the sunlight filtered through the curtains with soft golden streaks. it painted the bedroom in warm morning hues. you stirred slightly, with your consciousness creeping in slowly. there was warm body pressed against your side. it was anton's chest, it rose and fell in a steady rhythm beneath your cheek and you could hear the quiet sounds of him scrolling through his phone; the soft taps of his thumb against the screen.
you didn't open your eyes yet. more like didn't want to. this was way too comfortable and too perfect to disturb. your face was tucked into the crook of his neck as your arm was draped across his bare stomach. plus you were wearing his shirt. the oversized clothing hung loose on you considering that he was much broader than you. it was soft from the countless washes and it smelled like his laundry detergent.
"i know you're awake," anton murmured, his voice rough with sleep. he didn't look away from his phone but his free hand came up to play with your hair. his soft fingers running through your bedhead hair.
"no i'm not," you mumbled against his skin, your lips brushing his collarbone.
he laughed quietly. the sound rumbling through his chest. "baby, you literally just spoke."
"sleep talking."
"uh huh." his fingers kept their gentle movement through your hair with it occasionally scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that made you want to purr. "you drooled on me again, by the way."
you finally cracked one eye open, spotting the small wet patch on his chest. "oops."
"it's fine. kinda cute actually." but he still hadn't put his phone down. he was still scrolling through what looked like instagram but his attention was clearly divided. his other hand moved from your hair to trace patterns on your back. his fingertips were slipping just barely under the hem of his shirt you wore. "wonbin posted pictures from yesterday. we look good."
"mm." you pressed closer as your leg hooking over his. the sudden movement made his breath hitch slightly and you felt him tense before relaxing again.
"you're really warm," he said finally tilting his head to look down at you. his glasses were slightly crooked on his face and his hair was an absolute mess. it looked cute but it sticking up in weird angles. he looked soft and sleepy and unfairly attractive. "like a little space heater."
"what! no, you're the warm one." you nuzzled into his neck trying to breath him in. "you're always warm."
"thats good. it means you'll stay close." his hand on your back pressed slightly, encouraging you to move even closer even though there was literally no space left between you. "closer."
"toni, i'm basically on top of you already."
"not close enough." he set his phone down on his chest using his now free hand to pull you more firmly against him. both arms wrapped around you tightly with one hand resuming its place in your hair while the other splayed across your lower back. "there. better."
you laughed against his skin, your breath making him shiver. "clingy..."
"you are always complainging." he said jokingliy as his fingers found the ends of your hair, twirling the strands. through his glasses, you could see his eyes were still half lidded. he was sleepy despite being awake. "what time is it?"
"i have no idea and i dont really care."
"good answer." he picked his phone back up with one hand, the other never stopping its gentle movements on your back. you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head, casual and affectionate. "sungchan's asking if we want to get lunch later."
"what'd you say?"
"haven't answered yet. kinda don't want to leave this bed though."
"we should probably eat at some point."
"yeah, but like. later later." his thumb brushed across your spine and you felt goosebumps rise despite the soft warm touch warmth. "we have nowhere to be. no schedules. so its just us and this bed and all the time in the world."
you hummed in agreement as your hand moving from his tponed stomach to his chest. the feeling his heartbeat under your palm was steady and reassuring. anton's hand left your hair to catch yours. he brought it up to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles before placing it back on his chest, his hand covering yours.
"i see that you're really clingy in the mornings," you noted though you made no move to pull away.
"im only like this with you." he said as he began to scroll through his phone again but you could feel his attention on you. the way his body was angled toward yours, the way his hand kept moving on your back like he couldn't help himself. "gotta make up for all the mornings i woke up alone in hotel rooms."
"you're gonna be sick of me by the end of your break."
"that is impossible." he said it with such certainty that it made your chest warm. his fingers found the hem of his shirt you were wearing, playing with the fabric. "you look good in my clothes, by the way. like, extremely good."
"really?"
"yeah. you should wear them more often. well all the time, actually." you felt him grin against your hair. "just have you walk around in my clothes forever."
"they are very comfortable."
"they look better on you anyways." his hand slid up your back over your shoulder to cup your cheek. he tilted your face up toward his. the glasses on his face were still crooked and you reached up to straighten them. he wrinkled his nose at the adjustment but smiled. "hi."
"you keep saying hi."
"can't help it. i look at you and the word just comes out." he leaned down to kiss you, soft and lazy, like you had all the time in the world. which, technically, you did. when he pulled back, his thumb brushed across your cheekbone. "your face is all puffy from sleep. it's cute."
"shut up."
"it is though." he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips again. "you're cute. all sleepy and warm and in my shirt." his hand moved back to your hair, fingers carding through it. "this is my favorite version of you. morning you. all soft and cuddly."
"i'm not cuddly though."
"baby, you're literally wrapped around me like a koala right now."
he had a point. your leg was still hooked over his, your arm across his stomach, your face buried in his neck. you were basically using him as a full body pillow. "okay, maybe i am a little cuddly."
he hummed in amusement. his phone buzzed with another notification and then he glanced at it briefly before setting it face down on his chest. "okay, that's enough phone time. you're way more interesting anyway."
"but i'm half asleep."
"exactly. its the best type of entertainment." both his arms wrapped around you properly now with one hand in your hair and the other drawing circles on your back. "so tell me about your dreams."
"didn't have any."
"boring! make something up."
you laughed. the sound muffled against his skin. "why?"
"because i like hearing you talk. and because we're doing the lazy morning thing properly, which means pointless conversations about nothing." he adjusted slightly somehow pulling you even closer. his leg tangled with yours, and he let out a satisfied sigh. "there. perfect. now talk to me."
"about what?"
"anything. everything. what you're thinking about right now."
"i'm thinking about how you need a haircut."
his hand paused in your hair. "ok rude."
"it's getting long." you reached up to run your fingers through it and he immediately leaned into the touch like a cat. "i like it though."
"yeah?" he sounded pleased. "shotaro said i look like a mop."
"shotaro's just jealous."
"true." his fingers found yours in his hair, pulling your hand down to kiss your palm before placing it back. "keep doing that. feels nice."
you obliged. your fingers scratching lightly at his scalp like he did to you. playing with his messy hair. anton made a low, contented sound, his eyes falling shut behind his glasses. "you're gonna put me back to sleep."
"good because you barely slept on tour."
"how do you know that?"
"wonbin posts you guys on weverse at like 1am regularly. and you facetimed me from the tour bus at 3am multiple times."
"okay, fair." he cracked one eye open to look at you. "but i'm home now and you're here. so i'll sleep better."
"you better."
"little bossy here..." but he was smiling. it was soft and affectionate. his hand slid under the shirt you were wearing again, palm warm against your skin. "you're so soft. how are you this soft?"
"lotion."
"what kind? i'm buying ten bottles."
you laughed and he looked so proud of himself for making you laugh that he pulled you up slightly to kiss you again. this one lasted longer though, it was slow and sweet. his hand was now cradling the back of your head. when you finally broke apart, you were both slightly breathless.
"okay, new plan," anton said, his voice rougher now. "we stay in this bed forever. never leave. we can just exist right here."
"we have to eat eventually."
"delivery exists." his hand was back to tracing patterns on your back, his touch light and soothing. "and we have water bottles on the nightstand. we're set."
"what about showering?"
"overrated."
"toni."
"okay, fine. we can shower together so we can conserve water. its very environmentally friendly of us." he grinned at your expression. "what? i'm being practical."
"you're being clingy again like a puppy."
"same thing." he shifted towards you again. he rolled slightly so more of his weight pressed against you, his face finding your neck now. "your turn to be the pillow."
"ugh you're heavy."
"you'd love me anyway." his lips brushed against your neck and you felt him smile when your breath hitched. "knew it."
"knew what?"
"that you're just as affected by me as i am by you." his nose traced up your neck to your jaw. "you get all shivery when i do this." he demonstrated by pressing soft kisses along your jawline.
"confident anton is really dangerous to my wellbeing."
"nope. confident anton is honest." he pulled back to look at you. his glasses sliding down his nose slightly. when you pushed them back up, he caught your hand. then he pressed a kiss to your wrist. "three months away gave me a lot of time to think about all the things i wanted to do when i got home."
"oh yeah? like what?"
"like this." he kissed you again. "and this." his hand slid up your side. "and definitely this." he rolled you both so you were tucked against his side again, his arm tight around you. "just you know, being able to hold you and touch you. all the things i couldn't do over facetime."
your hand found his chest again tracing patterns on his skin. "i missed you."
"good." he caught your hand interlacing your fingers. "because you're stuck with me now. at least for the next three days."
"only three days?"
"okay, forever then. you're stuck with me forever." he said it lightly but there was something underlying that made your heart skip. "thats okay with you?"
"obviously. yeah," you said softly. "that's okay with me."
his smile was brilliant when he pulled you closer to him. his face buried in your hair. "perfect. absolutely perfect." his hand found yours again, fingers threading together. "now can we please go back to sleep? i'm tired, you're comfortable and this is literally the best morning ever."
"we just woke up."
"and now we're going back to sleep. it's called a lazy morning for a reason, baby." he was already settling in, his breathing evening out. "wake me up in like two hours so i can kiss you some more."
"that's your plan? sleep and kissing?"
"it's a perfect plan." his arms tightened around you one last time. "love you. even if you do drool on me."
"love you too, toni."
"mmh. good." and then he was drifting off. his body relaxing completely as his hold on you never loosened. you felt his breathing deepen and felt the way he unconsciously pulled you closer even in his slee. you let yourself relax too. letting yourself sink into the comfort and safety of being held by him.
the sun continued to paint golden patterns across the room, the world outside moved on, but in this moment, time felt frozen. just you and anton wrapped up in each other exactly where you wanted to be after missing each other for moths.
thanks anon for this <3, makes me wanna cuddle with anton
.ᐟwarnings/tags: nerd/weeb!anton, dom!anton, shy!anton, he is a nervous mess, fluff, praising, dirty talk, making out, anton is a bit subby at first but turns into a dom, size kink?, grinding, fingering, unprotected sex, spanking, p in v, bulge kink, squirting, cum eating, aftercare
𓏸⠀ 𓈒 you fall for anton, the quiet nerd who looks at you like you’re his whole world—and shows you exactly what that means behind closed doors.
.ᐟwc: 11.5k
You weren’t proud of it. The way your eyes always found him the second you walked into class, the way your heart sped up at the mere sight of those glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, how you kept catching yourself doodling his name in your notes like some middle school girl with a first crush. Lee Anton.
He was handsome, almost unfairly so. Tall and broad-shouldered, with soft brown eyes that flicked nervously around the room when someone tried to talk to him, and the most angelic face. His dark hair always looked a little too perfect, like he’d just rolled out of bed and still managed to look better than everyone else. And then there was the way he dressed, plain hoodies, oversized sweaters, jeans that hung low on his hips like he didn’t even care, like he had no idea what he looked like. Which made it worse.
Because Anton was also…a nerd. A real, honest-to-god, anime watching, figurine collecting, jerking off to hentai nerd. You knew this because you’d seen the way he decorated his laptop with holographic stickers of anime girls, the kind with thigh-highs and jiggly boobs and sparkly eyes. His phone lock screen? Ahri from League of Legends. His bag? Covered in pins of little anime mascots and game logos. You’d heard the rumors too, that his dorm was basically a shrine to 2D girls. Shelves of figures, walls lined with posters, LED lights glowing purple like a teenage boy’s wet dream. And yet none of it made you like him less. If anything, it made your crush worse.
Maybe it was because he was so quiet. Always sitting in the back, earbuds in, sketching something in his notebook or scrolling on his phone, head ducked down behind the collar of his hoodie like he didn’t want to be perceived. And yet you always perceived him. You noticed him. The way he adjusted his glasses when he was concentrating. The way his fingers tapped against his thigh when he was bored. The way he blushed when the professor called on him, even though he always gave the smartest answers in the room. You’d never spoken to him. Not once. But that didn’t stop you from wondering what his voice would sound like if he said your name.
It wasn’t just a little crush anymore. It was a full-blown obsession. The kind that made your stomach flip whenever you spotted him walking down the hallway, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, headphones around his neck, backpack hanging low on those broad ass shoulders. God. He was so tall. Every time he stood up, you felt like the air shifted around him. Like he didn’t even realize how dreamy he looked, towering over everyone, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose while he blinked all soft and sleepy. It was so unfair. He looked like he belonged in an anime himself—tall, quiet, hot nerd that girls fight over. Except no one else seemed to be crushing on him. At least not the way you were. And that made it worse.
Because you were crushing hard. Pathetically hard. You thought about him too much, not just during class, but when you were alone in your bed at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering what kind of porn he watched. You probably knew the answer was anime girls with squeaky voices and thigh socks, and honestly? That only made him hotter. You loved that he was a nerd. You loved that he probably spent his Friday nights watching One Piece recaps or arguing on valorant with noobs. You loved that his fingers looked big and awkward when he fidgeted with the pins on his bag, those same fingers you thought about every time your thoughts drifted somewhere a little too dirty.
He was just so fucking cute. Too hot. And maybe it was bad, maybe you were going to hell or something, but there were moments where you looked at him and just thought ‘I want to bounce on your dick so bad it’s embarrassing’. And then you’d get flustered all over again. Heart pounding, thighs pressing together, face buried in your sleeve so no one could see how red you’d gotten. He’d just be sitting there, minding his business, adjusting his glasses with the tip of his finger, and you’d be staring at him like he was some kind of god. He had no idea. Absolutely no clue that you were slowly losing your mind over him from across the room.
You barely register what the professor is saying until you hear the words: “Partner project. Two people per group. If you don’t pick someone, I’ll assign you.” Your stomach sinks. You didn’t know anyone in this class, not well enough to pair up without looking like a weirdo, anyway. You shift nervously in your seat, clutching your pen like it’ll save you. You can already feel your cheeks heating up just from the pressure. “Alright, you and…Anton,” the professor says, glancing briefly between the two of you before moving on. “You’ll work together. Should be a good match.” You freeze. Your eyes flick behind you, and sure enough, there he is. Anton.
He’s blinking at you with wide eyes, clearly just as surprised as you are. His glasses are slightly crooked, lips parted like he wants to say something but can’t quite get there. You feel your heart stutter in your chest. This is real. You’re going to talk to him. Work with him. Be around him. Alone. You turn in your seat slowly, like any sudden movement might shatter the moment. “H-Hi,” you manage, voice soft and squeaky. “I guess we’re partners.” Anton sits up a little straighter, and you swear you see his fingers twitch on the edge of his desk. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. I guess we are.” He rubs the back of his neck, then smiles, small, nervous. “Hi.”
Up close, he’s even more handsome. Long lashes, flushed cheeks, that faint scent of clean laundry and something warm and boyish. He’s wearing a plain gray hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, and you have to fight the urge to stare at the veins in his hands. “I’m, um…” You tuck your hair behind your ear, trying not to melt. “I’m Y/N.”“I know,” he says quickly, too quickly. Then he winces. “I mean—not in, like, a creepy way. I’ve just…heard you answer a few questions in class before. You’re smart.” Your mouth goes dry. He knows who you are? You blink. “Oh. Wow. Thanks. That’s… really sweet.” You shift in your seat, fingers nervously playing with the hem of your sleeve. “You’re smart too. Like, really smart. Your notes are insane.”
He laughs under his breath and ducks his head, and you can barely hear him murmur,“That’s ‘cause I don’t talk to anyone. I have to overcompensate somehow…” You giggle quietly, shyly. He glances up at you again. And that’s when it happens. That flicker. That look. His eyes settle on your face, your lips, your eyes, just a little longer than normal. He swallows hard. “Sorry, I just…didn’t expect to be partnered with someone like…you.” You tilt your head. “Like me?” He hesitates. “You’re just…you’re really pretty.” Oh. Your brain short circuits.
“I—” You practically squeak. “You think I’m pretty?” He immediately looks away, ears turning red. “Was that weird? That was weird. I’m sorry.” “No!” you blurt, too fast, clutching your notebook to your chest. “No, it wasn’t. I…I think you’re…really cute too.” He stares. You stare. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you knows what to do. You’re both blushing, both shy, both clearly freaking out a little on the inside. “So,” he finally says, voice a little higher than before, “uh…where’d you wanna meet?”
You show up to the little café fifteen minutes early, heart racing and dress just a little shorter than it probably should be for a study session. But you’d spent so long picking it out. It hugged your waist and flared out right at your thighs, showing just enough skin to make you feel cute without trying too hard. When Anton walks in, you swear he almost drops his phone. He freezes in the doorway for half a second, blinking like he’s not sure he’s in the right place. Then his eyes land on you, and you see him double take. His gaze flicks down your body and then quickly jerks away, like he’s trying not to look. He shuffles over, clutching his backpack in front of him like a shield, and offers you a shy little smile as he sits down across from you. “H-Hey. You look…really nice.”
You blush instantly. “Thanks. You too.” You both stare at the table for a second. It’s a cozy café, low lighting, indie music playing softly, warm smells of coffee and pastries filling the air. You open your laptop with trembling fingers, trying to seem normal, like this is just a regular study session and not the hottest guy you’ve ever seen sitting right across from you. You pull up the project doc and smile nervously. “Okay, so…I was thinking we could start with the outline first? Just, like, divide the sections and go from there.” You glance up to see if he’s following, but he’s not.
Anton’s eyes are very much not on the screen. They’re a little lower. Right at your chest. You freeze. So does he. And then, like a switch flipped, his entire face erupts in red. “I—” He stammers, scrambling to sit up straighter and look anywhere else. “Sorry! I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—I just zoned out—”Your cheeks burn. You look down at your dress and then quickly cross your arms over your chest, suddenly very aware of how low-cut it actually is when you’re leaning forward. You clear your throat, voice tiny. “…It’s okay.” He still looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and die.
His hand comes up to adjust his glasses, but he’s shaking so hard he nearly knocks them off his face. You try to pretend you’re not just as flustered. You tuck your hair behind your ear and murmur softly, “So…should I repeat the question?” His eyes flick up to yours, hesitant. Then he gives the smallest, most adorable nod. You swallow, voice even softer now. “I said…should we start with the outline?” He nods again, still flushed, but smiling this time, a shy, crooked smile that makes your heart flutter. “Yeah. Let’s do that.” You try to focus. You really do. But his hand is brushing against his notebook, and his knees are so long they almost bump yours under the table. And every few minutes, you catch him sneaking glances at you like he can’t help it. And you don’t blame him. You kind of want him to.
You’re halfway through outlining the second section of the project when Anton suddenly stands up. “I’m, uh—I’m gonna get something. Do you want anything?”You glance up, smiling sweetly. “Mm…maybe a milkshake? If they have one?” He nods, “Milkshake. Got it.” He hurries off like he needs the walk to breathe, and honestly, he probably does. You watch him go with a soft little smile, noticing the way his hoodie sways as he moves, the curve of his back, the way he ducks his head at the counter, shy even with the barista. When he returns, he’s carrying a milkshake in one hand and a warm latte in the other, balancing it all carefully on a tray. He sets it down gently in front of you, then passes you the cold drink with a soft, slightly nervous look. “Here you go.” Your smile widens. “Thank you, Anton.”
You don’t notice the way his throat bobs when you wrap your lips around the straw. He freezes, barely blinking as he watches you take that first long sip, lips pursed around the plastic, cheeks hollowing slightly. You let out a soft little hum of approval at the taste, eyes fluttering shut for a second in pure satisfaction. And Anton…Anton is dying. His brain short-circuits. All he can see is your lips, pink, wet, soft, wrapped around something that isn’t a straw. And for a second, he’s imagining you on your knees between his legs, looking up at him with that same innocent expression as you suck him off like you don’t even realize what you’re doing to him.
You pull the straw from your mouth and swipe your tongue across the tip to catch the foam. A tiny bit of it clings to the corner of your lips. You giggle quietly. “Oops.” And then, as if you don’t already have him on the brink of death, you lick it off with a slow, casual flick of your tongue. He nearly chokes on his own spit. “Is everything okay?” Your voice is gentle, head tilted with that same soft concern you’ve had since class. You blink at him sweetly, sipping again like nothing happened. He’s flushed deep red. His hands are gripping his cup like it might ground him to reality. He forces a smile, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Uh. Y-Yeah. All good.” Then, quieter, with a softer smile. “Just… distracted.” You giggle again, eyes sparkling. “You sure?” He swallows hard. “Very sure.” But he can’t stop looking at your lips.
You take another slow sip of the milkshake, eyes flicking back to the laptop screen. Anton’s leaned in now, typing something into the shared document, brows furrowed in concentration, completely unaware of what he’s doing to you just by existing. Your gaze drifts. It always does. The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up, revealing his forearms, all lean muscle and light veins, the skin pale and soft looking. Your eyes trail downward, to his hands on the keyboard, long fingers flying over the keys quickly. His hands are big. You hadn’t noticed it before. Or maybe you had, and your brain had just stored it away for later.
Now it was all you could think about. Those fingers. Those veins. The way his knuckles flex with every tap. You imagine them wrapped around your throat, firm but careful, his breath stuttering while he watches your eyes roll back. Or worse—better—you picture them inside you, slow and deep, your thighs trembling as he curls them just right, testing what makes you whimper. The idea makes you shift in your seat, thighs instinctively pressing together beneath the table. You blink and glance up at his face. God.
Even his profile is hot. His jaw is sharp, lips a little parted, the tip of his tongue just barely peeking out as he concentrates. His Adam’s apple bobs slightly when he swallows, and it makes something tighten in your gut. His hair is messy and soft, curling a little behind his ears, and all you can think about is how it would feel to tug on it while he’s between your legs. You press your thighs together again, harder this time. And he has no idea.
He’s just typing, all innocent and focused, while your mind is playing out filthy scenes in 4K. You look back down at his hands again, biting your lip without realizing it. His fingers twitch slightly as he types a number into the doc, the tendons in his hand flexing.
You whisper to yourself inside your head, ‘I want those fingers in me so bad’. And just like that, you realize you’re no better than him. Maybe you look sweet, sipping your milkshake in your little dress and smiling all shyly, but deep down? You’re starving for him.
You want him to ruin you with those hands, want to ride his thigh, want to hear what he sounds like when he moans. You glance up again. He’s blushing faintly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. You wonder if he’s thinking something dirty too, if maybe both of you are pretending to be normal while your thoughts are a mess. God, you hope so.
The project was technically done. Or at least, enough of it was done to call it a night. You both packed up slowly, lingering over every click of the laptop, every sip of your drinks, drawing it out like neither of you wanted to leave. The café was dimmer now, a few tables empty, the music quieter. When you finally stepped outside, the air was warm and gentle, the sky a dusky blue stretching wide. You walked side by side down the path toward the dorm buildings, your shoulder bag bouncing lightly against your hip, Anton’s long strides matching yours.
And yet neither of you spoke. There were little things, small glances, quiet smiles, an occasional “mm” when one of you pointed out something with a nod. But for the most part, the silence between you was soft. Comfortable. Tense in all the right ways. And then your hands almost touched. You both noticed it at the same time, that inch of space between his knuckles and yours. He was walking close, so close, his fingers slightly curled inward, yours swinging just a little too far to the left. When your pinkies brushed, you felt it like static. He flinched. So did you.
And when you both glanced at each other, eyes wide and startled, it was like being caught doing something scandalous. His cheeks were red. He laughed nervously under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with himself. You ducked your head, smiling softly. By the time you reached your building, your heart was fluttering like crazy. You stopped at the bottom of the steps, turning to face him.
He looked even taller under the glow of the porch light. His hoodie was a little rumpled, hair tousled, glasses slipping down just slightly. He looked so effortlessly handsome and completely flustered, like he couldn’t believe he’d just spent two hours alone with you and somehow survived it. You swallowed, clutching your bag a little tighter. “…Thank you,” you said softly. His brows furrowed, confused but gentle. “For what?” You smiled shyly. “The milkshake.” Anton blinked. And then smiled, this soft, melted kind of smile, like you’d just said the sweetest thing in the world. “Oh. Yeah. Anytime.”
You hesitated for a second. And then, before you could overthink it, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. His body froze. Completely still. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, the way his arms hung awkwardly at his sides like he didn’t know what to do. But then, after a second, he slowly brought them up and wrapped them around your waist gently, almost nervously, like he was scared he’d hurt you if he squeezed too tight.
His face was buried half in your hair, half in your shoulder, and you felt the shaky breath he let out. You pulled back just a little, just enough to meet his eyes. Both of you were red. Both of you smiling, small, breathless, bashful smiles. “…Goodnight, Anton.” He blinked like he was waking up from a dream.“G-Goodnight.” You turned and walked into the dorm building, heart pounding, fingers still tingling from the ghost of his touch. And behind you, Anton stood frozen in place for a good thirty seconds, like his brain had fully shut down.
You spot him as soon as you walk into the lecture hall. Anton, sitting alone near the middle, headphones on, bobbing his head faintly to whatever song he’s listening to. His laptop is open in front of him, but from the way his fingers tap lightly against the keyboard, you doubt he’s doing anything academic. Your stomach does that little nervous flip again. You stand there for a moment, working up the courage, then step forward and gently tap his shoulder.
He turns, pulling one side of his headphones down, and when he sees you, there’s this flicker of surprise followed by a quick flush of pink across his cheeks. “H-Hey…” he says, voice softer than you expected. You smile shyly. “Hey, Anton.” There’s a beat of silence where you just look at each other, and you swear you catch him glancing at your lips before quickly looking away. You shift your bag strap on your shoulder and try to sound casual, even though your voice comes out a little too nervous. “My friend didn’t come today, so…do you wanna…sit with me? Maybe?”
His eyes widen a fraction, and he blinks like you just asked him to solve a math problem in front of the whole class. “Uh—y-yeah, sure! Of course!” The words come out in a rush, and the pink in his cheeks deepens. You grin, and when he stands to follow you, he fumbles a little with unplugging his headphones and gathering his stuff, as if he’s suddenly hyperaware of every move he’s making. By the time you both settle into seats together, there’s a faint awkwardness in the air, not bad awkward, but the kind that makes your pulse race and your knees bounce under the desk.
The professor starts droning on at the front of the room, the scratch of pens and the faint clicking of laptop keys filling the air. You sneak a sideways glance at Anton, the way his hoodie sleeves are pushed up, his hair slightly messy, his glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You lean in just a bit, lowering your voice to a whisper. “You look good today, Anton.” He freezes mid-typing, fingers hovering over the keys. Slowly, he turns his head toward you, eyes wide behind his lenses. The blush is instant, creeping up from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
“Oh—uh… thanks,” he murmurs, voice cracking slightly before he clears his throat. Then, after a pause, he adds quietly, “You… you look good too.” The corners of your mouth lift into a shy smile, and for a moment, neither of you look at the professor, just each other. You both face forward again, but a minute later, you notice him stealing a quick glance at you from the corner of his eye. You bite your lip, leaning closer again. “What?” you ask softly, smiling.
He shakes his head quickly, the blush still there. “Nothing… just—you’re distracting.” You blink, startled, before letting out a soft laugh. “Distracting how?” His jaw tenses like he instantly regrets saying it. “Just…distracting.” he says again, almost shyly pouting, and turns back to his screen, though you can see the tips of his ears still red.
The lecture finally wraps up, chairs scraping against the floor as students start to file out. Anton closes his laptop with a quiet click, slipping it into his bag. You tuck your pen into your notebook, fingers fidgeting a little before you work up the courage to speak. “You heading out?” you ask softly, glancing at him through your lashes, heat blooming in your cheeks.
“Uh—yeah,” he says, voice low, almost unsure, like he wasn’t expecting you to talk to him first. You stand, swinging your bag over your shoulder. “Cool,” you say with a small, shy smile. “We can walk together…if you want.” For a second, he just looks at you, like the words took a moment to process. Then he nods quickly, lips twitching into a faint smile. “Y-yeah, yeah, sure.”
The two of you fall into step as you leave the classroom, the low hum of voices around you fading the moment you step outside into the crisp air. You walk side by side, the afternoon sun spilling gold across the pavement. Your shoulder nearly brushes his, and you catch yourself smiling before you even realize it. “So…” you say, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, “distracting, huh?”
Anton’s head snaps toward you, eyes widening. “Wha—I—” He stumbles over his words, his ears already turning pink. “I didn’t mean—I mean, I wasn’t—” You bite back a grin, pretending to look ahead. “Relax, I’m teasing.” He huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re…uh…good at that.” Your smile softens. “Teasing you?” His gaze flickers to yours for half a second before dropping to the ground. “Yeah…that.”
You walk a few steps in silence, the kind that feels warm rather than awkward. “So…” you murmur, glancing up at him with a playful smile, “do you always get that flustered, or is it just when I’m around?” Anton’s blush deepens instantly. “Uh…maybe just when you’re around.” You bite your lip to hide a grin. “That’s cute.” He looks away, shoving one hand into his pocket. “Not sure that’s the word I’d use.”
“What word would you use, then?” you ask, tilting your head. His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “Dangerous.” You blink at him, surprised. “Dangerous?” He shrugs, finally daring to meet your eyes again. “You make it hard to think straight.” Your stomach flips, and you quickly glance away before he can see just how much that got to you.
By the time you reach the dorm building, your pulse has settled into a strange mix of calm and nervous excitement. The late afternoon light makes the air feel softer somehow. Anton stops with you in front of the entrance. “So…I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, his voice a little uncertain, like he’s not ready for this to end. “Yeah,” you say with a smile. “Thanks for walking me.”
Before you can overthink it, you shift up onto your tippy toes, your hand lightly brushing his arm for balance, and press a quick kiss to his cheek. You hear his breath catch, feel him go still for just a heartbeat before you pull away. When you step back, his cheeks are flushed a deep pink, his gaze flicking down to yours like he’s still processing what happened. You’re blushing just as hard. “Um…bye, Anton.” “B-bye,” he says, his voice low and almost dazed, watching you slip inside.
Anton stood there for a moment, staring at the glass doors you’d just walked through. His cheek still tingled faintly, the ghost of your lips lingering like it was branded there. He exhaled, running a hand over the spot, almost like he needed to confirm it actually happened. 'She kissed me'.
The thought looped in his head, each time making his stomach twist in the best way. He’d been kissed before—well… sort of, but never like that. Never so soft and sweet and completely unexpected. He caught himself smiling, then quickly shoved his hands into his pockets and started back toward his own dorm. His heart was still racing, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stop thinking about how small your hand felt against his arm and how close your lips had been to his own.
The lecture was dragging, the professor’s voice a low drone in the background. You were scribbling down notes, leaning just slightly closer to Anton so you could peek at his laptop screen. He shifted in his seat, leaning toward you to point out a line in the slide you’d missed. As he did, his shoulder brushed yours, and he froze for half a second before murmuring, almost to himself, “You smell nice.”
Your pen paused mid-word. Heat rushed straight to your cheeks, and you turned your head to look at him. He was already back to staring at his screen, ears tinted pink like he hadn’t even realized what he’d said until it was too late. “...Thanks,” you whispered, smiling down at your notebook. You didn’t get much else written for the rest of the lecture.
Over the next couple of weeks, it became a quiet routine—finding each other before lectures, walking side by side to the café between classes, sharing fries at the food place near the uni while pretending not to notice how often your knees brushed under the table.
Sometimes it was a lingering glance over the rim of a coffee cup, sometimes a shy compliment slipped into the conversation when you thought the other wasn’t listening. Each time, it left you both smiling to yourselves for hours after.
One afternoon, as everyone was packing up after a lecture, you let out a small groan. “I forgot to write half the stuff from today,” you mumbled, shoving your notebook into your bag. Anton looked over from where he was closing his laptop. “Don’t worry. Gimme your number, I’ll send you my notes.”
You perked up instantly. “Really? Thank you so much, Toni!” The nickname rolled off your tongue so naturally that you didn’t even think about it until his ears flushed pink. Before he could react, you rocked up and ruffled his soft hair playfully.
“See you later!” you chirped, turning to leave.He stayed rooted in place, blinking after you like his brain had shut off. His cheeks were burning, half from the nickname, half from the unexpected warmth of your hand in his hair. And, god help him, he swore his jeans felt just a little tighter than they had a moment ago.
Anton
here are the notes :)
You
thanks so much toni! you’re a lifesaver
Anton
no problem :) i didn’t do much
You
you always do more than you think :3
Anton
haha…maybe :)
You
wanna grab a coffee after class tomorrow?
Anton
sure :) that sounds good
You
yay! i’ll see you then
Anton
looking forward to it :)
You slide into the chair across from Anton at the café, the smell of coffee and pastries wrapping around you. He sets his keys on the table as he takes out his wallet, and your eyes catch something dangling from the keyring. A tiny, metal Calcifer keychain. “Oh my god!” you exclaim softly, leaning a little closer. “Is that…Calcifer from Howl’s Moving Castle?” He freezes mid-motion, eyebrows shooting up. “Uh…yeah. You…you know that movie?”
You grin, trying not to squeal. “Love it! It’s one of my favorites!” He blinks at you, clearly surprised, adjusting his glasses. “…Wait. I didn’t know you liked anime.” You tilt your head, smirking slightly. “You never asked.” He chuckles softly, still a little flustered, and the conversation drifts naturally into talking about favorite scenes, characters, and little movie details. You laugh together, the atmosphere cozy and easy.
As the hangout winds down and you both finish your drinks, he fidgets slightly, looking down at the table, then up at you with a soft, shy smile. “Uh…so…you—if you want…maybe…you could come over sometime? Watch it…with me?” You freeze for a second, cheeks warming, before letting out a small, happy laugh. “I’d love that.” His relief is obvious, he lets out a quiet breath, smiling sheepishly. The flutter of excitement between you both feels electric.
“Uh…you can…come over tonight, if you want.” he says softly, voice barely above a murmur. Your heart skips a beat and warmth floods your cheeks. You bite your lip for a second, trying to play it cool, before smiling brightly. “Mhm! Tonight it is, then.” you say, the words coming out a little breathless, but cheerful. He blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by how naturally you accepted, and his ears tint pink. A small, shy smile tugs at the corners of his lips.
Anton told you to meet at 8pm. You glance down at your outfit one last time—shorts and a cozy sweater, nothing fancy, just casual. Your stomach twists with nerves. Taking a deep breath, you knock on Anton’s door. The second it opens, your breath catches. He’s…stunning. Damp hair clings slightly to his forehead from a recent shower, his pyjama pants hanging low on his hips, the white shirt stretched perfectly over broad shoulders.
He looks effortlessly perfect, and you realize you’ve been staring before you even noticed. Anton clears his throat, probably aware of the way your eyes linger. He scratches the back of his neck, cheeks already pink, like he’s caught in some awkward but very sexy moment. “Uh…hey.” he mutters, voice low and rougher than usual.
“Hey.” you manage, trying to force a casual smile, though your heart is racing and your palms feel hot. You can’t stop yourself from stealing another glance at him, and he seems to notice, quickly looking away with a small, flustered laugh. The room smells faintly of his shampoo, warm and inviting, and your nerves are suddenly tingling in a very different way.
You step into Anton’s room, eyes widening as you take it all in. Posters of anime and game characters cover the walls—some cute, some daring, and many of the girls featured have big tits and barely any clothes. Shelves lined with figurines catch the soft glow from the warm lights he has set up around the room, and a few of the figurines are equally risqué. A few plants sit on the windowsill, adding a touch of life to the space.
Despite all the decorations, the room is surprisingly tidy. Everything has its place, and it feels…comfortable, inviting. “Wow…I like your room,” you say softly, cheeks heating as you glance around. Anton shifts slightly, scratching the back of his neck, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks…I, uh…like to keep it cozy, I guess.”
You nod, still looking around, letting your gaze linger on the little details—the way some posters are slightly angled, the neat lineup of figurines, the LED light spilling across the floor. The room feels like him. Nerdy, thoughtful, and warm all at once. He watches you quietly, clearly noticing how absorbed you are, and feels a little thrill at how easily your eyes wander over his space.
You curl up on Anton’s bed, leaning against the wall as he sits cross-legged a little distance from you. It feels like you’re in a little world of your own. As the opening scenes of Howl’s Moving Castle play, you find yourself inching slightly closer to him. He glances at you, those soft brown eyes catching yours, and his cheeks pink. You notice how easily your knee brushes his, and your heart flutters.
At one point, the remote slides off the bed, landing on the floor with a soft thud. “Oops! I got it.” you say, bending over to pick it up. Anton’s breath catches. Your shorts ride up just enough that your ass is completely in his view, and he instantly curses under his breath, voice low and rough, fuck…
When you sit back up, you hold the remote triumphantly and smile up at him. “Got it!” you chirp, eyes sparkling. He forces a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck, trying not to look anywhere but your face, even though his gaze keeps flickering down in spite of himself. “Yeah…nice save,” he mutters, voice tight, cheeks burning. The tension between you both hums in the quiet of the room, the movie forgotten for just a few seconds as your proximity and the way you move sets his heart racing.
The movie’s been playing for a while now, the both of you leaning back against the headboard. You’re trying to keep your eyes on the screen, but Anton’s quiet presence beside you is almost louder than the sound coming from the TV. Halfway through, he lets out a soft sigh and stretches, lifting his arms above his head.
The hem of his loose white shirt rides up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin—smooth and pale, with a faint trail of hair dipping below the waistband of his pyjama pants. The faint outline of toned muscle is enough to make your breath hitch.
You don’t even realize you’re staring until you bite your lip without thinking. Anton freezes mid-stretch, his arms lowering quickly. When his eyes meet yours, he notices the way you’re looking at him. His face turns pink instantly. “Uh—” he starts, voice awkward and a little high, “comfortable?”
“Mhm.” you hum, looking back at the screen as if you hadn’t just been caught shamelessly staring. But then you notice something. Out of the corner of your eye, his gaze drifts downward… to your thighs. You’re sitting with them pressed together, the fabric of your shorts hugging your skin in a way that leaves very little to the imagination. His eyes linger for a few seconds too long before darting back up.
You catch it. You definitely catch it. But you don’t say anything. The air between you feels warmer now, charged with something unspoken. You try to focus on the film, but your heartbeat is loud in your ears. Somewhere around the hour mark, the coziness of his room and the warmth of his body next to yours start to lull you to sleep. Your head dips before you even realize it, landing softly against his chest.
Anton stiffens instantly. His eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks like he’s trying to compute what just happened. His heartbeat spikes, and he’s sure you can feel it under your cheek. You mumble something incoherent in your sleep and shift, curling slightly toward him until your arm almost wraps around his. His face turns a deeper shade of red. He doesn’t know where to put his hands.
He tells himself not to move. Not to touch you. If you woke up, you might think he was taking advantage of the situation. But then…he can’t help it. Slowly, carefully, his hand lifts to your hair. His fingers brush against it tentatively, then slide through the strands with the lightest touch. He pets your head so gently, as though afraid you might shatter if he pressed any harder.
The smell of your shampoo drifts up to him, and it makes his chest feel tight in a way he can’t quite explain. He’s so wrapped up in the moment that when your voice suddenly breaks the silence, his heart nearly jumps out of his chest. “Will you ever ask me on a date,” you murmur, voice groggy but teasing, “or do I have to do it?”
Anton freezes, every muscle going rigid. “You’re…awake?” he says softly, almost as if he’s in disbelief. You still don’t open your eyes, your cheek warm against him. “I have been for a while.” you admit with a faint smile.
His hand stills in your hair, and he swallows hard. “Oh…uh…I mean…if you want to go on a date with me…” Finally, you tilt your head up just enough to look at him, your smile small but certain. “I do.” He swears his chest has never felt so light and tight at the same time.
Anton’s lips twitch into the smallest smile, and he nods. “Okay then.” His voice is soft, almost shy. Slowly, reluctantly, he begins to lift his hand from your hair. “No.” you murmur, catching his wrist before he can pull away. His brows lift slightly, startled. You guide his hand right back onto your head, fingers threading gently through yours for a second before you let go. “Keep doing it…I like it.”
The tips of his ears turn pink, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “O-okay…” he says quietly, the faintest smile curling on his lips. And so, he keeps going, his fingertips brushing through your hair in slow, absent strokes while your attention drifts back to the TV. His heart is still racing, but there’s a strange calm in the rhythm of touching you like this.
By the time the movie ends, you’re wide awake again. You slip on your shoes while he stands by the door, watching you with that same gentle, slightly awkward expression. When you step into the doorway, you tilt your chin up at him, hands clasped behind your back, eyes wide and soft. “So…I’ll see you tomorrow?” He nods quickly, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallows. “Y-yeah…” The corners of his mouth lift into a quiet smile. “It’s a date then! Goodnight, Toni.” You stand on your toes, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
The warmth of your lips lingers there, and Anton freezes, eyes widening before color floods his face. He blinks, flustered, clearly at a loss for words. “Goodnight.” he finally manages, giving you a small wave as you head down the hall. The door closes softly, and he leans back against it, pressing his palm over the spot you kissed, his heart hammering like it’s trying to escape.
When you stepped out to meet Anton, you didn’t miss the way his eyes widened before darting away, a flush creeping up his neck. White thigh-high socks, a short skirt, and a soft fitted sweater—it was exactly the kind of outfit you’d seen on some of the girls in his posters and figurines, and you knew it.
“Hey!” you greeted with an innocent smile, pretending you didn’t notice how his gaze kept flickering to your legs before he forced himself to focus on your face. “Hi,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You, uh…ready?”
The arcade was loud and bright, neon lights reflecting off his glasses. You started at the air hockey table, where you made an exaggerated show of celebrating each point you scored, and he just shook his head with that quiet, amused smile he always wore around you now. Then it was racing games—he won, of course, but the little spark of pride in his eyes told you he liked seeing you try to beat him.
“Okay, okay,” you said, catching your breath, “one more thing.” You tugged on his sleeve, leading him toward the claw machines. Your eyes landed on a soft, pastel plush near the center of one, and you pointed. “That one.” He stepped forward, feeding coins into the machine, and muttered under his breath each time the claw slipped. “This is rigged.” He scoffed.
“You just have to believe in yourself.” you teased, resting your elbow lightly on his arm. By the fourth try, the claw finally lifted the plush all the way to the chute. You squealed, grabbing it and hugging it to your chest. “My hero!” His ears turned pink immediately, especially when you added, “Thanks, Toni!”
“I—uh—yeah… you’re welcome,” he stammered, trying to hide a smile. When you hooked your hand around his arm in excitement, he went stock-still, like every muscle in his body froze at once. You felt the warmth under his sweater sleeve, and his heartbeat felt a little faster than normal, but he didn’t pull away.
As you stepped out of the arcade, still clutching the plush to your chest, your eyes caught a small ice cream shop glowing warmly on the corner. “Oh my god! Let’s go!” you gasped, pointing, not waiting for his answer before your fingers slipped into his hand. You tugged him toward it, the warmth of his palm making his steps a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold back or just let you lead.
Inside, the place smelled like sugar and fresh waffle cones. You picked vanilla without hesitation, grinning as the server handed it to you. Anton shook his head when they asked him, mumbling, “I’m fine.” but when you reached for your wallet, he was already pulling out his own cash. “Anton—” “Nope,” he said, eyes dropping to the counter, “I’ve got it.” You beamed, leaning up on your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Toni.” The heat in his ears spread to his neck instantly, and he muttered something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch.
You both sat outside on the shop’s little chairs, the evening air cool against your skin. You took slow licks of your ice cream, savoring it, completely unaware (or maybe not) of the way his gaze kept flicking to your mouth. Every time you let your tongue glide over the melting vanilla, he shifted in his seat, red creeping over his cheeks again. When you wrapped your lips around the tip of the cone, sucking lightly to keep it from dripping, he swallowed hard, his thoughts skittering somewhere very far from ice cream.
By the time you finished, you licked your lips, smiling at him like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Okay, we can go now!” He stood up a little too quickly, adjusting his pajama pants in a subtle, desperate motion. “Y-yeah…let’s go.”
The walk back started off quiet, the night air soft and cool against your skin. You were still clutching the plushie in one arm, your other hand swinging loosely at your side. Anton walked next to you, hands shoved deep into his hoodie, every now and then glancing at you like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring himself to.
Halfway down the block, you slowed your steps and then stopped entirely, turning to face him. Your lips curved into a small pout, eyes glimmering with something a little sad. “I don’t want this date to end yet.” you said softly, toeing the pavement. He froze, caught off guard, his breath visible in the cool air. The tips of his ears flushed pink. “We…could go to my place again,” he offered shyly, then, with a small smile, “Watch something?”
Your pout melted instantly into a grin. “Mhm! Yes, please.” You stepped forward and slipped your hand into his without warning, your fingers curling through his. Anton stiffened in surprise, eyes widening for just a second before his gaze darted away. He didn’t pull back though. If anything, his hand tightened slightly around yours.
You began swinging your joined hands back and forth in an exaggerated, playful rhythm, and his mouth twitched into a smile despite himself. Neither of you said much more, but the silence was comfortable now, each step bringing you closer to the dorms…and whatever would happen next.
By the time you reached his building, Anton still hadn’t let go of your hand. You didn’t point it out, you just smiled to yourself and followed him inside. His dorm room was exactly how you remembered it from last time—tidy, cozy, softly lit, with the faint scent of his shampoo still lingering from earlier. You kicked off your shoes and, without hesitation, plopped down onto the edge of his bed, hugging your plush to your chest.
He closed the door behind him, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced at you. “Uh…what do you wanna watch?” You leaned back onto your hands, swinging your legs slightly. “Anything you want, Toni.” You said it cheerfully, the nickname rolling off your tongue in that way you knew made him blush.
And blush he did. He turned to his desk, pretending to scroll through his streaming options just to give himself a second to recover. “Okay…um how about A Silent Voice?” You nodded instantly. “Perfect.” He climbed onto the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.
At first, there was a polite little space between you—but as the opening scenes played, your legs brushed once, then twice. Neither of you pulled away. The warmth of him was right there, just inches from you, and you could already feel the air between you shifting, thickening, the same way it had last time.
The movie played softly in the background, the purple glow from the LEDs making the whole room feel hotter. You were sitting closer and cloer, each touch sending a little spark up your spine. At one point, Anton shifted, his arm resting on the bed behind you, and you leaned slightly into him without thinking. A quiet moment in the movie made you glance at him, and you caught him already looking at you. Neither of you moved.
His hair was sticking up a little in the front, and without thinking, you reached up to smooth it down. Your fingers lingered, brushing his forehead. You felt his breath hitch. When your hand dropped back to your lap, the space between you felt electric. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. “Anton.” you said softly. He hummed, almost nervously, “Hm?”
“Kiss me.” For a second, he froze—his wide eyes searching your face like he was making sure you meant it. And then, slowly, he leaned in. The first brush of his lips was hesitant, testing, but you pressed closer, kissing him back, and that tiny hesitation melted away. His hand came up to cup your cheek, warm and careful, as the kiss deepened. You shifted, closing the space entirely, and before you knew it you were in his lap, your knees on either side of him.
His breath caught against your mouth, and he gripped your waist like he was scared you’d pull away. But you didn’t. You rolled your hips experimentally, and his quiet, shaky whimper made you smile against his lips. Anton kissed you like he was afraid to mess it up, but the moment you tangled your fingers in his hair and gave a gentle tug, something inside him faltered. His breath stuttered, and you felt the way his grip on your waist tighten.
You deepened the kiss, your mouth moving against his with a slow hunger. His lips were soft, but the way he kissed you now was firmer, almost desperate. You tugged on his hair again, a little harder this time, and he let out the smallest, most breathless sound into your mouth. It made heat pool low in your stomach.
You whimpered—not loud, just enough for it to slip past your lips, and that sound seemed to wreck him. He shifted under you, his thighs tensing, and you felt the hardness pressing against you through his sweatpants. His breathing got heavier, more uneven, as you rolled your hips just enough to test him.
“Y-you’re…” he broke off, swallowing hard, his cheeks flushed deep red. He didn’t finish the sentence, just leaned forward to kiss you harder, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore. His hands slid up your sides, hesitant but needy, bunching the hem of your sweater as his thumbs brushed the bare skin of your waist.
Every little whimper from you made him twitch under you, his self-control fraying by the second. He didn’t even notice how tightly he was holding you until you pulled back slightly, both of you catching your breath, foreheads touching, his chest rising and falling quickly.
His hands, still trembling slightly, slid down from your waist to your thighs, caressing slowly as if he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you. The soft fabric of your thigh-high socks under his palms made his breath hitc, every inch of exposed skin between them and your skirt had him swallowing hard.
You could feel the way he was hesitating, his fingertips barely grazing, almost shy. So you reached down, took one of his hands gently, and guided it under the hem of your skirt until it rested against the warm fabric of your panties. His eyes widened, his entire body freezing for a second. “Please…touch me.” you pouted, your voice soft but desperate, looking up at him through your lashes.
Anton’s jaw clenched, his cheeks burning crimson. “I–I…” he stammered, clearly overwhelmed, but his fingers flexed ever so slightly against you, already feeling the dampness there. He swallowed, gaze flicking from your pleading expression to where his hand was between your legs, like he couldn’t believe this was really happening.
Slowly, hesitantly, he started to stroke you through the thin fabric, his breathing quickening with every tiny sound you made. The warmth and wetness beneath his touch sent a shiver through him, and when you whimpered again, he bit his lip hard, fighting the urge to just tear the panties aside and fuck you right there and there.
Anton’s breath was coming faster now, his fingers rubbing gentle, nervous circles over your clothed clit. The friction had you rolling your hips down against his touch, but every movement also pressed you into the growing bulge beneath his sweatpants. You couldn’t help it, you shifted closer, grinding lightly against him as his breath hitched, his other hand gripping the bed sheets like he didn’t know where else to put it.
You reached for that hand, guiding it up to your chest. His eyes flicked to yours in surprise, but when you placed it over your breast, his fingers curled instinctively, squeezing through your sweater and bra. The combination of his touches had you letting out a soft, shaky whimper against his lips, which made him groan quietly into the kiss. It wasn’t enough. You wanted to feel him, really feel him.
You broke the kiss for just a moment, your lips wet and swollen, and slid your panties down your thighs, kicking them aside on the bed. Without giving him time to process, you took his hand again, the one that had been rubbing you through the thin fabric, and guided it between your legs until his fingers met your bare, slick pussy.
Anton froze, a sharp breath escaping him, his pupils blown wide. His fingertips twitched slightly against you before he swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet room. “You’re…s-so warm.” he whispered, almost like he was talking to himself.
His thumb kept rubbing slow, deliberate circles on your clit, and you couldn’t stop yourself from rocking against his hand, chasing that sharp, sweet pleasure. Your breath came out in shaky bursts, your skirt bunched up around your hips, his eyes glued to the way you moved for him.
Then, without warning, you felt the gentle press of his finger slipping inside you. Your back arched instantly, a gasp spilling from your lips that quickly melted into a needy moan. “Ah—Anton!” you whined, your thighs trembling slightly as he moved that finger in and out of you in slow, careful motions.
His gaze flicked up to your face, flushed and focused. “Is that…okay?” he asked softly, almost like he was scared to break the moment. You nodded fast, your voice urgent. “More.” His lips parted, chest rising quickly, he didn’t hesitate. He slid another finger inside you. The stretch had you letting out a broken whimper, and his breath stuttered at the sound. He kept his pace gentle, curling them just enough to make your hips jerk.
His fingers moved inside you faster now, curling expertly as he matched the rhythm of your hips grinding against him. Every wet, slippery sound of your arousal seemed to drive him further, and he couldn’t help the small, shaky moans that escaped his lips.
You tugged at his hair, hard enough to make him gasp, and he let out a sharp, breathy whine, eyes closing for a split second. His pace didn’t falte. If anything, it quickened, fingers plunging deeper, curling just right to hit all the right spots. The room was filled with the slick, wet sounds of your pleasure and the occasional whimper or gasp that slipped past your lips.
Every noise you made made him harder beneath you, his own need pressing against your clothed heat. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours for a second, watching your expression contort with pleasure, and whispered, almost desperately, “You feel so good…”
As he kept fingering you, his other hand wandered nervously over his lap. You felt the hard outline of him through his sweatpants and palmed him gently. A small, shaky whimper escaped his lips, and you looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading. “Want you inside...” you breathed, voice soft and desperate. The sight of you like that—lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling—made him stiffen even more.
You slowly peeled off your sweater and bra, tossing them aside, and he couldn’t stop staring. His hands trembled slightly, but finally he pulled his own shirt off, revealing the toned chest and abs. Your breath hitched, and heat pooled low in your belly, you were already dripping just from looking at him.
You took him in your hand, drooling at how big and hard and pretty he was, slick with precum. A soft whine escaped him at your touch. Slowly, carefully, you began sliding down onto him, lips parted and breathing uneven. His length hit you and made you gasp, it was more than you expected, and you struggled a little to take him in fully.
“You’re so big, Toni…” you whimpered, the words shaking as your hips pressed down. He let out a deep moan at your words, fingers gripping your hips lightly, trying to help guide you, while his eyes stayed locked on your face, full of need and disbelief. You finally bottomed out with a sharp, breathy moan, and he immediately groaned, gripping your hips tightly. “F-fuck…” he stammered, voice low and shaky, eyes wide as he tried to take it all in.
Clinging to him, your arms wrapped around his neck, you started moving slowly, rocking up and down against him. Every little thrust made him whimper softly, his lips parting in short gasps. His hands pressed against your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides as you moved, both of you making quiet, desperate sounds. The tension and pleasure wrapped tightly around you, leaving no space for anything else.
“Toni…” you whispered between breaths, voice trembling, chest rising and falling. “S-s’big…” you added, eyes fluttering shut, heat pooling between your thighs as you slowly rode him, both of you lost in the new, intense sensations. You cupped his cheeks, leaning in close, and kissed him hard, teeth and lips mingling, tongues brushing. The feel of him beneath you, soft and firm at the same time, made your body tremble.
You started moving faster, bouncing and whispering in between shallow, desperate kisses, “Want you…feels so good…” Anton was a blushing mess, sitting there stunned, barely able to process how breathtaking you looked taking him like this. He let out a quiet, shaky whimper, unable to resist just watching you, the way your hips rolled and your chest pressed to his, the scent and sight of you overwhelming him.
Then, you pulled your lips back from his briefly, gasping, and as you continued bouncing, you pressed a hand flat against your belly. “Can feel you up here, Toni,” you whined, eyes half-lidded and desperate. That was it. Something snapped in him. Heat surged, his pupils blown wide, and he moaned deeply, leaning forward to grab your waist tightly. His hands dug into your hips as he started bouncing you hard on him, quick, punishing thrusts that made you gasp and whimper.
The switch had flipped—the shy, hesitant boy from earlier was gone. Every motion was confident, dominant, controlled. His eyes locked on yours as he guided your movements, his mouth open in low, needy moans, taking over completely as he rode you through the pleasure he’d been holding back.
The sudden shift in Anton’s behavior made your eyes go wide. The man under you, replaced with someone fierce, commanding, and hungry for you. Every hard, quick thrust made you gasp, moan, and shiver, high-pitched, desperate sounds spilled uncontrollably from your lips as he drove into you. He leaned down, pressing a hand to your chest, cupping your breast and rolling your nipple between his fingers. “You’re so fucking tight.” he groaned, voice low and serious.
You immediately clenched around him at that, your body responding to every word. “Fuck…you’re so wet.” he continued, sliding his hand a little, teasing and grinding as he kept his pace relentless. Your moans grew louder, each one feeding him, making him fuck into you harder, faster. Every time he hit that spot just right, a whimper escaped you, and you tugged at his hair desperately, needing to feel him closer.
His eyes rolled back at the sight of you writhing beneath him, every flicker of your expression only spurring him on. “You feel so good…so fucking good for me,” he whispered, low and dirty, each word a promise and a command. “Such a good girl…gonna make you scream for me.”
Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as the pleasure built unbearably high. His fingers dug into your hips and your chest, his dirty words and praise mixing with the way he pounded in you, making your vision blur and your body shiver uncontrollably under him.
His hand slid down from your breast, fingers circling your clit with a firm, insistent rhythm. Every motion made your hips buck uncontrollably, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. “Toni…m’so close…” you whimpered, voice high and trembling, moans spilling past your lips as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your stomach.
“Fuck—cum for me, baby,” he groaned, voice low and ragged, heat radiating off him. “You’re so fucking hot.” The pet name, him calling you baby for the first time, had an immediate effect. Your walls clenched around him, your toes curling, and a high-pitched, broken moan tore from your throat as you came hard, shivering against him.
He didn’t hesitate. He captured your lips in a hard, hungry kiss, pressing you flush against him as his hand moved to cradle the side of your throat, gentle pressure just enough to make your breath hitch. You whimpered into the kiss, muffled, overwhelmed by the combination of sensations—the taste of him, the feel of him, and how your walls pulsate around him.
Before you could even process it, Anton’s hands were under your hips, flipping you over onto your back. Your breath hitched, heart racing, but before you could protest, he gently urged you onto all fours, the curve of your ass pressing invitingly toward him. “Anton, I—” you started, breath trembling.
“One more, baby,” he cut in, voice low and commanding, pupils dilated with need. “I know you can do it for me, hm?” You swallowed, cheeks burning, and nodded eagerly. “Yes! Anything for you, Toni!” He smiled, a dangerous, possessive grin spreading across his face. “Good girl.” he murmured, voice rough.
With that, he positioned himself behind you, pressing against your slick pussy before sliding inside you again. The sudden fullness made you gasp, your hands digging into the bed for balance, and he didn’t hesitate to start thrusting, hard and fast, his hands gripping your waist firmly. He slammed into you again, hips snapping hard, hands gripping your waist as he drove in and out with relentless force. “Keep your ass up for me.” he commanded, voice low and rough.
You obeyed instantly, arching into him, a high-pitched whine escaping your lips as he hit that sensitive spot perfectly. The aftershocks of your previous orgasm made every motion even more intense, every touch unbearable in the best way. “You like it, baby? Me fucking you like this?” he asked, voice thick with lust, leaning close so his breath ghosted over your back.
“Mhm!!” you moaned, barely coherent, your nails digging into the bedsheets. “Fuck—say my name, baby.” he demanded, thrusts rougher, faster, more insistent. “Toni…!” you whimpered, voice shaky and desperate, clinging to the bed as he pounded into you, each stroke hitting harder and harder, making your back arch and your chest press to the mattress.
A sharp, hard smack landed on your ass, leaving a red handprint. You gasped loudly, the sting sending shivers of pleasure through you, your hips jerking involuntarily. “Fuck, baby…look at you,” he groaned, eyes dark and hungry. “Taking me so well…so perfect for me.”
Another slap landed on your other cheek, and you whimpered, pressing back into him. He grinned, low and possessive, tugging roughly at a handful of your hair to tilt your head just right. “Such a good girl…you like it when I spank you like this, hm?” he whispered, voice thick and rough, each word dripping with lust. You moaned, voice shaky, “Y-yes!…please, Toni…”
He responded with another hard smack, this time letting his hand linger, fingertips digging slightly into your skin as he pressed your ass against him. “So fucking wet, baby. You’re mine.” His other hand twisted through your hair again, tugging gently to make you arch back, giving him better access, and he leaned closer to your ear. “Tell me how good it feels… say it for me, baby.”
“So good, Toni!—Nghh!” you moaned, your hips practically slamming into him from your own desperation. His hand moved from your waist to your belly, pressing down just enough to make you moan loudly, hips jerking against him. “You feel me here, baby? So deep in you, yeah?” he groaned, voice low and rough.
You nodded uncontrollably, eyes watering from the overwhelming pleasure. He pressed down harder on your stomach, leaning back slightly to take in the sight of you—skirt bunched at your waist, thigh-high socks stretching over your legs, body pressed perfectly against him. “You’re so fucking cute…with your cute socks,” he murmured, voice thick with lust, his hand moving to squeeze your ass firmly. “Fuck, baby…so pretty. You know what you’re doing to me, hm?”
You nodded again and he smirked, a low chuckle escaping him. Without warning, his hand came down hard on your ass, leaving a stinging slap that made you yelp and moan at the same time. “You’re mine, baby,” he breathed, voice rough, eyes dark and intense. “Every inch of you…all mine.”
He kept slamming into you, each thrust hitting that perfect spot, his hand sliding down to circle your clit in tight, fast motions. “M’so close—ah!” you whimpered, voice trembling, your legs starting to shake. “Fuck, baby…me too.” he groaned, hips moving faster, almost desperate. That strange, overwhelming pressure built deep in your abdomen, making you gasp. “Toni! S’too m–much!”
“But you take it so well, baby,” he growled, his voice rough and filthy in your ear, “you’re such a good girl for me.” You cried, “Fuck! Anton!”, body tightening before the release hit you all at once—hot, messy, unstoppable. Your thighs trembled as you squirted around him, the sound of it mixing with his moan as he pounded you through it.
“Shit…you just squirted all over me…fuck, you’re perfect.” Anton groaned, his voice low and wrecked. You moaned at his words, your body still trembling from release. Before you could catch your breath, he pulled out abruptly, flipping you onto your back with surprising strength. His messy hair fell over his forehead, his flushed face twisted in pleasure as his hand pumped his cock fast.
The sight of you—skirt messy, socks on, your stomach rising and falling with every shaky breath, it pushed him over the edge. With a loud, broken whimper, he came hard, spilling hot ropes across your belly and chest, his shoulders tensing as his hips jerked. Anton stayed kneeling between your legs, chest heaving, hair a total mess. His wide eyes followed every rise and fall of your stomach as he tried to catch his breath.
You dragged your fingers through the warm mess on your belly, scooping some up without breaking eye contact. His gaze locked on you, pupils blown, as you slowly brought your fingers to your lips and licked them clean. He let out a strangled sound, half groan, half whimper, before whispering, “Holy…fucking…shit.”
You barely had time to smile before he leaned forward, kissing you hard, his hands cradling your face like he couldn’t get enough. “You’re the best girl, baby.” he murmured against your mouth, voice still wrecked. You tugged on his hair gently, and he sighed into the kiss, finally collapsing beside you.
A few moments later, you were lying flat on the bed, his head resting against your chest while your fingers played lazily with his hair, feeling the rapid thump of his heartbeat slowly calm. You’re lying there, feeling his warmth against you, your fingers lazily combing through his messy hair. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the AC. “Anton?” you say suddenly, voice quiet and soft.
He hums against your chest, “Mm?” You swallow, heart thumping. “Will you be my boyfriend?” His head lifts immediately, eyes wide and cheeks flushing a deep pink. “A-are you for real?” You pout a little, glancing away before looking back at him. “Anton…you just made me squirt, I’ve never done that before…and besides—” you bite your lip, “I really like you. A lot.”
His mouth parts slightly, like he’s lost for words. Then, with a shaky little laugh, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “I like you too…like really fucking like you. And yeah—yeah, I’ll be your boyfriend.” You grin, cheeks warm, and pull him back down against your chest, feeling him smile into your skin.
𓏸⠀ 𓈒 check out my masterlist .ᐟ get added in my taglist .ᐟ
synopsis: your father’s soft-spoken research assistant moves into your summer home for two months. and despite your efforts, the space between you keeps shrinking while he’s all quiet glances and you’re desperately trying to hold on to indifference.
word count: 7.6k
content warning: fem!reader, suggestive, swearing, small amount of arguing, minor character is chronically ill
author's note: inspired off "call me by your name" oops! feel free to listen to “visions of gideon” & “futile devices (doveman remix)” - sufjan stevens while reading because i did lmao
___
The kitchen side door slams shut, rattling the trinkets in the corner display cabinet. The delicate chandelier crystals shake above your head, swaying shadows around the dinner room.
You don’t need to look up to know it’s that quiet boy that Father has taken under his wing recently. Mother is glad to see the young man though, knowing that her husband isn’t far away from trailing after him.
The dinner formality is becoming more and more frequent, and as much as your family is quite talkative already, the black-haired boy seems to make the dinner atmosphere twice more lively with conversation.
Anton Lee comes in as if he lives here, smelling like earthy rain and wet dress shoes trekking mud into the house. It vexes you to no end, especially when your housemaid gets up in a hurry, not bothered at the sludge he’s trudging in.
“So sorry for the mess, Edna—” He murmurs with such empathy, “Hi everyone.”
“Hello, dear! Got caught in the rain, have you?” Mother smiles with a twinkle as she unsteadily stands up, pushing her chair back with a scrape.
“Yes, gosh. It started downpouring so suddenly in the cab back. I hope you don’t mind that I'm joining the table tonight, ma’am.”
“Love, you’re practically here every night. We always have room for you, stop with the nonsense.”
You can feel Mother’s glance at you— probably a hint for your bumble of an agreement but you press your gaze further onto the words of your novel.
As much as you were previously enraptured with this current chapter of your romance novel, Anton’s arrival is distracting to you. Much is the rest of his stuck-up-ness to your parents. It’s times like these you wish Mother wasn’t so gullible. Always too kind for her own good to be believing of this ridiculous, out-of-nowhere boy.
“This soup looks great, Edna, you always outdo yourself.” Anton grins a boyish smile, readily accepting her offered steaming bowl of soup over the table.
“Is my husband behind you?” Mother quips.
“Yes ma’am, Professor just had to drop his things in his office. He went through the front door.”
Glancing up at the sound of this, you peer at the archway and wait for Father to come gliding in soon enough.
“And how was your day, dear? Productive, I hope?”
You finally chance a look at Anton, lashes fluttering at his wet hair.
His shoulders are broad in his thin sweater, ridiculously soaked with rainwater. His black tendrils that are usually neat, expose his forehead— messy like he had taken a shower. It’s too devastating to keep admiring, so you spoon soup into your mouth and look away, ears tuning back into the conversation.
“— And the results were extraordinary, Mrs. L/N. Professor will expand more on it, but today was a complete breakthrough.”
You can hear the grin in Mother’s voice.
“Oh, and I’m sure I will. My husband does love to bring his passion to the dinner table. Oh, there he is.”
Instantly, you tug your velvet page holder in place and slam your book closed. Father comes in with two towels in his hands, looking just the same as Anton, albeit more disheveled. His wrinkled smile is the same, the natural curvature and homeliness of the gesture making your chest warm.
“Oh, look at this! A full table almost.” Father cheers.
You get up as he goes around, pressing on Mother’s cheek first and then following a chaste kiss in your hair.
“How was your day, Father?”
“Fantastic, baby. I assume Anton here has already spilled the news?” Father side-eyes Anton and the latter nods resolutely. Handing over a towel to the young man, Anton ducks from view under the table to dry himself.
Father settles into the chair right next to Mother’s at the other end of the table. The only seat empty was Carl’s, your family’s chauffeur.
“It only started raining cats and dogs after me and Lee here called it quits for the day. What luck, huh?”
A lighthearted laugh goes around the table. You stuff your novel under your thighs, just as the oven dings and Edna hurriedly beelines to the kitchen oven.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” Father sniffs, roughly patting his own soaked self down, “It smells amazing.”
“Pot roast.” You smile lightly, unconsciously wringing your hands on your lap in excitement.
Anton catches the movement of your sock-clad toes tapping against the dining room rug, smiling to himself before straightening back up. “That sounds amazing.”
“Oh, yes it is!” Edna’s voice rises, skittering back in to place the big olive green dish at the center of the table. “I hope everyone here has a lot of room in their stomach! It took five hours to cook!”
Everyone except for Edna lifts from the cushion of their seat to see steam curl and escape as the lid lifts.
“Goodness, Edna. This is so much food! You’ve made a feast today!” Mother exclaims.
“Oh, I had to,” Edna says, tone somehow scolding and happy at the same time; she takes Mother’s plate diligently, beginning to serve everyone. “I heard your husband on the phone, saying Anton skipped breakfast today. He’s so skinny!”
Anton laughs lightheartedly. “I told you, Edna, it’s the clothes I wear. I’m not as skinny as you’d think.”
Hurriedly gesturing toward Anton’s plate, he refuses, gesturing towards you first. Edna piles meat, carrots, and potatoes on yours quickly.
“If you were my grandson, you’d be plump as a peach! You work in the sun, day in and day out with the workaholic over there!”
Father chokes on his bite of food.
“He would barely survive if me and Madam here didn’t feed him!”
“I take care of myself just fine,” Anton shyly fights back, “I was just in a rush to leave the apartment today. I got busy packing boxes and lost track of time.”
Father snaps his fingers, swallowing a large mouthful of meat. “Right! About that, son. Me and my wife here were thinking you stay at ours for a month or two. Until that new place of yours opens up, of course.”
Your mouth becomes slightly agape.
“Just so you don’t have to stay in some hotel for weeks on end, dear.” Mother nods in agreement.
Your heart seems to stop briefly, wondering where on Earth this idea is coming from. You try not to let your emotions show easily.
“But where will he stay?”
Every head turns towards you in rapid succession. Your cheeks warm in response.
“Honey, there’s two guest bedrooms that collect dust every summer. He’ll manage.”
Anton catches the swallow of your throat, shaking his head and bringing water droplets to the dining table.
“It’s no problem, really. Thank you, I appreciate the offer but—”
“Don’t be silly! I know you haven’t put down the deposit for the hotel yet. I spoke to Brad this morning. Besides, that old man charges the hell out of any visitor of this town. Takes advantage anyone in a bad situation, really—”
Father was ever so nosy and in everyone’s business all the time. As much you adored how kind he was, it was a nuisance in some cases, this being one of them.
You had planned on having a peaceful and quiet rest of your summer here. Slow mornings of sitting by your pool and reading. Some badminton games with the little kids near the creak. Maybe camping out at the small bookstore down the street, gouging yourself on the mandarins Edna grows. A few late-night walks on the deserted streets downtown.
But now you’re expected to see this boy Father is mother-birding every day, even more than at your dinner table every other night?
Tugging your book out from under you, you prop it back up to disguise the scowl curling your lip. Attempting to tune out the back and forth of everyone’s day, you cannot entertain the usual spout about research, Mother's gardening, and whatever else tonight.
The novel also successfully removes Anton’s annoyingly handsome face from your view, a reprieve you were going to take advantage of now that he was moving in soon. You knew for a fact he would, because it was too good of an offer to not grab and your parents always got their way.
Who in their right mind would refuse living in their kind mentor’s luxurious house for two months? Have their laundry and every meal taken care of?
No one, that’s who.
Now, every word on your novel’s page withers off. You wish every night that you didn’t have to hide behind a book at the dinner table because…
Life used to be so much easier when you didn’t have to deny you found Father’s recent research assistant to be god-awfully attractive.
___
The next time you see Anton, he’s drenched in sweat from lugging his stuff to your house. Carl is still visiting family so he couldn’t use your chauffeur to move. To avoid paying for a cab, he had stupidly walked all his things from across town.
It’s a ten minute walk usually, but with about a million boxes with him, the tall boy had no chance of not soaking through his clothes. Father is furious that he didn’t call him for help.
Besides being genuinely bewildered on how a man could have brought so many belongings with him on a research trip, it was odd to catch Anton in casual clothes. Mainly because every time you did see him, he had on semi-professional attire.
Even in the glaringly awful heat of the summer, it was all sweaters and khakis. Long sleeves and slacks. The most normal-looking he’d ever been to your age group was when he’d worn Father’s old tee after Edna spilled coffee on him.
That was a big shocker, seeing as his arms were way more… firm than you thought. Packed with muscle, but still somehow lean. Amazingly fit for a scientist most believe don’t have to lift anything remotely heavy.
Now, Anton is sporting a flowy short-sleeve button-up and shorts that cut off after his knees. Worse of all are these gold-framed glasses sitting on his nose. It’s almost like some sick fantasy of yours come to life, trudging up on your porch and invading your personal space when he squeezes past you.
Everyone in the house is forced to help Anton transport stuff to his room, to which he blubbers apologies and thank-you’s out constantly. It would annoy you more if it weren’t for the fact you had to break more awful news to him, and to yourself outloud.
“We have to share a bathroom, by the way. The bedroom you were supposed to be in has a draft from the attic above. The other guest room is connected to mine.”
Your drab way of delivery makes his noise of understanding that much bleaker.
“Oh. Like a—”
“Jack and Jill bathroom, yeah.” You cross his room, gesturing grandly to the white-tiled layout.
Mother had made you move all of your skincare products to the side, at the same time scolding you for how much you had. Besides that, the bathroom was quite ordinary.
You’re sure that Anton wouldn’t speak up about the pink shower curtains, or pink bathroom mat. He never complained about much of anything actually. Instead, his eyes wander to the oak door plainly revealing your room at the end. Books litter the surface of your bed, with posters peeling off your wall and pens haphazardly placed everywhere.
You swear in your head, forgetting to have closed your door to the bathroom. Swinging his door closed with a slam, you tightly smile while avoiding Anton’s surprised face. His hair is blown out from the wind produced from your action.
“Is there not another bathroom I could use?” He nervously asks.
“Nope. The only other one not connected to anyone’s living quarters is being renovated. So just knock.”
“Oh. Okay, thanks—”
You’re already heading out of Anton’s new space before he could finish speaking.
___
Ignoring Anton’s existence is easier than you had thought.
He woke up early for a daily run, precisely at 6:30 every morning. He made sure to be as quiet as possible while showering, before changing and going to work with Father. They’d come back around dinnertime, sometimes late and sometimes early, where you’d ignore him the same as always at the dinner table. Everyone usually separates and goes about their nightly activities, where you have no clue where Anton is, either in the house or in town. And it starts all over again.
Once the first weekend hits though, Mother has had enough and starts a tightly worded conversation with you Saturday morning.
No more being cold. No more being ignorant.
She’s smart in how she handles her words, not trying to seek out why you were so bothered by Anton’s presence, or why you so strongly despise him. She knew part of the reason why.
The other reason… Well, you’ve never been the type to discuss anything concerning crushes or boys with Mother. It’s territory you’re not willing to explore. So you suck up the scolding as usual and agree. Mother even finishes it off by suggesting you give him a proper tour of town.
That was the only thing you were going to protest, if it weren’t for Anton’s happy stumbling into the kitchen.
He slows to a stop at the tense look on both women’s faces, looking like he just got caught stealing from the cookie jar.
Mother waves away his worries though, tugging him closer for a cup of fresh orange juice and throwing the idea into the air. Anton seems to actually wince at the thought while catching your cold gaze over Mother’s shoulder. He can’t ever say no to her though, so he politely agrees, earning him a slap on the back.
After breakfast, you silently lead the both of you out to the shed, where Carl is sharpening a pair of garden shears while sitting on a milk crate, safe from the heat of the sun.
Not catching how Anton admires your interaction with the silver-haired man, you grin softly while you converse with your chauffeur. Your gentle hand sits on Carl’s tanned shoulders, the grandpa wiping off dirt from his calloused hands before they curl around your back for a hug.
“Wait a second,” You murmur to Anton, before jogging into the house.
Anton only awkwardly nods, a half bow to Carl in stilted conversation before you’re back, a little breathless. A cold glass of water and two mandarins sit snug in your palm, before handing them over in exchange for the bikes from the dusty corner of the shed.
You politely wave off Carl’s offer to drive you around. Shouting a goodbye and a smile over your shoulder, you squint from the brightness of the day before giving Anton one of the baby yellow bikes.
Anton is curious about your close relationship with the old man, as well as your relationship with Edna— but that question has been sitting on his mind for a while. Many questions have been, actually.
He just isn’t sure whether you’d reply if he asked. In the short time he’s known you, the three attempts Anton has made to get closer to you have been shut down with short answers and ice-old looks. It’s dizzying to him when you seem so… different with everyone else.
