“oh my g—“ was the only thing you could get out before you slapped your hand over your mouth, your moans not very quiet but muffled now. jay’s head was between your legs, strands of his wet hair pushed away from his face so that his face was on display.
his eyebrows furrowed as he groaned into you, the action vibrating your lower half. his tongue was plunged in between your folds, lapping up your arousal.
earlier in the day, it had been a lovely adventure between the two of you. from the time you left the dock, to when you had dinner on jay’s brand new yacht, everything was so magical. he treated you as if you truly were the only girl in the world, as if you were his everything—which you were.
and after dinner and the gift giving, he pulled you to the back of the boat, far from the staff and anyone else, just to tell you that he wanted to make love. it sounded like some crazy risk that only teen lovers pull in the movies, but jay was serious. he wanted you more than ever, and something about being out on the water made it more romantic to him.
so there you were.
laying against the chairs that you and jay sunbathed in before, your legs spread as far as he could get them. his finger fumbled with the material of your bikini, trying too push them over some more (as if they weren’t far enough).
you whined into your hand, the other one coming to rest atop of jay’s head, pushing his face into your pussy—gently of course.
“mmh—“ jay grunted, starting to breathe heavily as he continued devouring you. his tongue swiped over your clit before entering you again, plunging in and out with one of his fingers following.
he came up for a bit of air before licking his lips, giving you a fond smile as if he wasn’t treating you like his last meal.
“feels good, huh, baby?”
you nodded frantically, your hips rising off of the chair to meet with his finger. you grind against it, watching as he let it sink deep into you just to pull back out. your juices soaked it, running all the way down to his knuckle before he added another.
“you’re so pretty, you know that?” he continued, his voice hushed and soft. you whimper at his words, looking up in to his eyes. he had a way with his words, especially when he made love to you. he was always so soft-spoken which tended to make everything worse on your end. he had you shivering and on the brink of tears just with his words alone.
the sound of the waves crashing against the sides of the boat nearly drowned out your whines and pleas, but jay could still hear you just fine. and it amused him.
he plunged his fingers deeper, the slick noises growing louder.
“i know, sweetheart, it’s sensitive but you’re doing so good for me,” jay kissed the inside of your thigh, watching as your hips bucked again.
“fuck, i can’t take it, jay, i can’t,” you panted, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. jay lowered his head again so that his tongue was flattened against your clit. it didn’t take long for you to be crying for him, but he knew you could take it, you always did.
he flicked the tip of it across your swollen bud, adding more stimulation as his fingers moved faster.
jay’s personal staff could probably hear you by now as they all cleaned up and finished their job for the night, but you didn’t care anymore and neither did he. it was nearly impossible to stay quiet with him.
he latched onto your clit, sucking gently and moaning at the taste of it on his tongue.
“my favorite,” he hummed, his unoccupied hand coming to massage the back of your thigh. “so sweet.”
you shifted your hips more, trying to grind up into his tongue before he shook his head.
“be patient, honey. i got you, i know how you like it,” he cooed, diving back into you. your head was spinning, your back arching with pleasure as your orgasm approached. he was right, he knew everything about your body from the things you hated, to the things that made you feel good, so there was no reason to be so impatient.
“baby, i’m gonna—“ you gasp, your hand flying back to his dark locks. as soon as those words left your lips, jay’s tongue worked faster than before, your arousal and his own saliva covering his chin.
you clench around nothing as you get closer, your moans turning into small whimpers.
jay held you closer, his fingers still doing the work that his tongue wasn’t.
“cum for me, baby,” he kissed your clit, watching as you came undone on the chair, your thighs shaking violently. it was his favorite sight, being able to see you in so much pleasure and knowing that he was the only one who could make you feel that way.
your whimpers continued as you came down, you attempted to catch your breath as jay’s fingers came to a halt, resting inside of you.
“…love you so much,”
he chuckled, your disheveled state was the most adorable thing to him.
.✦ ݁˖요약. Lee Heeseung’s solo debut has allowed him to explore a more mature and intimate artistic direction, leading to a provocative collaboration with you. What begins as manufactured desire slowly turns into something far more dangerous: real intimacy neither of you is willing to name.
warnings ␥ sexual tension, smut , cursing, slow burn (?) long ahhh plot sorry not sorry, they kinda hate each other, they’re awkward and annoyed by each other., soft-dom hee, brat tamer (? sort of) and more. just trust.
reference : feeling lucky - bibi & jackson wang mv
“there’s not gonna be any chemistry, he’s not even my type”,
Is what you would’ve said if you were blind, and deaf, and mute.
Which -last time you checked- was definitely not true.
Cause you were pretty sure that, from where you stood, you could see Lee Heeseung chewing the soft part of his magic erasable-ink pen.
You could hear the way his chair constantly dragged against the expensive floor of the studio each time he moved to talk to the producer, and unfortunately, a barrier of speech didn’t stop you from saying dumb thing after dumb thing.
And let’s face it, heesung who had originally settled for a polite and respectful smile, couldn’t help the chuckles that left his mouth.
Oh he was mocking you, not in an endearing ‘oh she’s so silly’ heart face emoji way, but more like ‘what’s wrong with this girl”.
Which was fine by you, as long as it didn’t impact the project.
Everyone who said artists didn’t choose the songs they sung was right.
Cause honestly, if you’d had a choice, you would be singing about burgers and tomodachi life, not about something you knew entirely nothing about. here being : kissing and tension.
It was safe to say you knew fuck all about that. Your manager had reassured you you’d be great at pretending, like you’d done so many times -master of illusions- singing songs about being in love and late night dates, as if that was your routine.
So instead of sulking, you sat at the studio, recording the back vocals with a very quiet Lee Heeseung, stuffing your face with green grapes like you were physically restraining yourself from speaking.
The talk about chemistry had been essential throughout this whole project, Heeseung recently having debuted as a solo artist, his company was under a lot of backlash for separating him from enhypen -his original group- and he was on steep ground, venturing in a more mature form of expression. It differed a lot from his previous works, certainly, but in all of this, the song in itself wasn’t the big risk. The song -albeit pretty explicit- was reasonably catchy, your voices harmonizing perfectly, yours raspy and his clear and powerful; demanded a music video worthy of the performance.
From a meeting with creative directors and visual directors, was born the risky idea. For weeks, they’d talked about moodboards, concept ideas, and most importantly, the stakes.
Which were honestly -on a scale of 1 to 10- at a high 30.
As idols, you both knew it, and the team knew too, Heeseung was highly sought out let’s say, he had a whole fandom of deranged fans and an extensive collection of saesangs ready to physically fight if there was an ounce of doubt about his relationships.
You, not so much, your fans were mostly girls, supportive, never intrusive, you were already pretty liberated as an artist, escaping korea’s norms, but, who could guarantee this wouldn’t cause your downfall.
You’d seen before what raging fans could do to other idols, and you werent sure if you’re ready to ever experience that first hand. You’d already went through storyboards, having to give your written agreement on paper, it wasn’t a crazy music video per-say, from your ‘western music’ point of view, but you couldn’t deny that having Lee Heeseung -who wasn’t allowed so much as talking about women- to lipsync the whole song face to face with 2 inches separating your lips, was going to be tricky.
“Are you gonna record or should i just do your part?”
That was enough to cut your train of thoughts. Looking up, your eyes met a serious Heeseung. one of his eyebrows was raised, chair turned towards you as he tapped that stupid pen on the portable fan set on the table. You gave him a fake smile, a little annoyed on the edges.
It’s not that he was mean, he wasn’t, but he was impatient and way too serious for his own good.
“My bad my bad” you quickly stood up, waking towards the recording booth -obviously- not forgetting to make something fall from the table on your way.
Heeseung watched from the control room as the trinket fell on the floor, focused on setting the expensive headphones on his ears without tousling his perfect hair.
You picked it up, mumbling a quick apology, adjusted yours, long hair tangling with it, and you waited for your cue.
“alright lets punch in from the pre-chorus. relax your jaw” the engineer said.
You leaned into the mic, fingers mindlessly tapping against your sides, and with breathy vocals, you starting recording back vocals, the track resonating in your ears.
‘something about the way that it tastes, you’re running your mouth in dangerous way’
Okay maybe the lyrics sounded less sensual on paper.
You harmonized with your own voice, eyes closed, entirely focused now. “give it more attitude, i wanna hear more rasp and more desire.” the producer’s voice crackled through the talkback.
‘what the fuck is he even talking about’ you asked yourself.
But fortunately you were good at pretending, pretending like you knew what desire felt like. So you gave it your all, eyes shut like you were picture a tasty burger in front of you, teasing you, dripping with ranch sauce. and the engineer seemed satisfied.
Your eyes crossed with Heeseung’s through the glass panel, he looked lost in thought, always professionally oriented, like he genuinely didn’t think about anything else other than work and work and… work. His hair fell over his forehead, long sleeves bunched at the elbows like it wasn’t already excessively cold with the fans.
“Can we comp the first and third takes together?” you heard the engineers talk between them when the metronome stopped.
“That was good y/n, another one and we should be good for today.”
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
The second you were out of the studio, your earphones were in your ears, drowning out the sounds of seoul behind the buildings while you waited for your taxi in the underground parking.
The air smelled smoke-laced and damp, everything muffled behind the sad emo music you were playing. You tapped your shoe on the ground right above the parking lines as you dug into your purse for your phone.
Of course, you didn’t hear someone creep up behind you, and when a hand tapped your shoulder, you jumped, letting your phone drop like you had no spatial awareness whatsoever.
And to makes matters worse, it fell right in a puddle of dirty water. what a fucking good evening.
You spun around, falling face to face with a torso, a male torso. That wasn’t a common sight to you, not to digress, but you didn’t see a lot of that, like ever.
You tilted your head, and your vision became all Lee Heeseung. in the sense that he took all the space, shoulders broad, towering over you like he was trying to swallow you. You took a step back, slightly tripping on your own foot, and glanced down awkardly at your phone.
But before you could bend down to pick it up, Heesung crouched. You could see the top of his head now, he had pretty thick hair, a good implantation, he probably used expensive hair care and supplements, you thought before he went back up, your phone in hand.
He said something, you watched his mouth move but there was no sound. You suddenly seemed to remember the music in your ears and unplugged your earphones, proceeding to -gloriously- blast music in the parking lot. You muttered a quick sorry before grabbing the phone from his open hand and turning down the volume.
“What’d you say?” you asked.
“You’re clumsy.” he repeated, matter-of-factly.
you couldn’t remember one time when heesung had had another expression than neutral, or mocking. you memorized everything and his facial expression book was the shortest ever. other than the occasional chuckle, he didn’t do much. he was like a plant now that you thought about it, a tall and judgy plant.
“you scared me.” you retorted, raising an eyebrow.
heeseung inspected your face, and after a beat he said, “the vending machine gave me two bottles of water.”
you stared at him, frowning, “congratulations?”
he rolled his eyes, “i was coming to ask if you wanted the other one.” he pulled a water bottle out of his bag.
“why not, thanks.” you took of from his hands, nodding curtly before putting it in your own purse.
you turned back around, plugging your earphones again, checking the driver’s itinerary on your app. you could feel his presence behind you, but you remained unbothered, or at least you tried to.
lee heeseung was weird to work with, slightly conceited, annoyingly good at what he did, creative but a moron. conclusion? you couldn’t make up your mind about him because he was confusing beyond words. he was reserved about what he thought about others, never expressed clear opinions and acted so goddamn unbothered. it made you mad really, cause just when you found him the most exasperating, he had the strange habit to say one good thing that completely altered the way you saw him. like he subconsciously knew your patience gauge was emptying and needed to maintain reputation.
during the few months of recording, writing, arranging, he had been pretty cold, straight to the point, you’d never gotten much out of him, never once had you had a remotely interesting conversation with him. and just when you were beginning to think he was a shallow uninteresting person, he slipped a casual, “i like that song.” while hunched over your phone. like it wasn’t the most devastating song you had in your playlist.
you felt him shift behind you the moment a taxi pulled over in the dark parking lot. in a hurry to go home and run a bath, you stepped forward, making sure he knew you claimed it first.
Heeseung scoffed behind you, adjusting his hood over his hair, having no intentions of stealing your ride, he pretended to dig in his bag for a face mask, but kept stealing glances your direction.
he couldn’t quite figure you out, you seemed so different on television, but once again, the media had its way of shaping idols into molds, assuring they were neatly dressed, soft spoken and never -god forbid- never too loud. you weren’t weird per say, but you had a form of speech that made it seem like you hadn’t seen a social interaction in years, you were unbelievably clumsy, always dropping things and tripping. You had the presence and the pitch of a renowned artist, your voice was the kind that made him feel things when he listened, you had an almost erotic diction without trying, your rasp making each song properly yours. but god- you were so akward in the booth, eyebrows furrowed, like you didn’t know what you were doing there, you looked around like a lost toddler, so fucking clueless.
maybe what intrigued him is that you didn’t even try. you knew how to pretend you were anything other than a strange girl, but you never did. everytime he’d talk to you, it was like you genuinely didn’t give a shit about what he said, you were only there to sing, create, in and out. it was nice in a way, no useless pleasantries, just professionalism that ended up in -let’s admit it- beautiful music.
the prospect of the music video was where it became tricky for him. he wasn’t big on physical touch, became stiff when too close to someone, couldn’t even think straight when someone kept eye contact for too long, whether it was his doctor or a staff member.
sure, you were undeniably beautiful, in your own akward way, chewing on strands of your hair when you were concentrated, the many ways your eyes moved made him curious, he could always tell what you were thinking in the ways your eyebrows would curve, like a very telling painting.
where he had a very brief book of facial expression, you had at least 4 volumes.
when you got inside your car, your shoulder peeking out of your zip up hoodie, he averted his gaze, pretending to type a quick message to god knows who. once you were gone, he let out a breath he’d been -for some reason- holding.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
the next weeks were a blur, your days were spent rehearsing for personal projects, nights attending upscale events that were so unnecessarily posh, you didn’t see much of lee heesung.
apart from the two times you’d bumped into him in the company building hallways, you hadn’t paid him any mind.
showing up for creative meetings, reviewing story boards and concept moodboards while your manager oversaw the schedule, you weren’t even surprised anymore when heesung didn’t show up, busy with other solo debut stuff.
one day, he finally showed up, heavy eye bags framing his big eyes. clearly overworked, he grabbed a sheet, carefully reading over the different description of shots.
you watched from the corner of your eyes as his nostrils flared at the strong coffee smell, sleeves brushing against story boards and snippets scattered on the conference table. a giant screen reflected still references on his face, blurred silhouettes, mouths inches apart.
the creative director cleared his throat, chair creaking under his weight, meaty fingers steepled.
“okay, so what i was saying is, the song already sounds very intimate. so we didn’t want to add a choreography, the tension has to come from restraint.”
you looked at the ceiling, getting distracted by the lighting before the sound of heesung’s pen clacking on the table regained your attention. when you looked down, his eyes were directly on yours, emotionless.
one of the visual directors nodded immediately.
“exactly. if they touch too much too early, it loses impact.”
across the table, the cinematographer flipped through printed frames. “i keep thinking about proximity. faces close enough that the audience feels uncomfortable in the best way.”
“like they’re interrupting something private,” another staff member added.
you hummed for the sake of being involved, and someone clicked to the next slide: a close-up mockup of two profiles nearly meeting.
the producer looked towards you, “how comfortable are you both with physical proximity?”
hah. very good question. that you had no clue how to respond to. surprisingly apart from the occasional proximity with MCs at award shows and your girl friends, you were pretty in the dark about that topic. for a girl who based her concepts on rnb beats and sexy choreographies, you were a whole ass virgin in that category.
so you shrugged, acting unbothered, like being physically close to… people, was a routine thing. honestly, the only thing you were close to was a burnout.
“depends how it’s filmed.”
heesung nodded from the opposite side of the table, “if it’s intentional i’m fine with it.”
“yes, intentional is the keyword.” the creative director repeated. “nothing should feel cheap.” he stood and walked closer to the screen.
“the entire concept is temptation without payoff. we’re selling the almost.”
a stylist hummed thoughtfully, “so not actual touching?”
the room went quiet for a second, and then the director smiled; “not necessarily.”
several people immediately started talking over, you could see heesung wiping his glasses, expression undetectable.
the man raised a hand. “listen, the moment only works if it feels accidental. not scripted. we need viewers questioning wether they were actually going to touch or not. we have to play a bit into the whole fan speculation without crossing a line.” the cinematographer pointed at one of the references, “i want handheld close ups” he mimicked brackets with his fingers, “lip syncing directly toward each other, almost breathing in each others mouths instead of toward the camera.”
you let out a discreet shaky breath, folding your hands on your lap, cause why did that sound like something that could either ruin both your careers for company profit?
“there’s one thing we need to avoid,” the director tapped the table lightly, “it cannot look male gaze-y. the sensuality has to feel mutual.” everyone nodded.
“no chasing dynamic.” a staff member added, “no grabbing, etc. that’s overdone.”
“agreed”
“so how do we build tension naturally?” someone asked.
the room quieted again and then the director spoke carefully, “eye contact.” people looked towards him and he continued, thoughtful, “real eye contact is harder to watch than touching. if we hold it too long on camera…” he gestured vaguely, “… people start projecting onto it.”
the meeting ended after discussing beauty shots, and you instantly grabbed your purse, a small bow directed to no one in particular as you left the room with a polite smile. the hallway was empty except for a small group of 2 trainees whose heads lifted immediately as they saw you. they bowed, looking nervously at each other, and you greeted them back with a soft smile.
reaching the elevator, you almost tripped trying to hold the closing doors. you cursed under your breath, you were never gonna beat the weirdo allegations.
but when you looked up, a hand was prying it open for you, and someone’s chest was entirely too close to your back.
“that happens too much. you need to do spatial awareness training.”
you turned around, and the voice that seemed lightly inconvenienced, was none other than heesung’s.
“i think ill be fine, thanks for the concern.” you muttered, walking inside the elevator.
you felt him walk right behind you, his overwhelming presence filling the tight space. when you looked at him, the crown of his head was brushing against the elevator ceiling, so much that he had to bend down a little, eyes fixed on the wall ahead.
“you should really take coordination classes. before you break a bone.”
you rolled your eyes, watching the floor counter impatiently. “why don’t you- erm… worry about your own… bones.” you muttered under your breath.
turns out you also struggled with good comebacks. on top of everything else.
“what was that?” you could hear the smile in his voice, which immediately triggered one of yours to bloom.
heesung looked at you as the elevator reached the ground floor, and when he saw your small smile and concealed laughter, he thought you were the weirdest person he’d ever talked to.
and this time it was in an endearing way. at last.
truthfully you didn’t even know why you were laughing, probably self deprecation, or maybe cause his smile was so annoyingly contagious.
it dawned to you just then how rare the sight of lee heesung smiling was. you had to be the biggest clown in the whole wide world for him to crack one.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
“i’m sure he gives good head.”
eunchae refilled her wine glass, heels digging into the fabric of her expensive sofa.
you sat straighter, raising an eyebrow, “huh?”
“heesung, i’m sure he gives good head. usually guys that work hard are the biggest munchers.”
there was absolutely no scientific backing to this, eunchae was just drunk and rambling.
you snorted, gesturing to her glass, “you should quit that before you decide to test that theory.”
eunchae seemed to consider before lifting up her pointy chin, “how is it anyway, working with him? does he smell good?”
you hadn’t really ever thought about that. what did lee heesung smell like? you knew he pinched the bridge of his nose when he was tired, always wrote on printer paper and refused lines on his sheets, had a pokémon sticker inside his phone case, but you didn’t know what he smelled like.
“um, yeah i guess, he smells okay…” you concocted an answer, reaching for some food to stuff your mouth with.
“ugh. you’re so lucky. you’re gonna be all close to him and stuff…” eunchae threw her head back against the wall.
“it’s just acting. i’m sure it’s gonna be akward as shit anyway.” you muttered, chewing on a particularly bad piece of hard bread.
eunchae cracked one eye open, looking at you like you’d personally offended her.
“awkward?” she repeated. “you’re doing a music video with lee heesung. a sensual one too. do you know how many people would kill for that?”
you rolled your eyes automatically, though the mention of the concept made heat creep unpleasantly up your neck. “it’s just close ups and lip syncing. it’s not like we’re gonna making out or something.”
“close up shots,” eunchae echoed dramatically, pointing at you with her wine glass. “exactly. intense eye contact, heavy breathing. probably one of those scenes where the director goes ‘closer… closer… perfect.”
said like that… she wasn’t wrong. would heesung’s breath on your mouth bother you? certainly not, you’d dealt with drooling dogs many times, hot breath on your legs and all, surely this would be manageable.
“no because think about it.” your friend sat forward suddenly, now far too invested. “what if he smells insanely good and you accidentally fall in love on set?”
“that doesn’t happen.”
“it absolutely does. that’s like ninety percent of celebrity dating scandals.”
you laughed despite yourself, “you need to get off social media.”
eunchae almost spilled wine on her brand new sofa while pointing the glass at you, “well, don’t say i didn’t warn you, i’ll give it a few months.”
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
the more you thought about it, the more you could see why everyone you knew was drawn to heesung. he had good bone structure. that must’ve been the answer. or maybe his nose, he did have a great nose. a good nose.
or as eunchae said, ‘he has a rideable nose’.
and now that he sat right in front of you, you could kinda get the point, not that you knew anything about riding noses.
“okay, heesung lean it a bit more, remember, you two need to look like you’re about to kiss.”
the set was beige, monochromatic, just a light background drop two stools in the middle, where you both sat face to face. the mua had spent hours on your look, because you would be filming close ups, she had to make sure all your pores were -somehow- invisible, she’d put blush under your eyes, maintaining that glowy dewy effect on your skin. your hair was down, she’d added extensions that framed your face perfectly and glitter in the inner corner of your eyes. as for the stylist? it was quick, a beige cotton top and a skirt, and you had been out.
heesung was dressed in the same color palette, his hair slightly tousled for effect, you’d seen him for the first time when he walked on the set, a coffee in his hand, confidence and professionalism emanating from his stance. he acted so indifferent, so natural, like he’d done this millions of times, and when he’d sat down in front of you, listening to the choreographer’s instructions, his eyes hadn’t left yours.
and still now, he was deep in character, staring at you, relaxing his tensed jawline, while you both repeated a breathing excercise. his gaze turned physical, like he had little needles instead of eyes, poking into you every chance he got.
“good, are you guys ready?”
you nodded mindlessly, repeating every micro actions you had to perform, in your head. heesung seemed to notice your fingers fiddling with your cotton skirt, just like he noticed everything, the human instinct of trying to understand everything you did and putting a name on it overtaking him.
he probably thought you were nervous just then, and that didn’t sit right with you. so, following the given instructions, you leaned closer, the lights starting to blink around you creating a sinfully sensual atmosphere.
you skillfully pretended, -that- you knew how to do.
and when the music started playing in the room, when the whole crew got quiet and when the lights dimmed, when the director said ‘action!’, you slipped into the shoes of someone in love.
‘somethin' about the way you kiss it, don’t ever stop, you know you started some.”
you leaned closer to his cheek, whispering the lyrics directed to his ear, you distracted yourself from their meaning, pretending like you were talking about unicorns and french fries, and the choreographer’s advices resonated in your mind. how she’d taught you how to act out desire, want, need, how to drag the words, where to breathe and how to look.
“you’re on the spot, i’m feeling lucky. go ahead and touch it, if you want it baby, keep me comin’.”
heesung lowered his head, until your noses were just shy of brushing, and everything was perfectly okay until you had to open your eyes. you could feel his hair brushing against your forehead, overwhelmingly close.
so you did as told, opening your eyes, you naturally met his, wide and glassy, it’d never hit you how full of life his irises were. contrary to his whole face, his eyes told stories of their own and there resided the key to figure out what lee heesung was feeling.
you mouthed the lyrics, lips inches away from touching, and despite the already insane proximity, you heard the director say, “closer.” over the music.
you’d seen enough romance movies to know how characters looked like when they wanted to be kissed, that’s exactly the face you made, it was easier than expected, the unfathomable thought that maybe heesung was a comfortable person to work with dawned onto you as you moved your mouth slowly.
“cut! you’re doing really great, just keep in mind it keeps escalating, i want more passion heesung, look at her like she’s the answer to everything.”
the answer to everything. that would be a loaded weapon.
the director clapped once, “again from the second verse.”
you inhaled slowly as the music restarted, your traitorous breath acting like this was the best moment to act out. you remembered, this was a choreography, manufactured tension, a carefully rehearsed illusion. there was no wrong way to act this out, right?
“somethin’ about the way that it taste, you’re running your mouth at a dangerous pace”
you leaned in again, fingers grazing lightly against his neck as instructed. your lips hovered near his mouth while the lyrics slipped out softer this time, breathier, practiced temptation coating every word. you could feel his breathing now, steady against hot skin, the way he looked down to your mouth in false desire, like he truly wanted to eat you.
and where there had been restraint before, was a fully immersed heesung, mouthing his next line, eyes fixated on your plump lips. and he was so talented, such a master at persuasion, that something hot curled low in your stomach.
you told yourself this was some sort of method acting, like you were fully in character now, like this would all end once the cameras were off. you didn’t know much about desire, but you knew it this definitely wasn’t it.
“you know what to do, and you know what to say. even when you’re away, i’m always thinkin’ bout you.”
“good,” the director encouraged somewhere behind the monitors. “stay there.”
heesung’s hand shifted beside you on the stool. then stopped. it was barely a movement, but enough that you noticed the restrain in it immediately, like he’d almost touched your waist without thinking.
he must do that a lot, you thought to yourself, his acting was spot on, so much that you almost thought he meant it. that was how good he was. your pulse stumbled as the music pulsed around the room, low bass vibrating faintly beneath your feet.
you leaned closer again, because the scene demanded it, because the camera loved proximity, because your jobs quite literally depended on selling the illusion.
but the closer you got, the weirder it all felt. because how could you explain to your brain -who demanded an logical answer to every single event- that you didn’t know heesung’s favorite dish, or even his second name, but somehow, you knew the rythm of his pulse under your fingertips, the way his breath felt blossoming on your lips, and you knew how it felt to be wanted so intensely by him.
“the way you think about me, i think about you, i do, it’s true ( i think about you)”
your noses brushed this time, a tiny accidental contact that wouldn’t be cut out post-production. the entire crew collectively went silent in the way people do when they do they just captured something good.
heesung exhaled softly through his nose, eyes flickering shut for half a second, and that tiny reaction -that microscopic human reaction- completely destroyed your concentration.
your forgot the next lyric for a terrifying second. and his hand finally landed lightly against your side to steady the movement for the shot, warm even through the fabric of your clothes. it was nothing really, but it had you in a chokehold of confusion. cause why was your heart suddenly mimicking a horse galloping, and why were your palms sweaty like you were passing an important test. heesung -him- was way too natural, too comfortable, like this was a thing he did every other day. your brain short circuited for a second.
because suddenly euchae’s stupid drunk questions came flooding back.
“does he smell good?”
and unfortunately he fucking did.
“you’re gonna be all close to him and stuff…”
yes indeed.
and now here you were practically breathing the same air while one of the biggest idols in the industry looked at you like he genuinely wanted to kiss you.
which he obviously didn’t.
“beautiful,” the director murmured reverently. “that’s exactly it.”
heesung tilted his head slightly, maintaining eye contact even as the lyrics ended. and one for one horrifying moment, you genuinely thought he might close the distance.
you gagged in your mouth at the thought. “cut!” the room erupted back into noise and staff members started talking, immediately, someone adjusted a reflector, music cutting off mid-beat.
but heesung still hadn’t moved his hand one bit. you looked down at it automatically and so did he.
“you can move your hand now.” you said, as the realization hit him. his fingers flexed once before he pulled away almost too quickly.
“yeah.” he said quietly.
when you finally looked away, across the set, the director was practically glowing with satisfaction.
“oh this chemistry is disgusting.” he announced happily, like a very jolly ball of meat and fur. “exactly what i wanted.”
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
the next setup was somehow worse. or better.
you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore. the cameras had been changed for tighter lenses, meaning every shot would be another level of intimate, almost to an invasive degree. lips, breathing and eye movement. the tiny unconscious things people usually never noticed.
the stylist, her apron half hanging over her waist, dabbed lipgloss lightly on your mouth with a professional brush, before stepping away. “don’t wipe it off.” she warned, observing the way it caught the light.
easy for her to say when you wanted to drive your head into the nearest wall.
You sat back down on the set stool while the cinematographer adjusted framing on the monitor. “okay” he called, “this sequence is almost entirely mouth shots and eye contact. we want heavy tension, give us the same energy as earlier.”
you looked over at heesung, only to find his eyes already on you, like he’d forgotten there were forty people and a contract surrounding the both of you.
you would’ve rolled your eyes, slapped him maybe, and told him he could stop acting in between takes, except you were known in the industry for your professionalism. when the music started again and you heard the cue, you moved first, slowly leaning forward until the space between you and him was reduced to a mere idea.
the camera operator circled carefully around the stools, capturing every angle of your mouths so close.
it should’ve been embarrassing and overwhelming, but it left you with a burning ache in the pit of your stomach instead. your lips parted slightly with the lyrics and so did his, you thought about how they would fit perfectly, snug like pieces of a schmidt puzzle, in a world where you’d be tempted to kiss him.
in this world though, you weren’t. and when heesung tilted his head to the side just enough, following the script, the key word here being ‘script’; it felt so silly to you how aware your body became of microscopic things at this distance, like the brush of air, the sound of shaky breathing.
“hold there.” the director instructed softly, like if he spoke louder you’d break apart and ruin the moment.
was this all it took? filming an mv? to suddenly start feeling attraction towards a non essential variable in your life.
how weak were you? you stayed suspended in that impossible space, mouths barely apart, finding yourself in an intimate moment with someone you absolutely didn’t want to be vulnerable with.
in his eyes, you were prettiest when you pretended to want him.
because this was what it was at the end of the day, two people pretending.
but the body is stupid sometimes. and the body doesn’t know how to differentiate what’s an illusion from what is real.
because acting like he wanted you, meant studying you closely enough to imitate intimacy. he memorized the shape of your smile, the sound you made when you laughed quietly, the exact distance where your breath started warming your skin. and eventually, his body forgot it was fake.
he had spent all this time learning you to perfect his performance, but a weird chemical imbalance in his brain had tricked him into thinking there was something more.
and if someone cupped his face for a bit too long, whispered lyrics against his mouth, looked at him like he was wanted, some parts of him were bound to start responding as if it was true. even if the mind insisted it lived in a choreography.
he hadn’t realized how touch deprived and exhausted he was until your soft hands touched him and suddenly all he could imagine were the sounds you made when being kissed.
heesung shifted closer by instinct during the next lyric, and your lower lip barely grazed his for less than a second. it was accidental, but the contact sent a sharp wave of heat straight to you anyway. his eyes imperceptibly widened and yours probably did too, neither of you pulling away fast enough.
“jesus christ.” someone whispered near the monitors.
“don’t cut.” the director immediately hissed back. so the cameras kept rolling.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
Inevitably, a few weeks after that, what was bound to happen, happened.
It’s not like none of you had predicted it, anticipated it, it was just history repeating itself over and over in the kpop industry. But once again, this proved that the companies would stop at nothing to make bank. Putting even their idols’ mental healths on the line.
You’d already felt it at the mv screening, after it had been edited, recolored, post production essentially, you’d seen the looks of the staff when they talked to you, like they knew this was prone to become an issue sooner or later. And they weren’t wrong. You’d seen Heesung’s ears twitch nervously when both your faces appeared on the screen, so close that not even air could pass properly. You’d seen how inevitably good you were at that, and you’d thought about the public’s perception, about how they’d react, how they’d speculate. Because in the middle of this; even you had managed to persuade yourself that you wanted Lee Heesung.
That was how good your performance was.
Heesung had shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the whole production team happy, while what remained between the both of you, was doubt.
Justified doubt, because a few days -screw that- hours after the release of the music video on all platforms, it felt like all hell had broken loose.
Suddenly, thousands of people hated your guts, like you’d honestly done something bad to their families. You were receiving hundreds of messages a day, people whom you’d never heard of, sending you threats, hateful comments about your appearance, menacing you with -quote- ‘if you date heesung we will end you. engenes are united and we won’t let this slide.’
At the end of the day, you’d knew what was going to happen, it wasn’t that big of a surprise when people sent trucks in front of belift, protested for the collaboration to be taken down.
But somehow, even under tremendous pressure, the company had never questioned it even once, nobody had talked about taking it down, or making a statement. They were truly shamelessly riding the hate wave, because this would make profit.
You didn’t go out for days, staying inside except for the times you had to go to practice. It had been advised you didn’t interact with Heesung for the time being -not that you were planning to in the first place- you couldn’t be in buildings at the same times, couldn’t even look at each others direction; which was a relief cause you didn’t know if you could ever look at him without hearing the comments of his fans, territorial and completely parasocial.
People you’d never seen, telling you to kill yourself, for simply doing your job. Girls ( who were supposed to be supporting other women ) hating you because you’d been in the same room as their idol.
You couldn’t fathom how the human mind allowed that, how people convinced themselves that this was okay, and the right thing to do. But once again, the very same label you worked under, played right into these mental illnesses.
So the only thing you could do was shutup and let the storm pass.
You didn’t see Heesung for weeks, not even your friends, you followed a strict routine, eat, sleep, wake up, practice, meeting, eat, repeat. This was comfortable, easier than falling asleep at 4 am, looking at twitter comments tearing you apart, overthinking and blaming yourself for ever accepting this collaboration.
In all of this, not once did Heesung get any hate, the comments were directed towards his company, but never him, -oh god forbid-. People had the nerve to say he’d been forced into doing this, that he looked pressured and that he’d been coerced.
And somehow, even if it shouldn’t have, even if deep down you know this had nothing to do with him, all of this made you dislike him even more than you already did.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
It was with an empty but heavy stomach, that you walked in the practice room that evening.
You dropped your purse on the floor, gathering your stuff, and you felt someone crouch behind you.
“y/n… we’ve been worried, you look pale.”
It was your choreographer, she’d been there in the roughest patches, embracing a role of confident that wasn’t hers in the first place. She’d honestly done more than anyone in the whole team combined, she worried more than the people who were supposed to -or paid to- worry.
