

You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.

And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.

Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.

He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.

The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.

When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.

You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.

Hyunjin goes still.

Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.

You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.

“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”

You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”

You nod, gasping. “Okay.”

But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.

“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.

Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”

You clench again, on purpose this time.

He snaps.

In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.

Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.

“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”

He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.

You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.

“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”

You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.

He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.

You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.

Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”

His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”

He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.

“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”

You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—

A tear slips down your cheek.

Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”

He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:

“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”

You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.

Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.

“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.

“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”

That last word shreds him.

He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.

A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.

He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.

The kind of silence that feels like safety.

His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.

The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.

He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—

He kisses you.

Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.

Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.

And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.

The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.

It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.

You weren’t supposed to come.

He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”

But now you’re here.

Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.

Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.

Then he glances up.

And freezes.

You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.

A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.

He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.

And then he’s moving.

Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”

He kisses you.

Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

You giggle against his mouth.

It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”

He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”

You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.

And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.

His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.

Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”

You nod.

You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.

You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.

You only watch him.

And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.

You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.

The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.

[sailorsoons]

On the Clock | (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x f. reader

SUMMARY: Modern problems call for modern solutions, including naming a random stranger in the book store as your boyfriend to avoid an embarrassing encounter with your ex. The problem? The stranger is Vernon and he’s not supposed to be a stranger at all - he’s your coworker, and now everyone at the office - including your ex - thinks you’re dating. 

WC: 20,296

AU: Faking dating, Coworkers to Lovers, Romcom

GENRE: Smut, some fluff and crack

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Reader has some insecurity about how her working hard is perceived, some ranting about Being A Girlboss, a little bit of inner angst, my bad attempts at humor, reader’s ex boyfriend SUCKS sorry to all the Minho’s of the world I named him after, explicit language, some minor commentary on power dynamics, Star Wars Lore, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (never do this), oral (f. receiving), nipple play, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, a little bit of a handjob, some cum eating if you squint, Vernon was supposed to be a freak but I made him soft instead, mutual pining.

A/N: Thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be a part of the Lonely Hearts Collab. I’m honored to be among such amazing writers and I cannot wait to see what everyone else wrote. 

A/N 2: Thank you to the (w)hor(e)anghae squad @daechwitatamic @eoieopda and @jihopesjoint for beta reading this and letting me blind pass it over so I wouldn’t have to read it again because I don’t like it :)  

MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAG LIST | ASK | LONELY HEARTS CAFE COLLAB

WHOSOEVER SLAYETH CAIN SHALL SUFFER TENFOLD... OR WHATEVER IT IS THAT THE BIBLE SAYS. You haven’t slayed Cain and you’re not really sure you believe in anything in the Bible, but you’re certainly suffering sevenfold. Eightfold. Ninefold. 

Sevenfold had been earlier this morning when you dropped your glass of coffee on the ground, shattering your favorite cup and staining your white tile. Several Clorox wipes later, there is still brown stuck to the grout, looking a bit like you had an unseemly accident in the middle of your kitchen. 

Eightfold had been when you decided to fix your weekend by heading to the bookstore. Surely purchasing books that you were going to let sit on your shelf months before reading would fix your day - until someone rear-ended you in the parking lot, leaving a good dent and an apologetic exchanging of numbers and insurance information.

Ninefold comes when you least expect it, standing in the aisle with a stack of books in your hand, eyes flickering over the different titles and ornate covers. You already feel better than you had this morning. The smell of paper, the whisper of turning pages, and the hum of the cafe brewing coffee in the distance immediately puts you at ease. 

You swear nothing can put a damper on a good hour spent between shelves - until ninefold walks around the aisle corner. 

The stack of books in your arm nearly drops to the ground when you see your ex-boyfriend hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend. You wheel around so fast you slam into the person behind you, which does knock all the books from your hands onto the floor. 

A hissed curse leaves your lips followed by a quick apology. You drop to your knees, picking the books up as quickly as you can. The dude you’ve collided with has also dropped his books, the amalgamation of your soon-to-be-purchases making it more difficult for you to pick up your shit and leave the scene before Minho sees you. 

Minho says your name, surprised. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, fingers going rigid on the stack of books in your hand. You shoot to your feet and spin around, breathless as you come face to face with Minho and the new girlfriend that you definitely didn’t look up on social media a few weeks ago. “Hi, Minho.” 

“Wow, it’s nice to see you not in the marketing department for once.” 

“Well, I work there…” You offer a bit sharply, tapering to adjust to a nicer tone. “Hence, you know - finding me there.” 

“I meant you rarely leave there.” He laughs and you feign a grin, eyes flickering over to the rosy-cheeked and very glossy-haired girl on your ex’s arm.

Good for her, you think. I wonder what hair product she uses. 

“This is Mina.”

“Mina?” You ask, sticking your hand out as you shuffle your books awkwardly to the crook over your elbow. She smiles - god she has good teeth - and shakes your hand. “Mina and… Minho. Easy to remember.” 

“It’s nice to meet you. Minho tells me you’re the only ex he’s ever left things on good terms with.” 

Your eye twitches. 

Good terms was a serviceable way to put it, you suppose. Sure, there had been no fighting or infidelity or long distance that put a strain on your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t been aware that there was a strain on your relationship until Minho was sitting you down on his couch and letting you know that it just wasn’t working for him anymore. 

That had been confusing. You hadn’t asked any questions though, opting to sit and stare at him while clenching your teeth, nodding along while he explained that your inability to leave work at work and enjoy home while at home was wearing down on him. 

You’re not saving lives, he’d said. He had been earnest too, which is the crux of it. You’re in marketing. You need to take a breather. 

As if he didn’t come home in a bad mood after shitty sales calls all day, as if he wasn’t stressed when he didn’t hit quota, or didn’t complain about how long the department meeting went - you know. You were there, too. 

So sure, you were on good terms. But only one of you seemed to have been unhappy with where things were going, and only one of you seems to have moved on to someone with really good hair genes and great dental hygiene. 

Your tongue runs over your teeth, suddenly worried that you’d forgotten to brush them this morning. 

“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat and choking a bite. “Good terms are always the goodest - best way to end things.” 

“He’s really hopeful you’ll find someone,” she sighs, looking up at him dreamily. “He’s always wanted the best for you.” 

A vein bursts in your head. Well- no. You wish the vein you feel throbbing in your head would burst and knock you out so you’d no longer have to suffer through this ninefold moment of suffering. Perhaps, even, a very attractive medic with glossy hair and good teeth could come save you and fall in love at first sight. 

The genuine way that Minho and Mina look at you tells you that they’re serious, that they see you as something that deserves love too. Said in a cooing voice, said patronizingly, said with a pat on the head and a firm pout. 

You turn with your free hand, grabbing the sleeve of the man who is hovering behind you and pull him over to you, grin growing sevenfold. Eightfold. 

“No need to worry,” you assure them. “My boyfriend is right here! The stars really did align for me, just like you hoped and dreamed.”

Your seconds-old-star-crossed-lover looks entirely startled, looking between you, Minho and Mina. His books are cradled against his chest, his brown eyes wide. He’s actually incredibly cute, his glasses a little askewand his brown hair a little unruly. 

“You’re dating Vernon?” 

You look at Minho, blank. “What?” 

Minho looks at your Very Real Boyfriend. “You’re dating Vernon? From IT?” 

Ninefold, meet Tenfold. 

“Of course,” you answer slowly, looking at your partner of now thirty seconds. “I am dating Vernon… from IT.” 

Vernon (from IT) looks like he would rather be anywhere else than standing in the middle of the fantasy novel aisle with you at a bookstore, your nails digging tighter into his sleeve and your crazy eyes telling him to get with the program. 

Vernon (from IT) clears his throat and nods, looking over at Minho. “Yeah. Hey, Minho.” 

“Wow. This is really unexpected.”

“It sure is.”

Your nails dig in harder and Vernon (from IT) tries to pull away from you but you step closer, leaning toward him while flashing Minho and Mina a smile. “Anyway, no need to worry about me finding a relationship. I am very happy.” 

“Figures you found someone at work again.” He laughs, but the comment lands like a blow. You feel yourself flinch, smile going too tight. “You really don’t leave enough to find anyone else, huh?” 

Vernon (from IT) seems to notice, shifting toward you to slide his arm around your waist. The move startles you, drawing your attention to his face. He really is pretty this up close, his lips the perfect shade of bubblegum pink, his cheekbones high and hidden beneath the rim of his glasses, the tangy scent of citrus on his clothes. 

“I like women who work really hard,” Vernon (from IT) assures Minho. “I’ll never get tired of resetting her password over and over again because she loses all her sticky notes everytime the cleaning crew comes through.” 

If Minho senses the shift, he doesn’t let on. He’s never been great at social cues anyway, which is what makes him a decent salesman. Still, you’re eager to get out of their way and the glare of Mina’s shiny hair. 

“Well,” You state. “We have to get going.”

“For sure. It was nice seeing you outside of work!” 

With a final nod, Vernon (from IT) tugs on your waist. You both navigate awkwardly down the aisle, steps not quite in time and hips bumping. It’s uncomfortable and uncoordinated, but as soon as you’re around the aisle and away from your encounter, the two of you separate. 

Vernon (from IT) looks anywhere but you. His cheeks are tinted pink as he looks up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot while you regain all your books in your arm. Embarrassment and gratitude both well up inside of you, one beating the other out.

“I am really sorry,” you blurt, voice a little loud. The people around you startle and you lower your pitch when Vernon (from IT) looks at you, chewing on his lip. “Thank you - I don’t even know how to say thank you for doing that.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Your cheeks heat. “Right.”

“Happy to help, though. You can thank me by swapping books with me, though.”

“What?”

He gestures to your books. “I was standing behind you because you grabbed my books after you ran into me.” 

Oh. Right. You look down at the pile of books in your hand and see a few titles that you own, but did not plan on buying today. You divest yourself of his selections, taking the ones he’d collected off the ground from there. 

“So you really work in IT?”

He snorts. The sound is… a little off. You glance up at him, but his face gives away nothing. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know.”

His smile is off, too. “I know.” 

You’re unsure how to reply to that, but you’re also uneager to let him go, suddenly. Vernon (from IT) stands there for a second, lips pressed in a firm line and studying you. He really is beautiful, the light hitting his eyes in a way that turns them molten gold and-

“Alright well,” he interrupts your thoughts. “See you later or something.” 

The urge to stop him strikes you, your mouth opening and closing. No words come out. You don’t know what to say - or why you want to stop him, just that you do. He walks toward the front of the store to purchase his books, leaving you standing in the middle of the store and wishing you’d met Vernon (from IT) under different circumstances. 

-

Routine is important to you, especially during the weekdays. Wake up, snooze your alarm for at least fifteen minutes, get up when the second one goes off. Groan as you feel every single joint in your body pop after sitting up in bed. Wonder if you really need a corporate job to pay your bills (decide the answer is yes), and get up to feed the furious beast yowling from the bed. 

The ferocious beast in question has a routine as well. Perhaps not as important as yours, the cat knows when he’s supposed to be fed and when it’s even a minute past feeding time. Halloween takes his meals very seriously, which you respect. 

Your morning continues with the monotonous rhythm you’ve learned to appreciate: make coffee, shuffle back to your room into the ensuite bathroom for skin care, start your morning proper. The only thing that isn’t the same thing every morning is your playlist and your outfit of choice, leading both items up to fate to decide. 

A hint of spring is in the air when you step outside. It’s that kind of sunny day with a cool breeze that promises longer days of sun ahead, despite still being brisk in the morning and biting when the sun sets. 

Mornings during the days that hang between winter and spring are your favorite. You roll the windows down a little on your drive to work, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as you crawl along with all the other commuters. 

Buildings shoot up toward the sky on either side of you. Dozens of banks, private firms, buildings with multiple different businesses and food courts become your entire world as you navigate to the parking garage. It’s already full of cars, but you get special parking.

Well - special as of your promotion just a few weeks ago. The designated parking spot and title bump was all that had come with the promotion, though, much to your dismay. 

Still. You’d worked for this particular publishing house in the marketing department for close to a decade now. You weren’t quite as far up the ladder as you wanted to be, but you were trying to get there little by little. 

So close. No cigar. 

The elevator of the parking garage opens to reveal other office workers already filling the mirror-walled space. You step in as everyone makes room, clutching their bags and briefcases a little closer. You see Mingyu from creative and flash him a polite grin, which is answered with a bright one of his own and a small wave.

When the people not associated with your company shuffle off on other floors, Mingyu slides over closer to you. He’s one of the many designers in the art department, and definitely several rungs below your position, but you started the company at the same time together.

“How was your weekend?” He asks, wagging his brows up and down. 

You frown. His questions suggests there’s something salacious to your wild weekend spent reading books with Halloween, but you don’t think burning the bagel you ate for girl dinner or staying in the same shirt for forty-eight hours straight is what he’s looking for. 

“It was fine?” It comes out as a question. “How was yours?” 

“Hm. It was good. We went out to catch the big game. Seokmin got so drunk he vomited, and Vernon won all of the bets we placed before.” 

Mingyu leans forward, looking at you like you’re supposed to understand something. You don’t get it, looking him up and down with a pinched brow. 

“That’s nice?” Again, it comes out as a question. “Not for Seokmin, I guess.” 

His eyes narrow. Pin you to your spot against the elevator wall.

Then the elevator dings, signalling that you’re at his floor. Creative is an entire level down from marketing, all dim lights and glowing screens for the designers hard at work. Mingyu gets off, still looking suspicious as the elevator doors close and you shoot up another floor. 

Instead of focusing on it, you shrug it off. Mingyu has a penchant for being weird - a creative thing, in your opinion. As soon as the elevator door opens, his behavior is long forgotten as you slip into work mode. 

Everyone greets you with a polite smile or small wave on the marketing floor. The main office is filled with grey-walled cubicles, employees popping up to peer over walls with mugs of coffee and protein shakes and breakfast items as they ask their neighbors how the weekend was. 

A glass wall in the far back denotes the executive and director offices. You head for the one in the back, right corner. Instead of turning on your lights, you let the natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows filter in, keeping the ambiance muted and relaxing. The only additional lights you flick on are the monitor light at your desk and a small salt lamp wedged between the books on one of the many shelves behind you. 

Your office is still slowly being decorated. You’d only moved in after your recent promotion, and it’s still bare of personalization, save for the salt lamp and a few things you’d moved in from your cubicle. 

And the coffee machine - your own private, blessed coffee machine in the corner on a small bar cart. That might be your favorite thing about your office. You like your coworkers - for the most part, anyway - but being able to bury yourself in your work without having to interact with all of them every time you want coffee is nice. 

Sitting down, you roll your shoulders. When your monitor flashes to life, you see the number of emails in your inbox and try not to groan out loud. You’re thrilled to be the new Senior Director of Marketing, but you’ve gone and made the mistake of becoming too important at work, most things unable to move forward without you playing some part in it.

In theory, that was one of the reasons Minho had broken up with you in the first place. Too buried in work, too many late nights at the office, too many dates or movie nights interrupted by the blue glow of your phone screen on your face while you answer urgent emails. 

The thing is - you don’t mind. It doesn’t bother you to pause and send a quick email, or to stay late and help get something launched. You like the intricacies of being a problem solver, and with as fast as your company is growing and publishing new titles, you’ve got challenge after challenge ahead of you. 

It’s easy to fall into the monotony of answering emails, joining virtual meetings and striking your pen through your to-do list. It fills three pages, but it feels good to cross something off, even if you’ve only completed two things. 

By lunchtime, someone is knocking on your window. You look up, surprised to see Seungkwan sticking his head in. He’s the Manager of Digital Marketing and Social Media and he’s dubbed himself as your assistant. 

Other duties as assigned, he always jokes, but you are thankful for him. 

“You have to eat,” he reminds you in a singsong voice, crossing his arms over his chest. His glasses are pushed up into his blonde hair. “Maybe you can take me to lunch and divulge every detail about your new romance.” 

That makes you sputter. “My what?” 

Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Seungkwan slips into your office, clapping his hands together. He sits on the edge of the couch in front of your desk, bounding with energy. 

“Come on,” he whispers, looking at you earnestly. “Everyone knows - you don’t have to keep it a secret anymore!”

“Keep what a secret?” 

He rolls his eyes. “You’re dating Vernon!”

You stare. “Who?” 

“Vernon! From IT!” 

It comes back in tunnel vision. Ninefold meeting tenfold, Minho and Glossy Hair Mina, Vernon (from IT). Suddenly you’re hot all over, feel it creeping up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair as your fingers reach for your water. 

“I’m - oh!” You escape answering for a second by gulping down copious amounts of water, trying to cool the panic that is licking flames up your skin. “Right. Vernon… from IT.” 

“Honestly, he’s cute.”

“Ha. Ha. Yes. Um. Yeah.”

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. How long have you been dating?”

“Uhh very new. Yes. Super new. I’m sorry - how did you hear about this?” 

“Mingyu told me, but Soonyoung told him and Joshua in sales told Soonyoung because Minho told the Always Closing group chat.” 

“The what?”

He sighs. “Ugh, do you keep up with anything? The sales floor has a group chat. It’s where Soonyoung gets all his tea because he and Joshua room together.” 

“Who the fuck is Joshua?” 

Seungkwan stares. “It is a wonder you even know who Vernon is. I swear you don’t know people you’ve worked with for years.” A thought seems to strike him and he gasps. “Oh my god is that why you’re always going to him for your fucked up passwords?” 

Something Vernon said comes back to you vaguely. Something about forgotten passwords when the cleaning crew throws out your sticky notes. Of course, no one would throw out your sticky notes if you weren’t dropping them all over the floor, but that’s neither here nor there. 

Bolting from your seat, you startle Seungkwan, whose brows disappear in his hairline as he stares up at you.

“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”

He sighs. “Boss, you have to eat.”

“I am! I am going to lunch with my…. Vernon from IT.”

“Oooo.” He leans back, shaking his head and grinning at you. “Go on then. Make sure you wrap it before-”

“If you finish that sentence I will revoke your privilege to my coffee cart.” 

Seungkwan’s grin only gets wider. “Enjoy, boss.” 

In a flurry, you leave your office. Eyes follow you as you go and suddenly you’re unsure if people are looking at you because you’re walking so fast that you’re almost running, or if it’s because they think you’re dating Vernon). 

Your finger nearly breaks as you slam the button over and over again to shoot a few floors down. It doesn’t make the elevator go any faster. When the doors finally close and you begin to descend, you turn to the mirror walls and panic, tucking stray pieces of hair back into place and trying to fix the mascara smudges from staring at your screen for four straight hours.

A knot forms in your stomach. You press your damp palms against your dress pants, wiping viciously to try and keep the moisture at bay. When the elevator dings and the doors open to the silent hum of the IT department, you think you might vomit.

Unlike the marketing floor, no heads turn as you go. You try to maintain a normal pace this time, marching down the rows of cubicles before you realize you have no idea where Vernon sits. You pause awkwardly, standing on your tiptoes to try and see over the walls of cubicles to spot him.

“Can I help you?” A man sticks his head out of his cubicle, his headphones around his neck. He looks you up and down critically. “You’ll have to have proof of submitting a ticket before-”

“Vernon,” you interrupt him. “Vernon from IT? Where does he sit?” 

For a second, the guy narrows his eyes. Then a lightbulb seems to go off and he grins, leaning back in his chair. He looks far too pleased with himself, and there’s something oily and slick you don’t like about his gaze. “You’re her.” 

“I’m a senior director, yes.” 

That changes his tune immediately. He sits up, clearing his throat. “To the back on the left.” 

“Thanks.”

Following his lead, you pass by several empty cubicles, everyone seemingly at lunch. You take the corner as instructed and find a handful of men sitting in the same cubicle, one sitting atop a desk and swinging his legs, another leaning against the cubicle wall, and the last one sitting in the seat.

The one sitting in the seat is the quarry you seek, his eyes going wide when he sees you storming toward him. He goes rigid in his seat, clearing his throat and slapping the leg of the man sitting atop his desk. He kicks at Vernon before spotting you and immediately jumping down, straightening his shirt. 

Nervous energy crackles as all three sets of eyes settle on you. You stop right in front of his cubicle, trying to put on your bravest smile. 

“Hi?” Vernon asks, looking at the two men on either side of him. “Did you forget your password again?”

“What? No. I don’t do it that often.” He looks unsure, brows raised behind his glasses. You huff, putting  your hands on your hips. “Okay, I forget it sometimes. But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”

“Does your software need updating?”

“No, I-”

“Oh. I did forget to give Seungkwan that new phone he asked for on behalf of the social team. It came in last week - I’ll finish setting it up and-”

“Lunch!” You all but yell, startling all three men. “I came here for lunch.”

There’s a long pause. Vernon’s coworkers look like they’d rather be anywhere else than trapped by you. You ignore them in favor of a quick study of Vernon. He’s in dress pants and a button down shirt that is untucked and a little wrinkled. It’s a far cry from the casual way he was dressed at the bookstore, but it’s still not totally work appropriate. 

Still he pulls it off. There’s something casual and cool about it, aloof in a way that still looks good. His hair is even styled neatly, though a brown lock falls over his eyebrow as he leans forward and asks, “Lunch? The cafeteria is on the first floor.”

The man who had been sitting on his desk kicks him. “She’s asking you to go to lunch, dude.” 

“She’s not-” Vernon pauses and looks at you. “Are you asking me to go to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Your patience narrows to a tight smile, your words pinched between your teeth, “Because that’s what loving girlfriends do, sweetie.” 

The words land and have an immediate effect. Vernon flushes from the neck up, mouth opening and closing as he presses his palms against his thigh. The man who kicked him snickers and tries to hide it with a thinly veiled cough.

Your gaze narrows and he notices you watching, clearing his throat to stretch his hand toward you. “I’m Chan. It’s nice to meet… Vernon’s girlfriend?” 

You shake his head and say nothing, eyes drifting to the man leaning against the wall. He gives you a small salute. “Seokmin.”

“Oh.” You blink. “The puker?” 

His charming smile drops immediately as he looks at Vernon, smacking him on the shoulder. “You told her about that?”

“I didn’t tell her anything.” Vernon stands, shrugging away from both of his friends’ wandering eyes. “Sure, sweetie,” he answers you, giving you a plastic grin. “It’s your treat this week, right? At that very nice, very expensive steakhouse down the block.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells you Vernon will only play along if it’s by his rules. You’re at a disadvantage, so you grin and nod, willing to go by his rules for now. “That’s so right, darling. Let’s go.”

“Enjoy lunch!” Chan calls behind you as Vernon shuffles behind you, quickly trying to tuck his shirt. “Don’t do anything I-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vernon warns, quickening his step to match yours. “Sorry about him.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got my own version of him sitting in my office.” 

The elevator ride down to the first floor and the walk out onto the busy street is silent. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence you might have with Seungkwan or Mingyu - if Mingyu could wrap his head around silence. It's awkwardly silent, both of you looking anywhere but one another. 

You don’t know where you’re going, but Vernon leads you to a Michelin steakhouse down the block, true to his word. You glare at him when you step into the dark entryway where a host with hair as glossy as Mina’s greets you. 

“Two?” You both nod and she grins. “Right this way.”

Vernon follows her first, shuffling behind her as she leads the two of you into the dining room proper. It’s a beautiful establishment with lacquered floors, rich wooden tables draped with fine tablecloths and the kind of glassware that looks like real crystal. 

When you both sit down with menus in hand, the hostess leaves you and you lean forward, hissing, “How much money do you think I make?”

“More than I do in IT,” Vernon answers breezily, eyes roving the menu. For a second, his gaze flickers to meet yours over the top of the menu. It’s the first time he’s really looked at you since you marched into his office. “Consider it an apology meal for the mess you’ve got us in.”

“Hey! You played along?” 

“You’re right, I guess I could have just super embarrassed you in front of your ex-boyfriend. That would have been very polite of me.” 

That stumps you. You open and close your mouth, feeling a bit like a fish. You suppose that’s fair - what was Vernon supposed to do when you’d grabbed him in the middle of a bookstore and staked your claim? 

Sighing, you lean back as your server gives you a moment of respite, filling your glasses with water and going over the specials. When they leave, you grab your glass and take several gulps of water, trying to cool your head. 

It only works a little.

“I didn’t know Minho was going to tell the entire world.” 

“Really? Minho has the biggest mouth at this company. You should see his Teams messages.”

“You can do that?” 

“On the clock?” He asks. When you shake your head, assuring it stays between you, he nods. “Yeah, we can see everything you do.”  

“Oh.” You think of all the terrible things you’ve searched on your work computer like how to get over a breakup and how to tell if my ex still likes me. “Anyway, I didn’t know he was going to say anything.” 

The server returns to take your orders. You order some sort of steak salad at random while Vernon orders something blessedly modest. As the server parts ways, Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at you again, expression unreadable. 

“Well,” he eventually says. “No harm done once you tell everyone we’re not dating.”

“Once I what?” 

“Well you’ll have to-”

“No way.”