You adore your father— even if the quirky man seemed to make you roll your eyes at his dad jokes. Your mother, you treated kindly, stomaching her snide comments about your books and writing and standoff-ishness even when you didn’t have to.
And Edna, you laughed with so easily. Felt comfortable enough with to revert back to your child-like self, tugging at her apron when you wanted a fresh tart out the oven. You even danced around the island counter, tapping her shoulder before nicking one off the baking sheet.
Now the new mystery with Carl. Your crinkling eyes when speaking to him, same with your gentle touch and warm hug. Hurrying back into the house to gather a drink and fruit for him. Your chauffeur.
Had you known him for long? Did the old man watch you grow up into the woman you were now? Why were you so adamant on being kind to everyone but him… Anton?
He felt like he hadn’t done anything wrong… Besides when he forgot to knock on the bathroom door and caught you with a toothbrush and foam in your mouth. Or when he creased your Mary Janes by accidentally stepping on them in the entryway.
Even now, as he peeks past his long lashes to peer at you… he thinks you’re ethereal. Placed perfectly in the scenery with blue waves crashing along the shoreline below. Carefully walking and watching where both of your guys’ feet land you, the crumbly gravel road leading down the driveway.
Anton’s mouth opens before he can think the words through.
“Beautiful.”
… He hopes the sounds of the ocean drowned him out.
“What?”
You curl your hair behind your ear, finally looking his way before hovering a hand to hide your eyes from the blinding sun. You’re still incredibly beautiful and he refuses to deny that.
“Um— where are we headed?”
“At the bottom of the hill, we can bike to the downtown plaza. Maybe get Gerardo’s. Then park our bikes around the creak, walk around.”
“Gerardo’s?”
You give a pity smile.
“The only gelato place in town?”
You seemed to have a special way of making Anton feel like his heart is about to blow up, even if the soft grin is half way to teasing him.
“Right. What about that bookstore?”
That manages to catch you off-guard.
“Huh?”
“You know… the one you always talk about. With the fiction aisle that rotates every week?”
“Oh,” You’re stunned into a short silence.
Reaching the end of the driveway, you nod imperceptibly. Anton almost misses it.
“Okay, I’ll show you there too.”
Then, you hop onto the high seat of your bike, gesturing to him to do the same. You lead the way, your hair whipping in the wind as you build up speed. And Anton follows you closely behind, still far enough though to see your side profile as you breathe in the salty smell of your seaside town.
He only wishes he was good at being inconspicuous enough to admire you like this more often.
___
Anton has been recruited to cut pears.
He thought the task would take a maximum of five minutes but instead, he’s been sat on a stool in the kitchen for thirty. His hands hurt.
Edna only slaps Anton’s lower back to sit straighter when he slouches. He desperately hopes his professor’s wife will come and try to save him, but instead the older woman waltzes in, happily joining the festivities. She says that now a lot of the fruit has ripened, the baking day can begin.
Anton doesn’t ever really know what to do with his free time on the weekend when not working; usually going to the creak and talking to some of the grandpas there. Maybe picking up a random ball game with the local kids in town. Or his favorite, which is keeping you quiet company by the pool in the backyard. He didn’t really imagine baking to be on the list.
His eyes sparkle in reprieve when you jog into the kitchen, jolly as a clam compared to usually. You murmur a hi to everyone between a pear sunk between your teeth, not even flinching when Mother slaps your bare back. One for not washing the fruit and another for not announcing where you’d be running off to avoid the kitchen today.
Anton so desperately wants to appreciate the expanse of your skin, exposed from the bikini top you have on. But instead, he’s respectful and his eyes are laser-focused on cutting slices of green pear over and over.
You’re forced to explain you’re off to see rare friends down by the water, ones that have returned for the summer after being abroad from school. From the way you’re so happy, Anton would figure your boyfriend was amongst them.
Edna catches the black-haired boy red-handed, looking up at the sound of your words. She swiftly snatches the knife from his grip, pulling Anton up with the tag of his shirt like a kicked puppy.
“Bring this poor boy along with you dear, he’s cutting the pears chunky enough to choke a toddler.”
Anton tries to catch whether your face is twisting in irritation at this suggestion, but instead the whirl of commotion in the kitchen tosses him around like a rag doll between three women.
You agree to appease the arguing between Edna and Mother, stealing more fruit from the counter before escaping to the living room.
Anton figured you’d immediately shut down the idea. He sits on the armrest of the plush couch, patiently waiting for your dismissal as you scurry about and toss a book in your bag; but your protests never come, even as you look past your shoulder while toeing on your slides.
“Well, go get changed. What are you waiting for?”
“Oh! Uh, give me one minute!” Anton springs into action, leaving into the foyer and going up the stairs two steps at a time.
You’re glad that just as he disappears around the corner, your fight against a growing smile is lost.
___
“You can read?”
Anton jumps out of his seat at the sound of your voice.
Your hair is messy from sleep, a blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders. It’s practically drowning you, and Anton wonders why you’re up. It’s two A.M. in the morning and you’re rarely moving around at this time.
He settles back into his reclining chair, blowing out a breath and praying his heartbeat to come down.
“Rude. And yes, I can— at least… I’m trying to. You scared me.”
You don’t apologize, instead reaching the balcony railing and staring out into the ocean twinkling from the moonlight. “What are you reading?”
“Uh…” Anton keeps a thumb on his page, flipping to the cover, “Advanced Series in Ocean Physics.”
A scoff leaves you, drifting out into the cool air. “Do you ever not think about research?”
“It’s my life.”
The defense in Anton’s tone shocks you enough to look over at him.
You’ve never once hit a nerve before. He was always so meek with you, always willing to go about with anything. At the pause in conversation, Anton clears his throat and looks back down at the pages.
He’s clearly not reading anymore. “I’m really interested in what I’m studying. It’s why I’m here after all.”
Your heart hurts suddenly. You feel an unexplainable, pressuring guilt building in your chest.
“... Do you enjoy Father’s company that much? He talks a lot, doesn’t he?”
“Professor has great things to say.”
“I suppose so.”
The dismissal makes the tenseness in Anton’s body stronger.
“Your father is incredible. He’s made bounds of advances in climate models, and is probably the only person in my field that cares about how climate change is affecting submesoscale dynamics.”
You laugh a little, no humor evident. “You don’t think I’ve heard that my whole life?”
“Well, it’s true! … I’m lucky to work with him.” Anton shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.
“I’m sure you are.” You sneer, thinking it’s the end of the conversation.
But now it’s anxious, sitting in this quiet space together. Especially with how much you’ve grown in handling Anton’s steady being in this house. You’ve actually gotten used to it.
Waking up and him being in the kitchen helping with breakfast. Dinner with his bursting laughter while bending over and almost hitting his forehead on the table. His toothbrush next to yours in the bathroom, the smell of his shampoo and conditioner, mixing together in the heat from his shower. Weekends with the both of you quietly soaking in the backyard sun. Watching your parents try chess in the evenings, Edna playing a beautiful tune on the piano. Being coerced into picking weeds with Carl on blazing hot afternoons.
And when it rains… sitting on the front porch steps together. Just looking out into the stormy sea and watching it rumble. The smell of petrichor after several days of dry heat torturing your little town.
The last thing you were expecting when coming out here was running into the black-haired boy, but… here you were. You just wanted fresh air after a nightmare but now you wonder how long he’s begun this habit of sitting out here in the dark, with only the pale moon to give him reading light.
It seems like your aloof demeanor has finally pushed him enough. You knew you were confusing with how mean you were to him sometimes, and in the past two weeks, you’ve been more apologetic to it. You were breaking the habit of being cold, forgetting how you first felt about him at the start of the summer… but not now. Not on this topic.
“Why do you dislike me so much?”
You train your eyes on the waterline, determined to not have your heart waver at the hurt in Anton’s strained voice.
“I don’t.”
He’s fast to respond.
“You act like you do. Sometimes you do, and sometimes you don’t. It’s confusing.”
“I let you join me and my friends at the beach.”
“You were forced to do that.” Anton sounds bitter.
“And I showed you my bookstore.”
“Again! Forced to do that.”
Your eyes are ablaze, gaze on fire. “You don’t get to come here and demand that everyone be kind to you, you know? That’s entitlement!”
Anton sits up straighter, book abandoned on his seat. “I never asked to stay here, or for anything! If you think I asked more from your father, you’re insane for thinking so!”
“Insane?” You stomp forward, blanket dropped by your feet. “Don’t call me insane for being distrustful of you!”
“Why the hell would you have reason to be doubtful of me? Have I done anything to make you think so?”
You’re huffing in each other’s faces now, and you have stalk to the other corner of the balcony to calm down.
“The past assistant my dad took in stole his research— his last big breakthrough.”
Anton finds it hard to intake any oxygen suddenly.
“... What?”
You’re not looking at him either, talking to the ocean again.
“His last partner then went off to present to some big-shot panel and made a lot of money off it. The worst part is that Father doesn’t even care. He just wants people to make the world a better place— I’m sure whatever that guy used my dad’s research for, doesn’t think the same.”
“I— I didn’t know that—”
“Yeah. You didn’t,” You whip around to glare, eyes watery. “Because you don’t actually know my family, Anton. You see this glittery, rose-colored version of us in the summer. As much as you want to think we magically got rich or something, Father doesn’t make that much doing what he does. And Mother doesn’t work anymore because she can’t.”
Anton feels like someone has slapped him.
“You know she used to paint? She was really good. Good enough for us to live like this. But now she’s retired, scared to pick up a paint brush and watch it shake. And Father sells textbooks that he hates writing and talking to publishers for.”
You don’t even register Anton approaching through your tear-blurry eyes, a gentle touch settling on the crook of your elbow. You’re hugging your torso to self-soothe. Or… maybe you were just cold.
“I’m… so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
His eyes are shiny with apology and your anger is melting before you can fight it. You hate so much that he can do that so easily. More and more frequently, your resentment with him can’t seem to hold anymore.
“It’s fine—” You try to shake out of his grip.
“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have assumed anything. Anything at all. I didn’t know your mother was sick. And I’m sorry that your father was taken advantage of like that.”
His touch slides down to wrap around your wrist, swallowing them in his hold. Anton’s skin against yours is like gasoline in your veins.
You find the strength to use your voice again, watching the way his calloused thumb strokes your hand. “It is fine now, though. They’re happier with you here. It took a while for Mother to convince him to take in another assistant. I can tell they always wanted a son.”
Your futile attempt of a smile makes Anton’s heart brittle. His long fingers finally interlace with yours, guilt fresh on the forefront of his mind.
“That can’t be the truth. You’re the sun they orbit around, I can see it.”
You laugh wetly, breaking your handholding to wipe at your cheeks. Feeling ridiculous crying, you step back to collect yourself.
“Yeah, I’m glad to have them.”
Embarrassed at what’s occurred, you pick up the blanket on the floor, brushing Anton’s fingers again when he goes to hand it to you himself. You wordlessly reject his offer at more comfort, eyes catching at his empathetic gaze again before tugging your sliding door open.
“Goodnight, Anton.”
And then… he’s left to his own festering thoughts, shoulders heavy with remorse and a tongue itching to say more.
___
You can feel tension between you two at the breakfast table.
Anton, who has grown out of his shell since the beginning, is quiet and can’t seem to look at both of your parents the same anymore. Father is none the wiser while having conversation with Carl about the car. Mother, discussing sandwiches with Edna.
You had restlessly rolled around in your sheets, able to feel Anton’s presence through the bathroom separating you two.
Immediately after you’d walked away, you had desperately wished you hadn’t— just to see what Anton would’ve said. Would’ve done. Then the fear of rejection ripped through every cell in your body, seizing your hands still before it could tug his bedroom door open.
Just maybe Anton felt the same way, because when you accidentally cough while swallowing a bite of scrambled eggs, Anton practically jumps across the table to help you. You feel a little sorry about how flustered he gets, trying hard to appear normal and avoid your housemaid’s eyes fluttering between you two.
After dragging on breakfast, Mother suggests the two men take their lunch break at home for Edna’s special sandwiches. When Father rejects with words of busy work, Edna tosses the idea of it being brought to them. Her stealthy eyes lean over to you, gripping your cheek strongly.
“Our dear here has nothing else to do! She’ll bring it to you.”
Before a whine of no’s can leave your mouth, she raises her brows in warning. You’re silenced, slouching into your seat before you can say much else.
“Perfect! Your lovely daughter will bring those sandwiches to you at 1 P.M. sharp. Have a great day, boys!”
Father leaves the back porch with a kiss to Mother and your pouting forehead, waving before entering the house again. You try to ignore Anton’s wide eyes but in the end, give in, catching the glimmer of aching in his glance.
___
Just as Edna said, the promising maid sends you off with a picnic basket at 12:40 P.M. exactly. The sky is a cloudy and stormy grey as you bike across town, where Father usually bothers the local fishermen to sit in their boats and allow him to throw testing gear off-deck.
You grab their attention by waving a large red handkerchief Mother gave you in the sky. And patiently, you sit as they come back, docking and hopping off their rocky boat.
Both Father and Anton scarf down their sandwiches, moaning in delight at the roast beef Edna had slow-cooked. The latter shyly offers a bite to you, but you push away his worry, having stuffed yourself full before arriving at the dock.
When rain droplets start to catch on your clothing, all of you scurry to find shelter quickly. It’s only when you’re all stood under an awning does Father realizes his clumsy self had forgotten his phone on the fisherman’s boat. He rushes off to find the man and call Carl to pick you three up.
Now it’s just you and Anton, watching as heavy rain lands on hot pavement and thunder rumbles before you two. Only yesterday, this type of scenario wouldn’t have terrified you; sitting here with the sound of the sky crying, the smell of earthy dirt in Anton’s company. It really wouldn’t have struck fear in your heart.
Only now it does, and your tongue is twisted in knots, same with your stomach. You’re not confident in how you’re supposed to be around this boy anymore.
Peeking at his side profile, Anton is deep in thought while crouched beside you. His nimble, veiny fingers are curled out to feel the droplets of water. You appreciate the beauty in his quietness, wondering when you started to find solace in your shared silence together.
Alas, you’re not fast enough to turn away when Anton finds your gaze. He’s surprisingly peaceful in meeting your eyes, the depth of them stealing the breath in your lungs. You’re not sure either if you’re imagining it, but… you see desire in them.
Desire for you. Right here, right now. Even though you’re sitting beside him currently, satisfying his craving.
“What’s that look for?”
“Nothing. I’m just admiring you.”
You wish you could sputter out something to ease the seriousness in his words. You can’t and your eyes only move around his face, trying to seek out any telltale signs of a lie.
There’s none.
“Admiring me?”
“I’ve been admiring you since I first met you,” Anton is the first to tear away from your connected gaze. “You just didn’t notice. Too busy disliking me.”
“As I said before, I don’t dislike you.” You lament.
“Then tell me how you really feel for me.”
It’s stunning how confident he is in his words suddenly. In your imagination, late at night, Anton is always bumbling and bashful in a confession to you. Something must have changed from last night.
“Nothing?” Anton raises an eyebrow. “You feel nothing between us, even now?”
You do feel something. Something strong, and it scares you to no end.
You don’t know how to word that easily though. So he stands up after looking in the distance, gently taking hold of your hands splayed out to help you straighten; your elbows had rested on your knees while squatting for too long. Anton takes special care in swiping the water off the skin of your legs, before tugging the laces of your sneakers tighter.
Just in time, Father comes back looking like he had momentarily drowned and come back to life, phone in hand.
“Carl is on the way. Not to worry.” He grins breathlessly to you two, cluelessly stepping between you both to shield himself from the downpour.
And as Father wipes at his phone screen, swearing at the torrential rain, you force your hands from trembling.
Not from the freezing cold water, or your wet hair. But from the effect Anton’s confession had on you.
___
“Are you writing?”
Instinct seizes your muscles, making you place your lower forearms down on your paper.
Anton’s voice is almost a whisper, trying not to break the peace in your kitchen. His feet pad closer, shadow getting larger as the candlelight in the room flickers.
“You scared me. What are you doing up?”
“I could say the same. It’s three A.M.” Anton grins softly.
He’s charming with his hair ruffled, like he had climbed from his sheets moments ago. This yellow-orange lighting from the flame makes him look much more… mellow.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Another nightmare?”
You didn’t even know Anton knew you had those. Instead, you just nod a little, going back to your writing. Smoothly flipping the pencil in your hand, you erase the streak of graphite down your paper from fear earlier.
“What are you writing about?”
“Unicorns and fairies.”
Anton’s snort is a little too loud for the time in the night. You glare through your lashes and he gets the clue, nursing his mug of water closer to himself.
“No, really. What do you write about? You’re always scribbling away in secret.”
“I don’t scribble in secret.”
“Sci-fi? Romance? Oh, don’t tell me it’s an autobiography.”
You only pretend to stare back in annoyance, shaking your head. It’s embarrassing to admit so you whisper it out into the echoey kitchen, afraid of someone else besides you two hearing in.
“Romance.”
You’re not looking up in order to see Anton’s tender smile.
“Is it any good?”
A long sigh leaves your supple lips, synchronized with your chest rising and falling; it mesmerizes Anton for a moment.
“No. It never is, really.”
Anton shifts his hips off from leaning against the counter, swinging around the island in the kitchen. His strong elbows plant on the marble, peeking down at the words you’re so protective of.
You’d try harder to hide your writing from his prying gaze if it weren’t for his flexing arms distracting you. Anton is emitting a heat after sleeping soundly in his bed several minutes ago, tempting you to get closer and warm up beside him.
“You can’t say it’s bad before any constructive criticism. Let me read it.”
Now you genuinely slide your work away. “No, it’s embarrassing.”
Anton manages to give you a look that’s slightly degrading. “C’mon. I’ll be fair, I swear.”
“You won’t make fun?”
“Never.”
You wait for a more serious response.
“I might. But only a little.”
You huff without another word, slowly handing the paper over. The pencil between your fingertips twirl around, pupils flickering between Anton’s features. His pretty mouth purses once, brows pinching together twice, and that’s about all.
“It’s shit, isn’t it? It’s fine, it was just a whim anyway—”
Anton pulls away before you could snatch the paper from his hold.
“YN. Don’t put yourself down like that. It’s good, I like it.”
You’re dying to hear more praise, eyes lighting up like you’re in front of a colorfully-decorated Christmas tree.
“… Really?”
“Really,” Anton nods, crossing his arms. “I can tell the books you stick your nose in, help.”
You scoff, a silly grin flitting across your bright face. “Ha ha. Very funny.”
“Honestly though, I like it. Your vocabulary is so descriptive. It’s like I’m there. I’d probably just use the word ‘smile’ less,”
You nod in agreement, moving on with lightness in your body.
“Do you always write romance?”
“Most of the time.”
“Do your parents influence you?”
You’re caught off-guard. “How do you mean?”
“You clearly admire them. Their relationship. It’s nice.”
“I guess so,” You admit while picking at your hands. “It feels a little unobtainable really.”
“How they found each other?”
“How easy they seem to love each other. Despite everything.”
“I find it admirable. They choose each other every day, ‘despite everything’ as you say. Isn’t that commendable?”
You only hum, distracted from other thoughts. Anton can tell immediately.
“Have you told them this is what you want to do with your life?”
Anton full-belly laughs at the expression on your face. “It’s clearly your passion. Do they not know?”
“They know,” You groan, standing from your stool. “They just don’t take me seriously.”
Anton follows closely behind you as you head to the fridge.
“How?” He scoffs, not understanding. “Isn’t your mother trained in the arts? Writing is precious, it runs the world.”
You giggle, nodding to his words. You knew it was a bit hypocritical of your parents, being the “intellectuals” they were. You pour a mug of water for yourself.
“They both hate writing and always wanted me to pursue one of their studies. I don’t understand it either.”
“They wouldn’t hate it if they read yours. I promise you.”
“Hm, maybe.” You sip at your drink, peering at Anton before you.
He’s so… uninhibited recently. Here in your kitchen, drinking from Father’s mug and dressed in breezy pajamas. No shame in trying to pursue you anymore. It’s like a snapshot of another life you daydream, far away where in another universe, this is your life together.
Maybe it’s just the hopeless romantic in you talking from all those books you read.
“Are you nervous around me now?”
You set out to not clang your ceramic against the marble loudly.
“No. I’m not. Why would I be?”
Anton takes a step closer, crowding your personal space immediately. Alarms bells in your head would be ringing if you had enough time to consider panicking more.
“Are you sure? Your hands shake so much with me near.”
“Anton…” The call of his name brings out the most gorgeous smile to greet your eyes. “What game are you playing?”
“Do you still want to deny how I feel for you?”
You’re about to melt on this specific tile in the kitchen.
“At least tell me to stop then.” Anton whispers, the soft hem of his shirt brushing your fingertips. You clung to it before you can think rationally.
Your head jerks a no, taking in the carbon dioxide that leaves Anton’s nose. His own breathing is stilted, almost as if waiting for you to reject him; you couldn’t even if you wanted to.
His pink lips hover before yours as you steal your eyes shut, wishing for Anton to achingly make the first move.
“Let me in. Please.”
His begging snaps the taut string in you, tippy-toeing up to curl your arms around Anton’s neck. His encompassing hands straddle your hips, pressing them urgently against the edge of the counter so you kiss breathlessly.
You feel as if you’re about to die if you don’t continue to connect your mouth to his. Your bodies want to meld together, the way Anton flattens himself on you. You can feel his sculpted back flexing in cupping your cheek, the other hand seamlessly hoping to explore your curves.
“Jump.” Anton murmurs against your hot neck, finger curling under the bend of your knees before placing you gingerly on the marble surface.
He slots between your thighs without a second thought, pinching open your jaw to kiss you wild again. Anton’s tongue licking the seal of your mouth has desire fluttering in your lower stomach, your hands unsure while playing with the hairs on the nape of his neck.
He firms your grip around the threads of his hair, urging you to be more confident in both of you. The whole expanse of his right arm hugs your torso closer to him, sliding under your shirt to scorch a blazing path from his fingertips brushing your skin.
A gasp involuntarily escapes you as Anton bites the bottom of your lip, thumb circling your belly button and traveling up to rest in the middle of your ribcage. You didn’t know you could be so needy for someone’s touch. So needy for Anton to continue his demonstrations on you.
“Anton.”
Your whine of his name, coupling with you arching into him, seems to awaken something, his hips grinding into yours instinctively.
“Tell me you want this. Tell me.”
The desperation for you in Anton’s voice sends your heart soaring.
“Yes. I do. I’m all yours.”
Anton wraps his arms around your waist, connecting you to the floor before interlocking your hands together. Before you can form a coherent thought, he’s tugging you towards the foyer, up the stairs, to your bedroom, and to your deepest, dirtiest wishes coming true; ones you’ve only dared to dream of with him front and center.
___
A dribble of rain comes the next morning, gentle and persistent.
You wake first, curled in a warm tangle of limbs, the rise and fall of Anton’s chest beneath your cheek. Through your cracked window, the scent of petrichor drifts in—earthy and familiar mixed in with Anton’s body wash.
Anton stirs just enough to tighten his grip on you, mumbling something incoherent into your hair while you smile into his skin.
That half-finished story of yours is still on the kitchen counter, and you’re usually scared to leave your writing lying around. That fear isn’t moving your heart now though, especially after Anton’s words last night.
You wouldn’t want to disturb this moment for anything.
When you finally make your way downstairs, Mother and Father are chatting while squatting near flower brushes. The latter tips up your mother’s rain hat, earning him a slap on the arm. Edna is setting the breakfast table on the back porch, and Carl is already on his second cup of coffee, beginning to bother your housemaid for another.
You and Anton are still barefoot, still sleepy-eyed while hovering near the kitchen sink’s window. You manage to find your paper exactly where you left it, smudged from the night before. Although, it’s in a different spot than you remember and Anton subtly brushes his hand along your back.
“You going to finish it?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
He squeezes his hand on your shoulder, the one you’re resting your chin on. After, Anton leans in while brushing your hair to the side, looking to see if anyone is watching before brushing a chaste kiss to your neck.
This promise, this unspoken understanding between you both—it’s real if you choose for it to be. That’s what Anton said last night anyway.
Because for once, maybe you’re ready to stop reading about romance and start writing it true in the real life.
⋆。ﾟ ( 💬 ) one accidental reunion turns “no contact” into emotional whiplash and oh my god why is he still hot.
ex! jake x fem! reader
˗ˏˋ fluff, smut, porn with plot, rom-com, crack, smau, college au, little angst, second chance, lots of profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, MDNI !
wc: 27 929
p: we almost broke up last night - sabrina carpenter ; loose - enhypen ; tears - sabrina carpenter ; sugar talking - sabrina carpenter ; imgonnagetyouback - taylor swift ; toxic - britney spears ; bad decisions - ariana grande ; knew better / forever boy - ariana grande ; we find love - daniel ceasar
📌💌 sequel of HOW TO SURVIVE BOYS 101 ... but can be a standalone!
disclaimer : the "reader" pics in this smau is only a filler image for layout purposes. reader is poc-friendly and not meant to represent a specific race, appearance, or identity 🪽
Tip #1: Remember how you lost him.
Bullshit repeats itself – is that how the saying goes?
Ever since Jake had gone to college, conversations turned into check-ins, goodnights into apologies, and affection into something scheduled between deadlines. Time and distance were the main culprits behind the crime scene.
You tried staying up later, phone warm in your palm, eyes half-lidded while he talked about university life. You tried not to mind the missed calls, the delayed replies, the way silence began to feel less like rest – from college? Or you?
Jake tried too and you know he did. He promised visits that almost happened but something came up, I’m sorry, baby. He tried coming back on some weekends, but the demands of freshman year doubled in no time and you’re left on delivered for double hours.
He says his phone's broken but he just forgot to charge it.
You try to pull the plug, suddenly verbal about how it felt like you were the only one bending your time around him, about how effort shouldn’t feel like something you had to ask for. You told him that love shouldn’t feel like this.
Jake didn’t argue; didn’t even try because the way you sounded was worse than any petty fight. Instead, he starts working it out at twelve in the morning.
His alarm was already set for an 8am lecture, but that night, he got in his car and drove three cities back to hometown to get you. There was no warning – just the familiar headlights of his Bronco outside your house. He looked tired and concerned, and you immediately apologized before he could say anything, told him it was just a lot – senior year, the pressure, the uncertainty. He listened, arms squeezing you closer, just nodding.
He stayed until four (despite your protests that he should leave earlier), long enough to make sure you’re okay. He's sweet, no others boys would compete – your words run on scraps.
"We almost broke up again last night."
You've been there a thousand times and there's clear selective memory here. All the I love you's and I'm sorry's were said, but they feel futile. It's drifting apart, a big deal you've been in before and will be in tomorrow.
So the actual breakup wasn’t loud, loaded with knowing.
You talked on your couch when he came from uni, the tears coming before either of you could fully start. He kept wiping his hands on his jeans, fidgeting because he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I don’t know how to fix this anymore,” you said, voice breaking on the word fix. Because you’d tried fixing, tried patience, tried understanding, tried being quieter about how much it hurt.
A part of you wished he insists, that he thinks otherwise and this is still fixable. Maybe because a part of you was still willing to fix it even when the odds were out.
But he only nodded slowly. “I think it just got… way too demanding, and I don’t know if I’m ready for something like that.”
That was the worst part.
“I love you,” he said, immediately. “I know,” you replied. “I love you.”
The exhaustion of wanting more and having nothing left to give.
You sat there for a long time after that, shoulders slumped, knees still touching, your hands finding his. His thumb brushed over your knuckles in the way it always did, familiar enough to hurt. He left quietly, making no promises, no maybe someday. Just a long, very long hug at the door, his chin resting on the top of your head, breathing you in like this would be the last time.
You watched him walk down the driveway the same way you always did, only this time, he didn’t turn back.
1 year, 2 months, 15 days, folded neatly in a corner of your room, hidden in your ballerina music box.
Tip #2: Do not use Instagram as a test. It’s dumb.
The summer after senior year was something.
College decisions loomed in the background like unfinished business, and it’s sometimes the very thing you dread just remembering. There was one you waited for specifically and God, you were scared shitless because it’s the very thing you’ve always wanted.
The dream university. The one you’d talked about since forever, with passion and persistence of the 13-year-old you. It’s also the school Jake goes to now – of course, with that kind of grit and intelligence? No doubt.
The email came on an ordinary morning, much to your distress because you were just eating cereal when –
The confetti registered first before Congratulations! itself because the decision portal specifically throws confetti across the screen when you’ve been accepted. That’s what makes you scream and cry and hug your mom and dad buys cake with custom icing and Evan calls you a crybaby, but he’s got a wide smile on his face for you.
Then like muscle memory because your body tends to forget – it comes like instinct when you know it shouldn’t have.
You thought of Jake; your former number one supporter. The first person who’d told you you could do it, who’d sent you links to campus resources, who’d promised about showing you all the best spots when you get in. Back when when still existed.
You hadn’t talked ever since the break-up, as things should be between people with history (11-year-long history, to be precise). Although you still followed each other in social media, only at a distance so deliberate and established even without negotiation. No liking posts, no watching stories, just a quiet agreement to let each other live separately while still being one call away.
Definitely unhealthy – it’s really not good and it speaks a lot about your attachment.
You added the screenshot to your close friends with a caption of “see you”, balancing both the meaning of academic and, maybe, him, which is pathetic but who can blame a yearning (and desperate, clearly) heart. You included him after overthinking it for 35 more minutes which you reason out as “to see what would happen”.
Until a whole day passed and you received nothing.
Fucking hell, you are pathetic.
Of course he wouldn’t check, of course it was a dumb idea. You settled with screaming into your pillow, then you picked yourself back up with the notion that it doesn’t matter because this moment was yours and it didn’t need an audience – much less one from an ex.
The first week of college was easy.
The campus was bigger than you ever thought it was – so you did indeed get lost multiple times and walked in lecture halls late with shame chiming around you. By the end of the week, you learned the schedule, learned shortcuts across campus (for when body and alarm clock betrays you), and discovered a coffee shop that made the best tactic to stay awake for your 8am.
For the next month, weeks blurred, lectures became routine, notes just got less pretentious, assignments demanded attention.
The crazy part — aside from your mind — was that you haven’t seen him yet, let it be in the library after staying there for hours, or in the hallways when you’re trying to get to your next class.
Not that you were hoping but – okay, you were and that’s not a crime, just very self-inflecting and sad. But you go on anyway.
Tip #3: All this tension, baby, let your body loose.
“You have to come!” Mia said, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she had stakes in your social life. “It’s the first real party of the semester. Everyone’s going.”
“Yeah,” Lila chimed in, voice dragging your name out like a cautionary tale. “We deserve a night off.”
You cross your arms, melting back against your friends cushions like ice cream. “I have dues tomorrow,” you muttered, though the thought of seeing new faces – and maybe forgetting about deadlines for a few hours – was tempting. However, saving yourself the hangover for a promised productivity tomorrow seems even more enticing.
“You are so –” Mia basically pounces you and starts tickling your sides, as you shriek and swat your arms in defense, “ – boring!”
Once you finally get her off you, both of you breathless, you glare at her with mock offense.
You truly do think about it, staring at their posters that stuck loosely against the wall while you do. A month in, and everything already felt like a balancing act in the circus – classes, expectations, this new version of yourself you were still figuring out. Maybe a few hours off wouldn’t ruin anything.
Lila nudged you. “Stop overthinking. Just come. It’s a cool, chill night. We’ll keep you safe. We’ll make you dance. We’ll –”
“Fine, fine,” you cut her off, laughing despite yourself. “I’ll go. But I’m not getting drunk.”
It’s still early when you arrive (12am), early enough that the place hasn’t fully filled in yet. There’s space to breathe and move without squeezing past bodies, but the music is already loud and colored lights sweep lazily across the room. Mia spots someone the moment you three managed to move through the crowd. “Oh my god – hey!” she calls out, already waving, and before you can process it, you’re being pulled along. Quick introductions are exchanged over the music – name you only half-catch, smiles that come easy.
He leads your group through the room to an open table near the back, just far enough from the speakers that you don’t have to shout. You slide into one of the couches, the leather smooth against your legs and Lila leans close to say something you barely catch over the music. At some point, you realize Mia isn’t beside you anymore, but before you can even text her, she’s back – grinning, triumphant, weaving through people with three plastic cups in her hands.
“Miss me?” she asks, setting one in front of you.
You blink, surprised. “When did you –”
“Don’t ask,” she cuts in, sliding another drink toward Lila. “Just drink.”
You lift the cup and take a cautious sip because you don’t trust the palate of a drunkard. It’s sweet before the bitter taste of alcohol comes, making you cringe back from the unexpectedness. It’s honestly exciting.
Mia clinks her cup against yours. “To surviving the first month!”
You have no idea yet that this is where things start to shift.
The friend Mia greeted earlier comes back, smiling at all of you. “Uh, would it be okay with you guys if our groups kind of merge? My friends just came.” his hands do gestures and immediately, you all agree before he even finishes the sentence. Lila’s already scooting over to make space, Mia’s cheering over the music.
He looks relieved, flashing a quick thank-you smile.
You take slow sips of your drink, letting the liquid cool the small knot of nerves you didn’t realize had formed in your stomach. You don’t get to be all jumpy and edgy in the function that demanded someone buoyant and convivial.
Though, you definitely should have expected doom – when some already-drunk dude comes and stumbles on your lap that you shriek in pure horror like a lead in Scream. You immediately shove him off and he lands on the floor, wasted and absolutely gone, while his friends apologize with pressed palms. You try to contain the sour expression on your face – but you can’t, because half your drink has spilled on you.
Great. Love that.
Because now you feel sticky and you smell like alcohol before anything real even began, your mood spoiling like you personally invited the bacteria in. Before you could curdle further into deciding to leave and plunge into the comfort and sterility of your bed, Mia’s already pulling you up on your feet to get to the bathroom.
Like some cruel, cinematic twist, the growing crowd press bodies closer and someone knocks into you without meaning to, of course, because you’re God’s number 1 favorite child besides the Redeemer. Either way, you stumble on your heel and you’re pushed into someone else for the nth time tonight, though you don’t really try to bother with a genuine apology. You mutter something half-assed, preparing yourself to squeeze into the crowd until you decide to glance.
Holy. Fuck.
For a split second, your brain stalls. And you’re frozen and you think that this has to be some kind of divine intervention as they like to call it, because this man has to be one of God’s loyal angels with the way the party lights start to uncoil as strobes behind him, and he’s here to announce the birth of some Messiah that will save the world.
Maybe you’re supposed to be expecting soon with the way alcohol isn’t the only thing making you wet now.
Everything rushes in at once – and you’re bombarded with the unfair reality of male supremacy in genetics. He’s taller than you remember, even with your heels on. Broader shoulders, solid in a way that makes it obvious time didn’t just pass him by, it worked on him. He’s filled out, grown into himself that didn’t change him but made him look more mature.
And now, Jaeyun Sim's staring at you like this was exactly what he didn’t expect in some random Friday party, much less in his local university club.
(Backtrack – Jake knows you’re attending the same university after receiving the news from Evan, who, despite the breakup, announces certain things about you as if to keep Jake updated. He never asked and never really stopped him either. So imagine how he feels, when the woman he knew didn’t exactly like parties bumps into him in one after one whole month on campus.)
The guy Mia knows is still talking, introducing his friends, but you can barely process anything past this one in front of you. The music isn’t helping, by the way, because it’s playing ‘Shout Out to My Ex’ by Little Mix.
Then he fucking smiles at you. Casually. Amused.
What the fuck?
“Hi.”
Jake reaches a hand out and you stare at it, well, first at his long fingers, then his wide palm, then the veins that travel all the way through his arms. “Didn’t know you go to parties.” he says and you look up at him through your lashes again, seeing that smile that doesn’t show much, just that he’s seeing you right here in front of him and he doesn’t hate it.
You try smiling too (works out fine; you look hot, he clears his throat), because you can’t be the one flustered while he’s here looking like God’s favorite, and casually reaches out his hand to you like you’re just someone he kind of knew back in high school.
Finally, your hand clasps with his. A dap, a squeeze; he taught you how to do it properly back then when you were together, something you do every after making out.
“I always do,” you reply, clearly pointed. His eyebrows knit for a few seconds, before he realizes what you mean, then he breaks out to a wider smile.
Before anything else can happen, Mia grabs your arm like a lifeline and yanks you through the crowd until you’re finally pressed up against the bathroom wall, the sounds of the party muffled behind the door. “How do you know that guy?!”
You basically scream into your hands once you get inside, while Mia yanks you beneath the hand dryer, pulling specifically the wet patch underneath to let it dry.
Right. You got alcohol on you. You practically forgot how wet you are.
“That was my fucking ex, Mia!” you shriek.
She freezes immediately, eyes going wide when she realizes who you’re talking about.
“Wait. Wait. Wait. That’s… no. That’s the guy? Wait, first or second?”
“Second,” you groan again, slumping against the wall. “The same one. Holy shit, Mia. The same one.”
She grabs your shoulders and shakes you lightly. “And he’s here. At this party. And he’s… what. Hotter? Better?”
You groan again, throwing your hands in the air. “Mia, I can’t. I wanna go home.”
She rolls your eyes and shakes you by the shoulders again to get yourself together because you’re too hot and gorgeous to malfunction like this. After much encouragement from her (it didn’t work, you still feel like a slug against the wall), you two finally get out of the bathroom. She promises a drink just to get you your guts back, and of course, she delivers. She orders you two shots to salt the slug out of you, demanding you drink them now like the alcoholic-maniac she is. And like the disaster you are, you chug the burn down your throat.
The last thing you need right now is to care about your ex.
And to think about how hot he’s gotten after a few months. Like he needed to glow up, like how he looked wasn’t enough.
You know how to handle your drink well, but chugging down two straight shots must’ve fucked you up good because your knees feel weaker and your vision welcomes the lights as streaks that do wonders with feeling afloat.
You steady yourself by the table once you two get back. Your head feels light, but not in a bad way – only like the world softened around the edges and you remember that this isn’t high school; this is something you have to explore and enjoy.
So you do that. You don’t mind the reminder of high school at the corner of your peripheral, sitting on the couch so easily.
You shake hands. You do the half-hug introductions like you’ve been friends for years. You repeat your name more times than you can count, watch it get lost immediately in the music.
Every now and then, you glance.
It follows him; the noise, the lights, the looks, because it’s him. Jake. The handsome guy in the group, the hot one in the team, the golden one even when he’s just smiling. No matter where, even in the corner of the room when he’s not doing anything – not even drowning himself in intoxication like you are.
You know that much – the girl beside you has been eyeing the ‘guy in a leather jacket and eyeglasses at the side’. Jake, of course, who's got his sleeves rolled up like he doesn’t know just what kind of effect his veiny arms have. You admit, your heel might have jabbed her foot a few times, accidentally or not.
Jake’s a few feet away in the other table, leaning back with the natural ease of directing himself through social gatherings without trying hard. He’s talking to someone, head tipped slightly as he listens, smiling at something you can’t hear.
He’s not looking at you
A twinge blooms in the middle of your chest, just between the bones that cage your lungs. But before it worsens, you’re already bottoming out a drink Lila offered to you because you’re not about to orbit someone who somehow had the time for social stuff but never enough time for you.
You wonder about the nights you waited for Jake’s reply while he was out partying. The thought steadies you more than the alcohol does.
You straighten a little, roll your shoulders back, remind yourself that this isn’t a competition, and you look too hot to treat the night like a loss
You don’t realize it at first. That some guy’s flirting with you.
You recognize him though, he’s part of the group that came in with who-shall-not-be-named.
He’s tall, and sometimes he leans down to hear you. His smile’s great and you remember him talking something about engineering. You don’t care, you don’t even try to care. But your own body betrays you because your heels have been slowly killing you, and your legs don’t function the way they do when you’re sober. So when someone accidentally bumps into you again, you stumble back and lean against him. He laughs low, ducks down to whisper how clumsy you are while his hand settles on the small of your back to steady you.
This is stupid. You feel stupid. Not ecstatic in any way at all.
The guy beside you says something again – teasing, light, trying – much of your disinterest. He takes a step closer and says your name like it’s something he wants to remember.
You look around when the guy beside you takes a sip of his drink, letting this moment catch.
But Jake’s eyes are already on you. He’s not laughing nor talking anymore, just watching you.
His expression is unreadable, jaw set tightly, the muscle jumps once and his hand curls around his cup like he’s finally clocking the distance between you and the guy, like he’s noticed the hand at your back.
The guy beside you leans in again. “So,” he says, voice easy, confident. “You're single, right?”
You don’t answer – you don’t even look at him. Your eyes stay on Jake and he doesn’t look away either. He’s looking at you like he’s sick of pretending he does not see you. Like he’s wondering if he’s been too patient waiting for a sign.
He turns away, taking a sip of his drink like he meant for you to catch him too, and now he’s frustrated that he's caught something else he didn't want. His jaw is still clenched, tight enough that the line of it looks sharper under the dim lights when he tilts his head slightly to the side, licking the inside of his cheek in the way he does when he’s mad.
You see that goddamn nose, tall and pointed. And you want nothing but to sit on it in front of this guy.
VIRGINs™.
You close your eyes and pull away like you’re burnt, not even managing a simple polite excuse before you practically shove him away from you and find your way to your friends.
Mia’s there immediately, she grabs your wrist and yanks you back into the safety of your circle. “Come on, babe. Drink up.”
Lila’s already pressing a cup into your hand, eyes sharp, knowing, and they’re assholes for this. Still, it’s comforting, the way they’re holding you now. “Bottoms up!”
You drink it immediately, barely registering the taste before you feel the rush, the way it hits your bloodstream and scrambles everything before they could form something coherent such as Jake’s face and how mad he looked when someone else had you.
“Dance?” Mia asks with an encouraging yell, but she’s already pulling the three of you together into the dance floor.
The music crashes over you again, bass rolling through your chest and loosening something in your knees. The alcohol smooths everything out until moving feels easy and impulsive. You follow Mia and Lila without thinking, letting the rhythm carry you forward like a tide. Bodies blur together around you – all grinding, swaying, hands reaching up toward the lights as they flash and stutter. You drift closer to them, arms brushing, steps syncing, three girls caught in the same pulse, heat and laughter and movement packed into a space too tight and too loud.
You close your eyes. You let the music hold you. And even when you try not to, you feel it; Jake’s gaze lingering on you like a ghost of warmth, woven into the rhythm, impossible to shake.
Tip #4: Think imgonnagetyouback mindset.
It’s 4am.
The music has started to die down. The chaos of the party is reduced to less and scattered laughter, half-empty cups, and people basically fumbling for their coats with wobbly feet and fucked vision. You swear you can smell vomit somewhere near, you’re just not sure if it’s on you and dangerously close by.
You’re halfway gone on the couch, leaning against Mia’s shoulder because it’s the only thing keeping you upright right now. Deadweight, basically. Lila is fussing over you, holding a bottle of water up your lips like it’s a lifesaver. “C’mon, just one sip. You’ll thank me.”
“‘m fine,” you mutter in that slurred way, eyes half-closed, and completely stubborn while you swat her away like a useless baby. “You’re not fine. Look at you, Ms. I’m-not-getting-drunk.”
“‘m fiiiine,” you repeat, muffled against Mia’s shoulder, mostly because speaking more feels exhausting.
You don’t see it, but Jake’s with his friends. He’s laughing quietly, ready to disappear into the cold late hour, early morning. He’s completely normal and okay, sober compared to the disastrous sight of you. Which should be very embarrassing, but you’re way too blacked out to even know what’s happening.
He stops. His gaze flicks toward you. “Hey,” he calls softly.
Mia and Lila immediately exchange a look – half amusement, half mischief – because of course, of course this is happening. And your ass is too drunk to handle your own plotline, so what would these simple women do if not steer it for you?
“Uh… he’s asking about you,” Mia says slowly, patting your leg. You groan softly. “Tell h’m ’m fine,” you mumble, voice battered with alcohol, low and coarse from fatigue.
“Tell him yourself,” Lila says, and you groan again.
Jake’s friends start moving toward the door, laughing under their breath and nudging him along. But Jake stays where he is across from you, doing something he knows he shouldn’t be doing (has been doing for the past few hours anyway), which is staring. Because whatever he’s feeling right now has him frozen in place, ethics slipping through his fingers, all because of you.
And in that second, when he looks at you better and sees just how disheveled you look, the tiniest smirk tugs at his lips, not even attempting to restrain himself. He looks like he’s holding back a joke, like he knows exactly what your stubborn little face is doing, leaning there, stubborn and tipsy and entirely (not) his.
“Is she okay?” he asks, not teasing, just him.
Mia snorts, Lila laughs quietly. Then, you lift your head to shoo away this man, until you see him and freeze, dignity crumbling little by little the more time you spend in this godforsaken club.
Jake. Standing there, relaxed, very much sober, and looking at you. Just you.
“You okay?” he asks again, softer than before.
And you can’t help it. A tiny, annoyed frown slips onto your face, one you didn’t mean to make, because of all the alcohol and the chaos and the mess of people bothering you, you see him and you remember you’re not exactly goody-goody with him, but he’s here asking if you’re okay anyway, acting so concerned about you.
Last time you remember, he can’t make time for you!
“’m fine,” you blurt, slurred, stubborn, mad, and a little breathless.
Then you fall back on Mia’s shoulder, deciding upon yourself that this is just a dream and he will disappear and you can go back to the life he wasn’t a part of.
Of course, he’s not convinced.
Jake’s gaze flicks to Mia and Lila. He knows that you’re stubborn enough to try to walk home on your own if left unchecked.
“How are you getting her home?” he asks them this time, voice calm but with that subtle edge of concern.
Mia straightens a little, gauging just how to strategically use this wild card given to her by the guardian angels themselves like it’s fucking Uno. “Honestly? I don’t fucking know.”
Jake looks at both of them – at you – much in disbelief. Mia firmly believes she made the best choice.
Jake’s gaze shifts back to Mia and Lila, serious now, like now he’s assessing the logistics of this situation. “Where’s… uh, her dorm?” he asks, calm but firm.
Mia smiles and has the nerve to relax against the couch. “Oh… uh, it’s actually a bit farther away,” she says quickly, waving her hands vaguely. “But…it’s 4 am, there’s creeps out, and, you know…we’re all girls.” She lets the last part hang, her eyes flicking to you and Lila for piteous effect, acting the part of damsels in distress.
Jake raises an eyebrow. Before he can even open his mouth, Mia’s already talking again. “So… do you think you can take her? Please? We are soooo tired, it’s sooo late, and she’s basically useless right now.” She glances down at you slumped against her shoulder, half-asleep, barely clinging to consciousness.
Lila’s already nodding emphatically after understanding this turn of events, giving you a little squeeze for emphasis. “Yeah. You’d be, like… her hero or something,” she says, grinning.
Jake lets out a quiet, almost exasperated laugh.
“Guess that’s my job, then,” he says, voice low and soft, almost like he’s talking just to you about something only you’d understand.
Always to the rescue, apparently.
One second you’re warm and hazy against Mia’s shoulder, the next you’re being shifted, hands lifting you under your arms, voices overlapping in a blur of wait – careful – okay, got her –
And then, Oh. This is familiar.
You press into his chest without thinking, forehead tipping forward until it rests just beneath his collarbone. His sweater is warm and smells faintly like detergent and something unmistakably like his perfume – you know because you bought it for him last Valentines.
Jake stiffens for half a second.
Then he exhales, adjusts his grip, one arm sliding more securely around your back, the other settling under your knees. He struggles a little, just a little, shifting his footing, maybe because he’s still registering the reality of you in his arms.
You make a tiny sound in protest, brows knitting faintly in your sleep, and he smiles wider.
Mia points a finger at him immediately, all serious now. “You take care of her. I will hunt you down.”
Lila crosses her arms. “I know where you live.” (she doesn’t)
Jake snorts quietly. “Duly noted.”
He looks down at you again, expression softening, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your side like muscle memory never left him. You shift closer, nose brushing his sweater. “I’ve got her,” he says, steady now.
Mia and Lila exchange a look, satisfied with their contribution to this plot twist and turning the course of events in your life effectively, then step back, already halfway to freedom. The script’s flipped and you’re leaving a dumb party with him, no handcuffs needed.
“Text us when she’s in bed,” Mia adds. “And water. Make her drink water.”
Jake nods. “Yeah. I know.”
With you tucked against him, asleep and unaware, Jake Sim turns toward the door and carries you out into the quiet, early-morning air. He slips you into the passenger seat of his Bronco, which smells like faint cologne and pristine, organized and fixed while – you are basically deadweight, heavy, and uncooperative, completely misplaced in his world. So when you shift in the passenger seat to get more comfortable after he slides you in, your elbow swings out without warning, smacking him lightly in the face while he’s trying to buckle you in.
“Whoa – hey,” Jake mutters, voice low but amused. You groan softly, like you’re the one who deserves to get mad, eyes still half-shut.
You slump further, letting yourself sink into the seat, muttering something that barely comes out as a coherent “sorry” that obviously isn’t meant. He doesn’t say much, just shifts the car into gear, and starts driving.
The next memory hits and you’re in the dorm lobby, blinking at the familiar walls while Jake has you wrapped up in his arms. Suddenly, you notice your own weight again and decide, maybe you can walk on your own.
“Okay, I’m good,” you mutter, pushing lightly at him.
“No, you’re not,” Jake protests, tightening his hold.
“I can walk, thank you very much.”
With an exaggerated sigh, you pry yourself from his clutch and take a shaky step forward, bare feet on the cold marble, instantly a washing regret because it’s freezing. Only then do you realize – you’re not wearing heels, you’re not even holding your bag, and Jake is standing there with basically everything you own, dangling in his hands like some overzealous luggage attendant.
“Really, you’re just showing off now, aren’t you?” you huff.
He gives you an “are you serious?” guise, and he looks fed up if it weren’t for the small smile that says otherwise. Like he’s entertained and he likes this, watching you with the kind of gaze too thrilled for someone who’s supposedly your ex.
Maybe around five steps later, your foot catches and you stumble, losing balance instantly. Before you even fall, his arms are around you again, steadying you — and once again you’re pressed against him. He lets out a soft scoff of amusement, finding you both irritating and adorable simultaneously.
“We should stick to plan A,” he murmurs, the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re too drunk to pretend you’re not.”
You groan into his chest, limbs still heavy. But you don’t protest anymore, letting him guide you to the elevator. He gets you to your room with minimal fighting this time.
The door clicks shut behind you, the familiar quiet and comfortability settling in way too fast because now you just want to sleep pronto. Jake guides you over gently, hands warm and steady at your waist until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You sit down obediently, blinking up at him like you’re trying very hard to stay awake and failing anyway.
“Okay,” he murmurs, already turning. “Stay.”
You do. Shockingly.
By the time he comes back with a cold bottle of water, you’re slouched slightly, hands folded in your lap, hair falling over your face. He presses the bottle into your hands and nudges it toward your mouth.
“Drink,” he says softly, the way he used to – like he knows you’ll listen if he keeps his voice gentle.
You do. You take small sips, nose scrunching at the cold, eyes half-lidded as he watches to make sure you actually swallow. He waits until you’ve had enough, then takes the bottle back and sets it on your desk within reach.
“There you go,” he says, quiet praise tucked into the words.
He thinks he should go now, now that you’re safely in your room and in your bed. Though he hesitates, eyes flicking to your face – your lashes clumped with false lashes and mascara, faint shimmer still clinging to your lids, concealer intact, lipstick smudged. A smile tugs at his mouth, fond, and a little resigned.
“You’re gonna hate it if you sleep like that,” he says lightly, gently poking your cheek. “D’you want to take your makeup off?”
You nod immediately, just small and sleepy, still fighting your way to stay awake.
“Mm,” you hum.
He exhales a soft laugh and heads to your bathroom, carefully of course, cautiously going through your room and locating familiar products on your counter. He comes back with your remover, cotton pads, even your headband.
He places everything carefully into your hands. “Here.”
You stare down at it – long, blank, confused – like you’re waiting for them to work themselves out onto your face. Then you look up at him, brows pinched slightly, lips pouting in concentration like you’re trying to remember a thought you just had.
“‘M just… gonna sleep,” you decide, voice small and stubborn, followed by a yawn.
Jake closes his eyes for a second, pinching his nose bridge before his hands fall on his hips. “Yeah,” he sighs, smiling despite himself. “I figured.”
He gently takes the things from you before you can drop them, then crouches properly in front of you. He tilts your chin up with two fingers, touch feather-light.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs.
He gently and carefully removes your false lashes first. Then he soaks a pad and starts slow, careful, wiping beneath one eye first, one side at a time. His touch is patient like he’s handling something fragile.
“That okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod again, leaning into his hand without thinking. He smiles at that, just gently holds your jaw.
He works in silence, almost reverent in the way he handles you so gently. He’s switching pads, murmuring the occasional “there we go” or “almost done,” wiping makeup away until your face is bare and clean again. His thumb lingers for half a second at your cheek, warm, familiar.
You sway slightly, fighting sleep, eyes drooping.
“Hey,” he says gently, tapping your knee, tipping your chin back with his two fingers. “Stay with me, yeah?”
You hum in response, something content and sleepy, and his chest tightens.
He stands when he’s done, then he sets everything aside and looks at you for a long moment – sitting on your bed, hair messy, makeup gone, eyes heavy but trusting. You’re looking up at him through your lashes, and he really likes you that way.
“Good girl,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.
Your brows knit together, lips pushing into a soft, unhappy pout, like something about this doesn’t sit right with you – because with all honesty, this feels like something you’d look back with regret and hate.
Jake notices immediately. He straightens a little, eyes searching your face. “What is it?”
You blink at him, slow and glassy, like you’re trying to line your thoughts up and they keep slipping away. “…why’re you here?” you ask, voice slurred, small, and drunk.
He shouldn’t engage with you when you’re like this.
Still. He can’t not.
“What?”
You frown deeper, shaking your head slightly, hair falling into your eyes again. “You’re… you’re acting like you care,” you mumble. “Why are you pretending?”
His brows furrow this time. “I’m not pretending,” he says quietly.
You scoff, weak and breathy, clearly unconvinced, clearly drunk. “It’s not fair.”
Jake swallows. “You’re drunk,” he says gently. “You’re tired.”
You nod once, sharply. “Yeah. And you’re here. And you’re… being like this.” Your voice wobbles despite your effort to sound annoyed, you point a finger at him. He glances at it then back to you, not being able to keep himself from smiling. “So which one is it, Jaeyun?”
The way you say his name undoes him. Completely.
When he doesn’t answer you, you frown, trying to focus through the fog in your brain. “Probably like this with all the girls you meet, then?”
He blinks once before he chuckles quietly, very amused with your insobriety. Then, slowly and deliberately, he leans over just enough to tap your forehead with a finger, teasing but gentle. “Aren’t you the one who was flirting with some guy tonight?” he asks, half-smile tugging at his lips. His eyes shine with something you can’t quite name – soft amusement, pride, maybe even jealousy in the right angle.
You let out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t like him.” you mumble, head leaning back, eyes half-lidded when you look up at him through your lashes.
Jake’s smile softens, grows warmer, almost proud. “I know,” he says simply.
Your chest hammers, and it’s not just the alcohol anymore – hasn't been, really – it’s him. He watches you like he’s memorizing every detail – the messy hair, the curve of your hips, the way your eyes drift between amused and annoyed – and you feel seen. Now, you know, you’re hopelessly, irreversibly caught; drunk or not.
You murmur something then, so soft it barely makes it past your lips.
Jake blinks. “What?”
You don’t repeat it. You just stare at him, eyes unfocused, lashes heavy, mouth tight because the words slipped out before you could decide if you meant them.
He leans in a little. “Hey,” he says quietly. “What’d you say?” As he moves closer, his hand lifts on its own. He gently tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear like he’s afraid of startling you.
You both know this shouldn’t happen, that this is beyond the rules of exes and the quiet decency you’re supposed to keep between people who already broke each other once. This look, this closeness, the way his attention lingers like he’s forgotten how to pull it back – it’s all wrong. And yet he’s looking at you like he’s still falling, slow and helpless, like nothing ever ended, and in the quiet of it you realize the worst part isn’t that it’s happening. It’s that you want it to. Drunk or sober.
Sitting on the edge of your bed, you look up at him from under your lashes.
“I miss you,"
Jake's heart? It does a sharp, traitorous jump, like it’s trying to climb into his throat, and for a split second he forgets how to speak. The golden star he is, known for being well-spoken and articulate with his sentences now rot speechless in the presence of the only girl he’s ever loved.
“Oh,” he says, because it’s the only sound he can manage.
His hand drops slowly back to his side, turning into a fist, like he needs the grounding of knowing better than let this thrive.
“Hey,” he murmurs, quieter now, steadier than he really feels. “You’re drunk.”
You nod, breaking away the eye contact. “I know.”
Jake swallows, jaw tightening as he looks down at you. He looks… a bit wrecked, like he’s trying to decide whether this is real or just the cruelty of 4 am and too much alcohol. His hand slides to your jaw again, thumb warm against your cheek, grounding himself just as much as it does you.
Then he leans in.
He dips his head just enough that his lips brush on your forehead. And with hesitance, he presses another kiss at the bridge of your nose.
You let out a small, breathy laugh. It slips out of you, soft, a little incredulous, and you lift your hand to weakly shove at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing.” you say through a breathy laugh, half-protest, half-something else entirely but feels close to intimate.
Jake smiles. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. “Relax,” he murmurs, fond – always fond. “You’re gonna knock me out like that.” His sarcasm makes your blood and chest curl with heat.
You scoff, rolling your eyes, but your hand lingers at his chest instead of pulling away. He glances down at it, then back at you, smile deepening just a little. You try to shove him again, this time with even less force, because you’re everything messy but he likes that anyway. “You’re weird.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily, eyes warm. “You’ve told me that before.
Bygone will be the bygone’s era, yet they fade into gray, blurry, and uncertain. Because he who should remain obsolete looks the most vibrant in the dull vision of intoxication. You can’t decide whether you’re gonna curse him out or pull him into bed with you – but now, you hate him all the same. Because you can hear the whispers in his eyes – and they sound a lot like late night apologies for not finding time for you.
Jake straightens at last, hands lifting in surrender. “Okay,” he says gently. “That’s my cue.”
You start to fall back on your mattress, head back against your soft pillow from incredulity at what the fuck life has brought you to.
You’re just drunk, you think, for the way indignation (from remembering) and nerves blend into a tarty smoothie in the pit of your stomach. Jake carefully helps you tuck in and pulls the blanket higher around you.
“Sleep,” he whispers. “We’ll talk when you’re not like this.”
He waits until your breathing evens out, which doesn’t take long. Once the tension leaves your shoulders, your lashes finally rest against your cheeks, and your fingers loosen their grip on the blanket. Only then does he move again. Jake slips into the bathroom, opening the cabinet above the sink, and finds what he’s looking for almost immediately. He takes a couple of painkillers then places them beside your water bottle, lined up like a reminder for the morning.
You’re curled slightly on your side now, blanket pulled up to your chin, hair fanned like feathers across the pillow. He dims the light instead of off, and steals one final glance over his shoulder – like he’s imprinting the sight of you into memory.
Then he leaves. That familiar smile lingers on his face – the kind that’s always been yours.
He finds it that he was never not yours.
Tip #5: He’s responsible, proceed with caution.
You wake up with a really shitty hungover. Your head hurts, your mouth tastes like regret, and your brain keeps replaying things it shouldn’t be replaying. Then there’s knocking at 10:17 am, according to your phone, which feels too early for anything.
You consider pretending you’re dead, but Mia has never respected boundaries, not even in theory.
They settle in like this was always the plan, like your room is a recovery ward for debriefs and recollection and greasy sandwich breakfast.
Then they say his name casually like it doesn’t still do things to you.
Jake pretended he didn’t care.
Jake was normal.
Jake was looking at you every time you moved.
Jake was looking when you weren’t.
You don’t know which part makes your stomach twist harder, the fact that you weren’t imagining it or the fact that it changes nothing, because knowing he still looks doesn’t mean he’s allowed to.
You’re feeling everything all at once, which you shouldn’t, by the way, because he’s your fucking ex.
And then the water bottle and the pain killers on your nightstand – a reminder from him and the physical evidence of his tracks that he was here.
You go on to fill their hearts content with what happened last night, about how Jake was so responsibly firm and gentle with you and treated it as if it wasn’t an inconvenience. As if he had the time to do all of it; slowly, carefully, steadily, not in a rush for a deadline he’ll say sorry for later – not anymore. Last night, in your own room while you were drunk and gone, Jake Sim played daddy.
Mia peeks through her fingers. “You’re saying this very emotionally.”
“I’m saying this very hormonally,” you snap.
Right now, you remember the wet patch of alcohol from last night. As well as the tears you’ve shed from high school because he wasn’t able to manage his routine in a way that he can balance his school life and your relationship.
Right now, Jake isn’t that. He can hold you without it feeling like he’s losing time. Right now, you get fucking wet from the thought of him being a responsible guy, treating you like he was supposed to do – and yeah, you remember the tears, except they’re running down your thighs now.
A little “There you go,”, “Drink.”“Don’t move,”, “That okay?”“Stay with me, yeah?”, and of course, “Good girl,”, which is plainly ideal foreplay.
You’re mid-chew when your phone buzzes on the mattress behind you.
Mia manages to snatch it before you can, and you basically start whining for her to give it back. Too late, she’s read the preview and says it out loud,
jake: you alive?
You groan, dropping back on your bed because you’re absolutely emotional and embarrassed and hungover and turned on by your ex.
You can’t believe it. After months of no contact ever since the breakup, specifically 7 months and 2 days ago, he breaks it to ask if you’re alive like he didn't just kill you.
“I hate him,” you mumble.
“You absolutely do not,” Mia says, shoving your phone back to you immediately. “Text him back.”
“No.”
“Yes,” Mia says, already sitting on your legs to pester you.
You stare at the screen. This totally isn’t fair and you know that he knows this is wrong – exes don’t talk to each other and check up on one another and tuck each other in and kiss each other’s foreheads.
Before the girls protest which reponse sounds natural, your phone buzzes again.
jake: drink water btw
You shut your eyes and try to calm down your heart while he tries murdering it with Instagram texts. What is he doing? Why’s he doing it? Does he know he’s actively committing felony?
“Oh my God,” Lila whispers. “He’s still taking care of you."
Mia flops beside you. “Okay. We’re doing this strategically.”
“No strategy,” you say quickly. “I am not opening a door.”
“Too late,” Mia says. “The door is already cracked. He carried you through it.”
Fuck, she has a point.
Your head still aches, but it’s not just the hangover anymore. It’s the memory of his hands steady on your waist while he talks you through it, his voice low and patient. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t take. Didn’t demand anything. Just stayed. Willingly. And smiled charmingly while he did – with extremely good teeth too.
You exhale slowly, then finally type: alive. sorry if i was a lot.
You hit send before you can chicken out, and the three of you stare at the screen like it’s a bomb.
The reply comes almost instantly. Oh wow, now he remembers how to use a phone – how to charge it too.
jake: you werent
That’s it. No flirting, no emotional ambush, no anything else, just a message that makes you think if he’s letting you open a conversation or if he’s closing it himself. He really is messing with your brain, and it’s not good for you – nothing about Jake Sim was ever good for you.
Tip #6: Prepare for the Instagram story.
Your phone stays quiet from his messages for the rest of the following weeks. At first you tell yourself that it’s good. It’s proof that you’re both mature and healthy, because you acknowledged that the night happened, but didn’t see it as an opening for anything else.
Except you, maybe. You’re back to wondering where he is on campus. It’s life playing tricks on you; letting your heart go on a rollercoaster of events only to snatch it and buckle you back in your routine that didn’t include him.
Jake wasn’t an online kind of person ever since college started, only really posted stories when someone else mentions him on theirs. Stalking him through social media is futile, but you always go back to his posts, anyway – like a temporary remedy.
There used to be four posts, three highlights. But for very obvious reasons, your proof of occupation was removed.
It feels like highschool, when you danced this humiliation pirouette around something you wanted but had to pretend you didn’t. To act like you’re not itching even though your concentration has been compromised, which is obviously piteous for someone as bright as you.
So you don’t do anything, more than willing to participate in this game of composure to see who’d break first. You keep your decorum. You keep your dignity folded neatly in your back pocket.
Nothing happens.
‘Til it’s late out and you’ve just finished studying 2 lessons – which obviously immediately means you’re more emotionally unstable and desolate tonight. And you’re not exactly expecting a tragic ambush for the cherry on top, because you're not thinking right now, not when your mind’s running on about limits in Calculus 1 – which is ironic because you're clearly on one.
It’s muscle memory, really – open app, tap, tap, oh. You don’t even register it until the screen loads and the familiar username appears on the top of your screen.
You’ve viewed it 52 seconds after he uploaded the story. Like you were waiting on his proof of life and decided to pounce him, straddling and all, the moment it shows.
And then when you process just what the story is, that’s where your stomach drops. It’s a repost from a girl’s story, who took a picture of Jaeyun leaning against the table, using his phone while she’s holding coffee and sitting really close – as in, legs brushing, overly intimate, something old you would post when he was your boyfriend – that you scoff so loudly and practically fling yourself back against your chair.
So that’s why. That’s why he didn’t text even though he said you’ll talk when you’re sober. He has a girlfriend and obviously, you’re the last thing he’d ever have in mind. And you? You remain lonely and single and pathetic and pining for another man in other girls stories and leg-brushing-tionship.
That’s also when you notice the little caption tucked in the corner. thanks for the coffee ig
Right, and she’s flirting plainly and publicly and clearly claiming territory. You don’t even see her face but you could tell immediately how perfect she probably is, as far as your insecurities are concerned: she’s the same year, probably shares ⅔ of his classes, sees him all the time, and gets free coffee from him.
And your phone’s been suffering lately, attempting to function on 1gb left on your storage. It’s laggy, that’s when it downright betrays you after 2 years together. It lags and your hand probably slips or something, because you like the story.
Shit.
You blink. Then you scream. You unlike it then you throw your phone away after, shrieking against your pillow while you decide whether it’s time to delete your Instagram account for good. You decide on multiple options here actually, but all of it comes to a choice when your phone buzzes.
jake: ?
God you wish you could sleep. But there are monsters in your head called impulse and pride, and they’re tag-teaming you while your phone lights up like it knows exactly how weak you are. You stare at the screen. The single question mark feels louder than any paragraph he could’ve sent and it’s annoying and he feels like the asshole he never was.
you: phone lagged mb
You hit send before you can overthink it into something kinder. In your best efforts to be civil, there’s still a faint aftertaste of not my fault, it’s yours.
Three dots appear almost immediately. Disappear. Reappear. Like it was meant to piss you off. You roll onto your back, arm flung dramatically over your eyes like you’re auditioning for a film about female suffering directed by Greta Gerwig.
When you said ok, you thought he meant on a customary, normal-person time and date. And you should think like what a regular citizen act on this eccentric occasion – such as declining his absurdity and sleeping because you have lecture tomorrow. You ask yourself what you’re doing in this cafe now, in a tee and sleep shorts, arms crossed while you wait for the man who somehow still knows how to summon you with two texts and zero explanation.
You look around like you might recognize another idiot who showed up for emotional closure in pajamas, but there’s no one. Just you, your crossed arms, and the creeping realization that you look like a girl waiting to be let down. You’re not the girlfriend, not even the ex that gets proper boundaries, but the one he can call at 1 am – the punchline practically knows your name.
The bell over the door rings and there he is, exactly as expected, annoyingly composed in a hoodie with sleeves rolled to his elbows – and this time, you’re both sober. You look at each other a second too long, like you’re both checking for signs of intoxication that might excuse whatever happens next. When you find none, you decide that it’s the worse version of the night – clear-headed and intentional: there’s no buffer tonight with excuses to lean on.
Jaeyun gestures toward the counter. “You want coffee?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine,” you say with a sigh. “I have lecture in the morning.”
And then he just nods, tongue poking the inside of his cheek while he decides what to do now. You both sit in a table for two, across from each other – which isn’t anywhere in the safebook because it’s close enough to feel familiar, but far enough to be safe.
“You said things the other night,” he starts carefully. Of course, because he treated your fleeing like a lesson, and he now talks like a man (doesn't make him one, though). “When I helped you home.”
Your stomach tightens and you chew on the inside of your cheek to try for casual. “I was drunk.”
“That all?” His brow cocks up, like he obviously doesn’t believe that’s all. “You didn’t mean it?”
Honesty has always been your downfall with him, even after spending half your life pretending and lying about what you feel for him. “I said I missed you,” you say flatly, owning it before he can dress it up. You laugh under your breath in disbelief of your position now. “There. Are you happy?”
He looks at you then and whatever he sees makes his shoulders drop a little. Jake sighs, fingers fidgeting underneath the table while he thinks of what to say now, just before he swallows and looks back into your eyes. “I didn’t text because I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me sober.”
“So you waited,” you say. “Until I embarrassed myself.”
Honestly, the phone does work two ways. Maybe he was also pensively standing by for a sign that you’re still willing to let him in solemnly – but for fuck’s safe, was he meant to play hard-to-get while you chase?
Now he smiles, tongue poking the inside of his cheek because clearly you’re being petty and he’s measuring just how much patience he has tonight. Jake says your name quietly, low and firm, which does 7 natural wonders in your abdomen.
“Honestly? I was wondering if you remembered, or if it was just something you said because you were drunk.”
He delayed, he avoided, he compartmentalized, and he resurfaced at this ungodly hour. So yes, you get to be petty in thin sleep shorts because he fucking messaged you at 1am after posting another girl in his story.
When he looks back at you, his expression is composed, which is unusual for someone as emotional as him. “I didn’t say anything back that night,” he says, meeting your eyes.
You nod. “I noticed.”
“Yeah.” He practically huffs out a laughter. “I just didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”
You watch him, unimpressed despite the heartaches that say otherwise; loud and thrumming through your body in the form of your foot tapping.
“I figured if I answered at that moment, it would either sound like I was some guy who’s going to take advantage of a moment just because it’s convenient.” Then he straightens, like now he’s talking out of judicious judgment and not out of the heavy first-love impulses to work it out with you. “I chose time,” his voice steady. “For both of us.”
A minute of silence passes but you don’t try to break it, not that you had the proper words to do it anyway. He sees you though, even when he can’t see your eyes.
When it’s clear that you won’t say anything anymore, Jake swallows, then leans his elbows against his knees to at least try to find your gaze.
“I missed you,”
You look up at him before you can stop yourself, like your body reacts faster than your pride ever could. His eyes are on you already, open and honest and a little scared, despite the composure he holds tight.
“But missing someone,” he continues, “doesn’t automatically mean going back is the right move. And I don’t want to pretend it is.”
The cafe noise swells for a second, people talking about their much jovial nights, but the only words ringing in your head are Jake's.
Dumb and easy, that’s what you are, what always will be. Because you should be mad at him right now, right? You're supposed to curse him out, block him in social media, and never reminisce the past like an aspiring historian.
He leans back in his chair, measuring exactly how much gravity to put on the moment. “I know I messed up,” he admits softly. “Not texting. All of it. I’m sorry.”
You huff a laugh that’s equal parts bitter and incredulous. “That’s just your character, isn’t it?”
He smirks faintly like it’s an inside joke he fully understands, that half-smile that used to make your chest do dumb things when you were 18 and convinced he was untouchable. “Maybe it’s strategic inconvenience?”
You roll your eyes. “Strategic inconvenience,” you repeat, flatly, like it’s a brand. “You mean… you’re an asshole.”
“Point taken,” he says, hands up like he surrenders but he doesn’t flinch when you call him that, doesn’t ask for sugarcoating, doesn’t even try to defend. He just accepts.
“You know, you can't decide I’m already guilty before I finish talking.”
You tilt your head, crossing your arms. “You are guilty.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Exhibit A.”
“Don’t make jokes,” you say firmly. “That’s how you get out of things.”
“I’m not getting out of anything,” he replies with a smile that almost mocks. “I’m sitting right here.”
“Bare minimum,” you mutter.
He leans forward this time, elbows on the table, eyes on you. “What do you want me to say?”
Now you feel the aftertaste of bad decisions and ideas, when he’s looking at you that despite how gone pride is in this moment – now just running on want and unhealthy self-management – he looks like he won. ‘Cause sure, he fucked the circadian rhythm and pulled you out in pajamas like hauling a rabbit out a magician's ass and pissed you off again, but he thinks it’s worth it. Because he got to see you.
You scoff, narrowing your eyes at him, "I thought you know the right shit to say now, Jaeyun."
The way you say his name again undoes him. He grins, shaking his head like he can't believe himself for that reaction.
“I’m not here to charm my way back in. I know that doesn’t work on you anymore.”
You raise an eyebrow and he shrugs, long fingers tracing the edge of the table.
“I came because I missed you,” he continues, eyes following the lines of your features. "And because I figured if you were going to be mad, I’d rather you be mad to my face.”
You cross your arms tighter. “That’s not an apology.”
He tilts his head, eyes flicking over you – your crossed arms, your shorts, the way you’re still here despite yourself. "You're sick of apologies. I'd rather show."
You swallow. Annoyed at him, at yourself. “You look way too pleased for someone who’s supposedly guilty.”
He chuckles. “I am guilty.”
Your jaw tightens. “Don’t get comfortable.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” his smile turns stupidly fond. “You’re terrifying when you’re mad.”
This is idiotic and you do feel like one. But that has always been the deal with Jaeyun; always complicated even before you got together. And now you’re in the after being together department, you’re not sure you find yourselves to be… ex-materials.
This is really unhealthy, but he doesn’t see you trying to leave your seat.
Jake smiles, no teeth, just smug, and pulls out his wallet from his pocket like he’s getting comfortable. “So,” he says. “Do you want me to buy you coffee now?”
He's the bad decision – the one you already made.
Oh, this is fucked.
Tip #7: Use your mouth. He likes it.
You know better than to stay up late for a guy – you swore you learned your lesson. But… the conversations were easy and traitorously familiar, exchanging stories and laughter with the natural cadence of people who knew how to do it. And to add to the betrayal, it’s… not awkward. Which is bad, like really really bad, because that means you both still have chemistry.
Jake drives you back to your dorm at 4am again like it’s your personal devil’s hour. You thank him and get down the Bronco, but he gets off too, and meets you on the other side after he rounds from the hood.
You try passing by him but he grabs your wrist and tugs you back. He gives you a once-over, smirking a little at the sight of your bare legs in this cold.
“I’m sorry for not catching up sooner." he suddenly says. You blink, just once, like you’re trying to understand. "and for posting that girl." he adds.
“That’s not my busin –”
“It is.” he cuts you off, thumb now running over your wrist. “You get to be annoyed.”
You force the smile off from your mouth, settling to bite the inside of your cheek instead. “I know better than to pine for someone’s boyfriend.”
Now, Jake smiles like you dropped a good pun. He shakes his head, and pulls you a little closer which you could easily mistake as being clingy if you’re careless with your thoughts. “I haven’t dated or even talked to anyone after you.”
Your heart jumps and your stomach lurches. “That’s sad.” you say, light and dismissive.
He huffs a laugh through his nose. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess I’m a little pathetic.”
He pulls you just a little closer. Then he leans in, just a little. “So am I forgiven?” he says softly.
You scoff, turning your face just enough to avoid how close he is. You're not in the mood to confront just how he's looking at you. “You’re asking like you didn’t keep me up at four in the morning.”
“Strategic timing,” Jake says easily. “You're nice when you're sleepy."
"I am not."