Kim Se-na was the only bit of help you had when at work.
“i’m okay, don’t worry. Just allergies.” you lied shamelessly.
When you saw the look on her face, you knew she wasn’t gonna get fooled.
“Er… maybe it’s Heesung’s little fan bitches. Too much hassle.” you rectified, with a humorless smile. “They honestly won’t stop sending shit to my house. It’s getting old.”
Se-na raised her eyebrows, mouth hanging open. “They’re really gonna have to do something about it y/n. This is getting crazier by the minute.”
You shrugged it off, because there was nothing you could really do, and she knew it. “They won’t do anything about it. Let’s just get to work. It’ll pass with time.”
Rehearsal went by slowly. Time dragged in the worst possible way, each second stretching thin and trembling until it barely felt real anymore. The clock above the studio door looked frozen, its hands stuck between minutes as if even time itself had grown tired of moving forward. Every glance at it felt cruel; surely more than thirty seconds had passed, surely the universe wasn’t cruel enough to leave you stranded in this unbearable in-between for this long.
You wanted to go home, dig a hole in your bed and never come out again. But the goddamn clock was driving you mad.
And when its cruel joke finally resolved to a halt, you grabbed your bag like the room was on fire, and you waved good bye, your feet carrying you down the steps hurriedly. You walked quickly, hoodie sleeves swallowing your shape while you checked your phone.
11:47 pm
Your driver was still 8 minutes away. Amazing.
The underground parking lot greeted you with cold air and the distant hum of engines. Your footsteps echoed embarrassingly loud against the concrete as you descended the last stair. You hated parking lots at night. They always felt strangely infinite, all shadows and pillars and fluorescent lights flickering like dying stars. You adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder and started toward the pickup area.
Conveniently, your earphones didn’t have battery, you who’d wanted to drown out all the thoughts and doubts with loud music, you were in for a very long ride.
And at first you didn’t notice anything strange, just another black van parked near the exit, its windows tinted, and voices, staff maybe?
But they were high pitched, excited even, not the type of voices that belonged in a professional and uptight world, where staff walked hallways silently like they were scared to be noticed.
When a camera flash went off somewhere to your left, you understood.
You frowned instinctively, slowing your pace before being interrupted by another insistant flash. The parking lot was supposed to be safe, the company always said so.
Your stomach dropped the moment you recognized silhouettes gathering around one of the vehicles, people holding phones and designer masks with baseball caps obstructing their faces. The type of people who lingered too long outside company buildings pretending not to wait for someone. Except now they had made it to the safe-zone.
You immediately looked down, pulling your hood higher. Maybe they hadn’t noticed you. Maybe if you just got out quickly…
“Y/N!” your blood went cold.
One of the girls pointed directly at you, holding what looked like a written sign in her hand.
“Oh my god it’s her.”
You swore under your breath and turned sharply, walking faster toward the farther side of the parking lot. At first it still felt manageable, annoying surely; but manageable. That was until you heard footsteps echo behind you. It wasn’t dramatic when you thought you were in danger. Not even when you thought they were there to kill you. Because from what you’d seen in comments, threads, endless threats to your life, you really didn’t know what they were capable of doing. And the place, usually crawling with security, seemed so empty. You heard your name, again and again, from people who thought they knew you, who thought they were given the right to say your name like this while breaching your privacy. Then came the question.
“Are you with Heesung right now?” camera flashes burst violently against the concrete walls and you flinched.
You reached blindly for your phone to all your manager, but another voice rang out-
“HEESUNG!!”
Your head snapped up, a familiar tall figure had just emerged from the elevator entrance on the opposite side of the parking lot, hood pulled low over dark hair, mask hanging under his chin like he’d only put it on halfway.
For a second he looked confused, then his eyes landed on the crowd, an then on you. His expression changed instantly, the one he’d wear when he was trying to figure out whether to repeat a verse or harmonize with it, calculated and focused.
The girls noticed him immediately and surged forward in chaos, like they’d just seen God bearing world peace. Voices exploded everywhere at once. People asking if you’d been together, people asking you to look over, too much information at once.
“OPPA!!”
Someone bumped hard into your shoulder trying to get closer to him, and before you could recover, fingers suddenly hooked around the sleeve of your hoodie. You were an extremely patient woman, but in that moment, your whole body seized, and you wanted to grab that girl by the hair and drag her by it. Anger filled you, not because it hurt, but because strangers touching you always felt violating in a way your brain couldn’t process correctly.
And Heesung noticed, or maybe he just reacted before thinking. He didn’t know you all that much, but he knew you weren’t scared of a scandal, and you’d be ready to throw hands if needed.
So in seconds, he was there, his hand closed tightly on your bag, avoiding contact. “Let’s go.” he said without hesitation or space for discussion.
He pulled you sharply behind him and started walking fast, like he’d done this countless times. Everything after that blurred together into cognitive dissonance, noise , movement and footsteps pounding against concrete, people shouting like they’d were allowed to be here. But you followed, cause there was nothing else you could do, nowhere else you could go.
You cut through a side exit into the freezing Seoul night air, sneakers slamming against the wet pavement as somewhere behind you, voices still echoed faintly. And Heesung kept a hold of your bag the whole entire time, it digging into your shoulder painfully.
You turned sharply around a corner after him, nearly crashing into his back when he abruptly stopped.
A narrow alley stretched between two dark buildings, cluttered with overflowing trash bags, broken crates and rain- damp concrete smell. Without a word, Heesung pulled you into the shadows behind a stack of plastic containers.
You stumbled against him from the momentum and his hand landed instinctively at the back of your head to stop it from hitting the wall.
You clicked your tongue, taking a step back to escape his touch. You could still hear voices and footsteps, and it hit you that maybe if Heesung hadn’t been there, one of them would’ve gone mental and murdered you…
Inside the alley, the world narrowed into something extremely small, contained in the space between your bodies. Or the lack thereof. Heesung had one hand braced against the wall beside your head, chest rising unevenly from the run. His hood had fallen back slightly, dark hair messy across his forehead, eyes sharp and alert as he listened for movement outside.
After a beat, you became horribly aware of the fact that your fingers were gripping the front of his hoodie, and the thought became horribly repulsing. You loosened them immediately and furrowed your brows in concealed disgust. Neither of you spoke.
Which was almost funny considering the last time you’d seen each other, you’d spent three days pretending to want each other on camera. Life had a way of ruining already-terrible days like that.
“I just saved your life, don’t look at me like i smell.” he whispered, expressionless.
“Can i go now?” you ignored him.
“If you wanna die, then, suit yourself.” he scoffed, looking down at you like you were something he truly couldn’t understand, which was fine by you.
“I just need to-“
His gaze lingered for one second too long but before you could continue, voices passed somewhere near the alley entrance, and he instinctively leaned closer again, shielding you further.
The position dragged you chest-to-chest now, his hand still hovering behind your head like he was scared to touch you. And you found yourself thinking about the filming of your music video, how funny this was, really. But the thought died like wax before the flame.
“Can you call your manager?” Heesung whispered, his breath hitting your ear, burning.
You nodded, not before stepping back, visibly annoyed at the situation. You quickly texted your manager, telling him about the current predicament. It didn’t take long for him to reply, telling you he’d be sending security to escort you both to your vans, assuring you the sasaengs would be taken care of.
“There, resolved.” you kept your phone in hand just in case.
When you looked up, your eyes met the shape of his adam’s apple, he had his head thrown back to the skies, like it cost him to be there physically. It bobbed sharply when he swallowed, impossible not to notice at this distance. The movement dragged your attention downward before you could stop it, slow beneath the pale column of his throat, framed by the loose collar of his hoodie. It moved again when he exhaled, subtle but tense somehow, like even his breathing had become too deliberate.
Up close, you realized Heeseung carried tension in his throat the way other people carried it in their shoulders. Every pause caught there first. Every held breath. Every unfinished thought. He looked so unnervingly human at this angle and that pissed you off.
“They’re on their way.” you said before taking a couple steps towards the entry of the alley, like you desperately wanted out.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
The ice in your coffee had melted thirty minutes ago.
“…we’ve already reported several accounts.” one of the staff members was saying carefully, clicking through slides filled with screenshots you wished you’d never seen. “but because most of the comments are indirect threats or anonymous forum posts, there’s only so much legal action we can take.”
You watched another blurred screenshot appear on the projection screen.
Attention whore.
Slut.
She wants him so bad it’s embarrassing.
Kill yourself, #sorrynotsorry.
Your eyes flicked away immediatly as if the screen burned. Funny how people online always spoke like they were discussing fiction characters instead of human beings. Like somewhere between screens, fan edits and the parasocial delusion, you’d stopped being a person entirely.
You weren’t y/n, the talented singer who loved chocolate mint ice cream and bentos, who was viscerally scared of throwing up and hated being the center of attention. Now you were just a woman standing too close to someone.
One of the PR women sighed softly. “The good news is the general public response it overwhelmingly positive.”
You almost laughed, if it wasn’t for the ache in your throat you would’ve been laughing out loud. Good news. Right.
“Streams are stable,” she continued professionally. “International reception is excellent. Most criticism is isolated to fandom spaces.”
Fandom spaces. What a petty little expression for psychological warfare.
Your manager finally looked up from his tablet. He looked exhausted too lately. More irritable. Like every notification on his phone aged him another year. “We need you off social media completely for now.”
“i’m already off social media.” you replied dryly.
“No lurking either.” you stayed quiet, which was answer enough.
He rubbed his temples tiredly. “Y/N.”
“I said okay.” the room fell silent again except for the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.
You hated meetings like this. Everyone spoke in polished corporate language to avoid acknowledging what was really happening.
People you’d never met wanted you dead. Not metaphorically or dramatically. And all because you’d done your job correctly.
A younger staff member hesitated before speaking carefully. “A lot of the outrage is projection. Fans are… emotionally attached.”
You looked at her then. ‘emotionally attached’ sounded like a naive and funny way of saying ‘deranged and retarded.’
Another slide appeared with this time it wasn’t comments, but headlines.
“HEESEUNG’S MATURE CONCEPT DIVIDES FANS”
“NETIZENS DEFEND HEESEUNG AGAINST HYBE”
“WAS THE SOLOIST PUSHED TOO FAR?”
You stared at the screen blankly. There it was. The part that made your blood boil. Not once had anyone said anything bad about him, not really. The company? Yes. The concept? Sure. But Heeseung himself remained strangely untouched by it all, preserved carefully beneath layers of concern and protection. Poor Heeseung. He looked uncomfortable. He was pressured into it. He would’ve never chosen this. Meanwhile you apparently were some manipulative succubus who’d orchestrated the downfall of Korean morality through lip syncing too close to a man. Amazing, truly outstanding.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
A couple weeks went by after the alleyway episode and the meeting.
And somehow life continued anyway. Schedules kept piling up. Makeup got reapplied every morning. Microphones got clipped behind your back while stylists discussed fabrics around you like nothing had happened. The world of entertainment had a terrifying ability to keep moving regardless of whether someone was silently unraveling inside it.
You adapted quickly, you always had. It was something that happened whether you wanted it or not, when you’d been conformed to be like that since you were 15.
You stopped checking comments entirely after accidentally reading a thread comparing you to a parasite feeding off Heeseung’s fame. Your manager confiscated your Twitter password for “temporary safety reasons,” which honestly felt less like protection and more like putting down a rabid animal before it bit someone.
You barely saw your friends anymore. Barely saw sunlight either. And you definitely didn’t see Lee Heesung. Not once. No rehearsals together, no interviews, no awkward elevator encounters, nothing. The company had apparently decided distance was the safest strategy, separating you two like divorced parents after a custody battle. Any joint schedules were handled independently now, arriving separately, leaving separately, different waiting rooms, different staff teams.
Professionally, it made sense. Personally? You hated how much you noticed his absence. That was what a few months of working with someone did. It annoyed you in ways you couldn’t properly articulate how you didn’t have anyone to blame for the hate you got now, how you didn’t have an outlet for your anger. Because before all this, he’d just been there. Quiet and annoyingly observant and always carrying that stupid erasable pen around like a government-issued emotional support object. But he’d been there, and you’d felt less alone all the time.
Now there was just silence. Which should’ve been easier.
Instead, your brain had apparently developed a deeply unfortunate tendency to think about him at the worst possible times.
Like now.
It was past two in the morning, Seoul wrapped in deep blue darkness beyond your apartment windows. Your room was lit only by the dim glow of your bedside lamp and the tablet balanced against your knees beneath the blankets.
You should’ve been sleeping but instead, you were watching that stupid music video again.
Which already felt humiliating enough.
You told yourself it was professional curiosity, you wanted to understand why people reacted so strongly. That was strictly all.
The video played softly through your headphones, bass low and intimate against your ears while blurred beige lighting filled the screen. You watched yourself appear first, all glossy lips and heavy eyes, looking like a woman infinitely more experienced than you actually were.
Honestly, she intimidated you.
Then Heesung appeared, and unfortunately that was wehere your problems started. You paused the video abruptly.
Why did he look like that? Your thumb hovered uncertainly over the screen before rewinding ten seconds. Then replaying it., again.
The close-up filled your vision instantly: his face inches from yours, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly parted while the camera captured every microscopic shift in expression.
You swallowed.
God.
No wonder people lost their minds over this. It was utterly disgusting.
You resumed the video carefully this time, trying to observe it clinically like a professional, which became increasingly difficult once the second verse started. You watched your noses brush, watched the subtle shift in his breathing. And suddenly your body betrayed you entirely by remembering exactly how that scene had felt in real life. The warm breaths, the weight of him not even touching you, and your stomach twisted strangely.
You paused the video again, right when you had your hand on his neck.
This was actually ridiculous. You dropped the tablet onto your comforter dramatically and pressed both hands over your face.
What the fuck was wrong with you?
Lee Heeseung wasn’t even your type. He was reserved and annoyingly composed and judgmental in that quiet way attractive people often were. He corrected your spatial awareness like an elderly PE teacher and looked permanently one inconvenience away from sighing.
And apparently, you were not only a master of illusion, but a master at lying to yourself.
You couldn’t help the ache that settled on you when you watched his eyes on yours. You couldn’t help the shame that dawned on the back of your neck when you thought of how the performance made you feel. And that annoying voice in your head that begged over and over, to know how he looked when he wasn’t pretending.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
The next day started badly. It had become a routine ingrained in your life now, each day taking its toll on you, draining you of your energy and common sense. It wasn’t catastrophic or life altering, just the quiet kind of bad that slowly rotted your patience for the inside out.
You woke up late after falling asleep around four in the morning again, tangled in blankets with your tablet still playing low music beside you. Your head hurt immediately upon opening your eyes, throat dry, thoughts sluggish and heavy.
Then your manager informed you your schedule had been moved forward by two hours.
Then your coffee spilled inside the van.
Then a stylist burned the side of your neck with a curling iron and apologized seventeen times while you reassured her it was fine even though it definitely wasn’t.
By noon, you already wanted the day to end.
Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed committed to testing exactly how much irritation the human body could contain before exploding.
The company building buzzed with activity around you as you walked through the hallways after rehearsal, staff members rushing in every direction with garment bags and tablets tucked under their arms.
Everyone looked stressed lately, tired and a harp around the edges. Maybe success did that to people. Or maybe public scrutiny slowly sanded down every soft part until all that remained was survival instinct.
You adjusted the hood over your head and kept walking, trying to ignore the pressure building behind your eyes. The rehearsal had gone fine, too fine actually, which typically meant everyone was going to expect more, more schedules, more performances, more interview.
Your social battery had flatlined somewhere around lunch.
By the time someone from marketing stopped you in the hallway asking if you’d be comfortable filming a “cute behind-the-scenes reaction segment” with Heeseung next week, you genuinely considered biting them, fangs and all.
You smiled instead, barely, thinking about how there was absolutely nothing remotely cute about Lee Heesung. Then escaped before another conversation could trap you. You desperately needed silence, just five minutes without cameras or people or questions.
The farther hallway near the storage rooms stayed mostly empty during busy schedules, so your feet carried you there automatically. Your sneakers squeaked softly against the polished floor while distant music thumped faintly through the walls from another practice room.
You spotted one of the storage room doors slightly cracked open. Perfect. Without thinking much about it, you slipped inside quickly and shut the door behind you with a relieved exhale. Darkness swallowed you first, then dim emergency lighting slowly revealed stacked boxes, spare lighting equipment and hanging garment bags crammed into the narrow room.
And apparently also, a detail you’d forgotten to oversee… someone sitting on the floor.
You froze, and for one disorienting second, your brain genuinely failed to process what you were seeing.
Lee Heeseung sat against the wall between two equipment cases, head tilted back against the concrete behind him. One arm rested over his bent knee while the other pressed hard against his sternum like he was physically holding himself together. His breathing sounded wrong, too shallow and uneven.
Your annoyance surfaced immediately as defense. “Jesus fucking Christ…” you muttered under your breath.
Slowly, your eyes adjusted more fully to the dark. His face looked pale. Not idol pale, not like he’d put heavy white foundation or anything, a thin sheen of sweat clung to his forehead despite the cold room, and when his eyes flicked toward you briefly, something sharp twisted uncomfortably in your chest.
Because you recognized that look. You knew it disturbingly well. The too-wide focus and the deliberate breathing, the terrifying effort of trying to appear normal while your nervous system actively betrayed you.
You quietly added it to his book of facial expressions, categorized under ‘panic attack?’.
He looked away quickly, jaw tightening almost immediately like he’d rather die than be witnessed like this.
“I’m fine,” he said quietly. A lie clearly. You were dumb but not that dumb.
You stared at him for a second longer than necessary, part of you wanting to leave. Not out of cruelty just self preservation.
“I didn’t ask if you were okay.” You stated, plainly.
And somehow Heesung liked that better than you trying to awkwardly comfort him.
You barely knew how to manage your own spirals half the time, let alone someone else’s. But another part of you —the deeply unfortunate empathetic part— recognized something painfully familiar in the way his fingers trembled against his hoodie. You’d looked exactly like that in countless bathroom stalls and dark corners and locked bedrooms over the years. It’s a reoccurring problem when you’re thrown into an adult work, into a cruel industry as a child.
Your shoulders slumped slightly, annoyance remaining in your tone anyway, mostly because softness felt too vulnerable right now. But luckily, Heesung liked that, he liked that you didn’t stop being yourself just because you pitied him, he liked that you weren’t trying to desperately say the right thing - at all.
“Breathe through your nose. you’re gonna end up choking.”
His eyes lifted toward you again, faintly incredulous but amused despite everything.
“What a comforting thing to say.”
“you’re welcome.” Silence settled briefly between you.
You stayed near the door at first, arms crossed tightly over your chest while you studied him. Heeseung looked strangely smaller like this, not physically obviously. That would’ve been impossible considering he was built like a fucking wardrobe. But the carefully composed image he always carried had cracked open enough for you to glimpse the exhausted human underneath it. He looked like a child.
And suddenly it became very hard to keep hating him properly, because none of this was entirely his fault either. You recognized you were just angry and trying to blame someone, but this wasn’t the right guy. He was trapped inside the same machine as you were, just packaged differently.
You sighed heavily before sliding down the wall opposite him until you sat on the floor too.
His gaze shifted toward you immediately. “what are you doing?”
You shrugged. “waiting until you stop looking like you’re about to pass away dramatically.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“And i said i don’t care.”
There was a silence and after a beat you noticed his breathing still hadn’t evened out completely.
Instinctively, your eyes drifted toward the storage shelves beside you. You searched for something -anything- to ground him with. Your fingers landed on a laminated inventory sheet hanging from a clipboard. Perfect.
You held it up flatly. “okay. name five things you can see.”
He blinked slowly. “huh?”
“you heard me.”
A faint crease appeared between his brows. “Are you seriously trying therapy tricks on me right now?”
“if you wanna die, then, suit yourself.” you said, mocking the sentence he had used the other night when running from the sasaengs.
That almost earned a laugh; his mouth twitched faintly before disappearing again, you watched him hesitate, then finally: “those boxes.”
“great. four more.”
His breathing hitched once before settling slightly deeper this time. “the exit sign.” you nodded “the fan and the… silver tape thing.”
“duct tape.” you rolled your eyes.
“whatever.”
He paused then his eyes landed on you, your stomach flipping stupidly at the directness of it. “…you.”
The room went oddly still for a second before you cleared your throat. “Unfortunately yes, that’s five.”
Something softened very slightly in his expression then, his eyes smoothing over the fabric of your oversized sweatpants like he was trying to distract himself.
You didn’t ask him what was wrong because it wasn’t productive - nor your business, and you stood up, reaching for the door handle.
“Is your breathing better now?”
He looked up, an indecipherable expression painting his face, and he quietly nodded.
“Good.” your mouth went into a straight line. “take care then, i guess.”
And at that, you left.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
Nothing was said about that day.
Which was its own kind of instruction. You followed it and Heesung did too, at least outwardly. When nothing obvious changed, everything did.
While the industry continued its quiet violence of schedules and lights, he started appearing earlier to rooms you entered later. Not in a noticeable way -never enough to be questioned - but enough that you sometimes caught him already there, sitting, reading, waiting, like he had chosen a corner of the world and decided not to move from it until required. It was starting to get on your nerves, that feeling in your lower belly, when you knew he was going to be there but you still waited for the surprise of seeing him.
You noticed when he looked tired. Which you hated. Because you had never agreed to noticing anything about him beyond professional necessity. And yet your eyes kept catching it anyway, the faint heaviness under his eyes, the way he rolled his shoulders once before rehearsals like his body was arriving a few seconds late to itself.
Neither of you acknowledged the storage room.
But his body remembered it.
The call came on a thursday, short notice, no explanation beyond “adjusted schedule.”
You didn’t ask questions anymore. You had learned quickly that questions in this industry rarely came with answers that helped.
The studio was the same one as usual, the same beige set pieces stacked in corners, same reflective floor and same lighting rigs hanging like dormant machinery waiting to be activated.
Same room, different pressure. Turned out the director wanted reshoots, performance versions, or also called ‘dance studio sessions’.
Whatever that meant, you understood it immediately anyway. The Mv was trending again, all thanks to one influencer who had made a tiktok post overseas talking about how ‘hot and cunty’ it was.
Her words, not yours. But anyways, that was all that mattered, engagement had turned into permission and permission into repetition.
You arrived first, or at least thought you did.
Because Heesung was already there, standing near the edge of the set, hands loosely at his sides, looking at nothing in particular, hair slightly damp, like he had just finished adjusting something in silence.
A stylist moved behind him without speaking.
And for you, the absence of acknowledgment had become its own form of coordination as you walked past him toward your mark without slowing down.
“Let’s start with blocking,” someone said.
Rehearsal began like muscle memory, positions marked, movements corrected and angles adjusted.
You followed choreography cleanly, each step measured, each pause calculated while Heeseung mirrored you exactly the same way he always did -precise, controlled, unshowy in a way that made the entire thing feel more engineered than performed. The director watched through the monitor.
“Good,” he said. “Same energy as before. Keep that consistency.”
Consistency.
As if what you had before had been stable enough to repeat. And here you thought one time had been enough.
The whole world sat strangely in your chest but you ignored it.
The music restarted and you moved, desperately trying not to make the same mistakes, you didn’t look at him, kept it strictly cold.
He moved, everything worked the way it was supposed to.
Which somehow made it worse because now there was awareness layered over execution, every distance felt measured, every pause felt chosen, every near-contact no longer had the excuse of accident.
You felt it most when your eyes met his for a fraction of a second during a transition, not long enough to mean anything but too long to ignore.
“Reset,” the director called.
You stepped back into position as markers were adjusted and camera angle shifted.
“Okay,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “this time, I want less distance. more hesitation, sell the interruption of movement. lik something is happening that neither of you fully controls. i want it like the music video, give me more energy. The both of you.”
You didn’t respond and Heeseung didn’t either.
“Ready?” the assistant called.
Music started again as you moved into position.
You were closer this time, just enough to shift the air between you. You could feel it immediately, th way proximity changed pressure, not emotion; the way the space between bodies became something measurable, almost physical in its own right.
Step. Step. Stop.
His presence registered before anything else did.
Heat without touch, awareness without contact. Your breath slowed without permission, the choreography brought you forward again and then you were there : close enough that the rest of the room disappeared into technical noise, camera operators, lighting adjustments, director’s hand raised slightly.
All of it was distant but Heeseung was in front of you. Too close in a way that no longer felt accidental and you hated how your body reacted before your mind could intervene.
It wasn’t attraction, not romance, just recognition of proximity.
His gaze lowered briefly -not to your lips, not to your face in any meaningful way- just a downward flick that lasted less than a second too long before stopping.
Something in him stalled, not visible in movement, but you felt it anyway. like a delay in synchronization.
You were supposed to continue the line but for a fraction of a moment, neither of you moved, not stepping forward, not stepping back. Just held in a space that the choreography didn’t account for.
The director didn’t speak yet, no one cut, and so the moment stretched.
Heeseung’s breathing stayed controlled, you noticed it before you meant to.
A slight tightening at the base of his throat. There it was, the second key to all of his thoughts, a passcode to open his book of expressions. You thought you could figure him out just by looking at his adam’s apple, silly really.
“Cut,” the director said.
Normal again, everything resumed, people adjusted equipment, someone scribbled notes, a stylist stepped forward to fix lighting reflections.
You stepped back first, Heeseung stepped back a fraction of a second after, his scent lingering in the air like a question mark.
And the thought quietly dawned upon you like a little devil, maybe you needed to get laid.
Honestly, that had to be it. Because there was no logical explanation for whatever the hell had been happening to your nervous system lately.
No reasonable adult should react this strongly to proximity alone, to eye contact, to breathing the same air as someone. You refused to believe your brain had genuinely decided to short circuit over a coworker simply because he stood too close and looked at you too intensely.
That would’ve been humiliating, so naturally, your mind searched for a more rational explanation.
Sexual frustration.
There. Simple. Clinical almost.
You latched onto the idea immediately because it made infinitely more sense than whatever alternative your subconscious seemed determined to imply.
It wasn’t Heeseung specifically. It couldn’t be. You barely knew him. Sure, he was attractive, but so were a lot of people. That didn’t mean anything, people had eyes, functional nervous systems, biological responses. You’d spent weeks filming scenes designed specifically to create tension while simultaneously living under enough stress to qualify for a medical study, obviously your brain was confused. Anyone would’ve gotten confused.
The issue wasn’t emotional. The issue was that your body had apparently remembered it existed at the worst possible moment, which was deeply inconvenient considering the object of this unfortunate realization happened to be standing six feet away discussing camera angles with a producer like he hadn’t just destabilized your internal chemistry for the fifth time that week.
You watched him from the corner of your eye before immediately looking away again, irritated.
Ridiculous. Actually ridiculous. And did you mention disgusting ?
He adjusted the sleeves of his black top absentmindedly while listening to the director, head slightly lowered, expression composed back into its usual unreadable state.
If someone looked at him right now, they’d think nothing had happened during rehearsal.
Maybe nothing had happened.
Maybe you were just projecting normal physical attraction onto the nearest available man because your life had recently become work, anxiety and sleeping four hours a night.
That sounded believable, comfortingly believable.
. Bodies were stupid sometimes, hormones were stupid all the time, that didn’t mean anything deeper had to exist underneath it.
You could fix physical, yeah, physical was easy. At least, in theory. Or maybe you needed alcohol, or maybe a new toy. Yeah you’d look into that later.
Maybe what you needed was a good mind-blowing orgasm to reset your failing brain.
The next few days settled into something strange and unspoken.
You noticed it under microscopic ways that would’ve looked meaningless to anyone else.
During long rehearsals, Heeseung would quietly slide a bottle of water toward you whenever you got too focused to remember basic human survival, never looking at you while doing it, like acknowledgment would somehow make the gesture illegal.
In return, you found yourself lowering the brightness of your phone screen around him after crowded schedules because you’d noticed the slight tension that appeared between his brows under harsh lighting, the way overstimulation sat on him physically.
Once, after an especially exhausting session, you caught the faint tremor in his fingers while staff adjusted his mic pack, and without thinking, you stalled a stylist with pointless conversation until he had a second to regain control.
Neither of you mentioned any of it afterward.
You still spoke the same way.
Still kept distance where you could.
Still acted vaguely irritated in each other’s presence.
But your bodies had begun learning each other’s limits quietly, instinctively, in the background of everything else.
Maybe it was the endless repetition of proximity, or maybe the human body simply wasn’t designed to differentiate staged intimacy from real instinct forever.
During rehearsals, physical contact stopped feeling entirely choreographed, and both of you seemed equally annoyed by it, small things slipped through the cracks first.
One afternoon, your mic wire got tangled beneath the fabric of your top right before a take, and before a staff member could step in, Heeseung crouched slightly in front of you with a quiet curse under his breath, fingers brushing the bare skin near your waist as he untangled it with practiced efficiency.
His jaw stayed tight the entire time, expression unreadable in that specifically irritated way he got when something felt too personal.
You stared stubbornly at the wall behind him like refusing to acknowledge the situation would somehow erase the fact his fingertips were warm against your skin.
“Your cords are always a mess,” he muttered afterward, standing up immediately like he regretted touching you for that long.
“Maybe because i have twenty pounds of equipment on me,” you shot back automatically, even though your voice sounded slightly off to your own ears.
Another time, while switching positions between camera setups, his hand landed against your waist automatically to guide himself around a lighting rig too narrow for both of you to pass through comfortably.
The contact lasted barely two seconds before both of you seemed to realize it at the exact same time. You stepped away too quickly. He removed his hand like he’d touched a hot stove.
Neither of you apologized, neither acknowledged it either, as if it was the most disgusting thing to ever happen.
That became the pattern -brief moments of unconscious familiarity immediately followed by visible annoyance, as if your bodies kept making decisions faster than your brains could approve of them. And that was the real problem.
After spending so long filming mouth-to-mouth scenes, breathing against each other’s skin and memorizing each other’s reactions under studio lights, your bodies had stopped treating proximity like an exception.
You knew the weight of his hands before you knew his favorite song and he knew exactly how close he could stand before your breathing changed.
The emotional part lagged horribly behind, still stubbornly insisting none of this meant anything while your nervous systems quietly learned each other anyway, and both of you seemed increasingly irritated by the fact that it came so naturally.
That specific day, the rehearsal had dragged far longer than scheduled, everyone growing quieter and more irritable as the hours passed.
Staff members stopped making small talk around midnight, surviving entirely on caffeine and professional obligation while the same thirty seconds of choreography replayed over and over beneath blinding studio lights.
You were tired in that dangerous way where emotions started feeling detached from logic, where your body moved automatically but your brain lagged several seconds behind reality.
Heeseung looked no better, his hair stuck damply to his forehead, sleeves shoved carelessly past his elbows while frustration sat visibly in the tension of his jaw. And you couldn’t help but wonder if this was how he looked after-
The director kept asking for “more restraint” while simultaneously demanding more chemistry, which at this point felt like psychological warfare specifically designed to destroy both of you slowly.
By the end of the fifth retake, your patience had dissolved entirely.
Every microscopic thing about him irritated you suddenly -the way he exhaled through his nose when concentrating, the way he kept adjusting his in-ears between takes, the way his hand automatically found your waist during positioning now like his body had stopped asking permission first. And somehow the irritation only made you more aware of him.
That was the sick part.
Exhaustion stripped people down to instinct eventually, and instinctively, your body kept tracking his : where he stood, how close he was, the heat radiating off his skin after hours under studio lights. It all felt unbearable by the time the final take ended.
“Five minute break,” someone called, and the room immediately scattered into fragments.
You walked off set without thinking, needing space before your own skin started feeling too tight.
Somewhere behind you, you heard footsteps follow a few seconds later, not rushed but not quite hesitant either.
You turned the corner into one of the empty hallways lined with unused set pieces and equipment cases, rubbing aggressively at your eyes before stopping beside a stack of storage crates.
For a second there was silence.
Then Heeseung appeared beside you, equally exhausted, equally tense, tall and sweaty, and you wanted to slap him.
“You keep stepping too far left during the turn,” he said finally, voice rough from hours of rehearsal.
You stared at him incredulously. “that’s what you followed me here to say?”
“You asked.”
“No i didn’t.”
“you looked annoyed.”
“I am annoyed.”
“Yeah,” he muttered tiredly, leaning back against the wall beside you. “me too.”
Something about the way he said it cracked through the last remaining layer of restraint sitting between you both. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe adrenaline after hours of forced proximity, maybe months of tension finally collapsing under the weight of too little sleep and too much awareness.
Whatever it was, it didn’t feel good. It felt frayed. Human.
You looked at him then properly for the first time all day, and he looked just as wrecked as you felt -eyes tired, breathing slow, irritation and something heavier sitting beneath his skin like a bruise.
Your chest tightened unpleasantly. “you know what your problem is?” you asked quietly.
His eyes shifted toward you immediately. “what could that be, enlighten me.”
“Youre just… always there. I came here cause i’ve been stuck in a room with you for hours. Why’d you have to follow me? I’m already tired…”
And then he reached for your top. And your composure crumbled, as small as it originally was. His hand grabbed at the low collar of it, tugging it upwards, eyes looking away, like he had to physically hold himself back. You looked down, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin, your eyes, always so serious and composed, went wild.
“what the fuck are you doing?”
“I- it was hanging low and i couldn’t focus. I’m just doing you a favor, stop being so bitter.” he sighed, jaw clenching.
The silence afterward felt dense, not soft, tender or anything. Just charged in the way storms felt before breaking apart overhead.
“could’ve just told me.” you muttered under your breath, adjusting your top obsessively.
“just- tie it correctly so it doesn’t fucking fall.” Heesung kept looking away, like if he laid his eyes on you he’d explode or something much worse.
“leave then, if my top’s bothering you that much. oh my fucking god, you’re starting to piss me off.” you turned to leave, clutching like your top like it was this flimsy thing ready to fall.
But before you could go anywhere, he grabbed your wrist, the weight of him so familiar. It’s like you knew his touch now, like you’d felt the almost of it so many times now, that it felt normal. Your stomach still did that same thing though, so did your whole body, erupting in tiny electric charges, no matter how long it had been since he’d first brushed your skin.