“What?” 

“Do you know how embarrassing that would be?” 

He raises a brow. “More embarrassing than grabbing some dude in the bookstore and claiming he’s your boyfriend.” 

The air leaves your lungs and you melt into the seat, your misery showing. “I already said sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just tell everyone you broke up with me.” 

You snort. “No one would believe that.” 

“Why?” 

Instead of answering him immediately, you busy yourself unraveling silverware. It’s a hard question to answer, not because you don’t know the answer but because you don’t want to tell him. Vernon is quiet, though. Patient. 

He doesn’t press you for an answer, happy to wait you out until you’ve folded your napkin and placed it on your lap, and once again drained the rest of your water. It does nothing for your nerves as you fixate on a spot atop the table. 

“I don’t… date.” 

“You dated Minho.”

“Yeah. That’s uh… it. It’s kind of a running joke that I am undateable.”

He frowns at that. “Respectfully, I find that incredibly hard to believe.” 

“Thanks. I think.” You pick at a string in the tablecloth. “Anyway, no one would buy that I ended the first relationship I’ve had since Minho. I didn’t even end the last one and sort of clung to it in a way that was sort of embarrassing.” 

“I see.”

You’re unsure if he really does. When Minho had broken up with you, you’d attempt to make arguments to keep him around. Offered less work hours, even said you’d go to therapy to talk about your insane need for success. He hadn’t wanted any of it, and you’d eventually realized that he just… didn’t want you. 

They never did, when people realized what dating you entails. Everyone wants a woman who works hard. They like the illusion of it, the woman who gets up early in the morning and goes to workout before going to her corporate job and girl bossing all day long. They desire the woman who dresses fashionably, who wears designer tags and commands a room all day before coming home to make an effortless dinner followed by a luxurious night routine. 

And you get it. You want to be that too. But the truth is most days you wake up past your alarm and rush to the office wearing shoes that don’t match, and sometimes you come home so late and burned out from your job that you eat a handful of shredded cheese over the sink with a stick of beef jerky, only to do it all again the next day.

That wasn’t what anyone wanted. At least, not in your experience. 

“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “You’re right, or whatever. I should just tell them I lied. I’ve given worse news. Just you know - less personal.” 

For a few minutes, Vernon is quiet. You don’t look up to meet his gaze. Instead you watch the ice cubes in your glass melt, little beads of condensation zigzagging down the curve of your glass. 

A sigh makes you look up at Vernon. “What if we dated for like a month or something?” 

“What?”

“I don’t mean really date,” he offers quickly, sensing your surprise. For some reason, that stings a little. You swallow it down past the knot forming in your throat. “It’ll get people off your back or whatever and we can just mutually end things.” 

“Really? You’d do that.” 

He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, yeah.”

“You can break up with me,” you promise eagerly, leaning forward with the new promise of a solution to your problem. “Everyone will believe it. Just say I work too much and I’m too obsessed with my career.” 

An uneasy gaze flickers in Vernon’s eyes. “It can be mutual,” he says firmly. “That way it ends nicely.”

“Fine. Everyone will think one thing anyway, you’ll get out without a scratch, trust me. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I can… suck it up and tell everyone I made it up.”

“Do you really want to?” 

“No,” you admit.

“Then it’s settled.” He shrugs, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a month and then we can mutually end things.” 

Sticking your hand over the table, you offer it for Vernon to shake. His mouth twitches a little as he smiles, leaning forward to take your hand. His is warm and softer than you imagined, enveloping yours firmly as he shakes. 

“Deal,” you smile, feeling a glimmer of hope. 

Just like that, Vernon (from IT) becomes Vernon (your boyfriend). 

Sort of.

-

Vernon doesn’t consider himself anxious. He’s never really dealt with anxiety, and there are only a few things that can make him nervous in the world. The few times he remembers being nervous were when he was in a bidding war for a limited edition Millenium Falcon model, in line at a meet-and-greet for his favorite band when he was sixteen, and when he lost his virginity to Carley Waters in his sophomore year of college. 

He’d won the bidding war and managed to not sound like an idiot meeting his idols, but he definitely came immediately after putting his dick inside Carley. Two out of three were pretty good odds, all things considered. 

Vernon is more nervous than all three of those events combined as he checks himself in the mirror for the millionth time. Usually, he doesn’t really think twice about what he wears to the bar on the weekend. He has fifteen of the same shirt in the same colors, and his jeans all look the same, even though he thinks they’re different. 

Now, though, he has the added element of you. He cannot recall a single time that you’ve ever agreed to go out with your work friends - and to your surprise, not his, you do have the same work friends - but tonight is different. 

Tonight, you’re supposed to be dating. 

It’s weird. Chan and Seokmin agree it’s weird. He keeps no secrets from them and had already told them about the encounter at the bookstore. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy, though Vernon cannot fathom how they just go with it. 

She’s really hot, Chan had said after a few sips of beer. Fuck it, right? 

She’s the third most executive person in marketing, Seokmin warned. Be careful. 

Both are true. Vernon had acknowledged Chan’s point the first time he’d seen you in Information Technology a little over two years ago. You’d been dating Minho then and entirely untouchable - still are, kind of - and Vernon had been the only person at the office early enough to help you out. He’d been new then, and often came in the earliest to get started on the overload of tasks he was always given as the junior employee. 

Even then, Vernon thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Sure, you had on mismatched shoes and there was a breathy chaos to you that would probably stress most people out, but he sort of liked it. Thought that it was different in a good way, and spoke to the sort of person who worked really hard and didn’t fake their way through the day. 

Vernon had realized Seokmin's point right after he’d learned Chan’s. As soon as he helped you login to your computer, he’d realized you were a Senior Manager of Marketing. Not a huge title in a company so big, but high enough that Vernon thought twice about his attraction to you. 

Now, both of their points are moot. You’re still attractive but that doesn’t really change the situation - makes it harder, even. Vernon had never really dreamed of an actual relationship with you and now that he’s found himself in a fake one, he’s not really sure what to do with the acknowledgement that he’s attracted to you. 

Worse is that he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed to date you. Vernon is a senior coordinator in the IT department and you’re a senior director. Perhaps not in his department or directly overseeing him, but it’s a high enough position that Sekomin is right - it could mean trouble if this goes poorly. 

So why the fuck did he offer to fake date you for a month? 

As someone in Information Technology, most people think Vernon is smart. He doesn’t consider himself to be above average intelligence, and as he slides his sneakers on his feet to go pick you up for a night out, he thinks everyone is wrong about him - he’s fucking stupid.

Looking in the mirror one more time, Vernon decides it’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Jeans, a black shirt and a hat facing backward is all he really knows how to style. He shoves his keys in his pocket, a tiny vial of contact solution just in case, and grabs his phone as he heads out the door. 

Your apartment complex isn’t that far from his. He finds it with ease, surprised that you don’t live in one of those high-rise apartments that all the other executives live in. The apartment is pretty modest with only three floors and rows of respectable Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics. 

When he spots you coming down the stairs, his traitorous heart does that same little staccato it had last weekend when he saw you at the bookstore. He hadn’t expected to run into you outside of work and only panicked for a split second before he realized that you didn’t recognize him. 

And then you’d called him your boyfriend. 

Recovering from the memory of it, Vernon stares as you open the door to his car, flashing a tight smile as you slide in. He doesn’t know what he thought you might wear on the weekend, but he’s surprised to see you in jeans, a black form-fitted shirt tucked in, and a simple purse on your arm. 

“What?” You ask, a little breathless. He sees the sticky shine of lipgloss on your mouth and squeezes the wheel, fighting the urge to lean over and taste it. 

Insane, he thinks as he puts the car in gear. He’s gone insane. 

“Nothing. I guess I just thought you’d live somewhere nicer.” 

“Oh.”

Your shift in tone makes him realize how it sounded. “Sorry - not like that. I thought it would be somewhere really fancy. You’re a senior director and all that.” 

“I only got promoted a few weeks ago. And it was not a pay raise, trust me.” 

“Seriously?” You glance sidelong at him, pausing like you’ve said something you shouldn’t. His lips twitch and he says, “Not on the clock.”

That gets you to grin, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Only came with an office and title bump. I was already doing all the work of a senior director so they felt like they needed to bump my title to protect themselves, I think.”

“That’s kind of shitty.”

You hum. “Is it like that in IT?” 

“I think it’s like that anywhere.”

“Good point.” 

A comfortable silence falls over the car. It’s not at all like the awkward, stilted lunch the two of you had at the beginning of the week. He had been sweating through his shirt that time around, though you didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a little angry with you too, for getting the both of you into this mess. 

But… it had been his idea to help you save face. He didn’t have to. He didn’t owe you anything, and he believes you when you say you would come clean and admit you lied through your teeth. Maybe that’s why he offered to help anyway, your willingness to swallow the pain of embarrassment to relieve him of the facade. 

Library is a hole in the wall bar that Vernon and his friends from work like to go to on Saturday nights. It’s sort of a funny joke, a bunch of professionals from the publishing industry getting drunk and eating shitty bar food in a place named for the very buildings they dedicate their life to, in a weird, roundabout, mathematical way. 

Vernon has friends outside of work that come too, but tonight it’s just the usual crowd: Chan, Seokmin and Seokmin’s girlfriend, Mingyu and Soonyoung from creative, and some of the people from the sales team. The sales team is only there by virtue of Joshua, who is the only person from sales Vernon remotely tolerates. 

Vernon isn’t exactly sure what a sales team does at a publishing company anyway. 

When Vernon parks, he sees you take a deep breath. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment before you brace yourself and get out of the car suddenly. He makes a noise and panics to follow you. You’re already plunging ahead like you’re storming into battle, and perhaps in your mind you are.

He jogs to catch up. “Wait!” 

You stop, turning to face him with a dubious expression. “What?”

“We should walk in together.”

“Oh.” You blink. It’s a bit cute but Vernon shoves that down. “You’re right. Sorry. I sort of… set my mind to the task and forgot.”

“You can’t approach this like you approach work.”

“I can’t?”

He laughs. “No. Relationships aren’t jobs - so a fake one isn’t either. You have to try and appear like this is natural. If you come in all to-do list and checkmarking the boxes, it’s going to look weird.” 

“Oh.” 

The confidence you had a second before deflates. He feels a little guilty, reaching out to take your hand before he realizes what he’s doing. Your hands are cold in his but he doesn’t mind, wrapping his fingers in yours as you stare at him like he’s grown three heads.

Maybe he has. 

“We should walk in together. Maybe holding hands.” 

“Right.” You lick your lips and he tries to give you a smile more confident than what he’s feeling. His heart is hammering in his chest, both at the way your hand squeezes his nervously and at the preposterousness of it all. “You’re kind of good at this.” 

“I just have a different perspective.”

“The perspective of someone who knows how to date versus… whatever I am.” 

He hears the joke in your tone so he lets himself laugh a little. He starts walking, tugging you next to him. “Not exactly. I just watch a lot of movies, including romances.” 

“Really? What’s your favorite one?” 

“Uhhh.” He thinks about it as you both approach the door. He doesn’t answer for a second while he flashes the security outside his ID. “I really like The Proposal. With Sandra Bullock.” 

Instead the bar is filled with modern music at a reasonable level and small, wooden tables with chipped tops. There is nothing about the bar that actually looks like a library, save the single shelf shoved in the corner with beat up comic books and an insane amount of hentai that Soonyoung put there. 

“You mean the one where the boss fake dates her employee… and they work at a publishing company?” 

As soon as you ask the question, Vernon realizes the irony. He looks at you with a wide gaze, pausing at the entrance to look at you. Your mouth folds on itself, trying not to laugh as you too realize the irony of the movie. 

“Yeah, so that’s weird I guess,” he admits. He tugs on your hand. “Come on, we always sit in the back.”

You follow him wordlessly. The crowd isn’t big inside, but there are enough people that you have to shuffle a little closer to him. He catches the scent of your perfume - it smells like sweet tobacco and vanilla, something that is subtle with a little bit of spice. 

Turning around the corner of the bar, you see a wall entirely taken by booths with pool tables in the open space. Mingyu and Seokmin’s girlfriend are already fighting over the felted green as she points a pool cue at him, threatening. Seokmin is lounging in one of the booths, watching on with a dopey grin that makes Vernon roll his eyes.

Everyone else sits in in a variety of booths, an entire corner dedicated to the dozen or so of them who have made this their home for the last two years. Vernon keeps you close, feeling his hands go clammy when all the eyes turn to the two of you. Despite the rumor having spread far and wide, it’s clear that surprise ripples through the crowd at seeing evidence of your relationship. 

The fake one, that is. Naturally. 

Instead of going directly to the safety - or danger, in this case - of his friends, Vernon heads to the bar. He needs to take the edge off immediately, though he knows he can’t get too crazy. The drive home is short, but even if you weren’t in his car for the evening, he doesn’t like to tempt fate. 

Next to him at the bartop, you drop his hand to press your palms against the sticky wood. You make a face and he laughs before ordering a simple rum and coke. You order the same but with a lime and the bartender flashes you a charming grin.

Vernon glances at you and realizes you don’t even register the bartender. You’re chewing your lip and fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt and shifting from foot-to-foot. A pang goes through him. 

“Relax.” You look up at him, eyes wide. “We’re going to do fine.”

“What if I fuck it up?” You ask, voice barely audible as you lean in. “They’re going to see right through me, Vernon from IT. They’re going to have one conversation with us and be like ‘no way is he dating that lunatic.’” 

“For starters, you’re not a lunatic.” You give him a look and he amends, “Not in the way that’s bad, anyway.”

“How do you know? We barely know each other.” 

You’ve got him there. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you take yours, draining half of it before remembering the lime. He watches you squeeze it into the drink while he contemplates his answer. 

“I guess I just have a feeling for these things. You don’t seem very crazy to me.”

“Thanks.” 

“And I guess I’m getting to know you, so there’s that.” 

You sigh. “Right.” 

“You’ll do fine. But maybe don’t call me Vernon from IT.”

“Right.” 

“Come on.” 

With wavering confidence, you follow Vernon over to the crowd from work. Everyone greets you warmly, though a little unsure. He notes the comments about being shocked to see you outside the four walls of your office, a joke you take in stride. 

It’s clear you don’t know how to interact with everyone at first. It’s not to say that you’re stiff or awkward, but Vernon can see the rigid set in your shoulders and the way your eyes follow the conversation but don’t actually contribute. 

You have an effect on others as well. For those who are a little more unfamiliar with you, they can’t seem to puzzle out why one of the higher ups is here guzzling down rum and cokes. And you are guzzling them down, carving a path to and from the bar at a rate that impresses Vernon. 

“How are things going?” Chan slips into the seat you just vacated to march to the bar again. “She seems surprisingly normal.”

“Why is that surprising?” 

Chan gives him a look. “She’s a suit.”

“I don’t think so,” Vernon laughs. “Trust me on that.” 

Chan hums unconvinced, watching you at the bar. “She’s nice, at least.”

“Very.” 

“Don’t fall in love with her or anything.”

“Weird thing to say, man.”

“Yeah, well. She’s attractive, nice, and no offense, a little weird. She’s exactly your type.” 

That makes him frown. “What’s weird about her? Also, would that be so bad?”

“She knew the radius of the sun and the verbatim definition of parsecs. I’m not answering that second question because I shouldn’t have to.” Chan claps him on the shoulder, looking over Vernon’s head. “She’s coming back, but seriously. Be careful.” 

Chan scoots away, flashing Vernon a look that makes the single drink Vernon has had sour in his stomach. Then you’re there, sitting down next to him, swaying a little bit. He smells sweet tobacco and vanilla, his eyelids fluttering for a second as you shift a little too close - or what would be too close, if you weren’t fake dating. 

“What’s that look on your face?” You ask, sipping your drink. He wonders if it’s appropriate to ask if you need water.

“What look on my face?” 

“You know, like-” You try to pinch your brows together and your mouth puckers downward. He feels himself smile and he shakes his head. “Sort of frowny.” 

“Nothing.” You look at him skeptically. “Hey, I have a question.” 

You pause, looking a little panicked. “Okay.”

“What’s the radius of the sun?” 

“Oh!” You visibly brighten and it’s like watching the sun spill over the lip of the horizon, all gold and liquid, warm and bright. “432,690 miles. Surface temperature is about 5,772 Kelvin.” 

Suddenly, Chan’s warning feels very, very real. Vernon tries to hide his smile, looking down at the table. Meanwhile, you start rattling off facts about the sun, not taking a single breath as you explain you memorized them from when you were working on the marketing for a line of textbooks about space early on in your career. 

Vernon lets you talk. Lets you somehow divert back to work, watching as you animatedly walk him through the process of what you do. How you think. It’s fascinating, and he’s not really sure how anyone else could find it tiresome, seeing the way you light up when you tell him about a project that Seungkwan’s team killed it on. 

Your pride is palpable, your energy shifting from unsure to confident. 

Suddenly, you pause, leveling Vernon with a hard stare. He says nothing, watching the way you drink him in, something beneath the surface of your gaze he can’t quite read. “Can I say something?” 

“On the clock?” he asks, grinning. You shake your head and he gestures for you to continue. 

“You have pretty eyes. I still like when you wear glasses, though. They suit you.” 

Yeah. Vernon thinks Chan’s warning is very real. 

-

Running in heels is hard. You don’t know how anyone manages to do it in movies. Not that you think anything that happens in movies is real, but you can’t imagine how they make it work for the scene. You nearly break your ankle three times on your sprint to IT and you’re sure you scare the daylights out of Chan when you come tearing around the corner.

You shout a greeting over your shoulder but don’t stop until you’re hissing Vernon’s name while rushing into his cube. He flinches, turning around to look at you mid-task. You’re heaving, putting a hand on your hip as you straighten, trying to suck down air. 

“Say no!”

He’s visibly confused. “To what?”

“Just say no!”

Before Vernon can ask you another thing, you hear Minho’s voice. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you try to lean against the wall of Vernon’s cube, nearly missing it. You stumble a few steps and he catches you by the elbow, lightning quick as he helps steady you. 

When he drops his grip, the place where Vernon had held you moments before is warm. You try not to think about it, heart thundering doubletime as you watch Minho approach, a lazy swing to his step and a smirk on his face. 

“Funny I found you here!” 

“Why would that be funny? My Vernon - my boyfriend is down here.” 

From the corner of his eye, you see Vernon wince. You’re not doing a great job at keeping it casual, but you’re also still out of breath from sprinting down the stairs to beat Minho here and warn Vernon. Seungkwan had barely been able to give you the heads up that Minho was going to ask for a double date, and you simply couldn’t have that.

Even as you near the end of your second week dating - fake dating - Vernon, you’re unsure the two of you can get through a date with someone who actually knows you. Vernon might be able to give some details on the surface, but you dated Minho for a year - how could Vernon ever hope to keep up? 

Minho leans against Chan’s cube. Luckily it’s vacant of its usual occupant - Chan hates Mihno, as you’ve recently learned through a lunch with him and Vernon. 

“Glad I caught you together, then,” Minho says, though you think he’s not that glad. But what do you know? “I wanted to see if you were busy on-”

“Yes.” You flash him a too-wide grin with too many teeth. 

“I didn’t even give you the date.”

“We’re always very busy.”

“Ah.” Minho scratches the back of his neck and gives Vernon a look akin to sympathy. “Never has time, does she? Always all work, no play. I wanted to see if you guys wanted to go to dinner with Mina and I tomorrow night, but…” He shrugs. “Same old.”

You try not to let your exterior crack, but Minho’s words cut right through your outer shell to the softness of you. Without fail he manages to highlight this obsession you have with work, making it sound worse every single time. 

Behind you, Vernon shifts closer. You become acutely aware of him suddenly, warmth radiating from him as his chest presses against the back of your arm and his hand slips to the middle of your back, featherlight, like he’s afraid to touch you. He smells like ocean driftwood and salt, something that makes you think of warmer days. Fresh fruit. Cold water. 

Fighting a shiver, you freeze up, hyper aware of him. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Vernon says gently. “She doesn’t work that much. She makes plenty of time for me.”

Minho’s eye twitches, the only sign he’s annoyed. As a trained salesperson, his tells are always subtle, nearly undetectable. But you know him inside and out, can see the sliver of annoyance there.

Satisfaction rules supreme, a smile tugging at your lips until Vernon adds, “We can make time for them, right?” 

You snap your head to the side, eyes meeting his. Vernon has beautiful eyes. You’d said as much the other night when you had a little too much to drink, staring up at him without his glasses. He looks good without them, but you like the way the frames sit on his nose, the way they reflect light against the liquid brown of his iris. 

Now, those eyes are staring back at you straight on. There’s something fierce in them, and though you barely know him, you have a sneaking suspicion Vernon is annoyed. Not with you but with Minho. 

Still… 

“Are you sure?” 

Your question is gentle. For a moment, you forget Minho is there at all. You’re looking at Vernon, trying to puzzle out why he would say yes to something insane again. It was lucky enough he’d offered to participate in this little charade to save your pride, and now here he is doing it again, unprompted. 

Vernon’s mouth twitches. He nods, hand pressing into your back a little firmer before he drops it away. You turn to Minho, who watches the two of you with a peculiar expression. “Alright,” you tell him. “It’s a date.” 

“Great. I’ll send you the details.” 

When Minho leaves, you turn to Vernon, the question on the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t give you a chance, shooting you a sidelong glance as he says, “Why is he always bringing up your work schedule?” 

You wince. Vernon either doesn’t notice or is nice enough not to say anything. Instead of answering right away, you sit on top of Vernon’s desk, feet dangling a little. He makes room for you, turning his chair to face you and give you his full attention. 

He’s dressed the same as always today, but you notice his shirt is ironed and tucked in neatly. Rubbing his brow, he slides his glasses up on his head, pressing his fingers along his eye sockets like they’re strained. 

“What kind of stuff do you do?” You ask instead of answering his question. You gesture to his multiple computer screens. “Besides help me figure out my passwords.” 

“Lots of stuff. It’s mostly small things like remoting into people’s computers to help them solve their issues. I spend a majority of my day showing people how to unmute themselves on their virtual meeting software.” 

“Do you like it?”

He shrugs. “It’s got a rhythm to it that I like. I like having a to-do list every day and I can pretty much always know what to expect.” 

“That does sound nice. And you can spy on everyone’s messages right?”

He raises his brow. “On the clock?” That makes you smile and you shake your head. “I could, but I don’t. There are a ton of people who forget us and HR can see all their shit, though.” 

“Ooo like what?” 

He sucks in air through his teeth, “Man, I don’t think I can tell you.”

You can tell he’s teasing and you scoff, kicking out with your foot toward his knee. He dodges you easily with a playful grin. “Come on!” 

“I’ll tell you off the clock. Real off the clock.” 

“Fine. Speaking of - are you busy tonight?” He raises his brows in question. “We should probably meet up and try to flesh out some details of our uh… relationship. I know some things about you but not a lot. Like, when is your birthday?”

“February 18.” 

You slap your hand on top of his desk. “Vernon! That’s super soon! Are you doing anything for it?”

“Nah. I don’t ever want to make a fuss and it's close to Valentine’s Day so sometimes people are doing things retroactively.” 

You hum, displeased with the answer, but you file it away for later. “So are you free tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, you can come over to my place. Do you like pizza? You have to like pizza, right? You’re a boy.”

“A lot of boys like pizza, yes. Specifically me.” 

“Good. Seven?” 

“Seven.” 

-

A knock at the door makes you look up from your computer. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, the light outside the office windows long fading with the setting sun and the only other source the salt lamp behind you and the burn of the safety lights in the main cubicles.

Vernon leans against the door frame, resting his head against it as he peers at you. For a second, you forget about everything except the way he looks leaned against the frame, his glasses perfectly perched on his nose and hair soft with wear from the day. 

Then, you lurch with realization, gasping and looking at your watch. “It’s seven.”

“It’s seven,” he agrees, laughing gently. 

You bolt from the seat, groaning and grabbing things to shove in your bag. In the process, you knock over a cup and a curse flies out your lips. He pushes off the door, walking over to help you tame the chaos. 

“Easy,” he admonishes. “All good here, don’t panic.”

“I’m really sorry. I got stuck working through this media plan that someone asked for and I completely lost track of time.”

“It’s okay.” 

The panic welling up inside you calms down as you look up at him. Vernon says nothing further, picking up your cup and righting the pens that you’ve knocked over. His movements are casual, straightening the things on your desk until he’s satisfied and steps away. 

You prepare for annoyance, for the same expression you’re used to when you’re late to an event or have missed a thing, when you’ve yet again lost track of time holed up in your office and yet… Vernon just gives you an easy smile and a shrug.

No annoyance. No judgment. Just… Vernon. 

Perhaps tenfold isn’t so bad. 

“It’s not pizza, but there's a tiny little bar a few blocks down that I really like. They serve food.” 

“Yeah?”

He nods and hesitates. “It’s… themed, though.”

“That’s okay. I like a theme.”