He hums, amused, eyes dipping to your mouth like he’s thinking something he has the decency not to say. “You didn’t say no.”
You tug your hand slightly, testing him. He lets you go immediately but the warmth of where he was lingers, traitorous.
“Have a nice night, asshole.”
Jaeyun looks at you like you’re still his favorite smart mouth. “You too, princess.”
Back in your room, you check your Instagram. Jake removed the story.
Tip #8: He's your ex, there's no slowburn.
Days pass and there’s buildup faster than what you’re used to.
After that day, the campus feels smaller. Now that you know where Jake Sim exists inside it (he shared with you his classes and where they were, just a small thing he mentioned when you guys talked). You’re not tracking it – obviously, come on. At least not consciously. It’s only inevitable, you tell yourself, knowing a place holds meaning.
You start seeing Jake Sim more, also inevitable.
At first it’s coincidence; a glimpse across the quad, a passing figure near the library steps. It’s a quick ‘hi’ and wave. Then it becomes routine – eye contact that happens faster, his hellos that always suggest more conversation. He intends them to be quick but they always takes up more time than necessary, only to end up with him running to get to his next class, you trying not to smile on the way back to your dorm.
Then comes the heart.
You, Mia, and Lila go out for dinner – nothing fancy, just food and girls night. You take a picture, you post it to your Instagram story without thinking. Your phone buzzes less than a minute later.
A very specific like. From him, of course, his username and his profile picture. You stare at the screen for half a second before Mia notices, then Lila notices, then all three of you are shrieking because slowburn doesn’t seem to exist here at all.
Okay. Whatever. It’s fine. It’s nothing. That’s the theme with Jaeyun Sim, and you’re more than adamant to keep it rolling. You don’t think about it – well, you do but you try not to, it’s just that you pause to breathe while brushing your teeth. So yeah, you do think about it way too much for your own good.
Enough that later, you post with more purpose and intention, though you try not to be obvious. It’s just to see.
Sometimes he likes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.
Even when it’s a really cute selfie of you – of course he doesn’t like it. But if it's a random picture of food, he likes it.
Whatever! It probably just means that he’s totally not into you and you should actually start to realize how pathetic it is to post a story for a guy. You have to accept that he’s a player, a real NBA baller with how he manages to flirt with you and turn you over for food.
One night, you’re out again – this time it’s loud and late and sticky with sweat and bass-heavy music. You’re back to a party after a week long of demands, dragged back to blinding strobes and catching names you’ll forget later. You slip into a bathroom stall, mirror fogged, lighting criminal but flattering enough. Mia takes a selfie, and you pose in between them while Lila stands behind you, not really overthinking it. Your outfit shows more skin than usual – not obscene to the point of out-of-character unordinary, but something’s undeniably different this time.
You post it because it’s a good picture. You drink, you exchange names, you drink more – more importantly, you have fun and let loose. You check your phone and other than the usual flood in your inbox, you see a specific username that manages to hitch your breath every time.
A like. And a reply.
jake: i thought u had to be dragged into parties? 😂
Your breath catches so sharply you almost choke on it.
You stare at the message, grin spreading before you can stop it, warmth curling low in your chest – something light and stupid and undeniable. Because yeah, this is happening, he really is starting to be part of your life again, in these dumb ways that mean more to you. You don’t even reply right away, you just sit there for a second, phone in your hands, heart traitorously satisfied.
You don’t go home drunk that night. But you go home with an epiphany that gets you smiling into your skincare like a dumbass, replaying the message in the dark like you find something you’ve once lost.
You physically press the phone to your chest, eyes squeezed shut, a sound leaving your mouth that you will never admit happened. You stare at your screen for a long time, smiling into the quiet of your room, the night suddenly too soft, too full.
This isn’t nothing anymore.
It’s the beginning of something you’ve swam in before.
Tip #9: Post the selfie.
The next few days shift in a way that’s subtle enough to deny, and you still say it’s nothing even when you start to think otherwise. Jake’s messages start coming more. Not in a good morning beautiful way that takes things too fast and icky. You don’t talk all the time, but once a week turns into once every two days, then replies that used to lag start coming quicker.
It starts small.
A reply to something you were meant to send to Mia that accidentally ends up in his DMs instead because you’re stupid and half-asleep and maybe you’ve been backreading that’s why you were in his chat log.
You: omg im sososo sorryyyyy
jake: its aight 😭
jake: seems like my business now tho
jake: tell me 😂😂
Then there’s him reacting to things he never reacted to before – your complaints about deadlines, a blurry picture of your coffee, a story of your notes spread across the table with a self-deprecating caption.
02simjake: liked your story.
02simjake: replied to your story: real
Then one afternoon, when you’re sitting on the steps outside your building finishing up some work, your phone buzzes again.
You shake your head, laughing under your breath, heat crawling up your neck. This easy back-and-forth, this familiarity slipping back into place like it knows where home is – like you know where home is.
Back to the boy who never failed to make your heart thump like a drum.
And on some random night when you finally breathe from the uni demands, you post a simple selfie. It’s nothing. But he messages, and it’s enough to get you back on adrenaline.
simjakee_ replied to your story: go to sleep
You stare at it and type anyway.
You stare at the ceiling, a grin slowly spreading across your face, chest warm and buzzing in that unmistakable way. This is real, your ex is flirting with you on Instagram and you feel as giddy as you did at 13-years-old; back when it was you and him learning how to tie ribbons and landing on skateboards. It’s intention, soft and careful and unmistakably him, with the wisdom that came from learning the past and letting you see just how far it has improved.
The boy who couldn’t balance you and his studies is now a responsible guy with fixed time management, on the way to your apartment – because he wants to see you. With no excuse that he doesn’t have time, or that he can’t because he’s really busy. Now, he’s asking if you have time, and he follows your schedule.
5 minutes after your dumb hoax impatience, he texts again.
jake: im here
If you had good instincts, which you doubt you do, you’d turn away with the defense mechanism of someone with avoidant attachment issues just to protect your heart – but you can’t, not when it feels this… thrilling.
You open the door and there’s your ex; tall, hoodie pulled over his cap, hands shoved into his pant pockets like he’s pretending this is casual, like he didn’t just show up at your door on impulse. You look up at him through your lashes before you can stop yourself and – God. Yeah. This looks exactly like toxic, bad decisions.
“So,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to your face. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” you answer. “Why, were you hoping?”
Jake huffs a short laugh, shaking his head. “Just checking.”
Then you let him in before you could decide to shut the door in his face and regret whatever this is. His gaze drifts, just taking in the room like he hasn’t seen it before. When his eyes come back to you, you see them check you out while you try to process that he’s standing in your room at an hour where intentions blur and honesty slips out too easily.
You cross your arms, suddenly hyper-aware of how you’re dressed. “So what do you want to do?”
He shrugs, eyes on yours. “You really wanna ask me?”
And when you blink multiple times, the heat crawling up your neck, he smiles playfully like he didn’t realize how that sounded. He shakes his head before settling on your bed, spreading his legs while he sits on the edge, putting his cap down. “Relax. I’m not gonna do anything.”
You raise a brow. “Bold of you to assume I was worried.”
That earns another smile, warm and dangerous.
“Okay,” he says, amused. “Then what are you thinking?”
You hesitate, shifting your weight, pretending you need to fix something that isn’t actually wrong. You lean against the desk instead of sitting, arms still crossed like they might save you from yourself and your thoughts and the dooming questions. “Why did you come over?” you ask finally, voice lighter than you feel.
Jake looks up, brows knitting together just a little, elbows resting on his thighs. “You invited me.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes like you didn’t fucking know that. “Yeah, but I didn’t force you. It’s not like I dragged you here. What made you come?”
For a second, you think he’s going to deflect, make a joke, or shrug it off the way he used to – but he doesn’t. Right now, he licks the inside of his cheek, before saying, “I wanted to see you.” No overthinking, no qualifiers, just the truth, laid down with pure honesty.
Your mouth curves before you can stop it. You immediately try to swallow the smile, turn your face away like you’re suddenly very interested in the floor.
“Oh,” you mutter. “That’s… dumb.”
“Is it?” he asks, amused.
You glance back at him. “A little.”
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You invited me this late and I’m the dumb one?”
“Touché,” you concede, shrugging.
Another pause settles in, thick but not uncomfortable. The kind that only exists when it’s loaded and even though it feels good, it doesn’t make it any less right. Now, again, you’re never the arbiter on what’s correct and not – yet you look at him like you’re battling with your moral compass because wrong looks so fucking hot if it’s Jake Sim.
Jake exhales through his nose, then slowly reaches out – open palm, unhurried. “Come here,” he says quietly, a balance of order and ask.
Your heart stutters, and you hesitate just a second too long only to slip your hand into his anyway. His fingers close around yours gently, and he pulls you toward him with care. You end up standing between his knees. His thumb moves without thinking, brushing slowly over your knuckles, grounding and absent-minded all at once.
"Thought you weren't going to do anything." you whisper. He ignores.
He leans forward, stopping just short of touching you – then tilts his head and rests his forehead against your stomach. He stays there for a moment, eyes closed, like he’s anchoring himself and is starting to realize he needs this more than he’s willing to admit.
"Is this okay?" he asks quietly.
Your stomach drops. "Yes," you answer.
He exhales, relieved, shoulders relaxing as he settles there properly. One hand still holding yours. The other resting loosely at your hip, and it’s a lot like threading dangerously down a line he isn’t sure he should cross.
Your free hand lifts before your brain can stop it. Your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, which is devastating to Jake, who lets out the smallest sound but it tells you everything.
You shouldn’t be doing this. You know it. And yet, your thumb strokes slowly, guiltily, like muscle memory never really left. Jake doesn’t move, just stays there, forehead pressed to you, breathing you in like this is the quiet he’s been missing.
“God,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I missed this.”
This. Not you.
“Jaeyun,” you call. He only hums, thumb rubbing against your hip and you feel the warmth of his touch through your shorts. Your fingers curl slightly in his hair, grounding yourself as much as he is with your hips.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” you say quietly, half a joke, half a warning. “Doing this.”
His lips twitch, but you don’t see. “I know.”
“The –"
“I missed you,” he repeats, this time not to himself but to you for sure this time. “I really don’t want to fucking pretend I don’t.”
You exhale shakily, shaking your head but you’re smiling. “You’re so annoying.” You huff out a laugh, breathless.
He looks up at you, eyes practically doe before he breaks away and shakes his head. Then he stands, hands fully to himself which fidget at the side of his jeans. At first you're confused, then scared, because you don't want him to leave.
“We can just chill.” he tells you, obviously holding his composure tight while he avoids your eyes.
You cross your arms and stare at his chest, shaking your head because you don't know what you're doing. Clearly, so does he, because when he looks at you, he's trying to read you.
It's silent, save from the sound of your appliances and the casual drive of cars outside. He's looking into you while you pick at your elbow, studying just what you want from him.
You take a step back without realizing it and Jake notices instantly, his body tensing just slightly. “You want me to go?” he asks, careful.
The thought makes your stomach drop.
“No,” you say too fast, shaking your head.
You look at each other like that – like you’re standing at the edge of something familiar and dangerous, both knowing exactly where it leads.
He swallows, throat bobbing, and your gaze follows it before you can stop yourself.
You step forward, still enclosed in your own embrace, and he watches you tensely because you've got the reins and he's just letting you steer. Your fingers curl on his hoodie, eyes refusing to meet his for now as when you tug the fabric, he willingly follows.
You look up, finally, and he's looking into you like he's reading the directions off your gaze.
He knows now, of course, plain in sight, what you need him to do.
Jake leans down slowly and carefully, enough that you feel his breath, warm against your cheek, your nose. He stops there, giving you time. “Tell me to stop,” he says.
Your noses brush and the world narrows down to breath and heat and the memory of how this used to feel.
Jake exhales, slow and shaky. “Fuck.”
Your lips brush his first – just a graze, like you’re both checking if the other will pull away because you know better than to indulge. When neither of you do, he exhales into you, a soft sound of relief, and then ducks down to your height to press his mouth on you. You flinch when his hand finds your hips. Your lips move together like you’re relearning something you never really forgot.
Jake pulls back like he got burnt. “Fuck,” he whispers, breath warm against your mouth. Then, quieter: “I really –”
His hands caress the soft curve of your waist and hips, firm but careful when he pushes you back against the counter of your kitchen – decisive in a way he’s made up his mind and isn’t going to pretend otherwise. You let out a soft breath as you stumble back, the back of your legs bumping the wood. He kisses you again, hungrier this time, hands steady on you while your tongues meet in your mouth.
Your hands find his hair again instantly, fingers threading through it like they always naturally do. Jake groans quietly this time and his hands flatten against your back, warm and grounding, holding you like he can’t handle space.
You can’t help the little sound that leaves you, and he tenses, just a little, catching your bottom lip between his teeth like restraint’s something he’s never known. You tug him down and he follows, ducking down his height just to chase your mouth. His large hands slide underneath your shirt and touches your skin there, fingertips slightly grazing the hooks of your bra.
When you pull back just enough to breathe, your noses brush. Jake rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavy but controlled.
“Shit,” he whispers again, softer this time. “This feels unfair.”
You smile despite yourself. “Do you hate it?”
He laughs under his breath, arms still wrapped around you. “Hell no,” he admits. “I’d do it again.”
You lean in for another kiss, worse than last time because his tongue presses fast into your mouth, and his warm fingers caress the skin underneath your bra hooks. You tear away for a startled laugh, smacking his arm and he smiles, before pulling you back in for another kiss.
It’s almost 3 am when you finally tell him he should go.
Jake doesn’t argue. You walk him down the building, hoodie sleeves brushing your wrist in the elevator, the air between you calmer but heavier obviously.
Outside your building, the street is empty and quiet, in a way that shows the impropriety of this rendezvous.
"Well," he says, rocking back on his heels. "Text me when you’re inside."
You scoff. "You don’t get boyfriend privileges."
He grins. "Worth a try."
You dap him out (because he always he insists you should after making out, just for tradition) and you’re already pulling your hand back when he tugs you forward just enough to press a soft kiss to the bridge of your nose.
"Goodnight," he murmurs.
Back in your room, the silence hits different.
You sit on your bed, staring across you with the post-experience clarity of what you have just done. You laugh under your breath, sharp and humorless because of course he’d do that, of course you’d let him.
This is how it starts. This is how you forget why it ended. This is how you convince yourself this time will be different.
So stupid, you think. So predictable.
So, very, toxic.
Tip #10: Let it become a habit.
For the first day, you two kinda tried pretending nothing happened.
Jake answered texts the way he always had – flirty but polite and measured. He showed up to class, ate, slept – all in time. He even convinced himself that the warmth lingering in his palms was psychosomatic, some delayed response to nostalgia rather than the very real memory of pushing you against the counter he pretended not to remember. You were equally complicit. You waved at him across campus like nothing had shifted tectonically between your bodies. You spoke in full sentences and didn’t stammer once, so it was going pretty great.
This mutual delusion lasted exactly thirty-five hours. Because at precisely 11:07 pm, Jake Sim’s on your door unannounced, looking faintly apologetic and was simply bracing for consequences. “I was nearby,” he said, which was a lie. “I figured,” you replied, which was an acceptance.
He stayed until 1 am. You worked on an assignment but was cut for intervals because he’d pull you in his lap and kiss you.
Jake had always been a creature of habit, as once something entered his routine, it stayed. You slipped back in as if you’d never left. He started showing up with intent disguised as coincidence, your study sessions lasted longer than needed. There’s also late-night drives where the music stayed low and you laugh about stupid things together while munching down on McDonald’s fries.
Weeks passed and there also came the moments when the day’s busy for anything particular, that even hanging out in the same room was a little close to impractical. However, Jaeyun finds the time he couldn’t give before. He makes sure to call when you don’t meet, or a quick snack to hand over between in-between class schedules. Your favorite is when he promises just five minutes to see you after a lecture.
"Five minutes," you say. "You promised."
"I stand by that."
Then he hugs you, chin-hooked-over-your-head hug that immediately eats up about forty-five seconds. After 5 minutes;
“Time’s up.”
He doesn’t move.
“…Jaeyun.”
“Just one more,” he says quietly, arms still locked around you.
In the hallway, you’re walking with your Foreign Language partner, running lines for a presentation due the next day. He laughs at something you mispronounce, leans in to correct you, points at your notes. You don’t even think twice about it until later, until Jake decides it is a big deal.
He’s on your couch now, sprawled while you tell him it was just your partner, he scoffs.
“Yeah, right. Nothing,” he mutters.
“Literally, leave it, Jaeyun,” you say, arms crossed, irritation buzzing under your skin.
He glances at you. “Didn’t look like nothing,” he says, quieter now, sulking like he hates that he noticed at all.
You bite back you don’t get to be mad or anything at all that would turn this to a fight. Instead, you turn to your laptop, pretending to care more about another language than the way his presence tilts your focus off-center.
From the couch, his foot nudges yours absentmindedly, like muscle memory.
“You still need help with that presentation?” he asks eventually, casual, almost bored.
On some random week, Jake has had too much to drink. Now, he loves a good beer and can endure it more than the average man, but clearly, everything's been building up – you, to a great degree actually – that he comes up your building and knocks at 2am and clearly, at the very least, is tipsy.
When you open the door, all he had to do is follow the silhouette of your body underneath your thin sleepwear and listen to your very angry remarks about respect and time or whatever, before he's already letting himself in and kissing you against your bed.
He's respectful, always is, but you feel how tight he holds your hips like he's trying not to touch the skin of your thighs grazing his fingertips.
The morning comes around and you wake up with his chest pressed against your back and his arms around your waist in your bed – no hookup, clothes still on, just messy makeouts – but it's enough for you to groan in disappointment anyway.
"We need to set boundaries." you state while you make your waffles.
Jake hums, trying not to get distracted by the curve of your ass when your back's turned to him.
You look at him, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. "You're always like that. Always so pushy and breaking boundaries and breaking the rules – "
He manages to chuckle. "That was two years ago."
"And last night! And the nights before!" you scoff, shaking your head while you massage your temple.
It's bad. This is bad.
When you turn to look at him again, he's already in front of you, pressing close while his hand finds the side of your neck. You tilt your head up towards him, meeting his eyes which seem to study your face so closely.
You can't really think properly when he's this near, when he's touching you.
Jake’s thumb pauses at your neck. His voice is softer now, clearer than last night but still low. “I know,” he says. “Tell me to stop.”
You open your mouth, nothing comes out.
He exhales a laugh under his breath, fond and frustrated all at once, then leans his forehead against yours instead.
That's so unfair.
You swallow, and push lightly at his chest. "Stop showing up at 2am, Jaeyun."
“I know.” He nods immediately. “That’s on me. I'm sorry."
When push comes to shove, between self-respect or Jaeyun, you run on drunk impulse on a sober gut.
Your studies? A bit compromised. You still show up and pass and look functional on paper, but there’s a fog where focus should be, thoughts drifting where they shouldn't.
And the thing was – Jake Sim was still exceptional and brilliant. Still building a future with the same relentless precision that once earned him accolades and recognition, but now there was something else threaded into his life, something not quantifiable with the integers he mastered in so well.
You. A variable he no longer tried to control and pretend wasn’t doing mass decimation to his sane meter.
“…Are you serious?” Mia turns to you after what she’s dubbed an essential debriefing, legs tucked beneath her as she stares like you’ve just confessed to crime. Your life odyssey – past tense colliding violently with future tense – has been laid bare between sips of iced coffee. You sink further into her couch, picking at your nails. “I mean. I think so?”
Lila blinks. “You’ve been meeting your ex, who’s been acting like your boyfriend minus the title?”
You think about Jake – about the way he waits for you outside lecture halls, pretending to scroll through his phone like he hasn’t been tracking the time down to the minute. About the way he listens now, really listens, like he’s afraid to miss something important and is completely terrified that you’d have to repeat yourself.
You tell yourself – just this once – that it’s fine not to define it yet. After all, habits take time to name, even the really bad ones called making out with your ex in his Bronco and going on a dinner date in a real lavish restaurant billed in his card after.
Later that night, when you’re back in your room, phone face-down beside you, you wonder when exactly it happened. You wonder if he’s thinking about you too and your phone buzzes like it heard you.
Oh, this is sick. You've become a dog.
Then once upon a time, you were only supposed to be passing through to find Jake and return the borrowed charger, then leave.
He's near the steps of the humanities hall when you spot him, surrounded by friends. He’s leaning back against the railing and there’s a girl beside him whose shoulder brushes his arm when she says something. He laughs at what she says, doesn't really flinch when she touches his arm.
His eyes lift and immediately he's already jogging over. Once he's right there, you reach the charger out but he grabs your elbow instead, then pulls you closer to him.
Jake's eyes search search your face like it's checking damage.
“What,” you ask flatly.
A slow, crooked, and infuriating smile tugs at his lips. “You look like you’re about to murder me,” he says quietly.
“Stop,” you say, low and clipped, even as you tug at your arm. He doesn’t let go, thumb warm against your sleeve to keep you there.
“Relax,” he murmurs, tone easy, almost lazy. Like you’re not two bad decisions away from ending what shouldn't have started. “I’m not doing anything.”
You glare at him. He just watches you, gaze steady in that way that’s always made you feel seen without being put on the spot.
He finally lets your elbow go, hands dropping into his pockets. “Didn’t mean anything,” he adds, glancing briefly back toward where he was standing earlier, then back to you.
Back to you.
"You look so fucking annoyed." Jake laughs, hand reaching up to ruffle your hair.
You shove lightly at his chest, more reflex than force. “Don’t.”
He stumbles back a step anyway, like you’ve wounded him, hand flying to his chest. “Wow,” he says, dragging the word out, eyebrows lifting. “Violence on campus.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you – curling slightly despite yourself.
He catches it instantly even though it's barely anything. His grin widens, smug and triumphant. “There it is,” he says, pointing at you like he’s won something. “I knew you still liked me.”
Then he positions his arm over your shoulders, dragging you to lunch off-campus just to hook you back again.
Fuck. It's fucked.
Tip #11: Give him something to remember.
November is fucking hell. It was the month professors collectively decided that sleep was a suggestion and deadlines were a personality test. They expect submissions on top of other “minor” requirements that demand just as much work anyway, just to reason it out as a growth strategy for the harsh, professional world of jobs. As if the real world operated on 72-hour days and the sustained abuse of caffeine.
You do try to see the good at the end of the tunnel from all the sadism, because in the middle of your aggressively color-coded annotated calendar sat one date circled in ink: Jaeyun’s 21st birthday.
It wasn’t going to be another birthday to pass with simple dinner, much less under the vituperative ultimatum of the endless projects and studies.
You insisted he celebrated it with everyone.
Not just a rushed meal squeezed between deadlines or a quiet “we’ll do something later” promise that later never really comes.
So you booked the fancy restaurant, you sent the texts, and herded his friends like you're the Shepherd Himself. You told them to dress nice, and prayed no one would accidentally ruin the surprise with a dumb slip.
Jaeyun was wearing a simple crisp white button-up with trousers.
The night of, he showed up thinking it was just the two of you, until he walked in.
The table was already full with familiar faces and grins, singing happy birthday the moment Jaeyun's at the entrance like a humiliation ritual. For half a second, he just stood there, blinking, processing – then he laughed, stunned, hand dragging through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with himself and the moment of everyone he loved in one huge ass table.
“What the hell?” he said, turning to you.
You shrugged, way too casual for the amount of effort this took. “Happy birthday?”
The dinner itself was loud and warm and unpretentious despite the restaurant itself being conspicuous of poise. His friends made the space theirs anyway – chairs pulled closer, voices overlapping, utensils clinking. They toasted him for things both sincere and stupid, and his ears end up turning to a color red.
Sunghoon starts first, hand in his pocket and red wine raised high. Riki follows, then Jungwon, then Sunoo who smiles a little bashfully.
His friends told stories you hadn’t heard yet and ones you’d heard too many times, and Jaeyun took it all with that soft, crooked smile like he couldn’t believe he was being celebrated this openly.
Cake came with a candle and off-key singing he definitely didn’t ask for. Jaeyun made his wishes, cheeks warm, eyes bright.
At some point in the night, draped in Jaeyun's coat, you stand near the edge of the balcony overlooking the city below. When he slips behind you, his hands automatically settle on your waist. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, smile lazy and unguarded.
“Hi,” he says, like he hasn’t seen you all night.
You laugh, one hand on top of his, and the other hand threading up to the hair on his nape. “Hi, birthday boy.”
He rocks you side to side, barely moving, chin resting against your hair. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low so only you can hear, “I was genuinely okay with just us two. I meant that.”
“I know,” you say.
“But this?” He glances around at the inside, his friends, the calmed chaos. Then his gaze drops back to you. “This is… insane. In the best way.”
You tilt your head up. “You like it?”
He laughs, soft and breathless. “I’m obsessed with it. With you.”
He presses a kiss to your temple first, slow and lingering. Then another to your cheek. He pauses there, lips hovering, like he’s savoring the moment.
“Can I?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking to your lips.
You don’t answer with words. You just turn around, hands settling on his nape.
The kiss is warm and unhurried, his hand sliding up your back, thumb brushing over your spine. It’s full, sweet, and certain. Like this is exactly where he wants to stay.
Jake pulls back just enough to grin. “I love this.”
“Your party?” you ask.
“You.” he corrects easily, like the word belongs there now. Like it always has.
Later, he drags you back onto the dance floor in front of the live musicians.
He dances badly on purpose – spinning you too fast, dipping you slightly too low your back is lowkey bad now, laughing when you squeal and clutch onto him. At one point, he lifts you off the ground just because he can, grinning like he’s won something.
“You’re showing off,” you accuse.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “It’s my birthday.”
Eventually, when your feet ache and your voice is hoarse from laughing, when the night’s adrenaline has settled on your bodies, the crowd starts to thin and some people head out. You thank them for coming, waving as they disappear into the elevator with tired smiles and leftover cake in hand.
As you make your rounds, thanking people for coming, accepting hugs, the night starts folding in on itself.
That’s when you hear it. Something that wasn't meant for you – low, lazy voices carried over by the balcony doors still cracked open.
Jake and Sunghoon are leaning against the edge, sharing what’s left of the wine. Jake’s sleeves are rolled up, posture loose in a way that only happens when he’s had a good night.
Sunghoon tilts his glass, watching the last drops swirl. “So,” he says casually, too casually. “You and her.”
Jake huffs out a breath, not defensive just honest. “No.”
Oh.
Sunghoon looks at him and waits.
“We’re not together,” Jake adds, after a beat. It's not denial, just a fact that still makes your chest curl.
Sunghoon hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Jake’s mouth quirks, something complicated flickering across his face. He takes a sip, eyes drifting somewhere distant like he’s replaying moments instead of looking at the present.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Like last time.”
There’s no bitterness in it, not something like regret either. Just that strange, suspended place between was and isn’t clouding over like a storm coming.
Sunghoon clinks his glass lightly against Jake’s. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “you look happy.”
Jake smiles then. “I am.”
You hide behind the wall before either of them notices you lingering, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest.
When you reappear a minute later, Jake looks up instantly – like he felt the shift in the room.
“Hey,” he says, easy smile snapping back into place.
“Hey,” you reply, mirroring it.
But this time, when he reaches for your hand, his grip is a little tighter.
"Wanna go?" he asks, hand soothing the small of your back.
You nod, giving Sunghoon a hug before you slip behind the doors before Jake. They make their goodbyes and you wait outside, Jake's coat protecting you from the cold.
It rings, that one single word that makes the night cooler than it really is.
No, you're not dating. And he's vocal about it too, probably with all his friends who also asked. You start to realize how stupid you must've looked, sending the invites, kissing his cheek throughout the night while everyone knows that – there's nothing between you two.
Your heel taps against the concrete, lips quivering, getting into your thoughts before his palm finds your lower back and his lips press on your temple.
"I love you." he whispers while he pulls you into him.
No. We're not together.
Could've fooled me.
Yeah. Like last time.
The drive is quiet, the city blurs past, lights streaking softly through the windows. His hand finds your thigh at red lights, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles. You try not to think, because it's his day and you'd hate to ruin something this good.
So you swallow and turn to him.
“I don’t really wanna go home yet,” you admit quietly.
He glances at you, surprised for half a second, then smiles. “You can stay with me for a bit.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “We’ll keep it chill. I’ll get you home before two.”
It’s only 11.
At his place, everything is hushed. The shoes are off by the door, lights kept low. His apartment is very much him – some legos half-built on a shelf, posters slightly crooked, figurines taking up their space, a hoodie draped over his chair – and you’ve been over a couple of times but it’s only now you really look over his orderly clutter.
You smile. “You never finished that one.”
He groans. “Don’t expose me.”
There’s a pause, comfortable, charged, settling in while you throw your heels somewhere across his floor. You look over the lego cars and books aligned in his book shelf, giving them a better look, until he slips his hand in yours and pulls you towards him. Jake rests his chin on the crown of your head, humming in contentment at your warmth underneath him.
“Thank you for tonight.” he says quietly. You tip your chin up to look at him and simply smile as a silent you’re welcome.
He leans in first, kissing you softly, like he’s testing the water. It’s slow, his hands on your waist with your fingers on the back of his neck.
Then another kiss, lasting longer this time. You shift closer without thinking, pressing, pulling him down to you as he melts in. His hand slides to your hips while your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just slightly.
When you pull away, you press one last kiss on the tip of his nose before telling him you'll just change out of your clothes. He nods and lets you go to his bathroom to slip into the comfort of sleepwear.
You rethink, even though you're trying not to. Let it be not another bad decision you make yet everything about him is – though you can't resist. The reminders echo but the image-driven mind can't lose the way he kisses you so good, and holds you the way you need to be held.
So when you get out, his shirt's still on but more crumpled and loosened. He's talking about something that happened in dinner, rambling the way he always does. Except when he turns to you to tell you what Riki did with the cake, Jake freezes. You look shy but still, you meet his eyes, the same ones that can't even pretend to be respectful as he stares at the imprint of your nipples through your tulle and lace nightdress.
Jake's silent and frozen, eyes wide and jaw slack. You manage a smile, softly padding your way to him. Once in front of him, you stand on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down to you despite how stiff he is, how careful he is not to touch you.
Still, when you kiss him, he kisses you back.
The kisses deepen naturally, like neither of you really wants to stop. But he feels your rush, when you pull closer like you’re looking for something, how you kiss harder and lick into his mouth. He pulls back suddenly – not far, just enough to look at you. He looks ragged and trying to collect his thinning composure, blinking like it will save him.
You meet his eyes, breath a little uneven, heart loud in your ears. You don’t say anything – don’t really feel like you have to. Whatever he sees in your expression makes his face change, something startled and tensed passing through it like an epiphany for something like he didn’t expect.
His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and careful. “You’re okay?”
You nod, eyes flicking back to his mouth. “Yeah.”
He exhales, leaning his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a second like he’s steadying himself because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose the thin veil that’s keeping him restrained. When he kisses you again, it’s still slow but more breaths – like he’s losing a part of himself when he’s giving this much to you. He keeps his hands on your waist, pulling you closer without really meaning to but because his body needs it.
And when he finally rests his forehead against yours again, smiling weakly and knowing and wanting but respecting –
“We can just stay like this,” he says, swallowing. “I don’t need anything else.” he reassures because he’s terrified that you think you need to do this for him.
You look up at him through your lashes, nodding. “I know.” you add, “I want this.”
You kiss him again before he can process it – harder and faster this time, with a weight behind it that makes his breath hitch immediately. Your hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through it as if you need something solid to hold onto.
He makes a sound he doesn’t mean to.
It’s quiet, caught in his throat, but you feel the way his hands tighten at your waist, the way his shoulders tense before he gives in. He shivers, just a little, like the kiss reached somewhere deeper than he expected and pulls out a moan from his chest. You pull away, your hands lingering. Jake has to bite his lip, feeling your warm and soft palm move from his hair, down to his shoulders, across his chest, until they finally rest flat against his abs. You feel it, the way his muscles contract from your touch, the way his breath catches shakily against your mouth.
You look up again, your eyes undeniably dark, and you see his restraint breaking as his Adam's apple bob, sweat glistening down his skin. You nudge him back, guiding him with your palms until he sits on the edge of the bed. He lets you. He doesn’t resist at all. His legs hit the edge of the bed and he sits down almost automatically.
He looks up at you then.
His hair is messy, lips pink and swollen, eyes dark and searching – like he’s trying to read you without pushing, without asking for more than you’re giving. His hands slide from your waist to rest at your hips, grounding, reverent. You stand between his knees, letting your fingers comb through his hair.
“Baby,” he says quietly, voice rough, like he’s trying to stay in control.
Your nails graze his scalp just enough to make him inhale sharply. His eyes flutter shut for a second, forehead dropping forward until it presses lightly against your stomach.
He exhales there, like he’s holding himself together one breath at a time – but you know he’s failing. You slide one knee on one side of his hip, followed by the other, your thighs framing him as you settle in place. You straddle him perfectly and fully, hands braced on his chest as his breath stutters beneath you.
He thinks this is fine. Straddling isn’t new. Making out isn’t new. You’ve done this a dozen times.
Until you smile, letting your nose bump against his, and lips brush together. “Hi,”
He clears his throat. “Hi.”
It's just another dress. It's new with intent and purpose, but it was alike to the others – just that you're not exactly wearing a bra underneath. He tries being rational but he can't, not when he can feel just how soft your breasts are against his chest.
You tilt your head, letting your lips glide against his, teasing the birthday boy as he tries catching your mouth with his. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, and he responds with a low groan that vibrates straight through you. Then you kiss him, harder, claiming, his large hands pulling you closer. You shift slightly, letting the heat of your bodies sink together – until your hips press against his so suddenly that he has to stop you and pull away.
“B-baby,” he gasps, looking up at you, eyes wide and confused and needy. “What are we doing?”
You look at him beneath you, breathless and kiss-drunk, already fucked out before anything has even happened.
“Do you not want it?” you whisper.
He practically chokes on the air. His hands tighten instinctively at your hips.
“I –” He swallows hard, throat bobbing, eyes blinking. A little flustered, very Jaeyun. “I thought we’d wait. Like –” He exhales, embarrassed. “Until marriage.”
That’s true, he thought this is something you’d like to do after passing the eye of God or something like that. Yet you only hou hum softly, sounding dangerously close to something else, his shoulders tensing immensely. Your hands slide up, thumbs brushing his jaw as you lean in, pressing a slow kiss there – right beneath his ear. Again, you’ve never really been for righteousness.
“Do you not want it?” you ask again, slower, deliberate.
He swallows again, and you can feel him think and break, especially when you feel this soft and good in his hands. Because honestly, committing sacrilege feels sweet when it tastes like you.
You don’t wait for an answer anymore, letting your hips rock against his pants that he lets out a soft, strangled whimper. His fingers tighten against your hips, unsure whether to keep you still or press you closer.
“Jaeyun,” you whisper, tugging his hair back gently but enough for him to open his eyes to you again. He looks at you with reverence, like you’re God herself pressing your clothed pussy against his growing erection. “Do you not want it?” you ask again, needing an answer.
He blanks, zeroes, knows enough that this is all he needs to cum.
He thinks about the time he didn’t want it – which goes down to the answer: never. Not ever since he tasted you for the first time almost 2 years ago, his tongue in your mouth, your soft chest pressed against his, your thighs enclosed around him. He always felt guilty, while he fisted his cock after a hangout with you, but couldn’t really help it when he gets horny even just from kissing you.
Things never escalated between the two of you, never anything more than breathless makeouts that always had been respectful and not overly touchy. He thought you’d like it that way, and he liked it too. He knows now, as he finds desire in your eyes, how months of missing and wanting has finally come down to this. As exes that doesn’t know how to be exes, or a situationship that’s more romantic than any other crude paperback.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, husky and suede. You smile from how meek and small he sounds – it makes you clench around nothing.
“Am I sure if I want your dick in me?”
He fucking chokes at how vulgar you are. Gone is the woman who pretended to be annoyed with him, gone is the girl he used to bribe popsicles with.
It’s his 21st birthday, and you want nothing but to make it his most special day ever – you made sure to include this in the itinerary.
You run your hands from his hands on your hips to the length of his veiny arms, until the collar of his top. You slowly start unbuttoning his shirt, and he makes no protests, keeping his eyes on you while he lets you do the work. Once it’s off, the firm muscles of his arms flexes underneath your touch when you let your fingers graze. When you glance up, you see him clearly struggling to breathe.
You’re not rushing this – even when you think you should, just as you think how you have every right to be angry at how respectful Jaeyun Sim is.
You feel like a sex demon because of how much you think about fucking him. Yes, you’ve been masterbating even back when you were together because how could you not. You’ve been drinking pineapple juice these past few weeks. You’ve been stretching out your hole through your own fingers for this moment. You feel crazy and that’s very much an underreaction, considering how hot Jake is.
“Do you not want me?” you ask, voice small, trying to sound pitiful, while you kiss his jaw.
Want you? He’s been having wet dreams of you. When he was fucking you balls deep, or when he had you bent over your vanity, or when you were riding him in his Bronco –
He doesn’t understand why he can’t move now, when you’re still grinding your pussy against his hard cock. He curses himself for not doing anything more than hold your hips against him. So, like the sensible boyfriend he is, his hand trails up your skin. Your breath finally catches when his large hands caress the softness of your side, just when his thumbs innocently graze the underside of your boobs.
He breaks into a grin and before he could say more, you lean in again, kissing his mouth with the intensity of a starving woman. It’s messy fast, his tongue slipping into your mouth, intertwining as he finally finishes unzipping your dress. Your own palm press against the hard lines of his abs, making him gasp and breath shake against your mouth. He makes a sound at the back of his throat – urging you to press harder, feeling the hard bulge against his jeans.
He pulls back, letting out an amused huff of a laugh. “Fuck, baby,” his eyes are completely half-lidded.
You giggle, and you feel like an animal as you lick his bottom lip, plump and swollen.
You push his shirt off him. Once it’s off, you gape at the hard muscles of his torso, broad, and all very yours. He’s lean without being too big, lines of strength visible beneath smooth skin, shoulders wide, waist narrowing just slightly. You let your fingers trace the solid lines, liking the way he reacts at your touch.
You gasp when he suddenly shifts you in his lap, letting you grind against his boner. He reacts too, like he didn’t mean that, but rocks underneath you anyway. His hands – large, veiny hands, rub at the sides of your dress, and you could feel his desperation starting.
“Take this off,” he says, already pulling your dress. “please, baby. Let me see how pretty you are.”
You shift a little on his lap again, just to let the hem of your dress pool around your waist.
“Arms up,” he states, soft but firm.
You follow, putting your arms up as he pulls it off, and just in one go, your breasts spill out in front of him. He smiles and exhales, “There you go,”
His teeth bite down his bottom lip as your nipples stare at him, all hard and practically begging to be put in his mouth. His cock twitches in his tight pants at the sight, pupils dilating visibly.
His hands meet your sides, softly brushing your supple skin, causing shivers to run down your spine. “Damn…”
Then finally, he ducks his head down, pressing his face at the valley between your breasts. He finds the swell through feverish bites and licks, taking his time with his tongue. After, he finally latches his mouth around one nipple after, teeth gently biting down, earning a gasp from you at how good it fucking feels. Then he sucks, tugging even, letting his tongue twirl the bud.
The sight of it should be a sin, at how he seems so content with sucking your breast. At fondling with them like he’s having the time of his life.
It’s his birthday. So you pull away, his mouth detaching with a pop. His eyebrows knit with confusion, large hands tightening instinctively around your hips when you try moving away. “What the fuck are you doing?”
You soothe his hands, prying his fingers off you. “Trust me, birthday boy,”
You press a kiss on his nose, making a mental note to sit on it later – finally.
When he lets loose, you slowly get off his lap. Still on the edge of the bed, he watches you with wide eyes when you sink down on your knees in front of him. Jake breath catches like he hadn’t been ready to see you below him like that – on the fucking floor of his room. You smile at him, eyelashes fluttering as your palm glides over his clothed thigh. He flexes at the contact, blinking like he’s in the midst of trying to survive this, at the way you look on your knees for him. He’s never been this hard in his life, he thinks.
“Baby?” his voice is unbelievably soft and whiny, sitting up to look at you while you keep his knees spreading. Your hand slides over the muscle of his thigh, watching the way he slightly twitches beneath your manicured fingers. You trail further up, and just when he realizes, he takes your wrist.
You know he doesn’t mean it, but his grip’s tight. He clears his throat, and he’s genuinely kind of scared of you. His cheeks and ears are flushed pink. “Y-you don’t have to, do this. For me.”
You’re not sure if this is his way of telling you to stop, or if he’s so overly sweet and cares so much. Well, you care quite little, only really needing that cock in your mouth right now.
“Well,” you pull your hand away, shifting further on your knees as you reach for his zipper. He stares, intently watching how close you are to touching him. “I think…”
You start pulling it down, keeping an eye on the light twitches on his face; biting down his lip, eyebrows knitting closer, breathing uneven. “I think I also deserve to blow… a candle.”
You smile at him, finally pulling the zipper down, and cupping the huge bulge against his boxers. He chokes on his breath, head tipping back at the relief of your hand despite the cloth between. You stop wasting time, tugging the hem down to reveal just how hard he really is.
Jake’s big. And long. And veiny. And pretty.
You eye the way his sharp v-line leads to his cock, all hard and pretty, tip so pink and flushed – you can’t help but lick at your lips, imagining the way it would cry and twitch in your mouth. You pray thanks because pink really is a lovely color.
Jake’s looking down at you like he’s with fever, all flustered and intoxicated, and you could see how scared he is of how excited you look, your eyes are practically sparkling at the sight of his cock.
You wonder if it will fit.
You hold it against your warm palm and he groans, voice rough when it hums against his throat. His hips buck, wanting more of you already – needing more of you because it’s impossible not to. Your thumb meets with the head, toying with the slit that’s already wet with pre-cum while your hand starts a slow stroke.
“Ahh–” Jake whines, and when you look up to see, his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he tries rocking into your hand, hips lifting off his bed just a little.
“C-can you…” he tries talking but you squeeze him, biting your bottom lip as you tilt your head slightly to the side to tease him. The sight makes him hum out another whine. “...go faster? J-just a bit, baby, please.” the way he begs makes you wet your panties a little.
He’s fucking sublime and you think you could go on with teasing him, not really giving him what we wants until he’s puddled with tears, begging that you finally put him in your mouth. But, it’s his day, you can’t be mean.
You hum, like you’re thinking about it. You pull his pants and boxers down further, before rubbing his dick just to spread his pre-cum all over. Then, without warning, you lean in to lick his head, your tongue teasing the slit.
He whimpers and his head falls back completely, lips parting and neck glistening with his sweat. He’s flushed and heavy against your hand, finding yourself playing with it with a few kitten licks and rubs at the base. Then you drag your tongue from his base back to the tip with a long lick, earning a moan that sounds close to drowning.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he whines, biting his bottom lip as his large hand shoots into your hair. He grabs a handful from your scalp, although you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control.
You open your mouth and enclose it around his head first, tongue twirling around it. Then slowly, you take him in, letting him slide further into your lips. “Fuck,” he groans, his hips jerking forward immediately. The head touches the start of your throat and you can’t help but choke at the sudden intrusion, sending vibrations around him. You watch through your lashes, how his bicep flexes while he guides your head down his dick, abs contracting when your nose almost touches v-line, eyes narrowed at how his length disappears into your lips.
“O-oh, fuck, that’s s-so dirty…” he groans, seeing drool spilling from your chin as you cheeks hollow around him. Your hand tightens around the parts you can’t reach, squeezing and rubbing fast. You pull back up, leaving only the head in your mouth before sliding it all back down your throat.
You set a pace, not so fast, but it’s still too much for Jake whose chest is heaving while he forces his gaze on you, burning and dark. “Mmmm,” he moans, trying to keep his mouth shut from all the pathetic noises he’s making. He looks like he’s in heaven, watching you suck his cock on the floor of his bedroom – you can tell that he’s practically finishing already. “Ahh… y-yeah, I like th-tha – ahh–”
He groans, shaking his head at how good and dirty he feels. “Just a-a bit more, mhmm, yeah,” he exhales deep, shaky breaths, using your hair as anchor while he guides your mouth down his cock. “Just like that– ah, o-oh, g-god…”
You see how his eyes are rolling back, teeth biting down his plump bottom lip. That’s when you tug back, pulling off with a wet pop from the tip. You give him a few more kitten licks, rubbing slower until he feels the loss and snaps his eyes back down to you.
“Uh, I was just,” he sits up properly, looking at you confused when you pull away fully. He’s eyeing you with desperation – brows pressed together, lips tight in a line, hair messy and reaching his eyes. Then he shakes his head, blinking while he tries rebuilding his control.
“Are we done, baby?” He forces his eyes away like he’s convincing himself he’s okay with what you’re giving, even if it leaves him with blue balls. He’s still so gentle with you, tone soft and whispered while he watches your face, checking if you’re still okay.
You smile so wide and bright, not needing any convincing to know how much you love this boy.
Then you stand back up, body still bare as the soft lace of your panties is the only thing keeping you, well, completely exposed. He stares at your soft breasts again, swallowing at the way they bounce slightly when you help him out of his pants and boxers. He smiles just watching them, his hand reaching out to fondle with one. His thumb glides over one nipple, playing with the hard bud.
You laugh, taking his wrist when he starts fondling with the swell of your breast, like he’s memorizing how its weight looks on his hand. “Staring is rude.” you say, kicking his pants and boxers away once they’re off. His pretty cock’s still hard against his pelvis, lubricated with your saliva and his own pre-cum.
“They stared first.” he says, keeping his eyes on your nipples, pinching one with his fingers.
You smack his bicep, prying his hand off you with a playful shove. He looks up at you, a small frown on his mouth like you did something mean. “You’re taking away my fun.” he pouts dramatically.
Then, you hook your fingers on your lace panties and start sliding them off you, the fabric gliding over your smooth thighs before pooling around your feet.
Oh shit.
His eyes are glued to the way your pussy glistens for him, slightly amused with just how wet you are too, without being touched. He gently reaches out for you, deciding how far you really are. His palms slide at the back of your thighs, guiding you closer to him as your hands settle at the back of his head, gently caressing through his black silky locks. You’re now standing in between his knees.
“My pretty girl,” he whispers, ducking his head slightly to get a closer look. Although you don’t feel super embarrassed, you can’t help but shift inevitably, closing your thighs when you feel his breath fan in between your legs.
Jake looks up at you, eyes twinkling and an amused smile on his lips. “Don’t do that, baby,”
He spreads your thighs, hands firm against the plush, supple flesh. He gets closer, addicted to the way it smells so sweet and enticing. His nose basically subtly nudges your clit, earning a cracked gasp from you, your fingers tightening against his hair.
“Can I?” his eyes briefly glances up at you before looking back down. When you hum an approval, he leans in further, licking your folds.
“Ah, Jaeyun, wait –” he grabs your thigh and props it over his shoulder suddenly, helping you find your balance before plunging his tongue through the folds, finding your clit almost immediately.
Wow? To think this is both your first time?
“F-fuck–” you caress the back of his head, his tongue lapping up at the hole while his nose pokes against your clit. Cunt-hungry man, he thinks he can do this forever, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.
“I n-need your,” you tip your head back, words lost in your throat.
“My what, pretty?” he moans against your pussy, his cheeks now messy with your juices and his saliva combined. “God, she’s fucking talking to me. Look at that,” he uses his thumb to spread out your fold, watching the way it shines before using his tongue to tease the hole.
Your things are quivering in strain and pleasure, too much, that you feel your knees buck. He groans when he realizes you’re pulling away, propping your thigh back and forcing your legs up with his hands. “Stay still.”
“Y-your fingers, baby, please.” you whimper, and he likes that sound. He nods, following you obediently, letting the tips of his fingers graze your entrance before suddenly plunging one inside.
Oh God.
His fingers are thicker and longer than yours, so even one feels too much. Your knees are wobbling but he helps you still. Jake keeps it slow, feeling just how your walls squeeze around him, the sweet smell wafting through the tension. Jake can’t help it, wanting that back in his mouth, so he teases your clit with his tongue in tandem with the thrust of his finger. He sneaks in another thick finger inside, thrusting two at the same time, stretching you out definitely. You let out whines, holding tightly on his hair while he fucks you with just his hand and mouth.
“Jaeyun, wait –” you tap his shoulders, just as he speeds up the pace, addicted to the way your cunt squelches around his fingers. “Jaeyun – ah – w-wait, please,” you tap insistently and when he realizes, he stops at once, a bit irritated. Jake pulls away with a bitter exhale, but softly and slowly strokes your thighs, letting you stand on both your feet now. He looks up at you, eyes finding yours, still soothing your thighs with his warm hands. “Why do you keep stopping, love?” He laughs, amused and humorous, but there’s a tone of annoyance tucked in.
Your eyes flick down to his dick, and his gaze follows, looking back at how hard and angry it looks against his abdomen like that. Long and begging to be touched. He huffs, grin widening back up at you with disbelief and lack of control.
He swallows, shaking his head. “I don’t have a condom, baby,” his voice is rough, hands soothing your thighs still.
You scoff, using your palm to push him further into the bed. When he’s moved, you slide your knees on either side of his hips and he has to physically hold himself back from the sight of how close your cunt is to his dick. It makes him twitch against his stomach, bite his lip from making a pitiful sound.
“I want you raw.” you say, leaving a mark on his skin.
“And I want you safe.” he says, softer this time, gently caressing your hips.
You laugh, getting back to his face as you nudge his nose with yours. “Just fuck me, Jaeyun.”
He exhales, both from exasperation and how turned on he is from your straightforwardness. He likes it, he likes you, and clearly he’s torn between fucking you until you’re full of his cum, or being responsible with sex and –
Fuck that.
You stroke his cock underneath you, giving it slow rubs just to lubricate it. He sighs, watching you work on his length like that. Even with just you on top of him like this, bare and looking at him and only him, he’s happy. The wishes that blew his candles do not compare to this; a prayer in flesh and soft breasts and plush thighs and a pretty face – what else could he need if this is not enough salvation. Then you shift closer, aligning his angry tip with your entrance. He watches it all happen, hands still on your hips, half-lidded eyes completely dazed with desire and anticipation of when your cunt meets his cock. His lips are parted, taking heavy shaky breaths.
“Will it fit?” he swallows, looking back up at you with wide eyes.
Just then, his sensitive tip grazes your hole, and he lets out a quiet whimper. You drag the head into your wet folds, pushing the thick tip with a wet pop, and Jake practically jolts up at the feeling – fingers so tight against your hips you know it will bruise. “W-w-wait, baby, y-you’re too – ah–”
It stings so you pause, adjusting to the size first. You rest your forehead against his, catching your breath as he catches his – and something about it is so intimate, at the way he holds you close, hand soothing your back to ground you and himself.
“Y-you okay?” he asks, rubbing your back, pupils blown wide you could practically see hearts form in them.
You smile, weak and soft, pressing a kiss on his mouth. He tilts his head for you, your tongues meeting in his mouth before you pull away. “Perfect.”
Then slowly, you start to sink down his cock, earning grunts while he holds you close. “Sh-shit– tight– fuck–”
He guides you down his shaft, and he really does fight the urge to shove himself inside you in one go. “S-slow down for me, yeah?” Jake holds you, thumb rubbing against your skin. “There, mhm, I-I know you can do it.”
You cry out his name when you bottom down, his leaking tip touches your cervix deliciously and your walls tighten around him so right he’s convinced he’ll finish right here. It’s warm inside you and you’re tense, arms wrapped around his neck, chests pressed together, gummy walls choking his cock. You wrap your legs around his hips closer, squirming slightly while he’s still inside you that he moans loud, feeling just how you vacuum him in and grind against him – he’s done.
Jake’s mind is blank, nothing except the way you look like Sunday worship with how you kneel above him. He knows now, that this is heaven, and that being good does not mean anything to him when you feel like every sin eaten in Eden. He doesn’t mind dying lying this, he thinks, in between your thighs while you introduce what greed truly means, and as you show him just what the fuck Adam betrayed God for underneath that tree.
He’s in so deep and tight that you could feel every vein that throbs inside you. Like he was meant to fill in that space, with how perfect it fits, you can’t help but roll your hips against him a little. Because it’s too good not to, too fucking slow to wait.
Jake though, very much cannot let you move because you look so incredibly hot riding him and taking him in so good that he will come from cockwarming. He grabs you before you can even try again, his hands a paradox of gentle and strong, keeping you still from any ideas. His long fingers run down your spine, shivers trail your skin, inevitably making you clench from the sensation. He exhales, struggling and trembling, huffing out a sick laugh as he licks his bottom lip. “I’ll cum if you move.” he says, rough and no more breaths to give when you’ve taken everything.
Even though his hold is firm, it’s not bruising, so you decide to tease, just a little, by rolling your hips subtly and when he realizes what you’re doing, he grabs your hips quick – tight and strong, his biceps flexing. “D-don’t move, baby, c’mon,” his hoarse voice is soft in contrast to how hard he’s holding and staring at you now. You giggle, leaning in instead to kiss him. It’s slow, the smell of sex so heavy in their air and in between you two.
With an exhale from coming down the high, he finally nods, falling on his back. “Ride it, love.” Then you lift yourself, slowly, showing a white ring at the base of his cock. It’s lewd and better than any pornographic he’s seen.
Leaving just the head inside, you slam yourself back down, a strain moan spilling his lips like confession. “F-fuck– o-oh– so g-goddamn tight…” you do it again, loving the way his eyebrows push together, his lips parting as he moans your name. He whimpers when you squeeze your cunt around him. “H-holy s-s-shit.” he holds your hips as you find the pace, speeding up as you practically bounce on his dick like a mad woman. Every thrust spills a whimper or your name in the form of a gasp. He helps you slam right back down on his cock, touching just the right spot inside you with precision.
“T-that’s it – just like that, baby, f-fuck yeah,” he huffs, abs tightening. Your palms are flat against his chest, admiring just how his hair is now slick with sweat, sticking to his forehead. He runs a hand through it, pushing it back. You go faster, riding him to the point he can’t even talk right. “W-w-wait, s – holy s-shit, please, s-s-slow down,” his words turn into broken moans, hoarse and cracked as you pound yourself down his dick. Skin slapping echoes throughout his room, your breaths merging in this hot air.
Jake can feel it too fast, the way his abdomen and balls tighten because he’s about to cum already. It’s warm and so good. But he sits up and stops you, his strong arms quickly pulling you off him while you grow stunned. “Wha–”
He huffs an incredulous laugh, shaking his head in disbelief of the situation. He was seconds away from cumming, way too fast for how long he wants to spend this moment with you. His grip’s strong, tight compared to how gentle he places you down his bed. You lie chest-first on the mattress, your abdomen tightening with a slight heaviness from not releasing tension. You try asking him again but cuts you off, “Wait for me, yeah?”
He looks over you with hunger in his eyes; from the gentle curve of your shoulders, to the arch of your back, down to the plumpness of your ass. Jake smooths over it, admiring it as his fingers squeeze the fat, just before giving it a smack, earning a gasp from you. “Jaeyun –”
Jake lifts your hips to put you on your knees, chest against the sheets for him, and leans down to press a kiss on your folds. “Need that ass,” he smacks one cheek again, then uses one thumb to spread out your labia and lick one stripe.
And he’d love to keep this going, munching down until your knees would give out and he’ll have to hold you up to continue devouring what your pussy could give him, but the tension in his dick begs otherwise, especially after knowing how it feels to be choked inside. So he flips you, taking your arm and getting you on your back.
Jake spreads your thighs, pressing your knees down against the bed so you’d allow him in between your legs. He props himself there, hovering over you when he puts his hands beside your head. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, sliding his own knees underneath your legs, shifting you against him. He soothes your inner thighs, making sure you feel comfortable.
The coil in your core is too hot for you to talk, mind blank except for the way Jake’s body glistens with his sweat and how he feels on top of you, his presence a clash of need and relief. You just nod, reaching your hands flat against his chest, trailing down towards his abs which tighten from your touch. He chuckles, raspy and rough, leaning down just slightly that you could feel his breath fan your face. “I need words, love,” he smooths over your thighs again, though this time closer to where you need him most. “Can you do that for me, hm?” he purrs.
You whine, biting your bottom lip at the sight of his cock so hard and straight, faintly brushing your entrance. “Jaeyun, stop teasing.” you mewl, reaching down further to let your fingertips graze the slit on his head. He lets you stroke him, smiling down at you as you do.
“Words, come on. I need to know you’re still okay.” he asserts, voice patient but firm.
You sigh. “Put your cock inside me, Jaeyun, please.”
Then he smiles, pressing a kiss on the bridge of your nose. “Good girl.” he coos.
Jake pulls you closer by your thighs, squeezing the fat before he gives himself a few strokes. You watch him eagerly, hips unintentionally squirming at the sight of him touching himself, his own juices spilling just a little to give it slick. Then he shifts, nudges your legs up with his knees before propping himself in between you. You keep your legs up as he aligns his cock with your throbbing clit, giving it a few rubs. Moans fall from your pretty lips. He gets closer, uses his thumb to push back your folds and find your entrance, before finally positioning himself against you. He presses a kiss on your mouth just to distract you a bit, then pushes himself inside, the slick sounds obscene.
You pull away from the kiss because of the stretch, Jake’s big cock squelching inside your pussy. “S-so fucking tight, s-shit…” he groans.
Your hands find purchase on his traps, nails digging down the skin there when he squeezes himself inside you, veins throbbing against your walls. Thick and long, touching your cervix as it did earlier, and you’re addicted to the feeling of him filling you up, kissing every crevice like he’s made for you. You clench, thighs pressing against his hips – he lets a low growl when you tighten. He finds your gaze and for some unknown reason, you get flustered, and he smiles. Jake kisses your warm cheek. “That feel good?” he whispers, waiting for your nod of approval before he starts moving.
Teeth sink into his bottom lip as his hips rocks into yours. It’s slow at first, letting you feel every little detail of his dick inside you. Until he speeds up, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the corners of his bedroom. Low whimpers slip from Jake’s throat, breathing your name against your mouth. It’s vulgar, the smell and sound of cum when he pulls out and slams right back in, at a pace like he can’t handle being apart from you for long.
He loves the way you shove against the bed when he pushes in, loves the way your tits bounce every time, the way your swollen and bruised lips part and moan his name like you’re his. Your moans, sweet and thick like honey, your nails when they dig into his muscles like you’re claiming him.
“C-can you clench, baby? Just – t-there– fuck, baby – f-fuck yeah, just like t-that, ah–” he whines, veins running along his arms beside your head as he grinds into you, head stroking your fucking womb.
His cock drives into you with perfect precision, somehow hitting the right spots, rubbing against your walls so good. His abs taut, muscles flexing above you. “Y-you feel so good, baby, ah– so fucking good,” he coos, stealing your mouth for a kiss.
He speeds up, rutting into you like he can’t handle any more time not cumming in you. And it feels good, for sure, but something about the fact he’s enjoying himself in you, his thick brows knitting together, teeth into his lip, makes it better. Jake looks at you then, and when he finds your wide, innocent eyes gazing up at him like that, his hips suddenly stutter to a slow and his arms falter. His chest tightens, caught off guard from how pretty you are.
You laugh, smacking his arm in amusement. He huffs an embarrassed chuckle, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Shit,” he murmurs against your skin, while your hands run through his hair, scratching his scalp gently. You hum, pressing a kiss on his hair while he holds you closer, sneaking an arm underneath you.
“That’s not fair,” he murmurs against you and you laugh again, softer and quieter. “You’re so perfect.” he whispers, peppering kisses all over your neck. Before you can respond, he pushes into you roughly again, a cracked moan slipping from your lips. You hit his arm for doing that, before squeezing it when pleasure comes back.
He straightens, finding his pace again as you breathe heavy, fisting the sheets behind you. Jake’s hands find your thighs again, pushing your legs back against the bed, stretching you out further. “Fuck, Jake–” you sob, and the name makes him pound into undeniably faster and rougher.
“Again, baby,” he sneaks a thumb against your clit, rubbing it to add into your pleasure, “Say it again, come on,”
You stretch out your arm, your palm pressing against his taut abs. He doesn’t stop, if not his movements become faster, fucking your pussy so aggressively you practically recoil back on his bed every thrust. He hisses at your warm touch, baring his teeth a wolfish grin. “J-Jake, fuck,” yeah fuck him, ‘cause how could someone be so sweaty and still look hot.
Jake adds more pressure, stroking circles on your clit. You practically wail, that knot starting to form and tighten in your core. His other hand presses on your lower abdomen and you feel it – a stimulation in your wall and obviously, his fucking cock bruising your cervix. He leans down, hovering over you closer. “You feel me, baby?” he whispers, pressing harder that you choke on your own moans.
You arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, his thumb stimulating your pussy continuously. Each push of his hips starts bringing you closer to the edge, that knot tightening harder and hotter – the image itself is pornographic, with how powerful his pelvis wrecks into you.
“Jaeyun, I-I’m gonna –”
“Gonna b-breed this fucking pussy,” he murmurs, rutting harder, his thrusts getting sloppier and losing measure. He flashes you a grin again. “Will you let me, love? Let me cum i-inside – f-fuck –”
You nod, eager and urgent, letting your nails scratch down his back, making him wince in pain and pleasure. He pushes your hips before pulling it back, his own orgasm arriving.
“Jaeyun, p-please– ah–”, one final thrust has you milking him before he does, pussy clenching so tight as you grab his hair to ground yourself when your orgasm washes your vision white. He continues, pounding into you so deep, before Jake whimpers low and loud. You feel the thick white ropes spill into you, hot and full and sticky, hips stuttering. “Shit, b-baby, god– that’s so hot– baby, you’re so hot–”
He rides out the last of your pleasure before you pat his biceps to stop him from overstimulating your sensitive walls. Jake falls on top of you, weight pressing down on you before he could even stop it, muscles tensing before they relax.
You’re both breathless, mixed cum warm inside you and slowly oozing out. Neither of you move just yet, he’s holding you close, resting his forehead against your collarbone. You soothe his back, tracing the outlines of his muscles while you hum, helping each other out to come down from your high.
A few beats stretch out before you tap him, a tired smile on your lips as he musters back his own strength and straightens, his darkened gaze meeting yours when he gets on his hands again. His pupils are in the shapes of hearts, mouth pulled to a sheepish grin, face still flushed with heat and sweat.
Jake practically inhales you like it’s what will bring him back to reality. When he pulls back, he swallows, resting his forehead against yours. “J-just, let me catch my breath,” he huffs out a laugh then lies his head back down your chest.
He listens to the rhythm of your heartbeat, closing his eyes at the calming sounds of it. His cock still is very much inside you, softer than it used to be, twitching and you feel it.
After a few minutes or so, Jake starts shifting and you let him get up, releasing him from your embrace. He then slides out of you, hissing at the feeling, slick oozes out of your hole, but you don’t pay any mind anymore.
For a moment you're frightened, because he just lies there beside you, not touching you. You rethink again, once the high's gone and he's got his fill, whether this is just another bad decision you'll regret –
Until Jaeyun places his blanket around the both of you, arms wrapping around you underneath the weight of it. With your back pressed against his chest, he peppers soft and light kisses on your head, holding you tight. He's muttering sweet nothings that make up of praise and affections, although your mind is too hazy to comprehend any syllable.
His breathing finally steadies, finding himself comforted and grounded with you against him like this.
After 5 minutes, hand rubbing your belly, he calls your name. When you hum and turn to him, he studies your face for a second, eyes warm and attentive.
“Water?” he asks, voice hoarse.
You hum against his chest, voice small. “And chocolate.”
He nods. “Okay,” he says softly, like it’s the easiest decision in the world.
Jake rubs your back, soothing and gentle, pressing light kisses to your temple because he can't really afford to let you go yet. Pressing one long kiss on your forehead, he finally sighs and loosens. “Okay, I’ll go,” he whispers before slipping away, murmuring reassurance that he’ll come back immediately. He stumbles when he attempts to put his sweatpants on fast, making you giggle watching him.
He returns quickly with water and snacks. He settles back beside you, guiding the glass into your hands, watching as you drink like you're deserted dry. “Slow, baby,”
When you’re done, you both curl back into bed and he hands you a piece of chocolate to munch down on. Neither of you speaks for a while, the room quiet except for rustling of sheets, and your chewing.
Jake’s thumb traces lazy, soothing circles against your arm. You rest there together, warm and close, his cheek resting against the top of your head. “Okay,” he murmurs. Then, almost shyly, “Uh… in a bit, you’re gonna have to pee, yeah?”
You let out a small, tired sound, half a laugh. “Okay,” you whisper.
His hand keeps moving along your back, lazy, repetitive, like he might fall asleep doing it. There’s a beat of silence, then he speaks again, words blurring together in that half-awake honesty.
“Hey,” Jake murmurs again, thumb slowing where it traces your arm. His voice is quieter now, careful, shy again. “Was that… okay?”
You tilt your head slightly, enough to look up at him. His brows are knit just a little, not anxious, just attentive like he’s waiting for your answer to matter.
“Yeah,” you say with a smile, honest and warm. “It was amazing.”
He exhales, shoulders easing like he’d been holding that breath on purpose. “Okay,” he says, nodding once. Then, softer, “I just wanted to make sure.”
You shift closer, tucking yourself into him more fully. “You’re really sweet, you know that?”
He lets out a small laugh, embarrassed but pleased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Only with you.”
His arms tighten around you – not confining, just secure in that way he's grounding himself against you too. He stays like that, no hurry to move, no agenda beyond keeping you comfortable, no plan other than staying right here with you.
You hum, already drifting while his hand still moves in those slow, steady circles. After a beat, he sighs softly and nuzzles your hair, tapping your forearm while sitting up. “Okay… bathroom time.”
He helps you shift gently, sliding an arm under your back while you get on your feet. “Easy,” he murmurs, careful.
Once you’re upright, he walks just behind you, steadying you with a hand lightly on your lower back. “Like a professional escort,” he jokes softly, voice low.
He takes you to his ensuite and you have to smack him again because he’s babying you, acting like you need this much help when in reality, he just wants to stay close. “I can sit on the fucking toilet on my own, Jaeyun.” you laugh in disbelief and amusement.
He frowns but follows through, leaning against the doorframe while you pee. Once you’re done, you two head back, one hand still on the small of your back. He takes his shirt, one too big for your frame, and slides it on you. He also helps you into your panties because your legs are still worn.
"I love you." he whispers, not from post-sex haze, but because it's you. You smile and say it back.
Back in his bed and in his shirt and in his arms – everything that makes this entirely his, you melt into it remembering,
You're not his.
And to Jake, the 4 seconds of silence before you said it back hurts like fucking hell.
Tip #11: Refuse to be simplified.
Nothing about Jake is suddenly different.
He’s always been around – always walking you to class, always waiting. He’s somehow at every corner, leaning against the doorway of your lecture hall when you exit, waiting outside the library when you need to grab a book, showing up at the cafeteria exactly when you do. But now, there’s touches intertwined with them. Fingers immediately finding yours in the hallway, shoulder nudges to tease, quick kisses pressed to your temple or hair.
In your dorm, it’s worse than it is outside. Not all moments or hang-outs transition to heat, sometimes he crashes over just to lie on your lap and sleep there, or he helps you out with laundry and folds your clothes with you. But of course, there are moments when a kiss brushes your lips before you’re even fully aware. Your fingers trace his jawline, catch his shirt, pull him closer, and suddenly he’s already in between your legs, pounding into you recklessly. After your first time, he insisted he’ll use condoms instead, you respond with a pout.
At the last stretch of the first semester’s finals, it’s hectic. Every single day is packed with tests, essays, group reports – sometimes they share the same due date and you try not to collapse under it all. It’s not easy, but you feel that you have some kind of cheat code to steer away from chaos.
Jake finds a way to meet up when the schedule’s too tight for anything else. A text ping between classes: coffee. 5 minutes. i’ll be outside. He shows up just when you need a break, just when the stress is too much to carry alone, he makes sure you know he’s there.
Even if it’s just ten minutes, even if it’s a rushed chocolate handoff, even if it’s just to hold you for 5 minutes – they’re all enough. Enough to feel like he’s keeping the storm at bay, like you’re not drowning in deadlines because he’s always there, tethering you to sanity with soft touches, stolen kisses, and the reassurance that no matter how chaotic, he’ll always find you.
No more begging for time and counting minutes. Now, time finds you both without asking, offered freely and instinctively because he tries.
He plans around you without making it feel like effort, he adjusts his pace to match yours.
There was one week specifically that was busier than any other, all subjects demanded something for their final submissions and the over-achiever in you always had to give everything. Jake says you’re over-stressing and overworking, that you’re going way too hard on yourself even when you didn’t have to. You also did try brushing him off, that this was okay. He brushed you off by unexpectedly coming over and relieving you off your tasks, and you unexpectedly broke down into tears in his arms. After that, once you’re refreshed, he helps with productivity which he doesn’t rush, just eases you into slowly.
You find your rhythm again and lo and behold, your hardwork and efforts have been greatly rewarded with an A that you practically smell the 3.8 gpa coming your way.
And to graciously show your appreciation to his thoughtfulness towards you, you ride him. Jake’s a gentleman as he is kind, but he’s also just some guy. Simple, knows-what-he-wants guy. So sometimes, it’s a gentle switch from kissing to sex on the bed with a pillow under your hips. There are times where he doesn’t even take off your shirt and slip off your underwear and he fucks you from the back while you’re brushing your teeth. Or cooking. He seems to find you in a domestic state completely fuckable and hot. Sometimes it’s in the shower and he spends half the time kissing you and eating you out under the running water than actually cleaning up.
Very, very clingy. Kisses your forehead suddenly, presses some on your knuckles, hands on your breasts and nipples when you’re spooning in your sleep, then later when he’s really stressed with engineering he practically urges you on your knees and slips his cock down your throat.
It’s a duality you don’t mind, obviously. But sometimes you’re caught in surprise just how strong this man’s sex drive is.
He keeps a stack of your clothes in his closet, though he insisted you grab a pile from your dorm. He quite literally bought you clothes specifically for his own place so you don’t keep going back. And in no time, your belongings have infiltrated his entire place; half his closet was yours, the sink’s cluttered with your cosmetics and skincare products with his one single cleanser and toothbrush in a quiet corner. And the bed, of course, where he fights for space because your plushies also had their own. He doesn’t mind it – he loves it actually, the constant epiphany when you walk around his place in nothing but his shirt that yeah, this is his life now, being colonized by your over-the-top possessions.
One night, he comes home kinda late and finds you curled up in his bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, his shirt slipping off one shoulder. For a moment, he just watches. You call him a creep and you throw a pillow at him, but he sneaks in between your legs and takes your clothes off and fucks you in the same minute.
There’s no conversation about moving in. He just presses a kiss into your hair and murmurs, half-amused, half-awed, “You know you basically live here, right?”
Normally, ambiguity didn’t bother him. Jake was built for uncertainty in the academic sense – he lived in probabilities and margins of error. He trusted that if you applied enough rigor, enough time, the answer would eventually reveal itself. Variables could be isolated and noise could be filtered out. Systems, no matter how complex, always collapsed into something legible if you were patient enough.
People, however, were not systems.
You were not something he could model without interference or reduce into inputs and outputs without losing the essence of you. And yet, that was exactly what he did – slotting you into his life with the same quiet efficiency he applied to everything else. You were there when he woke up, there when he came home, there when his brain finally shut down.
And he had also followed through, coming over to your own place and integrating his dominion over your space – his deodorant, some hot wheels he forgot to take home, clothes you both can wear, and sweatpants when you accidentally cum on his pants. Yeah, the setup was nice, but even if ambiguity was something he thoroughly enjoyed exploring in the world of science; you’re not science.
He can’t treat your relationship like a margin of error he can back up from and retry again when shit’s messy – that’s never his intention with you, and he does regret that faulty.
You’re not his girlfriend.
You’re not not his girlfriend.
When the grocery cashier comments how much of a lovely couple you two are, you laugh that sweet laugh he loves, until you say, "he's not my boyfriend" and he tries not to die from a heart attack.
Jake feels sick.
Tip #12: Remember how you got him.
Jake hates it. Didn't realize how bad it actually fucking sounded when it comes from you saying that no, you're not dating, he's not your boyfriend, that you might as well cut his dick and shove it between his lungs.
He spends the weekend in your apartment as some unnamed lover. You both settle with ordering takeout for dinner after much negotiating where to order.
The movie keeps playing, something you just randomly chose to pass time. Snow taps faintly against the window, Jake’s fingers tracing absent-mindedly on your thigh. You’re also in the middle of your face mask when his phone dings, then he says he’ll get the food.
He takes a while. You hear the door first – the soft click of the lock, the familiar drag of his shoes against the floor – and you’re halfway through complaining about how long it took when he appears in the doorway.
With a bouquet of your favorite flowers. And a big, obscenely plush bunny tucked under his arm. And an envelope pinched between his fingers like it’s nothing.
You blink, lips part, jaw slack, completely frozen with a dumb hydrating mask on your face.
“Uh,” Jake says, shifting the bunny like it’s inconveniently large and like he doesn’t understand what this means. “So.” He frowns slightly, then jerks his thumb back toward the hall. “I think the delivery guy is flirting with you.”
You stare at him, still in the middle of processing the sight and reeling back in from the shock of everything. You're in the middle of trying to understand what the fuck this is. “Jaeyun.”
“What?” he says, defensive. “I’m just saying.”
You’re still trying to understand the fact that there is a bouquet and a giant bunny and an envelope in your bedroom when he walks closer and hands you the letter like it’s a receipt he forgot to give you earlier. Like a delivery guy, that’s what he is.
“Anyway,” he adds, too casual. “This is yours.”
You look from the letter to him, still completely confused and startled, handing you the bouquet and bunny next like it’s just something he found in the mailbox. “You’re not even going to explain?”
He shrugs, lips twitching. “Explain what?”
“The –” You gesture vaguely at everything. “All of this.”
He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Delivery guy must’ve felt bad.”
You kick his knee and he laughs. “You’re such a liar!”
You stare at him for a couple of more seconds, biting down your bottom lip from a wide smile. You feel giddy and excited and astonished and hydrated.
Is this it.
Is this the moment you're finally going to rid the expired not-dating label.
"Tell me what this is, dork!" you're being mean because you're skittish, but he loves it, loves how you're mean sometimes.
"I don't fucking know, baby!" he laughs, still pretending before he leans in and presses kisses on your thighs. "Fuck I know why the delivery guy is flirting with you."
You open the envelope immediately and Jake suddenly finds the floor very interesting. He watches you from the corner of his eye, pretending not to, pretending this isn’t a big deal, pretending his heart isn’t doing something stupid and loud.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
dec 1
You and I have never been simple. We never moved in straight lines or clean timelines, and there were breaks and overlaps and wrong timing and a lot of moments where we probably should’ve stopped and didn’t.
You were never simple. You were a really really complicated interpretation.
We’ve tried being nothing. We’ve tried pretending. We’ve tried acting like what we do doesn’t mean what it obviously does. And every time, we end up right back here. I always find myself coming back to you.
I also really hate getting denied at the grocery cashier.
So… can I be this complicated girl’s boyfriend again?
– Jaeyun
━━━━━
When you finish, you don’t say anything right away. You look at him then, at the way he’s trying so hard not to make this a thing while making it very much a thing. At how he stands there like he’s bracing for rejection even though he already knows you’re not going anywhere, not with that face mask you’re not.
Jake shifts. “So… food’s getting cold.”