But now you could feel each of his fingers, the pointer tighter that the others against your pulse point. “You’re so rude.” he said. “Your mouth’s so dirty.”
He wasn’t angry, he kept the same composure as always, unwavering and cold.
You turned around, trying to pry his hand away. “I don’t care about what you have to say, just go back to rehearsal so we can be done and go home. I’m tired.”
“Is it because of the music video thing?” He made no move to let go of your wrist.
You let out a deep sigh, annoyance gradually rising. “It’s not about- there’s nothing here, i’m just tired and i just wanna go home.”
Heesung pulled you closer, just a little bit. “I begged them to do something. To take the video down, re do it, release a statement, punish these people. Anything. But they-”
You interrupted him, “Oh my god, i don’t care about that. Let’s just go please. I don’t care. We did our job, i got hate, you didn’t- it’s fine.”
“So it’s because of that then… because only you got hate.” he took a second to gather his thoughts before continuing. “I get it. I’d be pissed at me too. But you know… i did wanna make a statement. I really did. But the company didn’t want me too-“
“Shutup.” you interrupted him, wrapping your cold hand around his warm one, the one holding you hostage. “just stop talking i said it was fine. Let’s go now.”
The way he looked at you in that moment, was so similar to the way he did when he was pretending to want you, so similar that it made your head spin.
You looked back, way too long, trying to figure out what exactly he was feeling. You looked at his throat, he swallowed like he did when he was nervous about something -you’d called that the ‘nervy throat bob’ in his book of expression. His eyes were rimmed red with fatigue, pupils heavily dilated, like he hadn’t been sleeping in days. And you didn’t wanna figure him out anymore, you just wanted to slap him or kiss him or fuck him or something.
“They said if i made a statement it looked like we were dating or something. So i asked them to take legal measures, they said it would be better to let it pass, and then i didn’t wanna say anything to you, cause well, we don’t really know each other so it would be weird if i just started-“
This and whatever story he had, died against your lips.
You grabbed his sweaty collar, cursing under your breath, as your mouth met his, frantic and slightly condescending. You didn’t care about the delivery, you just wanted him to shutup so your thoughts could also shutup, even if that cost you your sanity, because obviously, a kiss, isn’t the appropriate way to shut someone up, much less a colleague. You held onto his tee shirt, clinging like you were scared you’d push him if your hands weren’t stuffed with the fabric.
At first, he didn’t reciprocate. Heesung just opened his mouth a tiny bit, like he was letting you inside, but didn’t wish to give anything back, then, gradually, a sound of surprise came out of his parted lips, to which you replied with fervor.
You didn’t care about much in life, didn’t cling onto your dignity, that being said, your hands traveled to his hair just as he started to kiss back, like a duel of mouths, fighting to see which one would kill each other first. The taste of him equaled the idea of him, enthralling, the kind that made you stay awake at night, one hand between your thighs to the point where you hated yourself; you loved kissing him, hated that it was him you were kissing.
It didnt take long for him to back you up against the wall of the hallway, caging you like a prey, both hands in your hair like there was no softer way to do this. It was all skin and teeth and lips, tugging pulling, fighting for no apparent reason, it was messy and sloppy and disgustingly good.
Heesung, in that moment, hated that he was hard, not a little bit, not half-mast, not a satisfying firmness. He was rock hard, throbbing to the point he could feel his pulse in his pants, all of this because of a stupid kiss. He despised the idea that he was so easy for a woman he didn’t even know all that well. But that didn’t make him stop, instead he pressed you against the wall, the weight of him leaving you breathless. It was like a burden had been lifted off of him, like a dam that had been lifted, letting water out. If it wasn’t for the -horrible- circumstances, he would’ve taken you right there against the wall, clothes on. His tongue touched yours, hands pulling at his hair you moaned, needing more and more and more.
But when he gave that first grind of his hips, letting you feel just how bad he needed you, a door somewhere slammed shut, and you were reminded of the context in which this had started.
You broke apart, panting, confused and still. not. satisfied. No satisfaction ensued from that kiss, none whatsoever, just the weight of what could’ve happened.
You smoothed over your top, not bothering with eye contact, and cleared your throat, mumbling something about dust, before leaving the room. Heesung stayed there, speechless and pitching a considerable tent, which would not go down, no matter how hard he tried.
He thought about just about anything disgusting he could think of, but it just wouldn’t erase the feeling of you.
He tried chugging some water, but it wouldn’t erase your taste.
The rest of the session was spent pretending, like you did oh-so well. And the next days too. When you got home, the unresolved feeling between your legs kept you from sleeping, you tried taking a cold shower but the need was too present for you to think of anything else. You ended up under the sheets, fingers pressing right where it hurt, thighs trembling each time he crossed your mind, with that stupid voice of his, and those stupid hands in your hair. When you slipped a finger inside, it was him anchored in your thoughts. And you imagined all the ways this could’ve ended, how you could’ve gotten to know the sounds he made when he was truly himself.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
Well, now that this had been settled, there was no reasonable doubt. You were definitely touch starved, so much so that, thinking about a 1 minute kiss had made you come for the first time in months. Thighs shaking, panting, clutching the sheets and all.
You started feeling pity for yourself throughout the week, observing the damage 3 years without sex did to a woman, and took seconds of your days to slap yourself to consciousness. You didn’t talk about it, it was almost like it had never happened, and you were left thinking you’d imagined it in the depths of your perverse mind.
So honestly, the last thing you needed was for your in-ears to completely cut out in the middle of yet another rehearsal because someone had swapped your customized pack settings without telling you.
At first you thought it was technical failure. Then you heard the playback.
Wrong balance.
Wrong vocal feed.
Delay completely off.
You ripped the in-ear out immediately, wincing. “What the hell is this?”
A couple staff members looked up, thinking you were talking to them.
The sound engineer frowned at the monitor before checking something quickly. “Oh—wait.”
Your irritation sharpened instantly. “What do you mean?”
He clicked around nervously. “The settings got changed earlier.”
“By who?” There was a silence, which was already enough of an answer.
You stared at him flatly. “Seriously?”
The poor man looked seconds away from spontaneous death. “Heeseung asked us to adjust the sync timing because you were coming in slightly early during the second chorus.”
Your expression hardened immediately. Not because the criticism itself offended you.
But because Heeseung hadn’t said a single word to you about it. Instead he’d gone behind your back and changed your settings like you were some rookie incapable of fixing timing manually.
The worst part?
He was probably right.
Your timing had been off lately -blame him-. But still. Something ugly twisted in your chest anyway.
Because after everything lately: the alleyway, the storage room, the kiss in the hallway, you suddenly realized how little you actually understood what existed between you. You hated how much that bothered you.
“Where is he?” you asked flatly.
The engineer hesitated. “Uh… downstairs i think? Enhypen stopped by after their schedule.”
Great. Perfect actually. Exactly what rapidly deteriorating emotional stability needed. You shoved the in-ear pack into the hands of a startled coordinator before turning on your heel and walking out of the rehearsal room without waiting for permission. By the time you reached the lower floor lounge area, irritation had fully replaced common sense.
Voices echoed down the hallway first, male laughter, several conversations overlapping casually. Then you turned the corner. And stopped short immediately.
Enhypen.
All of them. Or most of them at least.
The room itself looked relaxed. hoodies tossed over couches, half-finished drinks scattered across tables, someone sitting cross-legged on the floor scrolling through their phone.
Then every single person looked up at once.
Fantastic.
You recognized them instantly of course. Sunoo looked mid-laugh before freezing completely. Jungwon blinked in visible confusion and Jay’s eyebrows lifted almost immediately like he sensed incoming drama. They all looked like they knew you, like they knew everything you’d done.
And right in the middle of the room sat Lee Heeseung, who looked mildly alarmed the moment he saw your expression.
He stood slowly. “What happened?”
You almost laughed because the audacity. “Can you come outside for a second?”
Heesung draped an arm around Jay’s shoulder, chin up. “Anything you wanna tell me you can say in front of the missus.”
You scoffed “You changed my in-ear settings, you absolute fuck-?”
The room went dead silent, absolutely dead. One member coughed awkwardly into his drink.
Heeseung’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “You were off timing.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You kept missing the cue.”
“And you thought fixing it behind my back was smarter than talking to me first?”
His expression shifted slightly then, not guilt at all, but recognition that this conversation had escalated faster than expected.
“It wasn’t that serious midget.”
Your blood boiled and you looked at the ceiling, you thought it’d be better if you just left instead of committing first degree murder.
“You came downstairs just to yell at me?”
“Yes.” at least you were honest.
Something shifted weirdly in the room after that. Because for a split second, one corner of Heeseung’s mouth almost moved, not a smile exactly, more like disbelief. Like he genuinely couldn’t process that you’d stormed into a room full of his former members over audio settings. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on his facial expression book.
“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered quietly.
“You’re extremely unprofessional.”
“and you could’ve texted me.”
“You suck at texting.”
“I answer eventually.”
“Three to five business days later.” That one slipped out before you could stop it. “Anyway thanks, no i gotta spend 30 minutes putting it back to normal. Thanks for wasting my time Heesung.”
You gave a thumbs up before walking off.
The minute you left, Sunoo turned to Heesung with a secretive smirk, “Huh, i see how it is, i see…”
His ex member rolled his eyes, throwing his head back on the sofa. “She pisses me off.”
Jay chuckled, fingers tapping on his keyboard, but eyes on him. “I bet yeah. I bet she does…”
Then Sunoo said ,out of the blue while looking at his nails; “I’ve never had angry sex before.”
Heesung sighed deeply, as if exhaling the whole weight of the world out of his body. Maybe he needed to get laid.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
Nothing could’ve have prevented you for the repercution of that talk.
The next day, his eyes kept finding yours in every room, with an expression you’d never once seen before. You couldn’t quite put a name on it, but it looked something like fear and desire entangled. You categorized it fast under ‘possible disgust’ and moved on. But every time you’d look up, sitting on the floor like a weak bird after dancing for hours, he’d be looking at you with eyes so dark you’d think they were black. You couldn’t tell whether he wanted to undress you or ask the company to terminate your contract; but it made your stomach twist in an undeniable way. After rehearsal, he’d throw a bottle of water at you, pretexting the coin machine had given him two, again; he’d sit as far away from you as possible while the staff untangled his mic-pack, but his gaze was on you all the time, assessing, legs spread on the empty couch, elbows resting on his thighs in a manly way that made heat creep up your nape.
And as always, in your confused mind, you didn’t know if you wanted to sit on his lap, ride him until he was gripping your ass painfully, or just throw up.
When the crew decided you were done for the night, you quickly wrapped up the equipment, helping the staff just so you wouldn’t leave at the same time as him. As expected, he waved goodbye, throwing a last glance at you before walking away in the dark hallway.
You finished piling up the mic cases, said your farewells and started for the changing rooms. The hallway was pitch black, your legs sore from dancing you carried yourself to the door, but before you could do anything you felt a hand on your wrist.
You let out a small shriek, deafened by the sudden realization that the weight of that hand was familiar. You turned around, and Heesung’s face was illuminated by your iphone flash lamp.
“what the fuck is your problem now?” you said between gritted teeth, shaking his hand off. “you waited for me to be alone so you could murder me?”
Heesung then smiled, not a full smile, a smile that tugged on the corner of his lips, (new day new facial expression ), like he was amused but not enough for a big one. “so rude. Stop talking like that.”
You lifted your chin, looking up at him with defiance. “how about you leave me alone then? Always in my way for some reason…”
Heesung leaned closer, it painfully reminded you of shooting the music video, he was so close that it hurt. “you were the one in my way just the other day .” he scoffed, breath warm against your cheek, “remember ?”
And how could you not ? When it’s all you’d been able to think about.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about, - just saying whatever as usual.” you rolled your eyes, but your breathing betrayed you.
“You don’t remember? You were the one who was all over me though…” he smirked, fighting the urge to put his lips on your neck.
“No i don’t.”
“Liar.” he finally made contact with your pulse point, cornering you like you were a weak prey. “all you do is lie.”
You scoffed, truly annoyed, but for some reason you couldn’t push him away, the feeling of his lips against your neck so grounding. “Don’t you have better things to do ?” it came out softer than intended, like your speech had stopped being so harsh all of a sudden.
“There you go, see? you can be pretty polite when you want to be.”
That made you shift, you grabbed his collar, pushing him a few inches away, “Shutup.” it came out shaky.
“See, i don’t know if you’re hotter when you’re all rude and mean, or when you’re calm. I haven’t seen much of that last one though… but i just can’t choose.” his eyes bored into yours, trapping you there.
“Are you done with the monologue now? I’d like to go home, thank you.” you exhaled shakily, pretending it was annoyance.
Heesung’s breath caught for an infinite second, his composure faltering bit by bit, his eyes trailed the path of your cupid’s bow, until they settled on your plump lips. “I think i made up my mind.”
“Huh?”
He leaned ever so slightly, carefully listening to each of your breaths, trying to figure out if you felt the same way he was feeling right now. “yeah…” his lips brushed your jawline. “you’re so hot when you’re all bratty.”
Heesung dragged his lips over the slope of your neck, slowly, as if purposefully trying to break you, his hand went on your back, where your hair tickled your ribs, tugging just a tiny bit to uncover your neck. “I love it. I love when you try to put me in my place.” he whispered.
You gasped, not controlling anything anymore. He looked exactly like in that music video now, eyes hooded with unconcealed desire and something feverish. But this time around, he wasn’t pretending.
“Heesung… we-“ you started, interrupted by the slight scrape of his teeth on your neck.
Heesung let out a low sound, eyes fluttering shut for a second, like his name on your lips was the most beautiful thing he’d heard. “Fuck… say that again. Say my name again.” he breathed out, pressing his body against yours.
You said his name again, not bothering to fight it anymore, both hands on his chest like you couldn’t decide between pushing him and pulling him in.
“Are you gonna keep denying, or are you gonna be good and do that thing you did the other day?” Heesung rasped, like wanting you was a slow kind of suffering.
“What thing?” you breathed out, eyes threatening to close.
Heesung pressed his hips against yours, one hand wrapping softly against your neck while his mouth found your cheek. “keep pretending. ‘s fine.” his lips teased at the corner of your lip. “i’ll make you remember, okay? You just stay here like the brat you are, lemme show you.”
You gasped as his words carved a burning ache in your stomach, your orbs rolling back under the lids; his expert fingers squeezed just enough at your neck for it to be not overwhelming but delicious. You keened, head throwing back against the wall and the hallway remained silent, like everyone had gone home and left you there.
The second he kissed you, the thread that kept you from tipping over the edge snapped in two. Your hands, which had been the anchor restraining you, went to his hair, like that’s truly where they belonged, and tugged at the ends as a sign of defiance. His tongue slipped in your mouth warm with need and unspoken things, and his hips ground into yours shamelessly. You couldn’t differentiate hatred and desire in this dangerous dance, and at no moment did you want to pull away. It was messy, hungry, needy even, it never crossed the line of softness, making it known this was release and nothing more.
Heesung cupped your face, until there was no space between you and the wall and you and him, his name living at the bottom of your stomach.
“You remember now?” His hands traveled down to your hips, “had my hands on you just like that. was the first time you ever shut your mouth.”
You trembled against him, tugging at his hair as a way of showing you still had the upper hand -which you didn’t quite frankly- and he replied with a low groan against your mouth.
“Careful.”
He took your lower lip in between his teeth, not enough to inflict pain but to leave behind a trail of goosebumps, your hands clutching his t shirt now, prying him closer, like close just wasn’t close enough. You fit right against him like a secret, your bodies like two lost puzzle pieces, one bitter the other tense.
Your hands trailed to his waist band, slipping under his t shirt and onto bare skin, earning a moan, while his followed the same path, cupping your breasts through your top like you both weren’t in the company building in an isolated hallway. When he pinched your clothed nipple, rolling it between his digits, mouth buried in your neck, your hips chased his, needing friction to alleviate the pain between your legs.
“I think i found the way to make you shutup.” he said between sloppy kisses on your jaw. “i’ll just have to do that everytime you piss me off.”
The hard ridge of Heesung’s erection rubbed between your legs, the fabric of his sweatpants making it. impossible to hide the tent forming there.
“you’re - fuck…. way too comfortable.” you tugged at his hair, until his head was thrown back now, turning the tables.
The long column of his throat was stretched, adam’s apple bobbing with rapid breaths, and you wanted to bite him right there, like a vampire. You settled for kisses, one hand tracing a path from the plain of his chest to his waistband. You gave it a teasing tug, his hips jerking for a quick second, and your hand slipped inside, immediately cupping him over his boxers. He was undeniably big, rock hard and did you mention big?
Heesung went back to your mouth like moth to a flame, kissing you until all you could taste was him, your hand slipping behind his underwear and wrapping around his aching cock. He moaned in the kiss, unable to stop his hips from searching your hand.
“See? Now you’re the one who shut up.” you teased, thumb finding his slick tip, spreading the precum.
You gave him a stroke, his hips twitching like you’d set him on fire, and he buried his face in your neck, not out of submissions or shame, but because he needed to feel you since he couldn’t melt into your body.
“I’m just letting you have your fun midget, nothing more nothing less.” he retorted.
You stroked him again, fingers cupping his balls and slightly squeezing. “Aren’t you so kind.”
Heesung ground into your hand, chasing the friction only your fist could provide. He knew he couldn’t fuck you right there, but -god- he wanted to, he wanted to strip you bare, bend you over boxes and have you clench around him. But he couldn’t.
So instead he savored the feeling of your hand one last moment before pulling it out of this pants and lifting you up in his arms, like a potato sack.
“Hey? What the fuck?” you argued.
“We’re going to my place. Shutup.”
It was needless to say, 20 minutes after, you were in his bed, straddling his lap. The ride had been tough, stolen glances, his bag had stayed atop his sweatpants to hide the mess there, and your legs had stayed crossed, trying to fight the ache. The second you’d entered the Enhypen dorms, no one was home, everyone supposedly in another city, Heesung had picked you up, vehemently resuming his kiss, and he had sat down on the king sized bed his room was equipped with.
You didn’t even take the time to analyze the space, too busy taking off your top and bra in one go; and when his hands found your breasts, your gauge of interest for his taste in decoration emptied out. His expert fingers circled your nipples, taking one in his mouth and sucking, leaving you breathless, while the other fondled the right one until it became red.
You didn’t even question or hesitate why you were here, the plan was to take what you so desperately needed, and then go home hopefully relaxed. So you pushed him down on the bed, earning a low chuckle.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Heesung grabbed both of your wrists, flipping you. “You think you can just do whatever you wanna do? You think you get to be a brat all the fucking time and then act like this? I thought you’d know better baby…” he said against your flushed skin.
You tried to fight his grip, but eventually you gave up, mostly because part of you knew you didn’t dislike him being like that. That was rhe worst. So you stopped tensing, you threw your head back against the soft pillows, feeling the weight of him between your legs. And when he stood up, looking down at you all spread on his bed, he lost it, taking off his sweatpants and t shirt, boxers remaining, he found the spot between your legs, fingers grazing there.
“Are you gonna be good and let me touch you?”
When you didn’t give an explicit answer, he took your chin in between his fingers, “I asked you something, brat. Go on, answer me.”
You looked at him through your lashes, “Yes. Just do it.”
Heesung clicked his tongue, unsatisfied, but his fingers spread your arousal on your folds, “That’s not a good answer, try again.”
Your hips desperately chased a friction, wanting more and more, “Please, just- i need this.”
“Aw.” he cooed, “do you now? how bad? Tell me how bad baby.”
“So bad Heesung. Please, stop being mean and just-” You were cut off when he indulgently slipped a finger inside of you.
“See?” he dragged his fingers teasingly “it wasn’t that hard.”
Heesung watched your every expression, testing your reaction, associating sounds to his movements and paces, trying to learn you, and learn what made you go crazy. He found very quickly that you loved having your clit played with, fingers dipping into your sopping hole before circling the bundle of nerves, tight circles that’s made your head tip back.
“How does that feel? Is that good?” he asked, to which you replied with a wanton nod.
You moaned, arched, thrashed, it felt so good and yet so foreign, you hadn’t been touched in years, and now you were about to come in 2 minutes, which was already embarrassing as it was, but he quickly added two fingers, your thighs shaking.
“So beautiful, look at you, falling apart on my fingers.” he praised, sucking a dark spot on your collarbone as he drove his fingers faster.
In a couple seconds, you were shaking, moaning and legs closing around his arm, coming so hard your vision turned white. It took you a few seconds to regain consciousness, trembling with aftershocks, you propped yourself on your elbows and looked at him, his fingers covered in your slick going straight into his mouth. He licked them clean, reverently leaning down to lick the remaining wetness on your inner thighs.
“You did so good. Can’t believe that’s all it took for you to be a good girl f’me.”
The next second consisted of you desperately taking off his boxers, like you just couldn’t wait for him any longer. You thanked him with a rewarding stroke, his cock heavy and throbbing from almost an hour of waiting, and his hips followed your hand, head tipping down on your shoulder. “shit- fuck…” he cursed, trying to keep a semblant of control, but the way your hand moved turned him into a puddle of water. You found his balls, heavy and needy, and gave them a squeeze, letting the tip of him drag against your soaked pussy and you cupped his face with the other hand.
“I need you to fuck me now, hard, can you do that please?” you said in his ear, it wasn’t even intended to be seductive or anything, it was just need colliding with newfound energy.
You swore you could’ve seen his eyes roll back, his cock twitched in your hand, like he could cum just by hearing that. “Fuck… you don’t even know-“ he started, breath shaky, “spread your legs.”
You did, instantly, and he let his cock slide between your folds, “good girl. that’s it.”
Heesung wanted to tease you, edge you until you were begging and crying with frustration, that’s what he’d wanted to do from the moment he’d heard you snap at him for the first time, a few months ago. But he also felt he could come with one stroke of your hand, so to maintain his facade, he gripped your thighs, and slid the tip of his cock inside. You moaned, back arching off the bed and hands gripping at his biceps, and he slid in progressively, watching your every reaction.
“I hate that you’re so fucking beautiful.” he grit his teeth, bottoming out with a groan. Heesung thought he knew a lot about sex, thought he had experience, but the feeling of your walls clenching around him, gripping him like a vice, was something he’d never felt before, and he was so gone. It wasn’t long. before his hips were rutting, sharp strokes, the head of him brushing against your deepest point.
“you feel so good, fuck- how can you feel so good.” Heesung slipped his tongue in your mouth.
Your arms wrapped around him, legs also, like you wanted him to be a second skin, “More… harder please. I need it- It feels so good.”
And when he heard you admit that it indeed felt good, he moaned, hips twitching like he was fighting not to come, “I know, i know, you’re being so good.” He rewarded you with sharp thrusts, faster ones, the tip hitting that sweet spot over and over so blissfully.
Heesung went even harder now, complying to your wishes, fucking you like the whole world was about to end, deep k down he knew you needed this as much as he did.
“Mmh, you’re gonna make me come..” you moaned, uncontrollably squeezing him.
“Wait for me… are you gonna be a good girl and wait for me?”
You nodded desperately, fingers threading in his hair. He kissed you passionately, his rough hands planting themselves on your waist, handling you like a rag doll as he pulled your whole body down to meet his hard thrusts, making you cry out loudly every time your bodies met. He trailed a hand down to where your bodies intertwined and began circling your wet clit with his thumb, sending shockwaves down your spine.
"Don't stop… I'm s-so close" you begged loudly, throwing your head back in pleasure. His thrusts stayed the same -rough and deep- his thumb applying slight pressure onto your sensitive bud, rubbing fast.
You felt your high approaching, your thighs began to shake violently, your back arching slightly off the bed, your eyes rolling back from the overwhelming pleasure.
"Let it go, i got you," Heesung whimpered against your ear, and that was enough to send you over the edge, the strong wave of your orgasm crashing over your whole body.
Your orgasm rocked you beyond comprehension, body lapsing into convulsions, your figure slumping into the plush of the mattress. Heesung chased his own, sharp thrusts making you go crazy, he buried his face in your neck, inhaling your scent.
“Shit-fuck… i can’t-“
Heesung spilled inside of you, warm and thick, cursing your name like you’d hexed him. He kept thrusting, pushing it even deeper, hips snapping desperately like he just couldn’t stop. He stayed inside, like this was better than facing you in the aftermath, he stayed buried where you were the softest, where you indulged him.
And what you didn’t know, was that you weren’t relaxed at all, on the contrary : you wanted more, what a greedy little creature you were. Things had been said during sex, things you’d never bother to say if it wasn’t for the circumstance. Exhaustion had peeled both of you open in the ugliest way possible, stripping away the carefully maintained distance until all that remained were impulsive reactions and heat and denial disguised as carelessness.
And maybe the most dangerous part was that you’d begun memorizing new pages of his facial expression book without meaning to.
For months, Lee Heeseung had lived inside your head as a man with three expressions at most : neutral, mildly judgmental, and the occasional microscopic smile reserved for moments where you embarrassed yourself beyond repair.
But now there were others.
Eyes darkened by exhaustion.
The tense flicker in his jaw when he got overwhelmed.
The way his brows pulled together when something unexpectedly affected him.
The expression he wore after kissing you, like he hated the fact he’d enjoyed it as much as he did.
You wished you didn’t know those expressions existed.
Wished your body hadn’t learned them so intimately.
well that took a loooong time omfg. the smut is bad in so sorry i got pissed at myself halfway through. They’re not perfect or defined by a single word, their dynamic is weird and i hope it made as much sense on here than it did in my head… 😓✌🏻
🗯️ 内容 explicit sexual content ♫ 18+ ⸝⸝ intended for mature audiences | minors do not interact ᯓ established relationship, newlywed dynamics, suggestive content, emotional intimacy, domestic fluff, slice of life, honeymoon shenanigans, comfort, three different smut scenes woven throughout the story (too much is going on sorry) !
EL’S ✷ BUBBLE : world, be kind ! don't have much to say for this because i do like it . . this request right here, thank you so muchi (i’m sorry, i practically missed the whole gist of the request 😭) > < anyways i miss jake so much i need him bad faaaah
"Guess who's Mr. and Mrs. now?!"
The voice bursts out of your MacBook speakers with a brightness that doesn't belong in a quiet hotel room at half past midnight, and it takes you a full three seconds to realize the voice is yours.
There you are on the screen, glowing and breathless and slightly blurry, holding the camera at arm's length with one hand while the other clutches a bouquet that's already started to wilt at the edges, and next to you is Jake, your Jake, grinning so wide it looks like his face might split in half, his tie loosened and his hair falling across his forehead in that effortlessly messy way it does after he's been running his hands through it for hours.
Behind you both, through the car windows, the city lights smear into long, streaking lines of gold and white, and faint but unmistakable, the opening chords of Heaven by Bryan Adams are playing from the car's speakers, filling the vehicle with that impossibly earnest, soaring melody that Jake had quietly added to the playlist three weeks ago and pretended he didn't know how it got there.
On screen, you shake the camera a little, bouncing in the passenger seat. "Say hi to the camera, husband."
Husband. The word lands on the recording like a sparkler going off, bright and crackling and slightly unbelievable, and Jake leans into the frame and presses a kiss to your cheek so hard your whole body tilts, and you shriek with laughter, and the camera wobbles, and the moment is chaos and joy and so perfectly, messily alive that watching it now, hours later, sitting cross-legged on this hotel bed with your wedding dress finally off and your makeup finally washed away and your hair finally free of the forty-seven pins that had been holding it up since this morning, you feel your eyes well up all over again.
Goodness gracious.
You were married.
You were actually, legally, irreversibly married to the man on that screen, the one who was currently in the bathroom brushing his teeth with his shirt half-buttoned and his suit jacket abandoned on the back of a chair, the one who had slipped a ring on your finger not eight hours ago and meant every word he said while doing it, the one who had been yours for years and was now yours in a way that was different, deeper, more permanent, more terrifying and wonderful than anything you'd ever known.
You pause the video. The frame freezes on both of you mid-laugh, your head thrown back, his arm around your shoulders, the city lights frozen behind you like a constellation that existed just for this moment. You stare at it for a long time, at the curve of his smile and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the way your hand is resting on his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world, and something enormous and warm and almost unbearable swells in your chest until you have to press your palm flat against your sternum like you can hold it in.
The MacBook sits on the hotel desk, cables connecting it to the camera your father had given you just a month before the wedding. He'd handed it to you over dinner at your parents' house, a small, neat box wrapped in silver paper, and when you'd opened it and seen the camera inside, a beautiful, top-of-the-line digital camera with a lens that cost more than your first car, you'd looked at him with confusion, because you already had a camera, a perfectly good one that you'd been using for years, and he'd cleared his throat and said, "It's for your last month as my little girl. I want you to document everything."
And you'd called him dramatic, because you'd always be his little girl even when you were married, even when you were eighty years old and gray and using a walker, and he'd gotten that look on his face, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to cry, and he'd said, "I know. But it's different now. Let me have this."
So you'd documented everything. The final dress fitting, the bridesmaids scrambling to get ready, the rehearsal dinner where Jake's best man had given a speech so funny and so touching that there wasn't a dry eye in the room. The morning of the wedding, your mother helping you into your dress with hands that shook slightly, your father standing in the doorway watching with an expression you'd never forget. Every moment, captured, preserved, locked into a memory card so that you could revisit it whenever you wanted, so that the day would never fade or blur or lose its shape.
You click through the import progress bar. Eighty-three videos. Five hundred and twelve photos. Each one a fragment of the most important day of your life, stacked neatly in a folder on your desktop like evidence that any of this had actually happened.
You click on the next video.
This one is from earlier in the evening, still at the reception, and the camera is propped up somewhere, maybe on a table, capturing the room from a slight distance. The dance floor is full, the members of Jake's group are doing something elaborate and slightly ridiculous that involves a lot of spinning and one near-collision with the cake table, and in the foreground, you and Jake are sitting at your table with your chairs angled toward each other, his hand on your knee, your hand on top of his, and you're not even watching the dancing. You're watching each other. He's saying something, leaning close, his lips near your ear, and whatever he's saying makes you press your face into his shoulder and laugh, and then he kisses your temple and pulls you closer and you stay like that, tucked against each other, the noise and the music and the celebration swirling around you while you exist in your own small, private orbit.
You remember what he'd said. He'd leaned in and whispered, "I can't believe I get to keep you forever," and it had hit you so suddenly and so completely that you'd laughed, not because it was funny but because your body didn't know what else to do with that much happiness, and you'd buried your face in his shoulder and felt his chest shake with silent laughter too, and for a moment, just a moment, the entire world had shrunk down to the warmth of him and the steadiness of his heartbeat and the unbelievable, unshakeable certainty that this was exactly where you were supposed to be.
The next video. The drive.
This one you'd already glimpsed, the one that had played when you first opened the folder, but now you watch it properly, letting it unspool from the beginning. Jake had handed you the keys after the reception, a playful little gesture, and you'd looked at him like he was insane because you'd been wearing heels for six hours and could barely walk let alone drive, and he'd laughed and taken the keys back and guided you to the passenger side with a hand on the small of your back, opening the door for you like he'd been doing all night, like he'd been doing for years, like he'd presumably keep doing for the rest of your life because that was just who he was.
The camera had been sitting on the dashboard, propped against the windshield, capturing the two of you in profile as the city moved past outside. You'd pressed play on the playlist before you even pulled out of the venue parking lot, and the first song that came on was Heaven, because of course it was, because Jake had queued it there on purpose and then feigned ignorance, and you'd both burst out laughing at the sheer audacity of it, the cheese of it, the perfection of it.
"Guess who's Mr. and Mrs. now?!" you'd shouted at the camera, and Jake had whooped from the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching for yours, and the joy was so big and so loud and so present that it felt like it might burst out of the car and fill the entire street.
"We're married," Jake had said, and his voice was full of wonder, like he was saying it to convince himself, like the reality was still settling in and every repetition made it more real. "We're actually married. You're my wife."
"I'm your wife," you'd repeated, and the word was new and strange and thrilling in your mouth, a shape your tongue wasn't used to forming but wanted to say over and over. "You're my husband."
"Your husband," he'd said, and he'd lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, right above the wedding band that was cool and new and still slightly foreign on your finger, and the gesture was so tender, so Jake, that your eyes had burned and you'd had to look out the window for a second and blink rapidly at the passing streetlights because you were not going to cry on your wedding night, you'd already cried approximately four hundred times today and that was enough.
At a red light, he'd turned to you fully, and his eyes were so soft, so warm, so full of something that looked like disbelief and gratitude and love all tangled together, and he'd said, "Hi, Mrs. Sim," and you'd said, "Hi, Mr. Sim," and then you'd both cracked up because it sounded absurd and wonderful and like the name of a couple in a sitcom, and he'd cupped your face in both hands and kissed you, slow and deep and tasting like champagne and cake and forever, and the car behind you had honked because the light had turned green, and you'd broken apart laughing and he'd stepped on the gas and his hand had found your thigh and stayed there for the rest of the drive.
You pause the video again.
His hand on your thigh. That was a constant, a fixture, as reliable as gravity. Jake had this thing where he always needed to be touching you when you were next to him, not in a possessive way, not in a controlling way, but in a grounding way, like he needed the contact to remind himself you were real, like the warmth of your skin under his palm was proof that this, all of this, wasn't a dream he was about to wake up from. A hand on your thigh while driving. An arm around your waist while walking. Fingers interlaced with yours across the center console. A palm pressed flat against the small of your back in crowded rooms. Always touching. Always near. Always there.
And you loved it. God, you loved it so much it made your chest hurt sometimes, the way he reached for you without thinking, the way his body oriented toward yours like a compass finding north, the way he made you feel like you were the most solid, most real, most important thing in whatever room you were standing in.
You close the video folder for a moment and lean back against the headboard, pulling your knees up to your chest, and let yourself think about the day. The whole day, from beginning to end, every overwhelming, overstimulating, joy-saturated second of it.
The wedding had been held at a garden venue just outside the city, a place with old stone walls and climbing roses and a lawn that stretched down to the edge of a lake that caught the late afternoon light and turned it into something out of a painting. Your families were there, all of them, your parents and your siblings and your aunts and uncles and cousins and the family friends you'd known since childhood. Jake's family had flown in from Australia, his parents and his older brother, and the way his mother had hugged you when she arrived, tight and long and with tears already streaming down her face, had made you realize that you weren't just gaining a husband today, you were gaining an entire family, and the thought was so enormous and so overwhelming that you'd had to sit down for a moment and breathe.