The theme in question isn’t so much of a theme as it is an entire franchise. You stand in the doorway of Cantina Far Away, mouth parted as you drink in the sights and sounds of the Star Wars themed bar. 

A circular bar sits in the middle of the small establishment. There isn’t a ton of room to recreate the iconic corner of the world where you were first introduced to Han Solo as a kid, but there’s just enough to make the magic work. 

Kegs and other apparatuses hang from the ceiling of the stone top bar. Lights track underneath the bar top and in the ceiling, giving the dim illusion that it’s permanently dusk inside. Small, round tables fill the main space, with three booths lined against the back wall. An R2-D2 replica stands beside C3-PO in the corner, and a familiar soundtrack plays through the sound system.

“If you want to go somewhere else-”

“Do they have blue milk?” 

Vernon pauses. “What?” 

You look up at him, grinning. “Do they have the blue milk?”

“They have something on their menu like that, yeah. I don’t know what it is.”

“I always wanted to drink the blue milk as a kid.”

“Alright.” He gestures to the bar, which is mostly empty. “Let’s get you blue milk.”

Popping up on a stool, you can’t help but crane your neck upward to look at the bar from this angle. It truly looks like every part of it was taken from the movie set. You run your hand atop the bar’s surface to realize it’s actually wood that looks like stone, marveling at the smoothness. 

Behind the bar, two bartenders move in sync, dressed in Jedi robes. When they approach, you both order the blue milk - you, because you demand to know what it tastes like, Vernon, in solidarity. 

Vibrating with excitement, you turn to look at Vernon. “When I was a kid, watching Star Wars was one of the few things my mom and I got to do together.” 

“One of the few things?”

You nod, clapping your hands excitedly when the bartender brings you whatever concoction the blue milk is. It comes in a tall glass and is clear, baby blue and frothy at the top. Leaning over, you take a whiff. It smells vaguely coconutty and you narrow your eyes, leaning forward to take a tentative sip.

Coconut rum hits your tongue and you cringe. Vernon does too, making a face and sticking his tongue out as he immediately shoves the drink away from him. You laugh, not even caring that you hate it. It tastes nothing like you expected and you don’t really like coconut, but it strikes a nostalgic chord. 

“My mom was a single parent and worked really hard at a law firm,” you eventually answer, taking another sip and cringing. Vernon orders something more generic - a rum and coke for you both. “But she always made time on the weekend if I really wanted to do a Star Wars marathon and she took off work for all the prequel releases to take me.”

“That’s cute. My mom was really into it too. Want to know a secret?”

“Yes.”

“My first name is Hansol. A little inspired by Han Solo. I prefer to go by Vernon with everyone who isn’t my family, though.”

That makes you smile. “I like it, though. Your mom has good taste like mine. Think they’d be friends?”

He blushes. “Maybe.” 

You realize how forward of a question it is. You avert your gaze to your blue drink, sipping it and grimacing. Vernon chuckles and says, “You don’t have to drink it.”

“I don’t have to do a lot of things but I do anyway.” 

“Hmm. Like what?” 

“Ugh. I don’t know? Attend meetings all day?”

“I think you do have to do that.”

You scrunch your nose. “Alright, fair.” 

“Tell me about your job.” 

You glance at him, brows raised. “You want me to talk about work?”

“It’s obvious you like what you do, and by the sounds of it, working hard runs in the family. Tell me what you like about it.” 

That makes you sigh as you push the ice around in your glass. What do you like about your job? Well, you like a lot of things and you hate a lot of things. So you start listing them, telling Vernon that you like the routine and you enjoy having a rhythm to your day. You like feeling proud when you can solve a problem no one else can, or when you lead your team through chaos and they look at you like you’re a god who showed them the way.

You like that you can be an authority in the room but you don’t feel like a dictator, and that now when you talk, people listen. Your team is your favorite, loving the way you and Seungkwan work in tandem, and the way the creative department likes to pick your brain. Mingyu and Soonyoung are always asking for your feedback, even if your opinion doesn’t matter in the hierarchy of their world.

The dislikes though… well, you dislike that you never have enough time in the day. That you’re always in a meeting and feel like you leave your team drowning in work picking up the slack. Hate that you get time blindness and sit in your office for hours past dinner to get something right, to get something perfect.

Hate that because you like what you do, everyone thinks you don’t have a life or don’t want a life. And that leads you to the center of the entire issue with your relationship with Minho. 

You pull away like you’re approaching a particularly purple bruise when you near the topic of Minho. Your blue drink is gone and you order something more normal instead. The coke and rum sizzles on your tongue as Vernon looks at you expectantly. 

“I’m doing all the talking,” you mutter, a little defensive. “What’s your favorite color?” 

“Blue.”

“What kind of blue.” 

“Blue like that very nasty milk you just drank.” You stick your tongue out and Vernon smiles. His smile is like a burning star at the center of a solar system, glowing and bright and warm. It gives life. “What’s yours?”

“Deep red. Like… wine or burgundy. What’s your favorite movie?”

“Ah, not that question. I’m a bit of a cinephile.”

“Too bad. You have to pick one.” 

Vernon thinks about it. The tip of his finger traces the condensation of his glass lazily and you hyperfocus on it, watching the way he catches the bead of liquid every time. He has nice fingers, you realize. The thought makes you clench and suddenly wonder if you need to walk out of the bar down to the church to confess the sin of your mind.

Not that you’re religious, but maybe you should be, with where your mind has wandered. 

“I like The Princess Bride.”

You gasp, grabbing him by the wrist and shaking it excitedly. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!” 

Vernon’s laughter is infectious. You both fall into a fit of giggles, quoting your favorite parts of the movie. It’s nice - this is nice. It’s unexpected and you’re a little unsure how you got here, but Vernon makes the pressure of getting to know one another in preparation to fake date in front of your ex fade away.

Until, of course, you remember that’s why you’re at the bar and the thought suddenly sobers you. 

Straightening, you ask, “Why’d you want to go on a double date, anyway? You don’t owe me that.” 

“He seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying.” 

You hum, studying him. “It’s a bit risky. I dated him for a year… if there’s anyone who knows anything about me, it’s probably him.” 

“I can always just hack into your data and learn everything about you.” You stare at him, mouth opens. His grin grows. “I’m kidding. I mean I probably could but I’m not a hacker.”

“Are you sure? You’re a bit suspicious, Vernon Chwe.” 

“Hansol.” You frown in confusion. His tone is gentle, eyes soft when he murmurs, “You can call me Hansol. You know… to make it um. Seems legit.”

“Hansol.” You try out the name, liking the way it fits on your tongue. His eyes are dark and you feel like you could fall into them - you kind of want to. “Hansol. I like it.”

Maybe you don’t need to go to that church to beg for forgiveness after all. What you think you need might be divine intervention to stop the butterflies in your stomach when you say his name, or the nervous shake in your hand when you see him smile. 

Not Vernon (from IT) but Hansol. 

-

Hansol (from IT) is late when he picks you up. For once, you’re just glad it’s not you. Your heart beats a little faster when you see him pull up in his nondescript, black RAV4. He waves through the window when he sees you, a shy smile on his face as he reaches to turn down the music. 

Inside the car smells distinctly like Hansol - driftwood, salt, a little bit of the air freshener that has long since dried but still sways under his rearview mirror. He looks good tonight, dressed in ripped jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket. He’s sans glasses, and though he looks good, you miss them a little. 

Hansol without the glasses is a little intimidating. Especially this version of him that grins when you settle into the seat next to him, his brows slightly raised as though to ask if you’re good. When you nod, his grin tilts upward again and he puts the car and drive, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift tapping to the beat of the music. 

It feels like you’re radiating nervous energy, but you relax as Hansol asks about your day. He’s good at that, eliminating whatever weight is sitting on your shoulders or whatever residual stress you’ve got from work. You don’t feel so… well. On the clock. 

The thought makes you squirm in your seat, pulling the edge of your dress down your thighs a little. You picked it out as a last minute choice, unsure whether you’re trying to dress to impress or dress to show you don’t care what Minho thinks of you.

Hansol notices you fidgeting. “You alright?”

“Kind of nervous.”

“Any reason in particular?”

You blow out air, your head smacking against the headrest. “On the clock?”

“Off,” he says with a grin.

“I feel like I’m going to fucking blow it.”

“How so?”

“What if he asks me to kiss you?”

The words are out before you can stop them. It isn’t until you’re met with silence that you realize what you’ve said. You’ve certainly stuck your foot in your mouth on more than one occasion. You do it often, and quite wonderfully, truthfully. It has taken years of practice to stop flubbing presentations and pitches at work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t say insane shit.

Like right now, when you tell Hansol that of all the things you’re nervous about, the very slim, tiny percent of a chance of being asked to kiss him is at the top of the list. 

And yet, because it’s Hansol, he grins and says, “Damn, Minho’s a freak like that? He likes to ask people to kiss so he can watch?”

Just like that, the tension eases. You laugh, hand flying your mouth to try and suppress it. His eyes are on the road, but they glitter when you catch a glimpse of his face in the headlines, flashing from dark to liquid gold for a split second. 

“Okay,” you admit, laughter dying down. “He’s definitely not going to ask that. It’s just one of those irrational fears, especially with him.”

“Why especially?”

“I feel like he’s always trying to prove that he was right when he broke up with me. Or I guess, in general. He loves being right and sometimes it’s like he’s trying to force a gotcha moment.” 

Hansol is silent as he turns into the parking lot. You say nothing, watching as he navigates to find a parking space. The restaurant is busy and there’s a valet, but Hansol is determined to find his own. He does - very close to the entrance - letting out a happy noise as a car backs out.

Car in park, he turns to look at you. “Can I say something? Not on the clock.”

Your heart skips a little. “Sure.”

“Minho is an asshole.” You smile, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “And you’re going to get through dinner just fine because he’s an asshole, and you’re not.” 

“Are you sure?”

His laugh is full. “I’m actually pretty confident in this. And if he does ask us to kiss, you have my full consent to lay one on me. Come on.” 

You wish you felt as confident as Hansol seems. He slides out of the car easily, coming around to your side as you get out. He reaches out a hand almost instinctively, waiting for you to grab it. You look at him in surprise to find that he looks equally stunned at his own gesture. 

Grinning, you take his hand. It’s warm in yours and he gives you a squeeze as you drop your linked fingers between you, walking toward the establishment like a real couple.

It feels real. You’re not sure what to do with that. The sudden realization of it churns in your stomach as you approach the dark interior of the steakhouse, immediately hit with a romantic ambiance that feels far too big for this tiny thing brewing inside of you. 

Twelvefold? How many times have you suffered since that first day you ran into Hansol at the bookstore? You think it might continue through the evening, especially when he glances over at you on the way to the table to check on you, hand tightening for a split second. 

As soon as you spot Minho and Mina, you’re glad that Hansol has a steady grip on you. Mina’s glossy hair is nearly blinding under the glow of the soft lighting and her smile is brighter still. You almost want to shield your eyes as they wave you over. 

Neither of them seems to know if they should stand and greet you or what the protocol is. Good, you think, happy to see them as off kilter as you feel by this very weird and very unnecessary dinner date. 

Why had Hansol agreed to do this again? 

“She keep you late?” Minho asks Hansol, immediately reminding you why Hansol had said yes in the first place: he seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying. “You’ll get used to it!”

“Actually, it was me,” Hansol answers smoothly. He pulls out your chair for you, startling you again. You try to fein admiration - it’s not hard - and sit, looking up at him with a little bit of awe. Hansol sits, adjusting his seat so that it’s a little closer to yours. “I was working on an infrastructure request and lost track of time.”

That seems to shut Minho up for a moment. Then he laughs his businessman laugh and you wonder if it’s always sounded that way, hollow and fake and… well, annoying. “Damn, so you’re both like that?” 

“Yep.” Hansol leans back in his chair, stretching his arm so that it rests over the back of yours. He doesn’t explicitly touch you, but you feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, a shiver snaking through you at how close he is. “Works well for us.” 

You try not to frown. He’s not going to make it easy for your fake breakup. You’d assumed that you’d tell everyone you just didn’t have time for him, but with the way he’s talking to Minho now, you’re worried it’ll make the impending breakup a little less believable. 

“That’s good, then,” Minho says eventually. “Just don’t schedule any vacations or you’ll both miss it.”

“I never did that,” you scowl. 

Before he has time for a rebuttal, the server is there welcoming you to the restaurant. You shift in your seat, feeling irritated. Hansol senses it, the tips of his finger brushing against your bicep as if to tell you it’s okay. You relax, but only a little, still frustrated. 

Again, you can’t help but feel like your faults are being exacerbated, like Minho is drawing them up to be far grander than they really were. You had missed some dinners and cancelled on some things, but you’d never gone as far as to miss a vacation or a birthday - never the big things. Never the milestones. 

If the server can tell the energy at the table has shifted, they don’t let on. They pour glasses of wine that you let Hansol order while you’re spiraling in your head, and leave with the promise of coming back to take orders when the table is ready. 

It’s Mina who restarts the conversation, glancing at Minho who sucks down the entire glass of wine in a single go. “So,” she says. “What is it exactly that you do?”

“Careful with that question,” Minho jokes. “She’ll talk to you about work for hours.” 

“Which is what makes her good at her job.” Hansol’s voice is even. Smooth. Almost severe, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Tension ripples from him for just a moment before he looks at you and smiles. “Her job is very cool.”

Unlike her blockhead of a boyfriend, Mina seizes the chance for normalcy and asks, “Marketing, right?” 

Mina (with the glossy hair) is really nice. You like her almost immediately and strangely enough, you’re glad she’s there. Minho is like a stormcloud at the edge of the table, a little pocket of pressure that everyone can feel but tries to ignore. 

Hansol makes your fake relationship look effortless. You have to mask your surprise when he recounts a detail about you that you didn’t expect him to know, or makes an observation that has you warming, ducking your face to hide the smile tugging your lips. 

You know little things about him too. It’s almost like you weren’t aware until you’re saying them, all the small things about him bubbling to your lips like an instinct. 

“He’s such an Aquarius!” You laugh, finish the rest of your steak. “The IT department is full of them, even and they’re all so effortlessly cool and have different interests. Hansol has the coolest case full of Star Wars collectibles and-” 

“Hansol?” 

Minho’s question catches you off guard. You blink at him a few times, confused until Hansol interjects, “That’s my legal name.”

“Damn. Should we be calling you Hansol?”

“Nope. Reserved for my mom and my girlfriend.” 

“Wow.”

Minho sits back and observes the two of you. The plates have been cleared away for the evening and the glasses of wine have dwindled. You’re a little sleepy, ready to go home, but the appraising look in Minho’s eyes as they flicker back and forth between you and Hansol has you on edge.

Hansol seems unbothered, finishing his water. His arm rests against your back properly now and you almost melt when his fingers start to trace a pattern on your arm, almost absently. You’re so acutely aware of him that you’re nearly vibrating, telling yourself over and over again that this is just him committing to the bit. This isn’t something to overthink. His touch is for show.

You don’t want it to be for show. God, you don’t want it to be, but you try not to let it unravel right now, instead finishing your water under the heavy and calculating gaze of your ex-boyfriend, who, over the course of dinner, has made you realize you are so grateful is your ex. 

“Huh.”

“What?” you ask, voice coming out a little more challenging than you intend. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to position himself in a way where he’s not wrong. 

“You guys are really together.”

That makes you stiffen. Hansol’s fingers go still on your arm. “What do you mean?”

“You just didn’t really seem like you were dating at the bookstore. It didn’t even seem like you knew who Vernon was.” 

“It was still new,” You lie. “I also wasn’t expecting to run into you both. That’s all.”

“I guess. Just… find it surprising, I guess. Figured you’d never have time for someone.”

It’s Hansol who says, “She has plenty of time for me. Speaking of time, it’s time we head home. I have to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow and she just finished an insane project and deserves some sleep.”

Again, Minho seems thrown for a loop. You could get used to seeing him like a fish out of water, trying not to let an evil smirk take over your face when Hansol beats everyone to the check. 

There is an edge to Hansol’s movements. You observe him quietly, noting the way his mouth is pinched at the corners and the way his eyes darken when he looks at Minho. But when he looks at you, it’s like the world stops. Hansol’s eyes soften and his lips turn up at the corner, a gentle smile for you.

Only you. 

You’re fucked. You’re fucked fucked fucked and it’s nearly all you can think about as dinner wraps up and Minho and Mina thank Hansol for paying. You want to smack him for offering to pay for the insanely expensive bill, but he takes everything in stride.

Outside, it’s a little cold. Hansol shucks his jacket off immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders while giving Mina some sort of computer advice that goes over your head because all you can focus on is the way Hansol smoothes the jacket over your shoulder, his hand dropping to your waist to keep you close.

You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with him. You can’t recall a single time you ever felt this affected by Minho, much less anyone else. Despite having two glasses of wine, you know it’s Hansol and not the wine that has you buzzing. Hansol who has you warm, Hansol who makes it feel like there’s static in your brain when he glances at you to make sure you’re still okay after you’ve gone silent. 

Hansol gives you a quick smile and turns to say farewell to the other couple. You’re happy to say goodbye - though perhaps you should have asked Mina her haircare routine - and you wave as Hansol leads you into the parking lot, fingers intertwined.

He turns to you, making you look up at him. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs, barely giving you a warning. “Unless you say no.” 

“I - okay.” 

There is the barest of smiles on Hansol’s face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief and gentle, so quick that you barely register he’s kissed you at all. He’s already pulling away when you blink, nearing his car as he does. 

“He was a dick,” Hansol explains. “And he was staring at us when we left. So. Let him question what’s real now.” 

Minho isn’t the only one questioning what’s real. You’re hung up on the kiss, despite it being nothing more than a peck. Your mouth is warm, thoughts spinning as Hansol helps you into the car. You say nothing, completely consumed by the feel of his mouth, the smell of driftwood and salt, the barest taste of wine. 

The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Hansol’s hand grabs yours instinctually over the center console, fingers tied together loosely as he drives. But there’s no one to perform for her, no one to show off too. No one who needs convincing. 

It’s just you and the burning desire for him bubbling up inside of you.

You’ve lost count of how many folds you have suffered, but somehow, this one is a little less worse than the others.

-

Hansol cannot stop thinking about you. He’s pretty sure the last time he had brain rot this bad about another person, it was Larcy Dodsen in his senior year of college who had blown him to heaven and back. He’s had better (and worse) blowjobs since then, and doesn’t really think of Larcy Dodsen ever anymore.

But you. You. 

You occupy every corner of his mind. He wavers back and forth between thinking about the way you smell or the way you laugh (a little reedy, but cute) and thinking about how bad he fucked up by kissing you that night. 

Things aren’t exactly weird. The very basis of your relationship - or lack thereof - is weird. He’d agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a month, but with zero terms. No contract outline. No do’s and don’ts. No guidelines. No rules. No regulations. Just an agreement and a fucking dream. 

Now, he’s wishing he had something to go off of, because what started out as an agreement to help someone out has turned into something else entirely. 

Chan was right. Hansol is desperately trying to hide that fact from his best friend, but the way Chan side-eyes Hansol at lunch when he stares off into the distance, he thinks that the younger  man might be onto him. 

It doesn’t help that Hansol is buried in Help Desk tickets the weekend following kissing you, and you’re six feet under in a pile of projects. It isn’t until he goes a few days without talking to you multiple times that it’s occurred to him how much he texts you during the day. 

Hansol finds himself checking his phone again at lunch, swearing that he felt it vibrate. This time, Chan catches him, putting down the fork and clearing his throat to gesture at the phone. “So it happened, right?” 

“What?” Even Hansol winces at his own defensiveness. “I can’t check the time?”

“Do you check the time three times every five minutes? I know you can do math.” 

“Just checking to see how her presentation went.”

Chan laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. So it did happen.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

He doesn’t. Chan knows it. Hansol knows it. Chan gets more specific anyway. “You like her. As in, you have feelings for her after… well. This weekend will make it a month. So wouldn’t that be your deal coming to an end?”

Hansol wants to think about anything other than that. “Everything is fine.” 

Chan holds up his hand, a white flag. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just make sure you know what she wants too, is all I’m saying.” 

And that’s the crux of it. Hansol isn’t sure what you want. He assumed that you just wanted to get through this month and your fake breakup, but now he’s not so sure. He thinks of the way you’d look at him during dinner last weekend, the way your expression gets dreamy with a soft smile, eyes glowing. 

Hansol doesn’t think he made it up - his creativity is good but not that good. He had been so sure that you felt something too, swears that you melted into him every time he touched you, every time he turned to check in on you.

And the kiss… it had been brief and born from wanting to rub it in Minho’s face, but Hansol had wanted to do it, too. Wanted it for himself. Wanted to allow himself a single, greedy thing. You’d been surprised but leaned into him, almost instinctual. It had been so short but it haunts his dreams, the phantom press of your mouth keeping him up late at night. 

Even now, Hansol’s fingers trace his mouth, as though he can remember the feeling of your mouth against his. So maybe Chan is right. Hansol likes you - has feelings for you. There is a lingering sense that you might too, but he’s not sure. 

He needs to be sure. 

Finding a window to make sure, is tough, though. He only hears from you once throughout the rest of the day, and it's to shoot him a quick text that the presentation was moved to Monday and that you have to work all weekend on it. 

He feels more disappointed than he lets on. He wonders if you remember his birthday is on Saturday. Not that you owe him that since you’re not actually dating, but in a perfect world Hansol thinks it might have been a good day to tell you how he feels. That he kind of wants to make this thing real. 

On the bright side, you do remember his birthday. On the shitty side, he can’t spend it with you. You’re working on your presentation for the foreseeable future, and Hansol had hesitated to make plans with his friends knowing some of them were celebrating Valentine’s Day late with their partners and because he’d hoped to maybe spend it with you.

It feels stupid, thinking about it now. Of course you weren’t going to spend it with him. He knew what this was when he offered to do it. You were a bright burning star at the top of the company, and Hansol had been someone you barely registered. 

By the afternoon, he’s still sullen. He’s thinking about just spending the evening eating pizza and playing video games online where he’ll get bullied by a bunch of high schoolers when he hears his phone ring and your name flashes across the screen.

Hansol’s heart soars. He all but throws the control across the room, diving to pick up the phone and answer, “Hi!” 

“Please don’t hate me,” you rush out, completely out of breath. “I am panicking right now. My work laptop randomly got the blue screen of death and I’m in the middle of my project and-”

“I’ll come look at it.” He cringes, realizing how down bad he is. It’s his birthday and he shouldn’t have to work, but he’d rather come solve a problem for you than have a bunch of thirteen year old’s tell him that they’re fucking his mom. “I can come over in fifteen.” 

“Oh! Uh… can you make that twenty?” 

Weird. “Sure?” 

“Great! Text me when you’re here and I’ll give you the unit number.” 

Twenty minutes ends up being perfect, because Hansol goes through the mental anguish of what to wear, which is new for him. He showers as quickly and efficiently as he can, hopping with one leg in his jeans and the other missing the hole multiple times. He nearly runs into the wall as he’s pulling on a band tee over his head while also looking for his flannel. 

Hair still damp, he pulls on a hat and twists it around backward, grabbing his glasses because he doesn’t feel like wearing contacts (and because you said you liked them) as he barrels out the house, radiating with nervous energy. 

Hansol wonders if it’s appropriate to tell you how he feels today. It will be face to face but… no. You’d sounded stressed on the phone and he knows how important this presentation is for you, despite not knowing what it’s about. 

He barely remembers the drive to your apartment, blinking and realizing he’s parked and texting you that he’s there. You give him directions to your unit and with shaky hands, Hansol turns off the car. He takes a few steadying breaths before getting out and heading to the stairs, his heart hammering with each step. 

When he finally gets to your door, he double checks that it's the right one. His hands shake when he knocks, and he has to remind himself several times that he’s just here to fix your computer. Sure, he’s thrilled that he gets to see you, but this is on the clock. Not off.

You’re breathless when you open the door. “Hi!” You say a little too loudly. He raises his brows but you open the door and step aside, ushering him in. “Come on in.”

Hansol gives you an amused grin as he walks into your apartment. He’s confused as to why it’s completely dark, a question that he’s about to ask you as you shut the door, but you flick on the lights and he’s met with the world’s loudest shout of surprise he’s ever heard.

He flinches, hand flying to his chest in terror as the lights flood on and Hansol realizes that the reason they were off is to hide the obscene amount of Star Wars decorations covering every part of your apartment. He can’t even picture what your home is supposed to look like, just that it’s covered in streamers and paper Luke Skywalkers and RD-D2s, and filled with familiar faces.

Hansol’s mouth pops open as the crowd screams at him. Chan and Seokmin are at the forefront, phones in hand capturing Hansol as he stands there, dumbfounded. Soongyoung and Mingyu are blowing through noise makers with so much force that the paper on them breaks, and Seungkwan is leading an off-key rendition of happy birthday with Hansol’s friends you’ve never even met.