You throw the face mask away, a wide smile on your face as you tug the end of his shirt. “Come here,” you say.
He doesn’t hesitate. He’s already leaning over you in between your legs, and then he kisses you slowly. It’s warm and nice and romantic and when he pulls away, he’s smiling like he’s in heaven on earth. It just so happens to be right here, right next to you.
You knew it’d come around, this thing called love that comes crashing down.
“So,” he murmurs. “Still think the delivery guy was flirting?”
You smile, playing with his hair. “Yeah.”
Jake sighs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”
Then he leans in again but before you can kiss him, he stops.
"So is that a yes?" he knits his brows.
You laugh, smacking his arm with no real effort before you smooth over the muscle there, then sensually down to the veins leading down his wrist. He clears his throat and presses closer, pelvis against your ass.
"I don't know," you drag the last syllable to tease him and he groans.
He ducks down, nose brushing yours. "Fuck, baby," he whines. When he kisses you again he totally forgets the food waiting outside.
Guess getting your ex back 101 did work, then? Real genius.
SUMMARY: sick and tired of their parents always arguing whenever one of them comes to pick ‘em up, yohan and haneul (or haneul and yohan, per haneul’s request) decide to organize a mission and make you and sunghoon fall in love again.
WARNINGS: starring JIHOON (reader’s new bf), fluff, divorced parents, shared custody, mentions of hickeys, insults, anger, fights, making out (jihoon & reader - later hoon & reader), memories, suggestive (barely by the end), mentions of pregnancy, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.
NOW PLAYING: Keep on Loving You by Cigarettes After Sex & The Way I Loved You by Taylor Swift
a/n: honestly i had so much fun writing this! i’ve been a little all over the place so sorry if i took some time to finish it 💔💔 please LIKE & REBLOG to spread 🩷 i’m proud of this, the writing course i took in april is paying off me thinks.
You stepped from the elevator onto the thirty-ninth floor, stilettos clicking over marble, so glossy it caught the overhead lights and flung them back in shards of silver.
The corridor outside Sunghoon’s penthouse still smelled faintly of the cedar-and-bergamot diffuser he favored, familiar, irritating and annoyingly comforting.
Your blouse was perfectly ironed, hair swept into a high ponytail, makeup soft but immaculate.
Beneath the collar your scarf hid the blooming marks Jihoon’s mouth had painted along your throat last nighjt, the silk wrapped delicately each time you swallowed, a secret reminder of how fast you’d already moved on.
You rang the bell. The custom steel door whispered open, and there he was: Park Sunghoon, ex-husband, ex-golden boy, barefoot in a charcoal cashmere sweater and sweatpants that draped too casually on a body still honed like a fencer’s blade.
which was unfair, since you had to hit the gym so much to get your body back after pregnancy.
A crooked half-smile lifted one corner of his lips, the exact smile that used to undo you, and still threatened to annoy you into irrationality.
“Two minutes late,” he said, leaning a shoulder to the jamb. “Color me shocked, you’re slipping.”
“Traffic was charitable,” you answered, gliding past him. “Or perhaps the universe felt sorry for me, knowing I’d be dealing with you.”
He gave a low, appreciative hum while closing the door. “Biting already. I Haven’t even offered you coffee yet.”
“God forbid,” you muttered. “Caffeine brewed by your hands might revert me to our marriage counseling days, and we both know how that ended.”
“Explosively.” His eyes flicked to the silk tucked at your neck, lingered just a second too long. The bastard had always been sharp. “New accessory? Striking choice for July.”
You lifted your chin. “Fashion, Sunghoon. Look it up sometime instead of living in sweatpants.”
He laughed under his breath and motioned toward the sun-drenched living room where floor-to-ceiling windows gave Seoul’s skyline center stage.
Lego castles sprawled across the rug, watercolor palettes lay open on the coffee table, brushes soaking in mismatched mugs.
Voices floated from the hallway: one soft and uncertain, the other bright and commanding.
“Haneul, put that down, you’ll spill!” Yohan fretted.
You couldn’t help smiling. They were your perfect halves, as contrasting and complementary as moonlight and flame.
The moment they spotted you, four small feet thundered over the hardwood.
“Mommy!” Haneul launched herself first, fierce as always, burrowing under your blouse in search of a hug.
She smelled like finger paint and the strawberry shampoo you’d chosen for her at six months old. Yohan arrived a breath later, slower, shy, but his arms slipped around your waist with a familiar sigh of relief.
“Hey, my loves,” you murmured, kissing each silky head. “Did you behave for Daddy?”
“They over-behaved,” Sunghoon said, folding arms across his chest. “I’m thinking of renting them out as examples to other children.”
Haneul stuck out her tongue at him. “We’re only good because we’re awesome,” she announced.
Yohan tightened his grip on your wrist, “We made you pictures,” he said, voice so small you bent to hear it. “I painted a galaxy.”
“And I drew a tiger eating a monster truck,” Haneul added proudly.
“My little artists,” you praised, gathering both creations. Yohan’s painting was good, while you werent really sure which one was the car and which one was the tigér in Haneul’s “These are masterpieces. They’re going on the fridge.”
Sunghoon’s gaze moved from the paintings to your face. “The kids have packed, everything’s by the door. I labeled the medicine for Yohan’s cough.”
A pause, then with exaggerated politeness he said “Should I also forward their pediatrician records to your… new friend? You know, in case of emergencies between making hickey art?”
Heat pricked your ears, but you smirked “Jihoon’s a doctor, actually, I think we’ll manage.”
“A doctor,” Sunghoon repeated, tilting his head “Good choice, someone has to keep you in one piece after you trip over your own pride.”
You arched a brow “Funny, that’s exactly what he said about you, except with more medical terminology.”
Haneul, oblivious, tugged your wrist “Mommy, can we bake cookies tonight? The really gooey ones?”
“Absolutely. Yohan, you’ll help too, right?”
He nodded shyly. “If I can stir.”
“Stirring is essential,” you assured him.
Sunghoon cleared his throat “Hang on,” he said, and vanished down the hallway. The twins scampered into the foyer to collect tiny backpacks, one blue and one purple.
You waited, fingers tracing the ridges of your wedding band’s phantom imprint— gone nearly a year now, yet some days it felt freshly removed.
He returned with two plushies, Yohan’s weathered penguin, Haneul’s stuffed phoenix, plus a zipped folder “Their latest school forms,” he said, pressing the folder into your free hand. “And Yohan’s reading log. He’s ahead of level again.”
You met his eyes, a reluctant swell of pride shared between adversaries “Thank you.”
An awkward beat.
The kind that used to end with a kiss back when the pauses held gravity, not distance.
He broke it first, voice low “They’re good kids because of you.”
“And you,” you granted softly. It was a truth neither of you enjoyed admitting.
Across the room the twins argued about who would press the elevator button.
Their little voices echoed like bells, filling corners once haunted by adult shouting. Your throat tightened, but hadn’t walked into this ivory tower to cry, so you blinked the tears back.
“You okay?” Sunghoon asked, more gently than expected.
You blinked “Peachy.”
He studied you, the way he once did across candlelit tables, conviction that he could read every flicker of thought.
His gaze drifted again to the scarf, and his lips curved, bittersweet “I don’t regret us,” he murmured. “Even if we’re better like this.”
“Better is relative,” you said, checking the time. “And you still owe me half the orthodontist fund.”
“Invoice me, I’ll pay promptly, unlike your boyfriend.” The playful barb slipped out before he could help it. You rolled your eyes.
Haneul appeared between you with the decisive stomp of a warrior princess. “Daddy, hug.”
He knelt, catching her in strong arms.
Yohan edged closer, and Sunghoon embraced him too, kisses pressed to raven hair. “Be good for Mom,” he said, and they nodded. Then his gaze lifted to you. “Text when you get home?”
“I will,” you answered.
This new civility was fragile; you weren’t about to break it.
At the door you paused, adjusting scarf and handbags while the elevator dinged. Sunghoon hovered in the threshold like a man thinking of unsaying things already said.
“Take care of yourself,” he said quietly.
“You too.” You hesitated, then added, “Try sleeping before three a.m. for once.”
“Doctor’s orders, I suppose.” He flashed that maddening crooked smile.
The elevator doors slid open, you shepherded the twins inside.
As the doors closed, Sunghoon raised two fingers in a casual salute. You answered with a small, wry wave.
The elevator began its silent descent. Haneul bounced on her heels “Mommy, can we call Uncle Jihoon on the way?”
“Maybe after dinner,” you said, smoothing her hair.
Yohan tugged your coat, whispering, “Will Daddy be lonely?”
Your chest tightened again, but you kept your voice steady Daddy has lots of things that keep him occupied, he’ll be fine.”
The numbers ticked downward.
You inhaled, catching faint traces of cedar that clung even here, and let them pass.
☆.
Jihoon’s mouth had trailed from the hollow behind your ear to the curve of your collarbone, each slow kiss coaxing a sigh you scarcely recognized as your own.
The loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows framed the late-afternoon light, dusty and gold, and the silk shirt you had worn for brunch lay discarded over the arm of the couch.
Jihoon’s hands explored beneath the lace edge of your bra, thumbs stroking the faint bruises his lips had left the night before.
When he murmured your name you arched into him, fingers threading through his soft brown hair.
“You taste like espresso.” he teased, breath warm against your shoulder.
“You made it too strong.” you whispered, nipping his lower lip.
His chuckle vibrated through both of you. “I make everything strong.”
The slow, building pressure of his body against yours blurred whatever fragile sense of time you’d carried in.
He nudged your knees apart, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the slope of your sternum, and you tugged at his belt with impatient fingers. He braced an arm beside your head, gaze glossy with heat. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need—” The sentence dissolved when his hips rolled, and you gasped, half laugh, half moan. “Jihoon, don’t—”
A faint buzz rattled somewhere to the left.
Phone? Table? Call? You ignored it, lifting to meet his mouth again. The buzz returned, more insistent, followed by a muffled ping.
Then another.
Jihoon pulled back just enough to look at you, hair falling into his eyes. “Want me to toss it onto the obalcony?”
You huffed a soft laugh. “Might be the hospital.”
“Fine.” He leaned, snagged his phone, squinted. “It’s yours.” he said when he found no missed call on his.
You frowned.
Your own phone lay face-down on the coffee table, screen pulsing with notification after notification.
When you flipped it, the lock screen lit with Sunghoon’s name… eight missed calls, two voicemails, half a dozen texts.
The last message read at 3:47 PM
Sunghoon: WHERE ARE YOU?
Blood drained from your face.
Pickup was three-thirty.
A twenty-minute cross-city drive in Friday traffic stood between you and the twins.
“Oh God,” you breathed. “I’m late. Jihoon, I’m late.”
He sat back instantly. “What— how late?”
“Half an hour, maybe more if we hit jams.” You shoved into your blouse, fumbling buttons wrong, then right, hand shaking.
The twins had never waited alone— Sunghoon’s anger was one thing, but Yohan’s shy heart twisted at schedule changes, and Haneul’s fierce bravado evaporated when she sensed tension.
Jihoon steadied your wrists. “I’ll drive,
give me the keys.”
“You have a shift—”
“Not till seven, come on.”
You stuffed rumpled hair into a claw clip, found your heels, and snatched your back before quickly bolting out of the house.
While Jihoon locked up, you hit call back. Sunghoon answered on the first ring; the controlled ice in his voice froze your spine.
“It’s four o’clock,” he said, no greeting. “You were due at three-thirty.”
“I know. Traffic—”
“Don’t you dare lie.” A hard exhale. “The twins have been sitting in the lobby with the doorman for twenty minutes because I have a meeting I can’t move.”
Guilt slammed like a wave. “I’m on my way! twenty-five minutes.”
“You should’ve been on your way an hour ago.” The line clicked deadk
Your stomach churned.
In the elevator Jihoon squeezed your hand, lips pressed to your temple. “Focus on breathing. We’ll make every light.”
You half-ran to his car.
jihoon wove through side streets, one palm steady on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh in silent reassurance.
You replayed the last four years in the windshield: the final shouting match with Sunghoon, ink drying on divorce papers, the fragile truce of shared custody.
You’d kept promises; pickups, drop-offs, parent-teacher nights— a flawless record until now. Your eyes stung. Jihoon squeezed again. “They’ll be okay, Sunghoon too.”
“Sunghoon doesn’t do ‘okay., he does perfect schedules and synchronized watches.”
“He can survive twenty minutes of imperfection.”
“He’ll make sure I don’t.”
Jihoon hit the horn, merged ruthlessly. “He’ll snarl, you’ll snarl back, then you’ll take the kids home. That’s it.”
The GPS ticked minutes downward while the sun slid west.
At 4:24PM the logo over Sunghoon’s building loomed like a herald of judgement. You leapt from the car before Jihoon had fully stopped.
Inside, the concierge recognized you and your panic, and gestured toward a leather bench.
Yohan sat small-shouldered, backpack clutched to his chest. Haneul swung her legs defiantly, scowling at every adult in range. The instant they spotted you, mixed relief and hurt flooded their faces.
You knelt. “I’m so sorry, babies.” You wrapped them both close. “Traffic swallowed me whole.”
Sunghoon approached from the elevators, suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to elbows, jaw tight. His presence alone thickened the air.
“Thank Mr. Seo for babysitting,” he told the twins, nodding to the concierge. They murmured thanks.
Then his eyes skewered you. “My office lost a forty-million-won client because I had to sprint downstairs.” His tone remained low, but fury simmered beneath. “You didn’t answer until the tenth call.”
“I was— occupied,” you admitted, heat crawling up your throat.
“With Doctor Perfect.” His gaze flicked to the slight smudge of your lipstick above Jihoon’s collar. “How responsible.”
Jihoon entered then, purposeful but calm.
He offered a slight bow. “Afternoon, Mr. Park. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, the delay was my fault.”
Sunghoon laughed once, sharp. “Chivalry? Cute. It doesn’t un-delay my schedule.” He turned back to you. “If you can’t honor the pickup window, you need to let me know, they sat with strangers.”
“Mr. Seo isn’t a stranger,” you argued, but your shoulders drooped. “I know it’s my fault.”
“Damn right,” he snapped, then seemed to remember the children’s wide eyes and moderated his voice. “From now on, if you’ll be late, call at least half an our ahead.”
Jihoon stepped forward. “We’ll set extra alarms. She truly—”
Sunghoon’s palm lifted, silencing him. “This is between their mother and me.”
Haneul spoke up, fierce loyalty flashing. “Daddy, Mommy said sorry. Let it go.”
Sunghoon regarded his daughter, pride and frustration warring.
Yohan’s hand slipped into yours; his small fingers trembled. You tucked him under your arm.
“I’ll make it up,” you promised, meeting Sunghoon’s gaze. “I’ll take them also tomorrow, feed them, homework, baths. Drop them at school in the morning.”
“We already have plans,” he said. “But go now. I have work.” He crouched to the twins’ level, anger vanishing behind tenderness. “Love you both. Be good, buckle up.”
They hugged him tight. When they stepped back he straightened, facing you again, expression calmer but still flinty. “One slip, fine. Don’t let it become a pattern.”
“It won’t,” you said.
Jihoon touched the small of your back— steady warmth. Sunghoon’s eyes tracked the gesture, but he only nodded once, curt, and strode toward the second bank of elevators, phone already to ear.
In the car, silence settled until Haneul blurted, “Mommy, you’re never late.”
You winced. “I messed up. I’m sorry.”
Yohan leaned against you. “We forgave you already.”
Your chest ached. Jihoon glanced in the mirror. “Cookies and extra sprinkles tonight?”
Haneul brightened. “Bear shaped!”
“And maybe a penguin one for Yohan,” you added.
Promise of sugar thawed the tension.
As Jihoon eased into traffic, his hand sought yours again. You squeezed, grateful.
You texted Sunghoon
You: Home safe. Thanks for waiting.
The read receipt appeared instantly, yet no reply came.
Perhaps it wouldn’t tonight. You would face him again at soccer practice on Sunday, armed with punctuality and contrition.
For now you had twins chattering about cookie shapes and a man beside you who smelled of hand sanitizer and steadfast patience.
But it didn’t quite soothe you as Sunghoon’s cedar scent did.
☆.
You had tucked Yohan beneath his rocket-printed duvet at nine-thirty sharp, smoothing the fringe from his lashes while he whispered requests for “just one more chapter.”
Haneul occupied the opposite bunk across the room, arms folded in protest because her brother’s galaxy comforter looked “cooler than boring princess swirls.”
You compromised: two pages more of Tangled for them both and a promise of pancakes at dawn, then a good-night kiss to each forehead.
When you eased the door nearly shut, lwaving a narrow sliver left open so hallway light could chase away nightmares, you heard nothing but the hush of their synchronized breathing and, somewhere deeper in the apartment, the distant drip of the kitchen faucet you still forgot to call the landlord about.
In your bedroom you exchanged slacks for an oversized tee, idly scrolling through Sunghoon’s terse email about next week’s parent–teacher conference: concise bullet points, no greeting, no sign-off, just times and an attachment.
You answered with equal brevity: noted, see you there, and hit send before second-guessing tone.
Jihoon’s name flashed in a new message immediately after.
Hoon 🩷: Miss you already. ER’s a madhouse tonight. Sleep soon?
You smiled at the screen, typed back quickly
You: pancake duty at sunrise but I’ll try.
and set the phone facedown.
The apartment settled into its nocturnal symphony: refrigerator humming, street traffic, a soft river flowing some feet away, and you let eyelids flutter shut unaware of the quiet rebellion brewing down the hall.
Haneul waited until the hallway light dimmed on the smart timer, ten-fifteen, then kicked off her blanket.
She tiptoed across cool laminate, clutching her phoenix plush like a talisman.
Yohan was already half-propped on elbows, eyes wide behind the milky glow of the small astronaut night-lamp.
“You‘re awake too?,” he whispered, voice feather-soft so it wouldn’t carry.
“Mission time,” she declared, clambering onto the mattress beside him.
The springs squeaked; both froze, listening.
No footsteps. No Mommy. Safe.
Yohan scooted to make room, pulling up his notebook, the one with planetary rings on the cover and TOP SECRET scribbled in bubble letters.
Inside, colored-pencil schematics sprawled across pages: stick-figure Mommy and Daddy separated by a jagged thunderbolt, arrows leading to a giant red heart.
Haneul grabbed a purple crayon. “Step one, we need a plan that makes them talk without all the blah blah fight stuff.”
Yohan nodded solemnly, pencil poised. “Like a peace treaty.”
“Treaties are boring. We need… a trap.” She drew a square labelled family patch HQ and, under that, two stick grown-ups with startled eyebrows.
He frowned. “Daddy doesn’t like when we surprise him, and mommy gets scared when daddy is mad.”
“Fine,” she allowed, tapping the page. “Then we make them do something happy together. What do they both like?”
Yohan’s brow furrowed, deep in six-year-old contemplation. “Coffee?” he suggested.
“They’ll just drink and talk about bills.” Haneul rolled her eyes. “Think bigger.”
“Skating!” he blurted. “Daddy took us to the frozen fountain last winter. Mommy laughed a lot that day.”
Haneul’s grin flashed feral. “Yes. Ice. But how do we get them there at the same time?”
They fell into hushed deliberation, heads bent, plush phoenix wedged like a conference mascot between them.
Yohan proposed forged invitations to a “special parents’ night” at the rink.
Haneul countered with a surprise picnic in the middle of the ice, blankets, cocoa, maybe glitter bombs. Yohan worried about glitter in skates; Haneul insisted glitter fixed everything.
They compromised: glitter only on the thermos.
Haneul flipped to a fresh page. “Backup plan in case they can’t pic nic: make them watch old wedding videos.”
Yohan’s eyes widened. “Do we have those?”
“Grandma does. We can ask but pretend it’s for school.”
“I don’t like fibbing.”
“It’s not fibbing,” she soothed. “It’s… diplomacy.” She’d heard Sunghoon use the word during a heated phone call and liked how it rolled off the tongue.
They listed supplies: colored paper, cocoa packets, marshmallows shaped like stars (non-negotiable), enough allowance coins to bribe the rink guard, and Sunghoon’s spare keycard if pick-up shuttling required infiltration of his apartment.
Haneul promised she could swipe it from the crystal bowl by his door.
Yohan fretted about fingerprints, but she waved him off “Daddy is a CEO, not an FBI agent.”
When strategies tired their brains, Yohan yawned cavernously.
Haneul fished a flashlight from under the pillow, clicked it on beneath a shared blanket, and they whispered final oaths of secrecy— not a peep to grown-ups, especially not Jihoon, because doctors asked too many questions.
They spat on palms with theatrical disgust, then sealed the pact with a sticky handshake that made them giggle until Yohan clapped both hands over his mouth.
Haneul switched off the flashlight. She nestled beside her twin brother, fingers intertwined.
“Mommy and Daddy will be happy again,” she murmured into darkness, more a statement than a wish.
Yohan swallowed. “Even if they don’t get married again… maybe they’ll laugh.”
She nudged him with an elbow. “They’ll laugh. And then we won’t have to pack bags every other weekend like ping-pong balls.”
He considered this, then nodded. “Mission: family patch!” he recited, sleep thickening his voice. “Operation commence tomorrow at oh-six-hundred.”
Haneul had no idea what hour that was, but Yohan liked numbers, so she agreed and commanded the phoenix plush to stand lookout.
By the time its stitched wings drooped against the pillow, both children drifted under, breathing in unison, dreaming of twirling ice and microscopic glitter storms, of coffee steam curling between two grown-ups who once loved each other enough to make a galaxy-painting boy and a tiger-riding girl.
Down the hall, you lay unaware, one arm flung over your eyes, pondering whether to email Sunghoon a proper apology for last week’s tardy scramble.
You debated phrasing until thoughts blurred, eventually you decided morning clarity would serve better.
Had you risen to peek in on the twins, like you usually did before sleeping, you might have noticed the double rise and fall beneath Yohan’s quilt or the faint scent of purple crayon still hanging in the air.
☆.
You spent Saturday morning lost in the weekend routine: laundry tumbling in the washer, a precarious tower of receipts on the dining table begging to be categorized, too distracted to notice the unnatural hush in the twins’ room and ghe sudden disappearance of your phone.
Sunghoon, the next day, somewhere across the river, sat in his high-rise office final-polishing a pitch deck, blissfully ignorant that Yohan and Haneul were toggling between his unlocked laptop.
While you counted vitamins into a plastic day-pill container, they sent your mother a text requiring your wedding videos for a school project. She dropped a USB driver when you were busy hanging out the clothes.
Then, they plundered the external drive labeled ARCHIVE— DO NOT DELETE on Sunghoon’s computer.
Up popped camcorder footage: you six months pregnant, satin wedding dress tailored around your belly; Sunghoon in a dove-gray suit, gaze locked on you like earth’s true north.
The twins giggled at their own embryonic cameos— your wobbling walk down the aisle, Sunghoon’s trembling hands when he kissed your knuckles, your joint vows whispered over the soundtrack of distant seagulls.
Haneul clipped segments without mercy, Yohan layering transitions that blinked neon pink and comic-sans captions: LOOK HOW MUCH THEY LOVED EACH OTHER! A royalty-free harp arpeggio looped beneath every frame, jerky and too loud..
Yohan handled logistics. He typed on Sunghoon’s email: “Client call moved. I’ll be offlain after noon.”
Haneul commandeered your phone when you left it charging beside the toaster. Her thumbs flew: “Running errands.” even if she didn’t really know what it meant “Taking kids skating at Star Rink tomorrow, can you grab them at four? :) Grab your skates, maybe they wanna stay longer”
The smiley looked nothing like your usual punctuation and everything like six-year-old exuberance, but they trusted adult obliviousness.
Next they texted you from his own work chat window, Yohan’s idea, so a parallel message pinged onto your lock screen: “I’ll drop twins at rink 3:30. You pick ’em up? Thanks. Bring your skates in case they want to stay longer.”
Then they deleted the threads, archiving proof deep in message trash where no one ever scrolled.
Grandma arrived at noon.
Your mother thought the surprise visit was your idea; you didn’t know that neither Sunghoon nor you were aware of their secret mission.
By three-thirty you shoved your skates into a canvas tote, wondering why Sunghoon had promised the twins ice on a weekend so crammed.
Still, a commitment was a commitment, and guilt over last week’s tardy pickup nipped your conscience.
You arrived to Star Rink’s gleaming atrium just after three-fifty, breath fogging in the artificially cooled air, muttering apologies you’d craft for tiny ears.
The rink looked unusually empty, just a few teenagers practicing spins, no sign of your children skating with your ex husband.
Then a familiar voice echoed across the polished concrete. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Sunghoon strode from the opposite entrance, coat unfastened, skates slung over one shoulder.
His surprise mirrored yours so perfectly it might have been choreographed— which, unknown to either of you, it had.
“You said to be here at four,” he accused.
You blinked. “No— you said i’d grab them at four.”
He frowned. “I have the text.” He dug for his phone, scrolling with brows knit. You mirrored him, finding nothing but your past conversations.
“Where are the twins?” you asked, throat tightening.
“Probably hiding behind a pillar laughing at us.” He scanned the rink. “Come on, rascals, out!”
No answer.
Only the squeak of rental skates and the distant crunch of blades carving ice.
You and Sunghoon shared a look that bridged the chasm of months— parental telepathy laced with worry.
A rink attendant in a blue windbreaker approached, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Park? Ms. L/N?”
“Yes,” you both answered, then glared at each other for saying it in unison.
The attendant smiled like someone who’d been tipped off. “Your children dropped off a USB this morning. Asked us to play it at four sharp. They said you might… need context.” She gestured toward the suspended Jumbotron above center ice.
Its four screens currently looped skate sponsors.
You opened your mouth— closed it. Sunghoon’s eyes narrowed.
“They told us to inform you they are at their Grandma’s, safe and sound.” She made air quotes.
Haneul’s grin flashed in your memory, wicked and gap-toothed. Yohan’s shy collusion behind it. You dragged a hand over your face. “Demons.”
The attendant glanced at the wall clock. 3:58. “We were also told to insist you both ‘get on the ice first so the magic works.’ Their words.”
Sunghoon pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed. “Fine. Humor us.”
You laced skates side by side on a bench, trying not to notice how his forearm brushed yours when he tugged his bootstrings, how the slice of his jaw looked less severe up close, how the citrus-cedar cologne you once bought him still anchored memories.
When you stood, wobbling, he offered a reflexive hand, not the poised businessman, just the competitive skater who’d coached you through a thousand laps in winter courting days.
Muscle memory overruled pride, you let him steady you onto the ice.
The rink felt cavernous without the twins’ chatter. Fluorescent lights struck the frozen surface in blue shivers. You pushed off cautiously, lungs filling with cold whisper-clean air.
Sunghoon glided backward, assessing your form. “Knees bent,” he murmured, in instinctive coach mode.
“I remember,” you said, managing a credible curve. Across the ice, teen couples twirled; pop music thumped overhead. That familiarity, him skating circles until your confidence caught, stirred warmth you tried to quell.
At exactly four-o-one the music cut, replaced by a jarring harp trill booming through loudspeakers.
The Jumbotron flickered snowflakes, then a shaky camcorder frame: you in pearls, belly round under ivory silk, Sunghoon at the altar, eyes glossy.
Your skate edges wobbled. “Oh, my God.”
He looked up, jaw slack.
The audio crackled— your voice in 720p, laughing, telling the officiant a twins joke mid-vow and everyone roaring. Caption bubbles popped: THEY WERE SO CUTE! :’) Glitter GIFs rained down pixelated gold across the screen.
The edit jumped, janky cross-fade to the first dance where Sunghoon’s hands rested protectively on your curve.
A subtitle shouted: LOOK HOW DADDY STARED AT MOMMY!
A collective “awww” rose from rink spectators. Your cheeks burned.
Then the too loud music started, deafening everyone around.
Sunghoon skated closer, voice low. “Where did they even get this?”
Onscreen footage shifted to the hospital delivery room, your mother must’ve filmed it, Sunghoon pressing lips to your brow while monitors beeped.
Then a freeze-frame zoom-in on both newborns, overlay text in rainbow font: MISSION FAMILY PATCH: ACTIVEIGHT.
Mutters of delight filtered from onlookers.
You swayed slightly, Sunghoon caught your elbow. For a long heartbeat neither of you moved, riveted by the stumble-through montage, first bath, stroller race, your exhausted faces side by side on the couch.
The amateur edit felt like a love letter scrawled in crayon, messy yet searingly sincere.
When the screen faded to white with a final flourish, PLEASE LOVE AGAIN, silence thawed into soft arena applause. The attendant cut the feed and awkwardly restarted the playlist.
You exhaled, a shudder that misted the chilly air. “They went to Grandma’s so we’d be forced to… reconnect.”
“Tiny criminals,” he murmured, but his voice wasn’t angry. just overwhelmed. And guilty.
You eased back, studying him. Ice crystals peppered his hair where condensation had settled.
He looked suddenly tired, the rapid-fire CEO shutters pulled open to something vulnerable.
“They miss the way we used to laugh,” you said, throat tight.
“Do you?” he asked, earnestness slipping out before he could clothe it in sarcasm.
“Yes,” you admitted, quiet, surprising even yourself. “I miss when we were on the same team.”
He nodded, gaze drifting to your scarf, today a soft gray, no hickeys to hide, “We’re still parents. That team never dissolved.”
“You’re right. We just… forgot how to play.”
He released a breathy chuckle. “Leave it to our kids to schedule a remedial practice.”
You managed a tentative smile. The playlist shifted to a mellow jazz instrumental. Without thinking you extended a hand. “One lap? For old times.”
He took it gently, palm warm through your glove.
Together you pushed off, synchronizing lengths like gear teeth meshing.
The glide settled into familiar rhythm— your left, his right, bodies leaning, inside edges kissing ice.
He matched speed to yours, never showboating. Halfway around, muscle memory took over and you attempted a cautious crossover.
He guided your hips with featherlight fingertips, murmuring corrections the way he had when teaching you to skate backwards: “Weight over the heel, trust the blade.”
Trust.
That had been the fragile axis after divorce, trust in schedules, trust in boundaries, but not in closeness.
Yet here, under fluorescent hum and cinnamon-cocoa rink air, your body remembered what your mind had shelved, you trusted him to keep you upright on ice.
He trusted you with the beating hearts of his children.
When you completed the circuit, neither of you let go immediately.
You drifted near the boards, hearts thudding louder than rental pop. Finally he cleared his throat. “We should call them. Let them know mission accomplished… partially.”
You laughed softly. “They’ll demand proof.”
“Let’s take a picture then, to show them.”
“Alright.” You murmured, taking your phone out of your jeans and handing it to him.
He took it, a shy quirk on an otherwise confident man. “Say cheese.”
His hand rested on the small of your back, so familiar it was almost painful.
Heat jolted through your body, and he must have felt it too because his own shifted closer.
“Cheese.” You breathed out and he took the selfie before giving you your phone back.
A comfortable hush settled.
You studied his profile, the slope of cheekbone, faint crease where laughter used to live.
Something gentle stirred beneath ribs, not romantic lightning, but a warm tide of possibility.
“If we’re going to be ambushed by our own offspring,” you said, “maybe we should carve out time to talk, really talk, before they escalate.”
“Dinner?” he offered, simple as breathing. “Somewhere public. Neutral ground.”
You lifted a brow. “Supervised by waitstaff instead of kindergarteners.”
“Exactly.” His smile warmed. “Next Thursday? I’ll book at that Italian place you like.”i
“Email me the details.” You squeezed his arm once before stepping back. “And… thanks for catching me earlier.”
“Always.” The word hovered in the cool air, sincere and unvarnished.
You skated toward the exit, heart lighter.
Behind you, Sunghoon called after with playful edge, “Try not to be late this time.”
You looked over a shoulder, grin spreading. “Set a reminder for me, tech genius.”
He laughed, unrestrained, head tipped, and the sound echoed like silver bells across the rink.
You carried it with you off the ice, past the attendant who winked knowingly, past teenagers still buzzing about the cutest video ever, all the way to the lobby where your phone buzzed with a photo from your mother: twins on her sofa, popcorn bowl between them, thumbs-up so wide it nearly cracked the frame.
You texted back: Nice try, tiny masterminds. We’ll talk when you’re home. Love you.
You opened Sunghoon's chat:
You: They’re officially grounded from espionage… but I’m glad they tried. See you Thursday.
Three dots pulsed. His reply came shortly after
Sunghoon: I’m glad too. Good night, Y/N
You slipped the phone away, realizing your cheeks still ached from smiling.
Outside, dusk mellowed the skyline into lavender and rose.
You inhaled the bite of winter air the rink expelled each time doors opened and thought maybe patchwork didn’t have to recreate an old quilt; it could stitch something new— imperfect seams, frayed threads, surprisingly strong.
And thanks to two relentless six-year-olds, the first patch was already in place.
☆.
You sat across from Jihoon in the hospital’s rooftop garden, wind tugging faintly at the corners of the pale-blue picnic blanket he’d spread on a lunch break more rushed than he admitted.
A single thermos of his too-strong espresso steamed between you, the scent mingling with oregano from planters that volunteers kept for the pediatric wing.
His eyes, steady, kind and edged with fatigue from a sixteen-hour shift, searched your face while you traced invisible constellations on the blanket’s plaid.
He smiled, soft. “You’re quiet today. That usually means your brain’s ten paragraphs ahead of your mouth.”
You huffed a small laugh. “Guilty.”
“Talk to me.”
The ease in his invitation nearly unstitched your resolve.
You folded your hands, thumbs fidgeting. “Jihoon… I need to tell you something, and I don’t know how to do it without sounding ungrateful.”
He uncapped the thermos, poured you half. “Just say it.”
You met his gaze, the gentle brown that had steadied you through late-night panics and blues, and felt the first sharp twist of regret. “I care about you so much. You know that, right?”
“I know.” A faint line appeared between his brows. “And?”
“And I’ve loved how safe I feel with you, how easy things are.” You wrapped cold fingers around the paper cup. “But after what the twins pulled at the rink… I realized easy isn’t the same as… a spark.” The last word trembled in the air.
He swallowed, intake of breath small but audible. “You mean Sunghoon.”
“I mean the life I had with him. The mess, the fire.” You exhaled. “I don’t want to hurt you, you’ve been nothing but wonderful.”
Jihoon’s shoulders sagged, but he nodded once, firm and deliberate. “Feelings aren’t crimes, they just… happen.” He scanned the skyline, blinking hard. “We both knew from the start your heart was still boarded up with ‘handle fragile’ stickers.”
“I thought time would change that, and maybe it could have. But when I stood on that ice and saw the way he steadied me—” Your voice cracked. “I felt something snap back into alignment and I can’t pretend I didn’t.”
Jihoon rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Are you going back to him?”
“I’m going to ask if we can try, slowly. i don’t even know if he wants that.”
He gave a rueful smile. “He’d be a fool not to.” Then, softer, “Do you love him?”
You opened your mouth, closed it, then whispered, “Yes.”
Silence hung, broken only by the flap of pigeons and distant ambulance sirens.
Jihoon inhaled and squared his shoulders like a surgeon scrubbing in. “Then you owe it to yourself, and to the twins, to see. And I owe it to myself to not be someone’s gentle detour.”
Tears blurred your vision. “You deserve someone who blazes for you.”
“Yeah,” he said, tone light but eyes wet, “I intend to find her.” He leaned forward, brushed a thumb beneath your cheekbone. “Thank you for being honest before resentment set roots. That takes guts.”
You laughed shakily. “Feels more like cowardice.”
“Honesty’s never cowardice.” He squeezed your hand, then released it. “Go tell him, before I change my mind and keep you here for selfish reasons.”
You rose, tucking the cup near the planter. “I’ll always be grateful of you, Jihoon.”
“Just remember me when the twins need free check-ups. I can still be their uncle Jihoon.” His chuckle chased you to the elevator, bittersweet but genuine.
☆.
Clouds brooded violet over the Han River by the time you stepped from a taxi at Sunghoon’s building.
You forced a breath, rode the elevator thirty-nine floors, and stared at the steel door, heartbeat ricocheting.
Before you could knock, it slid open, sunghoon stood framed in warm lamplight, phone pressed to ear, expression surprised.
He was about to head somewhere, but he ended the call anyways. “Did we schedule something I forgot?”
“No,” you said, voice thin. “Can I come in?”
He stepped aside, bare feet on oak planks, the apartment scented faintly of roasted sesame, maybe early lunch abandoned.
He waited until the door shut, then folded arms. “Is everything okay with the kids?”
“They’re fine. At Mom’s till tomorrow.” You swallowed. “I needed to talk… without small ears.”
His eyes softened, wariness mingled with curiosity. He gestured toward the sofa where plushies still lounged from last custody swap.
You both sat, leaving a cushion of space that pulsed with old familiarity and new tension.
You braced elbows on knees. “After the rink video, I’ve been… rethinking a lot.”
Sunghoon’s jaw tensed. “Thought we agreed not to scare them with false hope.”
“This isn’t about false hope.” You looked up, meeting his gaze head-on. “It’s about real hope, but only if you want it too.”
His breath caught. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.” Words tumbled out, halting at first, then fluid. “I miss the way you used to leave notes in my pockets, how you’d call from the taxi just to hear me breathe.
you gulped, laying down the cards alongside uour heart “I miss us arguing about which tea to drink and making up before the kettle boiled. I don’t miss the screaming matches or the silence afterwards, but I believe we’ve grown. The twins forced us to see we can still be a team.” You exhaled. “So I broke things off with Jihoon this afternoon.”
Shock flickered across his features, surprise, then something almost like relief.
He reached for you, stopped, lowered his hand. “I don’t want you to choose me if being with him made you happy.”
“I know,” you murmured. “And lord, he was amazing.”
You looked up at him, emotions flickering on your face “But he wasn’t you.”
Silence pooled, thick but gentle. Finally he asked, “What does ‘try again’ look like to you?”
“Coffee on Sunday mornings, just us, talking about anything except bills. Shared therapy if we fall into old traps. Dates, real ones, ending in separate apartments if pace matters. Honesty every step.”
“And what if the spark still scorches us?” His voice husky.
“Then we keep ice buckets nearby,” you teased, then sobered. “I’m not promising a fairytale, just the chance to rebuild.”
He stood, paced to the window where Seoul glittered like scattered gemstones.
Reflection haloed him in citylight. “I never stopped loving you,” he said, quiet, raw. “I just stopped believing love was enough.”
You rose, walked until you stood an arm’s length away. “Love isn’t enough. But love and work, and two pint-sized spies, might be.”
He laughed softly, turned, and took your hands. “Okay,” he breathed. “Slowly.”
“Slowly,” you echoed. The warmth of his palms radiated up your arms, familiar and electric.
He drew you into an embrace— tentative at first, then securing, his chin atop your head, your ear over his heart.
The rhythm there felt both new and remembered. You closed your eyes, inhaling cedar and a hint of sesame, and let your muscles melt into a shape they’d once known by instinct.
Minutes or hours might have passed, until finally Sunghoon pulled back a fraction, eyes shining. “Stay for dinner? I burned the sesame oil but I can salvage the soup.”
You smiled through wet lashes. “I’ll chop scallions.”
His lips curved, softness where they’d once been rigid with pride. “And after we eat, we’ll draft a co-parenting treaty version two. The kind with glitter.”
“All treaties should have glitter,” you agreed.
Hand in hand, you moved toward the kitchen, steps slow, hearts quicker.
Behind you the plush phoenix slumped against the penguin on the couch, as if exhausted from orchestrating fate.
The sizzle of rekindled soup and the gentle scrape of knives against cutting board marked the beginning, not of going back, but of beginning again, eyes open, promises tempered, sparks tended, slow and deliberate as the first stroke of a painter restoring a treasured canvas.
☆.
The slow-burn weeks unfolded like pages warmed by sunlight:
Thursday pasta in your kitchen where Yohan grated parmesan with the gravity of a jeweler cutting diamonds and Haneul dirtied the whole table with tomato sauce.
Saturday mornings on Sunghoon’s cavernous couch, your sock-clad feet tucked under a shared blanket while Haneul narrated every plot twist.
Sunday morning pancake (very poor) art, followed by polite squabbles over syrup real estate.
Between those orchestrated family moments lived quieter, riskier hours, you and Sunghoon trading texts about who’d forgotten the dental forms, a lingering brush of knuckles while rinsing dishes, the way his gaze tracked you when he thought the twins weren’t looking.
No lightning strike, no fireworks, just kindling stacking itself, breath by breath, until even a whisper could set it alight.
The spark finally caught on a drizzly Friday café run.
You’d slipped into his apartment with take-out bulgogi and a box of those “unnecessarily cute” star-shaped macarons that made the twins squeal.
Post-dinner they demanded a pillow-fort marathon of Spirited Away, then conked out before Chihiro met Haku.
You and Sunghoon carried them, limp with sleep, to the joined rooms they had, the very first room you had used.
When you straightened, Sunghoon’s hand stayed at the small of your back a fraction longer than necessary, you turned, breath hitching at how near his lips had drifted.
No audience. No distractions. Just you, him, a hush weighted by weeks of restraint.
“You’re wearing the honey lipstick again,” he murmured, thumb ghosting the corner of your mouth.
You swallowed. “Maybe I remember it’s your favorite.”
His laugh rumbled low, intimate. “Flattery, or a tactical move?”
“Depends,” you whispered, pulse hammering.
He leaned in, tentative once, then confidence flooded as your mouths met, soft and searching, the air swelling with the musk of his cologne and rain on windowpanes.
The first kiss tasted of nostalgia, salt-sweet like melted macarons; the second tasted of now, your tongue sliding against his, a hungry sigh you’d forgotten your body could make.
His palm cupped your jaw, thumb tracing your pulse, the heat where he touched felt almost unbearable.
When he drew back, breathing ragged, he whispered your name the way it used to fall in the quiet just before dawn: reverent, claiming, achingly gentle.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, forehead resting against yours. “If it’s too fast—”
“Don’t stop,” you answered, fingers fisting in the collar of his henley. “Please.”
Walls you’d rebuilt brick by brick tumbled with shocking softness.
He nudged you against the hallway wall, kisses deepening, teeth grazing your lower lip.
Dirty words slipped from his mouth, pet names soaked in promise, in memory of every night you’d once mapped each other’s bodies, and you answered with a breathy moan that made him curse softly.
His hands found the hem of your dress, palms warm against your thighs, but he slowed, seeking permission, you guided his wrists higher.
Fabric rustled, buttons surrendered, you pressed close, reveling in the feel of his broad back under your roaming hands, the ripple of muscle tightening as he lifted you slightly to fit knees between your legs.
Desire pooled, insistent yet exquisitely familiar, as though this dance had only paused, never ended.
“Bedroom,” he managed, voice gravel.
You nodded, mouths colliding again as he half-walked, half-carried you down the hall.
And you collided in bed, sheets tangled around your forms dancing a tango you had forgotten was so familiar with him.
Morning sunlight shone through the curtains Sunghoon had forgotten to open the prior night.
You stirred first, disoriented, then aware of every muscle pleasantly overworked.
Sunghoon’s arm lay across your waist, his hand splayed over your stomach. You tilted to watch him sleep, lashes fanning his cheeks, lips parted.
Sheer peace... well, a peace that shattered with the stampede of four small feet.
The bedroom door crashed open, squeals ricocheted off walls.
“Attack!” Haneul shrieked, launching herself onto the mattress.
“Dad, wake up!” Yohan followed, slightly less feral but equally determined, penguin plush waving like a flag of conquest.
Sunghoon woke with a strangled grunt just before twenty-five kilos of enthusiasm landed on his rib cage. You fumbled to pull the duvet higher— too late. Haneul’s eyes went huge.
“Mommy’s wearing Daddy’s shirt!” she crowed, triumphant as a detective cracking a cold case.
Yohan grinned. “Mission success?”
You gaped, cheeks flaming, while Sunghoon scrubbed a hand over his face, half mortified, half amused. “Guys, personal space?”
“It’s dawn,” Haneul reasoned. “Cartoons await!”
“I think it’s barely seven.” Your voice rasped embarrassingly. “Can’t cartoons wait till coffee?”
Yohan shook his head with solemn conviction. “Cartoons fuel creativity.”
Sunghoon snorted. “Your bedtime documentaries are paying off.” He sat up, duvet after all staying mercifully in place, and hauled both kids into his lap, pressing kisses to disheveled hair.
His eyes slid to you, warm, just a hint of mischief. “What do you say we make pancakes? Mommy and I can supervise from the couch.”
“With syrup rivers!” Haneul insisted.
“sprinkles too,” Yohan added.
“Deal,” you said, laughter bubbling. You squeezed their ankles affectionately. “But maybe let Mommy find pants first?”
They scampered off, shouting about mixing bowls. You sagged back, exhaling a near-hysterical giggle while Sunghoon tipped his forehead to yours.
“Well,” he murmured, “that escalated quickly.”
You smacked his chest lightly. “You know they’ll brag about this for years.”
“Probably.” He threaded fingers through yours. “Worth it.”
Your smile softened. “Yeah, worth it.”
Down the hall cupboards slammed, utensils clanged, and a shriek informed you a measuring cup had become airborne.
You swung your legs over the edge, tee skimming thighs, and stood. Sunghoon caught your wrist, pressing a tender kiss to the inside.
“Round two tonight,” he teased, voice low. “Kid curfew enforced.”
Heat curled in your belly even as you rolled eyes. “We’ll see if Chef Daddy survives breakfast first.”
s, smut | f, fluff | a, angst | suggestive is noted
my laptop is fried from all the tabs lol, but these are my fav psh fics, or at least the ones i have liked/remember ! its LONG lol
> word count lowers as you go down the list! (not in order)
grocery store receipts [ hot neighbor!sunghoon x fem!reader ] s,f,a
to the boy: who took me to prom [ best friend's brother!sunghoon x fem!reader ] s,f,a
harvest of purity [ innocent!sunghoon, strangers to lovers ] s,f,a
stupid in love [ bestfriend!sunghoon, summer au ] s,f,a
we'll always have this summer [ summer au, strangers to lovers, city girl x country boy au ] s,f,a
gods & monsters [ step-brother sunghoon x fem!reader x stepbrother!heeseung ] s,f,a
park sunghoon: the boy next door trope [ shy figure skater!sunghoon x popular extrovert!reader ] s,f,a
king of tears [ chaebol husband!sunghoon, second chance romance au ] s,f,a
crossroads romance [ ex!sunghoon, suprise return au ] s,a
unlucky girl syndrome / part two [ grumpy x sunshine au, love triangle au ft. jake ]
sex for dummies! [ academic rivals au, university au ] s,f,a
tangled desires [ enemies to lovers, rich kids au ] s,a
the dollmaker [ husband & dollmaker!sunghoon, gothic/supernatural elements au ] s,f,a
love next door [ childhood bsf!sunghoon x fem!reader ] s,a
teacher's pet [ professor!sunghoon x fem!reader ] s,f,a
you're such a brat [ arrogant!sunghoon x bratty!reader, enemies to lovers ] s
cherry pits [ dad!sunghoon x fem!reader, dilf au, neighbors au ] s,f
three weeks & three days [ best friend's ex!sunghoon, halloween au ] s,f,a
lucifer [ fallen angel!sunghoon x virgin angel fem!reader ] s
first date etiquette [ neighbor au, first date au ] s
dior girl [ designer!sunghoon x fem!reader, dark!sunghoon ] s
night-shift / day shift (pt.2) [ boss & camboy!sunghoon ] s
give up heaven [ ex-bestfriend & hockey player!sunghoon, friends to lovers ] suggestive,a
get you better [ boyfriend's best friend!sunghoon, cheating au ] s
urs [ situationship!sunghoon x fem!reader ] s,f
say my name [ neighbor!sunghoon, enemies to lovers ] s
star-crossed / part two [ prince!sunghoon x servant fem!reader, greek mythology ] s,f
cherry [ outcast!sunghoon x class president fem!reader, enemies to lovers, 90's au ] f
bittersweet teeth [ brother's best friend!sunghoon x fem!reader ] s
past wounds, present hearts [ ex bully!sunghoon x fem!reader ] s,f,a
heavenly [ playboy & ex bf!sunghoon x fem!reader, fake dating au ] f,a
forbidden attraction [ wizard!sunghoon x witch!reader, hogwarts au ] s
synopsis: every time you try to take your relationship to the next level, you always shy away at the last second. lucky for you, dr. zayne has a solution!
tags: inexperienced reader & zayne, soft dom zayne, reader fears penetration at first, zayne sets up a surgical camera so she can watch him finger her, vaginal fingering (duh), “anatomy” “lesson,” praise, “good girl,” improper use of hospital assets
pairing: zayne x fem reader
word count: 2.3k
a/n: this came to me in a dream. enjoy
“Have I given you reason to be afraid of me?” Zayne asks you softly, attentive gaze trailing down your stiff body.
“N-no!” you blurt, thrusting your hands out in mortification. “You haven’t, I swear you haven’t. This is just…new to me.”
“Me as well,” he retreats from above you, moving back on the sofa to give you breathing room.
Just moments ago, you’d been writhing under him needily, his tongue plunging into your eager mouth as you groped each other with abandon. Spurred on by your initial pleas, he’d dared to take it further this time—further than either of you had ever been. But as his hand had traveled down your body, dipping just the slightest bit inside your panties, you’d gone rigid. Zayne, ever aware of your reactions, had stopped his movements immediately, looking seekingly into your eyes for answers. Unfortunately for him, once that cautious hazel gaze had found yours, you’d squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment.
“It’s nothing that you did, Zayne,” you sigh as you sit up, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “I know you’d never hurt me. I’m just…scared.”
“Of?” he asks softly, and the way his kind face is void of any judgment makes you want to extract your brain and beat it for denying you the chance to feel him.
Another sigh escapes you as you gather your thoughts. “What if it hurts?” you wonder shyly, fiddling with your clammy hands. “I always imagined it’d hurt. And there’s never…been…anything there, outside of medical stuff. That’s the only thing I have to compare it to.”
Nodding along patiently, Zayne extends a hand to you, pulling you to him when you accept it gratefully. “I’m sorry that you’re frightened, but I understand your hesitation. I’m content to just hold you in my arms, if you’ll let me. As long as it takes, I’ll wait for you.”
“No, I-I want to. With you, soon. That’s the problem—I’ll think I’m ready, but then the second we get close, I freeze up. I just don’t know what to expect, and that scares me.”
Humming contemplatively, Zayne laces your fingers together. “I think I can help with that.”
The usually bustling corridors of Akso Hospital are eerily quiet at night.
Hurrying through them as if a ghost will jump out at any second, you scour the door plaques for room 429.
I’ll be finishing up early today. If you’re able, can you meet me at the hospital this evening? Room 429, Zayne had messaged you hours ago. And with no other plans and a lingering sense of guilt that you know he’d disapprove of, you’d agreed almost instantly.
Combating pangs of confusion—he never asked you here at night, outside of official events—you don’t realize you’ve scurried past the door until the room numbers grow too high. Backtracking briskly, you tap the wood with two soft knocks before a calm “Come in!” beckons you inside.
Room 429 is a standard hospital room—a large examination table, a sink and cabinets, and two simple chairs. At the small table near the back of the room—much humbler than the sleek standing desk in his office, you note perplexedly—Zayne sits, pen in hand, leafing through an endless stack of paperwork. Why did he move his office here for the night?
“Great, you’re here,” he says, setting his pen atop a thick packet. “Take a seat.”
“Um, okay,” you mumble obediently, heading toward one of the navy guest chairs.
“Not there,” he calls.
Turning to face him, you catch the way his eyes shift to the examination table. “Is this some kind of impromptu appointment?” you ask, his secrecy filling you with stubbornness.
Zayne rises from the rolling chair that’s too small for him, crossing the room in measured strides. “Not a sanctioned one.”
Before you can ask what he means, his hands are wrapping around your waist, lifting you up to deposit you on the soft table padding.
“Hey!” you squeak, surprised but not fighting him. “What is all this? I had my annual checkup a couple weeks ago, I’ll have you know. And I won’t be your guinea pig, either.”
Zayne tsks with amusement. As he presses a button, a large black mount lowers from the ceiling, its sturdy hooks securing a small silver device. Another button, and the device’s tiny red light flicks on.
And suddenly, your reflection stares back at you from a monitor on the opposite wall.
Anticipating your interrogation, Zayne speaks before you can. “This is a high-definition surgical instrument. It’s used to help us see the body during minor procedures.”
You blink at him quizzically. “So…a camera?”
“Yes. A camera. Repurposed for…recreational matters,” he quips with a slight upturn of his lips.
“You should know your own body,” he continues gently. “Exploring yourself—whether with or without me—is your right. And after last night, I figured…perhaps being able to see my actions as they happen would assuage some of your fears.”
“You…when did you have time to…?” you trail off, staring up at him in wonder.
“I believe I told you I finished my work early today. This was the reason,” he reveals. Even with you perched on the examination table, Zayne’s imposing height exceeds yours. His assurance is a warm blanket as he stands beside you, resting a large palm on your bent knee. “I’d like to help you explore yourself now. Will you allow me to?”
With a heavy gulp—more from anticipation than nerves, you realize—you nod your consent meekly.
“I don’t know what that means, darling. Can you give me words?”
“Yes,” you exhale shakily. “Help me. Please.”
Smiling softly, pride flashing across his face, he leans in to kiss you sweetly. Then, reaching up to bring the camera closer, he angles it toward your lower body. On the far wall, the feed is dangerously close to revealing what lies beneath your skirt.
“I’ll raise this,” he says, lifting the fabric with care. “And these…will need to come off,” he eyes you, gesturing to your thin cotton panties.
For a moment, you debate removing them yourself. But if this was about overcoming fears….
“Can you do it, Dr. Zayne? I wouldn’t want to get in the way,” you whisper coyly.
His eyes widen as he pauses. Then, collecting himself, he inches his hands forward to tug at the sides of your panties, sliding them down with precision. “Of course,” he says softly. “I’ll take care of you.”
As he sets his eyes on your naked cunt for the first time, Zayne shows admirable restraint, looking away after only a few tense seconds. Some hypocritical, eager-to-please part of you would almost be offended, if not for his tells: his quickened blinks, heavy breaths, and fidgeting fingers.
“I’ll get started now,” he exhales, voice husky with veiled desire. “You’re free to stop me at any time.”
And as you gaze at him with trust and only a little bit of fear, Zayne begins.
“This is your pelvic bone,” he gestures slowly. “It supports your body weight.”
The warmth of someone else’s hand on your bare hip is a foreign feeling. Foreign, but not bad, you decide, relaxing under his touch.
“The mons pubis,” he continues, hands ghosting over the mound beneath your belly.
“And this,” he murmurs, spreading your folds carefully, “is your pretty little pussy.”
The word—in here, from him, in reference to you—is so scandalous it makes you gasp. You try desperately to avoid his gaze, eyes flitting across the room in panicked arousal, but you don’t find the reprieve you’re looking for.
Because on that far wall, looking back at you tauntingly, is the velvety skin of your most private part, glistening with your growing desire.
Snapping you out of your staring contest, Zayne taps the flesh of your thigh twice. “Open, please. Wider.”
Swallowing thickly, you oblige.
“Good,” he praises, tracing your exposed entrance with an elongated index finger. “This is where I’ll touch you. Is that alright?”
Through heavy drags of air, you forget his earlier instructions, nodding quickly as your answer. When all he does is lift a brow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips, you hazily remember his request. “Yes,” you whimper apologetically. “It’s alright.”
“Well, then. Suck,” he orders simply, holding his finger to your mouth.
The command startles you at first. But as you look between the man beside you and the far wall, recalling how frustrated you’d been with your fears last night, you part your lips slightly. Just enough for him to enter.
Timidly, you circle your tongue around him, coating his finger in your saliva. Once he deems it wet enough, he taps your thigh again, and you release him with a soft pop.
With half-lidded eyes, Zayne hums his approval, pushing closer to you to angle the digit at your entrance. “Hold onto me if you need to,” he whispers, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder.
And then, his finger sinks inside you.
It’s one thing to feel the tension. To clench as a light, unfamiliar pressure pushes firmly inside your heat, claiming the untraversed territory with every inch.
But as the discomfort subsides and you open your eyes, seeing it unfold is something else entirely.
On the large screen, Zayne’s slender finger pumps in and out of you slowly, impactfully. With every exit, your pulsing pink walls hug his retreating digit, begging him to stay. And when he grants their request, every thrust back inside has them clamping around his finger, as if barring him from leaving them lonely.
Watching with rapt attention, Zayne splits his focus between the monitor and you, gauging your expression for signs of discomfort.
But as your body melts with newfound pleasure, you sigh softly along to the rhythm of his pumps, eyeing the way he breaches your wetness with wanton intrigue.
The way he disappears inside you, giving his body to yours…you want to kiss him. You need to kiss him. But the moment you lift your gaze to his lips, licking your own as you lean in, Zayne moves his face just out of reach.
“No,” he murmurs his denial, stroking your walls with added vigor as he turns your face back toward the screen. “Don’t get distracted.”
Grumbling your disappointment, you allow his hypnotic movements to recapture your attention. But before long, you’re curling into his touch. “Can you…m-more?” you pant, risking a longing glance up at him.
“More?” Zayne repeats, slowing his pace to a deep probe that makes you writhe in impatience. “Is that something you can handle?”
“Yes,” you cry, clutching his pristine lab coat. “Can handle it, if it’s you.”
He hums contentedly. And a split second later, another long finger joins the first.
Eyes glued to the screen, you see the intrusion before you feel it: his thick, united digits headed straight for your core. As he prods at the small opening, advances met with quivering resistance, you almost think you’ve asked for more than you can take. But as slick dribbles out of your squelching hole to welcome him, the fluid dulls the stretching sensation, and your fluttering cunt sucks him in greedily.
A loud, lewd moan has you arching erratically, and Zayne wraps a strong arm around your lower back to support you.
“How does it feel?” he murmurs between steady pumps. “Are you still frightened?”
“No,” you mewl ardently. “It’s good. You’re good. But I…” you pause, racking your fuzzy brain for the right words.
“You what, my love?”
“I can’t…I don’t think I can…like this…” you trail off with an embarrassed whine, hoping he understands your babbling.
“Mm,” he nods sympathetically. “It’s natural that you can’t come from this alone. What a good girl you are for telling me.”
With his free hand, Zayne leans forward to adjust the camera, centering it over your glistening cunt. Once satisfied, he flexes his thumb to rest gently on the twitching bundle above your entrance. “You know what this is, don’t you, darling?”
“Clit,” you breathe, the word leaving you in a garbled gasp thanks to the shocks of his feather-light touch.
“That’s right,” he praises, kissing your temple while his fingers scissor lazily inside you. “This is how you’ll finish.”
As your voices fade, room filling with the wet sploshes of your tightening walls, the force of his thumb grows heavier on your clit. You almost squeal as the pressure increases, instinctively lifting your hips out of the camera frame—to which Zayne firmly pushes you back down.
“Watch,” he commands sternly. “So you’ll know how to do the same when I’m away.”
Curling his other fingers inside you, Zayne rolls his thumb in devastating circles, grinding so deeply against your nub that it greets you with spasmic, greedy twitches on the monitor. For a moment, his movements are mesmerizing, his thumb drawing patterns on your clit in time with his measured pumps. But as he slips out his index finger to pinch your aching bud, the gushing slick heralding your release is the last thing you see before your eyes screw shut from ecstasy.
As you writhe against him with thankful sobs, Zayne’s movements slow before stopping altogether. “It’s alright,” he shushes you. “Let it take you. You look beautiful like this.”
And in the comfort of his reassurance, those sobs turn into quiet, blissful moans.
You’re not sure how he does it—the sink and paper towels are on the other side of the room—but when you open your eyes, Zayne’s hands are clean.
“I’m very proud of you,” he says gently, wiping a stray tear from your eye. “How do you feel?”
“Good,” you mumble, nuzzling into his palm. “You were right. Seeing it, knowing what you were doing…it did help,” you finish shyly.
“I’m glad. And in that case,” he adds, tapping the camera appreciatively, “I’ll ask around about the cost of installation in my home office.”
TROPES: friends to lovers, college au, turning 20 existential dread inspired by yours truly, flirting friendship dynamics, no drama in this one because i'm sick n tired bro
WHAT TO EXPECT:
Something about Anton had changed ever since he turned 20 and you could not put your finger on it. All you knew was he had made it his mission to fluster you and letting him catch a hint of what he was doing to you was a bad idea...
"I can't believe I'm no longer a silly little guy in his teen years," sighs Anton. Had the speaker been a remotely more predictable person than Lee Chanyoung, decidedly the king of "never let 'em know your next move," you would've at least pretended to be amused by his statement.
Instead, you echo his sigh with your own. "Come on, there's no way you're still whining about this. You used to cry about being stuck a nineteen year-old and being called a kid, and now that you're not? You're crying about it, too!"
Anton frowns at your sharp but resoundingly true words. He crosses his arms, leaning closer to you across the table, his eyes taking on a candid gravity. "I'm serious this time, Y/N, I'm spiralling. I feel like I should be doing… more?"
You blink at him. Count on Anton to have an existential crisis in the library of all places. You could've even get get vulnerable with him right now if you wanted, what with the mobs of students surrounding you, chattering away in their own circles.
You pat his arm across the table, feeling the soft fabric of his baby blue hoodie that always sat so well with his eyes. "It'll be fine, Ant, you're doing enough as it is. You're a good student and a good friend, too. That's more than a lot of people can claim."
He doesn't hide the small smile that creeps onto his face, "You really think so?" Then, he tilts his head and like a switch turning, his smile turns flirtatious. "But that's all you think of me as? A good friend?"
You stare back at Anton, at a loss for words at his sudden change in demeanour. "Well, yeah? Aren't we…?" you ask the question hoping he'd drop the act and laugh it off but his smile is only morphing further into a smirk the more flustered you get.
Feeling your ears warm, you avert your gaze, suddenly incredibly intrigued by the laptop screen of a girl working a table away from you. You think about Anton and how the two of you had always been closer to each other, compared to the rest of your friends. Maybe it was only because your schedules always matched up, allowing you to grab meals together and hole up in the library after. Maybe it was because you lost track of time when you were with him, laughing at something stupid or spouting something stupid yourself just to watch him laugh with you.
You couldn't say the possibility of being something more to him hadn't crossed your mind. Of course it had, Anton was the most charming guy you'd been around for a while and you felt comfortable with him like with nobody else. And it was that comfort that was the very reason you didn't feel the need to pursue more with him: it was enough to be his friend.
But something had changed about him ever since he turned 20 a week ago. You don't know where to pin the feeling that he'd changed but he'd become more… direct. For example, the night of his birthday, you'd decided to show up at his door to wish him in person at exactly 12 am. He'd been thrilled to see you and pulled you into a hug. A completely normal hug. Just a little too long for two people who were just friends. But you had been more than happy to feel his warmth so you didn't mention it. When you did finally pull away, Anton had chased you face, planting a kiss on your cheek out of the blue.
It had caught you off guard like nothing else. You'd stared at him, not unlike how you'd looked at him a few minutes ago, turning hotter by the second. But he'd simply grinned the purest grin ever, thanking you sincerely for wishing him.
With that and his sudden question of your relationship with him, you didn't know what to think anymore.
Anton has gone back to his work by the time you come back to your senses, as cool as ever. You can hear the hum of the music in his earbuds as he types away at his computer. You really don't know what to think, with his flirting and nonchalance after. God, you think you might drive yourself crazy.
And you desperately want to keep your sanity so later that night, on your walk back home from the library, you try to hint at it. "Hey, you know…" you start, catching his attention, "I feel like you've changed somehow… since you turned 20."
He looks amused at your admission, brows quirking up, "Really? Please, do say more."
"Well," your eyes jump from his to your shoes and then back, "Like you're acting different."
"I am?" his cheeks rise, "Is it weird?"
You note that he doesn't ask you how he's acting different, implying he probably knew what he was doing. The thought of it being on purpose only rattles you more.
"Not weird, no," you breathe, "I'm just not used to it, I guess." You hate yourself for not knowing where you were going with his. Anton might as well think you were the weird one for reading into his actions so much without having a proper reason to.
But before you can backtrack on your observation, you feel Anton's hand brush against yours. You look up at the contact and then, his fingers interlace with yours, a soft tug bringing your joined hands into his pockets.
Your heart nearly catapults itself outside of your chest at the sudden touch. All while Anton watches you but you turn coy, looking away.
"Is this okay?" his voice is low, so as to not startle you. As if you could possibly be any more startled than you already were.
You look at him once again and his eyes are sincere, as sincere as his hand is in yours, keeping you close to his side. "Yeah, it's fine," you hear yourself saying, as if you didn't belong to your own body anymore.
You walk back in silence but warmer than ever, with Anton's hand enveloping yours the whole time. You feel dizzy with the weight of his touch and with the confusion of it all.
He walks you to your room without a word and when your hands finally part, he gives you a soft smile. "Good night, Y/N." You nod, unsure if you could form any words right now. You turn to unlock your room when Anton speaks up again: "Oh, and about earlier? You might wanna get used to it."
You spin to face him but he's walking away without another look at you and you swear your knees all but give out under you with how weak you feel. Your words from earlier come rushing back and your heart races even in your own company as you enter your room. Anton might just be the death of you at this rate.
—
The next day you retain your composure for the most part, all thanks to the fact that you don't encounter Anton as often as usual because you have back-to-back meetings for club activities and a class project. But the feeling of accomplishment vanishes as soon as you spot him outside the study room where you'd met up with your project-mates. They leave, biding you goodbye and side-eyeing the boy outside, clearly waiting for someone.
"Anton?" you call out, slowly approaching him. He looks up with a beam, "Hey! You're finally done?"
"Yeah, but what are you doing here?"
"You said you'd be here for your meeting so I thought I'd come pick you up."
You faintly recall shooting him a text about not being able to meet up at your usual spot because of your group meeting but hadn't expected him to show up there.
"Oh, I guess that's nice of you," you say.
"You guess?" Anton echoes, sulking, "Come on, Y/N. I've been sad 'cause I didn't get to see you all day and that's all you have for me? We have a lot of work to do here."
You're in a daze the whole time he's speaking, watching his lips move and feeling your stable headspace slip farther away from you. "No, I mean, I'm glad to see you, too. I just didn't expect it."
"Told ya to get used to it, didn't I?" he shakes his head like it's the most obvious thing in the whole world. "Anyway, are you free for the night now?"
When you nod, he goes on. "You wanna come over and watch a movie with me? I've been wanting to watch it for a while now but I never got the chance too…" He goes on to give you a brief synposis of it and you can practically feel the excitement radiating off him.
You laugh at his genuine enthusiasm and agree without a thought, forgetting your current weakness around him.
Which is why it only dawns upon you when you step foot into his room to find it to be oddly… small. Is it the same size it had always been? Yes. Had you been alone in it with him before? Also, yes. But had it ever felt like you were going to pass out from anxiety because you were all alone with him before? No.
You plop onto his bed without a word and if Anton notices your zoned out state, he says nothing. He takes his coat off and hangs it up, tapping your shoulder. "You sure you don't want to take your jacket off? It's kinda warm in my room." You nod, having forgotten to slip your jacket off. You hand him your jacket with a soft thanks.
You hate to be the shell of a person you are right now, so you make yourself comfortable, sitting against the wall with a cushion for your back, taking your boots off. You pat your chest as Anton is busy setting his laptop up in a position for both of you to watch on his bed. When he finally takes his seat next to you, settling closer than he usually does, you tell yourself to stay calm and enjoy the rush of feeling his arm brush against yours, instead of letting it unnerve you.
It helps to let the feeling be, instead of running from it. You relax in your own skin, finding the peace to finally focus on the movie instead of the boy next to you and in your heart.
It's a sweet movie, as it turns out, even earning a few tears from you as the ending credits roll in. Anton hits pause on the movie, shifting to look at you. You half-chuckle through your tears, wiping them haphazardly with the back of your hand.
Anton catches your wrist in his, pulling it away from your face and to his lap. His thumb replaces your hand, gently wiping at your cheekbones. "I'm guessing you liked the movie then?" his voice is tender, not mocking like you might have expected. You nod, "Yes."
"I'm glad. I wasn't sure you'd be willing to spend time with me alone after… after yesterday," Anton says, his lashes hooding his eyes as he speaks, tone suddenly coy, "But I'm glad what I said didn't make you uncomfortable."
"...you were worried?" you ask, shocked at his shy revelation.
"Well, yeah, I was worried when I didn't get to see you the whole day today that maybe you were avoiding me. But that was just me overthinking things. I'm scared to fuck things up with you."
You find yourself smiling at his sincerity. "You're so cute, Anton."
The words slip out of you before you can filter them and the boy's head bobs up in shock at your compliment, and you both sit in silence, staring at each other's flustered faces.
And then you both break into laughter at yourselves. "What are we even doing?"
Anton runs a hand through his hair, "I don't know, Y/N. What do you want us to do?"
You rest your head against the wall, humming, "I want us to stay this way. To be with you."
He chuckles, "I feel like those are mutually exclusive events, no?"
"They don't have to be," you mumble, reaching for his hair, just so you can feel the soft strands tickle your skin. "I'm happy with you, Anton."
Anton's hand finds yours in his locks, bringing it to his lips as he kisses your knuckles. "I like being with you too, Y/N. But I want more. Maybe I'm just being selfish, but I want you, all of you."
His words would've sent your heart into paralysis had they been uttered a few hours ago but having been lulled into the comfort of his presence for a while now, having attuned yourself to your own feelings at last, you feel a soaring feeling, like you had finally found something you had been looking for this whole time.
Anton's pulling you closer, his hand encompassing yours as his face overwhelms your vision. "Kiss me already," you urge him and just like that, his lips find yours, with a crash that makes you giggle a little. The force of his warm lips sways you a little and Anton catches you in his arms, pulling you into him by the waist.
"Can't believe I finally did it," you hear him whisper when he pulls back, looking at you in awe. "You don't understand how long I've been wanting to kiss your damn face." You laugh into him and he hugs you tight. "God, when you showed up at my door on my 20th birthday, I swear it took me everything to not kiss you right there and then."
"If I recall correctly, you did kiss me," you remind him, "Granted, it was on the cheek. But you could've sped the process up had you just kissed me for real."
Anton glares at you, "You're saying that? Really? After you went mute because of said cheek kiss? If anything, I was being considerate. Plus, I would kill to see you go that red again."
"You jerk! So you were teasing me on purpose!"
"Well, yeah? What kind of a guy would I be if I didn't flirt with the girl I like a little just to enjoy how she reacts? It's the cutest shit ever!"
You hide your face in his sleeve, "You suck. I lost sleep over that, you know."
"Good to know that it wasn't just me, then." Anton's arms wrap around you so naturally that you can only wonder if this was really your first time being intimate with him.
When you rise from his arm, his lips capture yours again, urgently like he was running out of time. You return his fervor, just as desperate in your desire as he was. That night, you fall asleep in Anton's arm, feeling his heart beat next yours as you dream away.
–
It takes you a second to get used to the feeling of Anton being your boyfriend. Because in many ways, it's the same as always: him picking you up from class to eat lunch together and spending your time together struggling with coursework. But now there's more to it: you walk home, hand in hand, and spend your nights together.
"Hey, you wanna come over and make out after you're done with this meeting?"
You snap around to glare at Anton when he whispers the question in your ear. You hit his arm and he laughs boyishly, shrugging, "What? I'm just being real because you and I both know that's what's gonna end up happening–"
"You're outrageous, Anton," you shake your head, "We don't always–! Well, maybe most of the time, yes, but–" He cuts you off, pecking your cheek. "Yes, yes, whatever you say, babe. I'll see ya in an hour."
Pairing: Jaehyun x Reader
Genre: romance, fluff, a tiny bit of angst
Warnings: strong language, gets a little suggestive but no smut, lots of pillowtalk
Word Count: 4.2k words of fluff
Summary: Jaehyun’s pretty sure you’re flaking on him once again. He knew it was too good to be true because he couldn’t cage a free bird for too long now, could he?
A/N: As requested, here is an extra from Under Your Skin for my 1k notes event! This takes place after the original story and can be read as a standalone fic as well if you please; although there are some tiny references to the original fic.
Once again, thank you so much to all of you for reading and supporting Under Your Skin and all my other works as much as you all have. It means more to me than you will ever know 🥺💛
Jaehyun really should’ve known better, but by the time he’s reached his apartment, he can’t help the anger he feels. Why was he such a fool? Why did he keep making the same mistakes over and over?
Because Jaehyun is pretty damn sure you’re flaking on him once again. He knows the feeling because he’s been here before. He’d been calling you all day. He had left you so many messages. And all he had received in return was radio silence. Jaehyun had been walking around trying to look for you to no avail and now it’s near midnight and he’s coming home frustrated and angry. More than anything, he’s mad at himself. He keeps making the same mistake because he’s a fucking idiot who lets himself believe that people can change. That you would change. But he had been trying to cage a free bird. What had he expected?
He takes off his shoes and now he knows he is in a bad mood. The kind of mood that would make him snap at the first person he sees. So he decides it is best for him to go straight to bed. He didn’t want anyone to tell him ‘I told you so.’ Because he knows it full well himself. It would be best if he just sleeps and maybe he’d be able to manage his mood a bit better come daylight.
There are loves that blossom silently, and there are loves that consume. Love chose him as its sole vessel the moment you stepped into his still life and made it breathe. Because you were not merely the person he loved.
You were the garden and the grave where Soobin would bury himself. Willingly, ardently, and without return.
⊹₊⟡⋆ 21k
pairing: florist!Choi Soobin x afab!reader
tags: florist au, friends to lover, slice of life, mild slow burn if you squint, mutual pining, simp!soobin, portrayal of feelings through flowers, lots of yearning, mild jealousy because why not, somehow even became a sick fic, SOOBIN WEARS GLASSES! [probably missed some]
[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, munch!soobin, oral (f.), fingering, tummy bulge, subspace (but it's soobin being pussy drunk), cumming in pants, pathetic!dom!soobin, spit as lube, praise kink if you squint, multiple orgasms, missionary, unprotected sex (not huzzah!), creampie (please don't) [definitely missed some]
so umm. somehow it became 21k. NOW IN MY DEFENSE—IT WAS GOING VERY WELL UNTIL I STARTED THE SMUT! i might have went extremely overboard with it guys it was an out of body experience. but hey on the bright side, you have 3k words worth smut of soobin being pathetic! it's a win, right? *laughs nervously* alright jokes aside, i hope you enjoy reading this story as much as i enjoyed writing it <33
Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!
There was a jar of lemon candies near the cash register that no one ever touched, except for you. He kept refilling it anyway. Once, you’d told him that sour things make you feel awake. He didn’t like lemon candy, never has — but now the shop feels incomplete without that bright little jar amidst the plethora of greens.
Soobin liked being a florist. He loved flowers more. Perhaps it was because the shop stopped feeling like a shop and rather a person to him. It woke up with him every morning, breathed with the breeze when he slid the door open, and hummed softly when he watered the hanging plants. He worked there most days, except for Tuesdays, when his employee took over so he could attend his classes. For the remaining days of the week, Soobin arranged his schedule meticulously so that he could finish his classes early in the morning and put his entire focus on flowers. The arrangement’s practical, he liked to believe.
The shop sat below his apartment, which is really just one big room pretending to be three. His uncle handed it to him when he moved here for university, saying, “It’s old but it’ll love you back if you take care of it.” Perhaps that’s what got him thinking about flowers in the first place.