The members were there too, all of them, dressed in matching suits that they'd picked out together and immediately started complaining about the moment they put them on. They'd been your friends for years now, long before you and Jake started dating, and they'd watched the two of you circle each other with a kind of fond exasperation that only people who loved you both could manage, and when you'd finally gotten together, they'd reacted with a mixture of relief and vindication that was almost insulting in its unanimity. "Finally," one of them had said, and the others had nodded so vigorously you'd thought their heads might fall off.
The ceremony itself was a blur of emotion and light. You'd walked down the aisle on your father's arm, and he'd been fighting tears the entire way, and when he'd placed your hand in Jake's and stepped back, he'd given Jake a look that was part warning and part blessing and entirely love, and Jake had nodded once, a small, serious, certain nod that said I understand and I will and I promise, and your father had stepped back and sat down and you'd watched him press his palm over his eyes and knew he was crying.
The vows were where you'd lost it completely. Jake had written his himself, because of course he had, because Jake did everything with his whole heart or not at all, and he'd stood there in his suit with his voice shaking and his eyes bright and told you that you were the bravest person he'd ever known, that loving you had taught him what it meant to be brave in return, that he would spend every day for the rest of his life trying to be the man you saw when you looked at him. And you'd stood there with tears streaming down your face and your carefully prepared vows completely abandoned in favor of just talking, just saying whatever came out, because the words you'd written didn't feel big enough anymore, nothing felt big enough to contain what you felt for this man, and you'd told him he was your home, that wherever he was was where you belonged, that you'd choose him in every lifetime if you got the chance.
And then the officiant had said it. The words you'd been waiting to hear since the moment you met him, since the first time he smiled at you across a crowded room and the entire world rearranged itself around the axis of his face.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Jake had pulled you in before the officiant had even finished the sentence, before the last syllable had fully left his mouth, and you'd both been laughing, laughing through tears, laughing through the kiss, laughing like the joy was too big to contain and had to come out somewhere, and the sound of everyone cheering and clapping and crying was washing over you in waves but all you could hear was his breath against your lips and his voice, rough and wet and incredulous, saying "we did it, we actually did it," against your mouth.
The reception was a fever dream of dancing and toasting and crying and laughing and cake and champagne and moments that you'd never remember clearly but would never forget the feeling of. Jake's best man speech. Your maid of honor's speech. The members performing a surprise song that they'd written for you both, a sweet, silly, earnest ballad that had the entire room in tears by the second verse. Your first dance, Jake's hand warm and steady on your lower back, your cheek pressed against his shoulder, the two of you swaying in the center of the floor while everyone watched and you didn't care because the only person who existed in that moment was him.
And now here you were. Married. Sitting in a hotel room at half past midnight, watching yourself live the best day of your life on a laptop screen, feeling like your heart might actually burst from the sheer, impossible weight of being this happy.
The bathroom door opens, and Jake emerges in a cloud of steam, his hair damp from where he'd splashed water on his face, his suit shirt now fully unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing the lean lines of his chest and the soft skin of his stomach. He looks tired, genuinely tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from being on your feet for twelve hours straight while experiencing the most emotionally intense day of your life, but underneath the tiredness there's something else, something warm, glowing, and constant, and when he sees you sitting on the bed with the laptop, his face softens into an expression so fond that it makes your throat tighten.
"Watching the videos already?" he asks, crossing the room to sit beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight and he leans into you automatically, his shoulder pressing against yours, his hand finding the curve of your waist like it's magnetic.
"I couldn't not," you admit. "Look at us."
He looks at the screen, at the frozen frame of the two of you in the car, mid-laugh, and his smile is so immediate and so genuine that it takes your breath away. "God. We look so happy."
"We are so happy."
"We are," he agrees, and he turns his head and kisses your shoulder through the thin fabric of the robe you'd thrown on after taking off your dress. "We really, really are."
You lean into him, resting your head against his, and for a moment you both just sit there, watching the frozen frame, breathing each other in.
"Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"I can't believe we're married."
He laughs, soft and quiet, and his arm tightens around you. "I know. I keep looking at your hand and seeing the ring and being like, that's real. That actually happened."
"It happened."
"It happened." He lifts your left hand and presses a kiss to your wedding band, and the gesture is so tender, so unconscious, that your eyes burn for the hundredth time today. "My wife."
"My husband."
"Mmm." He nuzzles into your neck, pressing a soft, warm kiss just below your ear. "I like the sound of that."
"Which one? Husband or wife?"
"Both. Either. All of it. You being mine and me being yours and this being forever." His voice is muffled against your skin, drowsy and content and so completely open that it makes something crack in your chest. "I've wanted this for so long. I kept thinking, during the ceremony, I kept thinking about how long I've wanted this and how I'd almost convinced myself it might not happen and then there you were, walking down the aisle, and I couldn't breathe."
"Jake..."
"I'm serious. I saw you and my whole chest just... kind of stopped. Everything stopped. I was like, that's her. That's the person I'm going to spend my entire life with. And I started crying before I even had a chance to stop myself and then the guys were making fun of me after but I didn't even care because you were walking toward me and you were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I knew, I just knew, that I was the luckiest person alive."
You turn your face into his hair and breathe him in, and your eyes are definitely burning now, definitely wet, and you don't even try to stop the tears because it's your wedding night and you're allowed to cry as much as you want.
"Do you remember the proposal?" you ask, your voice thick.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's a knowing, slightly sheepish grin on his face. "The hiking one?"
"The hiking one."
"You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"Jake, you brought me hiking to a really tall mountain peak. A beach proposal would've been fine. A nice restaurant would've been fine. My living room would've been fine. Instead I had to climb a mountain in sneakers."
"I had to bring you closer to heaven to ask," he says, and the line is so earnest, so completely sincere, so utterly Jake that you can't even be annoyed about the three days of sore calves that followed. He says it like it's the most obvious logic in the world, like of course he'd haul you up a mountain at dawn because where else would you ask someone to spend eternity with you but as close to the sky as you could physically get.
"Damn you," you say, and your voice cracks. "Damn you for still knowing how to make me feel like a dumb teenager in love."
He pulls you into a hug. A real one, full-bodied, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you against his chest, and you bury your face in the curve of his neck and let yourself be held. His hand cradles the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, and his chest is warm and solid and rising and falling with breaths that are slightly shakier than they were a moment ago, and you realize he's getting emotional too, that this is hitting him just as hard as it's hitting you, and the knowledge makes you hold on tighter.
"I love you," he says into your hair. "I love you so much. I'm going to love you for the rest of my life and that's still not enough time."
"It's enough," you whisper. "It's more than enough."
He pulls back and looks at you, and his eyes are red-rimmed and bright and so full of love that it's almost hard to look at directly, like staring at the sun, and he cups your face in his hands and wipes the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs, gentle, so gentle, like you're something precious and irreplaceable.
"Hey," he says softly.
"Hey."
"Let me help you get ready for bed, okay? You've been in this dress all day and your hair must be killing you."
It is. Your scalp is throbbing dully from the weight of the pins and the spray and the elaborate updo that had taken two hours to construct and had looked stunning but had felt like wearing a helmet made of bobby pins. Your dress is off, finally, you'd managed to wiggle out of it an hour ago with a lot of wriggling and a few choice words about the structural integrity of boning, but your hair is still up, still pinned, still holding on like it's afraid of what it might find when it comes down.
"Okay," you say.
He stands up and offers you his hand, and you take it, and he leads you to the vanity in the corner of the hotel room, settling you on the little stool and standing behind you. You watch him in the mirror as he starts to carefully, so carefully, remove the pins from your hair, one by one, setting each one on the counter with a soft little click. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and the tenderness of the image, your husband carefully undoing your hair on your wedding night, makes something in your chest swell until you feel like you might float.
"You're so good at this," you murmur.
"I've had practice," he says, pulling another pin free. "You fall asleep on my shoulder during movie nights and I have to undo your hair clips so they don't stab me."
"That's different. That's self-preservation."
"Maybe. But my methods are gentle either way." He pulls the last of the pins and your hair tumbles down in a dark, heavy wave, and he combs his fingers through it slowly, working out the tangles, and you close your eyes and let yourself feel it, the scratch of his fingernails against your scalp, the pull of the strands between his fingers, the way he's touching you like you're made of something fragile and valuable.
He moves to your jewelry next. The earrings first, tiny diamonds that had sparkled like stars against your neck all evening, and he sets them on the counter next to the pins. Then the necklace, a thin gold chain with a small pendant that he'd given you for your second anniversary, and his fingers are warm against the nape of your neck as he unclasps it, and you shiver.
"Cold?" he asks.
"No," you say honestly.
You feel his smile against your hair as he presses a kiss to the back of your head.
When the jewelry is all off and your hair is down and your face is bare and you're sitting in front of him in nothing but the robe, he steps back and you stand and turn to face him, and the look in his eyes shifts. Softens into something deeper, darker, more intent.
"Take off the robe," he says, and his voice is quiet, not a command but a request, gentle but with an undercurrent of something that makes your pulse quicken.
You undo the tie at your waist and let the robe slide off your shoulders, and it pools at your feet in a whisper of silk, and you're standing in front of him in the ivory lingerie set he'd bought for you. The one he'd surprised you with a week before the wedding, a small, elegant box left on your pillow with a note that said "for after," and when you'd opened it and seen the lace, the silk, and the delicate, ivory color that was so soft and so pretty and so deliberately chosen, you'd pressed your face into the note and laughed until you cried because even his gifts were thoughtful, even his surprises were considerate, even his lingerie was selected with the kind of care and attention that made you feel seen and wanted and loved.
The bra is delicate, sheer ivory lace that cups your breasts and barely conceals them, the nipples visible through the pattern of flowers and scrollwork. The underwear is matching, high-waisted and elegant, the same ivory lace, a small silk bow at the front that he'd definitely picked specifically because he knew it would make you smile. The set is beautiful, objectively, but it's the fact that he chose it, that he imagined you in it, that he went to a store or a website and picked this exact shade and this exact cut because he thought you'd look perfect in it, that makes you feel more beautiful than any piece of clothing ever has.
Jake looks at you.
For a long, charged moment, he just looks.
His eyes move over your body slowly, taking in the lace and the silk and the skin underneath, and his throat bobs as he swallows, and his hands, which had been steady and careful while removing your pins, are now gripping the back of the vanity chair hard enough that his knuckles are white.
"You're wearing it," he says, and his voice is rough.
"You bought it for me to wear," you say.
"I know, I just—" He stops. Starts again. "God. You look... I can't even... you're so beautiful. You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my entire life and I'm going to say that every day for the rest of our lives and it's never going to be enough."
Heat pools between your thighs, slow and warm and insistent, and you watch his eyes darken as he looks at you, watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster, watch the way his hands flex at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.
"Jake," you say softly.
"Yeah?"
"You already know what I’m about to say."
“And that would be…? What?”
“Touch me.”
A sheepish grin tugs at his lips, and he moves.
Two steps and his hands are on your waist and his mouth is on yours and the kiss is slow and deep and full of everything neither of you has words for. His lips are warm and familiar and they move against yours with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting, and his hands slide up your sides, his thumbs tracing the edge of the lace where it meets your skin, and you shiver and press closer and open your mouth against his.
He walks you backward, step by careful step, until the back of your knees hits the edge of the bed, and he lowers you down onto it with a gentleness that makes your heart ache, settling over you, his weight balanced on his forearms, his body a warm, solid line above yours. He kisses you again, softer now, his lips brushing your jaw, your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose, and then he pulls back and looks at you, and his eyes are so dark and so warm and so full of love and want that you feel seen in a way that goes beyond the physical, like he's looking at every version of you that has ever existed and loving all of them equally.
"Hi, wife," he whispers.
"Hi, husband," you whisper back, and the words are still new, still startling, still sending a little thrill through your chest every time you say them.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hands find the clasp of your bra and undo it with a practiced ease, peeling the lace away from your skin and tossing it somewhere in the direction of the floor. His palms find your breasts, warm and careful, and he cups them gently, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you gasp into his mouth and arch into his touch.
"Perfect," he murmurs against your lips. "You're so perfect. I've been thinking about this all day. Every time I looked at you during the ceremony, every time we danced, every time someone made a toast about us, I was thinking about getting you back here and getting my hands on you."
"Jake—"
"Is that bad?" He rolls your nipples between his fingers, gentle but firm, and the sparks of sensation shoot down your spine and pool hot and urgent between your legs. "Thinking about my wife like that during our wedding? Can't help it. You walked down that aisle and I was gone. I was a goner. I've been half-hard since you said I do."
You whimper, and the sound is small and needy and you'd be embarrassed if you had any capacity for embarrassment left, which you don't, not with him, not with Jake, who has seen every version of you and loved every single one.
"Look at you," he breathes, and he dips his head and drags his tongue across one nipple, slow and flat and wet, and your spine arches off the mattress like he's pulled a string attached to your back. "I've been dying to do this all night. You have no idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you during the reception. Every time you leaned over the table, every time you laughed and your dress shifted, I could see the outline of this set through the fabric and I almost lost my mind."
He takes your nipple into his mouth fully now, sucking with a slow, deliberate pressure that has your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling, and he groans against your breast, the vibration of it humming through your chest and settling deep in your belly. His other hand isn't idle — it's palming your other breast, kneading the soft flesh, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling and tweaking and working you into a state of such acute sensitivity that every touch feels like it's being transmitted directly to the throbbing heat between your legs.
"Jake, please—" You don't even know what you're asking for. More. Everything. Him.
"Shh," he says against your skin, and he switches sides, his mouth finding your other breast, his tongue circling the areola before latching onto the nipple and sucking hard enough to make you cry out. "I'm getting there. Let me have this first. Let me worship you the way you deserve."
His hand slides down your stomach, fingertips tracing the silk bow at the front of your underwear, and he hooks his fingers under the waistband and tugs, just slightly, just enough for you to feel the pressure against your hip bones. "I picked this set because I knew the ivory would look insane against your skin. I was right. God, I was so right. You look like you were made for this. Made for me to take apart."
He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts, and his mouth is hot and wet and deliberate, each kiss placed with the same care he used when he was removing your hairpins, like he's cataloguing every inch of you, like he's mapping the territory of your body and memorizing it for future reference. His hands slide down your sides, hooking into the waistband of your underwear, and he looks up at you from between your breasts with a question in his eyes.
"Can I?"
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
He pulls them down slowly, dragging the lace down your thighs, over your knees, off your ankles, and then he settles back between your legs and looks at you, really looks at you, and the expression on his face is one you'll never forget. Reverent. Hungry. Overwhelmed. Like he can't quite believe that this is real, that you're real, that you're his.
"My wife," he says, and his voice is thick and rough and reverent. "All mine."
"All yours," you confirm, and your voice comes out breathier than intended.
He hooks your legs over his shoulders, one and then the other, and the position opens you up to him completely, vulnerably, and you feel the cool air against your slick, heated skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you.
The first touch of his tongue against your cunt tears a sound from your throat that you don't even recognize, something raw and broken and desperate. He licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, and the heat of his mouth and the wetness of his tongue and the scratch of his slight stubble against your inner thighs is so much, almost too much, and your hands fly to his hair and grip hard.
"Jake—oh my god—"
He groans against you, and the vibration of it pulses through your core and makes your hips buck, and he presses his palms flat against your hips to hold you still and does it again, another long, slow lick, and then another, and another, each one deeper and more thorough than the last. His tongue circles your clit, then dips lower, pressing inside you, then drags back up, and the rhythm he sets is devastating, relentless, a slow and steady unraveling that has you trembling and gasping and saying his name like it's the only word you remember.
"Feel so good," he murmurs against you, and his voice is muffled and rough and the words vibrate against your sensitive flesh and make you jerk. "Taste so good, baby. My wife. My perfect wife. I could do this for hours."
"Please—"
"Please what? Use that pretty mouth."
"More. Please. Don't stop."
He doesn't stop. His tongue finds your clit again and circles it in tight, firm strokes, and two of his fingers slide inside you, curling upward, pressing against that spot that makes your vision blur, and the dual sensation of his mouth and his fingers working in tandem is so overwhelming that you feel the orgasm building already, a hot, coiling tension that's gathering speed and intensity with every passing second.
"You know what I kept thinking during the ceremony?" he says against your clit, and his lips brush the swollen bud as he speaks, and the graze of them is enough to make your thighs shake against his shoulders. "I kept thinking about how I was going to have you like this later. Spread out underneath me. Making these sounds. Being this wet for me. I wrote my vows with your taste still in my mouth from last night and I couldn't even concentrate because all I could think about was doing this to you on our wedding night."
"Jake, I'm close, I'm—"
"Come for me," he says against your clit, and the words are filthy and reverent and the permission is all you need. The orgasm crashes through you in waves, your back arching off the bed, your thighs shaking against his shoulders, your walls clenching around his fingers, and he works you through it, his tongue and his fingers never stopping, drawing it out until you're oversensitive and trembling and pulling at his hair and gasping his name.
He doesn't pull away immediately. He stays between your legs, pressing soft, wet kisses to your inner thighs, to the crease where your thigh meets your hip, to the swollen, sensitive flesh that's still pulsing with the aftershocks. His fingers slide out of you slowly, and he drags them through your slick, feeling the mess he's made, and he looks up at you with his chin wet and his eyes black and his lips swollen, and he says, "I want to do that again. I want to live between your thighs. I want to fall asleep with my mouth on you and wake up the same way."
"You're too goddamn greedy."
"For you? Always." He presses one more kiss to your clit, feather-light, and you jolt from the overstimulation, and he grins, this crooked, devastating grin that makes your stomach flip even though you just came hard enough to see stars.
He crawls back up your body and kisses you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet and obscene, and the intimacy of it, the rawness of it, makes you whimper against his lips. His bare chest is pressed against yours, skin to skin, and you can feel his heart hammering against your ribs, feel the heat radiating off him, feel the hard, insistent length of him pressing against your stomach through his unbuttoned shirt.
"I love you," he says, and his voice is rough and wrecked and so full of feeling. "I love you so much. I'm going to make you feel so good tonight. I'm going to make you feel so good for the rest of our lives."
"Jake, I need you inside me. Please."
"Not yet." He shakes his head, and there's a dangerous glint in his eyes, something playful and dark. "I'm not done with you. That was just the appetizer, baby. I've been waiting all day for this. I'm taking my time."
He sits back on his heels and looks down at you, sprawled out and flushed and trembling on the hotel sheets, and his gaze travels from your face to your breasts to the wet, glistening mess between your thighs, and he licks his lips, and the gesture is so unconscious and so filthy that you feel yourself clench around nothing.
"Look at you," he says, and his voice has dropped into that register that makes your stomach tighten and your breath catch. "My wife. All spread out for me. You're shaking. You came so hard and you're still shaking. I love that. I love knowing I can do that to you. That nobody else gets to see you like this. That you're mine."
"I'm yours," you whisper. "All yours. Only yours."
"Only mine." He reaches out and traces a fingertip down the center of your chest, between your breasts, down your stomach, and dips into your navel, and then lower, through the slick, wet mess of you, and he doesn't push inside, just trails his finger through it, feeling how wet you are, how ready, how desperate. "God, you're drenched. I made you this wet. I did this. I turned you into this trembling, soaking mess just with my mouth and my fingers."
"Jake, please—"
"Please what?" He circles your clit with the lightest possible pressure, and you buck up into his touch, chasing more, chasing him. "Use your words, lovely. Tell me what you need."
"You. Inside me. I need you inside me. Please."
"Since you asked so nicely." He reaches over to the nightstand, and you hear the rustle of a wrapper, and then he's settling between your legs again and you feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and he pauses, looks down at you, and the look on his face is so open and so full of love that it steals your breath.
"Ready?" he asks softly.
"Ready."
He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch of him fills you so completely that you both groan, his low and guttural, yours high and breathless. He stills when he's fully inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts against your lips, and you can feel him trembling, feel the effort it's taking him to hold still, to be gentle, to not just take.
"You feel so good," he whispers, and his voice cracks on the last word. "You feel so good, princess. I can't—I'm not going to last long, I've been thinking about this all day, you have no idea—"
"It's okay," you say, and you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. "I don't need you to last. I just need you."
He starts to move. Slow at first, deep and rolling, each thrust measured and deliberate, his body pressing into yours with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His hands find yours, interlacing your fingers above your head, and he holds them there, pinned against the pillow, and the intimacy of it, the closeness of it, the way he's surrounding you and filling you and loving you all at once, is so much that you feel tears prickle at the corners of your eyes again.
"I can't believe you're mine," he says against your neck, his hips snapping forward a little harder, a little faster, and the shift makes you gasp. "I can't believe I get to have you forever. I can't believe you chose me."
"I'll always choose you," you whisper, and your voice breaks on it.
"Fuck—" His rhythm stutters, his hips jerking, and you can tell he's close, you can feel it in the way his cock pulses inside you, in the way his breath comes faster and more ragged, in the way his hands grip yours so tight it almost hurts. "You feel too good, I can't—I need—"
"Go faster," you tell him. "Don't hold back. I want all of you."
And he does. He lets go. His hips snap forward with a force that drives the breath from your lungs, his pace turning from measured to desperate in the space of a single thrust, and the sound of it fills the room, skin against skin, wet and sharp and urgent, and his moans are broken and raw and so fucking hot that you feel another orgasm building already, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your stomach. He shifts your legs higher on his waist, changing the angle so that every thrust drags against that spot inside you, the one that makes your vision blur and your nails rake down his back and your mouth fall open in a sound that isn't even a word anymore, just pure, unfiltered sensation given voice. The headboard is knocking against the wall now and neither of you cares, let the entire hotel know, let the entire world know that Sim Jaeyun is making love to his wife on their wedding night and neither of them can think about anything else.
"God, you take me so well," he groans, and his voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "You're so tight around me. I can feel you squeezing me. You're close again, aren't you? I can feel it."
"Yes—baby—"
"I want you to come on my cock," he says, and the words are a command and a plea and a prayer all wrapped into one breathless gasp. "I want to feel you fall apart around me. I want to feel you milk every drop out of me. Come on, baby. Give it to me."
"Close," he gasps, and his voice is wrecked, barely a voice at all, just breath and sound and need. "I'm close, I'm—are you—mmgh—"
"Close too. Keep going. Don't stop."
He doesn't stop. He drives into you harder, faster, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips, and you feel the orgasm cresting, feel the tension winding tighter and tighter until it snaps, and you come with his name on your lips, your walls clenching around him in pulsing waves, and he follows a second later with a sound that's almost a sob, his hips jerking erratically as he spills inside you, hot and deep and overwhelming.
Even after, he doesn't pull out immediately. He stays buried inside you, his cock twitching with the aftershocks, his hips making tiny, involuntary thrusts that make you both shudder and gasp each time, oversensitive and overwhelmed and incapable of stopping, and he kisses your face — your forehead, your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, the wet tracks on your cheeks that you hadn't even realized were there. His hands release yours and come up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears, and he's looking at you with an expression of such absolute, overwhelming wonder that you feel your chest crack open all over again.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is wrecked and raw and so full of love it's almost hard to hear. "Hey. I've got you. I'm right here."
"I know," you whisper. "I know you are."
He pulls out of you slowly, carefully, and you both wince at the sensitivity, and you feel the wetness of him leaking out of you, dripping onto the sheets, and the obscene intimacy of it makes you flush hot all over. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a warm, damp towel. He sits on the edge of the bed and cleans you up with the same gentleness he used when he was removing your hairpins, the same care he used when he was unclasping your necklace, the same attention he gives to everything that involves you, and the tenderness of it makes your eyes sting because this is what your life is going to be now, this is what it means to be married to him, this quiet, steady, unwavering care that doesn't diminish with repetition or time or familiarity.
"Come on," he says, tossing the towel aside and offering you his hand. "Bath."
He leads you to the bathroom, and you'd drawn the bath earlier, the massive hotel tub filled with warm water and the complimentary bath salts that smelled like lavender, and he steps in first and then helps you in after him, and you settle between his legs with your back against his chest and the warm water lapping at your shoulders. His arms wrap around your middle, his chin hooks over your shoulder, and the two of you sit there in the steam and the quiet and the aftermath of everything, and it's so peaceful that you could fall asleep right here.
"Jake?"
"Hmm?"
"Can we do a virtual photobooth? On my laptop? I saw a filter earlier and I really want to take pictures with you."
He's quiet for a moment, and then he laughs, that full, warm, surprised laugh that you love more than any other sound in the world. "You want to take photobooth pictures right now? We're naked in a bathtub."
"So? The filter works on our faces. We'll angle it up. Please?"
"We look exhausted."
"We are exhausted. It'll be authentic."
He laughs again, and the way his chest shakes against your back makes the water ripple around you, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Okay. Let's do it."
Twenty minutes later, you're both sitting on the bed in your bathrobes, your laptop propped on the desk, the photobooth app open, and you're scrolling through the results of your impromptu photoshoot and laughing so hard your stomach hurts. There's one where Jake is making an exaggeratedly serious face while you're mid-blink, one where you're both doing finger hearts with bedhead and smudged under-eyes, one where he's kissing your cheek and you're grinning so wide your eyes are barely visible, and one, your favorite, where you're both just looking at each other, foreheads almost touching, the exhaustion clear on your faces but underneath it, unmistakable, that warm, steady glow of two people who have never been more certain of anything in their lives.
"I look dead," Jake says, peering at the screen.
"You look beautiful," you correct him.
"I look like I haven't slept in three days."
"You look like a man who just married the love of his life. Same thing."
He grins, and it's lopsided and sleepy and so endearing that you reach out and cup his face and kiss him, just because you can, just because he's yours, just because the ring on your finger says so.
You save the best photo and send it to yourself, already thinking about making it your phone wallpaper, already thinking about printing it and framing it and keeping it on your nightstand for the rest of your life. Because that's what this is now. The rest of your life. And every boring, ordinary, exhausted moment of it is going to be extraordinary simply because he's in it.
Sleep comes fast and heavy after that. You crawl under the covers, and he pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm and slow against the back of your neck. The last thing you register before consciousness slips away is the weight of his arm and the steadiness of his heartbeat and the impossible, improbable, overwhelming fact that you are married, you are his wife, he is your husband, and tomorrow you're going to wake up and it's still going to be true.
You sleep for five and a half hours.
It's the alarm that does it, a chirping, insistent thing that you'd set the night before and immediately regretted, and Jake groans and buries his face in the pillow and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like "five more minutes" but might also be "I quit," and you laugh and shake his shoulder and tell him that your flight to Greece leaves in four hours and if he misses it you're going without him.
He sits up so fast he nearly headbutts you.
"Greece," he says, his eyes wide and sleep-rumpled. "Our honeymoon. Today. Right. Right?"
"Right."
"I'm up. I'm awake. I'm—" He yawns so wide his jaw cracks. "I'm mostly awake."
You manage to get ready in record time, a whirlwind of packing and checking suitcases and arguing about whose toiletry bag is whose and whether you really need three pairs of sunglasses for a week-long trip and yes you do, Jake, because they go with different outfits, and he shakes his head but he's smiling, he's always smiling, and the giddy, electric energy of being newly married carries you through the exhaustion like caffeine.
At the airport, you check in at the business class counter, and the agent looks at your tickets and then at your faces and then at your hands, and her eyes land on the wedding bands and she smiles and says, "Congratulations," and Jake grins and says, "Thank you, we just got married yesterday," and the agent's face softens and she upgrades you to first class, and you nearly cry right there at the check-in counter because apparently this is what the rest of your life is going to be, people being kind to you because you're so obviously, radiantly happy that it's contagious.
In the first class lounge, Jake insists on taking a photo of you with your boarding pass, and then another one of you with your coffee, and then another one of you looking out the window at the planes, and you roll your eyes but you let him because you know by now that Jake documents things the way other people breathe, naturally and constantly and without thinking about it, and you also know that in approximately three days he's going to pull up these photos and show you one and say "look how pretty you look" and you're going to pretend to be annoyed but actually you're going to melt.
On the plane, you settle into your seats, wide and plush and more like armchairs than airplane seats, and Jake immediately reaches for your hand and interlaces your fingers and holds on, and the simple, constant gesture makes your chest warm. The cabin is quiet, the lights dimmed for the overnight flight, and the flight attendant brings you champagne because you're honeymooners and that apparently means free champagne everywhere you go, and you clink your mini glasses together and Jake says, "To us," and you say, "To forever," and you both drink and then make faces because neither of you actually likes champagne but it's the principle of the thing.
You lean your head on his shoulder and he leans his head on top of yours, and you're both so tired that the exhaustion is a physical weight on your limbs, and you close your eyes and feel the rumble of the engines through the seat and the warmth of his body against yours, and you're drifting off when you feel his lips against your ear.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" he murmurs, and his voice is low and quiet, meant only for you.
"What?"
"You in that ivory lingerie set."
Your eyes open.
"Jake."
"I'm just saying. I've been thinking about it since you took the robe off. The way the lace looked against your skin. The way your nipples showed through." His fingers trace idle patterns on the back of your hand, and his breath is warm and ticklish against your ear. "I'm going to buy you so many pretty things. I'm going to dress you up in lace and silk and take my time taking it all off."
"Jake, we're on a plane."
"I know. I'm not doing anything. I'm just telling you what I'm thinking about." His lips brush the shell of your ear, feather-light. "Is that a crime?"
"You're impossible."
"Impossible to resist?" He grins against your ear, and you can hear the mischief in it, the playful, teasing edge that he deploys like a weapon.
"Impossible to deal with," you correct, but you're pressing your thighs together under the blanket, and he notices because of course he notices, and you feel his hand slide under the blanket and rest on your thigh, warm and heavy and not moving, just resting there, a promise and a tease all at once.
"Go to sleep," he whispers. "I'll behave."
"You'd better."
"I will. For now."
The emphasis on the last two words follows you into your dreams.
You wake up somewhere over the Mediterranean, the plane beginning its descent, and you look out the window and see the sea below you, a blue so deep and so vivid and so impossible that it doesn't look real, and you elbow Jake awake and point and he rubs his eyes and stares and says, "That's where we're going to be for the next week," and you say, "I know," and he says, "I can't believe I get to spend a week in Greece with my wife," and there's that word again, wife, still new and thrilling and still sending a jolt through your chest every time he says it.
Santorini is everything you'd dreamed of and more.
You've wanted to come here for as long as you can remember, ever since you saw a photo of the white-washed buildings and the blue domes and the caldera stretching out toward the horizon like the edge of the world, and you'd mentioned it once, offhandedly, years ago, back when you and Jake had first started dating, and he'd filed it away somewhere in that meticulous, loving brain of his and pulled it out the moment you'd started talking about honeymoon destinations, because Jake is a sucker for you in every possible way, and if your dream destination is a Greek island with sunsets and hot tubs and wine, then that's where he's going to take you even if it means coordinating logistics across eight time zones and two international flights.
The hotel is perched on the edge of the caldera, a cluster of white buildings cascading down the cliffside, and your room is the one at the very bottom, the one with the private terrace and the outdoor jacuzzi and the view that makes you stop in the doorway and forget how to breathe because the sea stretches out below you like a painting, blue and gold and shimmering in the late afternoon light, and the sky is so vast and so clear that it feels like you could reach up and touch it.
Jake comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder, and you both stand there in the doorway of your honeymoon suite, looking out at the most beautiful view you've ever seen, and he says, "Worth the five-hour flight?" and you say, "Worth anything," and he kisses your neck and holds you tighter and the sun is warm on your faces and the sea is glittering and you're here, you're really here, you're in Santorini with your husband on your honeymoon, and the happiness is so big and so present that you feel like you might vibrate out of your skin.
The first afternoon dissolves into a lazy, sun-soaked haze. You unpack in fits and starts, distracted by the view and by each other and by the bottle of wine that was waiting on the nightstand with a handwritten note from the hotel staff congratulating the happy couple. You drink it on the terrace, your feet dangling over the edge, the caldera spread out beneath you like a love letter written in water and stone, and Jake takes approximately four hundred photos of you with the view, of you with your wine glass, of you with the sunset turning your skin golden, and he shows you each one and says, "Look how pretty," and you say, "You're biased," and he says, "I'm objective. You're the prettiest person on this island and I have the photos to prove it."
You explore the town in the evening, winding through narrow cobblestone streets lined with shops and cafes and jewelry stores, and you stop in a little boutique and try on a linen dress that flows like water and makes you feel like a Greek goddess, and Jake watches you spin in front of the mirror and his eyes go soft and dark and he says, "Buy it," and you say, "I don't need it," and he says, "I didn't say you needed it. I said buy it. I want to see you in it again." So you buy it, and he buys a matching linen shirt, and you take a selfie together in the shop mirror like the couple you are, the couple who wears matching clothes in Greece on their honeymoon, and you look at the photo afterward and think, we're those people now, and the thought fills you with a warm, sheepish delight.
You buy gifts for everyone you love. A hand-painted ceramic plate for your mother, a leather journal for your father, a set of olive oil soaps for your sister. A tiny blue evil eye charm for each of Jake's members, because you'd discussed it and agreed that matching keychains would be perfect, and you find a shop that sells them in a row of different colors and you pick one for each of the guys and the shop owner wraps them individually in tissue paper and you tuck them carefully into your bag. Jake buys a set of worry beads for his grandfather, a silk scarf for his mother, a bottle of local wine for his father, and you watch him deliberate over each choice with the same seriousness he brings to everything and you think, not for the first time and not for the last, that you married the most thoughtful person on the planet.
Dinner is at a restaurant perched on the edge of the cliff, a candle on the table, the stars coming out over the sea, and Jake reaches across the table and takes your hand and says, "I want to remember this forever," and you say, "That's what the camera is for," and he says, "The camera can't capture how I feel right now. Nothing can." And you lift your phone and take a photo of him anyway, candlelit and starry-eyed and so handsome it hurts, and he rolls his eyes but he's smiling, and later that night you look at the photo and think he's right, the camera can't capture it, but it can remind you, and that's almost as good.