Slowly, Hansol turns to look at you. You’re standing behind him, hands clasped nervously and tucked under your chin as you watch him, terrified. You’re chewing on your lips, entire frame vibrating with energy. 

He wants nothing more than to walk over to you and kiss you stupid. The flame of desire that licks through him is borderline impossible to tamp down, staring at you like the eighth world wonder as you slip over to him, scanning his face.

“Surprise?” You squeak.

“You did this for me?”

“Well, yeah.” 

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He wants to pin you against the island counter behind you, but it’s fill with food and beverages and blue fucking milk. “Is that okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous. 

Hansol softens and starts to laugh. “Yeah,” he shakes his head. “It is more than okay.” 

Before he can say anything else, the crowd of people crashes into him. Seokmin and Chan are screaming in his ear, grabbing him and yelling for shots. Mingyu and Soonyoung are chanting his name and his best friend from college manages to squeeze in and give him a hug and a birthday greeting.

How did you even know Minghao existed? Or how to contact him? Hansol has no idea, but before he can ask you any questions about the how or the why, he’s swept into your kitchen for birthday celebrations he thought would never happen, orchestrated by the single person he wanted to see most. 

Fuck was Chan right more than ever. 

-

The thing about being a bad liar is that you found it nearly impossible to hide what you were doing from Hansol. The thing about everyone thinking you’re always busy, is that it was an easy facade to shield the sheer stress of trying to plan a surprise party for him. 

Your apartment is filled with more people than you’ve ever dared to let inside. It makes you a little nervous for all of these people to see this new part of you, but with a little bit of rum and the released pressure of Hansol looking like he’s enjoying himself, you decide it’s worth it. 

Squished in the corner of your couch, you watch as Chan leads a game of cards that he is losing very badly at. Most of these people in your apartment are casual friends, with the exception of Seungkwan who is playing DJ in the kitchen, but they’re all friends that Hansol would want at a celebration for him.

At least, that’s what Chan and Seokmin said. Recruiting them had been pretty easy, but during the process of them helping you plan this, you’re pretty sure they’ve caught on to the AT-AT Walker-sized elephant in the room: you are very much into their friend. In a very Not-On-The-Clock appropriate way. 

Now, you watch as Hansol makes his way over to you, dodging people who stop to talk to him. He seems pretty determined to reach you, clapping someone on the shoulder and moving them aside to continue his journey to you. 

Your stomach flips when he sits on the arm of your couch, perched perfectly next to you. He looks good today, dressed in jeans, a soft looking tee and a flannel. The backwards hat does wonders for you - which you will not be psychoanalyzing now - and his black frame glasses. 

“How did you do all this?” He asks, shaking his head in wonder. “I just… what?” 

“It wasn’t easy, but it worked, right?”

“Is this the presentation you’ve been working on all week?”

“Yes. Please don’t be mad at me for lying.”

He laughs. “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried.” 

An argument breaks out over cards, Chan and Mingyu yelling at each other about someone cheating. Hansol winces at the noise and you scoot a little closer to avoid the deck of cards Mingyu throws in Chan’s direction.

“Is there anywhere quiet we can talk?” Hansol asks, though he’s laughing at them. “They’re giving me a bit of a headache.” 

You grin. “For sure.” 

Getting up, you lead Hansol down the hall to your bedroom, which is off limits to the rest of the party. The good thing about adult festivities is that no one is a weirdo about going into rooms they shouldn’t, staying exactly where it’s appropriate to be. 

Shutting the door behind you, the noise of the party dies down immediately. It’s dark in your room, save for the single lamp burning in the corner at a low setting. You realize it’s a bit messy, apologizing to Hansol as you kick clothes out of the way. You hadn’t intended on bringing him in here, and suddenly the implication of Hansol standing in your room tingles down your spine. 

“I, uh-” You stammer, looking at him. “Sorry it’s a mess. I didn’t intend on anyone seeing this.”

Halloween yowls, getting up off your bed. Hansol makes a surprised sound and you apoogize again, “It’s just Halloween. He likes to sleep in here. Out, kitty!”

You open the door and Halloween bolts out, going to find Seungkwan who will give him snacks. 

Hansol grins and wanders over to the bookshelf, looking over the titles. You take a few steps to follow him but keep your distance, suddenly very nervous. He points his finger at a title and looks at you, inviting you to step closer to read it in the dim light. 

You recognize the title - you’d bought it the day you’d crashed into him and got some of your books mixed up. 

“This one one of the books you accidentally swapped with me,” Hansol notes, running his finger along the spine. You zero in on his finger - his hands, in general. They’re pretty. You swallow hard, looking up at the ceiling instead. “Have you read it yet?” 

“Not yet. I started one of the others but I’ve been having trouble breeding - reading lately.”

Hansol presses his lips together in a flat line and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at you. Warmth floods your face and you want to die on the spot, especially when he turns to face you head on, leaning against your bookcase. 

His eyes are dark, drinking you in. Your pulse skyrockets, thinking about that quick kiss he had given you the other night. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, too afraid to ask him if it was just for show and too busy trying to plan this party to work out what to say about it.

Now, alone in your room, the questions fizzle on your tongue at the nearness of him. 

“Thank you,” Hansol says eventually. “For planning this. I… would never have expected you to do that.”

“I wanted to celebrate you.”

He blushes, ducking his head. “It’s sweet. It did make me nervous, though.” 

“Why?”

“I thought you were avoiding me, kind of.”

You blink. “Why on earth would I be doing that?”

“Thought that maybe I took it too far with the kiss.” 

“No. You didn’t.” 

Hansol’s gaze falls on you. It’s razor sharp and there’s something there, burning just under the surface. You swear it’s something like desire, but you’re too afraid to name it. Too worried that it’s just what you want reflected in his glassy gaze, and not his. 

Then, “Did I not take it far enough?” 

The question hangs in the air. You cannot hear anything but the pounding of  your own heart. It’s just Hansol in this dark room with you, looking at you with exactly the same hunger that’s been churning in your gut. 

You don’t know when this hunger started. All you know is that the last few weeks, it’s been there. Every time you look at him you feel it ignite, the desire so raw that you don’t know what to do with it. 

Now, you know he feels it too - see it, in the way he waits for your answer. Patient. Calm. Steady.

“On the clock?” You ask, voice shaky. He shakes his head no. “You could go further.” 

That’s all Hansol needs. He’s gentle when he reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. You barely get to suck in a trembling breath before he’s kissing you.

This kiss is entirely different from the peck he gave you in the parking lot last weekend. This kiss steals the breath from your lung, his mouth confident and sure as he slots his mouth against yours. He smells like the sea, all driftwood and salt and his lips taste like the tangy drink he’d been sipping on earlier.

Everything else fades to the background. Your hands twist in his flannel. It’s soft, but nothing compared to the softness of Hansol’s tongue as he licks at the seam of your lips. You let him in and he groans, pulling you in impossibly closer as the kiss turns more desperate.

You melt. He kisses you hungrily now, sucking your tongue into his mouth. It makes your head spin, the party long forgotten as you press further into him. The bookshelf wobbles under the weight of both of you leaning against it, making you break, both of you panting.

Hansol’s mouth shines with your spit in the low lamp light and you have the urge to lean forward and lick it. You resist, only for him to give into his urge. He leans forward, tongue pressing to the corner of your mouth gently. 

“What about now?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your mouth. “Too far?”

“No.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands dropping to your waist. You let him grip you, backing you up toward your bed. It’s a bit clumsy but you don’t care, hands looping around his neck to keep him close.

“Tell me what you want,” Hansol mumbles. Your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall backward. He follows you, caging you in with both of his planted on either side of your head. “Tell me how far you want me to go.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. Nothing I want to do right now is on the clock.”

“Good. I want you to go as far as you want.”

He drops his mouth to your neck. A moan slips between your lips when you feel his tongue scrape across the soft skin of your throat. He sounds strained when he says, “You gotta tell me, baby. I need to know what you want.”

“You.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month. “All of it. Everything. But for real.” 

Hansol nods. He presses messy, wet kisses up your neck, along your jaw, stopping at your mouth. His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your lips, giving you a chaste peck. “You’ve got me. For real.” 

Grinning, you slide your hands underneath his shirt. He moans, throaty and delicious. He twitches under your exploration but he lets you brush your palms up the warmth of his stomach, reaching around until your hands are gripping his lower back. 

His mouth attaches to yours again. The kiss is messy and addictive, Hansol filling your senses as he lowers himself so that his weight is rested on top of you. It’s comforting and wanted, your knees squeezing his hips to hold him in place. 

One of his hands leaves the mattress to drop to your hip, squeezing before he scratches his nails against your thigh. You shiver, feeling the stimulation through your jeans. His hand slips under you, gripping the curve of your ass to lift you a little, pressing you closer to him.

A moan slips through your mouth to his when he rolls your hips against him. The stimulation isn’t remotely enough but you like this version of Hansol. His touch is confident, his lips intentful as they leave a trail from your mouth to your collarbone. 

With one last squeeze to your ass, Hansol traces his fingers over the tops of your thigh to drop between your legs. He presses his fingers to the apex of your thighs, working you through your clothes. You let out a desperate sound and you feel the way he smiles against your skin. 

His touch sparks a flame. You tear at his flannel, peeling it from his shoulders. He helps you get it off of him but he’s just as eager to peel you out of your jeans and shirt. A deep curse leaves his mouth when he sees you in just a bra and underwear, your chest heaving as you pant, staring up at him, mouth swollen and tender. 

Reaching for him, you grab the hat and throw it. “Hat is very hot,” you admit. “But I wanted to do this.” 

You slide your fingers in his hair, curling them through the strands to tug him back to you. He smiles into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand skims up your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes until he slides his hand back between your legs.

A gasp leaves you as he presses his fingers back to your cunt, pressing the fabric into your aching clit. He whispers a string of curses when he feels how damp you are, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment as he teases you over your panties.

“Please,” you whisper, hips rising off the bed. “Want more.”

“Mhmm.” He lifts his head and gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Hansol doesn’t make you beg. You like that about him. Your breath catches when he drops to his knees, reaching his arm up to pull the back of his shirt over his head, tossing it. The sight of him between your knees in just jeans, his hair mussed and mouth swollen is enough to make you dizzy.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching with hooded eyes as Hansol grabs you by the calves, spreading you a little more. His hands are gentle and warm, rubbing up and down while he takes his time pressing a myriad of kisses up the right side of your inner thigh. 

It feels so good. Your lashes flutter a little, breath coming in quicker. Everywhere his mouth touches tingles, a little path of buzzing electricity as he makes his way closer and closer to your heat until he switches sides.

You make a sound of protest and Hansol looks up at you through his lashes, grinning. He looks smug, leaning forward to bite your thigh playfully. It stings but it feels good, making your fingers twist in the sheets. 

“Feel good?” he whispers, pressing his tongue to soothe the sting. You nod, mouth parted, unable to speak. He smiles again, dragging his tongue down your thigh. You think you might die right there. 

Hansol makes his way back up. He drags his burning gaze up to meet yours, deliberately making eye contact as he presses the flat of his tongue against your underwear. If it wasn’t soaked before, it is thoroughly drenched now. You suck in a sharp breath, knees closing on instinct to squeeze against his shoulders.

He chuckles, dragging his tongue upward where it presses against your clit momentarily. He brings one of his hands up, pressing his middle finger right against your hole. You feel yourself clench around nothing and you know he knows, his grin wicked. 

"What do you like?"

"I... don't know."

He looks at you, pausing. "You don't know? Like what makes you come?" You shake your head and realization lights his eyes. "That jackass didn't make you come, did it?"

You shake your head and he groans.

“Don’t worry,” Hansol promises with another languid lick to the soaked fabric. “I will make up for all the times you didn’t get to come.” 

“Fuck.”

Vernon (from IT) has been replaced with Hansol (the Menace). He hooks a finger in the crotch of your underwear, pulling them to the side. He drags a knuckle against your pussy on purpose, both of you groaning in unison. 

Eagerly Hansol leans forward, giving you a teasing lick. Your fingers dig into the mattress anyway. You can do nothing but stare at him, watching the way Hansol drags his dark eyes up to watch you as he drags his tongue through your folds again. 

“Shit,” you hiss at him, a shiver wracking your body.

He seems pleased, shooting you a quick smile before he brings his mouth to you again, sucking gently. He avoids your clit at first, working you up slowly. Hansol eats you out like he has all the time in the world, like there’s no where he would rather be than tonguing your pussy. 

It drives you mad, his name slipping from your lips in little gasps. His tongue circles your clit, applying pressure indirectly, working you up and up until finally, he closes his mouth around the throbbing bundle of nerves, suckling. 

“Ohhhh,” you laugh, half delirious. “That. Whatever that is.” 

He hums, parting only to say, “You got it.” 

You see God when he fastens his mouth to you, sucking your clit gently. Dropping back against the bed, you twitch and gasp under Hansol’s ministrations. He sets a rhythm, adding his fingers to the mix as they press against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, but rather traces a pattern, making you squeeze. 

Panting, you drop a hand to his hair. He hums in delight as you tangle your fingers in the strands, bringing him closer to your cunt. You feel like you’re burning up, your sheets sticking to your skin, the room spinning as Hansol eats you out in earnest now. 

No one has ever seemed this dedicated to your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for a second, fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you to a cliff of insanity. All you have to do is jump and dive head first into an orgasm. 

You do. Hansol works you right to the very edge and you topple over, falling into it hard. You go taught but he holds you down, fighting your spasm as you come hard. He doesn’t miss a beat, the obscene sounds of him slurping at you drowning out the pitiful, high pitched whine that leaves you. 

In a wave of exhaustion, your orgasm subsides. You flop on the bed, still shaking as he removes his mouth in favor of pressing slick, cum-stained kisses to your thighs. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, flashing wickedly. 

He pauses, looking at your wet, messy cunt back to your face. “Want a taste?”

Hansol (the Menace) is going to kill you.

You nod and he smirks. He runs his tongue generously up your pussy, making sure to dip into your entrance just a little before he stands up and leans over you to press a filthy kiss to your mouth. You suck at his tongue greedily, tasting yourself and him, a combination you’ll never get tired of. 

One of his hands snakes up to your chest, tweaking a nipple gently, testing the waters. You nod, breaking the kiss with a gasp, “Yeah.” 

“Gonna work you open with my fingers,” he slurs. He kisses down your neck again, working his way to your chest. “That okay?”

“More than okay.” 

“God,” he whispers. “You sound so fucking good when you come. Want to hear it again.” 

There is no doubt he will. Hansol rids you of your bra before returning to suck greedily at your chest. Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his sides as he presses a finger into your warmth. 

“God damn,” he laughs. He plucks at a nipple with his teeth and you curse. “You’re so fucking wet.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. My finger is in your pussy.”

“I am really turned on.”

He gives your other breast a playful bite. “Good. Now I want you to come apart on my fingers.” 

That won’t be an issue. Hansol gets you there embarrassingly fast. He finds the sensitive spot inside of you with ease and doesn’t hold back, pressing another finger in. He works you toward another orgasm like it's easy - and maybe for the both of you, it is. Maybe Hansol was meant to have you like this, gushing around his fingers and babbling nonsense as you come again, his mouth pressed against your hammering heart. 

Maybe he was meant to have you fucked out and light-headed by the time you’re helping him out of his jeans, sliding his briefs down his muscular thighs to free his cock. The tip is dark and sticky, weeping with precum when he pins you to the bed, catching you in a bruising kiss.

Gone is the patient Hansol who had started with gentle kisses to your thighs, replaced by his need to have you. To consume you. You let him, willing to let him do whatever he wants. You want his pleasure just as much as he wants yours, slipping your hand between your bodies to palm his cock, heavy and warm in your hand.

He whispers your name and it sounds like a prayer. His forehead presses against yours, letting you pump him slowly. His hips twitch as though he’s fighting to control himself, letting you have your fun before he growls and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers to pin above your head. 

Hansol scoots you up the bed, putting you where he wants you. Gone is the sweet guy from IT, replaced with whatever this is. You like this side of him equally, listening to him when he asks you to lift your hips so he can slide a pillow under your ass.

With a kiss to your brow that feels sweeter than the moment allows for, Hansol lifts your leg, prying you open for him. His cock is heavy against your cunt and he ruts a little, making you both whine in tandem. 

“You still want this, right?” He asks, voice shaking. “For real?”

“Yes.” You squeeze the hand he has laced with yours, pinned to the mattress near your head. “On the clock. Off the clock. Literally all of the hours.” 

“What if I refuse to change your computer password?”

That makes you laugh. He gives you a glowing smile, kissing the tops of your cheekbones. “Even then,” you promise. 

“Good. Try breathing for me when you come this time.” You give him a look and he smiles. “Did you think you were done? I told you I was making up for lost time.” 

He doesn’t give you a second to retort, his cock pressing in at that exact moment. “Ohhh you fucker,” you moan and he laughs, which makes things worse. You squeeze around him hard, barely breathing as Hansol slides in to the hilt, the pressure and stretch divine. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did,” he admits before trapping you into an uncoordinated kiss. 

With one hand holding yours to the bed and the other sliding under your ass to help lift you with the pillow, Hansol sets a slow pace. You continue to kiss him, just as slow as he fucks you. He is deep, cock brushing against your g-spot on every upstroke. 

Your free hand slides to his lower back, urging him to keep going. His tempo is measured, perfect, the angle of his hips just right. You start to feel insane, mumbling his name, whining between kisses, making a pathetic noise when he increases his pace. 

Hansol fucks like he knows exactly how you like it. Of course he does. Even from the moment in that bookstore, he had you figured out. No one else has been able to adjust to you like he has, no one else has been able to understand - to see you. 

“Fuck,” he hisses when you start squeezing on him for harder and longer. He’s pushing you toward that edge again, so close you’re already seeing stars. “Pussy feels so good.” 

He shuffles up the bed more, folding you a little. You make a wild sound, gasping as the angle pushes his cock in deep. “Holy shit, Hansol.” 

“That the spot?” he asks, and you nod. He starts fucking you in earnest, pace picking up. “God damn I could do this all day.” 

“Keep doing that and I’ll let you.”

He laughs and kisses you again, all tongue and teeth. You start to spasm, feeling the way your muscles clench as you near your third orgasm. This one is tight in your stomach, a pressure that is so compact you feel like you’re going to combust.

“Breathe through it,” he reminds you, out of breath as he chases your high. “You can do that, yeah?”

You nod, saving your breath for when he tells you to use it. 

A few more hard strokes and you’re doing exactly as instructed, taking in a deep breath as your orgasm hits. You see white, shaking underneath Hansol as the warmth of your high blooms in your lower stomach and expands. It’s better than the first two, stretching longer, the feeling reaching to your toes. 

You manage to breathe all the way through it, barely hanging on as he fucks you through the entire length of your high. He presses his mouth to your temple, slowing his pace to let you recover. You feel melted, like your bones and muscles have all gone on vacation, leaving Hansol to do the work for you.

“Good?” he asks, breath fanning your face.

You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You,” you mumble. It’s not a complete sentence, but he gets what you mean, kissing you quickly before chasing his own high, gritting his teeth. 

As spent as you are, you do your part to help him get there, squeezing with what strength you have left, whispering his name, pulling him in close with a leg around his hip. It works, sending Hansol over the edge and spilling into you within a few seconds. 

He curses into your shoulder, pace turning sloppy until he finally stops, hips pressed to yours, cock sheathed to the hilt. Both of you stay like that, trying to catch your breath in a sweaty pile of limbs.

Hansol recovers first, shifting so that he can lay next to you. He pulls out, a mess of cum and fluid going with him. You don’t care, rolling to your side to kiss him slowly. Softly. He rests an arm over your hip, keeping you connected. 

“This is a great birthday,” he jokes, voice hoarse. “I uhhh, forgot there was a party. No one will think we’re fake dating now.” 

You grin. “Whatever. We’re not on the clock.” 

He kisses you again. “Thank god. Cause I really want to do this again in fifteen minutes.”

You smile, really glad that Hansol (the Boyfriend) is on the same page as you.

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[jjungkookii]

Always You

m.list

Pairing: MIn Yoongi x (f)Reader

Genre: smut, comedy, angst, fluff

Word count: 20,976

Summary: What starts as friendship built on inside jokes and late-night takeout slowly turns into something messier, heavier, and impossible to ignore. From the first meet through the birthday party, jealousy, confessions, and one hangover later—you and Yoongi finally cross the line you’ve both been toeing for far too long.

Content/Warnings: Explicit sexual content (smut), jealousy, alcohol use, language, angst with eventual comfort, friends-to-lovers, oral (f receiving), fingering, protected penetrative sex, multiple positions, creampie (with condom), aftercare(barely), many many confessions. Please tell me if I missed anything!

Playlist: We can’t be friends by Ariana Grande // Tears by Sabrina Carpenter

A/N: This story got away from me in the best way—it’s long, indulgent, and absolutely filthy but also stupidly tender. Yoongi really said “dreams do come true.” God I love him😭 thank you @sorilyae for being my positive enabler 🫶 I love you

The first time you meet Yoongi, you’re not even supposed to be there.

Namjoon is an old friend from college—the kind who pops in and out of your life like seasons, but always feels like home when he’s around. He’s in town for a few days, texts you last-minute with, “come out tonight, I’ve got people you should meet.”

You almost say no. It’s been a long week, and you’re not in the mood for new faces. But it’s Namjoon, and you’ve missed him, so you drag yourself out anyway.

The little get-together isn’t what you expect. Not a packed bar, not a fancy dinner. Just a corner booth in a half-empty lounge, dim lighting and a low playlist in the background. Namjoon waves you over, grinning, introducing you one by one to the friends crammed into the booth with him.

And then there’s Yoongi.

He doesn’t smile when your eyes meet. He barely looks up from his glass. But when Namjoon says your name, Yoongi repeats it under his breath like he’s testing it out, then gives you the faintest nod.

You slide into the booth across from him. Conversation flows easily with the others—Jimin’s brightness, Taehyung’s chaos, Jin’s effortless banter—but every so often, you catch Yoongi’s eyes on you. Not in a way that feels rude. More like he’s quietly assessing you, deciding if you’re worth the effort.

It isn’t until someone makes a dumb joke—something dark and a little twisted—that you instinctively add a one-liner of your own. The table goes silent for half a beat, surprised. And then Yoongi huffs out a laugh. A real one, quick and sharp, before he shakes his head and mutters, “finally, someone with decent humor.”

That’s it. The thread is tied.

For the rest of the night, you find yourself leaning into his side comments, his dry observations. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands—and you volley it right back. The others notice, of course. Namjoon gives you a knowing look, like he planned this all along.

And by the end of the night, you and Yoongi are sharing a basket of fries across the table, comfortable in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all. When you leave, he doesn’t ask for your number. He just says, “you’ll be around again, right?” And somehow, you know you will.

After that first night, you figure it’s a one-off. You’ll catch Namjoon next time he’s in town, and Yoongi will stay in your memory as the guy with the sharp laugh and sharper humor.

Except—two days later, your phone buzzes.

A new group chat.

Namjoon: Squad expansion pack unlocked. Everybody say hi to [Y/N].

Taehyung: ooooh new friend

Jin: more people to roast me, great

Yoongi: …

Yoongi: who let her in here

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, smirking. You type back:

the bouncer at the booth last night liked me more than you, sorry.

And just like that, it’s on.

From then on, Yoongi isn’t just Namjoon’s friend—you start seeing him at every casual hang. Movie nights, random bar meet-ups, late-night drives when Taehyung insists everyone needs ice cream at 1 a.m. Somewhere in the shuffle, Yoongi stops feeling like “Namjoon’s brooding friend” and starts feeling like your favorite person to stand next to at parties.

You don’t notice it right away, but the others definitely do. The way you two end up sharing snacks. The way Yoongi actually texts back in the group chat if it’s you he’s answering. The way his humor sharpens whenever you’re around, like he’s performing for an audience of one.

It takes weeks before you realize: you’ve been texting Yoongi directly. No big moment, no “can I get your number”—just the natural bleed from group chat to late-night one-on-ones. Memes, song recs, dumb observations. A thread that winds tighter without either of you naming it.

And somehow, without noticing, Yoongi becomes the person you look for first when you walk into a room.

It doesn’t take long before you and Yoongi develop your own rhythm.

At first, it’s little things—dry commentary during group hangs, a quiet laugh shared while everyone else is too loud to notice. But soon, it becomes a whole thing. Inside jokes stitched together from throwaway comments, looks you can read without words.

Once, at a party, someone suggests a cheesy icebreaker game. You and Yoongi exchange a glance, already mocking it in your heads.

He leans closer, murmurs just for you:

“if I have to list two truths and a lie, I’m going with ‘I buried a body once’ as a truth.”

You snort into your drink, choking on laughter. When you wheeze out your own response—“make sure you don’t pick the basement, that one’s already mine”—Yoongi nearly spits out his beer.