Why flowers, specifically? — because the most romantic thing about flowers is that they could say what people couldn't. Flowers, to him, are translators. They turn the things people mean into color and shape, into scent and softness. He liked to imagine that every arrangement he made carried a small story.
He didn’t always know what it was, but he liked guessing — a confession with roses, an apology wrapped around white lilies, and carnations carrying gratitude for the loved ones. He took joy in translating those feelings and that’s what drew him in; the thought that he’s helping people say things they can’t always phrase. He liked that flowers never lie. They just bloom, fade, and start again. In their short lives, they manage to say everything worth saying.
In the middle of tending to a new shipment of red gerberas, Soobin blinked back into focus when your distant laugh drifted inside. Realizing he’d been standing still for a while with a pair of shears in hand, staring at nothing in particular, he clipped the stem he was holding.
There was a quaint nursery at the back of the shop. Once an unremarkable yard attached to his uncle’s apartment now repurposed into rows of neatly aligned pots and every colour of flowers one could imagine. You were there, showing the elderly couple around and explaining differences between varieties with the knowledge you got from Soobin after months of hanging around. They were regulars, always appearing on Sundays, and they’d long decided they preferred you over him when it came to choosing plants though you didn’t even work there.
He liked the friendly company you brought, as he liked to tell himself, but each time he looked through the windowpane to catch you smiling — that conviction thinned. You looked impossibly beautiful standing there among the green, pointing something out to the old woman who was nodding along with delight. There was dirt on your fingertips, probably your sleeves too, but you were radiant nonetheless.
The sight made him feel a strange tug somewhere in his chest, which was funny, because it resembled what one would call envy. Soobin was envious that sunlight got to touch you first.
When you led the couple back inside, he quickly turned his gaze to the counter, focusing on trimming the stems before the flowers lost too much moisture. Your voice was honey to him, your presence the sun.
“Soobin, they’re thinking about keeping some plants in their kitchen. They want to know which ones will last.” You placed two small tubs of chrysanthemums in front of him, their leaves still wet from misting.
The old man gave a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as if the admission embarrassed him. “My wife says the kitchen looks too plain without a bit of life.”
“I told him,” the old woman interrupted fondly, “that if we’re going to cook every day, we might as well have something nice to look at while we’re doing it.”
Soobin smiled, leaning forward to inspect the tubs. “You could try pothos,” he said after a moment. “They don’t need much light, and they’ll forgive you even if you forget them for a few days. Basil too, if you want something useful. It grows better near a window, though.”
The old woman’s eyes brightened. “Basil sounds lovely. I could use it for our soups.”
“Soup!” You chirped when you came back from washing your dirt smeared hands. “Oh, Mrs. Park, I need to know how your soup tastes.”
The couple laughed at that, the sound pulling Soobin’s attention as he stole a glance at you with a smile of his own. “I will make sure to give you kids some the next time we come by!” she promised.
“Then it’s settled,” you said warmly, turning back to Soobin. “You won’t regret getting the basil. Everything grown and cared for by Soobin in this shop is full of love.”
The wife smiled, cheeks crinkling. “You’re as sweet as these flowers, dear.”
Sweeter than any of them, Soobin thought. Prettier too.
He wordlessly passed you a towel and you took it with a murmured thanks while he went back to arranging the couple’s purchase. As he packed, the woman’s gaze caught on the gerberas beside him.
“Those are lovely,” she said, eyes softening at the red bloom. “It’s been years since I’ve seen them this bright.”
You followed her gaze. “They really are, aren’t they?” you said, tapping your finger lightly against the counter. “Maybe you should take a few stems home too. They’ll add some color to your living room.”
“They would,” the husband agreed, already pulling his wallet from his coat. “Let’s take a few.”
There was this magic in you. Some people didn’t need flowers to speak for them — their presence was already poetry, their laughter already a language. You were one of them. And you were his exact opposite. Soobin, who could shape meaning through petals and stems but stumbled when it came to words, was terrified of letting his thoughts spill unchecked from his heart to his mouth, terrified that they might reach you and ruin the ephemeral beauty of what already existed between you. So he relied on flowers, always.
He held up a single red gerbera between his thumb and index finger. His eyes drifted to where you stood beside the elderly couple, now showing them the tulips on display. The flower symbolizes a passionate and profound declaration of love, representing a love that filled every part of the soul until it became difficult to breathe. It made him wonder what it would feel like to hand the bouquet to you instead, to let the flower say what he couldn’t. The idea itself was enough to trip his pulse.
The old couple soon gathered their plants and bouquet as they bid farewell to you both. Gerberas suited them — he thought as he watched them leave — still vibrant after all these years, their love so full of life. A love like that, he hoped, was not beyond him. A love like that, he wanted to be capable of giving and also worthy of receiving.
That want, that wish of his didn’t seem to be so far off because his brain came to a comforting pause when the same words were spoken out loud, by you.
“Arent they wonderful?” you sighed dreamily, watching the couple disappear down the street. “I hope a love like theirs finds me.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” he murmured, arranging the leftover stems. “You’re very lovable. People tend to love you without needing to be asked.”
You blinked, caught off guard for half a second before recovering with a teasing smile. “Do they, now?”
He nodded, still not looking up, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “Even Mr. and Mrs. Park. They barely let me talk to them anymore.”
You gasped softly in realization and snapped your fingers. “Right! They never ask for your help, do they?” You leaned in across the counter and it took everything in Soobin not to fold right there. “Watch out, Soobin. At this rate, I might just learn enough to open my own shop across the street. Then what will you do?”
Soobin chuckled, dimples deepening as he pushed his glasses up with the back of his wrist. “I’ll have a scary competitor then.”
You giggled, amused by the thought. “You think I’m scary?”
He narrowed his eyes just enough that the look read more fond than fierce, and then, by a measure that felt modest because he was taller, he bent at the waist until his face aligned with yours. He leaned forward the barest fraction.
“Terrifying.”
He whispered the words with a cheeky squint of his eyes and let his gaze find yours with a small, almost solemn smile. For a fleeting second, Soobin allowed himself the luxury of memorizing you up close as you burst out into a fit of laughter.
Time flew in a strange way on Sundays. It stretched and folded in ways that defied reason. With you in the shop, time seemed to slow just inside that shared space surrounded by flowers for him. Nothing more than your mere presence, not even the brilliance of the fresh floras and their honeyed fragrance, could make him feel alive. Yet at the same time, the hours slipped from his grasp because it is never enough. The day always ended too soon, and every time you reached for your bag Soobin found himself wishing for just one more hour with you. One more exchange that he could replay in the stillness of his mind when night fell.
He never asked, of course. Love, to him, was a quiet thing — a bloom meant to be nurtured, not confessed too soon. So he contented himself with the gentle ache you left behind until you came by the next day to heal him.
When you finally left that evening, he tucked a single red gerbera stem into your bag, wrapped in paper the colour he knew you adored.
MONDAYS were rather boring.
Everything was as it always was, except it wasn’t. It was the only day when your schedule didn't align with his, meaning, when Soobin’s classes ended and he began his shift, yours started. Even in a place overflowing with color and life, with beauty and extravagance, your presence was what always made life vibrant in his eyes. Without you, everything paled inside the shop. Even the new batch of flowers he’d receive for the day refused to liven up as if they were waiting for you to show up and breathe life into them. Soobin was like the flowers.
He missed you more than he could justify. To the point he’d foolishly perk up — like a bunny perking up in the gentlest alarm, as you’d like to call him — whenever the shop door’s bell jingled. Every time, he flt like a part of him slowly died whenever he’d see it wasn't you but rather a customer.
On such days, Soobin felt like a machine serving its purpose. Greet the customers, tend to the flowers, make arrangements and repeat. To be fair, the monotony used to comfort him once. Two years ago, that had been his entire life. It used to be only him and the flowers, and sometimes his part-time employee taking turns behind the counter so he could balance his studies and tutoring. That changed when you became friends with him.
Soobin couldn’t remember when or how it began but he really enjoyed it when you started showing up in his humble shop like this. You expressed genuine interest when he first told you about his little business, and he couldn't forget the look on your face when he first took you to the shop. No flower could rival the raw look of enrapture you had on you. You started coming by more often — at first to talk, then to help, then simply to exist there. You loved flowers as much as he did. So there was no reason for him to stop you from showing up.
He doubted he could ever ask you to stop showing up. Frankly, it’s something he always looked forward to because you manage to bring comfort with you. You had a way of making the space feel lived in; of making him feel seen. So now your absence, even if for one day, felt tortuous to Soobin.
Whenever his employee Jisoo showed up, Soobin would manage the shop together with him. The lunch brought by Jisoo was shared between the two of them. Some days, Soobin would almost hear your phantom nagging at him for never learning how to cook. On others, when Jisoo happened to bring the dishes you loved, Soobin would simply stare at them for a moment too long, thinking of how you’d probably hum with satisfaction after the first bite, your expression glowing with unguarded joy that made his heart ache in the most tender way.
On such a monday, after Jisoo left finishing his shift, Soobin brewed himself a cup of tea as he put on some song in the background. Leaning against the counter he took a sip of his tea and stared out of the window. Outside, a pair of children ran past, their laughter echoed down the path. Soobin’s gaze drifted toward the doorway. The space looked too still without your movement.
The only movement that tugged on the edges of his thoughts was the gentle sway of the daffodils by the breeze that came from the open nursery door. The bright yellow flowers beckoned him to caress them.
Daffodils, known for their ability to emerge after the darkness of winter symbolizes hope and the promise of better times, alongside joy and happiness. He wondered, as he gently brushed his across one of the petals, if in another life or in some other universe entirely — these daffodils were growing inside his chest, their roots weaving through his lungs, their golden blooms stealing his breath. Perhaps that was why his heart ached this way every time he thought of you. He decided he wouldn’t mind suffocating, not if it meant the air that left him was filled with your name.
Love had made its home in him long ago. Flowers of love bloomed in his chest, threatening to slip out of him whenever he looked at you which he disguised as breathless laughters, as words, as the ineffable fondness that ran through his veins at your mere existence.
Another chime from the bell. Again, he looked up. Again, it wasn’t you.
He hated Mondays for how long they felt, for how they made the absence of you stretch into hours he could count by the way the sunlight changed. Still, there was a strange comfort in missing you. It meant you existed somewhere beyond these walls, and tomorrow, when the bell chimed again, it might really be you.
Until then, he had the flowers. He had the scent of the daffodils. He had the echo of your voice stored in memory. And for a boy like Soobin who loved through petals and silence, that was sufficient to keep breathing through the slow, pale hours of Monday.
From morning lectures to late afternoon tutoring, Soobin’s hours always blurred into a monotony of words and fatigue on Tuesdays. Other than that, these days were simply to say, pretty uneventful.
But it was such a TUESDAY that reminded him that even ordinary days could bloom.
Soft morning light pooled across the courtyard benches where Soobin sat with Taehyun and Kai. The three of them huddled together as they discussed writing their reports, but it was mostly them and not Soobin who engaged in the conversation. Soobin found his attention drifting to the faint rustle of leaves above them.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw you waving. You appeared in a rush of sunlight and apologetic smiles, which made him sit up straighter. He almost did the foolish act of fumbling to catch his heart because it skipped a beat so hard, Soobin truly felt like it was about to leap out of his ribcage.
“Soobin!” You called, already halfway to them. You were visibly out of breath but why was it him who felt breathless? The way your eyes caught the sunlight made it impossible for him to look anywhere else. “I don’t have time to stay—I’m already late for my lecture—but here.” You held out a paper bag toward him. “Don’t skip lunch, okay? I’ll see you later!”
Before he could say much beyond a thank you,you were already stepping back, waving to the other two. “Bye, guys!” — and running off toward the building.
For a second, everything surrounding him seemed to still in the wake of your absence. He opened the bag, saw the croissant sandwich wrapped in neat folds and a water bottle nestled beside it. You were his friend, yes, what you were doing was nothing more than just a friend looking out for another. You’d always been thoughtful, always been a loving and caring person. Still, he couldn’t stop feeling warm by this small act of care because you knew Tuesdays were hectic for him and went out of your way to make sure he gained the energy to push through.
Kai’s malicious groan disturbed his sweet bubble of thoughts. “Must be nice having someone like that,” the younger said, gesturing lazily at the bag. “You’re lucky, man. I’d kill for a lunch delivery mid-day and— ow!”
It was Taehyun who smacked the back of Kai’s head to hush him, signalling him with a single stare that translated ‘read the room’. The two then turned to Soobin who still looked lost in his head, glasses slightly dropping down his nose by the way his head was tilted downward.
Taehyun softly cleared his throat, trying to mask his question as friendly as possible. “Are you two together?”
Soobin flinched. He could have said no, a neat dismissal that left nothing to broker between them. Instead he found himself saying, “We’re just friends.” The phrase came out tasting bitter and wrong on his tongue, betraying him with a half-second’s hesitation between just and friends that suggested how the truth refused to fit into any box.
“Ah,” Taehyun said simply, leaning back in his chair. “Alright.”
Kai, rubbing the back of his head, tried to reclaim the moment, about to offer some light commentary that would have widened the circle of awkwardness, but Taehyun’s small, admonishing look cut him off. There was nothing for Soobin to explain anyway, or maybe there was too much.
By evening, the exhaustion sat heavy in his bones. Lecture after lecture had chipped away at him until all that remained was a dull ache behind his eyes. He had texted you out of habit in the afternoon between class breaks.
Not feeling very uplifted today.
He hadn’t meant for it to sound like a plea. Your reply came almost instantly.
I understand. I’ll be around if you need anything. Don’t push yourself too hard.
Typical of you — never intrusive, always there in the way only you could be. He appreciated it, but the distance between you remained, as it always had.
After finishing his last tutoring session of the day, he walked down the nearly deserted hallway. He hadn’t thought about you much during the time he spent wallowing in stress and fatigue. But when he turned the corner toward the elevator, the sight before him stopped him in his tracks.
There, just outside the elevator, sitting on one of the chairs by the wall, was you.
For a moment, he simply stood there, the dull exhaustion inside him replaced by something wordless and vast. You looked up, and when your eyes met his, a small smile, tired yet radiant at the same, bloomed across your face.
What are you doing here? — was all he could think, though words deserted him for a few more seconds after approaching you.
“You’re still here?” he managed. “Your class ended hours ago.”
You stood stretching slightly, your smile widening just a fraction. “Figured you’d need someone to walk home with.”
He blinked, dazed, as if the meaning of your words had to travel through too many walls before it reached him. “Didn’t you have somewhere to go?” he asked, trying to reason.
“No,” you replied simply, “I wanted to make sure you weren’t walking home alone.”
His pulse thrummed with an inexplicable ache that felt too alive for his exhausted body. It wasn’t like you to wait around this long, especially when you could be using this time to focus on anything better. Anything or anyone better than him. But you had waited for him because of a single text.
He didn’t know what he had done to be worthy of your patience, nor did he know how to articulate the reverence that rose in him now, the fierce, aching wish to deserve it. He wondered whether his heart could bear much more of you before it gave itself away entirely.
“Oh? Um. Thank you,” he murmured, the words far too meager for all he wanted to say.
The elevator chimed. You gestured toward it with a small nod, and he followed, still unsure if his gratitude was delivered to you properly. You leaned back against the wall, and let out a sigh that relaxed your posture. He took his place against the opposite wall. Now, with the distance of the day collapsing between you he noticed the weariness clinging to you which he had missed when he first saw you sitting outside. He still couldn’t fathom the fact that you waited for him, all because he expressed feeling a little blue.
“Did you eat everything?” Your voice was soothing and gentle that in his overflowing love fueled headspace, he almost felt like he could fall asleep listening to you. “The croissant—was it alright?”
“It was better than alright,” he, too, spoke in a low tone to match your cadence. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I opened the bag.”
You smiled, eyes meeting his for the briefest second before drifting toward the faintly glowing floor indicator. “I knew you needed it. I know how hard you work all the time.”
He felt a drowsy calm settle over him. If either of you noticed the way his eyes were locked onto you after your admission, neither you nor he made a comment about it. He wanted to take your tiredness and scatter it away, to cup your face and let his gratitude pour through his touch just as a way to give back, to make you feel the way you made him feel. The impulse to kiss you was so overwhelming that it startled him though not because it was new, but because it had never been this close to breaking through. His hands twitched at his sides, every instinct begging to bridge the distance, yet reason kept him still.
Nevertheless, what he felt for you had already outgrown the safety of words. It was already too alive, too consuming, blooming inside him like a garden that asked only to be watered by you.
When the elevator doors opened, the spell broke. Soobin turned his head, meaning to speak, to say thank you again in a way that might capture what you had done for him but the words withered again before they could take shape.
If love could be measured by waiting, then you had just rewritten every definition he knew.
By the railing near the exit, a row of potted forget-me-nots watched in blue silence, as though they, too, understood what it meant to wait and to be remembered.
If affection could take form, Soobin learned that WEDNESDAYS could be its sunlight.
When he orders for a shipment, it is mostly on Wednesdays that the new batch of fresh floras arrive. It wasn’t necessarily a constant occurrence, but it had happened often, which is why Soobin liked to keep important shop related agendas particularly on this day.
Two weeks later on a Wednesday. Soobin stood behind the counter with sleeves rolled above his forearms, a clipboard in hand, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he ticked off names and numbers. The bell jingled — and of course instinctively he looked up — smiling brightly with his dimples deepening at the sight of you.
“Hey,” you greeted him with a cheerful smile.
He reached for the glass jar beside the register, fished out a lemon candy, and rolled it across the counter toward you.
“Morning,” he greeted, his smile softening. “You’re here earlier than usual.”
“Prof was feeling generous today, I suppose. She ended the class early so I came as soon as I could,” you replied, picking up the candy. The lemon filled your mouth with a tangy sting, a small burst of summer. Behind him, Jisoo was sorting tulips with exaggerated concentration, pretending not to eavesdrop. You waved at him anyway, earning a sheepish smile before he ducked his head.
“Everything arrived fine?” you asked, glancing toward the mountain of crates by the window.
Soobin followed your gaze, pushed his glasses higher, and exhaled as though only now realizing how much work still lay ahead. “More or less. The supplier mixed up a few labels again—I might have accidentally ordered twice the usual number of sunflowers.”
“Accidentally?” you repeated, your brows arching in suspicion.
He met your look with one of his own — a small smile of oops before setting the clipboard down. “Maybe not entirely. Actually,” he began, pausing because he wanted to choose his words with care, “do you have plans for the day?”
“Nope,” you said at once. “Why? Planning to put me to work again?”
“Something like that,” he said, straightening a small stack of receipts only to set them down again. Soobin felt a tender warmth in his chest as you stared at him expectantly. “How would you feel about coming with me to the sunflower farm? I need to sort out the delivery issue in person. Could use the company.”
The candy nearly slipped from your tongue. “A sunflower farm?” you echoed, disbelief giving way to delight. “You’re asking me to go to a sunflower farm?”
“Unless you have something better to do,” he teased lightly, though his hand still brushed the edge of the counter with a nervous anticipation.
You shook your head far too quickly. “Even if I did, I’d cancel it immediately. Who in their right mind would say no to a sunflower field?”
You said those words so earnestly that Soobin couldn’t stop the bright laugh from escaping him. He hadn’t meant to react so openly, yet your enthusiasm had a way of undoing his restraint piece by piece until all that remained was this foolish, giddy pulse under his ribs that refused to calm down.
“You’re right, no one in their right mind should say no to that,” he humored you, adjusting his glasses to mask the giddiness still threatening to spread. “Give me around ten minutes and we’ll go, yeah?”
You saluted him playfully before turning toward the doorway. Behind you, his voice followed, threaded with an affection he didn’t bother to hide. “And grab a hat—it gets hot out there. Jisoo will show you where we keep them.”
He didn’t really need to solve the delivery issue in person — he could’ve just sent an e-mail clarification and been done with it. But Soobin, being Soobin, saw the outing as a chance to “deepen professional ties.” That was how he phrased it in his head at least. Both work-wise and, well… you-wise.
He told you it was for work, and he told himself that too. And technically, it was true. He was going for work. But what his mind could justify, his heart refused to understand. His heart had long stopped behaving like something he could reason with. It thrashed and pleaded, spinning songs out of nothing whenever you were near and lured out all the thoughts he’d buried in the farthest corners of his head. It told him things his reason wouldn’t dare put into words. Things like asking you to accompany him to a sunflower farm was the equivalent of asking you on a date. Scratch that, it wasn’t really a date because, again, work. Except his heart couldn’t care less.
If sunflowers yearned toward the sun, then his heart tilted helplessly toward you. You had your fingerprints all over his heart, left on his thoughts, his gestures, the smallest habits he could no longer call his own. You touched him without touching him, and he felt it deep in his bones.
By the time they arrived at the sunflower farm, the late afternoon light had turned syrup-thick, golden and drowsy, coating everything it touched. It took less than half an hour for him to settle the shipment issue which he was most thankful for because it meant he could spend more time with you looking around. He carried the paperwork in one hand checking the state of the flowers as they walked, though his mind was far from logistics.
You walked a few steps ahead, the hem of your shirt catching in the breeze and sunlight glancing off your hair as you did. Every few seconds, you’d turn back to point something out with a smile — a stretch of wildflowers, a crooked fence post and each time you did, he felt that same small collapse inside him, the one that whispered he could spend a lifetime looking at you and still not feel full.
He wanted to reach for your hand. God, how badly he wanted to. It wasn’t even about the touch — it was about what it meant. It was to feel your pulse beneath his thumb, to know that the warmth in his chest had somewhere to belong. But do friends hold hands like that? With the kind of longing that burned holes through reason and plagued his senses?
Soobin noticed a patch of young sunflowers and bent before them, one knee pressed into the dirt, eyes tracing the fragile stems swaying in the mild breeze. His fingers brushed the soil with care, tracing the tender line of roots that had begun to weave through the earth. The ground was still warm from the afternoon sun, faintly damp against his skin.
You came to stand beside him, your shadow falling across the flowers. “Are these newly planted?” you asked, crouching a little to match his height.
He nodded, flicking a bit of soil from his fingers. “Mm. A few weeks old, maybe.”
You tilted your head, smiling at the shy blossoms. Then you glanced at him with a grin that glowed warmer than the light itself. “How pretty.”
Though you meant the flowers, the words seemed to settle somewhere deep in him. He didn’t dare look up. He could still feel you there, your presence bright beside him. The weather’s heat was a little tacky but your warmth felt heavenly. Then, all at once, your weight beside him vanished.
“Soobin,” you called sweetly from somewhere behind him.
He looked up and was met with a sprinkle of cold droplets landing across his cheek. He blinked, a startled laugh escaping him. You stood a few steps away with the watering can in both hands, trying to hide your grin.
“Oops,” you said lightly. “Got confused for a second—which one was the real flower.”
“Oh my god.” He raised his brows, disbelief flickering across his face. “You’re not usually the type for corny lines.”
“What can I do when you’re so pretty?”
That made him stop. The laugh died halfway through his throat, dissolving into a soundless exhale. You said it so easily, without any awareness of what it did to him and maybe that was what made it worse, that you could wound him so sweetly without even knowing.
He rose to his feet, slow enough to steady himself. Reaching for the watering can, he caught your wrist gently before he dipped his hand into the water. When he lifted it again, droplets slid between his knuckles, catching sunlight as he flicked them in your direction.
You gasped, a small sound that made his stomach twist, your lashes catching stray drops.
“Guess I’ll have to water you too,” he said, tapping his wet fingers once against your cheek, eyes dipping for a second too long. “You look parched.”
And the moment they left his mouth, his heart raced in his throat. He could almost feel the words replaying in his own head. What are you doing? What are you saying? His mind scrambled to fix what his mouth had already done. He hastily drew his hand back.
You seemed to still for a moment before wiping your face with the back of your hand, eyes narrowing playfully. “It’s flattering to know you think I’m pretty, Soobin.”
He hesitated — a heartbeat too long — before forcing a grin and patting your head. “I think you need water to grow taller,” he countered steadily though his pulse was anything but.
“Wow,” you said flatly, dragging out the word. “How rude.”
Soobin had to look away and laugh, which sounded way too nervous to be called one. He tugged at the top button of his shirt before it came undone and a low exhale slipped past his lips. He was already in some sort of trance. Maybe the sun had found its way into his bloodstream, making him reckless enough to muddle reasons. Because blaming his erratic need to lose control in front of you on the sun was easier than to admit he was truly losing it.
One moment you were standing in front of him then the next you moved in front of a bigger batch up ahead. "You really shouldn’t be talking about height here," you said, pointing to a sunflower that swayed slightly in the breeze. "That one’s taller than you. In fact, most of them are towering above you."
Soobin, caught in the moment, let his traitorous heart take control and began humoring you. “Is that so?” He moved beside the flower. It towered impressively, yes, but the top of his head passed the blossom by only a few centimeters. His shoulders straightened with faint defiance as he glanced down at you, half a smirk playing on his lips. "Seems I still win."
You squinted up at him. "Don’t cheat by standing on your toes," you teased, reaching out to tug lightly at his sleeve.
The sunlight spilled across your face in such a way that made you look otherworldly. He was already far too gone in the trance put on him by the magic of you, and right at that moment, Soobin forgot how to stand. He forgot the line between reason and impulse (nothing to be surprised of), between what he should do and what he wanted.
He leaned down before he could stop himself, close enough for his shadow to blur with yours on the road. “Is it better this way?” he murmured.
It was a mistake. He knew it the moment his voice reached your ears, when your laughter stilled and your eyes flicked up to meet his, wide and startled and so alive that his breath trembled. How easily he could close that last distance between you and him. How impossible it truly was.
Then his senses caught up to him all at once. He straightened abruptly, hand flying to the bridge of his glasses — his oldest defense — adjusting them even though they hadn’t slipped. It gave him a moment, just one, to hide behind the pretense of composure. His jaw clenched faintly as he looked away.
But even as he stared forward, he could feel your gaze on him — the soft burn of it trailing along the curve of his neck, tracing the space he had left between you. He didn’t dare look at you. If he did, you’d see everything he’d been hiding, everything that now pulsed under his skin like fever.
“Do you—” he paused, clearing his throat as the words got caught, “do you want to take pictures? Before the sun goes down.” he sounded a little too careful but it did what he needed it to — it changed the air.
You glanced toward the horizon, where the light had begun to mellow into amber. “That’s a good idea,” you said after a beat. “You can take photos for the catalog too—the blooms look perfect today.”
He nodded, grateful for the excuse. Grateful to have something to do with his hands. He unzipped the canvas bag slung across his shoulder and pulled out the small, cream-colored Polaroid camera — a gift from you months ago, when you’d told him to capture memories before they faded. He took his time to capture everything he deemed beautiful but every few seconds, his gaze flickered to where you stood among the taller sunflowers, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear which kept swaying by the breeze.
He raised the camera again, this time framing you against the wide sky.
When the film slid out, he watched it develop in his hand, the color slowly blooming into form. You tilted your head, watching him. “That’s not for the catalog,” you remarked with a gentle smile.
He met your gaze then. It was only for a second but enough to betray himself. He still wanted to indulge a little.
“No,” he admitted softly, “this one’s for me.” As well as be honest a little.
You let out a soft chuckle. Taking a few steps closer, you reached for the camera.
“Then this one—” you said, holding it toward him, “—is mine.”
He blinked, almost unmoored, before breaking into a helpless smile that could only exist when you were around. Hiwever, it was genuine.
As the photograph emerged, you held it by its edge beside the one he’d taken. Two fragments of the same light, caught forever in the same field of gold.
The metro was far more crowded than it had any right to be at that hour. Soobin stood near the door, one hand around the pole, the other hovering just behind your shoulder to keep anyone from bumping into you. You looked uneasy, shoulders drawn in, trying your best to fold into yourself without seeming rude.
Soobin knew you never liked standing amidst people in a densely populated place. He should’ve known better than to suggest the metro. And though it wasn’t entirely his fault, the sight of you pressing into the corner made his chest twist in guilt. So, without thinking much, he reached out and guided you gently by the elbow until you were tucked between him and the wall.
You fit there perfectly, shielded from the crowd completely by the breadth of his frame. You blinked up at him, a little startled. He looked down, suddenly aware of the closeness. His hand dropped back to his side almost immediately, flexing.
“Sorry,” he spoke in a hush tone. “I just thought you’d be more comfortable here.”
You shook your head with a smile, the corners of your eyes folding with quiet affection. “Dont be sorry. I appreciate you for always looking out for me, Soobin.”
He exhaled a soft laugh that came out more self-deprecating. “I’m not doing a great job right now. This was my bright idea, remember? Now you’re stuck here because of me.”
Your reply came with a small huff but still smiled. “I’m doing just fine. You're worrying too much.”
That shut him up in the gentlest way possible. You leaned your head back against the cool metal wall, eyelids fluttering shut. The sway of the carriage rocked your frame ever so slightly which seemed to lull you into a momentary calm. The tension in your shoulders eased little by little, and Soobin felt like he could rest assured now, eyes drifting to the reflection of the lights skimming across the glass.
The train lurched forward again and Soobin instinctively braced his hand on the wall beside your head to steady himself — and you. He was acutely aware of how close you were, of how the space between seemed to shrink with every passing second.
He debated whether to speak, to ask if you were all right just npw, but the question felt redundant. So instead, his free hand stayed close to yours, fingers twitching with the faintest restraint, close enough to offer balance if another sudden jolt came, but not near enough to betray the thought behind it.
Soobin didn’t like how your head was softly but repeatedly bumping against the wall with the vibration of the carriage. He at once balanced his hand on the handrail attached to the pole and the wall beside him, and angled his body in such a way that separated you completely from the crowd.
“Lean on me,” he said, with a faint trace of hesitation, almost shy.
Your eyes fluttered open, drowsy and questioning. “What?”
“You look like you’re about to fall asleep,” he reasoned though his heart was thudding in his chest. “Might as well be comfortable.”
You laughed under your breath, the sound sleepy. “What if your arm starts to cramp?”
He shook his head once, smiling faintly. Your protests fell deaf to his ears when the least he could do right now was to offer you even the slightest form of comfort. Even if it meant at the cost of his own.
“It won’t,” he simply stated. “I don’t mind.”
You studied him for a second longer before giving in. Slowly, tentatively, you tilted your head until it found its place against the crook of his arm. The weight was light but real, it was you and your warmth, and it sent a quiet tremor through him that he tried to swallow down. The realization that you trusted him enough to rest there so freely did wonders to his feelings.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
“Mhm,” you hummed, content. A few beats later, in a mellow tone, you added, “I had a really good time today.”
Soobin couldn’t help — and didn’t really fight — the glow of fondness from showing in his face. From anyone else’s eyes, the sight might have looked like a simple, affectionate tableau between lovers. But to him, it felt like standing on the edge of a dream he could neither step into nor wake from. The thought of being yours, even in some alternate world, felt cruel in its sweetness. It filled him and hollowed him out all at once like a heart beating for what it could never hold.
The vision of you as his lingered even when he dropped you off at your home. When you stopped in front of your door, he did too, his hands deep in his pockets, trying to mask the restlessness running through him. You waited for a few moments, causing him to question if everything was alright.
You didn’t use words. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.
Soobin’s body went rigid before his instinct — no, longing — took over, and his hands found their way out of his pockets, hovering uncertainly. You fit so perfectly against him that it almost hurt. He prayed you couldn’t hear the chaotic thrum of his heartbeat. He was feeling so exposed, so bare in your embrace. After what felt like eons, he steadied himself before returning the embrace.
“What’s this? Are you missing the sunflowers already?” He joked despite feeling like he was on cloud nine.
It earned him a soft scoff from you before you mumbled a ‘oh, shut up.’ He wanted to breathe in your scent but he didn’t dare. Because if he did, it wouldn’t just be longing anymore. It would be surrender.
With your head still resting on his chest, you said with a smile, “Thank you for today, Soobin.”
It was the gentlest of words and yet it split him open cleanly without mercy. He felt, absurdly, as though the gods had reached into his chest and taken his heart between their hands, just to remind him what it meant to feel alive. You should never have to thank him. Being with you was never something that demanded gratitude.
When you pulled away, it was almost too much. He managed a smile, steadying his voice though it trembled at the edges. “Of course,” he said, meaning every word like a vow. “Anything for you.”
You lingered for a heartbeat longer before stepping inside. Soobin remained where he was, hands back in his pockets, watching as the door closed and the warm light spilled into the dusk for one final moment.
He felt like he could mimic a sunflower just fine.
Who knew that his love could deepen so irrevocably on an ordinary Wednesday?
There was a stem sitting in a chipped vase by the window. Once, it held a bloom — a pale carnation he’d forgotten to include in a bouquet he sold. Now it drooped, half-leaning toward the glass as though yearning for the outside light. He should throw it away, he thought, but didn’t. Instead, he watered it every morning, knowing it will never stand upright again.
Soobin never dreaded THURSDAYS until they became the most sorrowful day of the week.
The reason wasn’t because you stopped coming (that would have been easier to bear, he thought) but because you started bringing someone with you. A friend, who looked way too close to you than to Soobin’s liking.
His name was Choi Beomgyu.
When you first brought him over, Soobin’s smile faltered in the smallest way, mimicking a petal folding in on itself before falling. You’d introduced him brightly, and Beomgyu had offered a handshake and a grin that reached his eyes. He complimented the shop, the flowers, and the careful order of the bouquets but Soobin found himself unable to match his tone. Normally, such praise would have filled him with pride; after all, he loved his flowers and he loved it even more when others saw their worth and the effort he put behind his shop. But this time, every kind word felt like a stone dropped into his chest, until he could no longer tell whether it was jealousy or shame that weighed more.
Out of habit, Soobin reached for the jar near the counter to fish out a lemon candy, the way he always did whenever you came by. But as he was about to offer it to you, this Choi Beomgyu guy went, “Woah, lemon candy? I love those! Mind if I take one?”
And without waiting for an answer, he plucked one straight from the jar — your jar — and tore the wrapper open with his teeth, tossing the candy into his mouth. Soobin could only stare at the audacity, the scene unfolding before him like an intrusion into a world he thought was private. You laughed softly beside him, eyes bright as you turned to Beomgyu and said how glad you were to find someone else who liked lemon candies just as much as you did.
Soobin had a dozen things to say to you. He had stories to share, small and ordinary things of the mundane, and most importantly, you were supposed to talk his ears off as he worked. But with Beomgyu there, every thought dissolved on his tongue before he could speak it, melting away like the candy itself — leaving behind a bitter aftertaste he couldn’t swallow.
Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen you this giddy before, this radiant joy that came when you walked in every Thursday now with Beomgyu trailing behind as you show Beomgyu around, repeating the flower meanings Soobin himself had taught you. Maybe it was because when you explained how yellow carnations meant rejection and disappointment, you were unaware of how the words sat cruelly poetic in his chest. Maybe it was because on Thursdays, you two sat side by side, working through your assignments while Soobin watered stems that no longer needed tending.
It was ridiculous, he knew; you were right there, just a few feet away, but each passing moment made it feel like he was watching from behind glass, separated by a barrier invisible yet impenetrable.
He didn’t expect jealousy to feel like this smoldering ache that crawled up from his ribs, until even breathing felt like torment. So he looked away from where you sat with Beomgyu and fixed his eyes instead on the vase in front of him — a vase full of yellow carnations — and wished the water would somehow saturate the burning ache within him.
Even if he had you to himself for the rest of the week, this single Thursday without you felt like an emptiness that could not be reasoned with.
By the fourth Thursday, Beomgyu had somehow folded himself into the routine. The first few times, Soobin told himself it was temporary, that your friend would grow bored of tagging along to a flower shop but no. It wasn’t even surprising anymore to hear his voice before yours. Soobin was going to need a while to get used to it.
Soobin had tried, for a time, to dislike him on principle. But Beomgyu was unfairly difficult to hate because in all honesty he was a really nice guy. Even Jisoo liked him — especially Jisoo, which only made Soobin’s quiet resentment feel more childish. His morals acted up quickly and Soobin started to feel ashamed for even trying to villanize that poor dude.
Sometimes, at lunch, the four of them ate together. Jisoo would bring pasta or kimbap, Beomgyu would start talking about anything and could turn a dull story into something worth listening to. And you would laugh until your eyes disappeared into crescents. It should’ve been a pleasant routine — it was pleasant — but to Soobin, every laugh sounded like a reminder that the world was far too eager to share you. As stupid as it sounded, but oftentimes, it made Soobin feel like an intruder in his own shop.
On such a Thursday, they gathered around the small table full of disposable boxes, eating lunch and chatting. It wasn’t like Soobin wasn’t participating; he was. With everyone, just to be clear. Even Beomgyu, who for some reason had taken an immense liking to him, declaring him an honorary holder of the “platinum bro code card” and insisting they were now bound by friendship. Said friendship was in the stage where it was mostly Beomgyu landing actual good jokes. And to his inner horror, Soobin actually took them — found himself laughing along, responding, even joking back.
Amid the easy back-and-forth, Soobin’s gaze landed on you for the briefest moment, and his breath caught at the sight of you smiling softly — at him — like you were proud of something he’d said or done without realizing. The sight scattered his composure so he averted his eyes too quickly and, to cover the moment, picked up a forkful of pasta from Beomgyu’s box and shoved it straight into the other’s mouth. Beomgyu squawked through a laugh, nearly choking, while you laughed behind your hand.
By the time the food had dwindled to scraps, Jisoo was the first to excuse himself to check on the nursery. Beomgyu started helping with the clean-up, handing Soobin the empty boxes, and the three of you continued to talk about everything and nothing — university projects, the upcoming rain, some movie Beomgyu insisted you both needed to see.
Soobin stood up from his chair with the boxes when he noticed a smear of sauce at the corner of your lips. He looked around for some tissue to grab but his mind went static when he heard Beomgyu talk.
“Hey, you’ve got—wait, here,” Beomgyu said, pointing at his own mouth, laughing. “You’ve got something right there—”
That — that imagination of Choi Beomgyu wiping sauce off your lips, right in front of him as he watched it happen, was immensely and totally wrong on many levels. It didn’t sit right with him. He would be one of the biggest fools to walk on earth if he allowed it to happen.
Soobin had already grabbed your chin before Beomgyu could even lift one finger. His knuckles curled beneath your chin, guiding your face toward him before tilting your face up to look at him. Soobin’s eyes were unreadable when he gently wiped the smudge of sauce from the corner of your lips with his thumb — when he brought that thumb to his mouth and licked it clean.
If someone dropped a pin at that moment, the sound would resonate through the entire place.
Without a word, Soobin walked away toward the sink at the back of the shop. He dumped the boxes into the bin, pressed both hands to the edge of the sink with his head bowed and exhaled hard.
He couldn’t explain what possessed him. His pulse was loud in his ears, his thoughts a mess of disbelief and heat. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, trying to erase the phantom feeling of your skin beneath his thumb. Your lips were so soft. Fuck.
It shouldn’t have felt that good. It shouldn’t have felt like anything at all.
He stood there in disbelief realizing how much he wanted to feel it again.
Behind him came the sound of you choking slightly on your next bite of pasta, Beomgyu’s startled voice asking if you were all right followed by the scrape of a chair. Soobin shut his eyes and cursed under his breath, feeling the heat crawl up his neck.
Despite feeling like his entire body was on fire, Soobin’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk forming before he exhaled and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.
He couldn’t believe he’d done that. But God, it felt good.
It was a Thursday like any other. Except this time, when the bell above the door chimed, it wasn’t you who entered. It was Beomgyu, and he was alone.
His mind needed an extra beat to process that the space beside Beomgyu was empty. Soobin’s first thought was something’s happened to you. He hastily checked his phone to see if he missed any texts or calls from you, but there was none.
His focus was momentarily pulled away from you by Beomgyu’s greeting. Soobin, still thrown, returned it with a polite nod while fixing his glasses. But the question pressed insistently behind his composure — what was he doing here, and alone of all things? He never came without you.
“You can wait in the shop until she comes over. It should be another hour or so.” His hand was already moving toward the small fridge at the corner. “Want anything to drink? I’ve got—uh, iced tea. Coffee, too, if you’d rather—”
A low chuckle interrupted him, stopping him mid-step. “Oh, no.” Beomgyu shook his head. “I’m not here for her. Well—technically, I am.” Then, after a pause that sounded too intentional to make Soobin turn, Beomgyu added with a grin, “But not in the way you think.”
Soobin frowned faintly. “I would appreciate it if you could elaborate on that, Beomgyu.”
Beomgyu didn’t answer right away; he drummed his fingers against the counter, gaze sweeping across the room as if admiring the shop. “I wanted a bouquet made.”
The words, on their own, were harmless. Soobin had heard them countless times before. Yet, paired with the conversation’s earlier turn, they carried a strange undercurrent that made his chest constrict. Still, he defaulted to familiarity, grasping at professionalism. “That can be done,” he said, pulling the small catalogue closer and flipping it open to the section on mixed arrangements. “Any idea what kind of flowers you’re thinking?”
“All her favourites.”
The catalogue stilled between his fingers. It took a moment for the words to truly register, and when they did, Soobin felt devastation sinking in his chest. He looked at Beomgyu hastily, mortified. “What?” he blurted out without schooling his tone.
Beomgyu gave a small shrug, his hands slipping into his pockets as if this entire conversation weren’t splitting Soobin open from the inside out. “You know her favourites better than anyone,” Beomgyu said lightly, like that explained everything. “So, really, asking you just made sense.” Then, he tilted his head slightly, that same grin curving into a sly smirk. “I’m thinking of asking her out.”
For a brief, excruciating second, his entire world swayed. Everything around him dissipated until all that remained was white noise that rested upon his eyelids. All he could hear was that sentence repeating itself over and over in the confines of his skull. I’m thinking of asking her out.
“She’s not—” The rest of the sentence collapsed, leaving the words half-born and useless. You weren’t his to defend, and yet, how could he stop the instinct? You were the unreachable star he loved from afar because he thought loving you silently was the only way to keep you safe from his inadequacy and the cruelest part was that it had been entirely his choice. But now, hearing Beomgyu say those words aloud — words that should have belonged to him if he weren’t so terrified of deserving you — was like standing at the edge of a cliff.
“She’s what?” Beomgyu pressed. He straightened, his expression open but his eyes glinting. “What’s stopping me? Unless—” He let his voice trail off, pretending to think, before leaning his elbows on the counter with an exaggerated look of realization. “Unless you’ve got a problem with it.”
Soobin’s fingers curled against his palms until his nails bit into skin. He had no claim, no right — you were not his, not an object to be guarded or possessed but every fibre of him still burned with the injustice of it. Because his heart always refused to obey what his mind already knew.
“You had your chance,” Beomgyu leaned closer, his voice dipping into a quiet, almost friendly murmur. “You didn’t take it. So tell me, Soobin—why shouldn’t I?”
A terrible and hollow realization dawned upon Soobin that he was standing on the edge of that same invisible cliff again, staring into an expanse where only your name existed, carried faintly by the wind. The room had gone still again; Beomgyu’s words still echoed in the air, but vaguely now. It was almost like Soobin had lost grip on reality.
His love for you had always been immense, alive and untamed, too large for the body that tried to hold it. But what if it wasn’t enough? What if Beomgyu could give you something more deserving than the silent devotion of a man who couldn’t even say the words out loud?
He loved you — so much, so fervently, so ardently — that sometimes he feared his heart might tear itself apart from the strain of it. His love spilled through the cracks of him, too much to hold in his cupped hands. It drenched every part of him, soaked through every thought, and yet he could never seem to give it shape. He was a florist, and perhaps that was why his love had always been wordless. He loved in petals and stems, in silent acts of care hoping you’d somehow see his heart in the language of flowers.
But that was never enough, was it?
He wasn’t a poet, and he was barely a lover. Just a man hopelessly in love, drowning in devotion he could neither voice nor abandon.
When he spoke, his voice sounded unfamiliar to his own ears. “Just—give me a moment,” he murmured to Beomgyu, in almost the same voice he used with customers. “I’ll start on your bouquet right away.”
He turned toward the rows of flowers. Blooms in every shade of tenderness and grief — and he stood there for a long time without moving. Part of him thought, absurdly, that he could be cruel. That he could choose the wrong flowers, something mismatched, something unworthy of you, and hand it to Beomgyu. It would’ve been easy — so heartbreakingly easy — to let pettiness bloom where love had once been.
But his hands wouldn’t listen. Even now, even when his chest ached like an open wound, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He could not arrange a bouquet meant for you with the wrong flowers. He could not betray his love by staining it with spite.
So his hands reach for the stems with memory, with love. He picked the soft pink roses first — the only shade of rose you adored — and paired them with tiny clusters of baby’s breath, white and blush-pink, your favourite of them all. A few sprigs of lavender followed, delicate and faintly fragrant, the scent you always said reminded you of calm. He filled the spaces with greens to make the bouquet feel whole. When it came to wrapping, he didn’t even hesitate to choose a transparent paper, you loved it because it let the colours breathe.
He tied it all together with a thin white satin ribbon, hands steady despite the tremor beneath his skin. By the time he was done, his heart stopped thrashing but there was still a small, sad smile on his lips. When he slid the bouquet across the counter, his voice was distant.
“It’s done.”
Beomgyu looked at the arrangement, eyes scanning the blooms before smiling almost kindly. “Ah,” he sighed, eyes still on the roses. “These are her favourites, huh? Figures. You really do know her best.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a few bills and placed them neatly on the counter — but before Soobin could reach for them, Beomgyu nudged the bouquet back across the counter. “Keep the bouquet.”
Soobin’s head lifted, his brow creasing faintly. “Stop the crap, Beomgyu, why would I—”
“You really are hopeless,” Beomgyu muttered, clicking his tongue. Over the counter he jabbed a finger at Soobin’s chest looking him dead in the eye. “You think she doesn’t notice the way you look at her? Take it, before I change my mind.” Beomgyu straightened with an exasperated sigh before softly, like an afterthought, added, “You make it too easy to feel sorry for you, hyung.”
Soobin did not get a chance to ask for an explanation because Beomgyu was already half out the door, then paused with a thoughtful glance over his shoulder. “But I’ll still ask her out,” he said easily. “Because I don’t like losing, or stepping back from a challenge.”
With that, he was gone.
Soobin stood there in the silence that followed. His eyes lingered on the bouquet that still rested on the counter, petals trembling faintly in the draft that came from the open door.
Somewhere behind him, from the vase crowded with yellow carnations, a single bloom loosened from its stem and fell soundlessly onto the shelf below.
It was the first time Soobin ever kept the shop closed on a FRIDAY.
He stood in the university courtyard, eyes vacant and upturned to the sky as the first drops of rain slid through his hair and seeped into his collar. Yesterday’s encounter with Beomgyu left him grappling with his haywired emotions and then, a few hours later, your text came.
soobiiiin im sorry i cant come by today :((
That simple line added insult to injury. It felt like confirmation of every fear that had been gnawing at him since he saw Beomgyu. He imagined the two of you walking home together under a sky that should’ve been his to share with you. Soobin had spent the rest of that Thursday staring at the same page of the shop ledger, pen idle in his hand, unable to make sense of numbers or words.
Now, as he came out from his early morning class and stood under the dismal sky, it was as if the sky too understood the depth of his grief and let down its showers in hopes of washing some of it away. He should have looked for shelter but he lingered instead, watching the way water gathered in the cracks between cobblestones, how it carried fallen petals and bits of paper into small streams.
It was, admittedly, not a wise decision to walk home in it. By midday, his throat burned with every swallow, and his nose prickled from the chill. The fever was faint then — a warning he ignored. It became by afternoon, one of the reasons he had to keep the shop closed. When Jisoo offered to take over for the day, Soobin refused, insisting on locking up entirely and sending him home.
Isolating himself when he was at his lowest was one of Soobin’s many flaws. Despite granting him the space to think, it did nothing to help the fact that he was sick and most of his consciousness had now become a slave to drowsiness. Paired with heartbreak, Soobin was not in the right state of mind to be greeting customers with a smile in a place full of beauty that only reminded him of you.
Had he known you before this? In some other life, were you someone he had loved and lost over and over again? Because none of this made sense. This ache didn’t belong to the present — it felt older, as though it had lived in him long before he ever met you. How long had he been without you to feel this way now?
The fever came and went, mostly in the evenings, leaving him weaker each time it ebbed. One moment he was shivering under the blanket, and the next, heat licked through his skin until even breathing hurt. On the bedside table sat a half-empty glass of water and a few crumpled tissues, a tableau of his own negligence. The medicine packet lay open, though he couldn’t remember if he had taken the next dose or not. His head throbbed too much to care.
He lay sprawled on the bed, hair damp against the pillow. His throat scraped with every swallow, raw from hours of coughing. He’d given up on sitting upright hours ago — even lifting his head felt like work.
Through the blur of half-sleep, he caught sight of the camellias on his balcony swaying in the wind. Their petals were bright even under the grey sky. He stared until the colors melted into the haze of his fever. You liked camellias. He wondered if you were with Beomgyu. The idea soured his stomach and before he realized it, his eyes were watering. He sniffled, pressed the back of his hand to his nose and turned over, trying to will himself into sleep.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep before through the haze, he thought he heard his name. Hallucinating, he decided dimly. Fever dreams, that’s all. But the sound came again, clearer now, closer, and when his eyelids fluttered open, the blur at the edge of his vision focused into… you?
What were you doing here?
You were standing in the doorway of his room holding a closed umbrella. Your eyes were wide with alarm. For a long second, he wondered if this was still part of the dream. Your voice sounded too real though for it to be a dream. Panicked, even.
“Oh my god—” You crossed the room in an instant, dropping your bag somewhere near the chair. Your hand landed on his forehead, then his cheek. “Soobin, you’re burning up. What the hell, why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice broke off mid-sentence, tangled with disbelief. “Okay, okay, it’s fine, um—just… just wait for me, okay?”
You disappeared into the kitchen. He picked up a few distinct sounds like the clatter of cupboards, the rush of water from the tap and your hurried footsteps. The mattress dipped beside him, and the next thing he knew, you were pressing a damp towel against his forehead. The shock of it made him flinch, but the relief that followed was enough to draw a small, strangled sigh from him.
You exhaled shakily, wringing out the towel in the bowl you’d brought. “Did you even drink water? Have you taken your meds?” You glanced around at the bedside table, frowning at the open packet. “You probably didn’t take the next dose, did you? Of course you didn’t.”
He tried to speak, but it came out as a rasp, and you shushed him while adjusting the towel again. “Shh, don’t talk,” you said, hand brushing damp hair from his eyes. “You’re such an idiot. You could’ve just called.”
He would have laughed if his throat didn’t hurt so much. He forced his eyes open a little wider, though the effort drained what little strength he had left. It didn’t matter because he wanted to see you properly.
He must still be dreaming. The fever might have reached its cruelest peak, gifting him a hallucination so gentle it hurt to believe in it. Because how could you be here — in his apartment, taking care of him — when he had spent the past day convincing himself you were better off somewhere else? With someone else.
“I didn’t…” he started weakly, voice little more than a whisper. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”
You stared at him for a beat, lips parting as though to speak. Then you exhaled sharply, almost a laugh but not quite. “Bother me?” you echoed, shaking your head. “You idiot, you—” The words tripped over a breath and you bit them back, your shoulders sagging as if scolding him required more strength than you had. “God, Soobin.”
He closed his eyes when you pressed the cold cloth to his neck this time. You kept changing it, wiping his forehead, brushing damp strands of hair away, murmuring half-thoughts under your breath that he could barely piece together. He caught fragments: too hot, should’ve called, stupid boy, what if.
After a long silence, he whispered, “Are you mad at me?”
You seemed to still completely, towel halfway to the bowl. Your head turned, confusion written across your features. “Mad at you?” you repeated softly, the disbelief in your voice almost tender. “Soobin, why would I be mad?”
“I didn’t answer your texts,” he mumbled. His voice cracked halfway through. “I thought… maybe you’d—”
His words fell apart midway as a cough wracked through his chest until his ribs ached. You were already reaching for the glass, one hand steadying his shoulder as you lifted it to his lips. “Slowly,” you said, coaxing him to drink. “Small sips. You’ll choke otherwise.”
He obeyed, taking in just enough to ease the burn in his throat. When he settled back, he found you watching him, your expression softening that made his heart twist. You let out a quiet sigh and caressed his temple, fingertips cool against his fevered skin.
“Don’t be stupid,” you said, this time without any sharpness, just a weary affection. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
He looked at you, eyes glossy from fever, and for a moment he felt like he fell in love with you all over again. Te realization that you were — in fact — still there and close enough for him to see the faint tremor of your lashes, to count the breaths you took as each one anchored him to this specific moment.
“Can you stay?” His hand found yours, clumsy and shaking. “Please? I know you’d rather be—”
“Nowhere else.”
Your fingers tightened around his as your thumb traced steady lines over his knuckles. Then your other hand threaded gently through his hair, brushing it back from his damp forehead.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you,” you murmured, cupping his cheek.
He thought he might cry again from this strange, fragile joy that flooded his chest. The room soon dimmed, your presence the last thing he felt before sleep dragged him under.
When Soobin woke, the light filtering through the curtains had turned a pale gold that made him squint. His throat still felt scraped raw, but the fire beneath his skin had cooled into a dull warmth; more tolerable now than torturous. He blinked toward the window, then at his phone on the nightstand that read 10:03 a.m.
The sight should have been comforting had it not been for suddenly seeing your sleeping figure on the couch. You were still in yesterday’s clothes, a blanket draped clumsily over your legs, your head tilted toward your shoulder in an uncomfortable angle. A book lay facedown beside you and on the table next to it sat a glass of water gone flat. You must’ve skipped class, or worse, missed it completely because of him.
He tried to sit up, a poor decision that immediately sent a rush of dizziness through him. He reached out blindly for the bedside table, his palm knocking against the glass and sending it rattling against the wood. The sound startled you awake.
You straightened abruptly, blinking against the light before your eyes snapped to him. “Soobin—hey, what are you doing?” You were already up, the blanket falling from your lap as you crossed the small space between the couch and his bed. The book hit the floor with a dull thud.
He gaped at you, disoriented. “You’re gonna be late,” he said again, fumbling for the blanket as if he could somehow usher you out. “You should go—it’s morning already—you have class—”
You caught his wrist before he could push himself up again, guiding him back to prop up against the headboard. “Soobin,” you lowered your voice, as if coaxing a restless child back into bed. “It’s Saturday.” You pressed a hand to his shoulder, keeping him from rising again.
“Oh,” he said lamely, eyes dropping to the blanket pooled at his waist. “Right. Saturday. Sorry, I still feel a little out of it.” He remembered, belatedly, that you didn’t have classes on Saturdays.
“Clearly,” you muttered, moving to pick up the fallen book from the floor. “You scared the hell out of me last night.” You set the book down on the nightstand this time, glancing at him over your shoulder before coming to sit at his side on the bed. Soobin scooted away a little to make space for you.
You stayed seated at his side for a while, waiting until the uneven rhythm of his breathing steadied again. He felt the need to talk to you; didn’t know about what but he still wanted to. You, however, beat him to it.
“Yesterday…” you started, drawing your knees up onto the edge of his bed, “you weren’t answering any calls. I thought maybe you fell asleep early, but then it got late, and you still didn’t text back. So I panicked—a little,” you added quickly, though the faint crease between your brows said otherwise. “I grabbed my umbrella and ran to the shop, thinking maybe you were still there, only to find the door locked and lights out.” You gave a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head.
He did not interrupt you, letting you spew out everything.
“I stood there for five minutes like an idiot before remembering you gave me a spare key, and thank god you did.” You exhaled sharply, pressing your lips together. “I was honestly pretty terrified seeing you like that. You were burning up, Soobin. I know a fever’s supposed to be harmless most times, but it didn’t look harmless to me.”
“It was raining,” he tried to weakly argue but his resolve faltered when you narrowed your eyes. “You could’ve caught a cold. You didn’t even know if I was at home.”
“Even if I knew,” you shot back with a small frown. “What did you expect me to do? Just text ‘feel better’ and go to sleep?”
He let out a small, rough laugh that broke too easily into silence. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
“You didn’t mean to,” you echoed softly, glancing down at your hands, “but you still did. Next time, just send a message, alright? It takes two seconds. My heart can only take so much near-death panic.”
He thought about how easy it was to fall into silence, to let the days fold over him until people stopped asking if he was fine. He’d told himself solitude made things simpler, but looking at you now, eyes still red from lack of sleep and worry, he felt the truth of what it cost.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, voice thin as paper. The words weren’t only for last night; they bled from deeper parts of his heart for all the times you were made to go through exhausting situations for him.
You leaned forward, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. “Apology accepted,” you said softly, slipping them on him with care. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I’d hate it if something happened to you and I didn’t know.”
Your fingertipss brushed against his skin before you drew your hand back. His soul felt like it was cleaved wide open.
The moment was disrupted by the doorbell.
Soobin met your eyes for a brief moment. He had a feeling you both already guessed the identity of your uninvited visitor. Sure enough, Jisoo stood at the door. He was visibly fuming with smoke coming out of his ears. In one arm, he balanced two paper bags, the other occupied with pointing an accusatory finger behind you before you could even greet him.
“Do you have a death wish?” he demanded, stepping inside without invitation. “Because that’s the only logical explanation for this level of idiocy. You look like a dying Victorian child!”
“Good morning to you too,” Soobin muttered from the bed, waving a hand.
Jisoo ignored that entirely and instead turned back to you to greet you with a smile. He set the bags down on the table, tearing one open. “Breakfast,” he announced, though it sounded less like generosity and more like punishment. “Because apparently I’m surrounded by idiots who forget they are human.”
You tilted your head, assessing the situation. “Soobin, did you tell Jisoo to leave early last night?”
“Oh, he did,” Jisoo fired back, dropping into the chair beside the bed. “he said, and I quote—‘I’m fine, Jisoo, go home, I’ll lock up.’” He deepened Soobin’s voice with painful accuracy. “And now look at him—he looks like he’s been through hell and back!”
Soobin exhaled through his nose, rubbing a palm over his face as if that could erase both fatigue and embarrassment. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” he said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.
Jisoo scoffed, pulling out a thermos from one of the bags and unscrewing the lid with unnecessary force. “That’s the problem—you never think it’s ‘that bad’ until someone has to carry your half-dead body off the floor.” He poured steaming porridge into a bowl and shoved it toward Soobin.
You stifled a laugh behind your hand, murmuring, “He’s not wrong.”
Soobin gave a weak shrug, though his mouth curved slightly. “I’m sorry for making you worry. But I really am fine now.” He hesitated, eyes flickering from you to Jisoo. “I really don’t deserve you guys.”
Jisoo groaned. “You’re damn right you don’t,” he said, though his hands betrayed him by reaching over to pull the blanket back up to Soobin’s chest. He glanced at you briefly, muttering under his breath, “You spoil him too much.”
You arched an eyebrow. “Someone has to. He nearly cooked himself alive yesterday.”
Soobin felt his lips curl into a smile when he saw you and Jisoo exchange a look then — shared exasperation wrapped in affection. Jisoo gave him the stink eye.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re banned from the shop until you can stand without wobbling.” Jisoo straightened his posture and jabbed a finger toward Soobin’s nose, trying to summon authority in front of his boss. Soobin decided to let it go this once. “I’m running it till you’re back, and I don’t wanna hear a single word of protest.”
Soobin raised his hands in surrender, that same faint smile growing genuine. “I wasn’t going to argue.”
“Good,” Jisoo muttered, snatching up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Because I’ve already hidden the spare keys. Don’t even try to look for them.”
You snorted. “He will, you know.”
“Then I’ll move them again.” Jisoo huffed, shooting Soobin one last warning glance before heading for the door. He paused, turning back just long enough to add, more softly, “Just rest, alright? You can’t run a shop if you drop dead first.”
The days blurred into each other after that. You came every day, sometimes with food, sometimes with books and the only difference was that before, it was you coming over to his shop, and now, in his home. In a sense, nothing really changed at all.
He had told you it wasn’t necessary, more than once, but you never listened. And though he tried to keep a respectable distance in fear of spreading his flu to you, standing by the counter while you moved about the stove, he couldn’t stop the thoughts that crept in. the same treacherous ones that painted pictures of you staying longer than you should, of your books finding space beside his, of a life that wasn’t temporary.
A vision of you living with him; something he wanted to coin as ‘forever’.
He had to snap out of his daydreams before the longing killed him.
One afternoon, you appeared holding a small stack of papers bound together with a paperclip. You placed it on his lap where he was sitting on his bed reading a book.
“What’s all this?” he asked, pushing his glasses up and flipping through the pages.
“Notes,” you replied, as if it were obvious. “I asked your classmates to send me what you’ve missed so far.”
He glanced from the stack to your face and back again. He was stunned by your thoughtfulness, and perhaps he looked like a gaping fish at a loss of words because you took one look at him and snorted.
You didn’t look particularly pleased with yourself. You sat cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table and uncapped your pen with a click. “It’s not a big deal. You’d do the same if it were me.”
He didn’t say anything to that but you both knew you weren’t wrong about it. Yet, Soobin learned that being around you makes him want to do better, and be more outspoken with his feelings. And he wanted to be better for you.
He let out a soft, “Thank you.”
You waved a hand, already bent over your workbook. “Don’t get sentimental on me. It’s barely anything.” A pause, the faint scratch of your pen against paper, and then you added almost absently, “Oh—Beomgyu’s coming by to help at the shop.”
The back of his neck stung. “Beomgyu?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, not looking up. “He offered. Said he could help restock and handle the counter till you’re better. You should hurry up and recover soon—the flowers are starting to sulk without you.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “The flowers are fine.”
“No, they’re not,” you countered softly, still writing. “They miss you.”
There was a pause — long enough for him to think that was the end of it, and his mind started to wander to unpleasant territory after hearing beomgyu’s name. Before he could think of what to say, your pen stopped moving, your eyes still fixed on the page.
“I miss you.”
Soobin’s gaze stilled despite the storm that began to brew behind his eyes. Beomgyu’s words resurfaced in his mind— you think she doesn’t notice the way you look at her? — and for a fleeting second, Soobin thought maybe you did know. Maybe you had known all along.
Because the things you said to him, the way you treated him, they lifted him to the heavens and gave him hope. Hope that he feared might betray him if it was misplaced. However, the question still hung unspoken in his mind — about Beomgyu, about what he’d said, about whether he’s going too ahead of himself and reading your intentions wrong and if your words just now were only friendly. Because Soobin couldn’t really tell.
Thinking about the devil brings him to your doorstep — Soobin should’ve believed that phrase by now.
“Yo, boss,” Beomgyu drawled from the doorway, grin wide and infuriating. He was leaning one shoulder against the frame. “Still alive, I see.”
You turned, delighted. “Beomgyu! You’re here early.”
He flashed you a smile too clean to be sincere. “Jisoo needed help with the new shipment, didn’t he? Why don’t you go lend him a hand? I’ll keep Soobin company.” His tone was harmlessly casual.
Soobin only gave a mild nod when you glanced his way, though the faint crease between his brows betrayed his suspicion. Beomgyu’s grin dwindled into a smirk the moment you left. He even had the audacity to wink at Soobin.
Soobin exhaled through his nose, setting his book aside. “If you’re here to bother me, just say so.”
“Not bother,” Beomgyu said, moving toward the windows and flicking open the latch to let in a stream of morning air. “Motivate!” He plucked an apple from the fruit bowl on the cabinet, turning it over in his hand as though appraising its worth. “So, did you miss me?”
Soobin wanted to get to the point. “Did you succeed then?” He regarded him dryly.
Beomgyu sank into the couch across from him, taking a bite of the apple. “In taking her out? Yeah.” He let out an exaggerated sigh, placing a hand over his heart. “But the entire time—” he waved the apple vaguely in the air, “—she talked about you.”
Soobin blinked, the words slipping past him at first — until they didn’t. “What do you mean ‘talked about me’?”
“I meant exactly what I said,” Beomgyu spoke around another bite, before standing up and pacing slowly around the room. “Couldn’t get two sentences in without your name popping up. I knew right away I didn’t stand a chance. Gotta say, though, it bruised my ego a little.” He pointed the apple at Soobin. “So maybe, y’know, man up and take your chance already. You’d do everyone—and their mothers—a favour.”
Soobin could only stare off in space. His thoughts ran in frantic circles, every word Beomgyu said setting off sparks behind his eyes. You talked about him? That much? He tried to picture what you might’ve said, what parts of him you thought worth mentioning — and found the idea too delicate for his overjoyed heart.
Beomgyu snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Hey. Earth to Soobin.” He squinted, then pointed the apple again. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re daydreaming right now. Look at you — you’re totally fantasizing about her. Ewwwww~”
“What— no!” Soobin spluttered, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it across the room.
Beomgyu ducked, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “You totally are! Look at you, all flushed. You’re hopelessly in love.” he managed between breaths.
Soobin groaned into his hand. “Did you ever like her?” The question slipped out. He looked up again, cautious but curious. “You said you did.”
Beomgyu’s laughter died down to a few huffs as he sank into the couch again, still grinning. “Alright, fine. Serious talk.”
Soobin frowned, getting up from bed. “Did you?” he repeated as he fetched a glass of water from the kitchen.
“Oh. Uh, not like that.” Beomgyu chewed on his lip, then shrugged. “I like her, sure — she’s a good person. But romantically? Nah.” He gestured loosely toward Soobin, eyes glinting with mischief again. “You were giving me such a look that day, so I figured I’d rile you up a little. Didn’t think it’d work that well.”
Soobin frowned, recalling the unease he’d felt that Thursday when Beomgyu had mentioned asking you out. The irritation resurfaced, though now mingled with reluctant embarrassment. “That’s not what you said last Thursday.”
Beomgyu smirked, tossing the apple core into the bin. “What, you thought I was serious?”
Soobin stared at him, words slipping through his grasp. Nothing about him moved except the faint twitch in his jaw.
Beomgyu hesitated. “Hey, don’t look at me like that,” he said, laughter bubbling up again. “You can’t tell me it wasn’t funny.”
It wasn’t. For days, he had been haunted by that single conversation, replaying it in the back of his mind. He could still feel the echo of every unnecessary thought he’d had since. Soobin came to a conclusion right then and there that if there’s anyone who could test his patience to an excruciating extent, it’s Choi Beomgyu. How ridiculous, he thought. How utterly, painfully ridiculous to have spent nights overthinking when Beomgyu had only wanted a laugh.
Soobin gently put the glass down on the table before taking a deep breath. The next thing Beomgyu knew, he was caught in a headlock.
“HEY—WAIT—SOOBIN—!”
Their shouts and laughter resonated through the apartment; Beomgyu shrieking for his life while Soobin held him in place, spewing half-hearted curses until it felt less like a sickroom and more like the friendship that was bound to take root.
SATURDAY made Soobin ricochet between certainties and doubts until you gently cradled his heart in your palms and kissed it.
Jisoo had dragged everyone out on the excuse of celebrating Soobin’s recovery, but the moment the bill arrived, all eyes turned to him with suspicious coordination. Beomgyu was the first to pat his shoulder and declare that the boy who lived should at least buy lunch. Jisoo nearly choked on his drink from laughing, and you—of all people—hid your grin behind the rim of your glass as if your loyalty could be bought with a smile. Soobin had sighed, pulled out his wallet, and decided that maybe feeding his friends was still preferable to the silence of his empty apartment.
When the meal ended, Jisoo announced that he’ll return to the shop, encouraging Soobin to ‘enjoy the rest of the day’. Beomgyu stayed behind for a moment, leaning closer to Soobin under the pretense of fixing his shirt. “If you don’t say something today, I swear I’ll do it for you,” he threatened with a smile. “You’ve had two years, Soobin. Make your move.” Then he gave Soobin a shove that nearly made him stumble into you, and left before Soobin could even retort.
That left you and him standing under the awning. He, too, wanted to make the most of the time and was unwilling to let the day end. “Do you want to do anything else before heading home?” he asked, trying to sound casual but praying you wouldn’t say no.
You tilted your head slightly and smiled as if you were already one step ahead of him. “Actually, yes,” you said, unlocking your phone and holding it out for him to see. On the screen was a poster for a lantern festival not far from the riverside. “It says it starts at sunset. We could go check it out?”
“Of course. I’ll take you there.”
The venue was a mosaic of color and sound. Children ran around with paper lanterns shaped like stars and rabbits; vendors shouted over each other selling skewers, candied fruit, roasted chestnuts. You reached for his sleeve more than once, tugging him toward stalls that caught your eyes — an old man folding paper cranes, a painter who would draw quick portraits in ink. Soobin bought you skewered fishcakes and handed one over before you even asked, his lips tugging up when you took it with an exaggerated hum of approval. At one point, you dragged him toward a photo booth tucked between two food stalls. The flash caught the softest smile he’d worn in weeks.
By the time the sun began to fall, the crowd had thickened. Soobin had his height advantage but he was worried about you since you didn't do well in crowds. While he was thinking of taking you to a much less crowded place, his entire mind came to a static stop when he felt your hand slipping into his. You looked up at him, eyes reflecting the orange of a hundred paper lanterns. Your fingers slowly intertwined with his. You didn’t say anything, but the small curve of your smile was enough to make him forget every other noise around him.
When the call came for everyone to light their lanterns, Soobin took one and handed it to you. Together, you crouched near the edge of the riverbank, the paper glowing faintly between your palms. Around you, the first wave of lanterns began to rise, painting the twilight sky with gold.
“Make a wish,” you giggled, your eyes falling shut.
Soobin looked at you instead. The wind lifted a strand of your hair; the light touched your face in a way that made every thought blur. He could have wished for many things but all that came to him was you.
When you opened your eyes again, you smiled and released the lantern. It drifted upward, joining the others until it became just another glowing dot among others.
“Hey, Soobin?” You kept watching the sky. “Do you worry too much about expressing yourself all the time? specially with me?”
He turned to you, brows drawing together. “What makes you say that?”
You chuckled softly, the sound easing into the evening air. “Because I like every side of you. Even when you’re quiet. Some silences feel empty, but ours never does. You know how people say certain silences are so comfortable that you could sit in them forever? I feel that with you.”
Soobin suddenly thought of the bouquet Beomgyu made him make, the one he never gave you. “Can I take you somewhere before you go home?” he asked suddenly. It had to be now.
“Sure,” you said, curious. “Where?”
“My shop.”
Jisoo’s shift ended earlier so the shop was empty.
Soobin gave you a dimpled smile as you perched yourself on the stool near the counter. Witht the same devotion and love, his hands put together a bouquet of you rfavourite flowers. You watched him fondly, it was that intensity of your gaze that made it hard for him to keep his hands steady. He felt like he put extra care into making this one, tracing every micro expression on your face when he held the bouquet in front of you.
“What’s all this?” you asked, laughing softly as you took it.
“My way of saying thank you,” he said, pushing his glasses up. “And my way of saying I’m sorry. For making you worry when I was sick… and for everything else. For everything you’ve done for me.”
You held the bouquet close, nose brushing against the petals. “They’re beautiful,” you said sincerely. “Thank you, Soobin.”
He smiled but what he wanted was to close the space between you, to hold you instead of the air. The thought stayed caged behind his ribs, fluttering restlessly as you smiled at him over the flowers.
He walked you back home that night. It was truly a miracle he hadn’t fallen apart already when everytime your knuckles brushed against his. As stupid as that sounded because, matter of fact, he’d held your hand before, more times than he could count, and yet here he was again, reduced to a mess by a passing touch. There were flowers that withered slower than the way he fell apart in your presence.
When you stepped inside to put the bouquet away, he stayed by the door, listening to the faint sounds of your movement within. The hallway was hushed and in that quietness, Soobin tried to steady his thoughts. He didn’t know what to say to you anymore. What could he possibly say that wouldn’t ruin this? Loving you in silence was torture, but maybe it was safer than the ache of losing you. He leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling slowly, watching your shadow spill through the doorway.
Maybe this was enough, he told himself. Maybe loving you in silence was safer.
After you returned, the sight of you made that illusion crumble all over again. He could tell you were tired. He wanted to reach out, to brush his thumb under your eye and tell you to rest, to promise you the whole world if it meant keeping that light in your face. Instead, he said, “It’s been a long day. Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
He shifted his weight when you only stared at him. He couldn’t read what you were thinking, and that scared him more than he wanted to admit. So, true to habit, he did what he always did when he got too close to the edge — he started to walk away. It was easier to retreat before the ground gave way beneath him. Easier to run from what his heart kept whispering.
“Can I tell you something?”
Your voice cut through the silence, a little hesitant. Soobin froze mid-step, the air catching in his throat. He turned around slowly, afraid of what you might say yet hoping it would be everything he’d been wishing for.
“Since meeting you,” you began, then paused for a brief moment to collect your thoughts, “I actually began wishing for more time. I want more time with you. Every time I’m with you, you make me feel so happy, just by being you.”
Soobin’s lips parted slowly. His mind went blank, completely overtaken by the rush in his chest. Were you saying what he thought you were? Confirming everything he had buried under restraint and fear? His pulse thundered, and he could feel it in his throat, in his fingertips, in the space between you.
You were nervous. He could tell the way you pressed your palms together and averted his eyes. “Gosh, I must sound insane right now,” you murmured, your voice dipping into a hesitant chuckle, “but I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather do right now. I just want to be close to you.” You glanced down, then lifted your eyes back to him, a tiny, resigned smile finding your lips. “Are you going to make me wait much longer?”
All he could think was — were you asking him not to run anymore? Were you telling him it was safe to fall?
Soobin couldn't take it anymore. All this time he’d known you, he wanted nothing more than to freely love you. He wanted more than just yearning gazes and fleeting brushes of touch. He wanted to let himself have you, to allow the current of love rush through him.
In two strides he closed the distance, his hands cupping your face before he dipped his head. When his mouth met yours, the force of it stole the breath from both of you — lips colliding with a hunger that had been building up for months.
The poets were so damn wrong because kissing you didn’t feel like setting off fireworks; it felt like returning to his rightful home.
A sigh passed from you to him at the first contact, followed by a broken sound from the back of your throat when he slid his hand into your hair to pull you closer, closer, closer to him. The noise was so small yet ruinous that it made him want to fall to his knees.
Soobin had to hold onto the doorframe above your head when you arched into him, when your hand had to scramble for the same doorframe behind you while the other clutched at the front of his shirt, knuckles white, as holding him was the only thing keeping you upright. He could feel the rapid flutter of your pulse beneath his thumbs as they brushed along your jaw. And gods, he’d been right — your lips were soft, impossibly so. Now that he got a taste of your lips, Soobin had to figure out later how not to get addicted to them.
Every thought in his head dissolved into the warmth of you. All those nights he had spent trying to reason with himself, all those what-ifs and not-yets, burned away in the press of your mouth against his. He’d never known what it was to want something so wholly, so ruinously, until you. He knew already that he could never go back from this, that he didn’t want to.
You broke the kiss first, your breath brushing against his as you whispered, “Stay the night. Please?”
Holy fuck. You really had no idea what you did to him, did you? Soobin dazedly stared at you and thought, if this woman tacked on the words please onto any request, he would find a way to fulfill it.
He muttered a curse under his breath and went back to devouring you. His pulse roared in his ears as he pushed you inside, the door clicking shut behind him with his heel. He hadn’t broken the kiss once as you stumbled backward, your shoes slipping off in your scramble to match his pace, both of you breathing hard as if you had run a mile to get here. His hands were everywhere; holding your face, slipping into your hair, grabbing the back of your neck, running down your sides, back, hips — they couldn’t decide on a destination because every road led to you.