That first night in Santorini, after dinner and wine and a long, meandering walk through the lit-up streets of the town, you find yourselves on the terrace of your room, the jacuzzi bubbling and steaming in the cool night air, the sea a vast, dark expanse below you, and Jake looks at you with that look, the one that says he's thinking about something specific and it involves significantly fewer clothes than you're currently wearing.
"Jacuzzi?" he asks.
"Jacuzzi," you agree.
You change into your swimsuit, a simple black two-piece that you'd bought specifically for this trip, and when you step onto the terrace, Jake is already in the water, leaning against the edge with his arms spread along the rim, and he looks up at you and his eyes darken and his jaw tightens and you watch him bite his lower lip, a quick, unconscious gesture that sends a sharp pulse of heat straight to your core.
Jake is obsessed with your body. This is not new information. He has been obsessed with your body since the day you met, in various ways and to varying degrees, but the obsession has always been there, simmering beneath the surface of every glance and every touch and every lingering look he thinks you don't notice. He loves your breasts, loves them, can't keep his hands off them, can't keep his eyes off them, is constantly finding excuses to touch them or look at them or rest his head against them like they're pillows designed specifically for him. And he loves your ass, too, loves it with a devotion that borders on religious, is always touching it when you walk, grabbing it when you bend over, pressing himself against it when you're standing in line somewhere, and in Greece, in the heat, in the swimsuits and the shorts and the thin linen dresses that cling to every curve, the obsession has dialed up to a level that is honestly flattering and slightly inconvenient.
Like right now, for instance. You're standing on the edge of the jacuzzi in a black bikini, and Jake is looking at you like you're the sunset and the sea and the stars all compressed into a single person, and his teeth are digging into his lower lip, and you can see the hunger in his eyes, the raw, unfiltered want, and the sight of it, the knowledge that you do this to him, that you make him look like that, makes you feel powerful and desired and so, so hot.
"Get in here," he says, and his voice is lower than it was a moment ago.
You step into the water, the warmth enveloping you, and you settle across from him, letting the jets pulse against your back, and the two of you sit there for a moment in the steam and the starlight, the only sounds the bubbling of the jacuzzi and the distant crash of the sea below. Then his foot finds yours under the water, a casual, deliberate touch, and his toes trace up your ankle, your calf, and you look at him and he's looking at you with that crooked, knowing smile, and you feel the heat building between your legs that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water.
"Come here," he says.
You cross the jacuzzi and settle in his lap, your knees on either side of his hips, your arms around his neck, and he pulls you close and kisses you, and the kiss starts soft but doesn't stay that way. His hands find your waist, your hips, the curve of your ass under the water, and he squeezes and pulls you closer and groans into your mouth, and you feel him hardening beneath you, his cock pressing up against you through his swim trunks, thick and insistent.
"Feel what you do to me," he murmurs against your lips. "One look at you in that bikini and I'm gone. I'm a mess. I've been a mess all day."
"You've been staring at my tits all day."
"Your tits have been out all day. That dress you wore to lunch? The white one? I could see everything. I was hard through the entire meal. I had to put my napkin in my lap."
A laugh escapes you, and you bury your face in his neck and feel his chest shake with silent laughter too, and then his hands slide up your sides and cup your breasts through the bikini top, and the laughter dissolves into a sharp intake of breath as his thumbs find your nipples through the fabric.
"Jake—"
"Let me touch you. Please. I need to touch you."
His hands make quick work of your bikini top, untying it and tossing it somewhere behind him, and his palms find your bare breasts and he cups them, weighs them, squeezes them gently and then not so gently, and his thumbs circle your nipples until they're tight and aching, and you're grinding down onto him without meaning to, chasing the friction, the pressure, the feeling of him hard and ready beneath you.
"You have the most perfect tits," he says, and his voice is reverent and hungry and almost angry about it, like it's a personal offense how much he likes them. "I think about them constantly. During interviews. During rehearsals. During literally any moment when I should be focusing on something else, my brain just goes—" he squeezes again, harder, and you gasp "—right back to these. I'm not even exaggerating. It's a problem. I have a problem and I don't want to fix it."
"Baby—"
"Let me—" He doesn't finish the sentence. He leans in and takes one nipple into his mouth, hot and wet and relentless, and you gasp and grip his hair and arch into him. His tongue works the bud in tight, dizzying circles, then he sucks hard enough to make your spine curve, and you feel the sensation shoot straight down to your core, hot and electric and so intense that your thighs squeeze around his waist. His other hand isn't idle — it's on your other breast, rolling and pinching the nipple between his fingers, pulling and tweaking and working you into a state of such acute sensitivity that every touch feels amplified by a thousand.
"My wife," he breathes against your skin, switching to the other breast, his mouth hot and greedy. "My beautiful wife. I can't get enough of you. I'm never going to get enough of you."
His hand slides between your bodies, under the water, and his fingers find the waistband of your bikini bottoms and slip underneath, and his fingertips drag through your slick, swollen flesh, and the sound you make is somewhere between a gasp and a whimper and a plea. He circles your clit with a slow, deliberate pressure, and you rock against his hand, your body moving on instinct, chasing the pleasure, and his other hand is still on your breast, kneading, rolling your nipple, and the dual sensation is making you dizzy.
"You're so wet," he groans against your chest. "So wet for me. I've barely touched you and you're already this wet."
"It's been like this all day," you admit, and your voice is ragged. "Every time you looked at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you bit your lip."
"I know," he says, and there's a dark, satisfied edge to his voice. "I could tell. I can always tell. Your pupils get dilated and your breathing changes and you press your thighs together and I know exactly what it means because I'm the one who caused it."
His fingers slide inside you, two of them, and you clench around them and moan his name, and he groans in response, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. His fingers curl inside you, pressing against that spot, and his thumb finds your clit again, and he starts a rhythm that's steady and deep and absolutely devastating.
"Jake, I need you. I need your dick—fuck, please."
"Not yet." He shakes his head, and there's that dark, playful glint in his eyes again, the one that tells you he's going to drag this out as long as he can because he loves watching you squirm. "Let me make you come like this first. I want to feel you fall apart on my fingers before I fuck you. I want you so desperate that you can't even think straight."
"I'm already—" Your voice breaks as his fingers crook inside you, pressing hard against that spot, and your hips jerk involuntarily, water sloshing around you. "Jake, I'm already—"
"Not desperate enough. Not yet." He adds a third finger, and the stretch is delicious, the fullness just shy of too much, and he starts fucking you with them in earnest now, long, deep strokes that make you grip his shoulders and dig your nails into his skin. "I want you shaking. I want you begging. I want you so far gone that the only word left in your head is my name."
"You're—ah—you're such a—"
"Such a what?" He twists his fingers, and the new angle makes you see white. "Finish your sentence, baby."
"You're such a tease," you manage, and it comes out breathless and fractured and completely unconvincing.
"Am I?" He grins, and it's wicked, it's devastating, it's the smile of a man who knows exactly what he's doing to you and is enjoying every second of it. "Then tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop right now."
"Don't you dare stop."
"Then I'm not a tease, am I?" His thumb presses hard against your clit and circles it in a slow, tight motion, and the combination of that with his fingers curling inside you, pressing that spot over and over, is enough to make your thighs clamp around his hand and your breath come in short, desperate pants. "I'm giving you exactly what you need. I'm making my wife feel good. There's nothing teasing about that."
The words, the raw, filthy honesty of them, push you closer to the edge, and you grind down onto his hand and feel the tension winding tighter and tighter, and his fingers are inside you and his thumb is on your clit and his mouth is on your breast and it's all too much, too much, too much, and the orgasm crashes through you in waves that make you tremble and gasp and say his name over and over like a prayer.
When you come down, he's looking at you with those dark, burning eyes, and his fingers are still inside you but still now, just resting, letting you feel the fullness as your walls pulse around him. He slides them out slowly, and you whimper at the loss, and he brings his hand up out of the water and licks his fingers clean with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue, and the sight of it makes your cunt clench around nothing.
"You taste like the sea," he says, and his voice is low and rough and fond. "Appropriate, given where we are."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're the one who just came in a jacuzzi in Santorini on your honeymoon. I think that makes you the ridiculous one."
"I hate your insufferable ass so much."
"No you don't." He grins, and it's so self-satisfied that you want to kiss it off his face, so you do, grabbing his jaw with both hands and kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, and he groans into your mouth and his hands grip your waist and pull you flush against him, and you can feel how hard he is through his swim trunks, the thick, hot length of him pressing against your core, and the kiss shifts from playful to desperate in the space of a single breath.
"Your turn," you murmur against his lips, and you reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around him through the fabric of his trunks, and his hips jerk up into your touch and he groans, low and guttural and desperate. "You've been so patient. Let me take care of you."
You tug at the waistband of his swim trunks, and he lifts his hips and you pull them down just far enough to free him, and his cock springs up, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip, and you wrap your hand around the base and squeeze, and the sound he makes — this broken, breathless, helpless thing — goes straight to your core and makes you throb even though you just came.
"God, your hand," he chokes out, and his head falls back against the edge of the jacuzzi, his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "I've been so hard for so long. You have no idea. You kept bending over in that dress today and I thought I was going to die."
"Poor baby," you say, and you start to stroke him, slow and tight, your grip firm as you slide your hand from base to tip and back again, spreading the wetness at the head down his length. "All that suffering. Let me make it better."
"Fuck—" His hands grip the edge of the jacuzzi so hard his knuckles go white, and his hips are moving, tiny involuntary thrusts up into your fist, and you watch the pleasure move across his face like weather, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips part, the flush spreading down his neck and across his chest, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, your husband falling apart in your hand.
"You know what I love?" you say, and you twist your hand on the upstroke, your thumb dragging across the sensitive ridge beneath the head, and his whole body shudders. "I love that I'm the only person who gets to see you like this. All those people who want you, who scream your name, who think they know what you look like—ugh, they have no idea. They've never seen you desperate. They've never heard these sounds. They've never felt you shake under their hands like this. This is just for me. Only me." You tighten your grip just slightly, twisting on the upstroke, and watch his abdominal muscles clench and his toes curl against the floor of the jacuzzi. "And I'm never sharing."
"Only you," he gasps, and his voice is wrecked, barely coherent. "Only ever you. I'm yours. Every part of me. All of it—ah—all of it yours."
"Good." You tighten your grip and speed up, stroking him faster, harder, and his moans are getting louder, more fractured, his hips snapping up to meet your hand. "I want you to come for me, Jake. I want to feel you spill in my hand. Can you do that? Can you be good for me?"
"Yes—fuck—yes, I'm—" He's trembling now, actually trembling, his thighs tensing under the water, his hands reaching for you and gripping your hip, your waist, anything he can hold onto. "I'm close, I'm so close, please—"
"Then come," you say, and you lean in and bite his earlobe, gentle but sharp, and that's all it takes. He comes with a broken moan of your name, his cock pulsing in your hand as he spills hot and thick over your fingers, his hips jerking erratically, his entire body taut and shaking, and you stroke him through it, slowing your hand as the aftershocks fade, milking every last drop out of him until he's gasping and oversensitive and pulling weakly at your wrist.
"Stop, stop, I can't—" He's laughing, breathless and overwhelmed, and you release him and bring your hand up and examine it with a theatricality that makes him laugh harder. "Don't you even think about stoppi—"
You lick a stripe up your palm, tasting him, salt, skin, and something so unmistakably Jake — and his laughter cuts off abruptly, replaced by a groan so deep it sounds like it's being pulled from the soles of his feet. You hold his gaze as you do it, deliberate and slow, letting your tongue drag across your skin, and you watch his jaw go slack and his chest heave and his cock twitch against his stomach, already filling again, already hard, because apparently the sight of you tasting him is enough to override every recovery period his body has ever known. His eyes are black, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left, and he's looking at you with an expression that's equal parts disbelief and desperate, rekindled want.
"If I die, I’m going to blame you," he says.
"Honestly, that sounds like a nice way to go." You grin, and you're about to say something else, something cheeky and self-satisfied, but then his hands are on your waist and he's lifting you and repositioning you, and you feel the hard, insistent press of him against your core — already half-hard again, already recovering, because Jake at twenty-something-years-old has the refractory period of a teenager and the stamina of a man who's been waiting his entire life for this.
"Get these off," you say, tugging at the waistband of his swim trunks, and he lifts his hips and you pull them down and his cock springs free, hard and flushed and thick, and you wrap your hand around him again and stroke him slowly, feeling him pulse in your palm, feeling the heat and the weight of him. You shift your position, settling over him, and you reach down and move your bikini bottoms to the side and guide him to your entrance, and you sink down onto him in one slow, devastating movement.
The sound he makes is wrecked. A broken, breathless moan that echoes off the terrace walls and dissolves into the night air, and his hands grip your hips so hard you know there'll be marks tomorrow, and his head falls back against the edge of the jacuzzi and his eyes squeeze shut and you watch the pleasure move across his face like weather, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
"Baby," he gasps, and the word is reverent, worshipful. "Oh my god, my wife. You feel so good. You're so tight. So warm. I'm not going to last, I—"
"Simply don't," you say, and you start to move, rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles, feeling him shift inside you, feeling every inch of the stretch and the fullness. "We have all week. Just feel it."
"Easy for you to say," he manages, and his voice is strangled, barely holding together. "You're not the one who's been on the edge for six hours. You're not the one whose wife has been parading around in a bikini all day looking like a goddamn Greek goddess. You're not the one who had to sit through dinner with a hard-on because you kept licking gelato off your spoon like that—"
"Like what?" You roll your hips deliberately, a slow, grinding circle that takes him to the hilt and holds, and his eyes roll back.
"Like you knew exactly what you were doing. Which you did. You absolutely did, don't even—" His breath hitches as you do it again. "Don't pretend you didn't know what you were doing to me."
"You like the bikini?"
"I'm going to buy you ten more. I'm going to buy you a bikini in every color. I'm going to make you try them all on for me like a private fashion show and then I'm going to take them off you one by one—"
"Jake." You roll your hips harder, grinding down onto him, taking him deeper, and his sentence dissolves into a moan that sounds like it's being pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Less talking. More feeling."
"I'm feeling," he gasps. "I'm feeling everything. I'm feeling you wrapped around me so tight I can barely think. I'm feeling how wet you are, how warm, how perfect. I'm feeling like the luckiest man alive because I get to be inside my wife on our honeymoon in Santorini and—fuck—and the stars are out and the water is warm and I never want this to end."
You lean down and kiss him, swallowing the rest of his words, and his hands slide up your sides, cupping your breasts again, his thumbs brushing your nipples, and he watches you ride him with an expression that's half awe and half desperation, like he can't believe this is real, like he's afraid to blink in case it disappears. The water laps around you, the steam rises into the cool night air, the stars are scattered across the sky like spilled diamonds, and you move together in the warm, bubbling water, your bodies finding a rhythm that's slow and deep and so full of feeling that it borders on overwhelming.
You change the angle, leaning back slightly and planting your hands on his thighs behind you, and the new position lets him see everything, the place where your bodies are joined, the slick, wet slide of him in and out of you, the way your tits move with every roll of your hips, and his eyes are glued to it, hungry and dark and so completely transfixed that you feel a surge of power so potent it makes you dizzy.
"You like watching?" you ask, and your voice comes out lower than you intended, rough with want.
"I like watching you," he says, and his hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, helping you set a pace that's faster now, more urgent. "I like watching my cock disappear inside you. I like watching you take me. I like knowing that nobody else gets to see this. Nobody else gets to have this. Just me."
"Just you," you confirm, and the words come out breathless, fractured, barely more than a moan. "Only you. Forever."
"Close," he chokes out, and his hips are jerking up into you now, his rhythm faltering, his hands gripping your waist. "I'm close, I'm—can I—"
"Come inside me," you say, and the words are barely out of your mouth before he's pulling you down onto him one final time and burying himself deep and coming with a sound that's your name and a moan and something that might be I love you, all of it tangled together into a raw, broken, beautiful noise that you want to record and play back for the rest of your life.
You stay there for a long moment, him still inside you, the water lapping at your skin, the stars above you, and he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest and presses a kiss to your wet shoulder.
"I can't believe you're mine," he whispers.
"I can't believe you're mine either," you whisper back.
"Good. Then we're even."
You laugh, and he laughs, and the sound of it carries out over the caldera and into the night, and somewhere below, the sea catches the moonlight and turns it into a road of silver stretching toward the horizon, and you think, this is my life now, this impossibly beautiful, impossibly lucky life, and you close your eyes and hold on tighter.
The days in Santorini pass in a haze of sunshine and wine and each other.
You sleep late and wake up tangled together, the Mediterranean light filtering through the curtains in warm, golden bars, and Jake presses kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, until you're blinking awake and turning into him and the morning dissolves into something slow and soft and unhurried. He brings you coffee on the terrace, strong and sweet the way you like it, and you sit with your feet up and the sea below and the nowhere you need to be, and the luxury of it, the rareness of having time and nothing to fill it with except each other, is almost too much to bear.
He takes photos of you constantly. Candid ones, when you're not looking. You ordering at a restaurant, squinting at the menu in the bright sunlight. You examining a row of postcards in a tiny shop, holding one up to the light. You taking a photo of the sunset with your phone, your profile silhouetted against the orange and pink sky. You looking at something in a market stall, your head tilted, your hair catching the breeze. He doesn't say anything when he takes them, just quietly lifts his phone or his camera and captures the moment, and you only discover them later, when he shows you the camera roll with that soft, proud smile and says, "Look how beautiful you are," and you look at the photo, at the way he sees you, through his eyes, and your throat tightens because the woman in these photos is radiant and happy and so clearly, unmistakably in love, and you realize that's how he sees you all the time, not just in these moments but always, and the knowledge is so big and so overwhelming that you have to kiss him just to keep from crying.
"You need a new profile picture," he says one afternoon, when you're sitting on a stone wall overlooking the caldera with gelato melting in your hands. "Let me take one."
"I don't need—"
"You do. The one you have is from eight months ago. You've been a wife for four days now. You need an upgrade."
"A wife upgrade?"
"A profile picture upgrade. Come on. The light is perfect."
He positions you against the wall with the blue domes behind you and the sea beyond that, and he takes a dozen photos, adjusting your hair, tilting your chin, making you laugh until the shots are natural and bright and unposed, and when he shows you the best one, the one where you're mid-laugh with the sun in your hair and the Aegean behind you, you actually tear up a little because you look happy, you look so thoroughly, radiantly happy, and it's all because of him.
"See?" he says softly. "Told you. The most beautiful person on this island."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I love you."
His face softens into something so tender that it makes your chest physically ache. "I love you too. So much."
You do all the couple things. All of them. You take matching photos in front of the blue domes, squished together with the wind in your hair, and Jake insists on doing a different pose for each one and you end up with a series that ranges from sweet to silly to borderline inappropriate. You find a photobooth in a tourist shop and squeeze inside and take a strip of photos, making increasingly ridiculous faces, and the last one is just you kissing, soft and real, and you cut it in half and each keep one in your phone cases. You buy the matching keychains for the members, small glass evil eyes in different colors, and Jake writes a little note for each one and you package them up in the hotel room and address them and set them aside to mail when you get home. You buy matching sandals from a shop near the harbor because you're a cliche and you don't care, and you wear them for the rest of the trip and take a photo of your feet side by side and Jake captions it "solemates" and you groan so loud the people at the next table turn to look.
He also stares at you. Constantly. In a way that is extremely distracting.
On the beach, when you're wearing a bikini top and a long maxi skirt, and you're applying sunscreen to your shoulders, and you look up and catch him staring at your chest with his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his eyes dark and hungry, and he looks away quickly when you catch him but not quickly enough, and the heat that floods your stomach has nothing to do with the sun.
At dinner, when you're wearing a dress that hugs your curves and you lean forward to reach for the wine, and his eyes drop to your cleavage and stay there for a beat too long, and when you straighten up he's adjusting himself under the table and pretending he's not.
On the terrace in the morning, when you step out in your underwear and a t-shirt, still sleep-soft and rumpled, and he looks up from his coffee and his entire body goes still and his jaw tightens and he says, very calmly, "You're trying to kill me," and you say, "I'm literally just getting coffee," and he says, "In that? With your legs out? And your—" he gestures vaguely at your entire body, "—everything? It's an attempted murder is what it is."
You laugh every time. Every single time. Because Sim Jaeyun, idol, performer, man who has been photographed by professionals and screamed at by fans and trained to maintain composure in any situation, cannot keep it together when you're wearing a bikini and a skirt and the sun is hitting your skin, and the knowledge that you have that effect on him is the most heady, intoxicating thing in the world.
The second time it happens, the morning of your fourth day in Santorini, is softer than the first.
You wake up before he does, which is rare, and you lie there for a moment watching him sleep, the way his lashes fan against his cheekbones, the way his lips are slightly parted, the way his chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, and the morning light is coming through the curtains in soft, golden slats and painting stripes across the bed and across his skin, and he looks so peaceful, so beautiful, so completely yours, that you feel the familiar swell in your chest, the too-muchness of loving someone this deeply, and you press a kiss to his bare shoulder because you can't not.
He stirs. A small, sleepy sound. His arm reaches for you, pulling you closer, and he buries his face in your neck and mumbles something unintelligible, and you card your fingers through his hair and feel him melt against you.
"Morning," you whisper.
"Mmm. Morning. What time is it?"
"Early. Go back to sleep."
"Don't want to." He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another, then another, a slow, lazy trail up your neck, and his hand finds your waist under the sheet and pulls you flush against him, and you feel him, half-hard against your thigh, and a slow, warm pulse of desire settles between your legs. "Want you instead."
"You just woke up."
"I've been wanting you all night. It just carried over." He grins against your skin, and his hand slides from your waist to your hip, your thigh, and he grips the flesh there and squeezes, and you feel his cock harden fully against you. "Please?"
"You don't even have your eyes open."
"Don't need them. I know where everything is." His hand slides between your thighs, and his fingers brush against you through your underwear, and the touch is light and teasing and enough to make your breath catch. "Feel that? Already wet for me. You're always wet for me in the morning. I love it."
"Jake—"
"Shh. Let me. Let me make you feel good."
He shifts, pressing you onto your back, and he settles between your legs and looks down at you with heavy-lidded, sleep-soft eyes, and his hair is a disaster and there are pillow creases on his cheek and he's so beautiful it makes your chest hurt. He leans down and kisses you, slow and deep and tasting like sleep and morning and love, and his hands push your shirt up and pull your underwear down, and you lift your hips to help him, and the morning air hits your bare skin for just a moment before his warmth covers you again. His fingers find you immediately, two of them sliding inside with an ease that makes you blush because you are wet, you're soaking, and the slick sound of his fingers moving in and out of you fills the quiet morning air and makes you want to hide your face in the pillow.
"There it is," he murmurs, and his voice is rough with sleep, rough with satisfaction, and he curls his fingers inside you and you arch off the mattress with a gasp. "There's my girl. Always so ready for me. I just have to look at you and you turn into this—this pretty, dripping mess—and you think I'm the obsessed one?"
"You are the obsessed one," you manage, and he laughs, and the sound is low and warm and so fond that it makes your chest ache even as his fingers are doing obscene things inside you.
"Guilty." He adds a third finger, and the stretch makes you whimper, and he swallows the sound with a kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in the same rhythm his fingers are fucking you, and the dual sensation is enough to make your head spin. His thumb finds your clit and circles it with a maddeningly light pressure, barely there, just enough to make you chase it, and you buck your hips up and he pulls away, and the loss makes you whine.
"Jake—"
"Patience." He grins down at you, and his eyes are dark and sleepy and so full of affection that it's almost hard to reconcile with the filth his fingers are currently doing. "I want to taste you first. I've been thinking about it all night. Dreaming about it, actually. I woke up with my mouth watering."
Before you can respond, he's kissing down your body, his lips trailing fire across your collarbone, between your breasts, down the soft plane of your stomach, and when he settles between your thighs and breathes against you, the warm air hitting your wet, swollen flesh, you nearly come apart from that alone.
"God, you smell incredible," he says, and his voice is muffled against your inner thigh, where he's pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing the softest part of you just enough to make your hips twitch. "I could eat you out for breakfast every day for the rest of my life and die happy. Forget the coffee. This is what I want to wake up to. You, spread out for me, still half-asleep, making those little sounds—I'd never need another meal."
"You're—unh—you're so—"
"Say it. Tell me what I am."
"Impossible. Infuriating. The love of my life."
His laugh vibrates against your core, and then his mouth is on you, and every thought in your head evaporates like morning mist. He licks into you with a slow, thorough devotion that makes your thighs shake, his tongue flat and wide against your clit before narrowing into a point that circles and flicks and teases until you're writhing against the sheets, your hands fisted in his hair, your hips chasing his mouth. He hums against you, a low, satisfied sound that says he knows exactly what he's doing, and the vibration of it zips through your nervous system like electricity and settles in a molten pool at the base of your spine.
"You know what drives me crazy?" he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips brushing your clit with every word, and the graze is so light and so devastating that you can barely process what he's saying. "The sounds you make. These little—" he mimics the breathy whimper that just escaped you, and hearing it in his voice, rough and morning-low and so completely fond, makes you flush from head to toe "—I could record them and listen on repeat. I'd never listen to music again. I'd just listen to you falling apart for me over and over and it would be the only song I'd ever need."
"Jake, please—"
"Please what? Tell me. I want to hear you say it."
"Make me come. Please. I need—"
"You need what? My mouth? My fingers? My cock?" He laps at you again, one long, slow, devastating stroke that has your back bowing off the bed. "You have to tell me, princess. Use your words."
"Your mouth. Your mouth, please, I need—"
He doesn't make you ask again. He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and the pressure is firm and rhythmic and so precisely calibrated to your body that you wonder sometimes if he has a map of you tattooed on the inside of his eyelids, and two fingers slide back inside you and curl against that spot, and the combination is lethal. It hits you fast and hard, the orgasm rolling through you in waves that make you cry out and clench around his fingers and grip his hair so tight he groans against you, and he works you through it with the same steady, devastating rhythm, not stopping until you're pushing at his head and gasping from the overstimulation.
He crawls back up your body with his chin wet and his eyes dark and that crooked, self-satisfied grin that makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "Good morning," he says, and his voice is so casual, so conversational, like he didn't just rearrange your entire nervous system with his tongue.
"Good morning," you manage, and your voice is wrecked and your body is trembling and you feel like you've been turned inside out in the best possible way. "Get up here. I want you inside me."
He settles between your legs and you feel the head of his cock against your entrance, and he pushes in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch and the fullness and the tenderness of it makes you whimper against his lips. He's still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel the fullness of him, the heat of him, the weight of him, and then he starts to move.
"Feel so good," he murmurs, and his voice is rough with sleep and rough with want, and his hips roll into yours in a slow, lazy rhythm that feels more like breathing than fucking, like your bodies have found a pace that they can sustain forever, unhurried and deep and so full of feeling that it makes your eyes sting. "My wife. My perfect, beautiful wife. I love being inside you. I love being close to you. I love you so much it hurts."
"I love you more," you whisper, and you wrap your arms around him and pull him closer, and his face is pressed into your neck and his breath is warm and ragged against your skin, and his hips are moving faster now, a little harder, a little more desperate, and the shift from gentle to rough happens in degrees, each thrust a little deeper than the last, each breath a little more ragged.
"You know what I love about missionary?" he says, and his voice is a low, rough rumble against your ear, and the question is so unexpected, so absurd, that you almost laugh. "I love that I can see your face. I love that I can watch every single thing you're feeling. I love that when you come, I get to see it happen right in front of me, these beautiful expressions that nobody else will ever get to witness." He rolls his hips deep, grinding against your clit on the downstroke, and your eyes flutter shut. "No, don't close your eyes. Look at me. I want to see you."
You force your eyes open, and his face is inches from yours, so close that his breath is your breath, and his eyes are so dark and so full of love and want and reverence that looking at them feels like staring into the sun. He's moving faster now, his thrusts deeper, more deliberate, and each one punches a small, helpless sound out of your throat that he catches with his mouth, kissing you between gasps, swallowing your moans and feeding you his.
"I'm close," you whisper, and your voice breaks on it.
"I know. I can feel you squeezing me." He shifts his angle slightly, and the new position means he's hitting that spot with every thrust, and the pleasure is building so fast and so intense that you can barely think. "Come for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you."
The orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking, your walls clenching around him, your back arching off the mattress, his name tearing from your lips, and he watches you, he watches, just like he said he would, his eyes on your face, drinking in every expression, every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids, and you feel him follow you over the edge a moment later, his rhythm turning erratic and desperate as he spills inside you with a groan that's half your name and half something broken and wordless.
He stays inside you, still half-hard, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, and the morning light is painting gold across your tangled bodies and the crumpled sheets, and he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your eyelid, and murmurs, "Good morning for real this time."
You laugh, soft and breathless, and card your fingers through his disaster of hair. "The best morning."
He pulls back suddenly, and before you can question it, he's rolling you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees, and his hands are on your hips, steadying you, positioning you exactly how he wants you, and the casual authority of it, the way he handles your body like he knows every inch of it, makes a fresh pulse of wetness slick between your thighs. You feel the head of his cock, still hard, still ready, because Jake at this age has the recovery time of someone who's been waiting their whole life for a week of unlimited access to you, pressing against your entrance from behind, and he runs the tip through your slick, teasing, just once, before he pushes in.
"Again?" you ask, and your voice is breathless with disbelief and want.
"Again," he confirms, and he pushes in with one smooth, deep thrust that punches a gasp out of your lungs. The new angle is deeper, different, hitting a spot inside you that makes your arms shake and your moans go higher and needier, and his hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks that you'll find later in the shower and press your fingertips to with a smile so wide it hurts. He doesn't start slow this time; he sets a pace from the first thrust that's hard and fast and relentless, like he's been waiting for this, like the first round was just the warm-up and now he's taking what he really wants, and the sound of it, the wet slap of his hips against your ass, fills the room along with your moans and his grunts and the creak of the bed frame.
"God, you feel so good like this," he groans, and his voice is wrecked, barely holding together. "Your ass—I can see everything—the way you take me—fuck—you're so perfect—I'm obsessed with you, you know that? I'm completely obsessed with every part of you—"
"Jake—harder—please—"
He obliges, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the bed creak, and his hand comes around to your front, finding your clit, circling it in tight, firm movements, and the dual sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you is too much, it's all too much, and you feel the orgasm building fast and hard and unstoppable.
He reaches up with his other hand and gathers your hair to one side, exposing the back of your neck, and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss there that sends a shiver cascading down your entire spine, and the combination of his mouth on your neck and his cock hitting deep and his fingers working your clit is so overwhelming that your elbows buckle and your chest drops to the mattress, and the new angle lets him sink impossibly deeper, and you hear him curse behind you, low and fractured and reverent, like he can't believe how good you feel.
"You know what I think about when I'm on stage?" he says, and his voice is low and rough and right against your ear, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck. "I think about this. I think about being inside you. I think about the way you sound and the way you feel and the way you look when you come. Every single performance, there's a moment where I'm singing and I'm thinking about you and I have to focus so hard on the choreography because otherwise I'm going to get hard on stage and that would be a scandal."
"Jake—”
"I'm serious. You have no idea. Every time I do that move in Bite Me, I'm thinking about fucking you. Every time. Every single performance. I've conditioned myself to associate it with the way you clench around me when you come and it's a miracle I haven't embarrassed myself live."
The filth of it, the raw, unfiltered honesty, the image of him on stage thinking about this, about you, about the way your body responds to him, it pushes you right over the edge, and the orgasm tears through you so hard and so fast that your arms give out and your face drops into the pillow and you're moaning his name into the fabric, your walls clenching around him in pulsing waves, and he follows a moment later, his hips jerking erratically, his hands gripping you so tight, his moan of your name dissolving into something raw and broken and so full of love that it makes your eyes sting even through the pleasure.
He collapses beside you, pulling you into him, and you both lie there in the warm morning light, breathless and trembling and so thoroughly, completely happy that words feel inadequate. He presses kisses to your shoulder, your temple, your hair, and you can feel his heartbeat against your back, still racing, still catching up, and his arm tightens around your waist like he's afraid you might disappear.
"Best morning of my life," he murmurs.
"You said that yesterday."
"It's still true. I'm going to say it every morning for the rest of our lives."
"That's a lot of mornings."
"Good. I hope there's a lot of them. I hope there's an infinite number of them and I get to spend every single one with you."
You turn in his arms and kiss him, soft and slow and tasting like forever, and the morning stretches out around you, golden and warm and completely, impossibly full.
"I'm hungry," he announces after a long, lazy moment, his voice muffled against your hair.
"Me too."
"Room service or each other?"
"Jake."
"I'm just saying. Both are valid options." He grins, and it's so boyish and so endearing that you want to bite his face, so you do, leaning in and sinking your teeth gently into his jaw, and he yelps and laughs and rolls you over and pins you to the mattress and kisses you until you're both breathless and giggling and thoroughly, completely, absurdly happy.
You order room service eventually. Greek yogurt with honey and fresh fruit and strong coffee, and you eat it on the terrace in your robes with the sea glittering below you and the sun warm on your faces, and Jake feeds you a strawberry and you feed him a bite of yogurt and it's so domestic and so sweet and so newlywed-coded that you should be embarrassed but you're not, not even a little, because this is your life now, this slow, sweet, ordinary magic of being married to your best friend, and every cliche in the book applies to you and you wear every single one of them like a badge of honor.
The rest of the honeymoon passes in a blur of blue water and white buildings and sun-warmed skin. You take a boat tour of the caldera and Jake gets sunburned on his nose and you take a photo and send it to the group chat and the members respond with approximately seventeen crying-laughing emojis. You try Greek coffee and hate it and Jake loves it and you argue about it for the rest of the day. You buy a painting from a street artist that captures the exact color of the sunset on your first night and you know you're going to hang it in your living room and think about this moment every time you look at it. You dance on the terrace to music playing from Jake's phone, slow-dancing in bare feet with the sea below and the stars above, and he dips you dramatically and you shriek with laughter and he kisses you while you're still upside down and the photo he takes afterward, the two of you disheveled and grinning and so clearly, absurdly in love, becomes your new wallpaper.