Everyone else at the table just stares. Jungkook looks genuinely concerned. Jin mutters something about “what the hell is wrong with you two,” while Hoseok squints like he’s not sure if you’re kidding. You and Yoongi, meanwhile, are doubled over in the corner, entirely unbothered.

It becomes a pattern:

You’re the only one who laughs when Yoongi mutters his driest, darkest lines.

He’s the only one who notices when you deadpan something outrageous under your breath.

The others stop asking, eventually, because it’s your brand of humor—private, sharp-edged, and weirdly intimate.

In between the jokes, though, it’s softer things that stitch you together.

Falling asleep on his couch after a late-night hang, and waking to a blanket tossed over you.

Him sending you half-finished demos at 3 a.m., knowing you won’t judge.

You picking up takeout when you know he hasn’t eaten all day.

You become constants in each other’s lives—reliable without ever saying you would be. And maybe that’s why no one teases you about it; because for all the dark humor and the sharp laughs, everyone can see the gentleness underneath.

Of course, you don’t call it that. Neither of you do. It’s just friendship. Comfortable. Easy. Unshakable.

At least, until it isn’t.

It happens on a Saturday night, the kind of night that’s quietly become yours.

Most weekends end this way—takeout boxes on Yoongi’s coffee table, a movie playing half-forgotten in the background, you two tucked into opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t matter; the routine is what matters.

So when you casually say, “I can’t do next weekend—I think I’ve been asked on a date,” you don’t even look up from your carton of noodles. It’s offhand, thoughtless, like mentioning the weather.

But Yoongi hears it like a record scratch.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets down his chopsticks, leans back, stares at the TV like it suddenly got interesting. His pulse thuds in his ears, steady and unwelcome.

A date.

“Cool,” he says finally, voice low, flat enough you almost don’t notice it’s sharper than usual.

You glance at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Have fun.”

You wait for him to make a joke, to say something snarky about your type or the guy probably being boring. That’s how it usually goes—you throw the ball, he bats it back. But this time, Yoongi doesn’t even lift his eyes from the screen.

The silence feels heavier than it should.

You don’t press, because Yoongi gets like this sometimes—quiet moods, long stretches of silence. You’ve never pushed too hard when he walls himself off.

But for Yoongi, it’s different. He’s sitting there, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let his hand tighten around the beer bottle in his lap. He knows it’s stupid. You’re not his. You’ve never been his. He has no claim to feel anything at all.

And yet, the thought of you smiling across a table at someone else makes his chest tighten in a way he absolutely does not want to look into right now.

When you finally lean back and sigh, half-smiling at him like nothing’s changed, Yoongi manages to nod, force out a faint smirk.

But later, when you leave, his apartment feels too quiet. And Yoongi realizes—for the first time—that the idea of losing your Saturdays hurts a lot more than he’s ready to admit.

You swipe a layer of mascara onto your lashes, blink at your reflection, and try not to think about how strange Yoongi has been all week.

Normally, Saturdays are yours. Movie nights, half-eaten takeout cartons, his sarcastic commentary muffled against the couch cushions. But tonight you’re in front of your mirror, curling iron still hot, lip gloss still tacky, because you told him you had a date.

The word had landed heavy between you, like a rock in a still pond. Yoongi hadn’t teased you, hadn’t grumbled about your taste, hadn’t even made a joke at your expense. Just that flat cool and nothing else. And that—not the date, not the guy—has been tugging at your thoughts ever since.

You smooth the hem of your dress and pause, because another memory presses forward, uninvited.

It’s from months ago. A night you weren’t even supposed to stay late, but the group hang bled into Yoongi’s apartment, and then bled into just the two of you, cross-legged on his floor with a half-empty bottle between you.

Yoongi doesn’t drink often—not enough to get loose, anyway. But that night, he let himself unravel just a little. Enough that the words spilled out softer, slower, like he’d been holding them back too long.

“You know…” He’d swirled the last inch of whiskey in his glass, eyes half-lidded, mouth quirking like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going. “…you’re… fuck. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

You laughed then, awkward, ready to brush it off. But Yoongi hadn’t let you.

“No, seriously. You don’t get it.” His gaze had been steady, almost too much to bear. “You bring… light. To people. To me. Like—you’re funny as hell, yeah, but it’s more than that. You make shit feel… less heavy. You make people feel lucky just by being around. Anyone would be blessed to have you in their life. And if they don’t see that? They’re idiots.”

The words had settled in your chest, glowing, impossible to forget. But you couldn’t answer. You just sat there, staring, memorizing the way his voice dipped low on lucky.

He smiled after, small and crooked, and took another sip like he hadn’t just turned your whole world upside down.

The next morning, when you teased him about it—“you get weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Min Yoongi.” He’d blinked at you, blank-faced, and muttered, “don’t remember a thing.”

You’d laughed it off then. But now, pulling on your jacket and glancing at your phone, you wonder if maybe that’s why his silence stings so much.

Because even if he doesn’t remember saying it, you do.

And some stupid part of you wishes he meant it.

You find yourself at the restaurant. And you don’t even really want to be here.

His name is Daniel. Works in accounting two floors down from your office. Nice enough—clean shoes, polite smile, remembered to hold the door when you walked in. You only said yes to this date because he asked twice and because somewhere in the back of your head was Yoongi’s voice from months ago, telling you to put yourself out there. To let people see how “light” you are.

You thought Yoongi would be proud.

But twenty minutes into the date, you already know how this ends. Daniel talks about office politics like it’s a full-contact sport, and when he laughs at his own joke, it’s just… loud. Not sharp, not dry, not shared with a sly glance across a crowded room.

Not Yoongi.

You poke at your pasta, nodding at the right times while he continues talking, but your mind betrays you. Imagining what Yoongi would say about the way Daniel uses the word “synergy” three times in one awful story. How he’d smirk across the table, mutter something dark under his breath just for you, and you’d choke trying not to laugh too loud.

With Yoongi, there’d be inside jokes and banter, even in silence. With Daniel, it’s small talk and forced smiles. And you’re not really hitting it off.

By the time dessert comes, you’re already exhausted. You tell yourself, at least you tried. At least you showed up.

When you get home, you peel your makeup off in the bathroom, watching mascara smudge into raccoon eyes. Relief sinks into your bones when you pull on your favorite hoodie and curl up in bed.

The date wasn’t a disaster. But it wasn’t him.

Your phone buzzes. One name.

yoon: How was the date?

You stare at the screen. Wonder where he is right now. On his couch, knees tucked up, TV on low? Or stretched out in bed, thumb hovering over the keyboard the same way yours is?

You type:

you: it wasn’t… horrible.

Your thumb hesitates, then moves again. The truth itches under your skin until it spills out in the way only Yoongi will get:

you: next time I’ll just ask my Uber driver to drag me behind his car through traffic—probably less painful than sitting through another date like that.

There’s a pause. Then:

yoon: lmao

yoon: finally, some honesty

And just like that, the tightness in your chest eases. Because no matter how awful the night was, at least you get to end it with him.

Jin’s apartment is loud, the kind of loud that comes from seven different conversations stacked on top of each other. The coffee table is a graveyard of takeout boxes, Taehyung is half-off the armchair like he doesn’t understand gravity, and Jungkook is shoveling fried rice into his mouth like it’s a competition no one else signed up for.

You’re curled into one corner of the couch, drink in hand, Yoongi beside you with his usual air of disinterest. It’s comfortable, the background noise, until Jimin suddenly cuts through it.

“Hey—your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”

You blink, startled. “…How do you even know that?”

Taehyung chimes in, “Because I make it my business to know everyone’s birthdays.” He sits up, grinning. “And we’re throwing you a party.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “What? No. You’re not.”

Jin yells from the kitchen doorway, without missing a beat, “Yes, we are! I’ll bake the cake!”

Hoseok, from an armchair, “I’ll handle the playlist.”

Jungkook with his mouth full, “I’ll bring snacks.”

You hold up both hands, shaking your head. “Guys, seriously—don’t. I don’t want a party. It’s not a big deal.”

Taehyung gasps. “Not a big deal? It’s your birthday! That’s literally the definition of a big deal.”

The room hums with agreement. You try to smile, but your chest tightens. The idea of being the center of attention makes your skin prickle. “I’m fine with just… hanging out. Like we always do.”

Beside you, Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. The way he sees past the casual shrug, the way his gaze sharpens at the way your fingers worry the rim of your glass. He knows you’re tense—of course he does. He always does.

Jimin continues, “Nope, too late. We’re making this happen. We’ll invite everyone. Work friends, too.”

Your stomach drops. “That’s—no, you don’t have to—”

“What about that guy… Daniel, was it? Im sure he’d come.”

The name hangs heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi’s shoulders go rigid, his thumb pausing against the armrest.

You force a laugh. “He’s… really not party material.”

Ever the ‘party-material-maker’, Taehyung reassures you: “Then we’ll vet him. If he’s boring, he’s out.”

Yoongi finally says something, voice low, snarky enough to offend. “Then half the people you invite won’t make the cut.”

The group bursts into laughter, but you hear the edge under his tone. You glance sideways—his expression is neutral, almost bored, but the tension in his jaw is undeniable.

You take a sip of your drink, trying to hide the heat rising in your chest. You told yourself you didn’t want a party. But now, with Yoongi sitting so close you can feel the shift in his mood, you can’t help wondering if what you really don’t want is him seeing you with anyone else there.

The laughter from Yoongi’s jab is still bouncing around the room when the bathroom door creaks open. Namjoon steps out, fanning the air behind him like he’s trying to chase away a demon.

“Do not,” he says, voice solemn, “go in there.”

A collective groan rolls through the room.

Jin throws his head back. “Again?”

Jungkook groans through a mouthful of rice. “Hyung, get your life together.”

Hoseok presses a hand to his chest, already laughing. “I told you not to eat the extra kimchi.”

Namjoon just lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sparing you, trust me.”

The chaos bubbles up, Jimin clutching his stomach, Taehyung dramatically collapsing onto the armchair like he’s fainting from the stench. You laugh, shaking your head, but the sound catches in your throat when you feel the shift beside you.

Yoongi stretches an arm lazily across the back of the couch. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Except he hasn’t—not once in the year you’ve known him.

Your heart kicks against your ribs. The distance between his hand and your shoulder is nothing, barely inches, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of the space you’re taking up.

He leans just slightly toward you, voice pitched low enough to skim under the noise. “You really don’t want a party?”

You glance at him, caught off guard. “Not really.”

His eyes flick to your face, steady, unreadable. “Even with people who actually matter?”

The question knots in your chest. You swallow. “It’s not about that. I just… don’t like being the center of attention.”

Yoongi hums, quiet. “Fair. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. Letting people celebrate you.”

The words are gentle. Too gentle. For a second, it feels like the whole room fades—Taehyung whining dramatically about Febreze, Jin telling Namjoon he’s banned from kimchi forever—and all you can hear is Yoongi, sitting close enough that his warmth skims along your arm.

You manage a small smile. “You sound like drunk-you again. Semi-inspirational.”

That earns you the barest twitch of his lips. “Maybe sober-me means it too.”

The air shifts, heavier than it should be, and your breath catches before the moment’s swept away because Hoseok suddenly narrows his eyes at you and Yoongi.

“Look at these two,” he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Whole room of people and they’re having their own private conversation again.”

Taehyung perks up immediately. “It’s every hangout. Soulmates, clearly.”

Namjoon sighs and mutters under his breath, clearly feeling sorry for the teasing about to take place. “Here we go, again.”

Jin smirks from the kitchen doorway. “They’re so locked in, I’m surprised they even hear us.”

You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “We do not—”

“Yes, you do,” Jungkook cuts in, grinning around his drink. “Half the time you’re whispering and laughing and the rest of us are just sitting here like chopped liver.”

Yoongi doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t move his arm from the back of the couch, either. He just takes a slow sip from his glass, face unreadable.

But then Jimin, always the instigator, leans forward with a wicked smile. “You’re sitting close enough to kiss right now.”

Oh, he knows what he just did.

The room erupts with laughter, wolf-whistles and fake gagging sounds.

Your entire body ignites. Heat flares across your cheeks, your ears, all the way down your neck. You choke on your drink and duck your head, suddenly incapable of looking anywhere near Yoongi.

And still, Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shrug them off, doesn’t roll his eyes the way he usually does.

But you feel it—a shift. A subtle double take, the weight of his gaze flicking toward you and then lingering, like he’s just realized something that doesn’t quite add up.

You don’t have to look to know he’s studying you, puzzled, maybe even a little thrown. Because you turned red. You.

And if you’re blushing like that… what does it mean?

The laughter from Jimin’s jab keeps bouncing around the room, Taehyung dramatically fanning himself like he just witnessed something scandalous.

“Save it for after the cake,” Jin calls from the kitchen, smirking as he disappears back to check the oven.

“Cake?” you echo, desperate for any subject change. “There’s no cake.”

“There will be,” Jin sing-songs.

Hoseok leans forward, grinning. “Bet Yoongi already has flavors picked out for you.”

That earns another round of oohs and whistles, the group loving the way your face heats even more.

“I do not,” Yoongi mutters, voice flat as stone. But his arm stays stretched casually along the back of the couch, and you swear you can feel the weight of his gaze still lingering on you even as the conversation shifts.

Jungkook slaps his thigh, cackling. “This is my favorite game. Tease them until one of them breaks.”

“I’ll give it a month before they admit it,” Jimin adds, wiggling his eyebrows. “Soulmates can only play dumb for so long.”

“Stop calling us that,” you groan, pressing your palms to your cheeks.

Taehyung gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, she didn’t deny it this time!”

The room explodes again, everyone talking at once—bets being made, exaggerated wedding toasts being shouted, Jungkook offering to DJ your “first dance.”

You bury your face in your drink, wishing the floor would open up and swallow—just you—whole. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch it: Yoongi’s lips twitch. Not a laugh, not really—but something close.

And though he doesn’t say a word, you can feel the undercurrent humming between you, sharper than it’s ever been.

But the chaos doesn’t really settle until Jin emerges from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder and announces, “Alright, everybody out. I’ve got to work in the morning and you’re all too loud.”

Groans and protests ripple through the room, but one by one the boys start gathering their things. Hoseok is still humming an obnoxious melody about soulmates, Namjoon rubbing his temples as he walks to the door, Taehyung swears he’s bringing balloons to your “surprise-not-surprise” party, and Jimin smirks like he’s got ammo for the next week.

You stand, smoothing your shirt, trying to will the redness from your cheeks. Yoongi rises beside you, stretching lazily like none of this touched him at all.

But inside?

Inside, he knows the truth.

He’ll never admit it—not to them, not to you—but he doesn’t actually hate it when the group teases you both. He pretends to roll his eyes, pretends he’s annoyed, but secretly… secretly he loves it. Loves the way they say “soulmates” like it’s obvious, loves the way you fluster and stumble through denials.

Because maybe that’s what it would be like if you were his.

If he didn’t keep everything locked behind his ribs. If he could reach out and claim what he wants without losing the comfort of what you already are. The way the others laugh and tease—it’s the closest glimpse he’ll ever get at what life might look like if he was allowed to have you.

And so he lets them tease. Because dreaming is safer than losing you.

On the way out, your shoulders brush in the narrow doorway. Your sleeve skims his arm, and the static crackles all the way down to his fingertips. You look up, meeting his eyes for half a second before glancing away, flustered again.

Yoongi swallows hard, shoving his hands into his pockets. For a moment he doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust the way the words might come out.

But when you turn to him at the door, pulling your jacket tighter around you, you give him that small smile—the one that always cuts through him—and say softly, “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

His throat works, tight, but he manages a low reply. “Night. Get home safe.”

You nod, slip out into the breezeway of Jin’s complex, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind you feels louder than it should.

Yoongi lingers there for a beat longer, staring at the space you just occupied. He needs to breathe for a second. He inhales deep, then exhales slow and quiet, and heads out into the night with one thought looping through his head.

If blushing means you like me… then maybe I’m already too far gone.

It’s Wednesday night when your phone buzzes. You’re curled up on your bed, laptop open but untouched, scrolling mindlessly until the notification flashes.

yoon: You figured out what you’re wearing yet?

You blink, reread it twice. Yoongi doesn’t usually care about that kind of thing.

you: For what?

yoon: …your birthday. The one Tae’s been yelling about all week.

you: Oh. That.

you: I’m not picking out anything special.

yoon: Why not.

you: Because it’s not that serious.

There’s a pause. You can almost see him on the other side of the screen, thumb hovering, brow furrowed like he’s trying to phrase something without giving too much away.

yoon: You should. Pick something that makes you feel good.

you: You sound like Hobi.

yoon: Hobi would tell you to wear sequins or some shit. I’m saying just… don’t downplay it.

Your chest tightens. He always sees it, the way you try to shrink yourself.

you: Are you seriously texting me about clothes right now?

yoon: Somebody has to. Don’t want you showing up in your office hoodie.

You bite back a smile, fingers tapping before you can stop yourself.

you: That hoodie is a classic.

yoon: It’s fucking tragic.

You laugh, low in your throat, and set the phone down for a second to breathe. It’s not much, just a string of texts about nothing. But the warmth in your chest lingers long after the screen goes dark.

The Birthday Party

Namjoon pulls up to the curb like your chauffeur, killing the engine and getting out to walk around and open the passenger door for you. He looks half amused, half resigned as you climb out, tugging at the hem of your dress.

“Just so you know,” he says, offering his arm with mock formality, “I briefed you in the car, but… I’m apologizing again in advance. Jimin and Tae went feral with this party.”

You laugh, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. “How bad can it be?”

The answer greets you the second your heels hit the red carpeted stairs.

It looks like New Year’s Eve collided with a music video shoot. Glittering lights spill down from the awning, a velvet rope corrals guests into the entrance, and inside the glass doors you can already see the crowd — everyone dressed to kill, champagne glasses flashing under the chandeliers.

Your jaw slackens. “This is… a birthday party?”

“Your birthday party,” Namjoon corrects, grimacing. “Tae literally said, ‘If she doesn’t walk in and feel like the hottest girl in Seoul, then what’s even the point.’”

You bite back a nervous laugh, tugging your dress down again. The dress you picked is short, tight, the kind of outfit your parents would faint over. But you’d looked in the mirror earlier and thought of Yoongi’s words — pick something that makes you feel good — and this was it. Bold, a little reckless, enough skin showing to make you feel powerful.

As you walk up the stairs, gripping Namjoon’s arm for balance, he leans down with a smirk.

“You know he’s gonna freak, right?”

Your stomach flips. You don’t even have to ask who. But you do anyway. “What?”

Namjoon chuckles, low. “I mean… he won’t show it. Not on his face. But internally? Yoongi’s gonna be strangling himself when he sees you in that dress, Y/N.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn your face toward the glittering doors before he can notice. You tell yourself he’s exaggerating, teasing like always. But the flutter in your chest won’t stop.

Because part of you wonders—maybe hopes—he’s right.

The second the doors open, sound swallows you whole. Music pumps from hidden speakers, bass rattling in your chest, laughter and voices layered so thick it’s dizzying. Chandeliers glitter overhead, catching on sequins and champagne glasses, and everywhere you look there are people — people you don’t know, people dressed like they’re waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square, people who definitely don’t belong at a party for you.

It’s too much. Too big. Exactly what Taehyung and Jimin would think is perfect.

You paste on a smile as Namjoon steers you through the crowd, murmuring greetings to familiar faces. But your eyes keep wandering, scanning, searching every corner. You don’t even realize how obvious it is — the way you’re subconsciously hunting for him. For Yoongi.

Your Yoongi.

Instead, you’re intercepted first by Hoseok, who comes practically skipping across the room, sequined jacket catching the light with every step. “Birthday girl!” He pulls you into a hug that smells like cologne and champagne, then holds you at arm’s length. His grin widens. “Damn, you look good.”

“Too good,” another voice chimes in, and Jungkook slides up with a glass in each hand. He passes one to Hoseok before adjusting the lapels of his sharp black suit like he knows he looks incredible. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

You laugh, heat blooming in your cheeks as Jungkook tips his glass toward your dress in approval. “Wow. You two actually clean up nice.”

Hoseok gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse you—I always look good.”

Jungkook just smirks, boyish and smug. “But admit it. We’re killing it tonight.”

Hoseok grins, “Yeah, Y/N! You’re killin’ it, girl!”

You shake your head, laughing again, but your gaze is already drifting over their shoulders, past the glitter and noise, through the sea of strangers.

Still no sign of him. What the fuck.

And that unsettles you more than you want to admit.

Namjoon still hasn’t let go of your arm, playing the role of dutiful escort as he weaves you through the crowd of bodies toward a literal tower of champagne flutes stacked high like something out of a luxury gala.

How hard did Jimin and Tae go for this party?

You let out a breathless laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Not my idea,” Namjoon mutters, steering you into the line. “I told you—I’m just here as damage control.”

He plucks two glasses from the table and hands you one. The bubbles tickle your nose as you take a careful sip, the taste sharp and sweet on your tongue.

And then—

“Birthday girl!”

The greeting comes in stereo, Jimin’s high-pitched cheer layered with Taehyung’s deep drawl. They appear together like they rehearsed it, grins wide and eyes bright.

Jimin immediately pulls you into a hug, nearly sloshing champagne down both of your outfits. “Happy birthday, gorgeous!”

You hug him back, “Thank you, guys.”

“Look at you,” Taehyung adds, spinning you lightly by the wrist so he can take in your whole outfit. “Short, shiny, and scandalous. And honestly? Exactly what I envisioned.”

You laugh, cheeks heating, trying to tuck yourself back under Namjoon’s arm like a fucking shield. “This is… insane. All of this.”

“Insane in a good way,” Jimin insists, bouncing on his toes. “Tell me you love it!”

You look around—at the chandeliers, the glittering crowd, the champagne tower sparkling in the light—and your chest squeezes. It’s too much. But they did it for you. Because they care.

“I do,” you admit, soft and honest. “I love it. Thank you.”

Jimin beams. Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. And for a moment, the noise of the party fades under the weight of how lucky you are to have them.

Still, as you take another sip of champagne, your eyes wander past their shoulders, scanning the crowd again. Looking for the one person who hasn’t shown up yet.

Where could he be? Is he even here? Why isn’t he with the guys?

You’re half-caught in your head and Taehyung’s theatrics when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“There’s my birthday girl.”

Jin appears with a glass in hand, tailored blazer sharp enough to make him look like he owns the place. He leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of your head, then straightens and claps Namjoon on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Joon. Thanks for keeping her in one piece.”

Namjoon huffs a laugh. “Doing my best.”

Jin’s eyes drop to your dress, and he sighs the way only Jin can—long-suffering, dramatic, equal parts fond and exasperated. “This is what you wore?”

You flush, tugging at the hem. “Don’t start. It’s fine.”

“It’s your birthday, so I’ll allow it,” he says, lips twitching. “But if your parents ever see photos… I don’t know you.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but then the words tumble out before you can stop them. “Hey, have you seen Yoongi?”

Beside you, Namjoon tenses—so subtle anyone else would miss it, but you don’t. You feel it in the shift of his arm under your hand. Like he wasn’t expecting the question.

Jin’s smile falters just slightly. His eyes flick to Namjoon, then back to you, a worried crease forming between his brows. “Not yet,” he says after a beat. “But… don’t worry about him. Just keep enjoying your party, okay?”

Your stomach twists. The easy warmth of the moment curdles, a faint unease threading through it.

That was fucking weird.

The night spins forward in a blur.

You let Jimin and Taehyung drag you to the dance floor, Hoseok already in the center hyping the crowd like it’s a concert. Namjoon groans but still sways dutifully beside you, Jin waves a champagne flute overhead like he’s at a wedding, and Jungkook spins you until you nearly trip over your own heels.

It’s ridiculous. Chaotic. Too much. And yet, with your friends circling you in glitter and laughter, you feel lighter than you expected.

Then—a shiver down your spine. The sense of eyes on you.

You glance up, scanning past the lights, past the crowd. And then you see him.

Yoongi.

He’s on the second-floor balcony, leaning casually on the rail, a champagne flute hanging from one hand. His long dark hair curls around his face, catching in the glow of the chandelier, and his gaze is locked—glued—to you.

Your chest stutters. It feels like time itself stutters. The music, the noise, the laughter—it all dims under the weight of his stare.

And you smile. The biggest smile you’ve smiled all night, wide and uncontainable. Like gravity pulling you in one direction only.

Your smile is already lifting when something inside it snags.

Because you see him—and then you see her.

She’s half-turned toward him, shoulder angled into his space like she belongs there, a thin gold chain glinting at her throat. Close. Comfortable-close. The kind of close that says this isn’t the first minute they’ve been standing like that.

Yoongi is looking at you.

But he’s talking to her.

His mouth moves—something low, something easy—and she watches him like she’s used to the gravity he creates, like it doesn’t pull her apart the way it threatens to pull you apart right now. When she laughs, it’s a soft curve of sound you can’t hear over the bass, and his lips answer with the ghost of a smile.

He doesn’t look like he doesn’t want to be there.

Your stomach goes cold, then hot, then cold again.