He still couldn’t believe this was happening as he kissed you even deeply, he still couldn't believe you were kissing him back with equal amount of passion. He licked into you, but not too much or too fast, just enough to ask permission and you opened your mouth. The heat of your tongue gliding over his made him whimper, feeling high already from so little.
It was a good thing the sofa was near because any more minute and he’d collapse into a puddle. When the back of your knees hit the sofa, he caught you, guiding you down gently. You sank into the cushions, looking up at him as he towered above you. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips swollen, and your gaze pulled him in until he felt dizzy with it. For a suspended moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your laboured breathings.
His gaze moved over you in a haze of disbelief, the rise and fall of his chest uneven as if his body was struggling to keep up with his heart. He had imagined this too many times but imagination had nothing on the way to finally feel you like this, to have your scent clinging to his skin, to taste your lips. It felt surreal, intoxicating, overwhelming in every sense.
“Two years,” he roughly said as he leaned down, his words trembling against your skin. “I tried—God, I really tried not to want you like this.”
His hand found the back of the sofa beside your head for support, his other resting against your cheek. He slid one knee in between your thighs as it dug into the cushion. He did an experimental press up against your heat, watching the way you jerked up with a hitched breath, your eyes falling shut once before opening again as one of your hands came to rest on that knee.
“You’re all I’ve been thinking about,” he confessed, his voice breaking between each word. “Every damn day.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then the curve of your cheek, before finding your mouth again. The way your fingers slipped into his hair tugging slightly made him shudder, and he groaned against your lips at the sensation, his breath catching in the space between one heartbeat and the next. But he kissed you with a slowness that contradicted the rush inside him; he kissed you as if he were learning the world all over again, as though every touch of yours rewrote what he thought he knew about longing.
“I’m so tired of pretending I’m fine around you,” he murmured against your skin, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hand found your cheek again, his thumb tracing beneath your eye. “Every time you smiled at me, it hurt. Every time you said my name, I thought I was going to lose it. And I kept telling myself it was better this way—that I could handle it—but I can’t. I can’t anymore.”
You laughed softly. You looked beautiful. It made him smile too.
“I know, Soobin,” you said, biting your lip to suppress the growing grin. Your hand traced the line of his jaw, gentle and familiar. “You’re not really good at pretending. I’ve always known, more or less. But I didn’t want to act on my gut feeling alone. I had to be sure.”
His expression faltered. He felt and probably looked like he might actually cry, he couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. “I’m sorry,” he whispered earnestly. “I should’ve said it sooner—should’ve done something—but I was so damn scared of ruining us. And now I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to waste the time we have. Not one more second.”
Your smile softened, eyes shining as you nodded. “Me neither.”
His heart was full as he shared a tender smile with you. Then he held your hand and pulled you up with him before changing the position, pulling you back down again. He hauled you easily onto his lap — running his hands along your sides before gliding them over your back, then down to the small of your back before pressing you against him. If he could he’d hold you closer until no one could tell apart where you began and he ended.
He’s trailing kisses down the torrid skin of your jaw, your neck, your collarbones before biting down on the supple flesh, eliciting a strained moan from you. You tilted your head back and gave him full access, which he took without hesitation. His glasses bumped into your skin, which made him irritated and swiftly took it off with a ‘tsk’ before putting it aside somewhere on the sofa.
“Let me love you,” he whispered. He felt your throat bobbed against his mouth when you swallowed and nodded, letting out another soft sound that had his mind reeling, and he felt his cock twitch at the thought of just how much louder he could make you. “Let me take care of you, please.”
His name fell from your lips as you screwed your eyes shut when he held you by the hips and made you grind against him. He looked up at you from this angle and he thought this is probably what heaven looked like. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more, more than just feeling you rub against his growing bulge through all these damn layers of clothes.
In one quick motion he set you down on the sofa, cracking a smile at your dazed yet confused look. Soobin exhaled before sinking to his knees in front of you.
You gave him a shy smile as you got into a more comfortable position, letting his hands rest on your thighs. This sight — he gazed up at you from where he’s kneeling — he’s willing to worship for the rest of his life. He kissed each of your thighs, then his hands trailed over to the waistband of your jeans.
“Tell me to stop if you don’t want this,” he was begging you. He didn’t think he could ever stop though. “I’ll stop if you say it. I swear.”
“Dont stop.” You reached down to unbutton your jeans. “Please, Soobin. Don’t stop.”
He reached back up to clash his mouth to yours again as his hands yanked your jeans all the way down with a little bit of your help. By now Soobin was already heady, and when he sat back on his heels to come face to face with the sight of your dampened panties, translucent from the slick pooling in between your thighs, he nearly ruined his own pants. Soobin hadn't even touched you directly and you were already a mess.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, thumb circling your clit over the fabric as he drank up all your twitches and gasps. A sense of pride filled him at the fact that this was him who drew you over to this crest. It was all him — the reason behind this sopping pleasure of yours.
“Soobin—oh fuck, ah,” you arched, throwing your head back when he ran his tongue up the length of the wet spot you made.
The first taste through this barrier filled his senses to the brim, shockwave travelling to his fingertips before returning and plummeting his sanity somewhere down to his dick. Soobin couldn’t fight the moan that got muffled against your heat, following that line with the flat of his tongue, then again with the point. He gripped your thighs and hips desperately, urging you to grind on his face as he ravished you through the flimsy cloth.
The sound of your pleasure, the taste of you, and your, fuck — there was your hand gripping his hair. He was huffing and taking short breaths, impatience getting the best of him before he almost ripped your panties off of you and threw it somewhere behind him.
There was a ringing in his ear as he looked up at you through his lashes, eyes wide and obedient because in this moment, he felt like he was made to kneel at your feet. You were flushed and breathing heavily but looked extremely beautiful like this. He grabbed your hips and tugged you closer to the edge making you yelp softly.
“I promise I’ll be good for you.” He guided your trembling thighs over his shoulders as he lowered his face to your pussy, never taking his searing eyes off of yours. “So promise me you won’t stop looking at me. Please?”
You nodded quickly, a shaky hand taking purchase in his hair again. “I promise.”
The moment those words left you, he dived into you, his tongue licking a long stripe along your folds, lapping up your arousal — fuck. Fucking hell this is what you tasted like? You tasted so divine, so intoxicating that Soobin had to gather himself after the first lick. It felt like a sin that he only tasted you through a barrier earlier. It felt like a heinous sin that he’d been deprived of this pussy for so long. You were all arounf him. His name coming out of your lips in between gasps and cries, and —
“Oh, God. Fuck, Soobin, you’re so good—yes, yes, just like that—”
— oh.
You were praising him. His vision blurred through the eye contact — the one you promised to not break and true to your words you’ve never once did — and he felt like a flower blooming and meeting the light for the first time. Soobin buried himself deeper into your heat, nose bumping against your sensitive bundle of nerves while he tongued your entrance and drank up every drop of your essence. He was drunk, so high on you as he watched you let out a high pitched gasp when he eased in two fingers, feeling your folds stretching then clamping around his thickness.
He promised you he was going to be obedient so he picked up every micro reaction you gave at every thrust of his fingers, every tremble of your body when he sucked on your clit before swriling the tip of his tongue over it until he figured out what was going to take him to guide you over the edge. But looking at you, it didn’t seem like he was going to need to do much work anyway.
He could feel you spasming around his fingers, your moans falling faster and needier as your thighs closed around his head. He was suffocating but it felt excruciatingly good that his eyes rolled back but no — no, he had to hold your gaze, needed to watch you fall apart and amidst that all Soobin palmed himself, groaning into you. With one final stroke up your sweet spot, he brought you over a mind shattering orgasm — for you, and him.
It was the scrape of your fingers in his scalp that made him cum, his release lifting off an invisible burden from his shoulders as he felt himself slipping into a state of pure bliss. Soobin came to his senses belatedly when you said his name. He was unmoving, mouth still attached to your quivering pussy when he swallowed, feeling you dripping down his throat.
You looked utterwly wrecked. Skin glistening with sweat as your chest heaved. It brought a shy smile to face as he sat back up on his heels. “Was it alright?” he meekly asked, wiping his chin.
You breathlessly laughed, pushing yourself up on one hand. “It was everything I've ever dreamed of.”
Soobin’s eyes darkened slowly when you touched his jaw and pushed your thumb on the plump of his bottom lip. You smeared your release over his lip before pushing your thumb inside his mouth. He moaned around your finger before sucking, letting you thumb down his tongue as saliva pooled around it. He felt his dick twitch again, shamelessly getting hard once more.
“Kiss me,” you said, and who even was he to deny your request?
He pushed his tongue past your lips, letting you taste yourself and the sensation was so overwhelming that it drew out a groan from you. It was messy and hot, it was downright filthy but Soobin would give up on anything to experience this for the first time ever again.
“Soobin,” you softly whined against his lips, pulling back to look at him with a hunger that mirrored his, “I don’t want to stop yet. I need more. I need you.”
He was as desperate as you were, maybe even more. “I could spend the rest of my life making you feel good.” and then his hand was slipping under your shirt, gliding over the hot skin and tracing every dip, every curve before he hoisted you up easily. “Let’s get comfortable first, yeah?” he spoke against your mouth as your legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck, never once separating from your lips.
Once he reached your bedroom, he placed you down gently on the bed before settling himself in between your legs. The rest of your clothes messily came off, neither of you wanting to waste another second and only wanting to feel each others’ naked skin. Soobin had to pause and sit back on his heels as he admired you, unable to fathom that he was truly seeing you in the way he had only ever dreamed of.
He grabbed a moundful of one of your breasts, your perky nipple peeking in between his long fingers while he dipped his head down and took the other one in his mouth. How come you tasted so good everywhere? Soobin was going to become gluttonous because of you. Not that he minded. He loved hearing your little gasps. You were so sensitive from just moments ago but you were already gushing again.
“Soobin, please, please,” you cried out when he stroked you slowly betwen your folds. Despite how wet you were, he was worried his size was going to be too much for you. He had to make you pliant as much as possible.
“Tell me if it gets uncomfortable. Tell me if I hurt you, okay?” He panted as he pumped himself slowly. It wasn’t like Sooobin had his calm either. He was flushed and sweaty, trembling in every movement he made. He’s been thrumming with the electricity of want himself. He didn’t know how long he could keep going before his brain turned mushy too. He watched the way your glazed over eyes took in his size; it filled him with equal amounts of pride and worry. “Tell me what you want, alright? I’ll do anything.”
His cockhead slid in between your folds as the tip bumped your clit, restinf over your abdomen. A guttural groan escaped his chest when he realized he was almost touching the underneath of your navel. Shit, will you be alright? He had no time to overthink when you reached out to wrap your hand around him, making his entire body twitch in pleasure. He was hot and hard in your hand as you guided his tip back to your wet entrance.
“I trust you.” You laid back and smiled at him. Soobin, again, felt like he was falling in love with you all over again.
He held your thighs more apart, large hands massaging the supple flesh of them. Soobin used his thumbs to spread open your pussy before directly letting a glob of spit fall onto your hole. You squealed, clearly surprised, but seeing how you clenched around air desperately made him learn that you could be into it. He made a mental note to explore this more some other time.
He lathered his saliva with your slick as he nudged his leaking tip along your slit, making you whimper and jerk up your hips to get more friction, but Soobin placed a large hand over your abdomen and held you down in place.
“Come closer. I want to hold you,” you mumbled, making him comply easily.
He kissed you, so deeply, so fiercely, that the gasp you let out when he slowly sheathed himself inside you was entirely devoured by his mouth. Soobin’s mouth hung open, puffing against the hot skin of your neck as he couldn’t decide where to focus; the sheer euphoric wave of pleasure as your warmth enveloped him or on the fingers clawing his back. Even with the thick slick of your combined orgasms, he could tell you needed time to accommodate the stretch.
“I’m sorry—ah, I'm so sorry, love,” he kept apologizing softly, giving you time to adjust as he slowly sank into your aching core. He gritted his teeth, jaw clenching as he had to fight the urge to cum from just feeling your tight walls clench around him. You were a gasping mess, writhing beneath him as you dug your nail across his back. “T—Take all the time you need.”
He bottomed out fully as he held himself up on his arms around your head, face resting in the crook of your neck where he peppered soft kisses to help you relax. You were fluttering madly around him. After a moment Soobin felt you squeeze his bicep as he looked at you, and when you nodded at him through the haze of pleasure, he began to set a careful languid rhythm.
“Fuck,” he groaned, and finally started to loose his already fraying composure. If he planned to fuck you slowly, it was going to take a lot of willpower to do that. Your moans rang sweetly beside his ear as you clung to him tighter with every thrust. Soobin tried to hold on to sanity when he felt your hand trail up to the hair on his nape, curling and tugging on a fistful. He whimpered, pathetically so, picking up the pace of his thrusts.
Soobin’s head reeled when he stared at where his cock slid wetly in and out of your sopping pussy. It wasn’t just that sight that set his mind and every part ablaze. It was the visible outline of a bulge growing in your abdomen at a specific angle every time he thrusted up into you.
Your hands travelled from the back of his neck to cup his face as you made him look at you instead. The smile you wore, so fucked out and dazed, sent his already racing heart thudding painfully in his chest. “You feel so good, Soobin,” you breathed out through choked pants. “I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.”
He shuddered at your praises, one hand sliding down your thigh before pushing it up to your chest. This angle made you feel more open and made him hit even deeper. And yet, Soobin was holding himself back in fear of hurting you and he could tell you knew that too. You felt that too.
So when you kissed him and mumbled against his lips, “You don’t have to hold back—it’s okay.” — he let himself fall into your plea.
Your faces were near, passing breaths between that small space before claiming it again, and again, and again. The depraved sound of skin against skin along with your mingling groans and gasps resonated off the walls of the room. He could feel you clenching around him, your moans getting louder and needier.
“Soobin—’m close,” is all you managed before crying out, back arching and pressing onto him flushed.
You gripped him like a vice, your body quivering when you finished, his name spilling from you so sinfully that it drove him over the edge. It caused him to become the louder one then — groans and grunts as his thrusts became sloppier, helping you ride out your orgasm before he buried himself to the sheath in one last deep thrust and spilled inside you.
There was a beat of silence as you both chased for air. Soobin panted through his mouth, eyes blown wide as he relived the entire situation in his mind again. He brushed your hair out of your sweaty forehead, fingers threading to your scalp as he pulled out of you. The feeling made you whimper as you buried your face into his arm, eyes screwed shut. You were seriously going to be the death of him. He saw the way his cum leaked out of you in bulk waves, feeling his dick twitch at the sight. Shit, shit, shit was this okay?
“I’m safe if you’re worried about it,” you gently assured him, then patted the space beside you. “Lie down beside me.”
“I will,” he promised before linking your fingers with his and kissing your knuckles. “I need to clean you up first. Give me a moment, love. I’ll be back.”
True to his words he returned with a damp towel. He pressed it softly against your skin, wiping away the sheen of sweat, cleaning you thoroughly before helping you go to the bathroom.
His eyes, dark yet brimming with adoration, never once strayed from yours. In their depths lived every confession he had ever swallowed and every longing he had buried that had bloomed in the spaces between your shared glances. Soobin took in the gentleness of your gaze, the way it mirrored his own, and let himself smile. He reached out, his hand brushing against your wrist before tugging you gently down beside him on the bed. The bed dipped beneath your combined weight, and he gathered you against him, drawing the covers over your bodies until only your breaths filled the air, warm and uneven.
For one fragile second he still wondered if this could be a dream, some mercy granted to a man who had spent too long convincing himself he didn’t need what he did. But then you looked up at him, eyes shimmering like dawn breaking through, and whispered the words that undid every doubt. “I love you.”
He tilted his forehead against yours, eyes closing, before capturing your lips in a kiss that trembled with everything he could not say fast enough. He sealed the words against your mouth before murmuring them back to you.
“I love you. Until the end of time.”
The roses you’d placed on the shelf of your room — the bouquet he made for you — bore witness to this undying love. They would fade with time, but he knew this night, this joining of breaths and words and souls, would not.
Time flew in a strange way on SUNDAYS.
There had been a time in Soobin’s life when he felt that way because you were there under the same roof, guiding the old couple around the flower shop and still, you felt impossibly far from his grasp. He used to fill that distance with his longing in silence. Back then, the hours spent beside you seemed to stretch endlessly and vanish all at once. Sundays used to hurt in their beauty.
Soobin bowed to a customer leaving with a bouquet wrapped in paper the shade of cream roses, he straightened and glanced toward the nursery. Beyond the windowpane, warmth spilled in from the morning sun. You stood there with Mrs. Park, tracing your fingers over the petals of the sunflowers, saying something that made her laugh.
It was still Sunday, still the same hour, but the time passed differently now. Because when you turned, when your eyes met his and you smiled that unguarded smile that reached him like light through a break in clouds, he no longer had to hoard his love in silence. There was a space now for his love to rest, a place for his yearning to call home. Every emotion now spelled your name; every heartbeat found its answer.
You, you, you.
The seconds no longer slipped away; they held still in their sweetness, suspended in their fullness. It felt different — so achingly different — because Soobin finally knew he had all the time in the world with you. Love was no longer something he waited for; it was the air he breathed, the sunlight that kept finding him every new day. He could finally call this forever.
There are loves that blossom silently, and there are loves that consume. Love chose him as its sole vessel the moment you stepped into his still life and made it breathe. Because you were not merely the person he loved.
You were the garden and the grave where Soobin would bury himself. Willingly, ardently, and without return.
in which choi soobin tries his best to be the best boyfriend in the world and tries his hardest to get you - his perfect girlfriend - the perfect gift, not knowing that you only want him for the holidays
word count : 11.4k (it was supposed to be 5k and under oops!)
pairing : choi soobin x fem!reader, highschool au + established relationship
warnings : mentions of food, awkward soobin (my fav kind of soobin), swearing, like a couple freaky jokes but like its more implied so like is it really freaky, tired to not explicitly state christmas all the time as i know not everyone celebrates it but it is an extremely minor detail that is mentioned
playlist: sweet dreams by tomorrow x together, wishlist by tomorrow by together, light by ateez, lock me in by hojean, flowers in may by haneul , first snow by exo, echoes by enhypen
part of : a very merry kpopmas event
prompt : (choi soobin + gift giving)
a/n: thank you so much to @breakmeoff and @angel-writes-skz-here for having me! + happy (late) soobin day!
header : @cursed-carmine
Choi Soobin wasn’t used to having a girlfriend.
Don’t get him wrong—he liked you very much.
In fact, he’d been pining after you ever since the day you offered him a tuxedo-Sam band-aid after he fell at the park when you were both twelve. From that moment on, you’d taken up permanent residence in his thoughts. His decisions, his clothes, even some of his life choices quietly revolved around you.
But when it came to actually functioning around you—speaking, breathing, doing anything at all—Soobin was completely at a loss.
If he had to explain it, Soobin would say it was because you were so utterly perfect that acting normal around you felt impossible. Anyone who could act normal clearly didn’t appreciate your beauty. You were sweet—not just to him, but to everyone. You were funny. You were just mean enough to tease him, but sensitive enough to know when to stop. And you were the cutest thing alive whenever you tried to keep up with whatever his current hyperfixation happened to be.
And that was just your personality. When Soobin thought about your face, he had to actively fight the urge to blush and kick his feet like some lovesick cartoon character. You were so beautiful it felt like it should be illegal. Whenever he remembered that the two of you were still in high school—and that you were only going to get more beautiful as you grew up—his heart practically stopped. He couldn’t stop his mind from imagining you in your late twenties, his pretty wife.
Was he horrifically down bad for a seventeen-year-old in his first relationship?
Yes.
But Soobin wore it like a badge of honour.
The more he realized how perfect you were, the more he felt he needed to step up—be the perfect boyfriend, just for you.
This meant spending hours watching the most predictable, cliché romance movies just to see you smile. It meant being ahead in math class and pretending he actually enjoyed it, all so you’d ask him for help. It meant replying to your messages instantly, even when he couldn’t be bothered to answer his brother’s demands for food. He’d blow his allowance on snacks for you just to make sure you stayed well-fed at school.
He would do anything for you.
And the thing was—it wasn’t difficult.
You simply made him want to be the best version of himself he could possibly be.
However, the month of December was approaching.
His first December with a girlfriend, and not a girl who he was awkwardly trying to make more than friends.
Which meant that it was his first birthday with a girlfriend, and his first holiday season with a girlfriend.
He wasn’t worried about his birthday; if anything, he was excited. You’d been hyping the day up for weeks, and he’d practically melted with happiness when he learned that both of your parents had agreed to let you spend the day together at the downtown holiday market. It meant the two of you could finally live out your shared dream: ice skating hand-in-hand, eating overpriced sweet treats, and ending the night with his friends and family at his favourite restaurant in the city.
It was perfect.
It was the day after his birthday when the real problem finally hit him—thanks to Yeonjun, of course. Yeonjun, his favourite cousin, who was home from university and had taken over the guest bed like he owned the place, glanced up from his phone and said, far too casually:
“I wonder what you’re gonna give your girl for Christmas.”
Soobin paused the Khan Academy video he was watching on integrals—just to get ahead so he could help you in class, though no one needed to know that—and turned to face Yeonjun, eyes wide.
“A Christmas gift?” he echoed, his voice a little higher than usual. Yeonjun was now fluffing up the pillows on Soobin’s bed with full intentions to lie down in it and wrinkle the sheets, because of course he was.
Yeonjun nodded. “Yeah. You know… something that shows how much you know and love her.”
Soobin’s throat went dry. He had been thinking about the holidays, sure—but he’d been so wrapped up in his birthday excitement and trying to be the perfect boyfriend for you that the thought of a Christmas gift had completely slipped his mind.
He blinked, turning back to face the screen that was showing heinous math equations.
‘A gift shouldn’t be too hard,’ he told himself.
He ripped a page from the back of his math notebook, completely abandoning his earlier mission of learning integrals. With a big blue pen—your favourite color—he wrote at the top: WHAT MAKES A PERFECT GIFT.
He grabbed the pencils you had given him (you insisted you should have matching stationery since his old dinosaur pencils were dollar-store quality) and started brainstorming.
To make the perfect gift, Soobin would need to:
Have knowledge of the things you liked (done—he even had a notes folder dedicated to it).
Make sure it was something you didn’t already have (he always took note of your shopping hauls).
Make it personal (he had a pretty good track record, thanks to past Mother’s Day gifts).
The last thing he needed to find the perfect gift was… money.
Soobin slumped in his chair at the realization. He winced, remembering that he’d already spent his previous allowance and birthday money on gaming add-ons and hoodies—leaving him with nothing even close to a worthwhile gift.
He groaned and buried his face in his hands, already picturing Yeonjun laughing at his suffering.
‘How hard could it be to make some money?’ he thought to himself.
And just like that, a plan began to form—a plan born of sheer desperation and an empty bank account.
He would make that money.
And he would find you the perfect gift.
ATTEMPT #1 : CUSTOMER SERVICE CALLS
Soobin hated talking out of line.
It was one of the things you’d once admitted you liked most about him—something he secretly treasured more than any exam score he’d ever gotten.
You’d told him this during what he liked to call a pre-date: the two of you sitting in the bubble tea shop near school, sharing tapioca and warmth and stress-induced ranting. He had already ordered both of your drinks without asking, because he knew your go-to by heart, and you had launched straight into your newest tragedy: the English assignment.
“Mr. Han grouped me with them, Binnie,” you groaned, dramatic as ever. “Because apparently I’m a ‘good influence.’ Like I’m some charity project.”
He blinked. You leaned forward, voice rising.
“He doesn’t let anyone talk! His ego is so high Zeus looks up to it!”
Soobin tried very hard not to laugh—mostly because you looked genuinely seconds away from throwing a tapioca ball at someone. He’d talked to the guy you were complaining about, Lee Chaewon. Cool on the outside, migraine on the inside. Every sentence the boy spoke made Soobin feel like hitting his own head against a locker.
And now he could see the same fate befalling you.
You threw your hands up again. Soobin quickly grabbed them, gently lowering them before you could smack a passing freshman. “Maybe if you talk over him? Say your ideas firmly and he’ll have to listen?”
You stared at him like he’d announced he was moving to Mars.
“I try, Binnie! Every time I talk, he nods like he’s listening and then goes, ‘Actually, I have another idea,’ and then repeats my idea but with SAT vocabulary! I swear he thinks he invented words.”
Soobin had never seen you this frustrated—not even when you confessed that your math grade was dropping fast enough to require a tutor immediately.
He opened his mouth to comfort you, but then you said something that made his entire brain short-circuit.
“You know…” Your voice softened, your hands relaxing in his. “You’re like… my favourite boy. Because at least you let me talk.”
Your favourite boy.
The words rooted themselves in his chest, glowing.
He didn’t say anything—partially because he was shy, and partially because he was terrified that if he opened his mouth he’d let out a sound that wasn’t human.
From that moment on, his ability to stay quiet when needed wasn’t just a habit.
It was something he prided himself on.
Which is why his hand was trembling as he pulled up the customer service number for the Taobao clothing haul he’d… impulsively bought.
He silently cursed himself for getting overexcited—if he had just waited seven more hours, he would’ve had the money to buy you any gift in the world. But no. Now half his allowance was sitting in a virtual shopping cart, and the other half was en route to his dorm in the form of unnecessary hoodies.
He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for what was about to happen.
His finger hovered dramatically over the screen.
This was it. His first step toward financial redemption.
He pressed the dial button.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a click.
“...Hello, thank you for calling Taobao Customer Care,” a monotone voice droned, somehow sounding bored and irritated at the same time. “What do you want?”
Soobin stiffened. “Um—h-hi. I wanted to… cancel an order?”
A long, suffering sigh blasted through the speaker.
“So you’re one of those.”
Soobin blinked. “One of… what?”
“People who buy things they don’t need,” the agent replied flatly. “Happens a lot when you’re heartbroken. Are you heartbroken?”
“What? N-no!” Soobin sputtered, his ears already turning red. “I’m not heartbroken—I have a girlfriend!”
A pause.
A judgemental pause.
“Well, la-dee-da,” the agent said. “Good for you. Must be nice. Anyway, what’s the order number?”
Soobin read it out quickly, praying the agent wouldn’t ask more questions.
“Mhm. Yep. Got it,” they muttered, keys clacking lazily. “This order is already being prepared for shipment. You can’t cancel.”
Soobin’s heart dropped. “B-but I placed it last night!”
“Yeah, well, our system is fast. Unlike my coworkers,” the agent said. “But, ugh, fine. Let me see if I can do something. Why are you canceling?”
Soobin hesitated.
He could lie.
He could say he clicked the wrong thing.
But no—he was Soobin: honest, nervous, down bad.
“It’s… for my girlfriend,” he admitted softly. “I need the money to get her a Christmas gift.”
The agent snorted. Snorted.
“Awwww. Young love. Disgusting.”
Soobin wheezed. “I—what?”
“Listen, kid,” the agent continued, “girls don’t care about gifts. They care about emotional support and communication. Buy her a rock or something. My ex got me a rock once.”
A beat.
“Then dumped me. But the point stands.”
Soobin’s eyes twitched. “I—uh—I don’t think she’d like a rock.”
“Fine, get her socks.”
“Socks?”
“Girls love socks. My sister stole all of mine because they were ‘cute.’”
Soobin wasn’t sure if he should take notes, hang up, or simply perish on the spot.
“I mean, the last resort,” the agent continued breezily, “would be to take your relationship to the next level and get physical.”
Soobin froze.
The silence was deafening.
The agent added, as if giving instructions on how to assemble a bookshelf, “Girls love a man who can take control.”
Soobin physically recoiled from his phone. “I—I’m a minor,” he managed to choke out, face heating up so fast he thought he might combust.
The agent clicked their tongue, entirely unfazed. “Anyway. Do you want this order canceled or not?”
“Yes! Please!”
“Okay,” the agent sighed, “I’ll submit a request. It might get approved. It might not. Depends on whether the system likes you today.”
Soobin blinked. “The system… likes me?”
“Yeah. It picks favorites. Not me though.”
A bitter sniff.
“Is that all?”
“So… I just wait?”
“Yep. Just like you’ll wait for this girlfriend to eventually break your heart—”
“WHAT—?!”
“Have a nice day. Or whatever.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Soobin stared at his phone in traumatized silence, wondering if this was truly worth ₩668,000…
And then he remembered your smile.
Yes. Yes it was.
Turning to his laptop he opened the order page and refreshed it.
Nothing.
He was refreshed again.
Still nothing.
He waited five minutes, pacing in circles, muttering to himself, chewing on his sleeve, praying to every higher power he’d ever heard of.
Then—
A new notification.
He gasped, snatching his phone so fast he nearly dropped it.
“Your cancellation request has been reviewed.”
YES. YES. YES—
He opened it.
“Status: Denied.”
Soobin froze.
Then reread it.
Then reread it again.
Denied.
Underneath, in smaller text:
Reason: Order already packed and ready for shipment. Have a lovely day! 😊
The smiley emoji felt like a slap.
His soul left his body.
He dropped onto his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“…I hate emojis,” he whispered.
Then—DING!
A second notification.
From Taobao Customer Care Chat Support.
He clicked it.
Agent 1092: “Hey. Just a heads up, your cancellation didn’t go through. Told you the system hates me.”
Agent 1092: “Also told you girls don’t need fancy gifts. You should’ve gone with the rock idea. Just saying.”
Agent 1092: “Anyway, good luck with your relationship. You’ll need it.”
Soobin let out a noise that was half-groan, half-cry.
Not only was the order shipping, not only was his refund denied, but now he had unwanted aftercare from the world’s worst customer service agent.
He face-planted into his pillow.
And as if the universe wanted to truly finish him off—
Yeonjun walked by his door, paused, and said:
“Why do you look like you just witnessed your future fall apart?”
Soobin groaned louder.
ATTEMPT #2 : COLLECTING “REAL” DEBT
You had always said that you liked people who were into giving.
Soobin found this out during a so-called “study session” at his house (in reality, the two of you were sitting at the dining room table while his brother lurked in the living room, pretending to watch TV but actually making sure Soobin didn’t become a “real man” at sixteen and ruin family dinners forever).
He was supposed to be explaining the tricks and tips of trigonometric relations, but the lesson flew out the window the moment you asked for a break.
A break led to conversation.
Conversation led to comfortable laughter.
And comfortable laughter led to Soobin blurting out, far too casually to be casual:
“What… what type of people do you like?”
He remembered the way you blinked slowly, processing the question.
He remembered the small pout that formed on your lips as you thought about it.
He remembered sitting there across from you, heart thudding against his ribs, silently begging the universe to hand him an answer he could see himself in.
“I like people,” you began, looking unfairly pretty under the harsh dining room lights, “who are sweet, kind, and understanding. They should be funny, too. But also know boundaries.”
Soobin had stopped breathing. I can do that. I can be that.
You weren’t done.
“I like people who love to give,” you continued thoughtfully. “People who understand they might not always get something back, but they try anyway. I think that says a lot about who they are.”
Then you giggled. “Like you, Soobin.”
His heart flatlined.
“You’re tutoring me right now,” you said breezily, “even if the only thing I can offer is my company in return.”
You hummed, completely unaware of the tomato-red boy dissolving in front of you.
“You’re like… my favourite kind of person.”
Which… did not help his guilt when he called an emergency meeting with his friends the day after the failed customer service call, all because he’d decided it was finally time to collect payment for every favour he’d ever done for them.
But he was broke. Desperate. And in love.
A terrible combination.
The plan was simple—or as simple as Soobin’s panic-fueled brain could make it:
meet all the boys after school, while you were busy helping the drama club prep their stage sets for the spring , and politely demand (read: beg on his knees if necessary) that they finally pay him back.
Which was how he ended up here, two weeks before the winter break, standing in the only study room the school library had to offer—a room barely bigger than a broom closet, with flickering fluorescent lights and a suspiciously sticky table.
He dropped his backpack onto a chair with a thud, exhaled shakily, and pulled up the “speech” he’d written in the Notes app during biology class. (He had been supposed to be learning about mitosis, but honestly? Emotional deterioration felt like a better representation of what he was going through.)
Now, pacing the room like a man about to negotiate a hostage situation, he muttered under his breath:
“Hello, valued friends. I have supported you through emotional turmoil and academic despair… and in return, I humbly request—no, confidently assert—that you repay your debts to me as soon as possible…”
He paused, grimaced, and rewrote the line in the air with his hands.
“No. Too aggressive. They’ll run.”
He cleared his throat and tried again, voice barely above a whisper:
“Hi guys… um… remember when I helped you all? And… yeah… if you could possibly, maybe, potentially—”
He winced.
“That’s pathetic,” he whispered. “I sound like a customer service rep apologizing for breathing.”
He took a deep breath, straightened his sweater, and gave his cheeks a light slap to hype himself up.
“Why are you slapping yourself?”
Soobin spun around so fast he nearly tripped. His hands went clammy and dropped uselessly to his sides when he saw Taehyun and Beomgyu standing in the doorway.
“Hi,” he blurted—far too loudly. The librarian’s glare cut across the room like a laser.
He hurriedly motioned for the two boys to shut the door. They slipped inside after exchanging a look—somewhere between concern and disbelief.
The younger two, who had met Soobin through family friends (Beomgyu) and school orientation (Taehyun), were genuinely horrified. Their normally calm, collected friend now looked like someone who’d just learned his parents discovered exactly how much of his allowance had gone toward you.
“Are you okay?” Taehyun asked carefully.
Soobin inhaled again, ready to launch into his entire panicked monologue—when the door burst open hard enough to be a crime.
Huening Kai tumbled in, dragging a panting Heeseung behind him. Heeseung looked like this was the first time he’d done physical activity in the past year, maybe two.
Soobin flinched at the slam, then frantically shushed them—as if that could undo the librarian’s brand-new hatred for him.
Kai only shrugged as Soobin rushed to the door, poking his head out to give the librarian a guilty, apologetic smile. Her expression made it very clear she would never let him borrow a study room again.
Soobin grabbed his two younger friends and sat them down.
Which made the cramped study room look less like a casual hangout and more like Soobin was allowing the Council of Fate (his four friends sitting in a row in front of him) to decide whether he would continue to have a functioning social life—and a relationship—in the new year.
Once they were all seated, Soobin cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said, clasping his hands together like a man about to deliver terrible news at a family meeting. “Thank you all for coming.”
Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “We didn’t come. Kai dragged Heeseung, and Taehyun and I followed the sound of you yelling ‘Hi’ at a volume that could break windows.”
Soobin chose not to acknowledge that.
“I’ve called this emergency meeting because… I need something from you guys.”
Four pairs of eyes blinked slowly at him, the exact expression of people who knew they were guilty of something but not sure which crime was finally catching up to them.
“It’s about money,” Soobin announced.
A collective groan echoed around the room.
Heeseung, still recovering from being dragged across campus, rubbed his forehead. Kai slid further down his chair like he could escape through the floor. Taehyun pinched the bridge of his nose, already bracing himself. Beomgyu stared at the ceiling as if spiritually ascending.
But Soobin pushed on—he had practiced this speech in biology class, and he refused to die without delivering it properly.
“I have helped all of you,” he began, pacing like a stressed soccer mom. “I have edited essays. I have explained math. I have provided emotional support during your crises. I have rescued you from academic disasters of your own making—”
Beomgyu raised a hand. “To be fair, they were creative disasters.”
“—and in return,” Soobin continued firmly, “I am politely demanding that you all finally pay me back.”
Kai winced. Heeseung let out a sound of pure financial agony. Taehyun muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “I knew this day would come.” Beomgyu dramatically clutched his chest.
Soobin opened his Notes app with the seriousness of someone unveiling crucial evidence in court.
“The combined total you all owe me,” he said, pausing for effect, “is about… roughly the price of a new winter coat.”
Silence.
Horrified, guilt-ridden silence.
Heeseung cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, and asked with the dignity of a man preparing for bankruptcy court:
“What if… we’re,” he paused, searching for a word heavy enough for his tragedy, “broke?”
Soobin blinked at him. Once. Twice.
“You literally asked me three days ago how much ramen you should buy if you wanted money left over for skins on League.”
Heeseung immediately deflated, sliding down the chair like wet laundry.
“Okay, but what if I spent it already?” he mumbled.
“Return the ramen,” Soobin said flatly, his voice stripped of all hope.
Heeseung winced—physically winced—then rubbed his stomach over his hoodie with the sadness of a man sharing a war story.
“I can’t. I… ate it all.”
Soobin stared at him, horrified.
“You ate a month’s ramen in two days?”
Heeseung smiled sheepishly.
“I was hungry yesterday.”
Before Soobin could decide whether to scold him or cry, Beomgyu leaned over and held out a fist, solemnly.
“Respect.”
Heeseung fist-bumped him without hesitation.
Soobin felt his eye twitch so violently he briefly worried he was developing a condition.
He turned to the other three.
He sighed and clasped his hands together, desperation radiating off him in waves.
“Please tell me you can help my case.”
He looked at them—Taehyun, Beomgyu, Kai, and Heeseung—all four suddenly finding the floor, ceiling, walls, and even their own shoelaces infinitely more interesting than his face.
Just like his shoulders slumped down, all his hopes sank with them.
Taehyun was the first to crack.
He lifted a finger—slowly, guiltily—like he was admitting he didn't do the homework in Mrs.Song's class.
“So… the thing is… I may or may not have bought a new pair of wireless earbuds.”
Soobin blinked. “You already have wireless earbuds.”
“These ones have a case that lights up,” Taehyun admitted, shamefully proud.
Soobin inhaled through his nose.
Then he turned to Kai.
Kai raised both hands like he was being arrested.
“Before you say anything—I have a very good explanation.”
Soobin waited.
Kai hesitated.
“I spent mine on… puzzle figurines.”
“…What kind of puzzle figurines?”
“Uh… the… limited edition penguin ones?” Kai mumbled.
“THE ONES THAT WOBBLE?” Soobin’s voice cracked up an octave.
Kai nodded slowly, looking like a child caught stealing cookies.
Before Soobin could even begin processing that, Beomgyu let out the most dramatic, suffering-filled sigh.
“Soobin,” he said, placing a hand over his heart, “I would love to pay you back—really, truly—but I’m experiencing an… emotional financial block.”
Soobin stared. “…What block?”
“You know how my mom grounded me for buying that $75 shampoo?”
“So… you’re grounded.”
“Yes,” Beomgyu nodded gravely.
“So she took my debit card.”
A pause.
“And my emergency cash.”
Another pause.
“And my piggy bank.”
“…You had a piggy bank?”
“That’s not the point,” Beomgyu snapped, offended.
Soobin pressed his palms to his eyes, contemplating his life choices.
This meeting was not going the way he had scripted it. Not at all.
The one thing he’d forgotten to factor in was that he wasn’t the only dumb boy who spent all his money on dumb things—they all did.
He turned to face the group again… only to find them passionately debating whether they should get bubble tea on the way to Heeseung’s house or actually study.
It was a one-sided battle: Taehyun desperately trying to argue the importance of reviewing advanced functions, versus three boys loudly making slurping noises as their counterargument.
Soobin pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced at the clock.
3:45.
He froze.
He had promised he’d pick you up at 3:40.
His stomach dropped. He’d left you alone and stranded for five minutes.
In a flash, he grabbed his bag.
“You’re all lucky I’m too tired to lecture you about your irresponsible spending habits,” he muttered, slinging the strap over his shoulder.
“As if you aren’t the same as us,” Beomgyu snorted.
Soobin narrowed his eyes as he backed toward the door.
“At least I don’t blow it all in two days,” he hissed—aimed directly at Heeseung, because seriously, twelve packets of ramen in two days should be medically studied.
He shut the door behind him and practically sprinted through the hallways. Thankfully, the school was mostly empty—allowing him to run (well, speedwalk aggressively) without witnesses.
And then he saw you.
Leaning against his locker.
Scrolling on your phone.
Holding his jacket in your arms, carefully folded like it was something precious you were safeguarding for him.
He forgot all about gifts, money, and debt collectors disguised as friends.
He walked toward you, soft and happy, and tapped the top of your head with the confidence afforded only by his ridiculous height.
You flinched like a startled bunny, and he had to stop himself from cooing.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” he said, voice warm like hot chocolate in winter.
You smiled. “Of course. Who else is going to protect me from the snow outside?”
He glanced at your thin jacket—the one that never zipped properly—and frowned.
“It’s freezing. Wouldn’t you get cold?”
“Maybe I won’t,” you hummed, “if you hold my hand on the bus?”
He smiled. “Doesn’t mean I’ll let you walk home from the bus stop cold.”
You pouted. “Or… you could walk me home. And do your homework there?”
He sighed, pained.
“As much as I want to, your parents would definitely not want me over when you have an accounting test tomorrow.”
You gasped dramatically. “How dare you use my schedule against me?”
He laughed—and made up his mind instantly.
Gently, he placed his hands on your shoulders. You melted on the spot, leaning into his touch, practically purring like a cat.
He guided you aside and opened his locker—making you whine softly when his hands left you.
From inside, he pulled out the cozy blue scarf—the scarf, the one he bragged about because his brother had bought it for him in London.
You watched him in quiet awe as he approached you.
He placed the scarf around your neck with the precision of a surgeon who had trained his whole life for this exact moment. He arranged your hair carefully so it wouldn’t irritate your skin, fluffing the fabric just enough so it framed your face perfectly for any future selfies.
You couldn’t stop staring.
Your lips parted.
Your cheeks warmed.
Your heart thudded so loudly he would’ve heard it if he’d leaned even an inch closer.
When he finally tied the scarf neatly and looked up at you for approval, he froze.
Your eyes were soft.
Too soft.
Dangerously soft.
And he blushed.
You stepped forward—quick and warm—and pressed a kiss to his nose, giggling when he jolted like he’d been electrocuted.
“That’s not fair,” he sputtered, flushing. “I try to keep you warm and you laugh at me?”
He pulled on his jacket, now that it was back in his hands, letting you quietly play with the matching keychains hanging from his zipper—the ones you bought together at the mall.
“How was your day?” he asked, needing to hear your voice again.
You rambled about an annoying classmate, his scarf snug on your neck, your hand brushing his arm. He absently patted the empty space where the scarf should have been on his own outfit—but seeing you wearing it, looking warmer and prettier than anyone had a right to, he didn’t mind the incoming interrogation from his parents.
Finally, the two of you headed toward the bus stop.
He laced his fingers through yours.
Listened to you talk.
Felt warmth spread through his entire chest.
He would get you the perfect gift.
He didn’t care how long it took—or how many schemes he had to come up with.
Because you were worth it.
ATTEMPT #3 : OPERATION LEARN HOW TO PUT THOSE LONG FINGERS TO USE
Soobin was terrified the first time you met his parents as his girlfriend.
Soobin was practically petrified the first time he met your parents as your boyfriend.
But if he was being honest, he couldn’t deny that he fell for you even more after that fateful dinner.
It was a Friday evening in March when he’d come over to your house to formally meet your parents. He still remembers the day before: panicking over his economics test, panicking over how to impress your parents, panicking in general—basically cycling through every synonym for “fear” that he hoped would make his English teacher think he was a literary genius.
He was scared. Petrified. Horrified. Alarmed.
Any dramatic words from a thesaurus? Yes, he was that.
When the clock struck five and the sky was already turning dark, Soobin remembered standing at the door, waving his brother away like he was being shipped off to war. In his hands were a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine—both of which his brother had shoved at him with the confidence of a man who believed he alone was responsible for why his girlfriend’s parents liked him.
Soobin wasn’t sure he believed that logic, but his brain was already melting from nerves. So he held the flowers. Hold the wine. Held onto the rapidly fading hope that he would somehow survive this.
He remembers ringing the doorbell.
He remembers you opening the door, looking so pretty in the cozy sweater he’d saved up three months to buy you.
You beamed at him, reaching your hand out to pull him inside—but Soobin was so scared he just stared dumbly at your outstretched hand like he’d never seen one before.
You shook your head, smiling, “Are you going to stand there the whole night?”
He blinked back into reality. “Can I?”
You laughed—a soft, sweet sound that melted every nerve he had. “All the food we made is going to get cold,” you warned, eyes glimmering, “which would make my mom absolutely hate you.”
That snapped Soobin back into survival mode. “Right. We can’t have that.”
“Nope,” you agreed. “That is absolutely unacceptable.”
So Soobin stepped inside, carefully taking off his shoes and placing them next to yours—something he never bothered to do until he noticed you always did it.
With his heart in his hands (along with the bouquet and the wine), he stepped into your house.
He’d been there before…but back then he was just your tutor.
Not your boyfriend.
He remembers standing stiffly at the dinner table, unable to properly function without you hovering somewhere nearby. It didn’t help that the first pair of eyes he met were your dad’s—sharp, unreadable, and scanning him up and down like he was a suspicious package left unattended.
Soobin bowed, nearly dropping the flowers. “H-Hello, sir,” he stuttered.
Your dad hummed. A sound that held judgment. Deep, ancient judgment.
Then, without blinking, he asked,
“Are you an alcoholic?”
Soobin’s soul left his body.
“No!” he blurted—loud enough that he heard the muffled giggles of you and your mom from the kitchen.
Your dad raised a slow eyebrow. “Then would you like to explain why you’re holding a bottle of wine?”
Soobin glanced down at the bottle like he’d never seen it before in his life.
He wished his brother were here so he could strangle him.
He felt his hands become sweaty, his body working against him as if to make him drop the bottle.
His palms grew sweaty—so sweaty it felt like his own body was actively trying to make him drop the bottle.
He cleared his throat, voice wobbling. “I—I brought it. My parents told me that you should bring a gift when visiting someone’s home for the first time, so… My brother made me bring this. For you. Sir.”
He paused, proud of himself for getting the sentence out without fainting, but still far too terrified to make eye contact.
Your dad crossed his arms. “And the flowers?”
Soobin quickly raised them, presenting the small grocery-store bouquet like it was a royal offering. “They’re for your wife, sir.”
Your dad blinked once. Slowly.
“Are you trying to woo my wife, Choi Soobin?”
Soobin’s soul dropped further into the abyss.
“No!” he yelped, voice cracking.
From the kitchen came a bright, familiar laugh—yours.
“Dad, stop teasing him! He looks like he’s going to pass out.”
At that moment, Soobin had never wanted to hug someone—other than his mom—so quickly in his life.
You appeared from the kitchen holding four plates, and Soobin immediately panicked. Not because you were holding plates, but because it gave him an excuse—any excuse—to move, to do something, to not sit here under your dad’s laser-beam stare.
He practically slammed the wine and bouquet onto the table so he could rush to you and take the plates from your hands.
You beamed at him, squeezing his arm in a way that sent all his vital signs into chaos.
“Do you need any help in the kitchen?” Soobin asked hopefully, watching as you turned to head back in to grab the rest of the dishes.
You shook your head with a small, amused smile. “Nope. You stay. Bond with my dad.”
Soobin would have rather melted into your carpet like a stressed candle.
But you disappeared back into the kitchen—leaving him alone. With your father. Who was still staring at him like he was trying to figure out whether Soobin was a suitable boyfriend or a potential tax fraud case.
Resigned to his tragic fate, Soobin slowly returned to the dining table and sat down across from your dad, the bouquet and bottle of wine resting between them like awkward peace offerings.
The silence was immediate. Heavy. Suffocating.
Your dad leaned back in his chair.
“So,” he said, tone neutral and somehow threatening anyway, “you tutor my daughter, hm?”
Soobin swallowed, then nodded.
This was it. This was how he died.
Thankfully, salvation arrived in the form of your mom sweeping into the dining room with a warm smile and a serving tray.
“Soobin, dear! It’s so nice to finally have you join us for dinner,” she said, setting down the side dishes with practiced elegance.
Soobin immediately stood and bowed so low he probably looked like he was auditioning to be a butler.
“H-Hello, ma’am! Thank you for having me!”
Your mom laughed softly, patting his shoulder. “Such a polite boy. No wonder our daughter likes you.”
Your dad coughed sharply, looking personally offended by the compliment.
You walked in right after, holding a platter of steaming dumplings. The second your eyes met Soobin’s, relief washed through you both.
You took your seat beside him—thank God—and bumped your shoulder gently against his.
“You okay?” you whispered.
“No,” he whispered back immediately.
You stifled a laugh.
Your mom began arranging the dishes on the table and sighed dramatically. “I spent the whole evening in the kitchen. I hope you’re all hungry. Though I’ll admit,” she chuckled, “I’m always jealous of girls who date boys that cook. Imagine coming home to a homemade meal.”
Your dad scoffed. “If I cooked, this house would’ve burned down in 2003.”
You snorted. “Dad, I literally watched you burn toast last week.”
He pointed his chopsticks at you. “That toaster is too strong.”
Your mom ignored him with the skill of a woman long-practiced. She turned to Soobin with a friendly tease. “Do you cook, Soobin?”
Soobin froze. Completely.
“I—uh—I can… assemble cereal?”
You laughed, but your mom only hummed politely.
“That’s alright,” she smiled. “Cooking can be learned. And honestly, making something with your own hands is always more meaningful.”
You perked up at that, leaning forward.
“Exactly!” you said. “If someone made something for me, like actually made it with their hands, I would melt on the spot.”
Soobin’s head snapped toward you so fast he almost strained something.
You shrugged, completely sincere and sweet. “It’s just… thoughtful, you know? When someone puts real effort into something for you.”
Your mom nodded approvingly.
Your dad narrowed his eyes across the table at Soobin, silently mouthing, You hear that? Effort.
And Soobin, already sweating through his nicest sweater, felt his heartbeat pick up.
He smiled at you, taking in that information and storing it in his brain, in case it ever came up.
Which it did.
Soobin had no money.
None.
He had exhausted every possible option to acquire money for your gift—asking the boys (financial disasters), checking his bank account (financial apocalypse), considering selling his soul to Taobao (Agent 1092 said no).
Which led him to his current situation:
Sniffling in bed three days before winter break, wrapped in three layers of blankets like a damp, oversized burrito. His nose was red, his throat was sore, and his eyes were burning—but not from the fever.
From watching YouTube videos titled “BEGINNER-FRIENDLY CROCHET BUNNY (NO SKILLS NEEDED!)”
…and failing spectacularly at all of them.
Turns out, while giving you his scarf made him extremely boyfriend-coded, it was not helping his immune system.
His cold was feeling cold.
He was pretty sure his cough had developed its own personality.
Still, he stubbornly replayed the video, squinting at the instructor’s overly cheerful voice.
“Just yarn over—”
“What does that MEAN?” Soobin croaked back at the phone, voice cracking like a twelve-year-old boy in a coming-of-age movie.
His fingers—long, elegant, piano-like—were apparently useless when it came to yarn. Every time he tried to start, the hook tangled, the yarn knotted, and somehow, inexplicably, the ball of yarn rolled off his bed and hit him in the face.
He sniffled pathetically and muttered,
“I’m doing this so she melts. I’m doing this so she melts. I’m doing this—” ACHOO “—so she melts.”
He paused the video again, rewound it for the eighth time, and forced his trembling hands to attempt the magic ring.
The yarn slipped.
The loop fell apart.
Soobin collapsed face-first into his pillow.
If love required skill, he was doomed.
But he refused to give up.
Not when he could still hear your voice, soft and warm, telling his mother that you melted when people made things for you.
He dragged the blanket tighter around himself, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and tried again.
His fingertips were numb, his nose was running, his fever was rising, and nothing about this situation screamed “romantic gesture”—but he was determined.
Because he wasn’t just making a plushie.
He was making your gift.
And he was going to make you melt if it killed him.
(Which, at this rate, it just might.)
When his magic ring mutated into a catastrophic lump of knots, Soobin groaned, snapped, and threw his thirty-second attempt across the room—
—directly at his sister.
He winced at the sharp inhale that followed.
He immediately bundled himself deeper into the blankets for survival as she placed a tray of hot soup on his desk.
Soobin was scared of three people in his life: his parents… and his sister.
If he had to rank them, one being the most terrifying, the list would go:
his sister,
his mom,
his dad.
He had established at age seven that his brother was a crybaby, so he didn’t count.
“Soobin,” she said, voice dangerously calm for someone who currently had a red mark forming on her forehead from a flying crochet hook, “would you like to explain why I just got nerfed in the head with my yarn and my hook?”
Soobin flinched under her gaze, pulling the blanket up to his chin like it was a shield.
“I—I didn’t mean to—” he stammered, eyes wide.
“You didn’t mean to what? Attempt to murder me with yarn?” she asked, eyebrows raised, voice dripping with mock accusation.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Words were failing him. This was worse than any interrogation from your dad.
She crossed her arms, peering at the pile of tangled yarn and half-formed bunny on his desk. “And what exactly are you doing?”
He swallowed hard. “I’m… uh… making a gift.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “A gift?”
“For… Y/N,” he muttered, voice barely audible, scarfing down the last bits of pride he had left.
She blinked at him. Then, very slowly, she walked over and crouched beside his desk, eyes scanning the lumpy disaster of yarn. “You mean… this?”
Soobin nodded furiously, hands fluttering in protest at her inspecting the crime scene.
She grabbed the hook gently from him, holding it up. “Okay, first of all… this is a mess. How are your long fingers so… useless?”
“They’re piano-like!” he defended weakly.
“Piano-like my foot,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “I can’t even tell where the ears are supposed to be.”
Soobin winced.
“Second of all,” she continued, poking at the lumpy knot, “your tension is… terrifying. And these loops? Absolute anarchy.”
He groaned, curling into himself a little.
“But!” she said, leaning closer, voice softening just slightly, “you don’t need this to be perfect.”
His head shot up. “What do you mean?”
“You heard me. Gifts… don’t need to be flawless,” she said, tapping the pile of yarn with one finger. “They just need… effort. Thought. Heart. And I can tell—” she waved at him dramatically, “—that you’ve put all of that in already.”
He blinked.
“You’re making something for her, Soobin,” she continued, eyes glinting, “with your own hands. And trust me, she’s going to melt whether it looks like a bunny or a… very lumpy cloud.”
Soobin swallowed, heat rising in his cheeks. “I… I just… I want it to be… nice…”
She smirked, tapping him lightly on the forehead with the hook. “Nice doesn’t mean perfect. And if she’s anything like you say, she’ll love it exactly because you tried. Now, put down the blanket and let me teach you how to do the magic ring properly before you accidentally summon Cthulhu instead of a bunny.”
He stared at her, wide-eyed, as she started untangling the knot for him. “I… I have to… I can’t mess this up…”
“Relax,” she said, shaking her head. “If you put your effort in, that’s all that matters. She’ll see that. And trust me… Y/N will melt.”
Soobin nodded, trembling fingers hovering over the yarn, and finally, for the first time, felt a little spark of hope amidst the chaos of loops, knots, and a rapidly dying immune system.
It took three more attempts for his sister to tell him the truth: he was absolute trash at crocheting.
He slumped in his bed, bits of yarn scattered throughout his bed, and his sister rubbing his back in consolation while moving the now-cold soup in front of him.
“Eat Soobin,” she gestured to the meal, “you can’t give her anything if you're sick.”
Soobin sighed miserably.
He will get you something.
He has too.
After all, he would be seeing you in five days to give it to you.
FINAL RESULT : EVERYTHING IS A GIFT WITH YOU
Soobin loved the holiday season.
He loved the way everything felt brighter, warmer, and just a little bit magical—even when the snow made his hair stick to his forehead or his hands freeze while carrying gifts.
Every year, he’d call all his friends over, and they’d spend at least two days at one of their houses, playing games, watching movies, and showing off the new toys they got from Santa.
It had started with Beomgyu and Yeonjun coming over, slowly adding Heeseung, Taehyun, and Hueningkai into the mix. Even as they grew older, the tradition remained—a constant in Soobin’s life, grounding him amid the chaos of exams, schoolwork, and growing up.
And yet, here he was, panicking about Y/N’s gift when he should have been focusing on the most deceitful Mario Kart game played in the history of mankind.
He stole a glance at the screen: Beomgyu was cackling like a maniac, Hueningkai was somehow flying off the track without anyone touching him, and Soobin? He was mentally calculating how much money he had left to make something for you—his brain split between drifting through Rainbow Road and crocheting a bunny that, so far, looked more like a tangled cloud.
Your family had planned a road trip to spend Christmas with your extended family. That gave him a few more days—just enough to hope for a eureka moment.
He clutched his mug of hot chocolate, feeling equal parts excitement and dread.
The last five days had been a blur of stress: emailing teachers at absurd hours, messaging you between classes, juggling assignments, and—worst of all—racking his already fragile immune system trying to find the perfect gift for you.
It got so bad that his mom and sister eventually formed a temporary alliance just to pry his phone and laptop away from him. They practically staged an intervention, dragging him out of his room and forcing him to “touch grass” and “drink water like a normal teenager.”
Soobin obeyed… mostly because his sister threatened to change his lock screen to an unflattering picture of him mid-sneeze.
Now here he was, stuck on the couch, trapped in holiday cheer and Mario Kart chaos, still internally panicking about you.
He let out a long, dramatic sigh—the kind that carried the weight of fourteen undone assignments and one unfinished gift.
Beomgyu, currently serving a well-deserved time-out for swearing too much, slowly turned to look at him.
“Is everything okay?” Beomgyu asked cautiously.
Soobin let out a dramatic groan and practically collapsed onto him, forehead thunking against his shoulder.
“Still haven’t found a gift for her?”
Soobin nodded miserably.
“She’s perfect, Beomgyu,” he said, voice muffled into Beomgyu’s hoodie. “And I don’t know what to get her that actually shows how much she means to me.”
Beomgyu hummed, giving him a few awkward pats on the back—the signature I’m-being-supportive-but-I-don’t-know-how gesture.
“And,” Soobin continued, words spilling out in a panicked rush, “every time I even think about getting her something, it falls apart. And I haven’t even really tried, because I don’t even have the money for a real gift! I’m useless and broke and—”
Beomgyu cut him a look.
“Is this why you asked all of us for money at school?”
Soobin nodded again—somehow even sadder than before. His ears burned bright red.
“I even tried to crochet something for her,” he mumbled into his knees.
Beomgyu slowly turned his head. “…How did that work out for you?”
Soobin just shook his head. That alone was enough of an answer.
“Yeah. Thought so,” Beomgyu sighed.
He gently shoved Soobin off of him—careful, but still dramatic enough to make a point—stood up, walked toward the TV, picked up the remote, and shut the whole Mario Kart tournament down.
The room went silent. Six teenage boys stared at the now-black screen like someone had pulled the fire alarm.
“What the hell, Beomgyu!” Heeseung snapped, scandalized. He had been milliseconds away from securing his first win of the night—his only source of pride.
Beomgyu ignored him, clearing his throat like he was about to deliver a presidential address.
“As you all are aware,” he began, hands clasped behind his back, “Soobin is the only one out of all of us who has a girlfriend.”
Taehyun raised his hand.
“Actually, I’m talking with the student coun—”
“—doesn’t count,” Beomgyu cut in immediately, not even looking at him. “You exchanged three emails about a bake sale. Sit down.”
Taehyun slowly lowered his hand, offended but unable to argue.
“So,” Beomgyu continued, pacing like a general preparing for war, “it has come to my attention that our dear leader—” he jabbed a finger dramatically at Soobin “—is down BAD and broke, and thus cannot purchase a proper gift for his beloved.”
Soobin let out a noise that sounded like emotional roadkill.
Hueningkai gasped. “He’s broke? Like… broke?”
“So broke,” Yeonjun added from the couch, “that he tried to borrow five dollars from the cafeteria lady.”
Soobin stared at the scene unfolding in front of him, absolutely mortified.
His friends were discussing his tragic love life like it was a group project worth 40% of their grade.
Taehyun crossed his arms, even the voice of reason.
“Even if you magically got money right now, anything you buy would cost extra. It’s two days before Christmas Eve. That’s peak desperation pricing.”
All the boys deflated at once—like six balloons losing air in perfect, miserable harmony. Whatever ideas had been forming on their tongues disappeared instantly.
Yeonjun sighed dramatically, pushing his hair back.
“As the eldest here, obviously my advice carries the most wisdom.”
“Who?” Beomgyu shot back, disgusted.
Yeonjun ignored him with the practiced skill of someone who had done it many, many times. He turned to Soobin instead.
“I think you should prepare something she wants to do, not something she wants to receive.”
Hueningkai snapped his fingers in agreement.
“Yeah! Whenever Lea gushes about her boyfriend, it’s always because he takes her out to do something together.”
Soobin felt something click in his brain.
Do something… not give something.
The idea swirled, forming a shape.
“What could he do though?” Heeseung asked, frowning. “It’s not like he can take her out-out.
He’s broke, and there’s no way her parents would let her go anywhere.”
“What if he brings her to stay in?” Beomgyu suggested, plopping back onto the couch.
Taehyun blinked at him.
“Who the hell gives someone an invite to their house?”
“Isn’t that literally what happened in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?” Hueningkai asked.
“No, that was a factory tour,” Taehyun said, offended.
“A factory is just a big house,” Hueningkai insisted.
They devolved into an argument about industrial zoning and fictional candy empires.
But Soobin didn’t hear a word of it. Because somewhere between “do something” and “stay in,” the perfect idea had hit him—
Clear, warm, simple.
He knew exactly what to give you.
And for the first time all night, his heart didn’t feel like it was being squeezed by both Santa and his reindeer.
He waited for everyone to leave and talked it over with his parents - who had agreed after yelling at him over his poor financial responsibility.
The plan commenced the next day.
He had messaged you merry christmas eve and had in fact attempted to call you, only for your little cousin to jump in the call and tease her for the dorky looking boy in your phone.
It is safe to state that the plan did not start off great.
Then he did the most daunting part of the plan.
Calling your dad.
Soobin dialed the number, hands shaking so hard he nearly hung up three times before the call even connected. On the second ring, your dad picked up.
“Hello?”
Soobin—out of pure muscle memory—bowed.
On a phone call.
Where absolutely no one could see him.
“H-Hello, sir,” he said, voice already cracking.
“Yes, Soobin?”
“I was wondering if I could ask you permission about something, sir?”
“Carry on.”
Soobin took one deep breath. Then another. Then a third because the first two didn’t work.
“You see,” he began, eyes flicking to the notebook in front of him—filled with word-for-word, panicked Soobin handwriting—“I have been unsuccessful in finding an adequate gift for your daughter who is my girlfriend.”
Your dad hummed in a way that made Soobin grip the edge of his desk.
“I see.”
“Which is why,” Soobin continued, heart beating at a medically concerning speed as he launched into the speech he wrote last night at 2 a.m., “I would like to propose a request that I believe will make her very happy and—”
“Son,” your dad interrupted, coughing pointedly, “take a breath.”
Soobin slammed his mouth shut.
“Let me discuss it with her mom,” your dad said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
And then he hung up.
Soobin stared at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.
Now he had to wait.
Which he could do.
(He absolutely could not do this.)
He sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the screen as if he could make it vibrate through sheer force of anxiety.
Thirty minutes later—it did.
A single message.
From your dad.
“You’re allowed. Tell me if you need anything.”
Soobin gasped.
And then celebrated so violently that he pulled a muscle in his side and had to lie on the floor for an hour, clutching his ribcage like a Victorian maiden fainting over a scandalous ankle.
Once he recovered, he moved to phase two.
Backup.
Backup that consisted of the five biggest dumbasses he knew.
He opened his laptop, started a group call, and screen-shared the elaborate, color-coded, stress-born plan he had built to make sure his gift would be perfect.
The boys reacted exactly as he expected:
Taehyun — skeptical.
Hueningkai — practically vibrating with excitement.
Yeonjun — proud like a delusional soccer mom.
Heeseung — analyzing every detail like this was NASA mission prep.
Beomgyu — terrified, looking like he was being recruited for a heist against his will.
Soobin cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said, voice shaking, “I need you all for the next part of the plan.”
And with that, the chaos officially began.
Then came the next phase.
Seeing you.
Soobin practically sprinted to your house the moment you messaged him, “I’m waiting :)”
He didn’t even let the typing dots finish before he grabbed his jacket, his backpack, and the envelope that held the Pinterest-worthy card he’d rewritten six times because the first five looked like a toddler’s handwriting.
Inside the envelope was also the second part of his plan—something only for you.
Something he’d triple-checked five times before leaving the house.
He’d already ensured that everything else he needed for the gift was on its way to your place.
Coordinated.
Timed.
Planned like a high-stakes heist operation.
All that was left was him.
And the bus ride.
Which, unfortunately, gave him twenty uninterrupted minutes to overthink every possible way his “brilliant plan” could go wrong.
What if your parents changed their minds?
What if his parents changed their minds?
What if he tripped on the walkway and the envelope flew into a snowbank and he had to dig through it like a deranged raccoon?
What if you didn’t like the card?
What if—God forbid—you thought the gift was lame?
He pressed his forehead against the cold bus window.
‘Whatever,’ he told himself, inhaling deeply like he was about to perform on Broadway.
‘It’s too late for regrets.’
When the bus finally stopped near your neighborhood, Soobin stood up so fast he nearly face-planted on the stairs.
Soobin stepped off the bus and started speed-walking toward your house, his heart pounding louder with every step.
He rang the doorbell, heart practically trying to punch its way out of his chest—
and then you opened the door.
Just like that, every single nerve in his body dissolved.
You were here.
You were smiling.
You were absolutely perfect.
“Hey,” you said, grinning at him from inside the house like you hadn’t just completely rearranged his entire heartbeat.
“Hi,” he managed, already forgetting every line he practiced on the bus.
You stepped back and motioned him in, watching carefully as he shrugged off his jacket and bent down to unlace his boots. He even lined them up neatly beside yours, which made you raise a suspicious eyebrow.
“What’s in your bag?” you asked, the beginnings of a smile tugging at your lips.
Soobin only smirked—smug, teasing, terrified.
“You’ll find out later.”
You rolled your eyes but grabbed his hand anyway, dragging him straight into the living room. He barely had time to drop his bag and the envelope at the foot of the couch before you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him with enough force to knock the wind out of a less prepared man.
He let out a surprised laugh as he stumbled back a step, instinctively catching you.
And then his arms were around you too—warm, steady, holding you just as tightly as you held him.
For a moment, he forgot about the nerves, the envelope, the plan, everything.
It was just you.
You, hugging him like he was already the best part of your Christmas.
“Missed me that much?” he asked teasingly.
You pulled away from the hug only to smack him, “Don’t even joke about that.”
He smiled at you, gently pulling you in for another hug, “It’s okay, I mean I missed you too” he admitted with his face turning red.
He heard you say, “I’m sorry I got you sick,” against his chest.
Making him click his tongue, “I gave you the scarf, that was a me decision not you, it’s not your fault.”
You nodded, still hugging him.
He was the one who pulled away this time.
He grabbed the envelope, and put it in your hands.
“Can I open it”, you asked.
Soobon nodded.
Inside, with card, was a paper on which he had used all his crafting skills on that said, “SOOBIE BOOBIE COUPON : ONE DAY OF WHATEVER GIRLFRIEND WANTS (NO COMPLAINING)” accompanied by any and all stickers that were winter related in his house.
“I spent a lot of time thinking about what to get you,” he started, “but I’m dumb and didn’t plan well enough in time and I didn't know what to get you. I’m sorry.” He paused, gauging your reaction. When all he saw was you holding the coupon like it was delicate, he continued. “Consider this an IOU, I promise to get you something, but unfortunately this is all I have for today.”
He hung his head down low, waiting for a reaction.
All he heard was a giggle, “Soobin, thank you.”
His head sprang back up, confused.
“At least you were honest, Yunjin was telling me the other day about her situationship gave her a lip tint he got as a freebie while shopping for his sister and tried to play it off”
Soobin failed to see how that related to this, but he stayed silent and listened.
“Thank you for being honest and trying baby,” you smiled at him, “that’s all I’ve ever needed”
Soobin blinked, still holding his breath. “Really? That… that’s enough?”
You nodded, tucking the coupon gently into your pocket. “Really. Any time spent with you is the gift I want. Honestly, Soobin, this is perfect.”
A mix of relief and pride swelled in his chest, and he finally let himself grin. “Okay… well, in that case…”
He reached over and took your hand, tugging you gently toward the kitchen. “Let’s make the most of this gift, yeah?”
You laughed softly and let him pull you along. Soon, you were surrounded by flour, cookie cutters, and a mountain of gingerbread pieces.
“Soobin,” you said, picking up a snowman-shaped cutter, “you do know these are supposed to look like snowmen, right?”
“Of course,” he said confidently, squinting at his dough. “See? Perfect snowman. Totally symmetrical.”
You peered over his shoulder. “…That looks like it got run over by a reindeer.”
“Soobin!” he protested, sticking out his tongue. “It’s abstract!”
You giggled and dabbed a little flour on his nose. He froze. “Hey! That’s cheating!”
“Cheating? No, it’s festive,” you said, grinning. “And also a warning: don’t mess up the icing this time.”
“I’m not going to mess it up!” he said, though the frosting on his fingers suggested otherwise. “I just… need a little more precision!”
“Precision my foot,” you laughed, smearing a tiny bit of icing on his cheek. “There. Now it’s festive AND accurate.”
Soobin squeaked in surprise, swiping at your hand, but you dodged. “You’re making this too easy,” you teased.
“Easy?! I’m a disaster!” he said dramatically, eyes wide. “Look at this snowman! It’s… it’s… abstract art!”
“Abstract art is fine,” you said, grinning. “I like it. It’s… you.”
He froze for a second, blinking at you. “…Really?”
“Really,” you said softly, putting the last candy eye on the snowman. “Now your abstract snowman is officially approved.”
“Soobin,” you said, leaning over to grab some cocoa, “you’re going to need a taste test for your ‘abstract art’.”
He raised his mug with mock solemnity. “A true artist always tastes their work.”
You laughed, clinking your mugs together. “Cheers to disastrous snowmen and hot chocolate.”
“You know,” Soobin said, sipping, “I think the marshmallows are doing all the work here. My artistic skills are… questionable at best.”
“Questionable?!” you snorted. “You’re killing it. Look at the frosting on your nose—pure genius.”
“Soobin, it’s on my nose,” he muttered, touching it cautiously.
“Exactly! It’s an accent. Adds character.”
By the time the last cookie went into the oven and the final marshmallow floated into your mugs, the kitchen was a blur of laughter, flour dust, sticky fingers, and tiny accidental snowmen casualties.
“Soobin,” you said, sitting down cross-legged on the floor with your cocoa, “we should definitely decorate the living room next. Maybe string some lights over there?”
“Living room… lights… got it,” he said, eyes lighting up. “And maybe we can… um… build a little fort?”
“You mean a blanket fort?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes!” he said, nearly tripping over a rolling pin in his excitement. “A… cozy, Christmas-y blanket fort! We could watch movies in it. With hot chocolate.”
“Okay,” you said, grinning. “But only if you promise not to spill hot chocolate in it like last time.”
“Last time was… a learning experience,” he said defensively. “I will be careful. Pinky promise.”
You laughed, scooting closer to him. “Pinky promise, then. And Soobin?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for this. Even if it’s just cookies, cocoa, and a messy fort, it’s… perfect because it’s with you.”
Soobin’s heart swelled. “You really mean that?”
“I do,” you said, sipping your cocoa and giving him a warm look. “Honestly, this is the best gift ever.”
And in that moment, surrounded by cookie crumbs, marshmallows, and the smell of cinnamon, Soobin realized that being with you, making memories like this, was the gift that mattered most.
After a few hours, the sky went from pale blue to dark blue.
Soobin and you were on the couch, you cuddled into him while Love Actually played on screen.
You glanced at the windows, seeing the time.
You sighed, hating that goodbye was near.
“Soobin,” he heard you say.
He hummed in acknowledgement, too comfortable to open his mouth to form words.
“It’s time for you to go.”
Soobin heard you, but decided to ignore it in favour of pulling you closer to him.
You smiled at your clingy boyfriend, “Soobin you need to go before your parents yell at you about curfew again.”
He sighed, “Fine, I’ll head out," he started to get up, “only if you’ll humour me and head to the basement with me?”
You blinked at him, squinting in confusion. “The basement?”
He nodded, trying to look casual but failing miserably. “Yeah… I just… I wanted to show you something. It’s… uh… part of your gift.”
You tilted your head, suspicious but amused. “My gift? So this is like… a bonus? Should I be excited or terrified?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Excited. Definitely excited.”
You raised an eyebrow but let him tug you along, your hand slipping into his as you followed him down the stairs.
The moment you reached the bottom, your jaw nearly hit the floor. Twinkling fairy lights were strung along the walls, blankets were draped over chairs to form a cozy fort, and pillows were scattered everywhere, creating the ultimate high school dream sleepover setting. A few hot chocolate mugs waited on a small table, along with plates of gingerbread cookies you had decorated earlier.
Your eyes went wide. “Soobin… what is this?!”
He shuffled nervously, scratching the back of his head. “Well… I asked our parents if I could spend the night, and… and I thought, why not make it special? Just… us. A proper Christmas Eve sleepover.”
You blinked at him, feeling your heart melt faster than the marshmallows in your cocoa. “So… this is for me?”
“For you,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I know it’s not… a huge gift, but I wanted to… you know… make it something we could enjoy together. Because that’s what I really want.”
You grinned, throwing your arms around his neck and spinning him in a hug. “Soobin, this is perfect. I don’t care about presents. This… this is all I want.”
He laughed, hugging you back tightly. “Good. Because that’s exactly the plan.”
You stepped back to take it all in. “Wait… did you do all of this yourself?”
He waved his hand vaguely, trying to downplay it. “I had… a little help.”
You raised an eyebrow. “A little help?”
Just then, from behind a blanket fort, a muffled cheer erupted. “Surprise!”
You squealed as Beomgyu, Yeonjun, Heeseung, Taehyun, and Hueningkai popped out, all wearing silly Christmas hats and holding leftover fairy lights.
“We made the fort look extra cozy for you two,” Beomgyu announced proudly, wiggling his eyebrows a little too suggestively.
Yeonjun nodded. “Your dad is terrifyingly good at ensuring the structural integrity of pillows.”
You giggled. “My dad helped?”
All five boys nodded, looking like they had gone through shared trauma.
Heeseung muttered, “Soobin better not let her go. He won’t make it if he does.”
Soobin buried his face in his hands. “I’m never letting them help with anything ever again.”
Then he suddenly straightened, grabbed a couch cushion, and started smacking his friends with it. “Alright, OUT. The gift phase is over. Goodbye.”
“Bro, we just built this—” Taehyun started.
“Out.” Soobin repeated, physically herding them toward the basement door like offended geese.
Beomgyu made a betrayal face. “We do all this and you kick us out?!”
“Yes,” Soobin said, pushing him through the door. “Goodbye.”
“Think of us—!” Yeonjun tried.
“Nope.”
“Watch Love Actually for us—!” Hueningkai added.
“Nope.”
“We’re taking the leftover gingerbread—” Heeseung threatened.
“You touch anything and I’ll block you all,” Soobin said, slamming the door.
Silence.
He watched his friends all leave, getting giddy at the thought of actually staying the night with you.
Until he heard Yeonjun’s voice, “Remember your one ground rule, don’t let your parents become grandparents.
Soobin choked on air.
He heard Beomgyu scream in the distance.
Within seconds, the basement was clear, the five idiots scrambling upstairs while Soobin shut the door behind them with the energy of a fed-up single father.
Then you burst into laughter while Soobin pretended to be unbothered, brushing imaginary dust off his hands like an overworked, underpaid babysitter.
He returned to your side, flopping onto the blanket pile beside you.
“…Anyway,” he murmured shyly, bumping his shoulder against yours, “This night is for us.”