On the last night, you sit on the terrace with your feet in the cooling water of the jacuzzi, and Jake is beside you with his arm around your shoulders, and the sunset is painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and gold that look so unreal they might be a filter, and he says, "I don't want to leave," and you say, "Me neither," and he says, "We'll come back. Every year. Anniversary trip. I don't care if we're eighty. I'll carry you up the hill if I have to."
"You'd break your hip."
"Worth it."
You lean into him and watch the sun sink below the horizon and feel the warmth of his body against yours and the weight of the ring on your finger and the fullness of your heart, and you think about the past week, about the lazy mornings and the sunlit afternoons and the starry nights, about the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the world, about the way his hand finds yours without looking, about the way he says "my wife" like it's the most precious phrase in any language, and you think, I am the luckiest person alive, and you mean it with every cell in your body.
On the flight home, you fall asleep on his shoulder within the first hour, and he takes a photo of you sleeping and sets it as his lock screen and doesn't tell you until you're in the car on the way home from the airport and you see it when his phone lights up with a message, and you smack his arm and he laughs and says, "What? You look cute. Peaceful. Mine."
"Jake."
"What? You are mine. Legally. Binding contract. Can't take it back now."
"I wouldn't want to take it back."
His smile softens, and he reaches for your hand and interlaces your fingers and brings them to his lips and kisses your knuckles, right above the ring, and the gesture is so tender and so unconscious and so completely him that you have to look out the window and blink rapidly because you are not going to cry in the back of a taxi, you've cried enough in the past week to fill an ocean, but the tears come anyway because this is your life, this impossibly, overwhelmingly, heartbreakingly beautiful life, and you get to live it with him.
Two days after you get back from Greece, you're sitting on the couch in your apartment, still in the post-honeymoon haze where everything feels slightly unreal and slightly too good to be true, when Jake sits down next to you with his phone in his hand and a look on his face that you recognize as the one he gets when he's about to do something sappy and he knows you're going to give him a hard time about it.
"What?" you ask.
"I want to post something," he says. "About the wedding."
"Okay."
"It's a video. Of the ceremony. When they announced us. And us, you know, being us about it."
"Being us?"
"Laughing and crying and kissing. The whole embarrassing thing."
You smile. "That's my favorite part."
"Mine too. I've watched it like forty times. I'm not exaggerating. My screen time is concerning."
"So post it."
"I want it to be a collab. So it shows on both our accounts." He looks at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression, something like he's asking for permission, like sharing this moment with the world is a big deal and he wants to make sure you're okay with it. "Is that okay?"
You think about it for a moment. About the fans who have been supportive since the beginning, who'd celebrated your engagement and your wedding with a warmth and a sincerity that had surprised you both. About the friends and family who were there, who lived it, who would love to see it preserved and shared. About the fact that your relationship has never been hidden or scandalous or something to be ashamed of, that it's been out in the open from the start, that the world has watched you fall in love and stay in love and now they get to watch you take this next step.
"Yeah," you say. "It's okay. More than okay. I want people to see it."
He smiles, and the relief and the happiness on his face are so genuine that you have to kiss him, so you do, and he laughs against your lips and says, "Okay, okay, let me post it first, then you can kiss me as much as you want."
He opens Instagram, starts a new post, selects the video. You watch over his shoulder as he trims it, cutting it to the most essential part: the officiant's voice saying "I now pronounce you husband and wife," and then the moment after, the two of you laughing through tears as he pulls you in for a kiss, the raw, unfiltered, overwhelming joy of it captured in fifteen seconds of video that somehow contains the entire universe.
He types the caption.
It was simple. The date and a heart. Simple. Corny. Absolutely perfect.
He adds you as a collaborator, and you watch your name appear next to his in the post settings, and the sight of it, your handles side by side, sharing this moment, makes your chest feel too small for your heart.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready."
He hits post.
Within seconds, the notifications start. A trickle at first, then a flood, then a tidal wave of likes and comments and shares that makes both your phones vibrate so hard they nearly vibrate off the coffee table. Comments in Korean and English and Japanese and languages you can't read, all of them variations of the same thing: congratulations, I'm crying, this is so beautiful, you guys deserve all the happiness, MY PARENTS, the screaming crying throwing up emojis, the heart emojis, the ring emojis.
Jake reads them out loud in a running commentary, his voice getting softer and softer as he goes, and when he gets to one that says "I've been following you guys since the beginning and I'm so happy for you," he goes quiet, and you look over and his eyes are bright and wet, and he clears his throat and says, "I'm not crying, you're crying," and you say, "We're both crying," and he laughs, and it comes out thick and wet, and you take the phone out of his hand and set it on the cushion and pull him into your arms and hold him while the notifications keep coming, a constant, warm stream of love from people who have watched your story unfold and are so genuinely, generously happy for the next chapter.
The video plays on a loop in the corner of the screen. The officiant's voice. Your laughter. His tears. The kiss that sealed everything. And underneath it, the date and the heart, the simplest, truest, most Jake caption there could ever be, because what else is there to say about the day your life changed forever except the date it happened and a heart to represent everything that came after.
You hold him on the couch and he holds you back, and the sun sets through the window in a wash of amber and rose that reminds you of Santorini, and you think about the mountain where he proposed and the garden where you married and the island where you loved each other in every way a person can be loved, and you think about the ring on your finger and the man in your arms and the life stretching out in front of you, vast and unknown and so full of possibility that it takes your breath away, and you know, with a certainty that lives deeper than thought, deeper than language, deeper than bone, that you will love him through every single moment of it, and he will love you back, and that will be enough.
It will be more than enough.
It will be everything.
⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
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💿 ࿐ . . heaven by bryan adams
✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !
SUMMARY: once the college’s golden girl, you had it all: endless parties, a popular boyfriend, and flawless grades. but behind the spotlight, your mind was slowly unraveling. pretending everything was fine became exhausting, and for the first time, you didn’t recognize the person staring back at you anymore. then came Sim Jake, the awkward, quiet nerd you never thought twice about, who somehow saw through every carefully built wall around you. and the more your world fell apart, the more he became the only place that still felt safe.
WARNINGS: mutual cheating? (y/n on her bf and her bf on y/n), toxic relationship (not with jake), SMUT, virginity loss, subby!jake, switch!reader, riding, car sex, oral sex (f & m receiving), unprotected sex, missionary, jake is so sensitive ma babe, mentions of anxiety attacks, panic attacks (slight description), pills consumption, jake is silly (we love him), y/n’s anxiety is mentioned A LOT, alcohol consumption, arguing, fightin (no punches actually), slow burn but they had sex, poor decision making (welp), y/n is in denial, mentions of bullying, this is low-key trash (but don’t we all love a little trash sometimes?), mentions of period, jake is VERY desperate, abandonment issues (🙁), i SWEAR it gets better as y/n breaks up with jacob. lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.
NOW PLAYING: Skin by Sabrina Carpenter - I THINK I’M LOST AGAIN by Chase Atlantic - Fame is a Gun by Addison Rae - Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae
a/n: as someone who struggles with anxiety i wanted to bring awareness to how much it can shape your life 💔 i’m sorry i had to divide it in two parts but tumblr is a bitch with a word limit!! hopefully you’ll like it anyways 🩷 STAY TUNED for PART 2!
The dorm room buzzed with the quiet hum of preparation as you stood before the full-length mirror, turning slowly to examine every angle of your reflection.
The deep blue dress hugged your curves in all the right places, the glittery lace on the skirt catching the warm light and scattering it like tiny stars across the walls.
You ran your palms down the fabric, smoothing it over your hips, satisfied with how the halter neckline framed your shoulders.
“You look incredible,” Sophia said from behind you, her voice carrying that familiar note of admiration she always had when you got dressed up.
She was already in her light blue dress, a simple but elegant number that made her skin glow.
She was fixing a loose strand of hair in her own mirror, her lips pursed as she applied a final layer of gloss.
“So do you,” you replied, meeting her eyes in the reflection. “That color suits you.”
She grinned, about to say something when a loud, impatient honk cut through the evening air from outside. Three short blasts, then a longer one, the sound jarring against the quiet campus night.
Sophia moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside just a fraction, peeking out. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise “Holy shit. He really rented a limousine?”
You sighed, already feeling the familiar knot of irritation tighten in your chest.
Of course he did.
Jacob (your boyfriend, unfortunately) never did anything quietly. Everything had to be a spectacle, a performance, a way to show off how much money he could throw around.
It had been charming once, in the beginning, when you were both drunk on the novelty of each other.
Now it just felt... exhausting.
“Do you want a ride?” you asked, grabbing your small clutch purse from the bed and checking that your phone and lipstick were inside.
Sophia laughed, shaking her head. “Absolutely not. I love you, but I really don’t want to witness you two making out the whole way there. My girlfriend is coming to pick me up anyway.”
You blew her a kiss, the gesture light and affectionate. “Fair enough. Text me when you get there.”
“Will do. Have fun and try not to strangle him.” She sang-song.
“No promises.” You stepped out of the dorm room and made your way down the stairs, the click of your heels echoing in the stairwell.
The night air hit you as you pushed open the front door, slightly cool for early autumn.
And there it was, stretched along the curb like a white whale, the limousine.
It was absurdly long, the kind of vehicle that screamed look at me from every polished inch.
The driver of the limousine opened the car door for you, helping you step inside with a kind hand.
“There she is.” Jacob said, his voice already carrying that slight slur that meant he’d started drinking before picking you up.
His tie was loose around his neck and his jacket discarded somewhere on the seat beside him. His eyes were glassy, his smile too wide. “My beautiful girl. Took you long enough.”
“I wasn’t aware I was on a schedule.” you said, smoothing your dress back down and settling into the seat across from him, putting distance between you.
The limousine was spacious, with plush cream leather seats that wrapped around the interior, a mini bar stocked with bottles, and a strip of colored lights along the ceiling that cast everything in a soft, muted glow.
The driver pulled away from the curb without a word, and the limousine glided smoothly through the campus streets.
Jacob reached for you, his fingers grazing your knee. “Come here, dont sit all the way over there.”
“I’m fine here.” You replied with pursed lips.
His jaw tightened, but he let his hand fall back. “Suit yourself.”
The ride to the gala was spent in strained silence punctuated by Jacob’s attempts to make conversation that quickly devolved into complaints.
“Want a drink?” He questioned, holding a glass of what seemed to be whiskey. “You know I can’t.” You replied with a stern look
“Party pooper,” he sneered, "Whatever, more for me.”
You stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, counting the minutes until you could be surrounded by other people and not have to be alone with him.
When the limousine finally pulled up to the venue, you felt a wave of relief.
The building was an modern building that had been converted into an event space, its stone facade draped in white lights and a red carpet was leading up to the grand entrance.
People were milling about in blue suits and gown as the air filled with the murmur of conversation.
Jacob was out of the car first, offering you his hand with the practiced charm of someone who knew people were watching.
You took it, because appearances mattered, and let him lead you inside.
The ballroom was stunning. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting prisms of light across the marble floors. the tables were draped in white linen, they lined the edges of the room and centerpieces of white roses and candles flickering softly.
A bar stretched along one wall, already busy, and a small orchestra played near the far end, their music floating through the air like silk.
You spotted Sophia almost immediately, standing with her girlfriend near one of the tall windows with a glass of champagne in her hand.
She gave you a small wave, and you smiled back.
For the first hour, things were fine. You mingled, you laughed at the right moments, you nodded along to conversations about internships and family businesses and who was dating whom.
Jacob stayed close, his hand on the small of your back, his presence a constant pressure that you tried to ignore. But as the night wore on and the drinks flowed, his grip grew heavier and his touches more insistent.
He started rubbing your hip while you were talking to a professor, his fingers dipping dangerously low to your backside.
You shifted away, giving him a pointed look, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
“Jacob,” you murmured, leaning close to his ear. “Stop.”
“What?” His voice was too loud, his breath hot and sour against your cheek. “I’m just showing you off.”
“You’re being inappropriate.”
His expression darkened. “I’m being your boyfriend. When did you become such a prude?”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “I’m not doing this here.”
“You never want to do anything anymore,” he said, his voice rising. A few nearby heads turned. “You’re always tired, always stressed, always on your fucking pills—”
“Jacob.” Your voice was sharp, a blade. “Don’t.”
But he was already beyond listening. He downed the rest of his drink, set the glass down on a passing tray with more force than necessary, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m done.”
“Don’t make a scene.” You begged.
“Too late.” he said, and stormed off toward the exit, weaving slightly as he pushed through the crowd.
You stood there for a moment, with your hands trembling and your face burning.
Sophia caught your eye, her expression worried, and you could see her starting to move toward you. You shook your head, mouthing “I’m okay.” and followed Jacob out into the night.
The cool air hit you like a slap. The street was quieter there, away from the main entrance as the sounds of the gala muffled behind the thick walls.
Jacob was pacing near the sidewalk with his phone in his hand. “Jacob.” You called.
He spun around with wild eyes. “What?”
“What the hell was that?” You asked. “What the hell was what? Me wanting my girlfriend to actually pay attention to me?” He scoffed.
“I was paying attention to you, I was standing right next to you all night.” you frowned.
“You were ignoring me. Flirting with everyone else.” Jacob accused.
“I wasn’t flirting, I was making conversation. That’s what people do at these things.”
He laughed bitterly, his expression as cold as ice, “You’ve changed, you know that? You used to be fun. Now you’re just... detached. You never want to have sex anymore, you never want to party, you just want to stand around and talk about boring shit.”
You felt something snap inside you. “I’m taking anti-anxiety pills, Jacob. Do you remember that? Do you remember the panic attacks I’ve been having? Do you remember me telling you that the medication makes me feel different? Or do you just not care?”
He stared at you, his mouth open, but no words came out.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, and your voice was steadier than you expected. “I’m not going back inside with you. I’m not getting back in that limousine with you. Go home, Jacob. Sleep it off.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.” He looked at you as if you had grown two heads, or as if he had never heard the world ‘no’ in his life.
“I’m not.” You stood your ground.
He looked at you for a long moment, something shifting in his eyes. Then he turned, pulled out his phone, and started walking down the street, his steps unsteady. “Fine. Whatever. Fucking fine.”
You watched him go until he disappeared around a corner, and then you stood there alone, the night silent around you. You took a deep breath, then another, willing your heartbeat to slow.
You didn’t want to go back inside. You didn’t want to face Sophia’s pitying looks or the whispered speculation of the other guests.
You just wanted to go home.
You started walking, your heels clicking against the pavement, heading toward the main road where you could call a ride.
But you honestly didn’t even want to move, so you sat on a bench near the river and let your tears silently fall.
It all hurt, why couldn’t Jacob try to understand you? Why did he have to make everything about him?
“That was very rude, if you ask me.” You gasped as a voice spoke from your left.
You hadn’t noticed someone was sitting on the other side of the bench
You recognized him vaguely. You had seen the guy around at campus, but his face had never stuck in your memory until that moment. He had thick glasses and styled hair, with a gummy smile.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. My mom always tells me I tend to speak at the wrong moment.” He apologised, glancing away.
You sighed and scooted closer, “No, I think you’re very right.” You tuned toward him. “By the way, you go to Saint Cross’s college too, no?”
He nodded with a quick motion that messed his hair. “Yeah…. I’m Jake.”
“I’m Y/N.” You stepped closer, and he seemed to shrink back, his shoulders hunching. “What are you doing out here?”
“I— uh…” he gulped, “I hadn’t read that the dress code was blue, so I wore this suit.” He pointed at his very white suit. “The waiters are wearing white…”
You let the information sink in before letting out a quiet snort at the weirdness of it all. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
He finally glanced at you, his eyes meeting yours for just a fraction of a second before darting away.
In the dim light, you could see the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Do you… uhm, want some of this?” he questioned, raising the bottle he was drinking.
It was a bright orange liquid that looked like a spiked punch. “Sorry, I’m cutting down on the alcohol.”
“Oh, this is not alcohol.” He replied, shaking the bottle. “This is Gatorade, it’s way past my bed time, i needed the energy.”
As you threw your head back and laughed, you caught sight of the white limousine with the back of your eyes.
An idea formed in your mind, reckless and impulsive, the kind of idea you would have talked yourself out of a year ago.
But tonight, sitting there in your glittery dress with your boyfriend’s abandonment still fresh in your chest, you didn’t feel like talking yourself out of anything.
“Do you want to be my buddy for the night?” you asked.
He blinked. “What?”
“The limousine there? My boyfriend forgot it. Let’s take it for a spin.” You shrugged.
He looked at the car, then at you, then back at the car. “I don’t think that’s—”
“The driver’s paid for the whole night. He’ll drive wherever we want.” You walked over to the driver, who had stubbed out his cigarette and was watching you with mild curiosity. “We’re taking the car out. My boyfriend left, but the night’s still young.”
The driver shrugged, his expression indifferent from when he had opened the door for you just a couple of hours earlier. “You’re the boss.”
You turned back to Jake, who hadn’t moved. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, his hands wrapped around the Gatorade bottle like it was a lifeline. “Come on,” you said, holding out your hand. “I promise I don’t bite.” you sang song.
He hesitated for a long moment, and you thought he might say no, might turn and walk away and go back to whatever quiet corner of the gala he had emerged from.
But then he stepped forward, his fingers brushing against yours, and let you lead him into the limousine.
The interior felt even more opulent now, in the quiet intimacy of just the two of you. The colored lights were still on, casting soft greens and purples across the leather seats.
Jake sat down carefully, as if afraid he might break something.
You sat across from him, watching him. “Have you ever been in a limousine before?” You tried as an ice breaker.
He shook his head. “What about the gala? Do you usually go to those?”
“Not really, but I thought I could try.” He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I think I regretted it as soon as someone asked me to refill their champagne flute.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” you said. “Socializing is overrated.”
He looked at you then, a real look, his eyes searching your face as if trying to figure out if you were being genuine or mocking him.
You held his gaze, and something in his expression softened.
The driver’s voice came through the intercom. “Where to?”
You looked at Jake. “Anywhere you want.” He thought about it, biting his lower lip. “I don’t know. Just... around?”
“Around it is.” you said to the driver, and the limousine pulled away from the curb, gliding into the night.
The first few minutes were awkward, filled with the kind of silence that felt heavy with unspoken things.
Jake stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, while you studied him from across the car.
He had nice hands, you noticed. Long fingers, neatly trimmed nails. He was nervous, you could tell, from the way he kept fidgeting with the bottle cap, the way his leg bounced slightly.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence. “Let’s see what this thing can do.”
He turned to you, curious. “What do you mean?”
You reached over and pressed a button on the console. The ceiling lights shifted, changing from soft green to a warm blue.
You pressed another button, and a small television screen descended from the roof. Another, and a panel slid open to reveal a karaoke machine, complete with microphones.
Jake’s eyes went wide. “That’s insane.”
“Right?” You pressed another button, and the mini bar lit up, revealing rows of tiny bottles. “Do you want a drink?”
“I, uh, I don’t really—”
You nodded, “It’s okay, you’re not a drinker.”
He shook his head, looking almost embarrassed. “I’ve never had any alcohol.”
“What?” You sat up straighter, genuinely shocked. “Never? Not even a sip of beer?”
“My parents don’t drink,” he said, shrugging. “And I never really saw the appeal.”
“Well, tonight you’re trying tequila.” You pulled out two small shot glasses and a bottle of Tequila, setting them on the counter. “Consider it a rite of passage… I’ll even have a shot with you, come on.”
He looked nervous, but there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “Okay.”
You poured the shots, sliding one toward him. He picked it up, examining the clear liquid like it might bite him. “Do I just... drink it?”
“Lick the salt, take the shot, suck the lime,” you said, demonstrating with practiced ease. You set up a small line of salt on the back of your hand, licked it, downed the shot, and bit into a lime wedge, the sourness cutting through the burn.
He watched you, then attempted to copy your movements. His hand shook slightly as he lifted the shot glass, and he winced as the tequila hit his throat, coughing and sputtering. “That’s— that’s strong!”
You laughed, genuinely. “It gets easier. Trust me.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and when he looked at you, there was a smile on his face. It transformed his features and made him look younger. “I feel warm.”
“That’s the alcohol. Give it a few minutes.” You poured another round, then another. The third shot went down smoother, and by the fourth, Jake was laughing at something you said, with his head thrown back and his shoulders relaxed.
The awkwardness had melted away, replaced by an easy, electric energy that filled the limousine like the colored lights.
“Show me the karaoke.” he said, his voice looser now, the words slightly slurred.
You grabbed one of the microphones and handed him the other. “What are we singing?”
He scrolled through the options, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t know any of these.”
“Pick the first one you recognize.”
He stopped on a song, and when the opening chords started playing, you recognized it immediately. Lana del Rey’s National Anthem notes filled the car. He started singing, his voice tentative at first, then growing bolder as you joined in, your voices blending together in a harmony that was probably terrible but felt incredible. It was crazy how much he knew the lyrics, singing his heart out.
At some point, you slid closer to him on the seat, your shoulders brushing, and he didn’t pull away.
When the song ended, the silence that followed was different. The air between you felt thick, heavy with possibility. He was looking at you, his eyes dark in the dim light, his lips slightly parted.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “For tonight. I was... I was really nervous about coming here. I almost didn’t.”
“Thank you for being my knight in shining armor for the night.” you said, and you meant it.
He smiled again, that soft, transforming smile, and something in your chest fluttered. Without really thinking, you leaned closer and pressed a small kiss on his cheek.
A broken sound left his throat and he turned around, shielding himself from you.
“Jake?” You asked, your brows furrowing in worry, “I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?”
“No, no, it’s okay…” He said, his voice strained.
You took a better glance at him and… Oh.
His hands were shielding his crotch from your sight and you chuckled, “Are you hard?”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “It’s just that… I’ve never been kissed by a pretty girl.”
“I could eat you alive,” you laughed softly, turning him towards you again, “You are so cute.”
“Thank you.” He blushed, actually blushed, and looked away from you. You suddenly felt a strange sensation, a warmth inside of you. After two years of being treated like an afterthought from your own boyfriend, Jake’s gentle nature was a stark contrast.
“Do you want me to kiss you? On your lips?” You asked quietly, and his eyes widened comically. “I mean, I would like it… But only if you want to? I should probably have a mint first, though.”
“Oh my God.” You laughed, fisted his shirt and pulled him towards you.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, your lips brushing against his like a question.
He responded slowly and unsure, his hand coming up to rest on your arm as if he needed something to steady himself.
You deepened the kiss, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips, and he opened for you with a soft, surprised sound.
He tasted like tequila and lime, and you kissed him until you were both breathless, until his hands moved from your arm to your waist, pulling you closer.
Your hand drifted from his knee to his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath your fingers.
He was wearing dress pants, the fabric smooth and warm. You traced circles on his thigh, watching his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed and the way his breath hitched.
“Is this okay?” you asked.
“Yes,” he breathed. “God, yes.”
You moved slowly, wanting to savor every moment. Your hand slid higher, until you could feel the heat of him through the fabric, the growing hardness that made your own body respond in kind.
He gasped when you palmed him, his hips bucking slightly into your touch.
“You’re so beautiful,” you murmured against his neck, pressing kisses along his jaw. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
He shook his head, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress. “No one’s ever... told me that.”
You pulled back, meeting his eyes. “Then they were blind.”
He kissed you again, hungrier this time, his hands exploring your body with a clumsy, earnest desperation that made your heart ache.
He traced the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the lace of your dress. When his fingers brushed against your breast, he pulled back as if burned.
“Sorry,” he said, his cheeks flushing. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” You took his hand and guided it back to your chest, letting him feel the weight of you through the fabric. “You can touch me. I want you to.” With one hand, you reached for the ‘Do Not Disturb’ button near the window, so the driver would know not to intrude.
He looked at you, his eyes wide and vulnerable, and then his hand moved again, cupping your breast with a reverence that made your breath catch. He was gentle, almost afraid, but there was a curiosity in his touch that was intoxicating.
You reached behind your neck and untied the halter strap, letting the front of your dress fall forward. His eyes went widen as his gaze fixed on your breasts, the peaks that tightened under his stare.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
You laughed softly. “Have you never seen a pair of boobs before?”
He shook his head, his cheeks burning. “I mean, I’ve seen them in movies and stuff, but not... not like this. Not in real life.”
You widened your eyes… fuck! He was a virgin.
“Oh my God,” you said, your body stopping. “We can stop if you want, if you don’t want your first time to be here. I understand.”
“No, no, no.” He begged, nodding his head so much you thought it would fall down, “I want you— want it… please? I’ll be a good boy.”
You searched for his eyes, and when you found sincerity, you guided his hand to your bare skin, and he let out a shaky breath.
His touch was tentative, his warm fingers brushing against your nipple with a featherlight pressure that sent a shiver down your spine.
He looked at you, checking, making sure he wasn’t hurting you. “You’re doing great,” you encouraged. “Just keep going.”
He grew bolder, his hand cupping your breast as his thumb rubbed circles around your nipple until it peaked against his palm.
You leaned into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips, and the sound seemed to spur him on. “Can I...” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to your mouth.
“Yes.”
He kissed you again, his hand still on your breast, and you felt the last of his reservations melt away. He was kissing you like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment, like he was afraid it might disappear if he stopped. And in a way, you realized, he probably had been.
Your hand found his belt, working the buckle open with practiced ease. You smiled, soft and genuine, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “let me take care of you.”
You sank to your knees on the plush carpet of the limousine floor, your dress pooling around you like spilled ink.
He watched you, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as his hands gripped the edge of the seat.
You unfastened his pants, pulling them down along with his boxers, and then you saw him.
You sucked in a breath. He was huge. Thick and long, veined and flushed, standing proud against his stomach.
For a virgin, he was packing more than most experienced men you’d been with. You looked up at him, and he was staring down at you with wide, terrified eyes.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” you said, your voice husky. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re just... wow.”
He didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, so you didn’t give him time to. You leaned forward and took him in your mouth.
He cried out, a high, desperate sound, his hips bucking instinctively. You held him steady, your hand wrapped around the base of his shaft and your tongue swirled around the head.
He was already slick with precum, and you moaned at the taste of him.
“Oh god,” he gasped, his fingers threading through your hair. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
You took him deeper, your throat relaxing to accommodate his size. He was so thick that it was a stretch, but you loved the feeling, the fullness of him filling your mouth.
You bobbed your head, setting a rhythm as your hand worked what you couldn’t reach.
He was vocal, more vocal than you expected. Little whimpers and moans escaped him with every movement of your head with his hips twitching and his grip on your hair tightening. He was a mess, and you loved every second of it.
“I’m— I’m close,” he warned, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”
You doubled your efforts, taking him as deep as you could, and he came with a shuddering cry, his release hot and thick in your throat.
You swallowed it all, every drop, and when you pulled back, he was panting, his eyes glassy, his body trembling. “Fuck,” he whispered, the word falling from his lips like a prayer.
You wiped your mouth and climbed back onto the seat beside him, your body humming with arousal. He looked at you, and there was something new in his eyes. Wonder, maybe. Or worship.
“That was...” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “It gets better,” you said, reaching for the zipper of your dress. “Trust me.”
You stood, shimmying the dress completely down your body until it pooled at your feet, leaving you in nothing but a scrap of lace that barely covered you. He stared, his mouth open, his spent cock already beginning to stir again.
“Can I touch you?” he asked, his voice reverent.
“I was hoping you’d ask.” You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your thighs bracketing his hips. He was hard again, pressing against your stomach, and you reached down to guide him to your entrance. You were wet, so wet, your body ready for him.
“Look at me,” you said, and he did. “I’m going to go slow. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He nodded, his hands finding your waist, his grip gentle but firm.
You sank down onto him, inch by agonizing inch. He stretched you, filled you, and you cried out at the sensation, your head falling back.
He was so big, hitting places inside you that you had forgotten existed. He groaned, his fingers digging into your hips as his eyes squeezed shut.
“You feel so good,” he gasped. “So fucking good.”
You began to move in a slow, steady rhythm, your hips rocking against his. He met your movements, his own hips rising to meet you, and soon you found a groove, the two of you moving together like you had been doing this for years.
He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss, sloppy and desperate, his tongue tangling with yours.
“Is there something that might make you feel good?” He asked, pulling away and watching you with his big, dark eyes.
You smiled, gripped his hair and gently guided his lips to your breast. As if in command, he parted his lips and took your nipple in his mouth, tongue swirling around the tip.
You moaned softly, the sensation combined with his cock inside you almost too much.
He gently bit the swollen skin, making you arch your back and whelp.
“Did I hurt you?” He asked, looking up at you again. You shook your head and gripped his shoulders, “You’re doing so good.” You quickened your pace.
“I’m not going to last.” he admitted, his forehead pressed against yours.
“That’s okay,” you breathed. “Come for me, Jake. Let go.”
He did, with a broken cry, his hips stuttered as he spilled inside you.
The feeling of him pulsing, of his warmth filling you, sent you over the edge as well, your own orgasm crashing through you in waves, your body clenching around him.
You collapsed against him, your skin slick with sweat. He held you, his arms wrapped around you and his lips pressed gently to your hair.
The energy drained from you quickly, from the exertion of sex, the alcohol in your body and the drowsiness from the pills.
Your eyelids dropped slowly, until your eyes were fully closed.
In your sleepy state, you murmured, “Thank you, Jacob.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
“I fucked up,” you said, the confession spilling out before you could stop it.
The words tasted like ash on your tongue as you slumped into the chair across from Sophia.
The west library was nearly empty at this hour, the pale morning light filtering through the tall arched windows, casting long shadows across the wooden tables.
Sophia looked up from her laptop, her eyebrows furrowing.
She had been away at her girlfriend’s place for the weekend, and you had deliberately avoided texting her, not wanting to drag her into the mess you had created.
But now, sitting across from her, the weight of the weekend pressed down on your chest like a physical force.
“What happened?” she asked, closing her laptop and giving you her full attention.
You took a shaky breath, your fingers curling around the edge of the table. “I… I deflowered a guy.”
Her eyes widened, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Wait, you finally broke up with Jacob? Good for you—”
“No,” you cut in, your voice sharp. “I didn’t break up with him.”
The smile froze on her face. “What do you mean you didn’t break up with him? You had that huge fight at the gala. I thought that was it.”
“We didn’t officially break up,” you said, your throat tightening. “We just… fought. And then I went and had sex with someone else while we are still together.”
Sophia leaned back in her chair, processing the information. Her fingers tapped against the table, a nervous habit you recognized. “Okay. Okay, I’m not judging you. But… who?”
You shook your head, your gaze dropping to your hands. “I can’t tell you. I’m not sure he wants people to know.”
“Y/N, you have to tell me—”
“I can’t, Sophia. Please.” You cut her off.
She sighed, her expression softening. “Alright. I trust you. But how did it happen? Wait, was it the limo driver?”
“No, no.” You let out a hollow laugh. “It was someone from college. I was angry and hurt, and I just… I invited him into the limousine. One thing led to another.”
You remembered the warmth of his body, the way he had held you afterward, the tenderness in his touch that had felt so different from Jacob’s demanding hands. “I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was in my room, wearing my dress. I think he put it back on me. He carried me upstairs and he even bought me Plan B.”
“Aw, he was a gentleman,” Sophia teased, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
You bristled, your jaw tightening. “This isn’t funny, Sophia. I cheated on my boyfriend.”
“Y/N, listen to me.” She reached across the table, her hand covering yours. “Jacob has been a dismissive asshole for months. You two were going to fall apart anyway. This was just the last drop.”
The words stung, hitting a nerve you hadn’t expected. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what we have.”
“I know you’ve been miserable,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I know you’ve been crying in the bathroom after your phone calls with him, I know he makes you feel small about your anxiety. That’s not love, Y/N.”
You pulled your hand away, anger flaring in your chest. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m just being honest.” She shrugged.
“Well, I didn’t ask for your honesty.” You stood up, grabbing your bag from the floor. “I told you because I needed to get it off my chest, not because I wanted you to trash my relationship.”
Sophia’s face fell. “Y/N, I didn’t mean—”
“I have to go.” You stalked toward the exit as your vision blurred with unshed tears.
The library’s heavy oak doors loomed ahead, promising escape, but before you could reach them, you collided with something solid.
The impact sent you stumbling backward, your bag slipping from your shoulder. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry—” you started, bending down to gather your things.
“It’s okay.” The voice was soft, familiar. You looked up, and your heart stopped.
Jake.
He was standing there, dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans, his dark brown hair falling across his forehead.
He looked as startled as you felt, his hands frozen mid-motion, as if he had been about to help you but had stopped himself.
“Jake,” you breathed, straightening up. “I… hi.”
“Hi.” He glanced around, as if looking for an escape route, but that library wing was empty except for the two of you.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “About Friday. I shouldn’t have… I mean, I was drunk, and I took advantage of you, and I—”
“You didn’t take advantage of me,” he said, cutting you off. His voice was quiet but steady. “I wanted to. I said yes.”
“But I am in a relationship.” You pressed a hand to your forehead, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “That was wrong. It doesn’t mean you did anything bad— you were actually… very good. Really good. But it was still wrong of me.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I understand.” He paused, then added, “Can I go now?”
“Wait.” You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve.
He flinched but didn’t pull away. “Did you… were you the one who took care of me? After we… you know.”
He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked away. “Yeah, I did.”
“Why?” You frowned.
He was silent for a long moment, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. “Because you murmured Jacob's name. You said it in your sleep, and I… I felt guilty. Like I had done something wrong. So I got you dressed, as best as I could. The driver knew your address from the gala pickup. I carried you up to your room and left you on your bed.”
Your heart ached at the image. Him, struggling to zip up your dress, lifting you in his arms and climbing the stairs to your dorm. “You also bought me Plan B.”
He shrugged, a small, self-conscious motion. “I didn’t know if you were on anything. I wanted to be safe.”
“I’m on birth control,” you said. “So you don’t have to worry about that.”
He nodded again, his eyes still avoiding yours. “Okay, good.”
“Can you keep this a secret?” you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Please… I don’t want anyone to know. Especially not Jacob.”
He met your gaze then, and something in his expression softened. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty library, and you watched him go, a knot of guilt and confusion tightening in your stomach.
“Jake?” You called out, and he stopped in his tracks. He turned around, just slightly, letting you know that he was listening. “You didn’t deserve that… me saying his name.”
He gave you a forced smile, “It’s okay.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The afternoon sun was harsh, slanting through the windows of the college cafe and casting everything in a golden, unforgiving light.