Taehyung spins you by the wrist, oblivious. “Birthday girl! Stop zoning out, you’re killing my groove.”

You snap your gaze away from the balcony so fast your neck twinges. “I’m not zoning out.”

“Liar,” Jimin sings, popping up at your other side and fitting his palms to your shoulders from behind, swaying you on beat. “This is your party. Eyes on us, miss ma’am.”

“Yeah,” you say, too bright, too quick. “Eyes on you.”

You force your body to move. To laugh at something Jungkook says. To let Hoseok spin you out into a loop you nearly botch because your heels are not designed for this much enthusiasm. You let Jimin tilt your chin and quip about how you’re “glowing” and “devastating” and “a menace,” and you pretend the whole time that the top of your skull isn’t buzzing with the exact shape of the woman’s hand where it rests on the balcony rail, three inches from Yoongi’s wrist.

Ignore him. Ignore that.

The music surges, a chorus that rattles the floor, and you pour your attention into the only thing you can control: the way your head tips back when you laugh, the way your hips find the bass line, the way your dress catches the light like it’s armor.

Namjoon leans in at your ear, voice pitched under the noise. “You okay?”

You don’t hesitate. “Of course.” Your smile stretches just a little too tight. “It’s great.”

He studies you for a beat—he always has been annoyingly perceptive—but then he nods like he’s not going to pry here, not now. “If you need air, tug my sleeve.”

“I won’t,” you say, and you mean it like a challenge to yourself.

You don’t look back up at the balcony. You do not.

Except your body betrays you in small ways: the way your pulse stutters when the chandelier light shifts; the way your head tilts a fraction, as if lining up your peripheral vision with the stretch of the upper rail. You keep your focus fixed on Hoseok’s ridiculous body roll and Taehyung’s scandalized gasp at Jungkook’s footwork, and still you feel it—a prickling heat along your cheek like a spotlight.

He’s still looking.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Shots,” Jimin declares, because he’s a menace and because the universe has a sense of humor. “It’s illegal not to do birthday shots.”

Before you can protest, a tray materializes—Hoseok works miracles—and you let them press a glass into your hand. Clear. Mean. The kind of burn that will either cauterize the jealousy or make it liquefy and pour out your eyes.

“To the hottest girl in Seoul,” Taehyung intones, scandalously sincere.

“To surviving Jimin’s planning,” Namjoon adds dryly.

“To sequins,” Hoseok declares, glittering under the lights.

“To,” Jungkook smirks, “telling anyone who flirts with you that they’re not on the guest list.”

“Please stop,” you groan, but your grin slips in anyway, helpless.

You fling your gaze straight at the bottom of the shot glass and tip it back. The burn is instant, bright, a clean white-out that blurs the edges of your thoughts. When it hits your stomach, the heat spreads. It helps.

“Again,” Jimin threatens.

“No,” Namjoon says, parental. “Later.”

“Traitor,” Jimin pouts, already winking at the bartender for later.

You move. Harder now. It’s easier to outrun a feeling than to look it in the face. You dance like you owe your body something, like you can sweat this out, like the bass can be a wall.

Someone bumps your shoulder in the crowd and murmurs an apology; someone else asks if you want a drink; a stranger in a too-tight shirt tries to sidle in closer until Jungkook simply appears, big-brothering him with a smile that’s all teeth. Your friends orbit you, constellation-steady, but even with all that, there’s a slice of cold aware in your ribs—because you can feel him, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks.

You do not look.

You laugh at something Jin says when he finally decides to return to the dance floor, his hand slicing through the air as he reenacts Namjoon banning kimchi, and you let that laughter sit bright on your mouth, weaponized. You’re fine. You’re glittering. You’re busy.

“Back in two,” you shout to nobody in particular, tapping your chest and miming a sip. You need water. The good kind—flat, unassuming. Something to anchor your mouth around that isn’t his name.

At the edge of the floor, the air thins a little. The bar is a line of elbows and straws and clinking glass, but the bartender spots your wave and slides you a highball of blessedly clear water like you’re a favorite regular. You take two grateful pulls and press the cold glass to the underside of your jaw.

“Happy birthday,” someone says at your left.

You turn your head. It’s the woman from the balcony.

Up close, she’s even more composed. Winged liner like a threat, lipstick that doesn’t dare smudge, a dress that looks like it was sewn on. She’s taller than you by a breath in her heels, and her perfume is a soft, expensive thing that settles around you like a verdict.

You find your manners where you dropped them. “Thank you.”

“Taehyung outdid himself,” she says, amused. Her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward the floor, past it. Not calculating—cataloguing. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you answer, neutral, careful. “Enjoying the party?”

Her mouth tilts. “I am now.”

You take another drink of water to cover the sound your throat makes.

“I’m Sori,” she adds, offering her name like a business card.

You give her yours, because what else are you going to do? Pretend names don’t exist?

She nods, as if checking a box in her head. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your heartbeat trips over itself. “From…?”

“From everyone,” she says lightly. “Small universe.”

You let out a sound that is not a laugh but would like to be when it grows up. “Yeah.”

Silence stitches between you, quick and neat. She doesn’t fill it. She just lets it sit there, poised, like she knows exactly how long to wait before it starts to itch.

“Yoongi mentioned the humor,” she says finally, as if she’s commenting on the weather. “He was right.”

The glass sweats against your palm. “He talks a lot for someone so quiet.”

“That’s the trick.” She lifts her own drink—champagne, of course—and tips it toward you, gaze steady. “Happy birthday.”

You clink without looking away. “Thanks.”

She leaves you there—mercifully—with her perfume and the ghost of her smile, threading back toward the stairs with an unhurried confidence that makes you want to kick something. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know if he’s still where she left him. People like that never do.

You exhale hard, set the water down, and march yourself back into the heat of the dance floor like it’s a battlefield. Namjoon clocks your expression in a second and lifts a brow. You shake your head, a tiny, surgical movement. Later.

Jimin latches onto your hand and spins you again, yelling something about “chorus!” and “arms!” over the music, and you let him, because this is what you can control: the angle of your wrist, the slice of your smile, the decision to keep your eyes anywhere but up.

You feel Yoongi like static earlier; now it’s a low-voltage hum under your skin. You don’t have to see him to know he’s moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s closer.

You won’t look.

“Yo,” Jungkook shouts in your ear, breathless, grinning. “You’re on fire. Whoever breaks your heart is gonna die.”

“Bold of you to assume it’s breakable,” you throw back, dry, and Jungkook howls like you just body-slammed a line of defense.

Hoseok plants a feather-light kiss to your temple when he passes behind you. Jin shouts, “Shots later, water now,” like a dad. Taehyung declares that he’s stealing you for a “birthday twirl,” and you let him tug you three steps left, pivot, laugh, pivot again—

—and then you stop.

Because you know the shape of that stillness. It has a weight all its own.

You can feel him at the edge of your orbit before he says your name.

“Hey.”

It lands low, built for just you, a thread through the noise. You don’t turn for a full heartbeat. You finish the step you’re in, hand still in Taehyung’s, then you let go and face him because pretending to be oblivious in a three-foot radius is a different kind of embarrassing.

Yoongi stands there in a black suit that fits like a decision, hair ink-dark and loose around his face, the chandelier picking out lines of silver at his wrist and throat. The room could vanish and it would still feel too bright.

His eyes are on your mouth, then your dress, then your eyes, and he does not disguise the part where he has to swallow. The sound is swallowed by the bass, but you see it in the cut of his throat.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

Your smile is neat. Unbothered. “Thanks.”

A beat. You don’t ask why he’s late. You don’t ask who she is. You don’t ask anything. You’re not giving him that.

He studies your face like he’s trying to solve a song he’s heard a thousand times and can’t quite play.

“You look…” He searches for a word and discards five. “…good.”

“Yeah?” you say, and let your mouth tilt. “Must be the lighting.”

It lands and he almost smiles—almost—but something shadows his eyes when he realizes you’re not stepping into the usual rhythm, not handing him the joke and the soft landing. He shifts, just enough that your shoulders almost brush.

“You met Sori,” he says finally. Not a question.

You look over his shoulder at nothing at all. “She met me.”

“She’s—” He stops, tiny, and you watch him pick between truths. “—Jin’s friend.”

“Everyone’s friend tonight,” you say lightly. “You’re popular.”

His jaw flexes like he wants to bite the word in half before it gets to you. “It’s not like that.”

You lift your brows. “I didn’t say it was.”

Another beat. The bass thumps. Taehyung spins by with a finger-gun and zero chill. Jin is arguing with the bartender about cake plates. Jimin is mouthing, Tell him he’s hot, at you across three bodies because he wants to die.

Yoongi tilts his head, searching your face. “You’re mad.”

You laugh, genuine and bright and a little sharp. “It’s my birthday, Yoongi. I don’t have time to be mad.”

“Jealous, then,” he says quietly.

Your smile doesn’t change. “Of who?”

He flinches at that—not visibly, not for anyone else, but you feel it like a ripple under your feet. For a heartbeat his mouth opens like he’s going to say something he can’t unsay. Then he closes it, looks down, looks back.

“Dance with me,” he says.

You let the smallest silence bloom. You weigh everything inside it—his eyes, the ghost of the balcony, the woman’s perfume, your own stupid heart, the fact that all of your friends are absolutely watching this from the corners of their eyes and pretending they’re not.

You tip your chin toward the crowd, neutral as gravity. “I’m busy.”

It’s soft. It’s nothing. It hits him like a door.

He nods, once. Slow. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.

“Okay,” he says, and steps back.

You turn away before your mouth can do something reckless. You catch Namjoon’s gaze over Hoseok’s shoulder, and he only inclines his head—once, commander-calm, we’ll talk later written in the lines of his mouth.

Jungkook reappears like a wall, grinning, hands up. “C’mon, birthday menace. Show me that murder footwork.”

You do. You move. You laugh too loud at something that isn’t funny and throw your arms up when the chorus hits and let Taehyung spin you until you’re dizzy. You let Jimin scream-sing into your ear and Hoseok beam like a lighthouse and Jin scold you for forgetting hydration. You pretend the entire time that you cannot feel the heat of a gaze trailing the edge of your orbit like a planet that refuses to admit it’s caught.

You don’t look back up at the balcony.

You don’t look when he disappears into the crowd.

You don’t look when, two songs later, the lights dim for cake and everyone howls your name and Jin marches forward with a confection so extra it probably has a birth certificate.

You breathe in. You breathe out. You lean into the noise and the sugar and the sparkler-bright chorus of voices.

You make a wish you refuse to name. And you keep your eyes closed a second longer than you need to, because for one more second, you don’t have to see who’s standing where when you open them.

The garden hits like a slap—cold air and the smell of damp earth, hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives, fairy lights strung in polite arcs that make everything look softer than it feels. The bass from inside is a heartbeat through the walls. Your own heartbeat is doing its own fucked-up drum solo.

Bench. Cold. Good. You drop onto it like you’ve been thrown, palms on either side of your thighs, eyes squinting up at a sky that refuses to stand still.

“Motherfucker,” you mutter to no one in particular, lips tingling where that stranger’s mouth was a minute ago. Did you say yes? You said “mmm.” That’s not yes. That’s… not words. Your stomach flips. You swallow it down with the aftertaste of liquor and sugar and something bitter you refuse to name.

Gravel crunches. Footsteps. Then:

“Y/N.”

Namjoon’s voice folds around your name like a blanket you didn’t ask for but kind of needed anyway. He steps into the spill of fairy lights, tie loosened, blazer open, worry etched neat between his brows.

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket.

You try for breezy and land somewhere near winded. “I’m communing with nature.”

He drapes the jacket over your shoulders before you can protest. It’s warm from his body; you burrow without meaning to. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

You roll your head toward him, slow with the spin of the stars. “I didn’t want to cockblock your… whatever that was with the bartender about poetry.”

He huffs, half a laugh, mostly exhale. Then he crouches in front of you so you don’t have to chase his face with your eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you lie, perfectly, beautifully.

“Try again.”

“Some dude asked if he could kiss me,” you say, airy, like it was weather. “And I said ‘mmm.’ And then he kissed me.”

Namjoon’s jaw does a thing. “Where is he.”

“Relax, Kim Heights. He’s probably back in there telling his friends he blessed the birthday girl.” Your laugh scrapes your throat. “I’m fine.”

“Are you.”

“Yep.” You pop the p. “Just needed air. And fewer mouths.”

His eyes search your face—smudged lipstick, glitter on your cheekbone, the stubborn set of your mouth. “Do you want me to get him thrown out?”

You shake your head. Regret that decision immediately because the sky cartwheels. You catch the bench with both hands, breathe through it. “No bouncers. No scene. Please.”

He nods once, shifts, then reaches into his pocket and produces a small plastic bottle like he’s a magician. “Water.”

“Have you been hoarding hydration?”

“Jimin will over-serve you just to prove he can. I plan ahead.” He twists the cap and hands it to you. “Sip.”

You do. It’s blessedly cold, the kind of clean that slices through fog. You let it sit on your tongue before you swallow, like you can wash the taste of someone else’s decision out of your mouth.

Namjoon watches you drink, then tilts his head. “Jimin told you.”

“About?” You keep your eyes on the hedge line like it’s very interesting.

“Balcony? Sori?”

You shrug, small under his jacket. “He tells me lots of things.”

“Does it bother you?” he asks, gentle, like someone picking up a glass shard with two fingers.

You snort. “No. Why would it. It’s his life.”

“Right.”

You scrape your heel against the gravel, little crescent moons appearing where your shoe skids. “She has very sharp eyeliner,” you add, as if that’s neutral. “Could cut a man.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitches. “You’re allowed to be pissed.”

“I am allowed to be unbothered,” you counter, too fast. You tip the bottle back again. “Look at me. Unbothered.”

He lets the lie sit down beside you without challenging it. That’s the thing about Namjoon—he knows when to hold a mirror and when to cover it. He shifts from a crouch to sitting at your side, angled so you don’t have to move.

“You want to go home?” he asks after a beat. “I’ll get the car.”

Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with glitter or alcohol. “It’s my party.”

“And we can leave it,” he says, steady. “You don’t owe the room your body.”

You stare at the fairy lights until they double, then settle. “Maybe… in a minute.”

He nods, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, the picture of patience. The bass inside thrums through the soil; a night breeze lifts the hair at your temple, cools the heat at your throat.

Gravel again. Another set of footsteps. You don’t have to see him to know; your bones clock him like weather changing.

Yoongi stops at the mouth of the garden path, darkness and chandelier glow cutting him into edges. Black suit. Hands in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. His eyes find you first, then flick to Namjoon’s jacket on your shoulders, then drop quick to your mouth. Something tightens, minute, in his face.

“Joon,” he says, a greeting that’s also a question.

“Hey,” Namjoon answers, just as neutral. Then he stands, a wall that’s also a door. “She needed air.”

Yoongi nods. His gaze tracks back to you, lingering like he’s bracing for impact. “You okay?”

You take your time answering. Lift the water bottle. Tip it like a toast. “Peachy.”

He absorbs the dryness without flinching. “You disappeared.”

“People do that when they’re magicians,” you say. “Or when they’re bored. Or when a stranger confuses a non-vowel sound for consent.”

Silence slices clean. Namjoon’s head whips toward you. Yoongi goes very, very still.

“Who,” Yoongi says. Not loud. Stripped.

“I handled it,” you reply, eyes on the hedge. “With my legs. I walked away. See? Fully functional.”

Yoongi’s jaw moves like he’s grinding a thought down to powder. “What did he look like.”

“Like a man I won’t think about again,” you say, flat. “Drop it.”

Namjoon lifts a hand, a quiet stall. “We’ll deal with it if you want us to.”

“I don’t,” you snap, and regret the snap, and let the sigh chase it out. “I don’t want this to be a thing. I want to sit on this cold bench and not be a headline at my own party.”

The men exchange a look. A whole conversation passes between them in the tightness around their mouths.

Namjoon inhales, decides something. “I’m getting the car,” he says, and when you open your mouth, he adds, “You can decide in sixty seconds if you’re getting in it. If you want to go back in, I’ll walk you. If you want to leave, I’ll drive. Either way, I’m retrieving it because the valet system here is a hellscape.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Coward’s way of giving me an out.”

“Guilty.” He squeezes your shoulder over his jacket, a pressure that says I’ve got you either way. Then he steps past Yoongi, pauses just long enough to stare him down with brotherly menace, and disappears up the path.

The garden hums. Distant laughter. A bottle clinks somewhere inside. A moth flutters idiotically at a light.

Yoongi doesn’t sit. He steps closer, then stops like the air itself is a boundary he’s not sure he can cross. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says, low, like it’s a fact and not a feeling.

“Welcome to women,” you reply, dry. “We get party favors.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to be sick. “I’m—” He cuts off, jaw working. “I should’ve—”

“Been glued to my side all night?” You tilt your head, smile like a blade. “You seemed busy.”

He takes that hit, doesn’t try to dodge. “I was an idiot.”

“Cool,” you say, light. “Add it to the list.”

He finally moves, sits on the far end of the bench like he’s respecting a no-man’s-land only you can cross. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fairy lights buzz faintly, a sound you’ve never noticed until now.

“I saw you on the balcony,” you say after a beat, because alcohol makes a coward brave and a brave person reckless. “Jimin says you went up there the second you got here.”

He exhales through his nose. “I did.” A beat. “I saw you first.”

You bark out a laugh. “Romantic. You saw me, then went the other way.”

“I panicked,” he says, honest in a way that makes your blood run hot and cold. “You looked—” He stops. Shakes his head. “I didn’t trust myself not to say something I can’t take back. Sori said hi on my way to the stairs. That’s all.”

You force yourself to ignore the way your heart flutters hearing the confession he quickly buried.

You stare at the gravel. A moth finally gives up on the light and flutters to the hedge. “She met me, too.”

His head snaps, eyes sharp. “What did she say.”

“That you talk about me,” you say, careful. You roll the cap of the water bottle between your fingers. “That I’m funny.”

He looks at the ground, then at you, like the angle might change the truth. “I do talk about you.”

Your laugh is softer this time, and it hates you for it. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what.”

“Don’t say shit like that when I’m drunk,” you murmur, tipping your head back against the bench slat. The stars blur into smeared city glow. “I’ll think it means something tomorrow.”

He goes quiet. Not empty—full. Brimming with all the words he keeps barricaded behind his teeth. When he speaks, it’s careful, like stepping across thin ice. “It means something tonight.”

Your throat works. You swallow, water useless against that kind of heat. “You’re late.”

“I know.”

“And you’re stupid.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not a back-up plan.”

His voice doesn’t waver. “You never were.”

You look at him then. Really look. The shadowed cut of his jaw. The suit that fits like he put it on to keep himself together. The way his hands are fisted in his pockets because if they weren’t, he’d be reaching.

“Namjoon’s gonna be back in, like, thirty seconds,” you say, because time is a thing you can hold when everything else slips. “He’s going to ask me if I want to leave.”

Yoongi nods once. “Do you?”

You let the question sit in the cold, let it fog, let it clear. You think of Sori’s perfume. Of a stranger’s mouth. Of the bench and the fairy lights and the way your name sounded when he said Hey in a room that was screaming.

“I want to not be in there,” you admit. “I don’t know what I want beyond that.”

“Okay,” he says, immediate, no argument threaded anywhere in it.

You look back at the path, the slice of light where the building breathes out party heat. “If I go,” you add, voice low, “I’m not doing it so you can play knight. I’m doing it because I don’t want to be watched while I figure out whether I’m allowed to be mad at you.”

His mouth tips, bruised at the edges. “You’re allowed.”

“Cool,” you say, eyes stinging with something you refuse to call anything. “I’m mad.”

Gravel again. Namjoon appears, keys raised like a flag. “Valet miracle,” he announces softly, taking in the scene with a general’s calm. “Car’s out front.”

He looks at you. Not at Yoongi. You.

“What’s the move, birthday girl?”

You breathe in. You breathe out. The bench is cold. The stars are still spinning, but slower now.

“I’m going home,” you say. “With Joon.”

A flicker crosses Yoongi’s face—pain, quickly leashed. He nods like it’s the only correct answer. “Text me when you’re safe.”

You slide Namjoon’s jacket tighter around you and stand. Your knees wobble; Namjoon is there without making a fuss of it. You take two steps, then pause, turn, and find Yoongi’s eyes in the half-light.

“Tomorrow,” you say, the word heavy as a promise you haven’t decided if you’ll keep. “Don’t be late.”

His exhale is almost a laugh, almost a prayer. “Okay.”

You turn and let Namjoon guide you up the path. Behind you, Yoongi sits very still on a bench that remembers your weight, fists his hands tighter in his pockets, and stares at the fairy lights until they buzz like a confession.

The night air is cool against your flushed skin, the thud of bass from the party muffled now, like it’s trapped inside a different universe. Namjoon keeps pace with you, his strides long and steady, his voice filling the quiet.

“…like, honestly, who needs three champagne towers? It’s not a wedding. And don’t get me started on the playlist—Taehyung thinks he’s a DJ but he only knows five songs. Five. Songs.” He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The bartender was cute, though. Kept quoting poetry at me when he poured—can you believe that? Like, Rilke over rum. Wild.”

You let him talk, words washing over you, but your mind isn’t with him.

It’s back in the garden.

On the bench.

On Yoongi.

You tell yourself you’re not mad—what right do you even have? He doesn’t owe you anything. He came, he mingled, he spent time with people. He was allowed to smile at someone else. Allowed to stand too close to someone else.

But it was your night. Your birthday.

And he wasn’t really with you.

He wasn’t at your side for the cake. He wasn’t laughing in the circle of friends when Jimin made you blush. He wasn’t with you when Jungkook spun you so hard you nearly fell. All the little pieces that were supposed to add up to tonight—the you-and-him pieces—he wasn’t in them.

And maybe that’s what hurts.

Because it feels like the night was supposed to be about you. But you’re walking away feeling like it wasn’t.

You blink, and suddenly the silver gleam of Namjoon’s car door is right in front of you. Three steps away. Namjoon is still talking, now about stanza breaks and the bartender’s dimples, and you realize you’ve barely heard a word.

“I need to go back.”

Namjoon stops dead, mid-sentence, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I need to go back.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But you said you wanted to leave. You just said goodbye to everyone.”

Your stomach drops. You did? When? The thought slips through the fog of champagne and vodka like a knife—you don’t remember saying goodbye to your friends. You were too busy in your own head, running laps around the hollow ache in your chest.

“I need to tell him, Joon.”

Your voice cracks on the words, thin and begging.

Namjoon doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to. He’s known. He’s known since you bought Yoongi that guitar, since you remembered a birthday you never should’ve remembered, since you started saving your best one-liners for him and him alone.

But he shakes his head, steady, gentle. “Not tonight, Y/N. You need to go home and get in bed.”

The devastation crushes you in a sigh. Your throat burns. Your eyes prickle. “Namjoon—” your voice breaks again, and then the tears come hot, unbidden, “Please, I—”

“I know.” He cuts you off, but his tone is soft, like he’s carrying the weight for you. His eyes glint in the dim parking lot light. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

The words make your chest splinter. You want to say it anyway. Want to shout it out loud just to hear what it feels like leaving your mouth. But the look on Namjoon’s face tells you everything: save it. Save it for Yoongi.

You swallow hard, wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Maybe I can text him then?”

Namjoon exhales, long, patient. “If you do, you’ll regret it in the morning.”

“But—”

“No buts. Not like this. Not drunk, not half crying in a parking lot. You’ll hate yourself if those words land the wrong way.”

You sag against the car door, shoulders trembling under his jacket, phone heavy in your hand like it’s burning a hole straight through your palm.

And still, the ache won’t let go. Because the truth is there, heavy and undeniable:

You don’t want to go home.

You want to go back.

Back to the garden.

Back to him.

You wake up and your head is pounding, pounding, pounding—

Fuck, what time is it?

You glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand. 11:52 a.m.

You groan, ready to roll back into the abyss, when the pounding comes again. Not from your skull this time—from somewhere out in the living room.

Dragging yourself upright is an Olympic event. You crawl to the door, use the handle to haul yourself up, and silently thank the blackout curtains for saving you from spontaneous combustion. The apartment is dark, mercifully quiet—until you unlock the front door and crack it open.

Blinding light sears your eyes. You hiss, slapping a hand up to shield your face. “AGH—fuck.”

Blink, blink, blink. And then—

Yoongi.

He’s standing there, hair swept back casually, black hoodie, dark navy jeans, and somehow he looks so fucking hot your hungover brain considers dragging him inside and—wait. Why is he here?

“Can I help you?” Your words come out sharper than intended.

“Uh. I got your text. Thought you might need some water and stuff from the store.”

You blink again, this time at the plastic bags in his hands. Two of them, filled to the brim. Groceries. Supplies. Nourishment.

Text?

“I… texted you?” You step aside to let him in, then speed-walk back to your room, heart pounding harder than your head.

Your phone is right where you left it. You snatch it up and scroll.