You leaned into him, soft and warm.
“And it’s perfect,” you whispered.
And as the fairy lights twinkled above, the two of you settled in for a night of laughter, Christmas movies, and quiet moments that didn’t need any gifts—just each other.
Wrapped up together in the blanket fort—warm, safe, comfortable—you felt the kind of moment that didn’t need fancy gifts or perfect planning.
Just you and Soobin, drifting off in each other’s arms, your fingers intertwined.
And before sleep pulled him under, Soobin whispered into your hair:
“Next year… I’m getting you every gift you want. I promise.”
And for now—this was more than enough.
If the price of loving you was going through the stress of gift giving a thousand times a year, he would do it in a heartbeat.
Because you, his perfect girlfriend, lying down next to him and smiling at him was worth all the effort.
SUMMARY: Sunghoon was an up-and-coming figure skater with a bright future, but he threw it all away to marry you. Thirteen years later, your marriage has failed, the kids don’t respect him one bit, and all his friends are wildly successful in life except him. He gets a chance to correct the mistakes of his past and change his life when he is miraculously transported back in time, before he even met you. But changing the past might cost him everything.
A/N: This took me so long to finish y'all I started considering actually taking ice skating lessons. PLEASE read for my sake. (Some scenes inspired by the movie 17 Again!)
-
thirteen years ago.
Sunghoon took a deep breath as the chill air of the rink, even from where he sat in the locker room, sent shivers down his spine. His thin black blouse with rhinestoned sleeves did nothing to shield him from the cold.
He should have been used to it by now. But today would be the most important skate of his life.
The World Championships. The event that would decide his place at the next Olympics.
Just a few years ago, he had missed out on competing completely due to a knee injury. Sunghoon was determined this time to make his dreams come true. His seniors always said that Olympic ice felt different, more real. This would be it. His last chance before the younger, more talented skaters took his spot later down the line.
He was picking at his nails with his teeth, a habit he so desperately needed to let go of. Even with ten competitors ahead of him, Sunghoon was already on edge. You, his good luck charm, had not arrived yet. It wasn't typical of you. In your three years of dating, you never missed the opening skate of any competition he'd been in.
It’s where you first met. You had been in the stands, taping your phone number onto a penguin plushie he’d caught after his award-winning skate. Since then, it's been tradition for you to sit in the same exact seat during local competitions.
His left leg bounced impatiently as he sat on the locker room bench. Sunghoon has sent about 16 texts to your phone already. He shook his head, unlocking his phone for the umpteenth time. Crickets. His phone screen photo of you blowing a kiss into the camera was taunting him now.
Where the hell were you?
Coach Jung patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.”
“I'm not nervous,” Sunghoon replied, unconvincingly. “It's just cold.”
Coach Jung rolled his eyes.
“You're not new to this, kid,” he doubted the young man. “You're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.”
Sunghoon didn't know if that was meant to be motivating or not, but when Coach Jung left, he felt a pit in his stomach start to form. It's been years in the making. Blood, sweat, and tears were poured into this. The time he could've spent going on longer dates with you all went to extra hours practicing quads in the rink. He couldn't let his sacrifices go to waste. It would be a disservice to both of you.
He put his hands to his face and repeated a mantra of self-affirmations.
‘You got this, you got this, you-’’
“Hoon?” He heard your sweet voice call out. Your head poked through the locker room door before entering cautiously. Audience members weren’t typically allowed in here, but you always managed to sneak your way in.
He dropped his hands immediately, a wave of relief washing over him.
“There you are,” Sunghoon whispered to himself, rushing to you as fast as he could with skates on the carpet. You let out a small sound as he picked you up by the waist, spinning you around like a princess.
“Where have you been?” Sunghoon sighed happily, setting you down with a kiss to your temple. “I was blowing up your phone! I thought you died.”
You smiled, but he noticed how tight it looked. The light didn't quite reach your eyes, and your lips twitched as if it was almost painful to maintain. He brushed a stray hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.
“Everything okay?”
You nodded, resting your hand on his as his thumb drew small circles on your cheek.
“I…” you trailed off. You were looking at the ground, at the ceiling, and even at the trash cans. Anywhere but him. “I want to talk to you about something.”
He raised a brow. Your fingers were quivering, and he noticed redness in the whites of your eyes. Were you crying?
“Of course, baby. You can tell me anything.”
Sunghoon is worried now as he took both of your hands into his. He felt how cold they were, even more so than his.
“Can the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?” the overhead speaker blared into the locker room. That was him. He was one of the last five.
He pursed his lips as he looked towards the door and back at you. Your mouth opened, just as flustered by the announcement.
“Let's wait,” you said in a rush, noticing the sweatiness of his palms. “It can wait.”
Sunghoon shook his head. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let these things linger.
“No, [Y/N]. Tell me what's wrong.” He stood his ground. Your eyes were watering, his gaze unmoving from yours. As you spoke, it was like the world around him went still. His chest felt heavy, throat so constricted he thought he would choke.
“I'm pregnant.”
No, he thought. It can’t be.
“H-how? We never– That’s impossible– We always use-”
His voice trailed off, afraid that if he said anything out loud, it would become more real. You pursed your lips, biting your top lip so hard that it drew blood.
“Don’t you remember?”
–
two months ago.
You were laughing, he was laughing. You both looked insane, obnoxiously cackling at nothing, in the dimly lit streets that led to his apartment. You were drinking with the guys at a new bar, underestimating the power of tequila compared to the usual shots of soju.
Sunghoon's arm was wrapped around your waist, putting his weight on you to prevent himself from faceplanting on the ground. He had lost too many hands in poker with Jay and Jake, and instead of betting money, he took an extra four shots as punishment. It was a big mistake.
“They got lucky,” he blabbered, “If we played Go Fish, I would have wiped the floor with them.”
He was hiccuping, and that sent you into a further spiral of giggles. Sunghoon was always so darn cute when drunk, so different from his icy exterior. His cheeks were tinged with red, and his pupils dilated. You weren't doing all that well either, with your body so warm from the alcohol that you had shed your jacket on the ground just a few minutes earlier. Where that jacket was now is lost on you.
“Hoon!” you exclaimed, pointing at his apartment gate. “We did it!”
Sunghoon stumbled to get his keys from his pocket. Opening the gate and then going up the steps felt like an hour-long operation with how you two struggled. When he slid down the wall by the entrance of his apartment, you collapsed with him.
The two of you, by his coat rank, staring into each other with heavy-lidded gazes and too far gone to even turn the lights on. By then, your movements were already out of your control.
You traced the moles on his face like divine art, cradling his jaw with such care. Even in the drunkest of states, he looked so heavenly. He was so pretty in the moonlight.
You pressed your lips against his, slowly at first, tugging at the rolled-up sleeves of his button-up shirt. Sunghoon made a noise of shock before deepening the kiss, hands roaming everywhere until they met your waist. His lips were so plush against yours, hungry to taste every inch of you. Your tongues danced with an urgency you've never felt before. Nipping at your bottom lip, he coaxed small sounds out of you.
Sunghoon lifted you, firm hands on your bum to sit you atop him.
He broke the kiss to bury himself in the junction between your neck and shoulder. Sunghoon's lips found your pulse point, suctioning around it like he was drawing your heartbeat out of your body. You gripped his soft hair and tilted your head back to give him better access. He lapped at your neck, your collar bone, anywhere his tongue could access. He was addicted to the taste of your skin, to the taste of you. You always smelled so good, had him so riled up even in the most unassuming of moments. He remembered how you looked in the bar with this sparkly red dress. Remembered how it rode up every time you sat down next to him. Fuck.
You felt him then. The tent of his pants and the friction of his hips as they hopelessly jut up to meet yours.
You whined at the contact. He was palming your ass now with both hands, massaging as he moved you up and down on the tightness of his jeans.
“Hoon,” you gasp. “Not here-”
He lifted his head to look at you, eyes so dark and full of lust. He wasn’t having it; you could see it in his face. His deliciously tense jawline. The bead of sweat running down his temple. You felt yourself clench around nothing just at the sight. How could a man be so gorgeous?
“Can't wait,” he hummed. “Need you now.”
He pushed your dress up your body, the material bunched at your waist.
You purse your lips in anticipation. He’s rock hard by now, and you can’t help but take it as an invitation to feel him. Your hands find his bulge, ghosting over his form. It jumped in response when you finally took hold, squeezing cautiously. Your cheeks warmed at the sight of the front of his jeans already damp with your fluids. Sunghoon enjoyed the view just as much as you did, his head tilted back to relish in your ministrations. He couldn’t hold back any longer.
Sunghoon’s hand, large and veiny, moved your panties to the side impatiently.
"Hoon-" you gasped at the skin-to-skin contact.
His fingers traced the slit of your folds up and down, covering his digits with your slick. You found his swollen lips again to suppress your whimpers, saliva running down your joined mouths as you unzipped his painful-looking jeans. He was already prepping you for him, index finger cautiously pushing its way inside your plush walls. He groaned at the feeling of your fluttering warmth. Already, you were sucking him in.
“Always so fucking wet,” he muttered on your lips. You couldn’t help but grind down on him, a roundabout way of telling him to apply more pressure. To go harder. Rougher. To ruin you. He chuckled at your frustration. Needed to see more of it, more of you begging.
Sunghoon tested the waters and pushed in a second. Your moans were drowned out again by his merciless mouth. Tongues shoved so far down each other's throats, you swore you could feel him at the back of your neck.
He was fucking you onto his hand now, his palm making contact with your clit after every thrust. His forearm was tense, pace so relentless. Animalistic. You were practically bouncing on him, hands digging into his shoulder blades to chase your release. He loved the sight, wanting to hear you come undone just from his measly fingers in your dripping pussy.
“So desperate,” he hummed into your mouth. “Who's making you like this?”
Sunghoon was never this mouthy during sex, usually because he didn’t want the apartment next door to hear through the thin walls. But he had let go of all his inhibitions, the tequila still sitting fresh in his stomach.
“You, Hoon,” you cried out, legs shaking from the harsh pace of his fingers and your incessant grinding. “Please-”
You didn't know exactly what you were begging for, but you knew he could give it to you. Knew he was the only one who could. Your mind was filled with Sunghoon and Sunghoon only. The effects of the alcohol had made you a bumbling mess, pleading and begging for more. Your back arches to meet his fingers better, but it wasn’t not enough.
He added a third to relieve you, watching as your mouth opened into a silent scream.
“Hoon– Need it– Please– I need–”
You couldn't find the right words, couldn’t even keep yourself upright without his support. Sunghoon’s hands roamed up your body as one made its way to the back of your neck. With his thumb, he pressed down gently on the pulse point he was nipping at just earlier. His eyes were heavy on you, watching you so intently. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, as your airways slowly constricted, as his thumb pushed against you. God, you loved the feeling.
“Enjoying yourself, baby?”
Lightheaded, you were practically gripping his bulge at this point. The sounds between your legs were borderline pornographic, his fingers drawing out every wet squelch as they sank and twisted in and out of you. You felt so full of him, three fingers so deep inside you. But you could take more; you wanted to take more.
“Speak up,” he drawled, his voice slurring from the tequila. “Tell me what you want, or I'll stop.”
You sobbed, clawing at his clothed chest as he let go of your neck to let you talk. You gasped for air as you let yourself fall onto him.
“Need you inside me,” you cried as he pistoned his fingers into you harder. You wished he could just rip your underwear so you could feel his rough palm grind onto your bare clit. “Please, please, pl-”
"I am inside you," he teased. And all you could do was wail, shaking your head out of distress.
"Hoon-"
Your movements were forced to stop as Sunghoon's free hand gripped your thigh. His fingers were curved into you, stroking that spongy spot that he always managed to find. He massaged your G-spot at a steady pace, anticipating your climax. You wanted to move, but he held you down roughly. Your eyes were forced to look into his, and you felt the floodgates of your release start to open.
“No-,” you whined.
You were close, so close. But your mind was made up. Well, at least what was left of it.
“Wanna cum with you. Can I, Hoonie? Please?” you beg.
“Fuck-”
His grip on you loosened. His hand slowly left your tight folds, and he admired the slick that coated his long fingers. He brought them to your mouth, motioning you to taste the juices he coaxed out of you. With your doe eyes looking straight at him, you swallowed around him. Tongue flattened and bringing him in deeper.
His other hand reached into the back of his pocket, fiddling around to find his emergency condom. The one that became a necessity to bring around you.
Sunghoon's mind was all over the place. Your tongue lapped at his fingers, sucking them so harshly. He'd have given anything right now to see your lips wrapped around his cock instead.
He'd almost grabbed the condom until you pulled his boxers down. Your mouth released his fingers with a small ‘pop’ as his painfully hard member slapped his stomach. You positioned yourself closer, adjusting so that his thickness slid against your soiled, clothed pussy. You cursed your stupid underwear for getting in the way again.
“B-baby-” Sunghoon stuttered out as you moved your panties to the side once more, his raw cock lined up to your aching hole. “Just give me a second-”
His hand tried to reach for his wallet again, but you interlocked them with yours instead. You shook your head, grinding against him cautiously. You don't know what's gotten into you. It's like the tequila was letting you act out your deepest, darkest dreams — ones of him fucking his cum so deeply into you that you were dripping wet with his fluids.
“Please?” you asked hopelessly. Your breath hitched. His cock met your clit, his precum spread all over your folds. Fuck it. You were too far gone. “I-I wanna feel you.”
Sunghoon would like to think he had self-control. Would like to believe that he was calmer than most. But the way your pleading eyes looked at him, and how your legs trembled in excitement. His intoxicated brain couldn't tell right from wrong. He wanted to give you everything you asked for.
“Fuck, are you sure?” he groaned as you aligned his cock to your entrance, pushing down slightly to envelop his tip. He lets out a hiss, teeth gritting from the feeling. You were so tight, so fucking perfect for him.
“Mhm,” you mustered, wrapping your arms around his neck as his large hands met your ass again. “It's okay…”
You were sinking onto him now, his head buried into your neck from the sensation. You two had never done it without a condom before, always so careful. But he wondered, as his large cock was slowly sucked into your soaked pussy, why he'd never fucked you raw before. Sunghoon swore under his breath as he felt you clench around him. Fucking you with a condom was ruined for him forever. He could never put one on again.
“Fuck, baby,” he willed himself not to move too fast. The stinging stretch of him had you withering above him, but you didn’t care. Not one bit. You clutched his hair as you impaled yourself on him, so lost in the feeling of him penetrating you so slowly.
He was fully sheathed inside you now. Sunghoon needed a second to recuperate, but you were making it so difficult for him.
"Fuck-" he inhaled sharply as you grinded down on his pulsating cock. You were so impatient, already so worked up from his fingers.
You were suctioning him, trapping him in your walls like you would never let him go. His grip on your hips tightened as he growled into your collarbone.
“Baby,” he said sternly this time, finding some semblance of sanity. “Don't.”
You whined, your hips stuttering through his tight grip on your ass cheeks. You wanted him to plow into you like you were his personal toy. Was there anything wrong with that?
“Why?” you drawled out, desperate for movement, for anything. Your eyes met his, and even through your drunken haze, you understood. He was close, already so on edge from feeling your raw pussy. And that made you want him even more.
You swore your hips moved on their own. You lifted yourself, shallowly thrusting yourself against him as he tried to hinder your attempts.
“N-no,” he grunted. “Too soon-”
You giggled as his hands were on your back now. Despite your protests, he did not stop you in any meaningful way.
His grip on your ass was replaced with him pulling the straps down of your dress and bra to free your bouncing tits. He cupped them as you raised yourself higher, until just the very tip of him was left inside you. You took a deep breath, pushing yourself down on him without assistance. You moaned, feeling his heaviness in your lower stomach.
“Fuck-” he cried through clenched teeth. Sunghoon’s head was against the wall now, hands massaging your breasts so eagerly.
He tugged at your nipples, pinching them between his index finger and thumb. Such a sight for sore eyes, seeing him so fucked out underneath you as you bounced on his cock. You wished you could engrave this in your memory. His parted lips and glistening forehead.
You grinded your hips so helplessly against him, hands on his knees as you squeezed him through every downward thrust.
“Baby, s-slow down.”
You're determined now, even as you start to feel that fluttering ache in your core. You wanted to do good for him, wanted to make him lose control like you would whenever he had you pinned to the bed and crying.
“Hoon, speak up,” you teased, mimicking his earlier words. “Tell me what you want or I-”
You couldn't finish your sentence as his hand meets the back of your neck, crashing his lips onto yours. His hands traveled down to your thighs, squeezing them roughly.
He thrusted up into you harshly, his grip on you guiding his movements. His pace was even more merciless than yours, not giving you time to catch your breath as you felt your inner walls contract around him.
No!
He needed to cum first. It was always you who came undone before him. You just needed to hold out, just for a few more seconds-
And in perfect timing, he found it. That part of you that had you practically screaming into his mouth. He smirked against your lips and hoisted you closer, fucking up into you as his fingers pressed firmly into the flesh of your thighs. Your insides churned with a tingling feeling, like something needed to be released. You pulled yourself away from his lips.
"No… Hoon-"
"Take it," he grunted. "You want it, right?”
You cried as his thrusts grazed your G-spot over and over again, his tip kissing your cervix at the right angles.
“So fucking take it."
Your eyes roll back, the sensation was stronger and stronger until-
"Oh my god-"
Your climax hit you like a ton of bricks, crashing down on you so unexpectedly that your walls wanted to hold his raw length in place. Sunghoon continued his thrusts, not caring for the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. You had your fun. Now, let him have his.
His hands spread your ass cheeks apart, guiding you down onto his painfully hard cock with fervor. Sunghoon felt his high inching closer as he pumped in and out of your wetness, ignoring your cries of overstimulation.
“So fucking tight,” he groaned into your neck. He's there. He felt it. You braced yourself for his sweet release.
“Need to pull out...”
Your eyebrows furrowed, expression laced in devastation. As if on instinct, you clenched around him. You wanted it. Whatever ‘it’ was.
“In me,” you babbled through strained moans. “Please, Hoonie?”
He grit his teeth. That damn pet name. You were evil, so fucking evil. With your pretty tits and batting eyelashes. Who was he to deny you? His thrusts were erratic, admiring as your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his thrusts.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-”
His hips stuttered up into you. White, hot spurts met your cervix as you reached another orgasm from the sheer feeling of his release, mouth wide open. Your hips gyrated against his, easing both of you through your releases. His head rolled back, jaw clenched, and eyes wired shut as he felt you milk his cock of everything he was worth.
You watched as a white ring formed around his cock was buried deep in you, still a little hard. You rested your body against his. Your eyelids were heavy, so content and warm in ways that only Sunghoon could bring out in you.
“I love you,” he sighed into your hair, his own lethargy getting the best of him. “So fucking much.”
“I love you too.”
And as ridiculous as it sounds, the two of you slept in that position for hours. Two bodies connected at the entrance way of Sunghoon's studio apartment. When the sun came up and you realized what was done in your drunken states, you two panicked for the wrong reason. Did the neighbors hear? What happened to your jacket? Were you gonna get a UTI?
–
Sunghoon's cheeks reddened from the memory. It had to have been that night.
“A-are you sure?” he stuttered.
You nodded solemnly. You knew it wouldn't be good news for him. It wasn't for you either.
You were almost done with university. It’s supposed to be the year you figured out what you wanted out of a career. So when your first wave of morning sickness hit you just a week earlier, you knew every plan that you had would be forever ripped from your fingers.
To travel the world. To start new hobbies. It would all have to wait. This would be your life now.
When you told your mother, tears streamed down her face. She called you everything underneath the sun. But she knew what it was like to carry a life unexpectedly, so she hugged you through it. Your dad’s reaction was worse. He hadn’t spoken to you yet.
“Two months along,” you whispered. Though he could never regret that night, he realized now how stupid it must have been to ignore the alarm bells in his head. He knew better. You knew better. Why the fuck did it end up like this?
“So…” He gulped. He didn’t know what to say. “What now?”
“I…” you started. Heaving a deep breath, you felt him tense up.
“I want to keep the baby,” you swallowed. Sunghoon’s mouth was parted, and his eyes were blank of emotion.
It made you anxious, his lack of response.
When he didn't reply, you started again. “What should we-”
“Sunghoon Park. Sunghoon Park. Please be on stand-by,” the overhead speaker rang out. He didn't mean to, but like muscle memory, his hand let go of yours. Guilt crashed over him, and he couldn't bring himself to look into your wavering eyes as he walked past you.
The competition. This was his last chance. Coach Jung's voice resounded in his head. Don't mess it up.
“Hoon-”
Your voice fell on deaf ears. His hands covered his face again, trying to refocus. He couldn't throw this away. Years. It took him years to get to this point. He couldn't. He had to skate.
Tears spilled over as you watched his back retreat away from you. You should have waited to tell him, but he had asked. He said he wanted to know.
Your back slumped against the wall of lockers, clutching your stomach as you cried. You couldn't bring yourself to go to the stands and watch him perform.
You knew it was dumb. You weren’t ready, not even close. But still… You wanted to try.
But him. Sunghoon.
You leaned your head back against the cold wall, breath faltering through your tears. What did you even expect? That he'd be happy? Excited?
You let out a shaky laugh.
Of course not. It's not like you were either.
You stood up, dusting yourself off.
You'd figure out a way to do this, you convinced yourself. If it meant that you were by yourself, that was fine. He didn't have to be there. He had big dreams, ones that predated you. You understood, even though it hurt.
“Next to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!”
The cheers that ensued soon after made your chest constrict just a little more. You just couldn’t bear to watch him skate now. It was all too much.
You trudged towards the ice rink's exit, arms crossed around you like you were holding yourself. You were proud of him, so proud. He worked so tirelessly for an opportunity like this. Missed sleep and took a gap year from college to pursue this. He wanted it so bad, and though it was heartbreaking to watch him walk away, you knew why. You could talk later, you convinced yourself.
But the thoughts still echoed in your head.
A professional figure skater couldn’t be a father—not now, not at his age. You knew that. God, you hated that you knew it so well. His life wasn’t what most people imagined. There was no glamor in it.
It was practices at the crack of dawn in freezing rinks and endless flights to cities he barely saw beyond hotel rooms. He could only fund basic living expenses with what little he earned from winning. He had a part-time job working the graveyard shift at a convenience store to even afford competition fees and dates with you.
He gave everything for this dream—his body, his sanity, his youth.
But he tried. In everything he did, he tried. That was the worst part.
Because even with all that trying, you still knew. That there would be no space in his life for the tiny heartbeat inside you.
You knew he'd have to quit. There was no way around it. Raising a child takes too much time away from the rink.
If he stayed, if he chose to be in this child's life, he'd have to give it all up.And it would be because of you.
But this was your life too. Your body. Your future. And no matter how tightly you clung to the image of him at your side, holding your hand in the delivery room, learning how to hold a newborn with trembling fingers—you had to be honest with yourself.
You wanted this baby. Even if it meant letting him go, even if that meant standing alone with a life you never planned for, you’d do it.
Because you knew that if it ever came down to choosing between his dream and you, it would always be-
“[Y/N], wait!”
You stopped in your tracks, stunned to hear his voice so close. Like he was here and not on the ice. You didn’t even notice that music stopped permeating the walls of the rink, that the announcer had moved on to the next contestant. He was running to you, socks thumping on the ground like he had taken his skates off only a moment before.
No. It couldn't be.
He reached you, his arms wrapped around you from behind. You heard his shaky breath against the back of your head. His thumb rubbed your forearms, planting a small kiss on your hair.
“We'll figure it out,” Sunghoon blurted out when he felt like the silence between you two was suffocating. “Together.”
You turned around to face him, panicked.
“Sunghoon, no,” you tried to push him away, but he pulled you in closer. “You need to go-”
“No.”
You looked at him, pain etched in every part of his beautiful face.
“But that's your future,” you cried out, mustering everything in yourself to not melt in his embrace. He was making a mistake. He'd hate you for the rest of your life if he-
“No,” he said again, much clearer. More determined. “It’s you.”
His hand drifted to your stomach, and he smiled this time as he looked into your teary eyes.
“You're my future.”
You shook your head incessantly. “Hoon, you're not thinking straight. I should've waited to tell you. You're not in your right mind. You need to go back and-”
He silenced you with his lips, so soft—like it might break you if he were any less gentle. You fell into his touch, unknowingly pulling him closer. He kissed you again and again, hands holding yours until your tremors faded with his touch.
“I love you,” he would say between each peck. “I'm not letting you do this alone.”
And you smiled, a real, genuine smile.
“I love you too.”
–
You moved in with him in that tiny studio apartment, shortly after, sharing a bed that barely even fit his tall frame. The cradle he built took up the majority of the living area.
But it was nice, waking up with him every day. He talked in his sleep, would whisper your name in that sweet voice of his so lovingly. Some days, Sunghoon wouldn't let you lift a finger, would insist that you needed as much rest as possible before your due date. You had to convince him that your job as a receptionist was certainly not so physically taxing that he had to follow you to it every day.
You also got married. It was simple. Just Sunghoon and you in a courthouse with Jake and Jay, trying not to stifle their laughter as witnesses to your marriage ceremony. You wore the white dress your mother wore, and Sunghoon wore his best suit, tie tied by you.
“Say cheese!” Jake chimed as you two posed with your signed certificate. The two of them cooed at your growing belly.
You were showing now, a small bump that Sunghoon admired each time he saw you do your online classes on the kitchen counter. He never got around to buying a desk, even though he was also back in school full-time.
He had that dreaded conversation with Coach Jung beneath the dim lights of an empty rink. Sunghoon told him quietly, almost like an apology, that he’d be hanging up his skates until further notice. He wanted to be there for you at every step of the pregnancy. If he was going to stick beside you, he was going to do it right.
Coach didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The disappointment on his face said everything.
And so Sunghoon hadn’t touched the ice since.
He couldn’t bear to set foot in that rink anymore. Not when he knew he’d only be watching from the stands.
Not when the sound of blades carving through the ice was coming from someone else’s skates.
Not when he used to relish in the cold air passing through his body. Now, the only wind on his face came from passing cars as he biked to his second job.
He picked up a shift at a nearby restaurant. Just as a server. The kind of job that reminded him how painfully ordinary he was without his skates. Sometimes, when no one’s looking, he’ll shift his weight just right and practice his landings in the break room, arms out, knees bent.
Other times, he scrolls through YouTube during his graveyard shift at the convenience store, searching up his own name with trembling fingers, watching old performances through a phone screen. Reading comments. Trying to remember what it felt like to matter to people he never met.
You noticed, probably more than you let on. You just tried not to pry. He would get distant when you mentioned it, like that part of himself needed to be tucked away and out of his sight. You knew he was afraid, terrified to look back and see everything he gave up.
But when Sunghee was born, it was like his world started to make sense again. He held her like she was made of glass. Sobbed so loudly the first time he saw her, you thought he was in pain.
But no, he was just overwhelmed. Taken by the way her tiny hand curled around his finger, how her cries quieted the moment he held her close.
He’d protect her, he swore to himself. That this—her—wrapped up in the pink hospital blanket, was his life now.
And maybe, for a moment, he believed that was enough.
But the thoughts never stopped. His eyes would flicker toward the old duffel bag in the closet, where his skates were still packed away. He gave that up. For you. For her. And he’d never say he regretted it. But you knew.
You understood what he was grieving. Because you grieved too.
That girl who used to dream of making art, she felt like a ghost now. Someone you used to know.
Your passions, the things that once lit a fire in you, now sat gathering dust. All shelved quietly the moment your body became a home for Sunghee.
And your parents. You were still trying to reassemble the broken pieces of your relationship with them. Your mother tried to be there for you in her own way, but her disappointment was loud in the quietest moments between you two. And your father… well, he still hadn’t really looked you in the eye since the day you told him.
And though she was born healthy, Sunghee came into the world screaming. She was a loud baby, inconsolable most nights, and the exhaustion had tested Sunghoon and you.
You took turns because you had to. He’d rock her until sunrise, then stumble to his classes. He started falling asleep during his breaks at work, cheek pressed against cold metal tables.
He didn’t care much for his own health, but the bags beneath your eyes pained him. Your face, once bright and curious, had dimmed under all the sleepless nights and rising costs of diapers. You were both burnt out.
He dropped Sunghee off with his parents for one night and dragged you out to see your friends. It was Jake's going-away dinner.
“It’s so hard to meet nowadays,” you sighed. “Feels like I’ve been nursing a migraine for the past three months.”
Jake laughed.
“Sad I won’t get to see her grow up,” he said as he poured himself a beer. “Make sure to bring her to Australia one day. She deserves to see her coolest uncle play football.”
Niki rolled his eyes.
“No one’s paying for that long-ass flight to see you benchwarm,” Niki mumbled, chewing on some chips. “Have her come see me dance instead. At least I’ll be in the center.”
Jake smacks his friend on the back of the head.
“No need for any of that,” Jay chimed in. “She won’t have time for either of you. Papa bear here probably already has her future all mapped out. Skates on before she can walk.”
An awkward silence filled the room. The joke was lighthearted, but it landed too close to a wound no one had dared to touch in the past year. Sunghoon gave a quiet laugh, a hollow one without warmth. He brought the bottle to his lips and didn’t look at anyone when he spoke.
“Yeah... she’ll be a star.”
He eyed the ceiling, pondering what she would look like. Maybe just like him. Graceful. Passionate. “Olympic-worthy. Could probably win gold if we find the right coach early enough.”
You pursed your lips and stared at the condensation running down your glass.
Sunoo cleared his throat, noticing the tense atmosphere. He raised his glass with forced enthusiasm. “To our beautiful Sunghee,” he cheered. “And to Jake’s success!”
Sunghoon smiled, but not really. He was happy for his friend, sure. But behind his facade, envy sat heavy on his tongue.
‘This night could have been for you. They could have been congratulating you. And you gave it all up. Now look at you. You’re a nobody.’
You couldn’t help but watch him throughout the night as he grew quieter, his sips of beer more like chugs now. You rubbed circles on his back like you always did when he got like this, hoping to bring him back into the conversation. But his eyes stayed glued to the back corner of the bar.
As you patted him, he pulled your wrist away. Not harshly. Not angrily. Just a simple tug. He set your hand back on your lap, his gaze straight ahead and away from you.
“I’m okay,” he assured you, but you didn’t believe him. Not then.
Not ever, really.
-
Though time passed, life never got easier. The weight of responsibility pressed harder on your shoulders with each passing year. And while you both smiled through milestones and made do with the small hiccups in your relationship, you were content with this life. Doing laundry on lazy Sundays, Sunghoon singing nursery rhymes to Sunghee before school.
But after the birth of your second child, Sungjae, it had all started to rot.
Sunghoon’s longing for his old life never faded. It stewed in him, creeping into his thoughts at his corporate job after finishing university, haunting him on bus rides home.
The bills piled higher. Your patience wore thinner. Conversations turned into quiet disagreements and tired sighs. You no longer fought. You didn’t even have the energy for that. Just two ghosts of your former selves moving through the same rooms, sleeping in the same bed, wondering what could’ve been.
-
thirteen years later. the present.
Sunghoon adjusts his tie, furrowing his brows as he sees how crooked it is from the reflection of the mirror. He gives up halfway through. Fuck it, it would be a no-tie kind of day. He exits the bedroom, his footsteps making loud echoes on the way down the spiral staircase and towards the all-marble kitchen. He inhales slowly as he smells the fragrance of smoked spices dancing around his nostrils. It was enough to make his mouth water.
“What's cooking, good-looking?” he says, entering the kitchen with a wide grin on his face.
“Ew,” a voice rang out, soft and disgruntled. Sunghoon turns the corner and almost laughs at the sight.
“Shut up,” Sunoo scoffs, clad in an apron and silk pajamas. “Don’t say corny shit like that in my house until you get your act together.”
Sunghoon takes a seat on the barstool of the kitchen counter. He watches Sunoo maneuver the wide expanse of the kitchen like an expert.
“I'm a dad,” Sunghoon sighs out. “That’s kind of our thing.”
“Yeah, one going through a divorce,” Sunoo snaps back, monitoring his frittata closely on the stove.
Sunghoon's shoulders slump. Of course, the only friend willing to let him stay for an indefinite amount of time was the one most critical of his life choices. Sunoo insisted, in fact. Said his place was “feeling empty” anyway.
“So,” Sunoo coughs, acknowledging he might have taken it too far with his earlier comment. “Any word from her about the court date yet?”
Sunghoon shrugs, eyes on his watch as it nears 8:30 a.m. He'd have to leave soon to get to work. His boring, dull job as a fiscal manager at blah blah blah corporation. Even he barely knows what he does for a living.
“Can I borrow your car?” Sunghoon asks, ignoring his friend's question. He doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't want to speak anything into existence, even if it was already happening.
You asked for it two weeks ago. A divorce.
He's been living with (mooching off of) Sunoo since.
“Which one? The Bugatti or the Ferrari?”
Sunghoon gives Sunoo a side-eye, and the younger fails to stifle a laugh. He never wastes a second to flex on his friend, the only one out of their friend group who worked at a 9-5 job in total and absolute misery.
Heeseung's a streamer, Jay took over as CEO of his father's company, Jake was still playing football in Australia, Jungwon started his own Taekwondo studio, and Niki was traveling the world as a choreographer. And of course, Sunoo wound up in a big old mansion with his modeling career.
Sunghoon thought he'd end up like them. He got the right experience after university to find a stable job that didn't involve slaving away at customer service gigs like he did before.
He thought he'd move up higher in his company by now. Have a team to call his own, like Jungwon had, or make “small, high-impact decisions” like Jay claims he does. But none of that ever came. His heart was never in it.
Sunghoon sighs.
“Whatever gets me from Point A to Point B,” he mutters. Sunoo cuts a piece of frittata from the skillet and plates it. He slides it over to his older friend and tosses a key from his pocket.
“Take the Kia Soul.”
Sunghoon groans. “You're fucking with me.”
–
“Mr. Park,” his coworker chirps into his ear. “I was wondering how your KPIs were this week…”
Sunghoon lets him drone on as he types on his computer. No private office, just a cubicle by the elevators. He hates how people tend to gravitate towards him for small talk. He's not very good at it. Never has been. It was a common joke within his family that he skated more than he spoke growing up.
You dragged him out of his shell when you met, cracked him open with your bright-eyed gazes and addictive laughter. He’d planned to keep his head down when he was younger. No distractions and no detours. Just figure skating.
But how could he not fall in love with you?
He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts aside before it settles in too deeply. He reminisces too much.
It’s like the past is all his mind drifts off to these days.
He leaves work on time. Gets stuck in traffic, like usual. And drives to the home you two once shared. A routine he's used to by now.
He sees your car in the driveway and groans. He knew if he sees you, you'd bring up the papers again. Those stupid fucking papers.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says as he enters the once-familiar home. You've made changes to it since he's been gone. He squints to get a better look. In just two weeks, the kitchen's completely repainted with a soft green instead of gray. The living room was completely rearranged, and family pictures were taken down from the walls.
Sungjae is sitting on the couch, playing with his iPad. He only looks up for a second before he gets back into whatever is playing on his device. Sunghoon knew he should have hidden that thing before he left. Or, he guesses, before you kicked him out.
“Where's your sister?” he asks, practically into the void.
As if on cue, Sunghee walks down the stairs. Her eyes are already rolling, and she's still wearing her pink pajamas and bunny slippers.
“Get dressed, princess. We're gonna be late for your practice!”
Sunghee tsks.
“C'mon,” Sunghoon adds with a forced smile. “You missed the last two practices already. You're gonna fall behind-”
“Dad, I already told you I want to quit,” she cuts in. “Can't you just take a freaking hint?”
Sunghoon stares blankly at his daughter, trying to hold back the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. Sunghoon doesn’t know where she gets the attitude comes from. It's like when Sunghee hit the age of 13, she morphed into a walking stick of dynamite with a terribly short fuse.
“Well,” he begins, voice tight but even. “Why don't we push through it for today, hm? You know, back in my day, I wasn't always up for the challenge, but-”
“We get it dad!” she groans. “'Back in my day' this, 'if I were you' that. No one cares!"
It stings him more than he cares to admit.
"Sunghee," he says, slower this time, the edge creeping into his voice.
She just scoffs at her father's serious expression. She's never been scared of him when he's angry. That was always your role.
"I’m not going," she stands her ground, crossing her arms. "You can't make me. If you wanna go so bad, then go to that stupid ice rink by yourself.”
Sunghoon inhales sharply, planting his hands on his hips to seem more assertive.
From the couch, seven-year-old Sungjae snickers.
“Listen here, young lady-”
“Listen here, young lady…” Sungjae mocks, in a tone much like his father's. Sunghoon whips his head to his iPad kid.
“And you, young man-”
“Sunghoon,” you say sternly as you appear at the staircase. “I already called to cancel. Indefinitely. Even if you take her now, she won't even be able to join the other kids.”
Sunghee sticks her tongue out at her father, prancing to the couch to pinch her younger brother's cheeks.
He blinks, brows knitting together. “What? Why would you do that without telling me?”
"Sorry, was that a decision that needed your approval?" you ask sarcastically. "You can't make her do something she doesn't want to do."
Sunghoon scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at you. But he stops himself. His gaze flickers to the kids, who pretend like they're not watching from the living room.
He swallows down whatever instinct tells him to argue right here, right now. You two never fought in front of them, an unspoken rule. Even if you were technically separated, he would not break that now.
“Let's talk in our room,” he whispers closely, and you roll your eyes.
“My room,” you correct, already turning to head back up. You don’t see it, but he tries not to flinch at your harshness.
He closes the door behind you two, the air thick with tension. He starts again.
“Why are you making decisions without me already?” he asks, trying to keep his tone level. “You cancel her figure skating classes and repaint the kitchen? Why are you-”
You sigh, already tired.
“We've been talking about repainting that ugly kitchen for years, Sunghoon,” you sigh. "You never wanted to actually get started on it. Sorry, I actually make time for the things I want."
So this is the direction you wanted the conversation to go in? Fine. He can be passive-aggressive, too.
"And Sunghee? Didn't you think to run that by me when I’m the one that pays for those lessons?"
You grit your teeth. He sees where Sunghee gets it from now, your hands crossed over your chest in disdain.
"Have you tried listening to her about practices? She gets injured all the time! Coach Jung is horrible to her. She’s miserable-”
His jaw tightens. “You don't think I was too? Half the time, I hated skating! But that’s what it takes. You think greatness just feels good all the time?! And the kitchen was fine. I don’t get why—”
"She's not trying to be great, Sunghoon!" you cry exasperatedly, your hands thrown up into the air. "She's not trying to be you."
You point your finger at his chest. “And you always think everything's fine. Until it's too late.”
Your words hung in the air, his eyes meeting yours.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he says finally, quieter this time.
You retract your hand, nervous under his gaze. It’s intense, familiar in a way that still sends sparks throughout your body, even now. Even after everything.
“Stop trying to force your dreams onto her,” you finally let out, and you see his eyes waver. "Just because it didn't work out for you doesn't mean you can try again through her."
“That's not what-”
“Look,” you interrupt him, turning away from him to face the wall. “All I'm saying is that maybe this is your wake-up call. Things change. Not everything that you want is going to happen. Maybe learn to change with it.”
He scoffs.
You turn back around to face him. He's angry, but his face doesn’t give it away. It’s his trembling hands, how his posture straightens just a little too stiffly.
“A little too late to change when my whole life was already laid out for me,” he says through bated breaths. “It’s not like I ever had a choice where I’d end up.”
Your heart sinks. “And it's all my fault, right?”
Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his gaze softening at your hurt expression.
“I didn't say that-”
“But it's what you think, right?” You try to look strong. You think of all the nights he lay awake replaying his old skating clips in the glow of his phone screen. The way he cheered for Sunghee during competitions, like his voice alone could ignite the passion she didn’t have. The muffled sniffles from the shower after the last Winter Olympics ended. You saw it all. You always did.
Sunghoon is silent, and you fight the sting in your eyes.
“I never asked you to marry me,” you say as low as a whisper, cutting through the silence.
“But I did,” Sunghoon says quickly. Desperately. “And I wanted to.”
You draw out a laugh, bitterness dripping through.
“I'm so sorry, Sunghoon,” you say, sarcasm spilling over your lips. “I'm sorry this isn't the life you wanted. But newsflash: you're not the only one living with regrets. ”
He steps forward, but you move back. The weight of everything presses against your chest now that the words are out. Now that it’s not just his pain taking up space in your relationship.
“You act like you’re the only one who lost something,” you say, softer now. “But I gave up things, too. I had dreams too.”
You don’t mean it cruelly, and he doesn’t take it that way. But it hurts, still.
"And I'm done walking on eggshells around you just because you can't stand the fact that you aren't living the life you wanted.”
You take a deep breath and continue.
“If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met-"
His hand hovers over your cheek. His lips, so dangerously close to yours. “Stop it.”
His voice is shaky.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
You don't pull away, but your gaze does not waver. “I mean it. Genuinely.”
You don’t see Sunghoon’s heart break at that moment. But he feels it. Feels the tightness in his chest, the way his throat closes up, like your words were enough to kill him.
“When did you become so cruel?” Hurt laced his voice.
“And when did you start resenting me?” you bite back, but the words barely escape your throat.
He doesn’t answer, just leans in and kisses you. And you let him.
Because maybe this is the last time you’ll feel him like this. Maybe this is the last tender moment you two will share.
His hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. You feel your own breath catch, and for a second, you almost melt into him.
“I love you,” Sunghoon says, but it sparks nothing in you.
Instead, you hear everything he didn’t say. He didn’t say no or that you were wrong. So maybe he really does, you thought to yourself.
His kisses almost make you forget. Almost enough to blur out the long winters and how distant he gets. How painfully silent he is at the dinner table, eyes always somewhere else.
His lips guide you through it all, each kiss igniting a memory.
How his shoulders sagged the day he started that full-time job. How his smile, once so quick to bring out of him, turned into something you had to search for. How the light in his eyes, so blinding when he was on the ice, dimmed, little by little.
His hands trail under your shirt now as he peppers kisses down your throat.
“I miss you,” he sighs.
How he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and leave without a word, how you’ll see his location is at the ice rink, probably watching the Zamboni circle around. But he'd never bring his skates with him.
His lips meet yours again, deeper this time. His knee finds its way in between your legs.
You couldn’t do this anymore. It’s been far too many times, letting him wiggle his way back into your good graces. This was it. You would choose yourself this time.
Your fingers close around his wrists, gentle but firm. The warmth of his skin against yours nearly breaks your resolve, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. Even though it hurts.
“I think you should leave.”
You release yourself from his hold. Sunghoon's expression is unreadable, but you know by now it's a facade.
You could not carry his pain with you any longer. You needed him to let you go, just as much as you needed to let him go.
“Baby...” he starts, voice fragile.
“Don't,” you say quickly, lips pressed tight. “You can't call me that anymore, Sunghoon.”
His heart aches. He was supposed to be Hoon to you. Your Hoon. When did that change?
But he doesn't ask. He just watches you, eyes dark and full of all the things he never figured out how to say until it was already too late.
“The papers...” you pause, swallowing hard. You see a flicker of panic flash across his face.
“They're on the kitchen counter. Take them before you leave.”
–
Sunghoon did not take the papers.
In fact, just like Sunghee suggested, he went to the so-called “stupid” ice rink by himself.
He sits in the highest row of the stands, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The kids glide around the ice below. Parents he used to talk to are filming on the sidelines, their laughter echoing faintly off the cold, hard walls.
Envy coats his skin.
Coach Jung is barking commands at the kids. He sneaks glances up at Sunghoon every so often, trying to be subtle. But he knows what that look means. It’s pity.
At one point, Coach Jung had pulled him aside to tell him that Sunghee wasn't built for the sport. Not like Sunghoon was. She was too stiff, too in her own head about spinning in the air. She never cracked a smile when she was on the ice. She always kept her head low and movements small, as if it was still scary for her after years of practicing.
It's not like Sunghoon didn't notice, but he always thought she’d come around to it. He was pushed into figure skating by his parents, much like he was doing for her. It wasn’t like his passions ignited overnight. ‘It could be her dream if she let it be,’ he thought to himself.
Why couldn’t she let it? Why wouldn’t she even try?
Sunghoon sits in the stands, even after the kids pour out one by one and the lights start to dim. Coach Jung offers one last, forced smile before disappearing into the locker rooms. Sunghoon stays until he’s the only one left under the lights.
The Zamboni comes in, shaving and washing the ice to be used for the next day. When the machine finishes, the driver climbs out and heads up toward the stands. He's in his early twenties with blonde hair and dark eyes. He's moving towards Sunghoon with a smile.
Sunghoon stands up, a little intimidated by the younger man. His back turns to go up the stairs and to the exit, wanting to avoid a conversation.
“You're always here at night, sir,” the guy calls out. “Do you have a special connection to this place?”
Sunghoon stops in his tracks. He used to get recognized all the time. On the streets and in this very place. He used to mean something.
He turns around and gives a polite smile to the young man. He points at one of the many banners that hang from the ice rink walls. “Park Sunghoon” was in bright gold colors on each one.
“I used to train here,” he says, with a hint of pride. “National champion for ten straight years, from when I was 11 up until I was 21.”
The guy whistles softly, impressed.
“We could use you, you know?" he says. "I think they’re looking for a new coach. Heard the old one's retiring soon.”
Sunghoon flinches. “Coach Jung? He hasn't told me yet. My daughter trains with him.”
He can't bring himself to use the past tense with her just yet.
The young man just nods. "I think he's planning to announce it after the next competition."
Sunghoon feels his chest constrict. He shakes his head. Another person leaving.
“I guess everything’s changing…” he whispers, but it did not fall on deaf ears. The stranger moves closer to him. "We're all so old now."
The stranger sighs. “Youth can be so cruel, can't it?”
Sunghoon, in his confusion, scoffs.
“The opposite, actually,” he argues. “Life's easier when you're young. Anything was possible back then.”
He takes a second to continue.
“And it all can be taken from you,” he mutters, more to himself. “Before you even realize it.”
“That's the worst, isn't it?” The young man chimes in. He's sitting where Sunghoon was earlier. “When you wonder what could've been…”
Sunghoon’s mouth twists into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“That's all I think about,” he said, surprised at himself for opening up to a stranger. And it's true.
What if he hadn’t stopped skating? What if you hadn’t gotten pregnant?
He sits back down, next to the Zamboni driver.
“We all have regrets,” the young man says, looking ahead, voice soft.
Sunghoon stares up at the ceiling and lets out a breathless laugh through the silence. Flashes of you overcame his vision. Nights of hushed arguments and facing away from each other on the bed. Nothing went his way after the World Championships. He lost it all. His passion. His dreams. You.
“Why does it have to be that way?” he asks no one in particular.
A silence fills the room. The blonde turns his head to face him. “Maybe you could live a life without one, Park Sunghoon.”
He stills for a second.
“How did you know my na-” And as Sunghoon turns to face the stranger, he is met with nothing. Like the man was never there in the first place.
–
He's driving in that ugly, neon green Kia Soul, making his way back to Sunoo's egregiously large mansion.
Sunghoon's grip on the steering wheel tightens every time he checks the rearview mirror. He can’t shake the feeling like he’s being watched. That guy… the way he talked, like he knew him. Not just his name, but everything underneath.
But screw that guy and whatever cryptic bullshit he was spouting. Screw his perfect friends, rich and successful. Every time they reunite, it’s like a reminder of everything Sunghoon’s not.
And screw the way Sunghee and Sungjae don’t even look at him like he matters. He tries. God knows he does. But they don’t know him. Don't know who either of you were outside of being their parents.
And you know what? Screw you and those damn papers too-
SCRREEEEE.
In an instant, his world is spinning out of control. Airbags deploy as Sunghoon jostles in a car that tumbles with him. The last thing he remembers is flashing lights and the loud sound of a crash. A sharp pain shoots through the left side of his body, and he feels as if he is coming in and out of consciousness.
Sunghoon's eyes blink open, but he's not lying where he thinks he should be. It’s not the inside of a casket, nor is it a hospital room ceiling. He lies there with a cold and familiar feeling.
Ice.
Instead of the wrinkled suit he threw on that morning, he’s wearing sweatpants and a fitted black top. Not a scratch on him. No blood, no bruises.
Was he dead?
“Is just one axel hard for you now, kid?” a voice calls out.
He recognizes it almost immediately. Coach Jung. Sunghoon sits up, yanking his gloved hands from the coldness. What the fuck was happening?
“Get your ass back up and do it again,” Coach Jung shouts from the sidelines. The music starts again. Sunghoon’s eyes flutter shut, and he swears it's muscle memory. He knows this routine. The one from that night. The night he met you.
He moves. Instinct takes over. Jumps, spins, the sharp sound of his blades cutting clean into the ice. Every turn and landing exactly where it should be. He’s smiling from ear to ear now, almost childlike.
And if he were dead and this was the last thing he'd ever experience, then maybe dying wasn't so bad. He’d stayed off the ice for years, terrified that if he felt this weightless feeling again, that his regrets would consume him.
“Perform like that and you'll win no matter what,” Coach Jung calls out as the music fades. Even breathless, Sunghoon felt like he could do ten more spins across the ice. His heart was racing. Everything felt so real. The soreness of his muscles, the cold air against his skin, the echoes of Coach's voice.
“What day is it today?” Sunghoon asks abruptly. "And what year?"
He’s pinching his wrist now, nails digging in and almost drawing blood. He flinched. It hurt like hell. Was this not a dream?
“Kid, did you hit your head when you fell?” Coach Jung laughs.
And when he says the exact date, Sunghoon's confused. It wasn’t like today was anything special. Just a random Tuesday. So why would this moment, 16 years ago, be where he ended up after crashing his car?
Looking at the reflection of his younger, more athletic self in the mirror, he just couldn't believe it. No matter how much he slapped his face or banged his head against the locker room door, he was still here. In this younger body.
He's walking home from practice now. His phone buzzes in his pocket of the boys’ group chat, the old one they used to fill with dumb inside jokes before you and the other significant others joined the group. But your name is yet to be in his contacts.
And then he remembers. It’s three days before you’re in the stands of the smaller national competition he won many years ago.
He’s not one to panic, but his thoughts are running in circles. Did he actually go back in time, or is this all in his head?
He sees someone in his periphery. A man around his age, standing near the curb, waving. Casual. Like they’ve met before. And they have.
The Zamboni driver.
He has a sinister smile, one that sends shivers down Sunghoon’s spine. Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. He marches forward and grabs him by the collar. “Who the fuck are you? Is this happening because of you?”
The man smirks, clearly amused.
“You wanted to try, right? A life without regrets?”
Sunghoon glares at him, confused. “What?”
“Park Sunghoon,” the blonde says sternly. “This is your last chance. Use it wisely.”
Before he can respond, the man shoves him back.
“What are you talk-”
And as he blinks, the stranger disappears. His head starts throbbing uncontrollably, and ringing sets in his ears. He hears a voice then, yet he can’t recognize it.
“What will you choose in this life?”
Even as the reality of everything he left behind starts to settle, he feels a strange sense of calm wash over his grief.
He knows what to do.
-
three days later.
Sunghoon sees you in the corner of his eye as he’s tightening his skates. You’re sitting with your friends, ones who had encouraged you to come and watch him. Back then, he was all anyone on campus could talk about. The quiet freshman with Olympic dreams who just missed his opportunity last year. He was skating harder than ever, pushing himself to the edge. Skipping classes. Shutting out everything but the rink.
Until you came along.
He remembers your first date. He'd asked awkwardly, “How come you like me?” because he genuinely didn’t understand.
It’s not like the plushie you threw was the first with a phone number taped to it. Not even the tenth. He got plenty of confessions growing up, but he wanted to know why. What made anyone interested in an introverted and one-track-minded guy like him? He had no hobbies outside of figure skating, no real conversation skills that went past awkward greetings.
Yet, you teased him with that Cheshire grin of yours.
“How could I not?" you say so casually as his heart bloomed. "I’ve never seen someone pour so much love into what they do until I met you. You know what you want. I admire that.”
Your words stuck with him. He’d never forgotten it. And even now, those words echo in his chest as he skates to the center of the ice.
The music starts, and he lets himself get lost in the rhythm. As he glides across the ice, there is nothing on his mind. He just takes it all in. The roar of the audience. The sound of skates hitting ice. It’s all he ever wanted.
The routine, like in the past, was met with a standing ovation. The screams of those in the stands overwhelm him. He goes to each section of the rink, bowing as tears threaten to spill over. It’s all too much. And not enough.
Then, he reaches yours. Sunghoon finds you in the sea of people like he did before. Your hair is down, and your face is softer. He chokes back on his tears, so enthralled by your beauty. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.
He bows, more deeply than to the other sections.
You throw that stuffed penguin through the air at the perfect time as it lands by his feet. And as Sunghoon rises from the bow, your eyes are on him again. Expectant.
You don’t know him yet. Not really. You aren't aware of the pain to come. The fights. The distance. The way he’ll drain all the color from your life.
As he turns to move to the final section, he catches a flicker of sadness in your eyes. A frown is present on your beautiful face. He wants to make it go away, but he can’t. Not in this life.
And so the penguin sits on the ice, lifeless, as he skates off the rink.
–
That night, he skips the afterparty. He goes straight to his shitty studio apartment, the one with the thin walls and peeling paint, and collapses on the bed.
He buries his face into the sheets, the fabric dampening his sobs. The crowd’s cheers still ring faintly in his ears, but now it all sounds hollow. He screams then, into the mattress, at the thought of Sunghee and Sungjae. His babies. The only pieces outside of you in his old life that made it worth fighting for. Would they ever exist in this version of his life?
He tries to steady himself. Tells himself this was for the best. That your life would be easier without him as your words echoed in his head.
"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."
No years wasted, no sacrifices stacked on top of each other until they became resentment. No nights spent worried about bills or appeasing your parents, who never really quite liked him.
He wants to believe he’s doing you a favor.
But the tears don’t stop. Not when he thinks about the weight of Sunghee in his arms the first time he held her. Not when he remembers teaching Sungjae how to read with his tiny hands clutching the book, his eyes lighting up at each new word.
He’s letting it all go. All of it.
This was supposed to be his second chance. To live his dream without regrets. To see what it felt like.
And it felt like hell.
–
The next few nights were abysmal. Practice became unbearable. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t sleeping. His body hit the ice harder whenever he missed a spin, which was every time at this point. Coach Jung eventually pulled him aside, clearly frustrated.
“Go home, Sunghoon. Straighten yourself out and get the hell off my ice.”
But home didn’t feel real. None of this did.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep skating like this, not when every turn reminded him of you.
Sunghoon had to see you. Just once. Just enough to know you were okay. He told himself the kids would still exist somehow, even if your love story started differently in this version of life. That thought was the only thing holding him together.
He freshens himself up to go to campus, not having touched his backpack in weeks. He remembers your route like the back of his hand. Morning coffee at the cafe just off campus, right before your 9 AM. He will intercept you here, at this corner of the street.
Sunghoon's in a black turtleneck, wearing the glasses you would always steal off of him. The one that made you squirm under his intense gaze. The air was chilled, and his hands were buried deep in his navy jeans. He sees you coming into view, and he almost extends a hand to wave.
But he sees him, too.
Beomgyu. Your ex. The one who would ask your friends how you were doing, knowing full well that you were married with kids. The one who eventually became a guitarist for a band he would pretend not to like. Sunghoon had asked you to block him from everything before, and you complied. It hurt to admit that his insecurities were still present even now, in another life.
Sunghoon hides behind a tree as he watches you two struggle through the cold. Your shoulders are close but not quite touching. He feels his heart rate accelerate, his lips pursed to prevent himself from saying anything that would compromise his hiding spot.
“Beomgyu, you don’t have to walk me to class,” he overheard you say with a laugh. “I’m okay, really.”
Sunghoon’s hands balled into fists. Why did your voice sound an octave higher than it usually does?
Beomgyu had the nerve to laugh, and it took Sunghoon everything in himself not to jump out.
You once told him that Beomgyu was your first love. Your high school boyfriend. You had ended things on good terms at the end of high school to find yourselves in college.
“Good,” Sunghoon once said. “Because you found me.”
And now here you were, looking happy. Grinning from ear to ear. What was there to smile about?
“Doesn’t this remind you of old times? You used to stuff your hands in my pockets-”
And though Sunghoon almost wills himself to leave the spot behind the tree, he doesn’t. Because he needed to watch this. Needed to watch you live the life you would’ve had without him. The easier one.
He sees it now in the way your nose would scrunch to laugh at Beomgyu’s jokes. How you playfully hit the boy’s shoulder and hide your giggles with the sleeve of your puffer jacket.
Maybe that’s why the stranger had chosen this year. To taunt him.
Look how happy someone else could make her. Was he the only reason why you were miserable? How much did he really hold you back?
And so Sunghoon steps aside, shoving his hands back in his jeans. The icy wind cuts through his reddened cheeks. He asked for this. And he’ll have to live with it in this life.
Sunghoon turns around to give you one last look. But he also sees Sunghee, in her Elsa costume for Halloween. Sungjae asking for a mountain of kimchi at every restaurant. Your hand reaching for his across the dinner table.
He’ll have to live with it.
–
In the next three years, Sunghoon put his all into skating. He is consumed by it. Throws himself into it like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
His professors have to send him emails to remind him not to neglect his studies. His mother scolds him for missing holidays at home because he travels so much for competitions. But Sunghoon doesn’t care.
He loves figure skating. Loves the endless cheers from the crowd when he lands a clean program. Loves the headlines, the trophies lining his apartment shelves, the constant buzz of being "the nation's pride." It’s everything he knew he wanted.
But, there’s always that one seat in the stands. The one you used to sit in during his competitions, holding up a handmade banner and shouting his name louder than anyone.
Now, the face in that seat changes all the time. Some new fan. Some stranger holding a sign that doesn't mean anything to him.
He tells himself the past doesn’t matter. That this version of you, the one who laughs in cafes with Beomgyu, who’s always posting photos from new cities, new hobbies, new lives, wouldn’t even recognize the girl he remembers.
The girl who used to sit cross-legged on his couch, studying while he iced his ankle. Who wept with joy the night he won first at an international competition.
Now you’re in a photography club. A painting class. Pottery? Really?
You travel more now than you two ever did in your 16 years together. He scrolls past your updates with a numb thumb, telling himself he’s glad. He guesses that he did the right thing.
And every time he walks past you with Beomgyu, smiling with all your teeth, it lingers. Those damn words are repeating in his head again.
"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."
Now he gets it. He guessed that he held you back from so much. Look at you with your wonderful friends and the amazing life you live without him! He scoffs. You deserve it.
You adjusted to him and his demanding training schedule, canceling plans with people so that you could maximize the time you had with him in the rare chance that he was in town. Maybe Beomgyu never would’ve asked you to sacrifice like that. Maybe he would’ve waited for you to come home from your clubs, instead of dragging you to cold rinks and rushed meals together in between practice sessions.
Sunghoon's fine. He swears on it.
Wake up. Go to class (if he feels like it). Skate for hours. Push through the pain. Go home. Cry into his pillow. Rinse and repeat.
The Olympics are a year away. The World Championships are in two months.
And the night you two conceived Sunghee is tomorrow.
–
tomorrow.
He wills himself to stay home, even when the boys suggest he hit up a few bars and clubs. It's the weekend after all.
But Sunghoon is used to making excuses by now. Blames it on his training schedule, his diet, Coach Jung. Whatever would get Jake off his back.
So when Sunghoon hears a knock at his door, and three boys pull up already reeking of alcohol, he’s surprised that he finds himself in that exact bar where he promised himself he wouldn’t be.
It’s just like before. Same music, same sickening smell of spilled tequila and too much cologne from Heeseung. And, as always, he’s bad at poker. Worse than he remembers. He’s downing a shot after every loss until his head is spinning and he can’t remember the rules anymore.
“I’m gonna… go… pee…” he tries to say, but his words get lost in mumbles and drooping eyes. He miraculously stumbles towards the restroom and does his business in the urinal. He’s dousing his face with water after barely washing his hands, and he smiles at his reflection. God, why didn’t he want to go out again?
Sunghoon exits the restroom, shaking his wrists to expel the water from his hands. And his breath catches. He sees you.
Your back’s to him at first, your sparkly red dress riding up on the stool just like it was that night. You’re laughing at something the bartender says. And he swears for a second, time stops.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s the years of missing you bottled up too tight. But he starts walking over before he can stop himself.
“Hey,” he says plainly, elbow hitting the bar. You turn towards him, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
He'll be different in his first impressions this time. More experienced and confident than the shy fool he was when he met you. He'd match this new version of you, too. Show you what you were missing out on.
There’s a confused smile on your face.
“Hi.” He looks at you more clearly, his vision impaired from leaving his glasses at home and the tequila shots in his system.
“You come here often?” He’s too out of his senses to stop himself from saying it. But he doesn’t regret it because you laugh. He does too.
“You say that to every girl, Park Sunghoon?”
His heart skips a beat. “You know my name?”
You roll your eyes, taking a sip of the cocktail that the bartender just handed you.
“Call me a fan,” you smile up at him, and he swears he could have melted right then and there. “Your face is everywhere.”
Sunghoon licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.
“I wish I could see more of yours,” he grins. “I think I’d skate ten times better if I saw you in the crowd.”
You scoff jokingly. “And here I thought winning was enough for you.”
It should be. It was supposed to be.
He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. That he’d leave you alone. He would let you go about your life, forget him, and be who you wanted to be. Who you should have been before he came to your life.
But here you are, impossibly close, and every part of him is begging not to let you go.
"You... you single?" he asks, trying to be casual. But his voice catches at the end. He wants to know. Needs to hear from your own lips if you actually chose Beomgyu in this life.
Relief washes over him when you shake your head.
"Wouldn't be talking to you if I was," you say with a teasing grin. Electricity shoots through him as he watches you. Too bright, too much. This short conversation, one he never planned on having, could never satisfy him. He could never get enough of you.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” he asks before he could stop himself, arm outstretched for you to take. Your face stiffens, and he almost thinks you’d say no until your fingers wrap around his arm.
“Where to?”
–
You barely make it past his front door before he has you up against it. His hands hold yours above your head, pinning your body against his. Sunghoon’s lips move against you ferociously, an unending battle between your tongues. You try to match his movements, but he is starved beyond belief.
You have no idea how badly he missed this.
Three years since he last heard you speak to him. Three years since he’s felt your lips. And the last time was when you asked him to pick up some stupid divorce papers from the kitchen counter. He needs this. Needs this more than breathing, more than eating, more than skating.
Sunghoon lifts you to wrap your legs around his middle. His hands find your bottom, giving a gentle squeeze that has you arching into him. He didn’t want to scare you, but he couldn’t will himself to stop. Your scent was too intoxicating for his mouth to ever leave yours.
You tap at his chest to push him away softly. With bruised lips, you whisper, “Can we go to your bed?”
He could almost moan just from the sound of you. His sweet, beautiful wife. Still so perfect for him.
His grip on your ass tightens as he maneuvers you through the studio apartment you once shared, laying you softly on the bed. Sunghoon wonders why you two just went at it like animals at the entrance way when the bed was only a few steps away back then. This time, he would savor it. Savor you.
He follows you down as he trails kisses on your neck. You crane it for him like you used to, giving him access to your most sensitive spots. His hands trail underneath your dress, teasing the hem of your panties. He looks up at you, silently asking for permission. All you could do was nod, opening your legs wide for him to continue. His dick twitches in his pants. You drive him insane.
Sunghoon peppers a few more kisses on your collarbone as his index finger prods carefully at your clothed pussy.
“Already soaked,” he whispers into your skin, pressing the pads of his fingers onto your underwear. Liquid courage still very much in his system.
He feels bold right now, eager to impress. He doesn't know who you've been with in this life, but he'll make you forget them all. Fuck you so good that you forget those experiences. Remind you that he's your husband for a reason. His fingers hook the side of your ruby red panties, gliding them down your plush thighs.
“I bet I’d go in so easily, huh?” his drunken voice slurs out. "So fucking wet."
When you nod again, he tsks. So silent, and for what? His fingers find your clit, ghosting over it. You arch to lean into his touch, but his hand retracts.
“Use your words, baby,” he says darkly. “Whatever you want, I can give it to you.”
You groan, eyes shut in frustration. “Can’t you just fuck me?”
He laughs. Always so uncharacteristically vulgar when horny. He loves it. He loves you.
“Can’t I get a taste first, baby?” he says, his face already inching downwards. He pulls your dress all the way off you, so that your breasts are finally exposed. Your satin red bra matched your panties like they were made to be seen tonight. He didn’t know why that fired him up so badly.
Would another man have you like this if he didn't make a move?
He dips his head between your thighs, latching his mouth onto your clit. You gasp at the suddenness, not knowing how much you’ve angered him just from your underwear choices. His tongue moves downwards, lapping at your folds like a man dying of thirst. His hands pinned your legs to open even wider, and you writhed underneath him.
“Please-” you beg, hands gripping his hair as his tongue plunges into your wetness. Sunghoon’s eyes roll to the back of his head at the sensation. He could never, ever forget this taste.
He pushes his tongue in and out as deeply as he can with his curled tongue, grinding against the mattress for any semblance of stimulation.
He would make love to you tonight. Until you remember who he was. Until you remember the life you built together.
His tongue does one agonizing lick all the way up to your clit, and your back arches just to feel him better. He’s sucking it harshly, tongue flicking at it in all the right ways.
“Sunghoon-” you cry out, your feet digging into the mattress to push your hips up to meet his ravenous lips. He pulls away and glares up at you. Your hips fall.
“Why’d you stop?” you whine, pushing his hair back down to your core. It takes everything in him not to laugh. He adores you like this. Desperate for him. Needy for him. Shaking in pleasure for whom? Him.
“Don’t call me that,” he whispers into your inner thigh, nipping at it slightly. He chuckles at your confused expression. “Hoon. If you’re gonna moan my name while I fuck you, I need you to say it properly.”
Your cheeks warmed. Heaving out a groan, you nod your head anyway.
“H-hoon,” you test out. “Can you please continue?”
He smiles mischievously. “With what?”
You huff out in frustration. “I swear if you don’t fucking make me cum right now I’m going to-”
And his lips smash down on yours to shut you up. His hands replace his tongue as his middle finger draws figure-8s on your clit. He pulls your slickness from your folds and up to that sweet spot, relishing in the indecent noises between your legs.
Your moans are muffled by his tongue, body twitching underneath his. You taste yourself, so sweet on his lips as he caresses the most inner parts of your mouth. So dirty and so wet. He knew every part of you. Knew what made you cry, knew what made you scream. And fuck, he will make you scream.
He pulls away from you to admire his ruthless pace on your clit.
You are clenching around nothing as your nails dig into his shoulders. He coaxes a gasp out of you as a coil in your stomach starts to form.
“Want me so fucking bad, don't you?” he teases, his other hand on the nape of your neck. Sunghoon tilts your head down to show you the mess you were making.
His sheets are stained with your arousal, and his fingers are drawing circles on your bundle of nerves with such fervor. You catch a glimpse of his painfully clothed member.
He was right. You wanted him so desperately, wanted to feel him inside you at that very moment. Your breath hitches. Fuck. You felt something building.
Your hips start to rise again, and it’s hard to formulate a sentence.
“Hoon! Oh my god– Fuck it’s– It’s–” You cry out as Sunghoon’s pace quickens, motivated by the sound of your moans. His other hand tries to anchor your thighs down. You feel it as you start to lose vision in your eyes. His thumb is rubbing so intensely that it draws a whine right out of you.
The coil inside of you snaps.
“Fuuuck…Ngh…”
A wave of pleasure washes over you, and you feel your juices coat your folds, dripping more than before.
You're squirming underneath him, thighs twitching from the stimulation. He slows his pace, drawing out your orgasm for as long as possible.
His cock was in pain, desperate for it to make contact with any part of you. In this life, one thing he developed over the past three years of watching you in the shadows was patience. And you had none.
“God, just put it in,” you groan so casually, resting your forearm to shield your eyes away from him. You were so fucked out. Hair splayed all over the pillow in messy waves. Lips bruised, your cherry gloss staining your chin and his cheek.
So eager to just have him take you. If he were a weaker man (maybe Beomgyu), he would have listened. But like he said earlier. He would savor this.
His fingers travel down to your folds, one dancing at your entrance to tease you. Sunghoon smirks as you whimper. He pushes a finger in and bites his lip at the feeling. He hasn’t felt you, or anyone for that matter, in ages. In these past three years, he couldn't bring himself to even talk to another woman who wasn't you. It didn't feel right.
All the lonely, and frankly sad, nights touching himself to thoughts of you. Fucking himself on his wrist as he remembers all the nights you’ve shared in your 13 years of marriage. He had plenty of material to work with, with all of your past escapades, but it was nothing like the real thing. Nothing like feeling you again.
“Sunghoon, stop teasing me-”
His finger stilled, and you thought about cursing him out. He pulls your forearm away from your eyes, forcing you to look into his.
“Want to try that again?” he says, threateningly slow. The darkness of his gaze was enough to have you pliant and doe-eyed.
“Hoon?” He smiles, kissing you on the forehead softly.
“Good girl.” And just like that, he dips another finger in, scissoring them into you with precision. You’re a mess underneath him, overstimulated beyond belief, but he honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck. He needed you to be ready for him. His heaviness was throbbing painfully just thinking about how you'd take him after all this time.
How long would it take you to adjust to his size?
Sunghoon’s fingers squelch with each thrust, finding the soft spot he was so familiar with. He’s obsessed, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering, your hands gripping at his shoulders like your life depended on it. You were so wrapped up in your own pleasure, fucking yourself onto his fingers. Grinding up at him without a care in the world.
“Look at you,” he laughs. “So needy.”
Sunghoon pulls his fingers out of you before he brings them to his lips. He hums, relishing the taste. He’d have to go down on you again later tonight. Taste you after his cock has had its fill.
You watch him in anticipation as he takes his pants off. You follow his lead as you unhook your bra, throwing it across his floor, sighing at the feeling of cool air hitting your nipples. Sunghoon pulls his throbbing member out of his briefs, pumping himself languidly.
Sunghoon's eyes meet yours for a second before they go back to your cunt. He's churning something in his mouth, and you almost ask him what he was doing until he positions his mouth just above your folds.
With sultry eyes directly gazing up at yours, Sunghoon lets his saliva drip down onto your pussy.
You throw your head back on the pillow from the sight. Fuck, that was hot. He moves back up to you, guiding his hand to spread his spit with the tip of his leaking cock.
His dick smears your joined liquid in an up-and-down motion, pushing in ever-so-slightly. You gasp and clutch his chest, nails digging in enough to get his attention. He stops.
“I’m not on birth control,” you mutter, like you’re scared to tell him.
“Should I stop?” he asks, even with his tip pulsing so desperately between your folds. You avoid eye contact, though he doesn’t know why.
“Look at me.” he growls.
Sunghoon tilts your chin to face him, and with glossy eyes, you shake your head. He smiles, and a tinge of sadness hits him. You look so soft underneath him, so fucking beautiful.
He’s spent three years stuck in this version of his life, crying over you to avoid this very moment. But he just wanted you so bad. Wanted to feel you at least once again. Then, he’ll let go, he swears. This will be the first and last.
“Use your w-”
You interrupt him with a kiss, wrapping your legs around him to push him deeper into you. He groans, collapsing onto his elbows. You dig your heels into his back as you pull him in deeper. Sunghoon's lips leave you to lay his forehead against yours. His breathing grows heavy, so lost in how your hole sucks him in.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, testing the waters with a small thrust after bottoming out. You squeak in response. “Fuck, baby.”
He wraps you in a tight hold, propping his knees underneath your thighs into a mating press. He fucks into you at an agonizing pace. It's so slow, you could feel every part of his rigid cock. His large size. His thick veins. The soft pulsing. It's so slow that you almost flip him over to ride him instead. But the desperation in his eyes stops you. His head buries deep in your hair, and you could hear the shakiness of his breath as he pulls out of you and plunges back in.
Sunghoon relishes the way you clench around him, your tight warmth pulling him deeper and deeper with each thrust. He drives himself into you with languid, but strong thrusts. He wants to engrave his place inside you so that you are ruined for anyone who might come after him. And again, he angers himself.
"You only this good for me?" he asks, searching your eyes for reassurance. But you aren't listening. You meet his thrusts, grinding yourself onto him. You want more. More of his touch. More of his length. Just more of him.
“Faster–” you whine, thighs pushing into his sides with each hard thrust. He was reaching the deepest part of you, your cervix kissing his tip ever so deliciously. Sunghoon doesn’t abide, so you take what he gives you.
"You this desperate for everyone, baby?" he whispers into your ear darkly. You shake your head, tears forming in your eyes.
"No..." you muster out. "Just you."
And even through all the tequila and the self-restraint not to jackhammer into you, he believes you.
His hands are on your tits now, catching them as they bounce with the strength of his slow thrusts. He twists a nipple between his fingers, coaxing a moan out of you. He tugs and pulls, and it's enough to have you moaning underneath him.
You feel that familiar fire build inside of you. An ember that burned in your lower stomach and traveled down to the very tip of your toes.
“Hoon! Please- Fuck- I need... I need-”
You couldn’t form full sentences. His thrusts were so harsh and still so painstakingly slow. His eyes never left your face. He basked in the way your brows furrowed for him. How your lips formed silent screams as he hit that certain spot within you. Again and again.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers hoarsely, his lips so close to yours. “Tell me who you need.”
“You!” you cry out. "Only you!"
He smashes his lips against yours as he finally thrusts into you hard and fast. His hands on your breast travel down to your waist, locking you onto the mattress as he fuck into you.
You feel something pooling, feel the tingling of your toes intensify with his breath against your face. His moans are just as loud as yours, grunting in your hair like a beast.
“You feel so fucking good–” his hips piston forward, brushing against that spot with every movement. Your chest is pressed into his as you claw at his back. The sensation builds and builds as your stomach starts to tighten.
“Hoon- Oh my god- I’m-Angh!”
Your second orgasm rips through you, the tension within snapping like a chord. It's so much stronger than your first one. It hits you in waves as you weep through it, your hips grinding up to meet his unending thrusts. You were so sore, so sensitive, but his pace stayed so relentless.
“Close– So fucking close, baby–” he moans into your hair.
He clutches your hips, driving into you with reckless abandon. Even if you had no idea who he was, he would have your body remember him. Sunghoon, in this life, would be your best one-night stand. He swears on it.
He grunts as he feels you clench around him harder, his hips stuttering against yours.
“I’m gonna–” He tries to pull out, tries to push you away. Tries not to repeat the same mistakes. But your arms pull him downward as legs wrap sternly around his waist. You push him in deeper.
And he comes. Hard.
“Fuck-”
Sunghoon plants an open-mouthed kiss on your lips, drowning out his sweet noises as he feels his raw cock twitch deep inside. His hot cum spills deep inside you with thick spurts. Your lips parted at the warm feeling, and he could tell you enjoyed every bit of milking him dry.
Sunghoon pulls away from you with a soft groan. He watches as his cum spills out of you. He brings his finger to your folds, pushing his fluids into you.
As he meets your eyes, he’s shocked to see how concerned you look. Because unbeknownst to him, there were tears streaking down his face. And before he can fully sober up and stop himself, he says it.
"I love you."
–
You’re gone before he wakes up.
Sunghoon screams into his pillow, recalling his words like a bad nightmare. Stupid. So stupid. This was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be different.
That stranger, whoever he was, said this was his last chance. And what did he do? He threw away three years of silent pining just to chase you down on the very night the troubles in your relationship had begun.