You spotted Jacob immediately, standing in line with his friends Juyeon and Justin. He was laughing at something Justin said, his head thrown back with an easy smile.
You walked over, your heart pounding in your chest. “Jacob.”
The laughter stopped immediately. He looked up at you, and the warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, distant expression. “What do you want?”
“Can we talk? Please. Just for a minute.” You begged.
He took a sip of his coffee, deliberately slow. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Jacob, please.” You could feel Juyeon and Justin watching, their eyes boring into you. “I know we fought. I know I said some things, but I don’t want to leave it like this. Can we just… talk it out?”
He set the cup down on the counter with a sharp clink. “You made yourself pretty clear at the gala. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ Those were your words.”
“I was upset and angry. You were drinking, and you were being inappropriate.”
“So it’s my fault?” His voice rose, and a few heads turned. “Everything is always my fault.”
“That’s not what I’m saying—” He cut you off. “You know what? I don’t want to hear it.” He turned back to his friends, effectively dismissing you.
Humiliation burned through you, hot and sharp. You could feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.
Not here. Not in front of him.
“Fine,” you said, your voice cold. “Go fuck yourself, Jacob.”
You turned and stormed out of the cafe, the door swinging shut behind you with a bang.
The cool air hit your face, and you took a deep, shuddering breath, your hands clenching into fists at your sides.
You heard footsteps behind you. “Y/N— Y/N, wait.”
Jacob had followed you outside, with his hands in his pockets and his expression no longer cold.
“What?” you snapped, turning to face him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words seemed to cost him something. “I shouldn’t have… I’ve been an asshole.”
“You think?” You raised an eyebrow.
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of agitation. “Justin and Juyeon, they told me to come after you. They said I was being an idiot.”
“Yeah? And now that your friends told you what I’ve been telling you for a while, what so you think?”
He was quiet for a moment, the traffic noise filling the silence until he broke it. “I think I miss you… I miss us. But I don’t know how to fix this.”
You stared at him, and for the first time in a long time, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes. Not the cocky, dismissive Jacob who made jokes about your issues. Just a guy who was scared of losing someone.
“You make me feel insecure,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You make me feel embarrassed about my own issues. I hate when you act like taking my anxiety pills is a bad thing. Yes, they lower my libido. Yes, they make me feel numb sometimes. But at least I’m not waking up in the middle of the night thinking I’m going to choke on my own breath.”
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch your arm. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
You pulled away. “Because you never asked.”
He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I just… I miss the fun we used to have. The spontaneous sex, the parties, the laughing. I don’t know how to handle the change.”
“It’s not a change I wanted,” you said, your voice breaking. “It’s just my life now.”
He pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly.
You hesitated for a moment, then melted into his embrace, your face pressed against his chest. His scent was familiar, comforting, and for a moment, you let yourself believe that everything could go back to the way it was.
But in the back of your mind, you couldn’t stop replaying the feeling of Jake’s arms around you that Friday night.
The way he had held you, tender and careful, as if you were something precious. The way he had looked at you, with wonder and awe, as if you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
You pushed the thought away, burying it deep.
“I’ll try to be more considerate,” Jacob murmured into your hair. “I promise.”
“Thank you.” you whispered, and you held him tighter.
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The living room was buzzing with conversation, voices mixed with the occasional burst of laughter.
Streamers hung from the ceiling, and a banner reading “CONGRATULATIONS MINA!” was taped across the wall above the couch.
Pizza boxes were scattered across the coffee table, alongside bottles of beer and soda.
Mina was glowing, her arm wrapped around Juyeon’s waist with a radiant smile. “I still can’t believe I got it, they really gave me a prize for getting straight As.” she said for the fifth time, and everyone cheered again.
You smiled, raising your can of coke in a toast, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes.
Your mind was elsewhere, fixated on the economic principles test you had tomorrow.
The formulas, the graphs, the theories— they swirled in your head like a storm, and no matter how hard you tried to focus on the celebration, the anxiety crept in, cold and insistent.
Your hands started to tremble.
You set the can down, not trusting yourself to hold it.
Your heart was pounding too hard, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The room suddenly felt too loud, too bright, the laughter grating against your ears.
You needed air. You needed space.
You excused yourself, your voice barely audible, and walked to the bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind you, and you leaned against it, your chest heaving.
The mirror reflected a pale, frightened version of yourself with wide eyes, flushed cheeks and hands shaking so badly you could barely unzip your purse.
The pills bottle rattled as you fumbled with the cap. Your fingers felt like clumsy sausages, and you nearly dropped them twice before finally managing to twist open the lid.
You tapped out two small tablets, brought them to your mouth and cupped your hand under the faucet to drink the water directly.
The pills went down with a struggle, and you gripped the edge of the sink, waiting for them to take effect.
But the panic was still there, clawing at the edges of your consciousness.
The bathroom door creaked open.
Sophia stood in the doorway, her expression soft with concern. She had always known when something was wrong, had always been able to read you like a book. “Oh… my poor baby.”
She crossed the small space and wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace.
You broke down, the tears spilling over, your body shaking against hers. You cried for the guilt you carried, for the confusion, for the way you felt torn between two worlds and undeserving of either.
Even if you had been mad at her, even if you had stormed off a couple of days before, she still held you.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered, stroking your hair. “I’ve got you.”
It took a long time for the sobs to subside. When they did, you pulled back, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “I’m sorry. I ruined the party.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. Are you okay now?” She asked, worried.
You nodded, though the lie was obvious. “I think so.”
“Do you want to go home? Mina won’t mind.” Sophia offered.
You glanced toward the door, thinking of Jacob out there, laughing with his friends. “If I leave, Jacob will get mad. He’ll say I’m ruining his night.”
“He can fuck himself,” Sophia said firmly. “I’ll drive you home, mh?.”
You hesitated, but the thought of staying in that noisy room, surrounded by people who didn’t understand, was unbearable. “Okay.”
You washed your face, the cold water soothing your flushed skin.
Sophia handed you a towel, and you patted your face dry, trying to look more presentable. Together, you walked back into the living room.
“Hey, guys,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’m not feeling great, so I’m going to head out. Congratulations again, Mina.”
Mina’s face softened with sympathy. “Oh, Y/N, I hope you feel better. Get some rest.”
Jacob looked up from his conversation with Justin. He didn’t ask if you were okay and neithr did he reach out to touch you. He just leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to your lips, and turned back to his friend.
Something inside you cracked.
You walked out of the house without looking back.
The car ride was silent, the streetlights casting shifting shadows across the dashboard.
Sophia didn’t push you to talk, and you were grateful for that. When you reached your dorm, she waited while you changed into your pajamas, then hovered by the door.
“Do you want me to sleep beside you?” she asked, her voice gentle. “We can have a pajama party, just like in junior year.”
You shook your head. “I just need to be alone.”
She nodded, her eyes filled with worry. “Call me if you need anything, okay? I’m right next door.”
“I will.” You promised.
She left, and you climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin.
The room was dark, the only sound being the faint hum of the heater.
You closed your eyes and tried to sleep, but the guilt followed you into the darkness, a shadow you couldn’t escape.
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The library was quiet, as you were hunched over your laptop at one of the corner tables, the glow of the screen illuminating your tired face.
A cup of cold coffee sat beside you, untouched for the last hour. Your eyes burned from staring at the same paragraph about macroeconomic indicators, the words blurring together until they lost all meaning.
You had barely slept in three days.
Every time you closed your eyes, the weight of upcoming exams pressed down on your chest, and your mind would start racing about formulas, deadlines and expectations.
You would toss and turn, check the clock, calculate how many hours of sleep you could still get, and then panic because it was never enough.
By the time dawn crept through your curtains, you gave up, dragging yourself to the library before the sun was fully up.
Now it was mid-afternoon, and exhaustion clung to you like a second skin.
Your phone buzzed, the notification sharp in the quiet room. You glanced at the screen, expecting a text from Sophia or maybe Jacob.
Instead, you saw the college email app, a new message marked with a red exclamation.
You tapped it open and your heart plummeted.
It was from your professor, he had scheduled another test. A quiz for your economic theory class. The date was in four days, right in the middle of the week you had already dedicated to three other finals.
You stared at the screen, your breath catching in your throat.
A full week of tests.
You had been cramming for the ones you already knew about, and now this.
How were you supposed to cover everything? How were you supposed to keep your grades up? It was barely November, and you were already drowning.
Your hands began to tremble.
The spiral came fast, vicious, and merciless. Your mind raced through worst-case scenarios: failing the class, disappointing your parents, watching their proud faces fall into confusion and shame. They bragged about your straight As to their friends, to your relatives back home.
If you failed, what would they say? What would they think?
Your chest constricted, the air turning thick and unbreathable. You tried to take a deep breath, but it caught somewhere in your throat with a strangled gasp.
Your vision started to tunnel, the edges of the library fading into a dark blur.
You needed your pills.
You grabbed your backpack with clumsy fingers and unzipped the main compartment. You fumbled inside, your hand searching desperately for the familiar plastic bottle.
But all you found were notebooks, a pen case and a half-eaten granola bar. No pills.
You had left them in the kitchen cupboard. You remembered now— you had taken your morning dose, and then you had been in such a hurry to get to the library that you had forgotten to put the bottle back in your bag.
Panic surged through you, hot and suffocating. You slammed the backpack shut, tears already pricking at your eyes.
You couldn't stay here. You couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in, the silence too loud, and the fluorescent lights too bright.
You abandoned everything and stumbled out of the library. Packing up would take too long. Every second felt like an eternity, and you needed air, space, somewhere quiet where you could fall apart without an audience.
The hallway stretched before you, long and empty, the floor tiles a dizzying pattern of white and gray. Your footsteps echoed, uneven as your vision blurred at the edges.
You walked, then stumbled and then fell to your knees, your hands pressing against the cold floor.
Your lungs were being crushed. Each breath was a battle, your chest heaving abs a high-pitched wheezes escaping your lips.
The world tilted, the walls swirling around you. You couldn't hear anything over the roaring in your ears.
Then, through the chaos you heard a voice. Distant at first, like someone calling from the other end of a long tunnel. “Y/N? Y/N!”
It was warm and familiar, but you couldn't place it, you couldn't focus. Your body was shaking too hard and your mind too tangled in panic.
Strong arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the floor. You felt yourself being guided, your feet dragging and your weight leaning against a solid chest. The voice kept talking, soft and steady, but the words were muffled, lost in the static of your panic.
You were sitting now, your back against something hard and your knees pulled up to your chest.
The voice was clearer now, right in front of you. “Y/N, look at me. Follow my breathing.”
You blinked as your vision slowly cleared.
A face emerged from the blur: dark hair falling across a worried forehead, glasses slightly askew, and brown eyes full of concern.
Jake.
He was crouched in front of you, his hands gentle on your shoulders. He took a slow, deliberate breath in, then let it out, long and even. “Breathe with me. In… out. In… out.”
You tried, but your breath hitched, stuttered. He didn't rush you. He just kept breathing, slow and patient, his eyes locked on yours. He reached for your hand and placed it on his chest, over his heart. You could feel it beating, steady and strong, a rhythm to anchor yourself to.
“Feel that? Just follow it. You're safe.” You focused on the warmth of his chest under your palm, the rise and fall of his breathing. You matched it, in and out, each breath a little deeper, a little slower.
Your vision cleared completely, now you could make out that you were in a storage room, surrounded by shelves stacked with boxes and old filing cabinets. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dim light over you both.
Jake was still crouched in front of you, his face very close to yours. He was watching you carefully, with brows furrowed with concern. “You’re back?” he asked softly.
You nodded, then shook your head, frustrated. Tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable. “I'm such a mess,” you choked out, your voice cracking.
You brought your hands to your hair, pulling at the strands, as if you could punish yourself for your own weakness.
“Hey, hey, don't,” Jake said, gently prying your hands away from your head. He held them in his, his long fingers warm and steady, unlike your cold and trembling ones. “It's okay. You're okay.”
But you weren't okay. You were shaking again, this time from the release of tension, from the shame of falling apart in front of him. The tears came harder, sobs wracking your body that you couldn't stop.
Without a word, Jake pulled you into his arms. He hugged you, one hand cradling the back of your head as the other rubbed slow circles on your back.
You buried your face in his shoulder, breathing in his scent. You melted into him, letting yourself be held, letting the tears soak into his hoodie.
He didn't say anything. He just held you, his heartbeat steady against your cheek, his arms a safe harbor in the storm.
Minutes passed and slowly, the sobs quieted, your breathing evening out.
You pulled back, wiping your face with the back of your hand. Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled tissue, handing it to you with a small, shy smile.
“Thanks.” you whispered, blowing your nose.
He waited until you had composed yourself, then asked, “What do you need?”
You took a shaky breath. “I want to go home. I can't… I can't be here right now.”
He nodded, already standing up. “I'll drive you. I don’t have any more classes.
Your heart squeezed, once again he was saving you. “I left my backpack and laptop on the table… can you get them for me? The backpack is pink and the laptop has a landscape wallpaper.”
“Got it. Stay here, I'll be right back.” He slipped out of the storage room, leaving you alone in the quiet.
A few minutes later, Jake returned, your pink backpack slung over one shoulder and your laptop case in his other hand. “Found them,” he said, a little breathless. “No one took anything.”
“Thank you,” you said, your voice small.
He offered you a hand, and you took it. His grip was firm, as he helped you to your feet. He stayed close, one hand hovering near your elbow, ready to catch you if you stumbled.
His car was parked in the student lot, an old BMW with a few dents and a faded paint job.
It wasn't fancy, but it was clean inside, the seats worn but comfortable. He opened the passenger door for you, waited until you were seated, then closed it gently.
The drive to your apartment was quiet. He turned on the radio, low, some soft indie station filling the space with gentle guitar strums. You leaned your head against the window, watching the streets pass by, the familiar landmarks blurring together.
When he parked outside your building, he grabbed your bags and followed you up the stairs. You unlocked the door, stepped inside, and he set your things down by the entrance.
“You can stay,” you said, your voice hesitant. “If you want.”
He hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Are you sure? I don't want to intrude.”
“You're not intruding. I… I think I need company. And you just drove here.” You shrugged.
He nodded slowly, then stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
You led him to the living room, a small space with a comfortable sofa and a coffee table cluttered with textbooks and empty mugs you and Sophia were too lay to clean up. You sat down, and he sat beside you, leaving a respectable distance.
You let out a bitter laugh, rubbing your face with your hands. “God, I'm such a mess.”
“You're not a mess,” he said quietly. “You're dealing with a lot.”
“Do you want to take a shower?” he asked after a pause. “Maybe you’ll feel better. I usually do.”
A real smile tugged at your lips. “A shower sounds nice, actually, thank you.”
“Do you need help?” He asked, then cringed, “Sorry, too much?”
“Thank you for the thought,” you called behind your shoulder. “But I can manage.”
You went to your room, grabbed a pair of soft sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, and stepped into the bathroom.
The hot water was a blessing, washing away the tension and the lingering panic. You stood under the stream for a long time, letting it beat against your shoulders, your mind slowly quieting.
When you came out, wrapped in a towel, you changed into the comfortable clothes. you walked back to the living room, and the smell hit you— chicken noodle soup.
Jake was in your kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove. He turned when he heard you, his eyes softening. “You look better.”
“I feel better.” You sat on the sofa, and he brought you a bowl, a spoon and a napkin. He had even set out a glass of water.
You took the bowl, the warmth seeping into your cold hands. “Thank you, Jake… really.”
“It's no problem.” After a few spoonfuls, he asked, “Does this happen often?”
You sighed, setting the bowl on your lap. “In periods of high stress, yes. It got better over the summer. But now I'm a senior, and the pressure is… a lot.”
He nodded, not pushing for more. You finished the soup, feeling the warmth spread through your body. You set the bowl aside and stood up, walking to the kitchen cabinet where you kept your pill bottles. You popped two into your mouth and washed them down with water.
When you turned back, Jake was watching you, his expression unreadable. “I'm sorry,” you said, sinking back onto the sofa. “You had to take care of me again.”
He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “I'm glad I was able to help you. Again. I'd do it again if you needed me to.”
Your heart ached at his words. “You're too kind.” He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “Do the pills have side effects?”
You blinked at the question. It was so practical, so Jake. Nobody had really paid attention to that part of you, except for Sophia and Mina. “They make me drowsy and numb sometimes. The doctor said they can lower also my sex drive.”
He let out a small chuckle, the sound surprising you. “Well, it didn't seem that low in the limousine.”
Your cheeks burned. He caught himself, his eyes widening, and he quickly added, “Sorry, I didn't mean to bring that up. I promised you not to.”
“It's okay,” you said, your voice soft. “You're right, maybe being treated with care was a turn-on.”
The air in the room shifted. He looked at you, his gaze lingering on your lips, then meeting your eyes. “I could take care of you…” Jake said, his voice low. “If you wanted.”
Your breath caught and he took it as an invitation to move closer and cup your jaw. Tentatively, he kissed your lips.
You answered by deepening it, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you closer.
As realization dawned, you parted, breathless, and said, “We should stop. I'm still with Jacob.”
He pressed his forehead against yours. “Shush,” he whispered, and kissed you again.
You let yourself be pulled under. He laid you down on the sofa, his body covering yours, careful and gentle. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, then he pulled back, his cheeks flushed and his glasses slightly fogged.
“I watched some tutorials,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “On… eating someone out. Do you want that?”
You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. “You watched tutorials?”
“I wanted to be good at it,” he said, his ears reddening. “For you.”
“Yes,” Your heart melted. “I want that.”
He smiled, a shy, sweet smile, and then he moved down your body. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants and tugged them down. he kissed your thighs, down to your hips, and then the sensitive skin of your inner legs, each kiss sending shivers through you.
Then he gently pulled your panties aside, lowered his head, and his tongue touched you.
Your back arched, it had been a long while since someone touched you like that. He was hesitant at first, then more confident, finding a rhythm that had you seeing stars.
His tongue traced circles, dipped inside, then moved up to your clit. He sucked gently, his nose pressing against you, and you cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair.
He moaned against you, the vibration sending a jolt through your core. You bucked up, grinding against his mouth, and he groaned, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Is this okay?” He questioned.
“Don’t talk,” you breathed out, “Just lick.”
“Yes ma’am.” And he delved in again. His movements were clumsy, as if he was following a certain pattern in his mind. It felt good nonetheless, uour while body on fire.
The pleasure built, coiling low in your belly, and when you came, it crashed over you like a wave, your body convulsing, a broken cry escaping your lips.
He didn't stop until you had ridden it out, then he lifted his head, his lips glossy and his eyes dark.
You noticed the wet patch on his pants, dark and obvious. “Did you cum already?” you asked, your voice hoarse.
He looked down, then back at you as his cheeks painted of a crimson. “Eating you out was really hot.”
You laughed softly, pulling him up to kiss him again. You tasted yourself on his lips and your hand moved to his waistband, but he caught your wrist.
“Today is about you.” he said, his voice firm but gentle. He kissed you again, slow and deep.
He caressed your body, his hands tracing your curves, your breasts, your waist. He kissed you for what felt like hours, worshipping every inch of you. You guided his face to your neck, and when his lips pressed against the sensitive skin, goosebumps erupted across your body.
He kissed, licked, nipped, and you moaned, the sensation reigniting the heat between your legs.
Time lost meaning. You made out on the sofa, tangled together, his hands exploring you as your fingers threaded through his hair.
But the drowsiness from the pills began to seep in and your eyelids grew heavy.
He noticed, so he pulled back with a soft smile on his face. He fixed his glasses, which had gone askew, and gently pulled your sweatpants back up, tucking your panties into place.
Then he scooped you up, carrying you to your bedroom. He probably remembered it from the night of the gala.
He laid you on the bed and pulled the covers over you. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he tucked you in. “Rest well, Y/N.”
He lingered for a moment, his hand brushing against your forehead, pushing a wild strand of hair away.
Then he turned and left, his footsteps fading down the hall. You were alone, but this time you didn't feel lonely.
The warmth of his touch lingered on your skin, a promise that maybe you weren't as broken as you thought.
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
“I did it again.” That was how you greeted Sophia the following morning, your voice still rough from sleep, your hair unbrushed and your eyes carrying the heavy weight of a restless night.
She stood at the stove with a spatula in one hand and a slice of bread dipped in egg mixture waiting in the pan.
The smell of cinnamon and butter filled the small kitchen, which was a stark contrast to the mess of thoughts tangled in your head.
She turned to look at you, her eyebrows knitting together in that familiar expression of concern. “Did what again?”
You dropped onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, reaching for a box of cereal she had left out. You poured yourself a bowl, the sound of flakes hitting ceramic too loud in the quiet morning. “Fuck up? I had a panic attack yesterday.”
Her spatula paused mid-air. She turned the stove off and faced you fully, crossing her arms. “What? Are you okay? Why didn’t you call me?”
You waved a dismissive hand, even as a small, guilty pang hit your chest. “I’m fine now. I’m fine, but I stumbled in the hallway, and guess who found me?”
She tilted her head, waiting, so you didn’t let her wait. “Limousine Guy.”
Sophia’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Yup, yhe guy I deflowered.” You said it with a wry smile, but the memory of Jake’s hands steadying you and his voice soft in your ear, came flooding back. You looked down at your cereal, stirring it absently. “He helped me, drove me home… and well… it wasn’t with penetration this time, at least?”
Sophia let out a long, low whistle. She turned back to the stove, sliding the French toast onto a plate, and brought it to the island, sitting across from you.
She took a bite, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving your face. “Wow, okay. You really need to break up with Jacob.”
The words hit you like a cold splash of water. You shook your head, even as your stomach twisted. “It’s complicated, Soph. You know that.”
“I know why it’s complicated,” she said, setting her fork down. “Your parents think he’s the golden ticket. He’s wealthy, he’s got connections, he has ‘high chances in life,’ or whatever your mom likes to repeat every time you call her. But when was the last time he looked for you— not because you’re a trophy on his arm, not because he wanted sex, but because he actually wanted you?”
The question landed hard. You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. You thought about Jacob… about the dinners where he talked about his internships and his networking events.
The way he introduced you to his friends as “my girlfriend, Y/N” but never actually looked at you when he said it. The way he kissed you like it was just lust, never love. The way he reached for you only when he wanted something.
“I used to be happy with him,” you said quietly, your voice barely a whisper. “Maybe… after I get better, we’ll all go back to how it was. And maybe me and Limousine Guy can be friends. Just friends.”
Sophia stared at you for a long moment. Then she sighed, stood up, and grabbed her bag from the counter. “Figure it out, Y/N.”
She slung it over her shoulder and walked toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I really want to meet this Limousine Guy by the way. He sounds like he actually gives a damn.”
She left before you could respond.
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
College felt louder than usual that day. You walked with purpose, your shoes squeaked against the polished floors as your eyes scanned every face that passed.
You were looking for Jake and it turned out to be harder than you expected.
You asked a few people, described him, but nobody seemed to know him.
He didn’t have many friends, apparently. He was something of a ghost on campus, someone you passed in the halls without ever really noticing.
The thought made your chest ache.
You ended up in the engineering wing, a group of students huddled around a table covered in blueprints, but your attention landed on a familiar face near the vending machine.
Lee Heeseung.
You’d seen him at parties before, always with a friendly smile and a drink in hand. He was tall, with sharp eyes and an easy way about him.
You approached him, your heart beating a little faster. “Hey, Heeseung, right?”
He turned, recognition flickering in his eyes. “Y/N, yeah. What’s up?”
“I’m looking for someone. Do you happen to know a Jake?” You asked.
Heeseung tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Jake Sim?”
You paused… well, you didn’t even know his surname. “Uh… I’m not sure. He has glasses, dark hair, a cute smile? Kind of quiet?”
Heeseung’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah, that’s Jake. He’s in my dorm building. What do you need him for?”
You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “We’re… friends, I just need to ask him something.”
Heeseung studied you for a moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze.
Then he nodded slowly. “He’s probably in the mathematics building, since he’s a statistics major. You’ll probably find him in one of the classrooms on the second floor, he’s always there, working on something.”
You thanked him and started to turn, but he called your name.
As you looked back, his expression had hardened, a hint of seriousness in his eyes. “You’re not pulling a prank on him or something, right?
“What? No.” You frowned.
“Just… don’t hurt him, okay?” he said quietly. “Jake has a kind soul”
The words struck you deep, echoing Sophia’s earlier sentiment. You nodded when a lump formed in your throat. “I know.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The mathematics building was quieter than the rest of campus.
The halls were lined with old photographs of scholars and the air carried a faint scent of chalk dust and old paper. You climbed the stairs to the second floor and peered through the small glass window of each door until you found him.
He was in the last classroom, standing at the chalkboard with his back to the door.
A flannel shirt hung loose over his frame and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with chalk.
His hair was messy, sticking up in places as if he’d been running his hands through it. He was deep in concentration, his tongue poking out slightly as he scribbled equations in white chalk— a dense forest of numbers and symbols that looked like a foreign language to you.
You pushed the door open gently, he didn’t t notice you at first. You stepped inside and stood behind him.
“What are you doing?” you asked softly.
He jumped, the chalk in his hand skittering across the board and leaving a crooked line. He turned, his eyes wide behind his glasses, and when he saw you, his face flushed a deep pink. “Y/N! I— uh— I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Clearly.” You smiled, leaning against the edge of a desk. “So?”
He cleared his throat, gesturing awkwardly at the board. “I’m trying to solve a problem my professor gave me. But it’s not turning out. The deadline is in two days, and I’ve been at it for hours.”
You looked at the board again. It might as well have been ancient Greek. “I can’t help you with that, I’m sorry. I don’t know the first thing about statistics.”
He let out a nervous laugh. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”
You hopped onto the desk, your legs dangling lazily. “I’ll just sit here, then, to keep you company.”
He hesitated, then turned back to the board, picking up another piece of chalk. But his movements were slower now, less fluid. You could feel his awareness of you, the way his shoulders tensed every time you shifted.
After a few minutes of silence, you spoke up. “Hey, Jake?” He turned, chalk pausing mid-stroke. “Yeah?”
“Can I have your number?” You tilted your head.
The chalk snapped in half. He stared at the broken pieces in his hand, then at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Uh… why do you want my phone number?”
You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “To text, duh. So we can hang out sometimes. If you want.”
Guilt flashed in your faced, “Well, minus the eating out part. I’m so sorry to remind you that I am in a relationship.”
His blush deepened, spreading down his neck. He set the broken chalk on the tray and fidgeted with the hem of his flannel. “I— right. Yeah, of course. I’m sorry if I took advantage of you.”
“Jake.” You said his name softly, and he stopped. “It wasn’t your fault. My head is all over the place in this period… But I don’t want to ruin whatever is growing between us. I really like it, and you are so kind to me.”
His expression softened, and he stepped closer, his eyes meeting yours with an earnestness that made your heart skip. “I like it too…”
He pulled his phone from his pocket, an older model with a cracked screen and handed it to you.
You typed your number in, saved it under your name and handed it back. He looked at the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“There,” you said. “Now we’re official. Sort of.”
He pocketed the phone, still smiling. You slid off the desk and stretched, your joints popping. “How about you get out of this classroom and rest your very big brain for a while?”
He blinked. “What did you have in mind?”
“Come with me and you’ll find out.” You wiggled your brows.
He debated for a moment, glancing at th chalkboard, at the mess of unsolved equations. Then he grabbed his backpack from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. “Okay.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
You led him to the college pool, a sprawling building with glass walls and the faint chlorine smell of the pool.
You signed in at the front desk and rented two swimsuits: a pair of trunks for him and a modest one-piece for you.
You changed in separate locker rooms, and when you met by the pool entrance, you had to stop for a second.
He was already in the trunks, and without his glasses, his face looked different, more open. His chest had abs you hadn’t noticed under his hoodies, and a happy trail disappeared from his belly into his swimming shorts. You fought very hard not to stare.
His hair was still messy, but wet now from a quick shower. He clutched the towel awkwardly, his eyes squinting slightly, shifting his weight from one feet to the other.
“You look good,” you said, and his face went red again.
“I— thanks. I can’t see very well without my glasses, so I’m kind of blind right now.” He chuckled awkwardly. “ You look good too. I mean—“ he waved his hands in front of him, “You always do! I’m not just saying that because you are wearing a swimming suit.”
You smiled, finding his rambling cute, “Thanks, Jake.” You took his hand, feeling the callouses from hours spent writing numbers and led him to the pool area.
The water was a clear turquoise, rippling gently under the bright overhead lights. The space was mostly empty at that time of the day , just a few people doing laps in the far lanes.
You stopped at the edge of the shallow end. “I always come here to swim when I need to clear my head. It helps.”
He looked at the water, a nervous expression crossing his face. “I’m not really good at swimming.”
“Then I’ll help you.” He smiled at you, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes. It was the most beautiful thing you’d seen in a long time.
Awww, he had dimples!
The trust in his eyes was so wholesome. So, you pushed him in.
He let out a yelp as he hit the water, splashing and sputtering, and you laughed— a real, full laugh that echoed off the tiled walls. You jumped in after him, the cool water enveloping you, and surfaced right in front of him.
He was wiping water from his eyes with a shocked look on his face. “You pushed me!”
“I did.” You grinned. “Now swim.”
He tried, paddling awkwardly, his strokes uneven and his legs sinking. You swam beside him, guiding his arms and showing him how to kick properly. “Relax your shoulders, you’re so stiff.”
He followed your instructions, improving little by little. Every now and then he would stop, treading water, and watch you swim laps with a quiet admiration.
You caught him staring once, and he looked away quickly, pretending to be fascinated by the tile pattern.
After a while, you both got tired. You swam to the edge of the pool and hoisted yourself up, sitting on the cool concrete with your feet dangling in the water. He joined you, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths, the water streaming down his back and drops falling from his hair down his nose.
The silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the soft lapping of water and the distant echo of someone doing laps.
You turned to him. “Tell me something about yourself.” He looked at you, confused. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “I always talk about myself when we’re together. I want to know something about you.”
He was quiet for a moment, his fingers trailing through the water. “Well… I have a dog at my parents’ house. Her name is Layla and she’s my best friend.”
You smiled. “She sounds adorable.”
“She is.” He paused. “I’m an only child. It’s just me and my parents and Layla.” His voice trailed off, and he stared at the water. “I’m sorry, I’m not interesting.”
“That’s not true.” You placed a hand on his thigh, feeling the warmth of his skin through the wet fabric of his trunks. He tensed, his breath catching, but didn’t pull away. “What are your hobbies?”
He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I like photography, I have a really cool camera at home and…”
It seemed hard for him to find something to say, “I like… Marvel. I’ve seen all the movies. I even own some of the gadgets..
You blinked. “Really? I’ve never watched any of them.”
He turned to you, his expression shifting into one of utter, comical offense. “Never? Not a single one?”
You shook your head, “Not one.”
He shook his own head now, a new determination settling in his eyes. “We have to remedy that. Immediately.” He hesitated, then added, his voice softer, more tentative, “If you want… you could come over to my place. I have all the DVDs, I even have popcorn!”
The offer hung in the air, fragile and sincere. You felt a warmth spread through your stomach, knowing how much courage it had taken for him to ask.
You squeezed his thigh gently. “I’d love that.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The drive from the college pool to Jake’s place was short, just a few miles through quiet residential streets.
You were still damp from the quick shower you had taken in the locker room, your hair still clung to your neck. Jake had waited for you outside the women’s locker room, his own hair still wet with a small towel draped over his shoulder.
He lived in a modest apartment complex, the kind with beige walls and identical doors. He unlocked the door and held it open for you, gesturing for you to enter first.
The apartment was small, but immaculate. Everything had its place. The couch was a simple gray fabric and the coffee table bare except for a laptop and a remote.
“Make yourself at home.” he said, his voice a little hesitant. He disappeared into the kitchen, and you heard the rustle of a microwave bag, then the hum of the microwave itself.
You took the opportunity to explore. Your feet carried you across the hardwood floor, past the small dining table with two chairs, past a bookshelf filled with textbooks and a few sci-fi novels.
Then you noticed the photographs.
They lined the walls in mismatched frames, a timeline of his life. The first one you saw was a teenage Jake, all limbs and braces, holding a puppy. The dog was licking his face, and he was laughing with his eyes crinkled shut.
You smiled at that. You assumed the dog was Layla, the one he mentioned before.
Next to it was a framed certificate and a photograph of him holding a trophy. He was standing on a stage with a medal around his neck and he was wearing a crisp white shirt.
It was a math contest, by the look of the banner behind him. His face was serious, focused, but there was a hint of pride in his posture.
Another photograph showed him in a cap and gown, a diploma in his hands. You guessed it was his graduation.
He stood next to a woman who must have been his mother, she had the same soft eyes, the same gentle smile. She was hugging him, her hand on his cheek. His father stood on the other side with n arm around his shoulders.
You moved further down the hall, and then you stopped.
This photograph was different, this one was larger, framed in black wood.
Jake was wearing a white taekwondo uniform and a blue belt held in his hands, with a wide smile.
He looked younger here, maybe early high school, but there was a confidence in his stance that you hadn't seen in the other pictures. His fists were clenched, and his chest puffed out, like he had conquered something.
You heard footsteps behind you, soft and hesitant.
“That was when I got my blue belt,” Jake said, his voice quiet. He stood beside you, with his hands shoved into his pockets. He was looking at the photograph, but his expression was distant, lost in memory.
“That’s amazing,” you said, turning to him. “How long did you do taekwondo?”
He shrugged, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “From elementary school until sophomore year of high school. My mom signed me up because…” He paused, licking his lips.
He seemed to wrestle with himself, then he let out a slow breath. “When I was in elementary school, my classmates didn’t really like me. Kids can be mean, you know? They made fun of my glasses and my clothes, of the way I talked. I was an easy target.”
Your heart clenched. You watched his profile as he spoke, the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the photograph.
“So my mom signed me up for taekwondo. For self-defense.” A small, wry smile touched his lips. “I never actually used it on anyone. But it made me feel powerful, like I could protect myself if I ever needed to.” He shrugged. “And I made friends there, kids who didn’t care that I was weird.”