You [9:48am]: might be dying. send me nourishment.

yoon [9:49am]: be there soon.

Your stomach sinks. Because you remember saying it out loud this morning. Into the void. To Siri. “Hey Siri, text Joon.” Not Yoon.

The universe, apparently, had other plans.

You shuffle back, sheepish, clutching your phone like it’s the smoking gun. “Ahh. My phone texted you on accident. Siri was supposed to text Joon. Not Yoon.”

He stares at you. Unreadable.

“Sorry, Yoongi.”

But he just shrugs, unbothered. “All good. I’m here now.”

And that’s the end of it, at least for him.

The grocery bags rustle as he sets them down on your counter like he’s done this a hundred times before. Bottled water, Gatorade, bananas, a loaf of bread, instant ramen, some kind of canned soup. Practical. Quietly thoughtful. So Yoongi it hurts.

You hover near the hallway like a feral animal half-ready to retreat. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” He doesn’t look up, just lines the bottles on your counter. “But you asked.”

Your throat tightens, because technically? No, you didn’t. Not him, anyway. But the evidence is glowing on your phone, timestamped, undeniable.

“Thanks,” you murmur, rubbing your temples.

He glances at you then—sharp, assessing—and points at your couch. “Sit.”

It’s not a suggestion.

You shuffle over, flopping onto the cushions with a groan. The pounding in your head has synchronized with your heartbeat, steady and merciless. Yoongi appears a moment later with a cold water bottle and two painkillers, pressing them into your hands without ceremony.

“Drink.”

You obey, swallowing around the lump in your throat, wincing when the pills scrape down. The water’s blissfully cold, shocking you back into your body.

Yoongi sits on the other end of the couch, angled toward you, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. Casual, except not at all—because his eyes never leave your face.

You shift under the weight of it. “You really didn’t have to come.”

His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. “Guess I wanted to.”

The room is too quiet after that. Only the hum of your fridge, the faint city noise leaking through your blackout curtains. You fiddle with the bottle cap, unscrewing and rescrewing it, until the words tumble out before you can stop them:

“Sorry about last night.”

Yoongi’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t move. “What are you sorry for?”

You bite your lip, eyes darting away. “I don’t know. Being weird. Disappearing. Getting too drunk. Take your pick.”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, finally breaking his stillness. His voice is low, deliberate. “You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”

You risk a glance, and it’s almost worse—the softness in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re something fragile he doesn’t know how to hold.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because you don’t want to be fragile. You don’t want him to carry you like glass. You want to be wanted.

Your pulse hammers. You clear your throat. “Still… thanks. For showing up.”

“All good,” he says again, simple, final.

But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move. He just stays there, steady as ever, like he has all the time in the world to sit on your couch and wait for you to stop spinning.

You tip the water bottle back again, the plastic crackling against your palm. “The room’s not moving anymore,” you say, voice rough, “just… swaying.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Means your stomach hates you a little less.”

He’s still angled toward you, one knee on the cushion, hoodie soft where his forearm brushes the back of the couch. From here he smells like detergent and whatever clean thing lives in the dark fabric of his clothes—cool, familiar, a scent your body recognizes faster than your head does.

“You brought a whole survival kit,” you add, nodding at the lined-up bottles and the bananas he peeled and then un-peeled because you said the stringy bits were “criminal.”

“You texted,” he answers like it’s math.

“I texted Joon,” you correct, then wince. “Apparently.”

“Lucky for you Siri can’t spell.”

“You’re annoying.”

His mouth twitches; he lets it die. “You okay?”

“Define okay.”

He watches you. Not the hungover kind of watch—no pity, no soft head tilt. He tracks your eyes, your mouth, the way your fingers worry the ridges of the bottle cap like you’re trying to sand yourself smooth.

“I should’ve been with you,” he says.

The sentence lands heavy and simple, no preamble, like he ripped a stitch so it wouldn’t fester.

You blink. “At the party.”

“Yeah.”

“You were there,” you say, because that’s the safe version.

“Not with you.”

It scrapes something raw. You chase it with water; it doesn’t help. “Why weren’t you?”

He drags a hand over his jaw, eyes dropping to the coffee table like he can line his thoughts up next to the Gatorades. “I walked in, saw you on the floor, and—” He exhales a quiet, stuttering laugh with no humor in it. “—my brain just… shorted. You looked—” His gaze flicks back to you, sticks for a second on your mouth. “—and I got stupid. I went upstairs to get it together and then people kept talking and—”

“And Sori said hi,” you say, neutral as a knife laid flat.

His throat works. “She said hi.”

Silence folds in around you. The clock on your microwave stutters out a soft electronic tick every minute; the apartment’s old pipes clink somewhere in the wall like they’re chewing on ice.

He leans in, forearms on his thighs now, voice low enough you feel it in your ribs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t where I should’ve been. I’m sorry you blew out candles without me next to you. I’m sorry you went outside alone. I should’ve been with you.”

You want to deflect—aim a joke at his chest and watch it bounce—but the way he says it pins you to the cushion. “Why say it now?”

“Because you asked me last night not to be late,” he answers, eyes steady. “And I don’t want to be late for this.”

“For what?” Your mouth is dry again. But you don’t reach for the water.

“For the part where I stop pretending this doesn’t matter,” he says, and the words are so bare you almost flinch. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re my best friend.”

Your laugh comes out thin and mean to hide the way your pulse kicks. “Congratulations, you and Namjoon can share custody.”

He almost smiles. But he doesn’t. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I hurt you yesterday.”

You look at the floor, the gray weave of the rug you bought on sale because the reviews said it hid red wine. “I hate that you can tell.”

“I hate that I gave you a reason.”

Something loosens in your chest and tightens at the same time. “Then don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“You say that like you can control the future. Like it’s easy.”

“It’s not.”

You sit with that and so does he. The fridge hums in the kitchen, a car door thunks somewhere on the street. You can feel the apology vibrating in him, the unsaid parts pressing hard against the back of his teeth.

Your phone, abandoned face-down on the coffee table, gives a useless little buzz of an insignificant notification. His, tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, is quiet.

“You know,” you say, softer now, “I didn’t even want a party.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But the one thing I did want was…” You stop yourself, throat hot, eyes stinging. Feeling a little ridiculous right now.

“Me there,” he finishes, no triumph in it, only truth.

You meet his eyes and hate that they’re careful. “Yeah. That’s what I was looking forward to. And where were you?”

He shakes his head, slow. “Not there.”

“Then say it again. Properly this time,” you push, because you want to hear him choose it twice. “What you’re sorry for.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you,” he says, steady. “I’m sorry I let the party swallow me when I should’ve found you. I’m sorry that I made you wonder if you mattered more than the people I was with.”

Your living room holds the words like they might break if it breathes too hard.

You drag a fingertip along the sweating ridge of your water bottle. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“It’s a start.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, tension leaking out like air from a pinhole. “I’ll take a start.”

“Hey! Don’t get cocky.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You’re about to say something reckless and small and yours—something about how you would have let him hold the sparkler while you made your wish—when a low vibration murmurs against denim.

He glances down. The sound is so quiet it could be the building creaking, but you feel the shift in his focus like a draft under a door. He fishes his phone out, checks the screen with that same careful face he wears when he listens to a half-finished demo.

He hits decline.

The buzz dies.

You watch his thumb hover a second too long over the glass, as if his finger can erase a name. He tucks the phone back into his pocket, looks up at you, opens his mouth—

The phone vibrates again. Louder now, insistent, trapped in fabric. He doesn’t move at first, like not acknowledging it might starve it of oxygen. It keeps ringing, patient and relentless.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, voice very calm, like you’re asking if he needs a coaster.

“No,” he says, just as calm.

The ring keeps threading between you.

“Who is it?” You tip your head, trying for breezy, landing on brittle.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Humor me.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight. The buzz goes on, familiar rhythm looping, and something inside you decides it’s done being polite. You reach forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist where the cuff of his hoodie meets warm skin.

“Let me see.”

He stills. Not resisting—shocked still. The privacy reflex hits late; you’ve already slid your hand down, already dipped your fingers into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie like you own the right, already brushed knuckles to glass.

The screen flares up against your palm.

It’s only four letters. White text, black background, neat little vibration under your hand like the phone itself is smug about it.

Sori.

You don’t even really know her. Didn’t know she existed until last night. Don’t know if she’s an old friend, a new one, or just a passing shadow to Yoongi. You don’t know if she’s someone who laughs at his sarcasm the way you do, if she knows the way his voice drops when he’s serious, if she’s ever had him smile at her the way he smiles at you like you’re his.

But you know this: the second you see her name, your stomach twists sharp and painfully mean.

It’s nausea, hot and cold at once, like you’ve swallowed something that doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, climbs high, catches at the back of your throat. Your pulse stutters, and suddenly the whole room feels too small, too loud—even though it’s just you, him, the hum of the fridge.

Why should it matter? He can have friends. He can have whoever-the-hell Sori is. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not his anything. You don’t get to have a say.

And still—you hate it. Hate the way her name looks lit up in his pocket. Hate the way it rang twice, like she knew he’d ignore her once and was ready for round two. Hate the way your hand trembled when you pulled it out, like you were already bracing for the blow.

It’s pathetic, you think. It’s not even her. It’s the not-knowing.

Where she came from. Why she knows him. How close they are. If she knew him before you did.

That last thought lands like a sucker punch. You swallow hard against the bile.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t—

“Y/N.”

His voice cuts through your thoughts. Low and so careful.

You look up, and he’s already watching you. Watching the exact way your jaw tightens, the exact way your fingers still press against his wrist like you forgot to let go.

He sees it all.

And the worst part? You see him see it. The flicker of realization in his eyes, quick and sharp, like a spark hitting kindling. He knows.

He knows you’re jealous.

Yoongi tilts his head, still caught under your fingers where they’ve wrapped around his wrist. His mouth curves, faint, the kind of smirk that says he’s decided not to let the silence swallow you whole.

“So,” he says, slow, amused, “we’re just grabbing people’s phones now? That a new birthday tradition or…?”

You blink, throat tight. “I wasn’t grabbing, I was—” You stop. Heat crawls up your neck. “—I don’t know what I was.”

“Investigating?” His smirk deepens, but his voice softens with it. “That’s bold. Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”

The word hits too close. Your stomach flips. “I’m not jealous.”

“Mm.” He leans back, wrist still loose in your hold, like he’s giving you the chance to let go and not making a big deal out of the fact that you don’t. “Sure. Totally. That’s why you look like you’re about to fight Siri for connecting Sori’s call.”

Her name on his lips does something ugly to your insides and you suddenly feel like throwing up again. 

You groan and drop his wrist like it burns all the sudden. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, low and warm, no sting in it. “I mean, you didn’t even ask who she was before you went full detective. Kind of flattering, actually.”

Your chest squeezes. “It’s not—” You rub your temples, voice wobbling at the edges. “I just… I don’t even know who she is, Yoongi. I don’t know how you know her, or if you knew her before, or if she’s—” You bite the words off, sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”

His smirk eases, eyes steady on yours now. “You really want to know?”

You freeze. The question hangs there, heavy, tempting, terrifying.

“…No,” you say finally, lying through your teeth. “I don’t care.”

Yoongi hums, like he hears the truth tucked under the denial. Not pressing, not pushing—just sitting with it. Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice dipping quiet.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, simple, sincere, “you’re the one I’d have rather been with last night. Not her. You.”

Your throat works, traitorous. You want to laugh it off, toss the line back, make it light. But the words sit heavy, glowing, and you can’t quite find the air to move them.

So instead, you look down at your lap, tugging at a loose thread on your blanket, and mutter the safest thing you can manage.

“You’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling now. “But I’m your annoying.”

You half-smile, acknowledging his words that make your heart flutter more than they should.

He looks down at his lap before finding your eyes again. “And you have nothing to worry about.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “What does that even mean.”

“It means,” he says, confident and steady, “I could never replace you. If that’s why you’re… jealous.”

Your chest goes tight. “I’m not worried about being replaced,” you shoot back, too fast. “I’m worried about—”

You hear yourself hit the edge and slam on the brakes. No. Not like this. Not with last night still in your throat, not with someone else’s name still buzzing in his pocket.

“Worried about?” he asks, softer now. Patient, like he’s learned your tells and is offering you a way down.

You take a breath that doesn’t go anywhere. Then the words arrive all at once, tripping over each other like they’ve been queued for hours.

“Look. I don’t care if you’re having fun and going on dates or fucking around and just looking for casual sex.” Your voice is too bright, too sharp. “But last night I was super fucking annoyed that all your attention was on someone I don’t even know and never even heard of, when I wanted to be having the time of my life with you. You. My hot best friend. The one person I could joke with about that horribly fantastic party. But you weren’t there. And I know you said sorry, and I guess I forgive you, but I’ll be hurt for a little bit, but my point is… I wore that dress for—”

BZZ-ZZZZ.

You flinch like the sound touched your skin. His phone rattles in his hoodie pocket again, insistently, as if the universe just cannot help itself.

You’re halfway to smacking it out of him when you see his face.

He’s looking at you like you just said something holy by accident. Like you hung the moon and he’s been figuring out how to thank you ever since. Warm, startled, wrecked all at once. It’s not a look you’ve ever seen him aim at anyone else.

BZZ. BZZ.

He doesn’t even glance down this time. He reaches into his pocket without breaking eye contact, pulls the phone out, hits decline, and sets it face-down on your coffee table like he’s putting a lid on a pot before it boils over.

Silence spreads, thin and shimmering.

“You wore the dress for who,” he says, voice low, as if he’s afraid of scaring the truth back into its hole.

“For—” The word tangles. You swallow, hate the quake in your throat. “For feeling good,” you say, cowardly. Then quieter: “For… me.”

His mouth twitches—there and gone. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and searches your face like it’s the only sheet of music he knows how to read.

“I didn’t give Sori my attention,” he says, measured. “I stood upstairs because I panicked. She said hi because Jin dragged her over. I nodded through a conversation I didn’t hear because every time you laughed, it was like the floor moved. Nothing happened. I left the balcony because I couldn’t stay one more second where I couldn’t touch you.”

Your pulse stumbles, catches, sprints. “You didn’t touch me downstairs either.”

“I tried,” he says, winces at himself, corrects quietly, “I asked. You said you were busy. You were right to say it.”

“I was mad,” you admit. It feels like handing him your throat. “I wanted you next to me and you weren’t. Then there was this… person. This name. And I—” Your voice roughens. “I hated not knowing if you were choosing her over me.”

His eyes soften like that’s the one hit that lands. “I wasn’t choosing anyone over you.” He taps a knuckle against the table, once, a valve for something hotter. “Sori is… Jin’s friend. She works A&R. Last night she wanted to talk about a feature for an artist. I told her no. Twice.”

“But she’s calling,” you say, because the facts are stacked on the table blinking up at you in bold font.

He drags a hand over his jaw. “She’s calling because I texted her at 2 a.m. to give her my number because Jin told me to.” A brief, humorless laugh. “She told me I was insane for texting her so late. Then she said happy birthday to you. Then she left her coat upstairs and thinks I can magic it out of the very locked building.”

“Oh.” The word is light; the drop in your stomach is not. “That’s… anticlimactic.”

“I’m sorry it isn’t salacious enough for your spiral,” he murmurs. “Want me to pretend I eloped?”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ll plan the reception out of spite.”

He smiles properly this time. Small. Real. Then it fades, not because it’s gone but because he’s turning the volume down to say the rest.

“You said you don’t care if I’m dating,” he says. “I’m not.”

“That’s a convenient coincidence.”

“It’s an inconvenient truth,” he replies, and if he were anyone else he’d be grinning at his own line. He isn’t. He’s looking at you like the next choice will rearrange the room.

Your heartbeat is a clumsy thing in your chest. “So what am I worried about, Yoongi?”

He tips his head, patient. “You tell me.”

You stare at him. At the hoodie you’ve seen a hundred times, the one you’ve stolen twice. At the hands he keeps hiding from the space between you like they might give him away. At the mouth that has laughed with you, cut with you, said things drunk that sober-you memorized and buried.

“I was worried,” you say, each word picked out like it’s lying under glass, “that I was the only one who felt… how I feel. And if I say it out loud, and I am the only one, I won’t get to have the part I already have.”

He inhales, slow, the kind of breath you take before you step onto thin ice. “The part where we’re… us.”

“Yeah.”

“And if you weren’t the only one?” he asks, so gentle you want to shake him.

“Then I’m still mad about last night,” you say, because your brain is a wild animal that insists on bargaining even with the door cracked open. “But maybe not… terrified.”

His gaze flicks, quick, to your mouth and back. “You wore the dress for me.”

It isn’t a question this time. It’s a mercy.

You let your eyes drop to your hands, the faint half-moons your nails pressed in your palm. “I wore it hoping you’d look at me and—” You bite down on the rest. Enough honesty for one breath.

“I looked,” he says. “I haven’t stopped.”

BZZ-ZZZZ.

The phone on the table makes a valiant attempt at resurrecting itself, skittering once against the wood. You glance at it, then back at him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“Let it ring,” he says softly. “Please.”

You do. For once you let something that isn’t him wait.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, enough that his knee brushes the cushion seam next to your thigh. The hoodie smells like detergent and something that’s just him; your stupid body registers all of it like facts it’s been starving for.

“Say the rest,” he asks. “The part after ‘I wore that dress for—’”

You breathe out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “God, you’re greedy.”

“I learned from the best.”

You look at him, and it’s like the party, the garden, the bench, the whole world has been a long hallway pointing here.

“For you,” you say. Quiet. True. “I wore it for you.”

His eyes close for a second like the sentence hits bone.

When he opens them, there’s nothing careful left.

“Come here,” he says.

You move first—not because he told you to, but because the space between you has been lying this whole time. You shift across the cushion, knees knocking, and his hand comes up like gravity to your jaw, thumb gentle at the corner of your mouth where last night smudged something you didn’t want.

He pauses, searches your face for a no you aren’t giving.

“Yoongi,” you warn, a wry smile trying to save you both and failing. “If you ask me if this is okay I might combust.”

He huffs a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Then save us both.”

You do.

And when your lips touch, it’s not fireworks. It’s not a car crash. It’s the simple, devastating relief of something finding its right place. He kisses you like he’s been waiting at a red light for a year and it finally turned green—he’s careful, then not, then careful again because he knows the shape of your edges. Your hand fists in the front of his hoodie. His fingers slide into your hair like they were always meant to be there.

The room doesn’t sway anymore. It stills.

When you pull back, barely, it’s only to breathe his name against his mouth and see the way it lands. He’s smiling, small and rueful and respectful in a way that makes your ribs ache.

“I’m still mad,” you whisper, because some small, stubborn part of you needs to plant a flag.

“I’ll earn my way out,” he murmurs. “Stay mad. Stay.”

“I planned to.” Your forehead tips to his. “For a long time, actually.”

BZZ. BZZ. BZZ. BZZ.

You both glance at the table like you’re looking at a mosquito that thought it was a hawk. Yoongi reaches out without looking, flips the phone over with two fingers, and finally silences it.

“I’ll block her later,” he says, almost amused. “Tell her Jin has her coat but she has the wrong number.”

“Please do not drag the coat into your lies.”

“It’s not a lie.” He kisses you once, quick and devastating. “I’ll change my number.”

You snort, breathless, and he grins against your mouth like he just solved something complicated. The headache behind your eyes is a faint pressure now, not a drum. Your stomach is quiet. The buzzing is gone.

“Yoongi,” you say, and he hums, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw like he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops touching you. “I want to be stupid with you for a while.”

“Good,” he says, like he’s been waiting for someone to hand him permission to breathe. “I’m great at stupid.”

“Prove it.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, really look, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes go soft. “I’ll start by making you soup and holding your hair if you throw up.”

“Hot.”

“And then I’ll spend the rest of the day telling you every version of ‘nothing happened’ until even your jealousy gets bored and falls asleep.”

“Ambitious.”

He kisses your temple. “And after you nap, I’m going to apologize again for last night. Better. With sentences that aren’t trash. Then I’m going to ask you if I can take you on a date that doesn’t end with you wanting to fight Siri in the street.”

You blink. That word sits different now. Not heavy. Possible.

“And if I say yes?”

He smiles, quiet, certain. “Then I’ll try not to be late.”

You search his face for a loophole you can hide in. You don’t find one. “Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

He exhales like a man who’s been underwater and finally broke the surface.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and you do, tucking yourself into the corner of the couch with him like it’s been waiting for this exact geometry. His hoodie is soft under your cheek. His heartbeat is stupid and steady against your ear. The city hums. Somewhere in your kitchen, a Gatorade bottle sweats itself into a little ring on the counter.

When your phone buzzes on the table, it’s a text from Namjoon.

Joon: alive?

You smile into cotton and type with one hand.

you: yeah

you: soup incoming

you: don’t worry about the coat

Three dots. Then:

Joon: …what coat

You huff a laugh you didn’t know you had left. Yoongi doesn’t ask what’s funny. He already knows. He just kisses the top of your head like he intends to make a habit of it.

“Tomorrow,” you murmur, eyes already slipping shut despite yourself, “don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” he says, and the way he says it makes your body believe him before your brain does.

The phone on the table stays quiet. The soup pot waits. The dress is hanging somewhere in the dark of your closet like a witness.

You think about the way he looked at you before he kissed you, like the moon finally turned around and noticed who’d been holding it up.

And you reckon no one has ever looked at you that way before.

The soup tasted better than it should’ve.

Maybe it was because you were hungover and half-dead, maybe it was because Yoongi had leaned against your counter in that hoodie, scowling at the recipe on his phone like broth was a personal enemy, maybe it was because he kept sliding glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.

Whatever the reason, you ate it. Slowly, gratefully. He made you drink water in between bites, muttered something about “keeping electrolytes up” like he wasn’t the one who showed up with a bag of bananas and Gatorade in the first place.

You laughed at him. He kissed you quiet.

Later, you curled up on the couch with a blanket big enough for two, his arm slung heavy and sure around you. Movies played half-forgotten in the background, your head on his chest, his thumb tracing idle circles against your arm. The kisses came soft and unhurried, the kind you could fall asleep in.

At some point, you must’ve.

Because when you open your eyes again, it’s morning.

Your room is flooded with pale light that slips past the blackout curtains, painting everything in soft gray. Your head doesn’t hurt anymore; your body feels loose, weightless. For half a second you let yourself drift, float in the warmth cocooned around you—until you realize that warmth isn’t the blanket.

It’s him.

Yoongi is behind you, his chest pressed firm against your back, his breath slow at your nape. His arm is heavy over your waist, tucked under your shirt just enough to graze bare skin. And when you shift, careful, testing—

Oh.

Your ass fits right up against his front.

Every nerve ending in your body lights up like fireworks.

You freeze. Absolutely still. Wide awake now in a way that feels criminal. Your brain, traitorous, starts cataloguing everything at once: the heat of him pressed along your spine, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight against your hip that tells you exactly how real this is.

Shit.

Slowly—so slowly—you breathe in. Out. You try to convince yourself you can relax, that it doesn’t mean anything, that this is just what happens when two people fall asleep in the same bed. Gravity. Logistics. Biology.

But then his fingers twitch at your waist. Just the barest curl, like even in sleep his body knows it wants you closer.

And you realize: you’re not going back to sleep. Not like this.

Your heart is in your throat, your pulse hammering loud enough you’re afraid it’ll wake him. You tell yourself not to move. You tell yourself you can stay perfectly still until he wakes up first. You tell yourself—

Then his breath shifts, deeper, warmer, nosing the back of your neck.

Oh, fuck.

“Yoongi…” you whisper, so quiet you’re not even sure you meant for him to hear it.

He stirs, the smallest sound in his throat, voice thick with sleep. “Mm. Still dreaming.”

Your chest tightens. “Of what?”

He shifts, breath warm against your neck, words barely brushing your skin. “You. Always you.”

The confession hits you harder than his body pressed against yours. Your pulse spikes, your body aching with the knowledge of how close he is—how hard he is—and how much you want him.

You twist carefully in his hold until you’re facing him, and he looks wrecked in the soft light—hair a mess, lashes heavy, lips parted. Beautiful. Real. Yours.

Your hand finds the fabric of his hoodie, clinging. “We should…” you murmur, breathless, “brush our teeth first.”

That earns the faintest crook of his mouth, still half-asleep. “Practical.”

You slip out of bed on wobbly legs, padding toward the bathroom. He follows a moment later, dragging a hand through his hair, hoodie slouched off one shoulder cause he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

The two of you stand at the sink, shoulders brushing, toothbrushes moving in quiet sync. He’s always had an extra toothbrush at your place. It should feel ordinary, domestic. Instead, the air between you hums, electric, sharp with what you’re not saying.

When you spit and rinse, lifting your gaze to the mirror, you catch him watching you—awake now, eyes dark and unflinching.

You set your toothbrush down, breath caught. “Yoongi—”

But he closes the space before you can finish, hand cradling your jaw as his mouth finds yours, cool mint still fresh on his tongue, and suddenly you’re gone—burning, melting, needing him like air.