He glanced at you, his eyes vulnerable behind his glasses. It was the first time he had opened up to you like this, truly opened up about something painful from his past.
You reached out and rubbed his arm, your fingers gentle against the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m sorry they treated you that way, Jake. You didn’t deserve that.”
He looked away, blinking rapidly. “It was a long time ago.”
But you could see the memory still stung. You could see how it haunted his eyes. However, you didn’t push. Instead, you let your hand fall, and you gave him a soft smile.
He seemed to shake off the moment, his expression brightening. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He turned and walked to the couch, where two plushies sat on the armrest.
One was Iron Man, the other was the Hulk. He picked up the Iron Man and held it out to you. “Here. For you.”
You took it, surprised. The plush was soft, well-loved with the stitching on the arc reactor slightly frayed. “Are you sure? This seems special.”
“I have the Hulk,” he said, picking up the green plush and hugging it to his chest. “We can watch the movie with them.”
A warmth spread through you, at his innocence. You followed him to the couch, settling down side by side.
The popcorn was ready, he had made it perfectly, buttered and salted, and he set the bowl between you.
He grabbed the remote and navigated to Netflix, pulling up the first Marvel movie.
The opening credits rolled. You took a handful of popcorn, the buttery taste melting on your tongue. Jake was quiet, his eyes glued to the screen, but you could feel his tension, the way he sat stiffly, his hands clasped in his lap.
“It’s okay if you fall asleep during the movie,” he said suddenly with a soft voice. “I know the pills can make you drowsy. I won’t be mad.”
“I only took my daily dose.” You shook your head “It might be fine, but thank you.”
He nodded, but he still seemed uncertain. You were hyper aware of everything around you: you felt the warmth of the apartment, the softness of the couch and the gentle hum of the television. And when your eyelids grew heavy, you fought it.
You wanted to be close to him. So you shifted, leaning into him, resting your head on his shoulder.
The fabric of his hoodie was soft, and you could smell the faint scent of detergent and his caramel-like cologne.
He went rigid. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice a little high-pitched.
“I’m snuggling?” you said, puzzled. “I snuggle with Sophia all the time when we watch movies.”
He blinked, his glasses reflecting the light from the screen. “Oh, right. Snuggling.” He sounded like the word was foreign to him, like he had never experienced it before.
There was a long pause, then, awkwardly, he shifted his position. He lifted his arm with hesitation, and then draped it over your shoulder. It was stiff, his hand hovering in the air, not quite touching you. He looked like he was trying to solve a complex equation in his head.
You suppressed a smile and settled deeper into his side.
After a moment, his arm relaxed with his hand coming to rest on your arm.
He was warm and his heartbeat steady against your cheek.
The movie continued. Jake began to relax, his thumb tracing absentminded circles on your arm. You let yourself sink into the comfort, the simple pleasure of being held.
As the second movie rolled in, Jake found his voice. “Did you know that the actor who plays Iron Man is also in the Oppenheimer movie?”
You hummed, your eyes closed. “No, I didn’t.”
“And in the first movie, there was a scene where he talks with Jarvis, but it was improvised. They kept the scene anwyas.” You opened your eyes, looking up at him. He was staring at the screen, his face animated, a small smile playing on his lips.
“You really know your stuff.” you said.
“I’ve watched these movies a lot,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing. “They’re comforting. The good guy always wins, you know?”
You nodded, resting your head back on his shoulder. The movie played on, and he continued to share little facts, about the bloopers, the references to the comic and the behind-the-scenes stories.
His voice was soft, almost like a whisper, but it filled the room, wrapping around you like a blanket.
By the time the credits rolled on the second film, the apartment was dark except for the glow of the TV.
You stretched, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was past ten pm. Your stomach dropped.
A full day lost. You hadn’t studied, hadn’t prepared for the tests that awaited you next week.
The panic was a slow burn, kindling in your chest, threatening to catch fire.
You took a breath, in and out. You could feel the anxiety trying to take hold, the familiar spiral beginning.
Jake noticed, he always seemed to do that. He shifted, turning to face you, his eyes searching yours. “Do you want to go home?”
You hesitated, then nodded. “I should, it’s late.”
He didn’t argue. He just stood up, offered you a hand, and helped you to your feet.
You gathered your things while he turned off the TV and grabbed his keys.
“I can drive you.” he said, but you shook your head.
“They’ve thankfully invited Ubers. My dorm is not to far.” You smiled, “I’ll be fine.”
He looked like he wanted to insist, but he held back. “Okay, If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” You paused at the door, turning to him. “Thank you, Jake, for tonight. I really had fun.”
His eyes widened, a soft, shy smile spreading across his face. “Me too, I’m glad you came.”
You stepped forward, rose on your tiptoes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm, just a little stubbly.
He went completely still, his breath hitching. “Goodnight, Jake.”
You opened the door and stepped out, the cool night air hitting your face.
“Wait!” Jake exclaimed.
He ran outside his door, barefoot and gripping the small Iron Man plushie in his hands. He reached you with a flushed face and that crooked smile, “Here, take this.”
You frowned, “What? Jake, no, it’s yours.”
He shook his head, handing the small gift to you, “Consider it a token of gratitude, for bearing with my constant talking during the movie.”
You smiled, taking it and caressing its furred head, “Alright, I will take good care of it. Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
The Uber dropped you off in front of your dorm building. You unlocked the door to your dorm, stepping inside. Sophia’s door was closed, so you guessed she was already asleep.
You changed into your pajamas, brushed your teeth, and climbed into bed.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Your mind was restless, turning over the events of the evening.
Your phone was on the nightstand, you had placed it there without even checking on it since you went to the pool with Jake. You reached for it, and your heart froze.
Nineteen missed calls from Jacob and dozen of texts from your friends, all the notifications flooding your screen.
You sat up, your stomach twisting.
You had forgotten.
Oh, God. You had completely forgotten. Today was Juyeon’s birthday party. The one Jacob had been talking about for weeks, and also the one you had promised to attend.
You quickly called him back. It rang three times before he answered. “Where the hell have you been?” His voice was sharp and angry.
You could hear music in the background, the noise of a party. “Jacob, I’m so sorry. I completely lost track of time, it totally flew over my head.”
“Everything flies over your head nowadays, Y/N.” His words were like a slap. “I told you this was important. Juyeon asked about you— everyone asked about you! I had to make excuses.”
You swallowed, the guilt pressing down on your chest. “I know, I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well… Juyeon will understand, I’ll give him the gift at college.”
“Stop playing the victim,” he said, his voice cold. “It’s always about you and your feelings. What about me? What about what I need?”
Your throat tightened. “Jacob, I—”
The line went dead. You stared at the screen, the call ended notification blinking back at you. Tears welled up in your eyes, hot and unstoppable. You curled into yourself, hugging your knees, and let the tears fall.
You cried until your head ached, until your pillow was wet. And then, exhausted, you fell into a restless sleep.
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
The days blurred into a routine of classes, study sessions, and anxiety attacks that came and went as a week passed. But through it all, Jake was there.
You grew closer. He became a constant presence in your life. You had coffee together between classes, sitting in the campus café, with him nursing a black coffee while you sipped a caramel latte.
He would listen to you complain about professors, about the weight of assignments, and he never judged you, never made you feel like a burden.
When you felt the first signs of anxiety creeping in, the racing heart, the shallow breath and the tunnel vision, he would notice before you could even articulate it.
He would make funny faces, crossing his eyes and puffing out his cheeks, until a reluctant laugh escaped you. Or he would take your hand, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your palm, grounding you, bringing you back.
You felt lighter around him. Freer. And Sophia, ever the bestest friend, noticed. She had been bugging you for weeks, cornering you in your dorm room, her arms crossed.
“You’ve been hanging out with Limousine Guy a lot,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “And since then, you’ve looked better. Even though Jacob has been sulking like a child.”
“His name is Jake,” you said for the first time, your cheeks warming. “And we’re just friends.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t believe you. “Just friends who can’t stop smiling when they talk about each other. And who had sex.”
“Sophia, please. When you meet him, don’t mention that you know about the limousine.” You held out your pinky finger “Promise me.”.
She rolled her eyes, but she relented. “Fine, but only because I love you.”
The day of the hangout arrived. You had arranged to meet at the college bowling alley, a small, slightly run-down place with a few lanes and a snack bar.
Sophia and you waited near the entrance. She was tapping her foot while scanning the parking lot. “So, where is this mysterious nerd of yours?”
“He’s not mysterious. He’s just… himself?" Then you saw him. He was walking across the parking lot, and he looked like he had changed his outfit multiple times.
He was wearing a button-up shirt that was slightly too tight, paired with jeans that were slightly too baggy.
His hair was a mess, like he had been running his hands through it, and his glasses were slightly crooked.
Sophia’s eyes widened. She leaned into you, whispering, “Oh my God… hreally is a nerd.”
“Sophia, be nice.” You nagged and she raised her arms in mock defence. “I am nice..”
Jake reached you. “Hi, Y/N… uhm, hi, Sophia.” He gave a small, awkward wave.
“Hey, Jake,” you said, smiling. “Ready to get destroyed at bowling?”
He let out a nervous laugh. “I’ll try my best.”
You rented the shoes, picked out a ball, and found an empty lane.
Sophia went first, scoring a respectable seven pins.
Then it was your turn. You picked up the ball, lifted it, and threw it down the lane. It veered sharply to the left and landed in the gutter.
You groaned. “I’m terrible at this.”
Jake stepped up beside you. “Here, let me show you.” He hesitated, then gently placed his hands on your shoulders, adjusting your stance. “Spread your feet a little wider, bend your knees… yes, like that. And when you swing, keep your arm straight.”
He guided your arm, his hand over yours, showing you the proper form. His touch was light, careful, and you could feel the warmth of his body behind you.
“Okay, now try.” he said, stepping back.
You took a breath, swung, and released. The ball rolled down the lane, wobbling slightly, and knocked down four pins.
Not great, but better.
“There you go,” he said, a smile in his voice.
Sophia watched the exchange with a knowing smirk.
Then it was Jake’s turn. He picked up his ball, took a deep breath, and started his approach.
But his foot caught on something and he slipped. His legs flew out from under him, and he landed flat on his back with a loud thud. The ball rolled harmlessly into the gutter.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Sophia burst out laughing, a loud, unladylike cackle. You followed, giggling with your hand over your mouth.
Jake lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. After a second, he started laughing too, a genuine, warm sound. He didn’t seem embarrassed, just amused at himself.
“I meant to do that.” he said, still laughing.
Sophia and you helped him up, and the rest of the game was filled with laughter, bad scores, and a few more spills.
After bowling, you walked back to your dorm room. Sophia and you went to the small kitchenette, and Jake offered to help cook.
He was surprisingly skilled in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with precision and seasoning the chicken perfectly.
Sophia and you mostly watched, handing him utensils and stealing bites of the ingredients.
Dinner was served on the small coffee table. Sophia, ever the interrogator, started asking questions. “So, Jake, tell me about your family. Any siblings?”
He swallowed a bite of food. “No, I’m an only child. It’s just me and my parents.”
“And your dating history? Any crazy ex-girlfriends we should know about?” She wiggled her browse.
You kicked Sophia under the table, but obviously, she ignored you.
Jake’s ears turned red. “Uh, no. I’ve never really… dated before. I’m not good with people.”
Sophia’s expression softened. “But you’re good with Y/N.”
He glanced at you, then looked down at his plate. “She makes it easy.”
The conversation continued, and Jake answered every question, even the uncomfortable ones.
He talked about his childhood and his love for science fiction. He was open, vulnerable, and completely genuine.
When he left, Sophia stood beside you at the door, watching his car pull away.
“He’s the one,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I believe he’s the one for you, babes. He has my approval.”
──── ──── ──── ୨ৎ ──── ──── ────
Jacob’s texts came in like a relentless tide, each notification a small, sharp sting against the quiet peace you had built.
Cobie: Baby let’s make peace
Cobie: Come over, i’ll make u feel better
Cobie: Y/N? Don’t be like that
You glanced at your phone, saw his name flash across the screen, and turned it face down on Jake’s coffee table.
Instead, you focused on the soft scratch of Jake’s pencil against paper and the way the afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds and painted golden stripes across the hardwood floor.
This was where you wanted to be.
There, in his neat little apartment, with his textbooks stacked in perfect alignment and his calculator placed precisely beside his notebook.
You were sprawled across his dining table, your own chaos spread around you like a hurricane: loose papers, highlighters, a half-empty water bottle and a crumpled granola bar wrapper.
Jake didn’t complain. He simply worked around your mess, occasionally sliding a stray pen back into your reach or pushing a glass of water closer to your elbow.
It was nice studying together a.
He was quiet and focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through some calculus problem.
You had your own assignment, but being there made it bearable. The anxiety that usually coiled in your chest, waiting to strike, was absent.
Your mind was at peace. For the first time in what felt like months, the noise in your head had quieted.
You smiled to yourself. It really seemed as if fate had reserved something nice for you, after all the chaos and heartbreak.
Your meeting with him had been so sudden but you were glad he had stuck with you, even though you were a mess.
He had seen you at your worst, crumbling under the weight of panic attacks, crying in his car and confessing your sins.
And he had stayed.
But then, as if sensing the calmness of the day, a sudden warmth bloomed between your legs, a familiar sensation that made you freeze.
You shifted in your seat, feeling a dull ache in your lower abdomen.
Oh, no.
You knew that feeling all too well. It was your body’s way of announcing the inevitable.
You excused yourself, your voice coming out a little strained. “I’ll be right back, uhm— can I use the bathroom.”
“Of course” Jake looked up, his eyes scanning your face with that quiet concern he always wore. “Are you okay?”
“Just… I need a minute.” You hurried to the bathroom, closed the door, and checked.
Yup, it was uour period.
Great timing, as always.
You sighed, pressed your forehead against the cool mirror, and tried to think.
You had left your backpack on the dining table, and you were certain you had a pad in there… somewhere.
But you didn’t want to walk out and dig through it in front of Jake.
You cracked the door open, just a sliver, and called out. “Jake? Could you check my backpack? There should be a pad in the front pocket. If you don’t mind.”
You heard his chair scrape against the floor, there was a long pause before his footsteps approached the door.
“Uh,” he said, his voice awkward, hesitant. “You can check in the left cabinet under the sink.”
Confused, you opened the cabinet he mentioned. And there, neatly arranged on the shelf, were pads. Multiple packs of them, of different brands and different sizes. A whole arsenal of menstrual products, lined up like soldiers.
You stared at them for a long moment, your mind struggling to process. You picked one, opened it, and took care of the situation.
When you came out, Jake was standing near the table, his hands shoved into his pockets and his ears bright red.
“Jake,” you said, your voice soft. “What are you doing with all those pads?”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “I, um… I bought them… for you.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “You mentioned once that your cycle was irregular, and that sometimes you got caught off guard. I thought… maybe if you ever needed one, you’d have it here. I didn’t know which kind you used, so I got a few different ones. I’m sorry if they’re not the right ones.”
Your heart swelled to the point of pain. He had bought you pads on the off chance you might need them.
He had thought about you, about your comfort, about something so mundane and yet so deeply personal.
“And they are so expensive!” he added, his voice pitching higher. “I didn’t realize they cost that much. I’m sorry, I should have—”
You crossed the distance between you and wrapped your arms around him.
He went rigid, then slowly and hesitantly, his arms came up to hug you back.
“You’re perfect,” you murmured against his shoulder. “You’re so kind. The girl who ends up dating you will be so lucky.”
You felt him tense. For a moment, he didn’t move, and then he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours.
There was a vulnerability there, a rawness that made your breath catch. “Why can’t it be you, that girl?”
The question hung in the air between you, heavy and honest. “What?”
He had never been this straightforward before. Usually, he danced around his feelings, hiding behind awkward jokes and shy smiles. But now, he was looking at you with a clear, unwavering gaze.
You stepped back, your arms falling to your sides. “Jake… I’m with Jacob, I’m happy.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re not happy, Y/N. Everyone can tell, Jacob treats you like garbage.”
The words stung, not because they were untrue, but because they pierced through the carefully constructed walls you had built.
You shook your head, defensive. “We’re just going through a rough patch, that’s all. That’s why things have been tense.”
“A rough patch?” His voice rose, incredulous. “He ignores you when you have panic attacks and he calls you a victim when you struggle.”
“He just doesn’t know how to handle the situation.” You shrugged “We will be fine. I’m the one who treated him like garbage, Jake. we slept together while i was still with him.”
Jake scoffed, a strange and scary shadow crossing over his features, “So he can cheat but you can’t?”
Your blood ran cold. “What?”
Jake’s face paled as he realized he had said too much.
He started pacing, his hands running through his hair and his breathing rapid. “I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have said anything, it wasn’t my place.”
“Told me what?” You grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. “Jake, what are you talking about?”
He looked at you with eyes full of regret.
Then he sighed, a long, defeated sound, and walked to a shelf.
He picked up a camera woth a large lens, and brought it to the table. He sat down, and you followed, your legs feeling weak.
He scrolled through the camera’s gallery with fingers trembling slightly. “Remember when I said I was paired with a girl for a project? Minjee?”
You nodded slowly. You remembered him mentioning the name, but you hadn’t thought much of it.
“She brought her boyfriend to the meeting,” he continued, his voice low. “I didn’t mind, because I am used to working alone… but they made out the whole time. It was uncomfortable.”
He paused, his throat working. “Then, at the beginning of the school year, the football association asked me to take pictures at their celebration party. Jacob is the captain of the team across town, I didn’t know that until that night.” He explained, “I was just there to take photos, I didn’t talk to anyone.”
He turned the camera toward you, and you saw the image on the screen…. and your heart stopped.
It was a photograph taken at a party, there sitting on a couch, was Jacob. And on his lap, draped over him like she belonged there, was who you thought was Minjee.
She was laughing, with her hand on his chest, her legs crossed over his thighs. He was smiling down at her, his own arm around her waist and his fingers curled possessively over her hip.
You remembered that night, because you had refused to come all the times he insisted.
It was the night you had been stuck in your bed, caught in the throes of a panic attack that had left you breathless and shaking.
You stared at the photograph, your vision blurring. The room spun around you, and you felt the familiar claw of nausea rising in your throat.
“I didn’t know it was him until I saw you two arguing at the gala,” Jake said, his voice barely a whisper. “I connected the dots, I realized who he was. And I knew… I knew you didn’t deserve that. You never deserved a jerk like him, Y/N. You are so much better than he ever gave you credit for.”
You set the camera down, your hands shaking. “I need…” you said, your voice hollow. You gathered your things, shoving papers into your bag with jerky movements. “I need to go.”
“Y/N, please—” Jake’s voice cracked. He reached for you, but you stepped back. “Don’t. I need… I need to think.”
You grabbed your bag and walked toward the door. His voice stopped you, broken and desperate. “Please don’t hate me.”
You turned and saw him standing there with red-dimmed eyes. He looked shattered, like he was afraid he had lost you.
“We’ll talk later,” you promised, and you left.
You walked across the streets, your feet carrying you on autopilot.
The world was a blur of colors and sounds, but none of it registered. All you could see was that photograph.
You sat on a bench near the park, pulled out your phone, and saw Jacob’s texts still flooding your screen.
You: come to the campus park if you want to talk.
He arrived within fifteen minutes, walking toward you with a cautious expression.
He was wearing his usual confident swagger, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Y/N,” he said, sitting down beside you. “I’m glad you agreed to see me. I think we should talk.”
You smiled at him, a sweet, almost pitying smile. And then you said the words that had been forming in your chest for weeks. “We should break up.”
He blinked, taken aback. “What the hell?”
“I did something very horrible,” you said, your voice steady. “When we fought, I was with someone else, I cheated on you.”
His eyes widened, his face flushing with anger. But you continued before he could speak.
“But I found out you cheated on me too, with Minjee. At that party you said you couldn’t miss. While I was at home, having a panic attack, alone.”
His mouth opened, then closed. His hands clenched into fists.
“I’m not excusing what I did,” you said. “I’m telling you that we both betrayed each other. And that shows just how toxic we are. We aren’t happy, Jacob, we are holding each other back.”
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the pavement. “You’re one to talk. I cheated because you were always stuck in your room, always making everything about yourself! You never gave me what I needed, it was inevitable.”
“And yet you stayed,” you said quietly. “Why didn’t you just leave?”
He glared at you, his eyes cold. “Because you’re mentally ill, you know that?” He scoffed. “You need help, you’re a fucking mess. And you cheated on me, you fucking slut.”
The words hit like a slap, but you didn’t flinch. You had expected worse. “We’re done, Jacob. I’m breaking up with you.”
“No,” he snapped. “I’m the one breaking up with you. Don’t you forget that.”
And with that, he turned and stormed away, his footsteps heavy and angry.
You watched him go, and for a moment, you felt nothing. Just a vast, empty numbness.
Then, slowly, a small wave of relief washed over you.
It was over.
You weren’t sure how you got home, just that one moment you were standing in the park and the next you were in front of your door.
The door clicked shut behind you, and you heard Sophia’s voice from the kitchen. “Hey! I was thinking we could order takeout tonight. Maybe some Chinese? Or pizza? I’m craving—”
She stopped mid-sentence as she turned and saw you. Her eyes widened, her face shifting from cheerful to concerned in an instant. “Y/N? What happened?”
And you broke. The dam inside you burst, and you crumbled, sobs tearing through your chest. Sophia rushed to you, wrapping her arms around you, holding you tight as you cried into her shoulder.
“I broke up with him,” you choked out. “I did it.”
“Oh, honey…” She stroked your hair, her voice soft and soothing. “You did the right thing… You did the right thing.”
She held you for a long time, letting you cry until your throat was raw and your body was limp. Then she guided you to your bedroom, helped you into your pajamas, and tucked you into bed.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me.” she whispered.
You curled up, reaching for the Iron Man plushie Jake had given you. You pressed it to your chest, burying your face in its soft fabric.
You fell asleep to the scent of him.
A hand on your shoulder gently shook you awake. The room was dim as the light from the hallway spilled in through the crack in the door.
Sophia was leaning over you with a soft face, “There’s someone at the door for you.”
You blinked, groggy and disoriented. “Who?”
“Go see for yourself.” She urged.
You stumbled out of bed with messy hair, your face probably smudged with old mascara. You looked terrible, but you didn’t care.
You shuffled to the front door, opened it, and found Jake standing there.
He looked awful. His eyes were dull and red-rimmed, as if he had been crying. His clothes were rumpled, his hair was a disaster. He looked like he hadn’t slept and as if he had aged years in a single night.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He ran a hand in his already messy hair. “I don’t want to ruin what is happening between us, because I really like it. I really, really like it.”
His voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath. “Even if you don’t like me the way I like you. Even if you only had sex with me because Jacob wouldn’t take care of you, I don’t care. I cherished every moment. Every second with you was special to me.”
He gulped, anxious, “And if you only want to be friends, I can accept that. I just… I can’t lose you. I’ve never had a real friend before, Y/N. You’re the first person who made me feel like I am not invisible… Please don’t cut me off.”
He stood there, with trembling eyes. He looked so broken, so vulnerable, and your heart ached for him.
You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.
He let out a shuddering breath and buried his face in your hair, his hands clutching your back like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry for hurting you. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”
“You didn’t hurt me,” he said, his voice muffled. “I hurt myself by hoping.”
You pulled back, cupping his face in your hands. “Jake, I don’t want to lose what we have either. But I’m not ready for a relationship again… at least not yet.
You gave him a small smile, “I need to fix myself before I can give you my whole heart.”
He shook his head, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. “You don’t need fixing, Y/N. You’re not broken. You’re just… a little lost, and that’s okay. I will wait however long you need, I promise. Just… please don’t cut me off. Please.”
“I promise I won’t.” you said, your voice soft.
You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek and he closed his eyes like he was savoring the moment. “Go home, Jake. We’ll talk better tomorrow.”
He opened his eyes, and for the first time that night, a small, fragile smile touched his lips. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
synopsis ⨾ resellers aren’t really that annoying . . . right? wrong! when you repeatedly miss out on clothes from your usual source, only to see the exact pieces you wanted pop up on different girls online, it doesn’t take long to realise a mysterious reseller has been beating you to it every time. after some digging, you discover the account belongs to not only a man, but one of your favorite mutuals — nishimura riki.
content warning ⨾ none
𐔌ㅤ taglist open >_<
note: thank yew for 1k followers :3 and sorry for another late update i said i was locking in when i was infact not doing the opposite
﹕𝜗𝜚﹕ NOTES ; there we gooo part 11 lol i realize the hoon series is about to catch up the heejake’s in terms of number of parts 😆 but that’s because the parts are shorter lol dkekd sooo don’t mind me im working on heejake part 13 also i promise 😗 anyway i hope you’ll like this one. sorry i realized today i didn’t answer a lot on last part’s comments…
you're mr. park's new assistant at manifest, a fashion/magazine company
content: smau ⟡ ceo!jay x assistant!reader ⟡ profanity ⟡ jealousy ⟡ slow burn thats burning extremely slow
go follow my insta @ nishimmortal ! i post teasers and polls for future posts on there so check it out :)
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NOTICE: second, third, and fourth taglists have been moved to my side blog @ nishimmortalreblogs so please check your tag settings and follow that blog if needed!
masterlist ⟡ part one ⟡ part two ⟡ part three ⟡ part four ⟡ part five ⟡ part six ⟡ part seven
(if you're viewing this from a reblog please check the original post or my masterlist for updates! (because reblogs don't update when i edit the og post)
A few months ago, you got accepted into the university you had always dreamed of. The campus is hours away from your hometown, which means you have to move.
When you applied for the dorms, they were already full and the waiting list was huge. To make things worse, all the apartments nearby were ridiculously expensive, way beyond what you could afford.
Your older brother, Jake, suggested that you share an apartment with his two best friends, Riki and Sunghoon. Their apartment has three bedrooms and is just a few minutes walk from campus. Jake told you that Heeseung, the friend who used to occupy the third room, had graduated last semester, so the room was now empty.
Splitting the rent between three people would be much cheaper than anywhere else you could find. Still, you hesitated. Riki and Sunghoon have been Jake’s best friends since high school, and you’ve known them for years, but living with them felt strange — too intimate. At the same time, it was an excellent opportunity.
In the end, you had no other choice but to accept. A few weeks later, you packed your things and moved into your brother’s best friends’ apartment.
───
You slam the door behind you harder than necessary, taking out your frustration and exhaustion on the poor door. Riki looks up at you from the couch with that usual smirk.
"Rough day?" he asks, patting the empty space beside him. "Come here."
You drop your bag on the living room floor, kick off your shoes, and walk slowly toward him. "Yeah… rough day. I hate being me sometimes."
He turns to look at you properly. "You look fucking exhausted." It’s obvious from your tired expression, heavy eyelids, and tense body. Anyone could tell your day had been hell.
His other hand rests on your warm, soft thigh, exposed by your tiny skirt. It doesn’t take long for him to slide it higher, carefully moving between your legs.
"Sunghoon isn’t home…" he murmurs, leaning closer. "Let me help you relax."
"Riki…" Your voice falters as your body already reacts to his touch. "We shouldn’t do this without him. You know about our agreement."
He laughs at your weak excuse. "That’s bullshit and we both know it." His hand moves up to gently cup your jaw. "Come on, I just want to help you. What’s wrong with that?"
Your mouth opens, ready to give another excuse, but no words come out. Riki’s smile widens. Unable to wait any longer, he crashes his lips against yours in a hungry kiss.
His hands grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. You let out a small sigh but don’t hesitate. You straddle him, knees on either side of his hips. The kiss grows messier by the second, wet tongues moving in a chaotic rhythm.
"Fuck, you taste so good," he groans into the kiss, pulling your skirt up until the fabric bunches around your waist. You understand what he wants and start grinding slowly against his growing erection.
His hand slides down to grab your ass, squeezing it while helping you roll your hips. The friction makes his cock throb inside his sweatpants. He leaves a trail of kisses down your neck and smirks when your head falls back, giving him more access. "That’s it, baby. I’m gonna make you feel good. You just need to relax for me, okay?"
Suddenly, he flips you over. Your back hits the couch and he hovers above you, settling between your legs. He quickly grabs the waistband of your panties and pulls them down, tossing them somewhere in the living room. "Look at this perfect pussy, already dripping for me."
His thumb slides over your folds, moving up and down between your swollen lips, spreading your wetness. With his other hand, he pushes his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock is rock hard and leaking precum. "I’m gonna fuck all that frustration out of you, baby."
He wraps his fingers around his length, stroking a few times before slapping it against your wet pussy, making you gasp and shiver. "Ah— oh my God."
He does it again, slapping his cock against your soaked folds and then against your swollen clit just because he enjoys your reaction. "It’s embarrassing how wet you are just from this."
Without warning, he pushes inside you slowly, watching the way your pussy stretches to take him. When he finally bottoms out, your walls clench around him like his cock is your salvation.
Your hands grab his back as you moan and whimper with every inch that enters you.
"Taking me so well… You were made for my cock, baby." He stays still for a few seconds, letting you adjust to his massive length.
Then, agonizingly slow, because he knows it drives you crazy, he pulls out almost completely before slamming back in hard, making your back arch and knocking the air out of your lungs.
Laughing mockingly, he does it again, pull out until only the tip is inside, then thrust back in brutally. The impact sinks your body deeper into the couch and a broken moan tears from your throat. "Oh my— fuck, Riki."
His cock twitches inside you when he hears you moan. "You love this. You love how I fill you up to the brim." He picks up the pace, fucking you fast and hard, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room. "You feel that? I’m so deep inside you…"
He makes sure every thrust hits that spot inside you that makes you scream and scratch his back. "You sound so good like this."
His hands roam your body. One grips your hip to hold you in place while the other slips under your tank top to play with your sensitive nipple, pinching and rolling the hard peak.
At this point, you can barely think straight. All you can do is moan, your legs shaking uncontrollably as the pressure builds intensely in your core. He hooks one of your knees higher, allowing him to go even deeper.
"I’m gonna cum, I’m so close." Your walls flutter and tighten around him, your toes curling. He laughs, mocking how broken you look. "Then cum for me. Let me feel how much your pussy loves getting fucked like a slut."
Pleasure hits its peak and you cum with a loud moan, your whole body shaking beneath him. Your pussy pulses and squeezes his cock, but he doesn’t stop thrusting, fucking you through your orgasm as he chases his own.
He only slows down when his own orgasm hits. With one final deep thrust, he cums inside you, filling you with his hot load while groaning your name. "Take it, every drop."
He stays buried inside you to make sure you take it all, then slowly pulls out, collapsing beside you on the couch. Both of you are clearly wrecked. You can feel his cum leaking out of you as aftershocks run through your body.
The sound of the front door unlocking makes you turn your head quickly. Sunghoon is standing in the doorway. Everything goes silent as he stares at you and Riki, both still breathless. The air smells like sweat and sex — it’s obvious what happened.
Without saying a word, he closes the door behind him. The click of the lock sounds louder than ever. His expression remains neutral, showing no sign of shock or anger. "My room. Now," he says, walking past you without another glance.
You hesitate, but soon follow him on shaky legs. Sunghoon is already sitting on the edge of the bed, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, looking perfectly calm. You carefully close the bedroom door. Just as you’re about to turn to him, his voice cuts through the silence. "Lock it."
Swallowing hard, you obey and lock the door, then walk slowly until you’re standing between his legs. "Hoon, we—"
He cuts you off with a dry, humorless laugh. "You couldn’t wait, huh? You are such a greedy desperate slut for cock that you could not even wait for me huh?"
You open your mouth to respond, but once again nothing comes out because you have no excuse. You nod slightly. "Use your fucking words."
"I am. I’m a greedy slut desperate for cock." Your voice is low and shaky.
He grabs your chin firmly, forcing you to look him in the eyes. "We had a clear agreement that no one gets to fuck you alone, only when all three of us are together."
Your face burns with both shame and arousal. "It wasn’t exactly like that… I was really tired and Riki was just trying to help me relax."
He raises one thick eyebrow, clearly not believing you. "So he was just being a good friend, huh? By burying his cock deep inside you to help you relax."
Without waiting for an answer, he slides his hand under your skirt and runs his fingers over your folds, feeling how wet and swollen you still are. "Your pussy is still dripping with his cum." Two fingers slip inside you without warning. "How many times did he make you cum, hm?"
Your legs tremble and you hold onto his shoulders to stay standing. "Once… just once, Hoon."
"Just once?" He mocks, adding a third finger, pumping slowly and curling them against that sensitive spot that always makes you squirm. "I’m gonna make you cum so many times that you’ll never want to break the rules again in your life."
He suddenly pulls his fingers out and gives your pussy a firm slap, hitting your clit and sending a wave of pleasure mixed with a little pain through your body. "Hoon, I’m sorry. I promise it won’t happen again," you beg in a whiny voice.
"Get on the bed. Now." You don’t hesitate to obey, lying on your back with your legs spread wide for him. "Good girl," he praises as he removes his pants and boxers, finally freeing his throbbing cock.
He positions himself between your legs, stroking himself while looking at your swollen pussy still clenching around nothing, begging for more. "So fucking needy." He thrusts into you in one go, not giving you time to adjust to his length.
You let out a loud moan, arching your back off the bed. The stretch burns in the most delicious and overwhelming way, making you writhe beneath him.
His pace is brutally fast, merciless thrusts that reach deep inside you. With one hand he grips your hip while the other presses down on your stomach so he can feel the shape of his cock moving inside you. "Fuck, look at that." He presses harder. "Taking me so deep."
His thumb finds your clit and rubs it in fast circles just to watch you tremble and make those sounds he loves. "Gonna cum? Do it. Cum on my cock."
As if you were only waiting for his permission, you cum hard, creaming around his cock while he keeps fucking you. Your walls squeeze him tightly, making him groan and slam into you messily.
He buries himself to the hilt and cums hard, his cock twitching with every spurt as he fills you up. Your pussy overflows with his load.
Suddenly he laughs mockingly and grabs your cheeks, squeezing them just enough for you to feel it. "I wonder what Jake would think of this… what he would do if he knew his little sister gets her pussy fucked by his best friends every single day in every room of this apartment."
───
NOTE : english is not my first language! I thought about writing a threesome, but I wasn't happy with the result, so I will try again another time
gamechangershow
izzy806