It’s not the soft, careful kiss from last night—it’s greedy, impatient, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally decided to inhale.

You gasp, hands fisting in his hoodie, and he uses that tiny opening to lick into you, tongue sliding against yours until you’re dizzy. The counter digs into the backs of your thighs before you even register he’s moved you, his hands braced firm at your hips, lifting, setting you down on the cold marble like it’s nothing.

The world tilts, and then it doesn’t matter—because Yoongi is standing between your knees, kissing you like the end of everything. Hard. Hot. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

Your fingers claw into his hair, tugging, desperate. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating straight through you.

You break for air only long enough to see him—lips red, pupils blown, hoodie collar bunched in your fists. His forehead tips against yours, breaths ragged. “Fuck, Y/N,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, like he’ll never get enough.

His hands roam—up your sides, over your waist, sliding beneath your shirt to find bare skin, warm palms branding every inch they touch. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer until you feel the solid, unmistakable press of him right where you need it.

The sound you make is shameless. His answering groan is worse.

“Been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your mouth. “About you. For so long.”

You kiss him harder, swallowing the confession whole, because if you don’t, you’ll beg. And you’re already half a second from begging anyway.

The kiss doesn’t slow. It only deepens—messier, hungrier, your lips swollen, teeth clashing as his tongue tangles with yours. His hands grip your thighs like he’s terrified you’ll slip off the counter, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there as if reminding himself of the fact that this is real.

“Fuck,” Yoongi groans into your mouth, breaking away just long enough to drag his lips across your jaw, down your throat. “You taste… fuck, you taste better than I dreamed.”

Your head falls back against the mirror with a soft thud, a whimper spilling out before you can swallow it. “Yoongi—”

“Say it again,” he murmurs against your skin, lips hot at the hollow of your throat. “Say my name like that.”

“Yoongi.” It’s desperate this time, broken open.

He bites down gently, sucking a mark into your skin that will brand you tomorrow, and the sound you make has his breath hitching. His hands slide higher, skimming beneath your shirt until his thumbs are brushing the underside of your breasts, not quite touching, just teasing, making your body arch toward him instinctively.

Your fingers dig into his hair, tugging him back up so you can crash your mouth against his again. He takes it, gives it back tenfold, kissing you like he’ll starve without it.

“I wanted this,” you pant against his lips. “Last night. The night before, at the party.” You dive in for more kisses. “All night. You—”

“Me too,” he cuts in, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you so bad I couldn’t breathe. Thought I was gonna lose it if I touched you.”

You whimper, and his grip on your thighs tightens. He kisses you once more, then pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. His eyes are dark, blown wide, but there’s something steady under it, something careful.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough but low and respectful. His thumb strokes against your skin, grounding. “Let me go down on you.”

The question hangs in the air, heavy, sparking against every nerve in your body.

Your breath stutters. Heat pools low in your stomach, your legs already parting without thought, like your body made the decision before your mouth could.

You nod frantically, hips jerking forward, the word tumbling out of you on a broken pant. “Please.”

Something in his face twists—like he’s both wrecked and relieved at once. He kisses you again, hard and quick, stealing your breath before dropping to his knees on the cold tile.

The sight alone nearly undoes you. Yoongi, kneeling between your thighs, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, dark hair falling into his eyes as he pulls off your sleeping shorts and presses your knees wider. Like you’re something to be opened. Something to be savored. But he leaves your lacy panties on.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and gravely, hands sliding up the insides of your thighs. His thumbs trace soft circles there, teasing closer, closer, until you’re arching toward him without shame.

He glances up once, eyes locking with yours, dark and steady. “I need to taste you.”

You moan just at the sound of it, head tipping back against the mirror, and then he leans in—pressing one hot, open-mouthed kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The wet heat of his tongue seeps through, and you jolt, a whimper breaking free.

“Yoongi—”

He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “So sweet already.” His fingers hook under the edge of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs with agonizing slowness, eyes never leaving yours.

When the fabric hits the floor, he nudges your knees apart wider, settling in like he belongs there, and lowers his mouth to you.

The first stroke of his tongue has your whole body jerking off the counter. He grips your thighs firmly, holding you open as he licks into you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning you by taste.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans against your cunt, tongue circling your clit before flattening to lap at you with long, unhurried strokes. “How do you taste so fucking good?”

Your hands slam against the counter edge, searching for stability. You’re panting, gasping, every nerve ending set on fire as he works you open with his mouth. His tongue teases, licks, sucks, alternating pressure until your thighs tremble around his head.

“Please,” you whimper again, tugging his hair without realizing it, and he moans into you like he likes the desperation, like he needs it. The sound shoots straight through you, white-hot.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth wet, lips red, eyes molten. “Yeah? You want more?”

You nod frantically, words spilling out ragged. “Don’t stop—please, Yoongi, don’t stop.”

His smirk is faint, wicked. “Wasn’t planning to.”

And then he dives back in, tongue relentless, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking until your vision blurs out.

You choke on a moan, your whole body arching, thighs trembling around his head, and Yoongi just holds you steady, eating you like he could live here forever. Like he’s been starving for this exact moment, for you.

You’re so fucking close.

And Yoongi doesn’t let up. His tongue works you with steady, devastating precision—long, slow licks that drag all the way through your folds, sharp flicks against your clit, then sucking it into his mouth until you’re keening, your hips jerking helplessly against his hold.

“Yoongi—fuck—” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling without thought.

He groans like your desperation is feeding him, his mouth sealing over you tighter, tongue pressing into you with purpose. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice wrecked but steady. “Give it to me. I’ve got you.”

Your thighs tremble around his head, every nerve firing, heat winding tight in your belly. He feels it—of course he does—because his grip on your thighs tightens, pinning you open as his pace grows just a fraction more deliberate.

He draws lazy circles over your clit with his tongue, building, building, relentless in the way only he could be. You’re panting, breaking apart, teetering on the edge—

“Yoongi, I—I’m—”

“Yeah,” he rasps, pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth. “Come for me.”

And right before you do, he slides his middle finger inside you and curls it perfectly.

You gasp, “Fuck—YOON—“

It rips through you sudden and hard and sharp, your whole body arching off the counter as pleasure detonates in waves. Your cry echoes against the bathroom tiles, thighs clamping around his head while he groans into you, pumping and curling his finger just right inside you. His mouth still on your clit, licking you through it, slow and unhurried, savoring every twitch and pulse.

Your grip in his hair turns shaky, your body slumping back against the mirror as aftershocks roll through you. You’re wrecked, panting, dazed—and Yoongi finally pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, eyes dark and glowing all at once.

“Fuck,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re gorgeous like this.”

You barely manage a whimper before his arms are sliding under you, lifting you off the counter like you weigh nothing. You bury your face against his shoulder, still trembling, as he carries you out of the bathroom.

Each step toward your bed feels surreal, dizzying. The sheets are cool against your back when he lowers you down, settling between your knees, his hands braced on either side of you like he’s caging you in.

He leans down, kissing you deep—mint, salt, and you—and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He doesn’t let you look away, doesn’t give you space to doubt.

“Round one,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and hot on your skin. “Now let me ruin you properly.”

His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, slow and chaste even as his hands are shaking with urgency. He kisses you as if he wants to memorize every inch of your skin before he dares take more.

Then he leans back, tugging his hoodie over his head. It falls to the floor in a heap, followed by his t-shirt, leaving him bare chested above you—lean muscle, pale skin, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady as he stares down at you.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I?”

You nod, frantic. “Please.”

The shirt comes off, your bra following, and for a long moment he just… stares. His mouth parts, his chest heaves, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe this is real.

“Beautiful doesn’t even come close,” he says, voice raw, almost angry at the limitation of language. “Fuck. I wish I had a better word, but you—” He swallows hard. “You make me stupid.”

Heat floods your face, your chest, all the way down to your core. You reach for him, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing him messy, urgent, because if he keeps looking at you like that, you’ll combust.

His sweats are loose at his hips, and your hand slips down, tugging at the waistband until you find him. Hard, hot, heavy in your palm. You wrap your fingers around him, pumping slow at first, and the moan he lets out into your mouth nearly undoes you.

God, he’s thick. Not the longest, but girthy, solid, filling your hand so completely you know the stretch is going to wreck you in the best way. You stroke him again, thumb swiping over the damp slit, and his hips jerk helplessly against your hand.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groans, kissing you harder, tongue pushing deep like he can’t control himself. His whole body shudders above you as you pump him, and it makes your stomach twist with heat knowing you’re unraveling him this fast.

But then he breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Stop—”

You freeze, eyes wide. “Did I—?”

“No,” he blurts, voice wrecked, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. “It’s not that. It’s—” He exhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before he looks at you again, raw and unguarded. “This is too much. You’re too much. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, and now it’s actually happening, and if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna last. Not the way I need to. Not the way you deserve.”

Your heart thuds, your chest tight. He’s not joking. He’s deadly serious, like the gravity of this moment is messing with his entire body.

Yoongi kisses you again, slower this time but with more passion. “Let me take it slow first. Let me make it last.”

For a moment, time itself slows down.

You’ve imagined this—fantasized about it in quiet, shameful corners of your mind—but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of Yoongi above you, stripped down and wrecked, telling you he’s waited for this as long as you have. It feels unreal. Like the universe pressed pause just so you could see him clearly: your best friend, the man who knows your darkest jokes and your softest silences, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re so in love with him it feels like your body can’t contain it. Every heartbeat is a reminder: you’ve waited for this. You’ve lived for this. And now it’s happening, right here, in his hands.

Yoongi’s mouth returns to yours, slow and languid, even as his hands tug at the last barrier between you. He peels his sweats and underwear down, dragging them over his hips without disconnecting the kiss. When he’s completely bare, he pulls back just enough to look at you beneath him—really look—and the sound he makes is guttural, torn straight from his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes dark, hungry, but shining with something more. “You’re… god, I don’t even have the words. You’re everything.”

Heat floods through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively. But he’s already there, easing them apart with gentle hands, sliding down the bed until he’s between them again. He kisses along your inner thigh, slow, worshiping your skin, then presses one finger inside you, careful but firm.

You gasp, back arching. He groans at the sound, eyes locked on your face as he works you open, sliding deep, curling just right until your hips jerk. “So tight,” he mutters, kissing your knee. “Need to get you ready for me.”

Another finger joins, stretching you more, and the pressure builds deliciously. You clutch at the sheets, moaning helplessly as he pumps them steady, scissoring you open while his thumb circles your clit. He watches you unravel, his lips parted, his breathing rough. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”

When your thighs start trembling again, he pulls back, dragging his fingers out slowly, leaving you empty and whimpering. He’s already reaching into the pocket of his sweats, pulling a condom out and tearing it open with his teeth.

Your eyes widen. “You—?”

“Always prepared,” he rasps, rolling it down his cock with practiced hands. He catches your expression and gives a small, crooked smirk. “What? You think I didn’t come over here prepared after seeing you in that dress?”

And then he’s there—thick and hot and heavy in his fist, lining himself up against your entrance. He pauses, hovering over you, one hand cupping your jaw, his forehead pressing to yours. His voice is low, almost shaking. “This is it. Are you okay?”

Your body is already begging, already slick and open for him. You nod frantically. “Yes. Please, Yoongi. I need you.”

He exhales sharply, hips rolling forward, and you feel it—his cock pushing into you, slow, careful, stretching you inch by inch. Your jaw falls open, a broken cry spilling out as the stretch burns in the best possible way. He’s thick, filling you so completely you can barely breathe.

“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping against your shoulder, his voice raw. “You feel—shit—you feel so good.”

The stretch has your body clenching tight around him, every nerve alight. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, not in length but in sheer girth, the kind of fullness that makes you dizzy, makes your thighs shake. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging in as he bottoms out, burying himself fully inside you.

“Yoongi—oh my god—”

He holds still, chest heaving, giving you time to adjust. His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, peppering kisses like he can’t stop himself. “Tell me when,” he pants. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You shift, rolling your hips experimentally, and the shock of pleasure rips a moan out of you. “Now,” you whisper, desperate. “Move, please.”

He pulls back, slow, then thrusts in again, and the world tilts. The drag of his cock against your walls is overwhelming, toeing the line between pain and ecstasy, and you cling to him, panting his name.

“Fuck—” he grits out, thrusting again, harder this time, the rhythm building as he loses his control. “So tight, so perfect—been dreaming about this for so long. About you.”

Your heart lurches, tears stinging your eyes at the rawness in his voice. You kiss him hard, swallowing his moans, your body clenching around him with every deep, deliberate thrust.

He fucks you slow but rough, every push in like a confession, every pull out dragging another plea from your lips. His grip on your hips is bruising, his mouth a litany against your skin: beautiful, mine, always wanted you, fuck, I love the way you feel.

The world shrinks down to this—the stretch, the heat, the sound of his moans in your ear, the way he’s finally, finally inside you.

Yoongi thrusts into you again, slow and deep, and then suddenly pulls out, chest heaving. Before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, flipping you gently onto your stomach.

“Want to see you like this,” he mutters, voice rough, guiding you onto your hands and knees.

And then he’s pushing back inside, thick cock sliding into you from behind, and the angle makes you cry out, the stretch sharper, deeper. You drop your head forward, moaning his name as you rock your hips back into him.

“Yoongi—fuck, yes—”

His grip tightens, and he drives into you harder, each thrust making the headboard slam against the wall. The sound is obscene, wet and desperate, the slap of skin against skin echoing in your ears.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, and then he stops—just stops moving. His hands hold your hips while you keep grinding back on him, fucking yourself on his cock like you’ll die if you stop. The stretch is brutal, dizzying, but you don’t care—you need it, you need him.

And then his hand reaches around to find your clit. His middle finger makes contact with your bundle of nerves, drawing tight circles on you, and your whole body jolts back, forcing his cock even deeper as you cry out.

“Ahh! Yoongi—mmm—”

He watches you, totally entranced by your sounds alone. Then he rocks his hips—just a little—and he has you aching for more.

You whine, voice wrecked. “Want to ride you.”

He groans, ragged, and pulls out just long enough to shift. “Come on, then.”

He falls back against your headboard, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples, cock hard and gleaming. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, and take him in hand, guiding him back to your entrance.

The second you sink down, both of you moan in unison—loud, broken, unrestrained. The angle is deeper like this, his cock spearing you open until you feel him in your gut.

“Oh my god,” you pant, nails digging into his shoulders. “So—so deep—”

He fists your hips, holding you steady, but it’s your body doing the work, bouncing on him, taking him in over and over as your tits sway with every movement. He leans forward, mouth hot and desperate against your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing.

You cry out, arching into it, and he switches to your other breast, leaving marks on your skin, kissing and sucking like he wants to brand you. Because he does.

Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alive. The words almost spill out—I love you, I love you, I love you—but you choke them down, terrified it’s too soon, terrified it will shatter this moment.

But the way he looks up at you as you ride him—eyes wide, blown, gazing at you like you’re his epiphany—almost gives him away. Like he’s holding back the same words. Like he’s already yours. And you both know it.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, hips bouncing faster, harder, chasing the edge.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, head falling back against the wall, jaw clenched as he watches you take him. “You’re perfect—you’re fucking perfect—”

The coil in your belly snaps, and your orgasm crashes through you, violent and consuming. You scream his name, clenching tight around his cock, body shaking as you ride it out.

“Shit—” he groans, hips thrusting up into you desperately, chasing his own release. “Can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You grip his hair, pulling his face against your chest as he unravels beneath you, spilling hot inside the condom with a guttural moan of your name. His whole body shudders, his cock pulsing inside you as he rides it out, holding you down on him like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.

You collapse against him, both of you panting, trembling, sweat-slicked. His arms wrap around you, tight, like he’s gluing you to him.

And in the quiet that follows, the only sound your ragged breaths, you realize the truth you almost said out loud: you love him.

And maybe, just maybe, the way his lips press against your temple, lingering, passionate, means he feels the same.

But then—his hands shift. One trails down your spine, settling at your ass, squeezing lightly as if testing the weight of you. He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your collarbone.

“Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Even after that.”

You jolt, still full of him, your body clenching reflexively around his cock where he’s still buried inside you. He hisses through his teeth, his grip on your hip tightening.

“Yoongi—” you gasp, shivering.

“Yeah,” he grits, forehead pressing to yours, breath hot on your lips. “You feel that? Can’t even move without—fuck.”

And just like that, the aftercare melts right back into heat.

You shift in his lap, rocking your hips the slightest bit, and his eyes roll back, a groan tearing out of him. “You’re insane,” he mutters, kissing you hard, teeth clashing, desperation bleeding into every stroke of his tongue.

“Can’t stop,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t want to.”

He grabs your ass with both hands, grinding you down against him, his cock twitching inside you as if his body agrees. “Good,” he growls. “’Cause I’m not letting you off me yet.”

You moan into the kiss, your thighs trembling as you start moving again—slow, steady rolls of your hips that have him swearing, begging under his breath. His lips find your neck, sucking fresh marks into your skin, as if he needs to leave proof that this really happened, that you’re his now.

Every touch, every kiss feels like aftercare and hunger at once—his hands soothing over your back while his cock drags deep inside you, his mouth worshipping your skin while his teeth nip and claim. It’s overwhelming, addictive.

And as you ride him again, slower this time but no less intense, you realize you could live in this loop forever—heat and tenderness, hunger and care, his arms around you and his body inside you, the two of you unable to stop because stopping would mean admitting this isn’t a dream.

You keep moving until your thighs ache, until your chest is heaving and his hands are clutching you like he’ll die if you stop. He kisses you through it, messy and hot, every groan spilling into your mouth until finally your body gives up and collapses against his chest.

Yoongi doesn’t let you go. He rolls with you, easing both of you down until you’re sprawled across the sheets in a tangle of limbs, still connected, still pulsing with aftershocks. His hand drags lazy circles along your spine, his breath ragged against your temple.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice rough with awe.

You laugh weakly into his chest, too exhausted to form words, your smile pressed against his damp skin. He tightens his arms around you in answer, burying his nose in your hair.

The room is quiet but charged, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, your bodies still humming. Every shift of your hips makes him groan, and every groan makes your pulse kick up again.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmur, teasing, though your voice is thin and shaky.

“Pot,” he mutters, squeezing your ass lightly, “meet kettle.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and let yourself melt into him. His hand drifts down to your hip, his thumb stroking absent patterns into your skin like he’s playing the piano.

It should feel like the aftercare part—gentle, winding down. But it doesn’t. Not really. Because beneath the laziness, beneath the sweat cooling on your skin, there’s still that ache, that pull. The knowledge that if either of you moved just right, it would start again.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his collarbone, and his body jerks, breath catching like the touch alone could get him hard.

Yeah. Insatiable doesn’t even begin to cover it.

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© 2025 JJUNGKOOKII. Please do not copy, repost, translate, or claim as your own. Sharing links is always welcome — thank you for respecting my work! ♡

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✨jjungkookii’s masterlist✨

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Any feedback is always welcome and appreciated🫶 your comments motivate and inspire me to write more and even the smallest words go such a long way💞💞Thank you for reading🙏

[shyxcherry]

ink & asphalt | &team

summary: a series about tattoo artists and street racers falling hard and fast.

warning: fluff, angst, smut, specific warnings will be at the beginning of each one.

started: 7.13.2025 (5/9 done)

ended: tbd

notes: here is the outline for the series. i don't know how long it will take, but i am very excited to write this! you don't have to read in any order, but it is written in the same universe. the order that is also written is just oldest to youngest and will not be the order of the series.

k

summary: when you run away from your past life, you rely on some old friends to help you get back on your feet. when they offer you a job at their tattoo shop, you quickly become a fan favorite while catching the eye of a local street racer. you quickly become intertwined in his life, but what happens when your past mistakes show up when you finally feel at home? streetracer!k x tattooartist!reader

read here

fuma

summary: you walk into his life with marks you don't want anymore– tattoos from an ex you just wanted to forget. he didn't ask questions before promising that he would take care of you. and he does. one cover up at a time. each time he gives you a piece of yourself back allowing you to heal. but once you realize that it isn't just the ink helping you heal, your ex shows up– and suddenly healing doesn't seem too simple anymore. tattooartist!fuma x divorced!reader

coming soon

nicholas

summary: when your friends drag you for a night out, you didn't expect to catch the attention of the most attractive guy you've ever met. nor did you expect to sleep with him. but here you were, with messed up feelings about someone whose name you didn't even know. oh, and don't forget he's your brother's best friend (and boss). tattooartist!nicholas x female!reader

read here

ej

summary: you just started your apprenticeship, working for three of the best tattoo artists there is– that includes the owner as well. you know you shouldn't since he was your boss, but you couldn't help but be drawn to his quiet and reserved nature. you try to break down his walls, but every time he lets you in, he steps back– leaving you wanting more. but how much pulling can you take before it becomes too much? tattooshopowner!ej x tattooapprentice!reader

coming soon

yuma

summary: you're one of the best mechanics in the underground scenary. everyone wants you to work on his car– including him. the new cocky racer who looks at you like he wants more than you showing him the ropes. you can feel the tension sparking between the wrenches, but there's one issue. you've got a boyfriend, but that doesn't stop your hands (or heart) from lingering. streetracer!yuma x mechanic!reader

read here

jo

summary: you never cared for the flashing lights or gossip trains– just the engine and the road in front of you. but when an opportunity comes up to do a shoot embracing female racers, you take it. now you're stuck next to him– the shy, charming model who somehow catches your eye. it's supposed to be fake– the smiles and touches. but every time he looks at you, it gets harder to pretend you're not looking back. model!jo x streetracer!reader

read here

harua

summary: it was supposed to be fun. you weren't supposed to care who got the magazine feature, but then he showed up– the ray of sunshine who was all smug smiles and laughs. he quickly tries wins everyone over– including you. now, you're now fighting over the same spot, but it's getting harder to tell if you want to win– or if you just want him. photographer!harua x photographer!reader

coming soon

taki

summary: you swore you'd never get close to another racer. not after last time. now you were the distant voice on the radio– calm and in control as you guide racers through the flooded streets. but when he hears you for the first time, he becomes obsessed with finding out who you were– going as far as refusing to race if you weren't instructing him. you try to keep your distance until one mistake threatens to bring the past back to life. streetracer!taki x streetcoms!reader

coming next!

maki

summary: you've been racing motorcycles every since you learned how to ride. you're whole family did it, so it felt natural for you to do so. until recently that is, you've been loosing your grip– literally. every race you do, you feel slower, weaker, but keep forcing yourself to push through it because of him. your rival would never let you live it down if he saw you struggling. so when you go down, and he's the first one to you, you realize maybe you were wrong. streetracer!maki x streetracer!reader

read here!

[bulletproofbirdy]

Excellent series, highly recommend! Such a cool universe.

[sugar-petals]

the term “ai fanfiction/fanart” is such an oxymoron because AI cannot be a fan. it’s not involved in fandom spaces, it has no passion nor sentimental preference, it doesn’t dream about its beloved blorbo, nor can it be horny for their fave. it’s just a button click for fake creators that’ll steal stuff. hence “ai fan-xyz” and ai `art´ do not exist

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[bulletproofbirdy]

✨ r o u n d ✨

[sugar-petals]

besides his obvious intelligence and badassery yoongi has what i call soft beauty and it’s not just the immaculately cat-like face (which i love) it’s also his presence and demeanour being just unobtrusively introverted. almost inexplicably he is so comforting to look at/listen to like even his most aggressive raps don’t make you feel uneasy because not only does this guy have the most attractive pillow-like baritone and the most relaxed body language ever but - despite him being a lil tease - he also gives you the feeling of being on your side. on any given day he would drive away all of your haters using nothing but a pair of chopsticks and then he’ll just blink and shrug because that goes without saying and then he’ll languidly clean up your whole living space and cook thai food

[93magicshops]

Thank you for this post @sugar-petals. I’m not exaggerating when I say Yoongi (and Namjoon) changed forever how I view rap music. I could never really relate to (what I saw) as the male aggression and posturing associated with it but it’s like you say, even when Yoongi’s rapping at his most aggressive, it never feels threatening to me. It’s definitely partly because of his relaxed body language, and maybe partly the fact that I also see him in wildly different contexts besides when he’s rapping, like dancing or performing one of the more pop-y songs, or just being his sweet self, ect. I feel like he (and the other members) are always asking us to join in, and saying you too, are included in this, no matter the music genre, style, ect. Yoongi fascinates me so much, because like you say it’s sort of inexplicable how comforting he is to look at/listen to, but maybe there is some connection and deeper understanding there because I’m also an introvert IDK. I’m a relatively new ARMY and I think one of the biggest joys I’ve had getting to know BTS is how they’ve opened my mind to all sorts of different things.

Also, the image of Yoongi languidly cleaning your living space and cooking Thai food…please that is the dream.

[jung-koook]

“just being together itself makes me so happy” 🥹❤️‍🩹😭 (trans. cr. @taee)