Was he a fucking idiot?
You never even said goodbye, never even replied to his confession last night. Didn’t even leave a trace of what last night meant to you—if it meant anything at all. He must’ve looked insane.
Sunghoon grips the back of his neck, exhaling hard. You don’t know him. You aren’t the same girl from his past life. You're different now. Three years. That’s how long you’ve had to become someone else.
And him? He hasn’t changed at all. He’s still chasing ghosts. If it wasn't figure skating in his past life, it would be you in this one.
He sighs and sits up. Practice. He should go to practice.
–
two months later.
“Are you messing around, kid, or do you actually want to win this thing?!” Coach Jung shouts after Sunghoon falls on his ass for the umpteenth time. His palms sting from the fall, but he barely feels it.
The World Championships are in a week, and he hasn’t heard a single peep from you since you left his apartment. Hasn’t seen you on campus in his usual routes to watch you from afar. He knew he had reached a new level of patheticness when he actually went up to Beomgyu to ask how you were.
Turns out, you two weren't even as close as he thought you were. He smiled to himself after that, but frowned when he realized that it truly was as if you had disappeared.
“Sorry,” he huffs, out of breath from the demanding routine. “One more time?”
Coach Jung pinches the bridge of his nose. “How about ten more, you punk? Get your act together.”
Coach mutters something under his breath and storms off, leaving Sunghoon alone with the cold silence of the rink. He tries again. Falls again. He smacks his gloved hand against the ice, hard enough that the sharp sting shoots up his arm. He should’ve known. The moment he got a taste of you, he knew this would happen.
No matter when or how, he would always bother you. He would always lose himself. He would always manage to ruin everything.
“Are you living the life you wanted, Park Sunghoon?” a voice echoes behind him. He spins on his skates.
There he is again. The blonde prick. Somehow, he’s in his sneakers and standing still on the ice. His hands are smug in his coat pockets.
Sunghoon doesn’t take the time to question it until he’s skating at breakneck speed towards him.
He swings at him, but the stranger disappears into smoke.
“Or do you still have regrets?” the voice is behind him again. Sunghoon turns around to the stranger, giving him that annoying, shiteating grin.
“I want out,” Sunghoon says with a strained jaw. “Bring me back. To Sunghee. To Sungjae. To her. Now.”
The blonde laughs. “You haven’t even done what you set out to do yet. Wasn't this what you wanted?”
Sunghoon lets out a bitter sigh, chest tight.
“I get it, okay?" he says with wavering breaths. "I was selfish. I asked for too much. I get it now. So just... please. Please, send me back.”
The boy steps forward. His sneakers make no sound on the ice. Inches away from Sunghoon now, just a little taller than him.
“You don’t always get what you want in life,” the stranger says with that sick, twisted grin. It sends a rush of dread through Sunghoon's body.
“I thought you would have learned that by now.”
–
the world championships.
He’s in the locker room. His left leg is bouncing up and down, nail splitting as he gnaws at it incessantly. Only ten contestants ahead of him, but he has the time to panic. Just like he did before.
Coach Jung pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.”
Sunghoon shakes his head, unlocking his phone to check the time. The lockscreen, snow falling past a dark streetlight, holds his gaze longer than it should. He sighs.
“I'm not nervous,” Sunghoon replies, unconvincingly. “It's just cold.”
Coach Jung rolls his eyes.
“You're not new to this, kid,” he doubts the young man. “You're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.”
And when Coach Jung shuts the door behind him, Sunghoon puts his hands to his face. And instead of self-affirmations, he is trembling. Barely breathing, he replays the memory again. Of him spinning you in his arms. Of your kind smile.
Sunghoon told himself not to expect you. In this lifetime, you'd only met once. Only fucked once. But he still thought... maybe the universe would be kind. Maybe you’d show up like you did back then.
“Can the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?” the overhead speaker blares into the locker room. That's him. He's one of the last five.
There’s no one to hold him back this time. No distractions. Just an aching in his chest.
Sunghoon's by the stands now. He watches with shaky hands as the crowd ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ at his competitors’ routines. He hates watching before his turn.
His eyes naturally fall on a seat in the stands. He blinks, rubbing his eyes to check if he was hallucinating.
Someone sits there. Not a stranger. Not this time. It's you. Your brows furrowed like you were forcing yourself not to enjoy his competitor’s performance. Wearing the same outfit. He huffs a laugh under his breath. What are you doing here?
As the routines passed one by one, he could not take his eyes off you. Even from afar, your eyes glisten so beautifully. The same eyes that once glowed, helping the kids with homework. The same eyes that looked at him across the table after long days and short tempers. His wife. The mother of his children. The version of life he gave up for this one.
Now, he would have to settle for this. Longing stares and a heartbeat he could hear in his ears.
“Next to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!”
He steps onto the ice with a big smile on his face. He forces it out, forces himself to act fine when you cheer at the sound of his name. He takes his pose at the center of the ice.
The music begins. His edges wobble, nerves bleeding into the blade. He practiced day and night, no distractions. Not even you. So why… Why was this happening?
He takes in a deep breath as he prepares himself for the first spin. He’s skating backwards, building up momentum. He pushes off the ice. Toe pick hits.
Sunghoon rose high. He spots himself. One. Two. Three. Almost four– but his shoulders tilt, the axis too loose. The rotation slows. A half-second of weightlessness gives way to gravity, and he’s tumbling onto the ice hard.
Gasps echo through the arena, and then applause as he brushes himself back up and onto his skates again.
He gets up. He keeps going. Muscle memory takes over. The rest of the routine is clean. Almost perfect, but not enough.
The first quad... He fucked it up. He bows, head down, as if apologizing for even trying.
And when the score is announced while he's sitting on the sidelines, his body is limp. He barely reacts, face blank with emotion.
He could blame you for it. Pretend you were the reason why his routine didn't score high. But the truth is, he stopped believing in excuses a long time ago.
Years of hating himself led here. All this time, resenting the path he took, only to fuck this one up, too.
Sunghoon had to laugh. He deserves it. Of course he did. The low score. You leaving him. The heartache.
Everything he thought he was capable of, everything he pushed aside to have this moment. None of it mattered without you.
As he rises from his seat on the floor, he searches for you in the endless crowd of faces. The other competitors pass by him with pity; he sees it in everyone’s faces. But they don't matter.
Because you're gone. Your seat is empty.
"Kid-"
He pushes past Coach Jung without looking back. There's nothing left to say.
Sunghoon pulls his skates off skillfully, breaking into a sprint towards the exit. He runs with only socks separating him from the floor.
Then he sees you, clutching your stomach and moving toward the exit. His breath catches. Somehow, he knows. He's seen it all play out before.
“[Y/N], wait!”
You stop in your tracks, hands trembling. You turn around, and he is already clutching your face, kissing you so deeply. You would have every right to push him away, to call him a creep and spit every insult at him. But you don’t, and he doesn’t understand why.
Instead, you lean into his touch, fingers fisting the thin fabric of his blouse. He’s the first to pull away, forehead resting against yours.
“Why are you here?” he asks. It’s not the only question he has, but it’s the first that comes out. You’re crying now, eyes wide, mouth parted. But why?
“I was just…” You try, but you fail to find the right words. “I just came to support you?”
Sunghoon shakes his head. He doesn't buy it. Not for a second. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let things linger.
“You came to tell me something,” he says knowingly, replaying the scene of the past in his head as it happens right in front of him. He smiles sadly, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “What is it?”
You flinch.
“I can’t,” you whisper, the first barrage of tears falling down your face. “It'll ruin you.”
He laughs then. Quiet. Tired. Even in this life, you were so selfless. He doesn’t deserve you. Never did.
“You always say that. Even now.”
He takes your hands into his.
“Are you pregnant?” he asks, taking the words right out of your lips. Your mouth opens in shock.
“How did you-?”
“We'll figure it out,” Sunghoon interrupts softly. He was smiling now. Sunghee was here. She was growing inside you. “Together.”
For a moment, something shifts. You search his face like you’re looking for confirmation. And just like that, you pull away. What? It stings.
This didn't happen before. Why were you-
“You went back," you say. "Didn’t you?” Your voice sounds foreign now, laced with hurt. It’s his turn to look confused.
“What do you mean?” he asks, hands reaching for yours again. You avoid them, and he feels a sharp pain in his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“You… You went back in time like I did, right?” Sunghoon’s eyes widened. “That’s how you knew.”
He freezes.
It clicks. Like cold water hitting his skin. He remembers the first time he saw you in this life. How carefully he avoided you. How he left the penguin plushie behind, just like before. How badly you’d looked at him after that. It all makes sense now.
“I didn’t want to avoid you,” he musters. “I had every intention of finding you again. I passed by that damn cafe every day just to see you-”
You shake your head, but he keeps going, vomiting out word after word.
“I even tried to talk to you, but you looked so happy. All I could think about was the last time we spoke. How you said you regretted us. Watching you with Beomgyu, or whatever his name is-"
“Sunghoon-”
“I was fucking miserable-” His voice cracks.
“Sunghoon-” You’ve never heard him talk this much. Never seen him look so broken.
“And I couldn’t even fight the guy who dragged me into this mess. I was stuck. Thinking about you. About us. About Sunghee. Sungjae. God, I missed you all so fucking much it hurt to breathe—”
“Sunghoon, please—”
“And I should’ve just caught that stupid penguin. I should've just relived our memories together. I should’ve been a better man, a better husband, a better father. But I just keep fucking it up. Every single time, even now-”
“Hoon!” you shout, grabbing his face with your hands. His words die off. He finally breathes. You don’t look angry, not at him at least.
“I know,” you say quietly. “Because I didn’t put my number on the penguin.”
His mouth parts slightly. "Wha-"
"I thought I was the one who messed it all up," you confess. “When you didn’t pick up the plush, I thought it was because of me. Because I tried to change things.”
You swallow back your tears as he listens to you intently, your hands sliding to his chest.
“I thought you’d be better off without me, too.”
You let out a bitter laugh.
“I tried to fill the space,” you continue. “Tried to pick up things I couldn't before. But all I think about was Sunghee and Sungjae."
Your eyes waver, lips pressed together tightly.
"And you," you breathe out. "I saw you skating, training so hard, and you looked happy. I couldn’t bring myself to take it away from you again.”
You pause, lips trembling.
“So I made a plan. I thought—if I could just get Sunghee back, maybe one day I’d find you again for Sungjae.”
You both let out a shaky laugh.
"So then I went to the bar," you sigh. "I wore that red dress and I just hoped you would find your way to me again-”
“Of course I would,” Sunghoon interrupts, kissing your temple. “I always do.”
“And it worked.” You look at the ground like you're ashamed. “The test was positive. I wasn’t planning on telling you.”
Sunghoon takes your hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes assure you.
“And then you fell during your routine,” you whisper, a sad laugh slipping out. "I thought… I avoided you all this time for nothing.”
He laughs too. “I wasn’t even going to win anyway.”
Sunghoon pulls you back into a hug, stroking your hair ever-so-softly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For making you ever feel like I regretted choosing you.”
And you didn’t know you needed to hear those exact words until you sob into his chest.
Sunghoon soothes you. He’s had enough crying. All he is now is grateful. The pain, the mourning. It all led him here.
“This time we’ll do it right,” he assures you. “I love you. I’m not letting you do this alone.”
You pull away from him, eyes wet but smiling.
“I love you too.”
And you tilt your head as he reaches down to kiss you. With your eyes both closed, the world around you spins. Just you and him. In each other’s arms. His lips are soft against yours.
And a voice unfamiliar to both of you echoes in the air.
“I hope you can live a life without regrets.”
–
Sunghoon’s eyes open groggily, pain shooting through his spine almost immediately. All he sees are sterile hospital walls and Jay and Sunoo’s concerned faces.
They hover over the foot of his bed, their faces a mix of worry and irritation.
He blinks, scanning the room. Wires. A blood pressure cuff. An IV drip. Another bed. Then your eyes flutter open too.
“You know, with how the divorce is going, we thought you two crashed into each other on purpose,” Sunoo chirps, unempathetic to the dazed state of his friends. Jay smacks him on the shoulder.
“You’re lucky I managed to get you both a private room,” Jay mutters. “The nurses kept whispering about you two in the ICU.”
Sunghoon turns his head slowly, wincing. You’re awake now, alert, your expression matching his. His chest tightens. And almost in a panicked daze, his head snaps back to his friends.
“Sunghee and Sungjae–” he strains out, pain shooting through his lungs. “Where are they?”
Jay furrows his brows.
“They weren’t in the car with [Y/N], if that’s what you’re worried about,” he starts. “They’re looking for a vending machine with Heeseung and Jungwon-”
You both let out a shaky breath. For a second, relief replaces pain. Your eyes meet his for just a second before the door bursts open.
“Mom! Dad!” Sunghee's voice cries out. She’s running towards you two now, but Heeseung stops them.
“Whoa there, princess. They’re fragile.”
Her eyes are red, as if she had just finished crying. Sungjae's behind Heeseung, tugging at his jacket, worry etched across his little face.
“You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?” Sunghee blurts in your direction. Sunghoon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. “They don’t have it on camera, but they said your car hit Daddy’s!”
He feels something warm bloom in his chest. It’s been a while since Sunghee sounded so protective of him.
You shake your head frantically. “No, darling. My brakes stopped working! I could never hurt your dad. He and I love each other very much-”
You stop yourself, but it's too late—cheeks already warming at the shifting gazes of the four grown men in the room. Jungwon fakes a cough.
“Love? As in, present tense?” he teases.
Sunghoon has the biggest grin on his face, and Sunoo scoffs as his eyes pivot between the two of you.
“Did you both hit your head in the accident?”
Heeseung clears his throat. “So, why don’t we take the kiddos to dinner, hm? Looks like Mom and Dad have some catching up to do.”
Sungjae nods excitedly. “Please! They're so icky.”
The adults usher the kids out, and Jay gives one last wink to the two of you before the doors close. The room falls quiet except for the not-so-steady beeping of the monitors. Sunghoon is the first to speak.
“So... when do you want me to pick up the papers again?”
You laugh softly.
“Oh! I guess if you want to go through with it…”
“No!” Sunghoon shouts, eyes huge. 'He’s so cute when he doesn’t mean to be,' you think to yourself.
You tilt your head, smiling. “Then don’t even think about getting them.”
Your bed is near enough for you to inch your hand towards his forearm. Your touch is featherlight against his skin. It takes all of his strength to intertwine your fingers with his.
“So what does this mean for us?” you say through bated breath. He ponders for a second.
“It means… maybe I can build you an art studio in our garage?” he says cautiously. “And maybe I quit my job? Become a figure skating coach? How does that sound?”
You let out a stronger laugh this time, one that aches in your ribs but still feels good. And in this version of you, older and wiser. He still thinks you’re so beautiful.
“I don’t resent you,” he whispers. And your heart skips a beat, in a way that it hadn’t in a long time. You smile at him. And finally, you find the courage to say it in this life too.
“I love you.”
He brings your fingers to his lips and plants gentle kisses on your knuckles.
In every lifetime, Sunghoon knows. He could be standing on the Olympic stage, the roar of thousands echoing in his ears. He could have everything he ever thought he wanted. But none of it would matter. Not if you weren’t there.
“I love you too," he replies, quietly.
And in every lifetime, he will always find his way back to you. And he will choose you. Over and over again.
–
epilogue.
Sungjae is on the garage floor, legs crisscrossed as he watches something on his iPad. Sunghoon is installing shelves for your future artist corner while Sungjae's video is strangely on mute.
“What you watching, son?” he asks, trying to distract himself from the tight pull in his lower back.
Sungjae doesn’t look up. “Your skating videos.”
Sunghoon nearly drops the shelf on his eye. “W-what?”
Sungjae shrugs.
“Looks interesting,” he mutters. “Wish I could fly like that.”
Sunghoon sets the shelf down carefully, then crosses the room to crouch beside Sungjaee. On the screen, a much younger version of himself soars across the ice. He remembers that routine. His first national win.
“Didn't think you'd be into it,” he ruffles his son’s hair.
Sungjae shrugs again, but pink tinges his cheeks.
“You never asked.”
The words hit him. He never really did. Not even with Sunghee.
“Do you want to try?” Sunghoon asks slowly. “Figure skating?”
Sungjae finally looks up, eyes wide. “Can I?”
Sunghoon feels tears well up in his eyes, and he coughs them away. What was up with him and crying these days?
“Of course, son,” he says, pulling him into a gentle side hug. “You'll be my first student.”
summary: you don’t necessarily mind admiring lee haechan from afar, but when the opportunity for you to get closer presents itself, you grasp it, and eventually you come to the realisation that whilst you’ve been too busy admiring, you’ve failed to notice that he’s been doing exactly the same.
pairing: student!haechan x f!reader. mdni! adults only.
genre: university!au, fluff, strangers to acquaintances to lovers, smut!
word count: 32k (i am sorry)
tags/warnings: alcohol consumption, smoking/vaping, swearing, talks of fetishes, explicit sexual content, kissing (a lot), making out, semi-public shenanigans(not sex), spitting (yum), fingering, dry humping, oral (both receiving), multiple orgasms, multiple smut scenes, dirty talk, praise, light chocking, lots of teasing, protected sex, overstimulation, haechan is cocky but also pathetic, haechan being bf material without even being her bf, he calls her a brat like once, petnames (baby, pretty, baby girl, good girl), she calls him “hae”, they’re both down bad, soft dom!haechan, sub!reader, switch!haechan, cumshot oops, aftercare, he’s just a good guy, both are mature but can be too in their head at times, there’s no toxicity or angst in this fic, ✨communication✨, pls let me know if i missed anything!
other characters: the whole dream gang, chenle & ningning as oc’s besties
a/n: hi all! this is my first ever fic (that I'm posting lol) and I've poured my heart and soul into it so i hope you show some love. it's definitely not perfect and i could keep rereading and finding things that I'd change but I've kept my writing in the dark for long enough and if i don’t post this now i know i never will, so please take it! I do have a part 2 in the works, which will be diving into their feelings and more angsty themes, but for now I hope you lovely people enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it xoxo
ps. the idea for this fic blossomed while i was listening to eye candy by justin bieber, so might be worth giving it a listen whilst reading
It's not like you’re obsessed with Lee Haechan. You just enjoy looking at him. You barely even know the guy, but, annoyingly, he's difficult to ignore. Difficult not to notice. And it’s not like you’ve spoken much to each other either, apart from the rare exchange of a few words here and there or the odd nod of acknowledgement in corridors.
There was this one time where he sat next to you in class, but that was only because he was late and the seat next to yours was the only empty one that was close to the entrance of the classroom. That was the first time he smiled at you. Nothing more than casual and polite but it still made your heart race.
Then, of course, there was the time where you bumped into him on the street, while you were on your way to a date, which ended up being disastrous, but that didn’t really bother you. What bothered you was the fact that he was also on his way to a date. With a girl. A girl he chose to go on a date with. A girl that he probably found pretty. A girl that wasn't you. Regardless, that didn’t negate the fact that, that night you had your first ever conversation with him. It was brief, but it happened, and it certainly left you with a bittersweet taste in your mouth, which was probably why you later couldn’t focus on the boy you matched with on that godforsaken dating app. And as mean as it sounded in your head, you hoped Haechan’s date went as badly as yours.
Next time you saw him, was at a campus party you got dragged to by Chenle and Ningning. Mark convinced Chenle, who convinced Ningning, who forced you and it’s not like you don’t enjoy a fun night out with friends and alcohol, you just weren’t in the right mood that night and you were convinced that being in your luteal phase had definitely something to do with it.
You remember instantly spotting him in the kitchen, leaning lazily against the counter as he was speaking to a girl you didn’t recognise and you could tell just from her side profile that she was nothing but attractive. You watched as she reached and took the drink he was holding, bringing it up to her lips, tasting the contents of the cup but also him, and you decided to look elsewhere before witnessing anything that would (but definitely shouldn’t) ruin your night.
You were determined to spend the rest of the party as far away from him as possible, forcing poor Chenle to go and refill your drink in the kitchen every time you ran out. You were more than aware it might have sounded silly to anyone else, but you didn’t want to go down the rabbit hole of trying to get someone’s attention, when they were clearly not interested. You’d been that person in the past, and you refused to make the same mistakes again. At the end of the day, it was just a crush. It would go away eventually. Right?
When the party started to die down, you found yourself in the back garden with no one else other than the lovely Na Jaemin, after you stumbled upon him being sick in a fake plant pot. You could have left him in his own fate, but knowing yourself, you would definitely feel guilty for the rest of the night, if you didn’t make sure he was safe. You started to regret your decision about 10 minutes later, when he had already fallen asleep with his head in your lap and you were sure he was drooling on you, but that was the least of your concerns in that moment. Thankfully, Chenle picked up on the first ring and when you asked him to come outside with reinforcements, he immediately said, “I’ll be there in a sec.”
The reinforcements, of course, being Jeno and Haechan, wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, but you weren’t in a position to be picky. You found out shortly after that Haechan had only stepped outside for a smoke and got dragged into ‘helping’, which he refused to do since, according to him, Jaemin had put him in that position countless of times and he’s sick of looking after a grown ass man who’s got the alcohol tolerance of a twelve year-old. You found his point more than valid, but you didn’t say anything.
When Chenle and Jeno disappeared back inside, carrying a whiny and barely coherent Jaemin, you found yourself alone with the boy you had initially tried to steer clear of at all costs. Your mission miserably failed that night and at the end of it all you realised one thing; whatever it was that you felt for Lee Haechan, wasn’t just a harmless crush.
“I gotta admit, that was slightly entertaining.” He said as he took the seat that Jaemin had previously been occupying next to you on the wooden bench.
You must have sat there with him for about an hour, talking about everything and nothing, while enjoying the early summer breeze and the freedom that came with the end of finals. He insisted on getting you an uber home when you announced that you were going to walk because your phone had died and when you asked if you could pay him back somehow, he said, “Just don't be a stranger next year.”
Autumn
You were aware Zhong Chenle was an evil little thing, but you hadn’t pegged him for a traitor. And betrayed is what you felt as you read the message on your screen over and over again.
@kh1000le: greetings folks, party at my new place this saturday @8 – I'll add the deets later but feel free to invite more people. ps. don’t forget to bring extra booze.
You look up from your phone, remembering you're still in class and the professor is still talking stats. Your eyes instantly land on Haechan, still sitting two rows ahead of you, between Jeno and Jaemin and you can tell he’s looking down, probably reading the message you were reading just seconds ago. Jaemin shifts closer to whisper something in his ear and Haechan leans in to hear better. He quickly nods his head agreeing to whatever Jaemin says.
You turn your attention back to your phone again as more notifications flood your screen. Other people in the group chat responding and reacting to messages. Haechan is still silent. No reactions or responses. You wonder what he's thinking. But most of all, you wonder if he's noticed you're also in that group chat. Would he recognise your username? You only started following each other the day after that party before summer, but it’s been almost four months now and there has certainly been no exchange of messages.
Suddenly, you notice people have started packing up their belongings and you quickly start doing the same, hoping you can flee the scene as fast as possible, before Jaemin comes up to you with questions about the party.
The second you step outside the doors and into the corridor, you exhale, relieved to have succeeded and as you start walking towards the main building exit you realise you spoke too soon.
"Y/n, wait up!"
You close your eyes muttering a quiet “shit” to yourself. You put on a smile and turn around, Jaemin quickly approaching you. Haechan, who's trailing a few steps behind him, isn’t really paying attention, already in a conversation with Jeno.
“Jeez woman, you sure walk fast. You got somewhere to be?” He speaks fast as he tries to catch his breath.
“Hey Jaemin, yeah, sorry, I'm in a rush, how can I help?" You try and respond as nonchalantly as possible.
"I just saw you're in that group chat and I'm assuming you'll be there on Saturday?" He asks with eyes full of hope.
"Yes sir. I'm actually meeting up with Chenle now to talk logistics." You explain quickly, seeing Haechan getting closer from your peripheral.
"Ahhh that makes sense, I just wanted to ask if we should bring anything else other than alcohol?"
"Just your drink of choice will be enough for you I reckon, don't want you ruining any of his new plants." You say with a teasing tone.
"Yah!" He complains with a pout that is nothing but laughable.
"Hey Y/N." Jeno approaches with a smile and joins your conversation. “Is this man bothering you?”
“Not really, just making sure he doesn't die of alcohol poisoning on Saturday.” You try to keep your eyes on Jeno, avoiding the handsome boy who's also joined your little group.
”I thought you were a nice one.” Jaemin whines like a little child while a frown adorns his face.
“You’ve been fooled my friend,” Jeno comes to stand next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders, shaking you playfully. “She’s evil.”
You're mid eye roll when Haechan’s voice cuts through. “Seems pretty harmless to me.” He’s standing next to Jaemin now. One hand in his pocket, the other holding the strap of his bag. You notice the two rings adorning his middle fingers. Such a pretty hand, you think, the veins prominent, running down his smooth arm, disappearing underneath an oversized check shirt he's wearing over a white t-shirt. You then notice he's got a pair of jorts on and you can't help but wonder who can even pull off jorts that effortlessly nowadays.
Your attention drifts back up to his face, the most adorable boba eyes are twinkling as he looks at you and his captivating mouth offers you a cheeky smile. A small dimple appears, barely there for you to see and you think you're on the verge of throwing up. His lips move again and you watch him carefully like he’s moving in slow motion. "Hi." His hand leaving his pocket and raising in the air to offer you a quick wave. It's annoying how such a small and casual gesture makes your heartbeat faster and your cheeks feel warmer. You're pretty sure your eyes are giving you away, showing how affected you are behind the stoic expression you’re struggling to maintain. You never thought you'd be here, but you have Chenle to thank. Or maybe strangle. You haven't decided yet.
"Hi." You return the smile as calmly as you can, foregoing the wave. You don't think your limbs are working properly right now and you're pretty sure your fingers are slightly shaking by your sides. And you’re now thankful for Jeno’s arm still draped around you, the weight grounding and necessary. You feel your phone vibrate a few times in your back pocket, assuming it's either Chenle or Ning checking if you're alive and that pulls you out of your trance. “Evil is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”
”That’s funny, remember when you told me to go fuck myself and read a book whilst I’m at it?"
“Oh, I’m sorry,” You shove his arm off you in fake annoyance. “Did I offend you?” You feign concern dramatically. “Remember when you asked me if I’ve got any friends who need, and I quote, an unforgettable dicking down session and then proceeded to say, and I quote again, ‘is Murakami the fella who wrote that book about some Norwegian guy’s dick?’” You get slightly irritated just at the memory.
"Ahhh that explains it! This guy came back home a few months ago asking if anyone’s got a copy of Norwegian Wood." Jaemin looks at you as he explains, whilst pointing a mocking finger at Jeno.
"Oh? You actually read it then?" You ask with a hopeful smile and Jeno offers you a shy nod. Maybe there's hope for him after all.
“Read it? He actually cried when he got to the part where Naoko kills herself.” Haechan snorts at Jeno’s sour expression and reaches out to lightly pinch his cheek. He instantly gets shoved away. “Aw come on, I thought it was endearing.” Haechan turns to look at you now. “I was wondering who made him read that.” He holds your gaze while you hold your breath, and you wish someone could hold your heart as it’s about to beat out of your chest. “I love that book.” He admits with a smile, and you celebrate internally, because you knew he wasn’t just a pretty face, and you feel giddy knowing that you’ve both loved the same thing, even if it’s just a book.
You picture him sitting in a pink cafe, wearing a cozy sweater, looking all warm and comfy while turning page after page. You find yourself wanting to ask if he’s read it more than once, like you have and what his thoughts are on the ending. But you don’t. Not yet.
“Well maybe you two nerds should join a book club.” Jeno bitterly says.
“I mean, I’d be down?” Haechan raises his eyebrows suggestively at you. Mothefucker.
“I would, but unfortunately I have somewhere to be right now.” Your response causing his tongue to poke in his cheek, trying to fight off a smile. The gesture making him look incredibly handsome and boyish at the same time and if you were a cartoon character, pink heart eyes would be bulging out of your eye sockets. You force yourself to look away from Haechan's face, opting to divert your gaze between the other two boys instead. They're both carrying amused expressions, looking between you and Haechan and you feel like you’re missing something.
“Ouch.” Jaemin says with a laugh, now mocking Haechan.
“See?” Jeno looks at both of his friends, crossing his arms over his chest as if proving a point. “Told you she’s evil.” He smiles like he’s proud of you.
And that’s your queue to escape. ”Right, well, as lovely as this has been, I actually have to go.”
“Okay, busy queen.” Jaemin snaps his fingers and you can instantly picture him getting along with Chenle. “We’ll see you Saturday then.” He smiles sweetly.
”You will indeed. Don’t be too late.” You say with a warning, pointing a finger between all three of them.
”Yes, mam.” Jeno nods in agreement.
You look at Haechan one last time. His expression contemplative, almost like he's torn between saying something else and keeping quiet. The way he's observing you makes you feel like he's already got you all figured out. Like there's no way he doesn't know you’re having trouble breathing, all because of him.
“See you Saturday.” He says in the sweetest tone, smiling at you like he's done it a million times before.
You give him a small nod goodbye and when you start to walk away you try your best to do so at a normal speed, not wanting to give away the fact that you're practically running away.
You hear Jaemin's loud voice again. “Bye Y/N!”
”Bye Jaemin!” You respond, mimicking his cheerful tone without looking back.
As you head towards the exit, you've already decided you're going to go with the option of strangling Chenle. Because there’s no way you’re surviving Saturday night without going clinically insane. Not if Haechan holds your gaze the way he did just a few moments ago. Not if he talks the way he talks and certainly not if he looks as good as he always does.
You’re done for.
_
You’re baffled as to how and why Chenle knows this many people. You assume majority are friend of friends and acquaintances, because you’ve known the boy for three years now and never has he mentioned more than five names. You’re also starting to get worried he might get a noise complaint from the people occupying the flat downstairs, but you assume he has already warned them about tonight.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud exclaim and you feel like laughing when you hear Chenle’s screechy voice shouting Mark’s name excitedly, announcing his drunkenness along with the older boy’s arrival.
"Lover boy still not here?" Ningning teases you as you check the time on your phone for the umpteenth time that night. She takes a sip from her drink and looks over your shoulder. "Relax, it only 9pm."
"I'm relaxed." You defend quickly. She takes in your stressed expression and pauses to think for a second. "What?"
"Nothing, I just realised I haven't seen you so excited about a boy before. It's refreshing." She smiles while trapping the straw between her pearly whites. "Speak of the devil." She jerks her chin towards the direction of the door and you instantly know who she’s referring to, but you don't dare to turn around and look yet. You feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest and Ningning sets her drink down on the kitchen counter before taking hold of both your shoulders. "Y/N, we talked about this. There's literally no reason to freak out. If he flirts, flirt back. Let it happen naturally yeah?" Her tone serious, as if you're both on a mission.
You widen your eyes comically to match hers, nodding your head quickly while trying not to laugh at her expression. It’s almost as though she’s more anxious than you are. "Ning, I'm good. I got it."
"Just saying, he'd be a dimwit not to like you." One of her hands pushes a strand of hair behind your ear and the comforting act gives you the reassurance you didn’t know you needed. "Plus, this dress makes your tiddies look yummy." She smirks and you wack her hand away with a laugh when she reaches out to poke into the bit of cleavage that spills from the top of your dress. You can tell she's entered the realms of tipsiness, and you wish you were there with her too, but the tequila shot from earlier definitely didn't do its job.
"Fuck me, didn’t think this many people would turn up." Jaemin's loud voice startles both of you, making you turn around and you're met with the three boys from your stats class. "Good thing we brought reinforcements, huh?" He says excitedly, shaking a Jack Daniels bottle.
"Are you a middle aged man by any chance?" Ningning's face scrunched up in disgust as she inspects the whiskey bottle in Jaemin's hands. "What happened to just drinking plain old vodka at parties?"
"Ah, Jeno is your guy." Jaemin points his thumb behind him and Jeno raises the hand holding a vodka bottle.
Jeno's face lights up when he spots the unused cups and heads over to start making drinks for him and Ningning. "Lemonade?" He asks, looking at her and she nods excitedly. "Same for you Y/N?" His eyes on you now.
"Nah, I'm on gin tonight, thanks though." You smile appreciatively at him.
"Guess I'm your guy then."
Fuck.
Your eyes instantly meet. He's already smiling down at you, and he looks so good. Too good for your respiratory system to function properly. His dark hair is messily styled, fringe almost covering his eyes. He's got a black button-down shirt on, top three buttons undone, collarbones on display and sleeves rolled up revealing his veiny forearms, all effortlessly combined with dark blue jeans and black converse. Pretty. Perfect.
Without permission, his hand engulfs yours, wrapping around your drink, bringing the cup to his lips, your own hand slipping down as he downs the liquid in one big gulp. The cooling feeling of his rings lingers, and you can’t help but stare at his neck as he swallows and then his eyes are on you again, his tongue slightly darting out to lick his bottom lip where there's a drop of liquid. His eyebrows furrow and he nods in approval.
"Lemonade it is." He casually says, like he didn’t almost just cause your heart to fail. He takes your now empty cup with him, joining Jeno at the counter.
"Well then," Jaemin feigns disappointment, eyebrows furrowing dramatically. "I guess I'm having this whole whiskey bottle to myself."
"I'm sure Chenle would help you out." Ningning half jokes. "Good luck finding him though."
"Yeah, what the hell, this place is so crowded." Jeno returns with two drinks and hands one of them to Ningning. "It might be a bit strong, sorry." He warns her.
Her face grimaces slightly when she takes a reluctant sip, proving Jeno right, making you both laugh. "Eh, it'll do." She says carelessly, "I've had a stressful week."
"Here to help." Jeno raises his cup, and they do a quick cheers. They start conversing comfortably about why her week was stressful and you're pretty sure they've never met before but that's Ningning. Top yapper, never awkward.
"Yours might be a bit on the strong side too." Haechan says apologetically as he stands in front of you, handing you back your now full cup. You smile at the sparkly straw he's added. Cute. "Try it."
And you do. It feels too intense, almost intimate, drinking while holding eye contact with someone, let alone this fine man, so you don't. But you feel his eyes on you as you take a sip. And you really do hope the drink is strong, because if you're going to survive tonight, alcohol will be your savior. He's looking at you, carefully taking in your expression as you taste the drink, almost as if he's sat on the edge of his seat waiting for your reaction.
"It's good. Thank you." You smile appreciatively as you welcome the slight burn in the back of your throat and he mirrors you excitedly.
"Good." He nods with a satisfied expression. Then he lets his eyes wander downwards. He takes in your dress in a not-so-subtle way, and you could swear he’s checking you out. You watch his eyes move on you and you love how he's still holding his cup close to his lips, touching the bottom one. You fight against the urge to reach out and drag it down with your thumb. Would he mind if you did that? You reach behind you instead, resting one hand against the counter to somewhat ground yourself, and the action seems to bring him back to reality. Is he always this obvious?
"Did you also have a stressful week?" He asks casually, like he wasn't just staring at your boobs a second ago. His eyes on yours now.
"Huh?"
"Your friend said she's had a stressful week," He explains, chuckling at your confusion. "Was just asking if it was the same for you."
"Oh right. Umm, I dunno." You shrug. "A little, I guess."
"How come?" His head tilts to the side slightly.
"It's always fine until Thursday to be honest." Your admission holds a double meaning and he seems to catch on as the sides of his lips slightly lift amusedly.
"Really? I thought Thursday was our day, no?" He playfully pouts and you’re trying your best not to let his smooth words affect you. Our day? What a little shit. You notice the silver chain around his neck and you can't help but feel a tinge of shame at the inappropriate thoughts that flood your mind.
"Just not a big fan of stats." You make up an excuse with a slight delay, hoping that he can't tell you're practically ogling him.
He nods understandingly. "You and me both. I've been seriously thinking about dropping it next semester."
"What would you choose instead?" You ask curiously, trying to cover the frown that takes over your face at the thought of not sharing any classes with him.
"Why, you interested in joining me?" Is he flirting or have you already gone insane?
"Depends." You shrug, twirling the sparkly straw, eyes not leaving his.
"I think I'd go for creative writing." He studies your face for a reaction.
“Oh?” Your eyebrows raise in surprise. “So you really did mean it when you said you wanted to join a book club.” You tease with newfound confidence and he lets out an airy chuckle.
“That offer's gone now, you turned me down.” He says with a smirk.
"I'm sure I could convince you to reconsider." You say with a suggestive tone, catching him off guard and before he can retort with a witty response, you return to your initial subject. “So, you wanna be a writer or...?”
"Well, no, not exactly.” His voice is hesitant, eyes lowering to look at his drink, almost as if he’s embarrassed. Does he think you’ll judge him? You suddenly get the feeling that you might have overstepped.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to-”
“No, no, you’re good.” His words are rushed, his head shaking quickly, hand reaching to touch your arm reassuringly. It’s light, quick, barely there but his fingers feel hot against your skin. Before you have time to react, he continues. “I just- I don’t really go around talking about personal goals and what not, don’t want you to think I’m flaunting.”
“Why would I think you’re flaunting?” Your perplexed tone causing him to smile.
“I wanna make music.” Eyes carefully watch you as he waits for a reaction. When you just nod for him to continue, he almost looks surprised but quickly recovers, clearing his throat. ”So, I thought creative writing would help.”
"So, you wanna write songs." You state as if to make sure that you heard him correctly and he nods, still watching your face. "Or have you already?" You ask carefully and he chuckles at your attempt to keep your nosiness to a minimum but failing.
He moves to stand next to you, leaning against the counter. You feel like you can breathe again, now that his eyes aren't on you, but his arm brushes against your shoulder and you almost shiver when you feel the warmth radiating off him. You get a whiff of his scent, subtly inhaling, cologne and detergent mixing into an intoxicating potion that clouds your senses. He's too close but you somehow want him closer. You suddenly wonder where Chenle is and instantly feel bad for threatening to cut his air circulation. This is good. This feels good.
He looks down at his drink, in thought. "I play the piano, so creating a melody is relatively simple if I really put my mind to it." Oh? He looks at you again and you feel scrutinised under his gaze. Suddenly, your shoes are very interesting to look at. "It's just the words I struggle with." He admits.
"Maybe you need to find some sort of inspiration?" You suggest.
"Maybe." He puts his drink down and leans against the counter, crossing his hands on his chest. "Got anything in mind?
"I mean, it could be a person." You say nonchalantly, without really thinking. "Unless you’ve already got that covered?" The bold question comes out before your brain can process the thought and you internally scream.
He smiles wide now. Pearly whites on display. His eyes back on yours. "I thought you didn’t mean to pry." He teases and laughs when your eyes widen. “I’m joking.” He elbows your side softly and you almost gasp as the touch. Why does he keep touching you?
“I tend to get nosy after a couple of drinks, sorry.” You huff a quick laugh before taking another sip of your drink, trying to distract yourself.
“You can be nosy, I don’t mind.” He says in a more serious tone now and you feel his gaze on you. Choosing to keep your eyes on your drink seems like a wise choice, watching as you swirl the liquid in your cup. "To answer your question though, I currently have no clue what or who I'd write about." He responds indirectly, but the implication is clear. He reaches for his drink again in thought. "Maybe ask me in a year's time? Hopefully I’ve found a source of inspiration by then."
“That’s fair.” You pick up your phone from the counter and after unlocking it you click on your calendar app. You scroll until you find next year’s October and select today's date. He looks over your shoulder and laughs when he reads 'Ask Haechan about his songwriting' as the reminder's title. You show him your screen and smile when you see the approval on his face.
"Yeah, that works." He nods.
You look around and notice that all your friends are now gone. "We should probably mingle." You suggest.
"Right, yeah." He agrees with a nod, looking around just like you did a second ago.
When you spot Ningning in the crowd, she's laughing with Jeno and Jaemin. Their attention on Chenle and the girl who's got her tongue down his throat. You and Haechan find the situation just as comical.
The rest of the night flows smoothly. You get to meet a few more people as well as the other two boys Haechan, Jeno and Jaemin live with and you wonder how all these insanely attractive came to be friends. Renjun and Jisung are both equally as lovely. You find Renjun’s mother figure hilarious and Jisung’s shyness endearing. You don't fail to notice that Haechan always hovers close. Not necessarily standing or sitting next to you, but always close enough that you can see him from your peripheral and you can't help but wonder if it's intentional or just a coincidence.
You’re mid conversation with Mark when you feel a hand on your lower back. You easily recognise the now familiar scent of his cologne, and you instantly turn your head and look at him. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol deceiving you, but he looks even more irresistible than he did before. His hair slightly stuck to his forehead from the heat surrounding the crowded living room, cheeks and lips a deeper shade of pink now that he’s had his fair share of alcohol. You wonder if his lips taste the same as yours since you’ve been having the same drink all night.
“Shots?” Haechan shouts over the music and you and Mark follow him into the kitchen, where Jaemin and Jeno are preparing tequila shots and you wonder who assigned these two clowns with bartender duties. Chenle is now gulping down a glass of water and you’re thankful to whoever made that decision for him.
As soon as you’ve downed your shot, you take a sip of your drink as a chaser to minimise the burning sensation in your esophagus. “Wanna go get some air?” Haechan leans in and you almost shiver as his warm breath fans against your naked shoulder and you internally thank Ningning for prompting you to wear a strapless dress.
You respond with a quick nod and he smiles. “I got you.” He mumbles as he takes hold of your hand and leads you to the big balcony doors. On the way, he grabs a hoodie you assume he dumped earlier on the couch and the second you’re outside and he shuts the door, you feel the ringing in your ears. You’re thankful for the fresh air infiltrating your lungs and brain, feeling a little less intoxicated now. “Maybe that shot was a bad call,” Haechan laughs quietly at your dazed expression. “Didn’t take you for a lightweight.” He teases.
“Yah!” You elbow him, your voice louder than you intended it to be and he giggles softly, clearly also affected by the drinks he’s had all night. “I’ve had the same amount as you.” You pout drunkenly.
“I’m just teasing.” His smile soft now.
“Yeah, you seem to keep doing that.” You say with a complaint in your tone, eyes narrowing.
“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t keep getting all flustered every single time.” His words take you aback; a surprised laugh escaping your throat at his boldness.
Before you have time to speak, he notices your arms coming up to conceal a shiver and without a word, he’s closer than he’s ever been before. His arms circle around you, hands hovering just above your shoulders as he holds up the hoodie, waiting for you to slot your arms through the sleeves. You look up at him before you obey, his intense stare not giving much room for any objection.
Once it’s on you, his hands come to your front to fix the neckline that connects to the hood and when you think he’s about to zip you up, he reaches behind you again, playfully dragging the hood up, over your head, covering most of your face with the thick fabric and you whine loudly, causing him to laugh. You push the hood back down, with a frown.
“Aww, cute.” He coos as he gently tames the mess he created on your head, fingers untangling and smoothing down the strands and he smiles endearingly when he’s happy with his work. "There you go, all done."
“Thanks.” You say in a bashful tone.
“For keeping you warm or calling you cute?” He asks with a smirk and you can’t help but scoff, feigning annoyance as you swat away the hand still playing with a strand of your hair.
Desperately needing to escape his daring eyes, you walk past him and towards the railing as you take in the view of the twinkling city lights and you withhold a smile when you feel him follow after you.
You feel his stare on you as he leans against the railing, taking a vape out of his pocket. He takes a puff and exhales the smoke through his nose, as he takes in the view himself, before turning to meet your eyes again. The action shouldn’t feel this intimate and it definitely shouldn’t make him look even more attractive than he already is.
You instinctively reach out and fix the chain that’s somewhat tangled around his neck. He doesn’t flinch, just moves his head to the side to make room for your hand and the sides of his lips twitch, fighting a grin. “What flavour is it?” You drop your hand from his collar and step a little closer to take a look at the fruit-flavoured stick in his hand.
“Cherry ice.” He holds it out for you. “Wanna try it?”
When you do, you can't help but scrunch your nose at the sugary taste. “Hmm.” Your uncertainty obvious as you exhale the smoke. “It’s too sweet.” You cringe at the aftertaste, your funny expression making him laugh. And you feel your heartbeat fastening at the sound. Because you're right. It's too sweet.
“I like sweet things.” He says in a hushed voice, as if he's letting you in on a secret. The dual meaning of his words causes a blush to creep up from your neck to your cheeks. You can tell he notices, but this time he holds back on teasing you and turns to look at the view again, taking another puff.
You gawk at how handsome he looks from this angle. His long lashes, the slope of his perfect nose, his incredibly kissable heart-shaped lips, his sharp jawline, his neck. Pretty. Everything about him.
“Yeah, I bet you do.” You mutter in a daze. He looks at you again and you don’t look away this time. His brown eyes sparkle, reflecting the city lights below. You realise that you’ve never actually been around him in a setting like this. It’s always been daytime with him. Always crowded. Always surrounded by noise that you had to block out. But now it’s all new.
Nighttime. Just you two. Quiet.
“That dress looks good on you, I like it.” His eyes trail down your form again, a lot quicker this time, but still noticeable and at this point you're convinced he's not even trying to hide it.
Your face feels warmer than before as you look down at your dress, your hand instinctively smoothing down the material. You can see the smoke he exhales from your peripheral and then you choose your words boldly again. “I know you do.”
“Really?” He steps closer and his hand comes up, thumb delicately tracing the tiny bow at the centre of your cleavage. “What gave me away?” Your heartbeat increases when his fingers trail upwards, pushing your hair behind your shoulder and settling on the base of your neck, his thumb on your jaw, giving you no option but to look up at him.
“You’re just-” You pause to inhale sharply when you realise how close he is. Your noses almost bumping into each other. You tip your head back slightly, to look at him properly.
“I’m what?” He urges you to go on.
“Not very subtle.” You finally finish your sentence.
“Y/N-” He says with a breathy laugh and you don’t think you’ve ever liked the sound of your name so much before. The tip of his nose rubs against your own just once and the sweetest smile takes over his features. You feel yourself leaning into him even more. His thumb still caressing your jaw and you know he wants to kiss you, but you wait. You let him take the lead. Because you need him to. “I don’t think I ever intended to be subtle with you.”
Your gaze drifts down to his lips and you so desperately want them on yours now, you think you might cave and close the gap yourself. One of your hands travels up and your pointer finger curls around his chain, pulling just a tiny bit. And the second he closes the gap you think you’re going through an out-of-body experience. His lips feel soft, and you can instantly tell he’s a good kisser.
His mouth slots perfectly against yours, slow at first. But he doesn’t waste time when your lips eagerly part against his. He licks at your bottom lip teasingly before briefly sucking, tongue easily finding its way in and the second it glides against your own, hot and wet, you moan. Both your hands find their way in his hair, slightly pulling, and you feel him sigh against your mouth. The hand on your jaw drags slowly to the back of your neck and into your hair, tilting your head to get the angle he wants. It's filthy, the perfect amount of sloppy and careful. A thousand times better than what you’ve imagined. He sucks on your tongue, forcing another moan out of you.
You try to pull away for a second to catch your breath but the hand in your hair silently instructs you to stay put. “Mmh-mm.” He protests with a whine and the vibration against your mouth feels delicious. Arousing. And you feel pathetic at how wet you already are just from kissing him. He licks into your mouth one more time before pulling back, allowing you to catch your breath, a string of saliva still connecting your lips as you both breathe heavily and your fingers tighten around the collar of his shirt in desperation.
“Fuck.” He exhales against your lips, sounding beautifully wrecked, chest moving up and down rapidly against your own and your erect nipples feel so sensitive rubbing on his shirt. Even with your eyes still closed, you can sense him looking at you, making you feel exposed and incredibly turned on at the same time.
You fully come back to your senses when he starts walking you backwards until you’re eventually backed up against the wall next to the balcony door, suddenly reminding you of your surroundings. You don’t have much time to think before his lips are on yours again and you immediately turn into mush in his arms, mouth pliantly giving him access. The only things audible are your heavy breathing and the wet sounds of your lips smacking. The faint music coming from inside, barely noticeable now.
Haechan wraps a hand around your throat, gentle but possessive and you love the weight of it on your sweaty skin, just resting there with intend. His other hand grabs the side of your thigh, raising your leg to rest on his hip. And that’s when you feel the hardness, grinding slowly against your tummy, testing the waters, and you can’t help but gasp in response.
His mouth leaves yours, trailing gentle kisses down your jaw and the side of your neck, leaving wet patches of your combined spit on your skin, and when he reaches the dip of your collarbone, he bites gently, soothing the skin with his tongue afterwards. You can’t help but clench around nothing.
He angles your head to the side, giving himself more space to suck and lick where he pleases as his other hand trails from your thigh to the curve of your ass, squeezing the flesh and bunching up your dress in the process. You whimper at the feeling of his rough hand, your eyes rolling back when he grinds into your front again, with more urgency this time.
"Fuck." You whisper breathlessly, feeling lightheaded.
“Yeah?” He mumbles against your sensitive skin, and you cup his face in your hands, guiding him to look at you again. “What do you want?” He gives you a sweet peck and you instantly melt, your insides turning into mush as you hold him there, kissing him deeply again, squishing his cheeks between your hands and he smiles into the kiss, biting your bottom lip playfully, letting lets it snap back into place, making you whine softly. “Talk to me baby.” It’s barely audible, and he says it with ease, like he’s been calling you that for a long time and your eyes almost roll back at the pet name. A few hours ago, you were high on nerves because of him and now you’re just high on him, touching you and kissing you and calling you ‘baby’, like he owns you.
Your thumbs caress his cheekbones before you trail your hands back up into his hair, nails gently scratching his scalp and he closes his eyes, humming in satisfaction. “Want you,” You murmur and kiss the side of his mouth as you drag a hand down his arm, giving his bicep a squeeze, before sneaking down to his hand that’s casually resting on your ass like it belongs there. You interlock your fingers with his, bringing both your hands between your bodies, guiding him under the front of your short dress, pressing his fingers against the seat of your lacy underwear. “Here.” You whisper against his lips and he inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring and you almost laugh at his reaction. Your leg wraps securely around him urging him closer by pushing the calf into his ass.
“Jesus Christ.” He whispers and his eyes are on his hand as his fingers now start rubbing slowly against your sensitive clit, the delicate lace somewhat helping with the much-needed friction, but you desperately want to feel his skin on yours with no barrier.
You kiss him again and he pliantly parts his lips for your tongue to invade, allowing you to taste the remnants of cherry ice. Your wet muscle glides against his slowly, and you moan when he pushes the flimsy material of your panties aside, like he’s read your mind. The moan turns into a whine when his middle and ring fingers make direct contact with your swollen clit, rubbing slow circles around the nub with precision, like he knows exactly what you like and you kiss him harder trying to distract yourself from the sensitivity, because there’s no way you’re cumming just from a few touches like a horny teenager.
You both moan in the kiss the moment his fingers dip lower and drag through your wet slit and he doesn’t waste a second, rubbing up and down slowly, spreading the wetness messily.
“You're soaked, fuck.” he mumbles in awe and you bask in the feeling of him finally knowing how much you want him; how much you need him to do something about it. “Messy baby.” His filthy words cloud your brain as your head lulls back against the wall to watch his face. He looks so pretty, his bottom lip trapped in his mouth, his glazed eyes focused on his hand still working between your legs.
He must feel your eyes on him because he looks up at you and watches your reaction with a satisfied expression as the tip of his middle finger catches at your entrance before coming back up to your clit, spreading more of your wetness. He smirks when your jaw drops and your eyes roll back as he starts rubbing the bundle of nerves in firm and quick side-to-side motions with three of his fingers.
"You're so pretty." He mutters against your lips and your stomach flutters at the words, along with your pussy.
“Fuck.” You whine when you feel him delicately suckle on your bottom lip, his tongue playfully dipping out to lick before he starts kissing down to your neck again and your arms wrap around his shoulders, holding him close, tugging at the fabric of his shirt in desperation. “So good.” You breathe into the night air, relishing in the intense pleasure the pads of his digits are giving you, flicking with just the right amount of pressure, exactly how yours would.
“Wanna make you cum.” He breathes heavily into your neck, dragging his lips up until he gently bites your earlobe. His fingers move faster now, abusing your poor clit, circling and massaging harder, and you feel a bead of sweat rolling down the back of your bent knee.
“Yeah, want it.” You nod eagerly, your hips jolting forward and he inhales sharply.
“Yeah, baby?” His eyes on you now. “Think you can take it?” His fingers now slowing down, teasing.
“Uh-huh.” You manage to get out in urgency as his fingers dip down again. “Please.” You stare into his eyes, and you feel yours starting to water when his middle and ring fingers slowly slide into you with ease. Your jaw drops, the stretch delicious and so needed, so welcome. Your vision blurs when he slowly starts pumping them in and out, testing the waters first and your eyes roll back in relief. A squeal escapes you when he curls his fingers just the right amount and starts fucking in and out of your pussy at a rapid pace, like he’s on a mission.
“Oh fuck!” You exclaim in shock, your hand flying to his bicep as you look down at his hand, the veins protruding on his tan arm, the sight so sinful you have to close your eyes again. The heel of his palm rubbing against your clit each time he fucks into you, creates a deliciously warm vibration. The sounds are obscene, your wetness making every thrust loud.
Another pornographic moan breaks out of you when his pace gets a little rougher and Haechan has to shut you up with a hand on your mouth. Your shaky fingers are clawing at his chest, over his shirt, and he lets out a low grunt against the hand he’s got pressed on your mouth, his forehead resting on yours and his eyes closing when you clench around his fingers. Your legs start shaking from the intense pleasure and he opts to wrapping his arm securely around your waist in order to help you maintain your compromised balance. He doesn’t hesitate to replace his hand with his lips, silencing you with a wet, tongue-filled kiss, swallowing all your noises. You’re not really kissing him back, your lips parted against his at a pathetic attempt of reciprocating, just panting and whining, completely lost in pleasure.
“I’m so close.” You whisper and you feel like you’re on the verge of crying.
“I’ve got you, baby, c'mon.” He murmurs into the messy kiss breathlessly, saliva coating both your chins and you love every second of it. The pads of his fingers now abusing the spongy spot at the front of your walls at an intense speed, hitting it just perfectly and you think you might pass out. Your walls flutter around his fingers, sucking him in and you're sure he can tell you're right there. Slick is dripping down his wrist, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. “Fuck yeah, there it is.”
“Haechan, I'm-“ Your eyes slightly widen, and you can’t even finish your sentence as you stumble over the edge. “Oh my god.” Your voice strained, your lungs struggling to keep up. The heat from where his fingers are burying repeatedly, starts spreading and your stomach clenches. Your walls clamp down on his hand, kneading his fingers and for a second, his eyes close, seeming to enjoy the constricting feeling. Your own eyes roll back at the pleasure, eyebrows creased, jaw dropping in a silent moan, breaths coming out quick and you're sure he can feel your leg shaking uncontrollably against his hip.
“Fuck, you feel so good.” His words make you smile in your daze, and you bite on your bottom lip knowing he finds pleasure in your own. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers, letting you ride out your high for as long as possible and when your eyes open, you see him watching your face in awe, and ironically, you feel shy.
His fingers slow down when you whine from overstimulation, until he completely halts and buries them inside to enjoy the feeling of your sensitive walls for a little longer. He kisses your cheek sweetly as he carefully pulls out of you, his fingers bumping lightly against your clit, causing you to flinch. He buries his face in your neck to conceal his laugh, hot breath fanning against your damp skin as he scatters little kisses.
You sigh and relax contently when his warm hand cups your soaked centre and he keeps it there in a comforting manner.
"Good?” He whispers, nose delicately rubbing against your flushed skin and you almost don’t hear him due to the ringing in your ears still lingering after the intense high.
"Yeah." Your forehead is sweaty; you feel baby hairs sticking to the damp skin and you lazily smile at how fast his heart is beating against your palm. Your eyes are staring dreamily at his face and you rub your nose against his, your hand coming up to stroke his cheek affectionately. Your thumb drags across his bottom lip and he bites on it playfully, his nose scrunching cutely, making you swoon. It scares you how comfortable you already feel around him.
Your leg drops from his hip, and you wince at the soreness. His hand now trapped between your legs, still cupping your heat. An idea pops into your head, making you smirk and he watches your expression with an inquisitive look, eyebrows raising slightly in question.
"What?" He asks, eyes innocent, seemingly lost.
You firmly wrap a hand around his wrist, trying not to whimper when you feel his fingers drag against your sensitive clit and your hold tightens. He lets you lift his hand between both your faces, his eyes inspecting the strings of wetness stretching between his long digits. Without warning you lean forward, wrapping your swollen lips around the two fingers that were inside you just a few minutes ago and Haechan whimpers at the sinful gesture. It’s erotic, filthy and you don’t even know what took over you but you certainly relish in his reaction. Your eyes watching him carefully, his pupils dilated as he watches you hungrily, cheeks flushed, swollen lips parted prettily.
“Shit, baby.” His voice on the whiny side now, and you feel his other hand tightening on your hip. He’s very clearly turned on and you almost feel bad for torturing him, considering he’s done nothing but please you. He pushes his fingers deeper inside your mouth wanting you to taste yourself and you swirl your tongue around them, harshly sucking, making a mess on purpose. You let a satisfied hum around his digits, closing your eyes as you pull them out with a wet pop.
“You’re being unfair now.” He grunts and grabs the back of your neck, crashing his lips against yours in an open-mouthed kiss. Teeth clashing and tongues tangling messily as he licks into your mouth obscenely, moaning at the taste of you. You let out a surprised yelp when his fingers find your oversensitive cunt again and he dips them between your puffy lips, rubbing them up and down, like he did before, unforgivingly ignoring your protesting sounds. “Still so wet.” He mutters into the kiss and you whine pathetically.
“Mmf-, too much.” You force the words out against his mouth and grab his wrist in urgency this time. He laughs meanly but obliges anyway. He brings his soaked fingers up to his own lips this time and you can’t seem to be able to break eye contact as he slowly sucks on them, making a spectacle, the act much more intimate when he’s the one doing it.
Once he’s done, he drops his hand on your waist, wiping the wetness on the material of his hoodie and kisses you again, this time slow, languidly, wanting to savour your taste and he moans when your hands start unbuckling his belt. “Can I make you cum?” You murmur into the kiss and he’s contemplating but just as he's about to kiss you again, the moment is ruined by a wandering Jaemin, who rolls the doors open and lets out a shocked sound when he steps out.
“Oh shit, sorry.” His eyes widen when he realises it’s you and Haechan he’s walked in on and not a couple of strangers. “Oh shit.” He says again, with more emphasis this time and you bury your face in Haechan’s shoulder to hide your embarrassment. His arm around your waist tightens in reassurance, sensing your unease and you smile against his neck in silent gratitude. “Yo!” Jaemin says loudly and points an accusatory finger at both of you. "What the fuck? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“Jaem, read the fucking room.” Haechan’s tone is slightly harsh but his touch feels delicate where his hand strokes gently on your waist. “Go back inside, we’ll join you in a bit.”
Jaemin grins mischievously. “Well, most people have gone home now, I just came out to have a smoke, but I’ll leave you to it.” He moves to head back inside but before shutting the big glass door he pokes his head out again. “Oh, just fyi, Chenle is passed out on the sofa and Mark is still in there somewhere, just in case you’re planning on fucking out here.” His expression then changes, eyes narrowing as he inspects both of you from head to toe, a look of realisation taking over his face.
“Unless you already have?” He poses quizzically.
“You’ll go back inside now, unless you want Jeno finding out about last-“
”Kay bye!” Jaemin quickly shuts the door, fleeing the scene before Haechan can finish his sentence.
“Sorry about him.” Haechan mutters, burying his face into your shoulder and lets out a sigh. “Half his brain cells appear to be dead.” You snort at his jokey comment but you can sense the irritation in his voice. You run your fingers through his hair, scratching on the back of his neck and smile to yourself when you feel him shiver against you, his cheek resting on your shoulder.
He lifts his head, looking down your figure as his hands slide down your hips and onto the tops of your thighs, dipping under the hem of your dress and before you can protest, he slips your underwear back into place. His knuckles drag against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and your breath hitches when you feel him tap his fingers against your core lightly. He laughs when you slap his hand away and you narrow your eyes at him scoldingly. You relax when he smooths over the fabric of your dress to make it look less wrinkled and you find yourself fighting a smile at the sweet gesture. It feels domestic almost.
“Thanks.” You say softly, eyes locking with his. He smiles and leans down to quickly peck you on the lips. His hands caress your sides one last time and then they slide up, squeezing your tits softly in the process, the pads of his fingers lightly dipping into the flesh that spills over the top of your tight dress.
”Pretty.” He mumbles almost to himself and if you were under the impression he was an ass man, now you're thinking you might have been wrong. He continues his journey upwards, taming your messy hair, gently combing stray strands behind your ears. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
When you step back inside, you both quietly laugh at the sight of poor Chenle sprawled face first on his new sofa and you’re pretty sure he’s drooling on it. Haechan heads into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water, which he places on the coffee table next to Chenle’s unmoving body. He then maneuvers him carefully, turning him on his side so he doesn’t choke to death in his sleep with his face buried in the cushions. You smile at the thoughtful gesture, and you move to grab your bag from the coffee table to distract yourself from the fluttering in your stomach.
“’Will he be okay on his own?” A tinge of concern in his eyes.
“Yeah, he’ll be fine. He always passes out like this when he gets too drunk.” You lean down and leave a small kiss on Chenle’s temple, brushing the hair away from his forehead. “I’d say he looks angelic but he’s actually the devil incarnate.” You whisper, observing Chenle’s cute face, and you can confirm he’s actually drooling on his sofa.
_
The walk back to your place is mostly quiet but comfortable. Haechan swings your interlocked hands distractedly as you’re both walking at a slow pace, trying to prolong the night for as long as possible.
“What’s Jaemin’s dirty laundry then? You threatened him you’d tell Jeno earlier.” You break the silence and he chuckles at your question.
“He had sex in Jeno’s bed last year.” He chuckles as he spills the secret and looks at you, gauging your reaction.
“Sounds like someone needs to teach that boy a lesson.” You say, and before you can stop the words tumbling out of your mouth, “Maybe we should fuck in his bed.” Your eyes widen at your own words and Haechan’s head snaps up to look you, mirroring your shocked expression. And then he laughs loudly. A kind of laugh you’ve never heard from him. His hand rests on his abdomen as if his stomach is in pain.
“Alright it’s not that funny.” You pout in embarrassment. “In my head it sounded kind of sexy.”
His laugh gradually dies down until there’s just amusement written on his face. “I mean, we can do that if you actually want to, but I have other priorities.”
“Meaning?”
“Well..” He trails in thought. “Ideally, I'd like to take you out first,” You feel like exploding but you maintain a stoic expression, gesturing him to continue. “And I'd rather fuck you in my own bed before moving on to Jaemin’s or anyone else’s.”
Your breath catches at his forwardness and you’re suddenly struggling to find the right words. “Umm,” you think carefully. “What about my bed?” You ask innocently.
"Don't worry, it's up there." His smirk makes you feel weak and you feel him squeeze your hand in his, running his thumb over the back of it.
“You sound awfully confident.” You say calmly, fighting a smile.
He pulls you closer by your hand. “What, you think I’m playing?” He almost sounds offended.
“I dunno, don’t really know much about you.” You shrug.
“Do you want to?” He asks and for the first time he sounds nervous.
You squeeze his hand the same way he did with yours, hoping to reassure him. “I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I do.” You halt your movements when you reach your building and look up into his eyes. “A lot.” His fingers stay intertwined with yours lazily. A relieved smile takes over his expression, and you really feel like kissing him again. He looks shy all of a sudden and a giggle escapes your throat. “Cute.”
He clicks his tongue to show annoyance, and you can see him poking the muscle against the inside of his cheek, trying to hold back a smile when he looks away for a second. Then he steps closer, invading your space again. “You wanna give me your number? I don’t really use instagram.”
“Okay, green flag.” You say playfully and he snorts. You hold your hand out for him to pass you his phone and when you’ve saved your contact, you text yourself a “hi” so you can save his number too.
“Cool.” He says casually as he shoves his phone in his back pocket.
“Cool.” You say back and step closer to him, wanting to feel his warmth one more time before parting ways. He smiles in understanding and pulls you closer, wrapping both arms around your waist to hold your body flush against his. You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your head on his chest. “I had fun tonight.” You murmur.
He rests his chin at the top of your head. One of his hands sneaks up and holds the back of your neck gently while the other strokes the small of your back. “I did too.” His fingers bury in your hair, gently pulling to make you look at him but you don’t get the chance, because his lips are on yours instantly, dragging slowly, carefully. Both his hands cup your face as he licks your bottom lip for access, which you give without a second thought and his tongue sneaks in to play with yours, letting you taste him. Your body completely relaxes against his, enjoying the warm feeling of his chest against yours.
You whine when he pulls back to look at you and he smiles when your lips trail after his. He gives in with a smile, chastely kissing you again. No tongue this time, but he playfully sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, and you love how safe you feel in his arms. He trails up, kissing the tip of your nose and back down again as he gives you another wet smooch before creating a tiny bit of distance between your lips while still maintaining the closeness between your bodies.
You smile against his jaw as you slip your hand into his empty back pocket, lightly squeezing his ass cheek and he laughs at your playfulness.
“Okay, you better go now before I drag you upstairs with me.” You give him a little kiss on the cheek before slipping away from his warmth. You take off his hoodie and hand it back to him.
"Mmm okay." He moves away reluctantly. “I’ll text you yeah?” He says with a cute smile.
“I’ll try and text you back.” You tease and he rolls his eyes, his smile not faltering.
“Night, Y/N.” He quietly says in the night air and you melt at the way your name rolls off his tongue.
“Night, Haechan.” You give him a small wave goodbye and watch him walk away.
_
The next morning, you're quietly munching on your cereal, lost in thought, reminiscing last night like it’s a distant memory, when you see a hungover Jeno messily stumbling out of Ningning's room, carrying his shoes in one hand and his jacket in the other. "Didn't care to take off your shoes at the door?" Your voice seems to startle him in the quiet of the morning.
"Shit!" His reaction making you laugh. "Fuck, Y/N, you scared me."
"Sorry." You're really not. "Are you pulling a French exit on my friend?" Your serious tone seems to intimidate him.
"No, she's awake, just snoozing." He says quickly. "I swear." You try not to laugh at the nervousness written all over his face. "Nothing happened, we just cuddled."
"Relax, I'm just fucking with you." You chuckle at his disheveled state. "Want some breakfast? I can offer three kinds of cereal." You point at your selection of boxes.
His eyes widen eagerly at that. "Sure, thanks." He walks towards where you're sitting at the kitchen table, dropping his shoes on the floor and his jacket on the back of his chair, before taking a seat across from you. "I'll just have what you're having." He says with a sweet smile, eyes almost disappearing and you realise he sort of looks like a Samoyed puppy but refrain from making a comment. You’re not that close after all.
You nod and get up to grab him a bowl. He's looking at his phone when he speaks up again. "So, you and Haechan?" You hold back a smile as you pass him a bowl with a spoon and the milk. He looks at you again and he explains when he sees your questioning stare. "Jaemin messaged the group chat."
"Ah," You nod in understanding. "Of course."
"So?" He asks expectantly, chewing loudly after he's poured the milk in his cheerios.
"What, you can't wait until he tells you himself?" You ask sarcastically.
"Girls' perspectives are always better." He pauses mid munch. "Plus, Haechan is the most private dude when it comes to stuff like that." For some reason that doesn't surprise you.
"Good for him." You get up to wash your bowl after finishing. "Maybe you're just too nosy."
"Oh c'mon, it's not that big of a deal, is it?" Your silence seems to intrigue him. "Or maybe it is?"
You turn to look at him when you're done washing up, leaning next to the sink and you see he's already devoured the contents of his bowl. "Feel free to go for seconds." You say pointing at the box in front of him and his face lights up before he starts pouring more cereal.
"Do you like him then?" He asks casually as he starts munching again and the question makes you falter. "Because, if you do," He swallows. "I can confirm it's reciprocated." Your eyebrows lift at his confession and Jeno smirks at your shocked expression. "Just spill, I won't tell him." And you trust his words, but you suddenly feel shy, thinking about your intimate moments with Haechan.
"I'll tell you if you tell me about you and Ning." You like knowing boys' perspectives too.
"Sounds fair." He nods with his mouth full.
"You want the TMI or PG-13 version?" You appreciate he's still eating so you don't want to ruin his breakfast.
"TMI, always." He says casually.
"He fingered me on Chenle's balcony and then said he wants to take me out." Jeno chokes at your confession.
"Jesus woman!" He coughs lightly and clears his throat before continuing. "No tact whatsoever."
You snort at his reaction. "You said 'TMI always' no?"
"Was it good?" He asks in a quieter and more serious tone now. Like he's asking you to share one of your deepest secrets. And here you were thinking you weren’t that close. You can’t help but laugh because that sounds like what Ningning would have asked in a situation like this. Maybe they are a good match after all.
"The fingering?" He nods at your question, eyes not leaving yours, having paused his eating, spoon still in hand hovering over his bowl. "I mean, I thought I was gonna pass out at some point so, yeah, pretty good."
An eyebrow raised in fascination. "Damn, go Haechan." Then he asks carefully. "So, I take it you'd go out with him?"
You shrug. "Maybe, but I don’t think I want a situationship or anything like that."
"You're in luck, he's not into that shit either."
"We'll see, he hasn't texted yet." You try to sound casual but you know Jeno can see right through you.
"Don't worry, he will."
"Who says I'm worried?" You huff a humorless laugh.
He rolls his eyes and gets up to walk over to the sink, taking his bowl with him. "If he said he wants to take you out, he meant it. And trust me when I say, that boy has had enough of casual flings. He might be going about it a bit backwards, but he’s definitely interested." He states like it's a fact and you're thankful he's trying to reassure you even though he doesn't owe you anything.
"How do you know it's reciprocated?" You ask carefully, referring to what Jeno said earlier and he smiles cheekily.
"I thought you weren't worried." He teases, moving his eyebrows up and down and you flick the back of his head. "Ow! Okay okay, jeez." He rubs the sore spot with the inside of his wrist to prevent his soapy fingers from touching his hair. He then proceeds to dry the clean bowl with the kitchen towel he spots on the counter and hands it to you with a sweet smile on his face.
"Thanks, you didn't have to wash up." You say, putting the bowl back on its shelf. He waves his hand, gesturing that there's no need to thank him for something so small.
"He said he thought you were ‘pretty cool’ after we hounded you on Thursday and for the first time in, like, forever, he was stressing about his outfit before a party."
You give him a pointed look. "How’s that an indication of anything?"
"Trust me, that's enough indication for Haechan. He's probably already planning your wedding as we speak." You roll your eyes at his exaggeration. "Y/N, he likes you. It was so obvious that both me and Jaem knew he was gonna make a move last night." He sits down again and starts putting his shoes on. "Obviously, I didn't think he was gonna finger you in a public space and what not but-"
"To be fair, I initiated that." You interrupt him and he snorts.
"I'm sure he didn't mind." Jeno jokes with a smirk, and you cover your face in embarrassment, earning a chuckle from him. He must be enjoying this because he proceeds to tease even more. "If anything, he probably found that incredibly hot." You groan at his words. "Seriously, there's nothing hotter than a woman who knows what she wants."
You look at him through your fingers still covering your face, a teasing comment pops in your head. Two can certainly play this game.
"That explains why you didn't sleep in your own bed last night." You notice the blush that creeps up on his cheeks and you can help but cross your arms over your chest proudly.
"Yeah, something like that." He says sheepishly, his hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck and you suddenly can't wait for your debrief with Ningning later. "Anyway, my point is, I think you should give him a chance." He finishes putting his shoes on, both feet on the floor now and he looks at you, his back leaning against the chair and his arms crossing over his chest. "He's a great guy."
"Alright, enough about me, your turn now."
_
Haechan likes to think he's a decent guy. He's got his life together; he's on top of his coursework, he gets decent grades, he's got good friends and he's got a part-time job at a record store that pays relatively well. At least well enough to cover his own personal expenses. His parents help him out with rent, but they do appreciate his efforts and he does his best to not feel like a burden. He's a good son and a good big brother to all three of his siblings.
He's polite to old people and even helps them cross the street when he needs to, he loves his friends and always looks out for them, even if he gets grumpy sometimes, he never holds grudges and is upfront about things that bother him. He likes buying his loved ones presents and not just for special occasions. Not because he's a people pleaser, but because he just likes making them happy whenever he can. He tries not to lie except for the odd white lie here and there.
He doesn't fuck around or date aimlessly. At least not anymore. He went through a phase during his first year of uni but it's been two years since then and he's currently embracing single life. Yes, he sometimes does cave into the temptation of bringing a girl back after a party, but it's a rare occurrence and he's always honest about what he wants. He hates leading people on. It's not that he's afraid of commitment, he often finds himself wanting a girlfriend but he's not actively searching for one either.
He knows he doesn't lack in the looks department, or in any other department really. Yeah, he's got his silly insecurities like everyone else but he's a confident guy overall. Although, he does admit that he can sometimes be cocky, that's because he knows he's the most mature out of his friends. Yes, Renjun mostly looks after everyone and has a motherly figure, but Haechan gives the best advice when it comes to most serious life dilemmas, and he's aware of that. He might not be the brightest when it comes to academics but he's confident when it comes to navigating life sensibly and responsibly. That's why he was completely and utterly flabbergasted when you came into the picture. His picture.
He's always noticed you before, yes, and he's always thought you were good looking, but that's about it. He doesn't just go around hitting on every girl he finds attractive. He's more of a 'personality above all else' type of man, so when he first saw you, even though he thought to himself 'wow, pretty', he didn't think it would be appropriate to just come up to you and ask for your number. Plus, you seemed somewhat reserved from the few times you had exchanged words. Not that he didn't like that, because he did, he did find you intriguing, he would get to know you if the opportunity posed itself to him, but he also didn't feel like chasing after you would be something you'd like or even welcome. You didn't seem cold, just indifferent. And so, he kind of just opted to observing you from afar.
Sometimes you were alone, other times you were with a girl whose name he didn't know, others with a boy whose name he couldn't remember. He was sure they'd met before though, maybe at a party around campus or maybe through a friend? He couldn't quite place him. Other times you were with them both, laughing your heart out at whatever you three were talking about and he found himself wondering what makes you laugh that hard.
He knew you always sat two rows behind him in his stats class every Thursday afternoon, his last class of that day. However, he rarely got to see you on Thursdays, even though you were both in the same room for an hour and a half. You always arrived after him and left before him, so, whenever he turned his head at the end of the lecture to look for you, you were already gone. The times he did get to see you, were the times he would turn up a little later than normal, which was exactly one minute before the professor started speaking. Even then, he wasn't really able to observe you for as long as he'd ideally like. He would just get to see the back of your head for a few seconds before reaching his usual seat. He sometimes would pretend to crack his back, just to turn around twice and look at your pretty face for a few seconds. Your attention was always on the notes in front of you though. One time he did catch you already staring at him. You looked away the second his eyes met yours, almost shy. He found it cute and thought to himself; 'maybe she's not that indifferent after all'.
He knew you and Jeno were somewhat friendly because you shared a few classes and he was sure he'd caught you speaking with Jaemin a couple times in corridors. He wasn't jealous or anything, but he definitely wouldn't mind being on first name basis with you too. And it's not like he was obsessed with you. He didn't really think about you that much, but his intrigue definitely intensified when he got to speak to you properly for the first time at that party just before summer. He can’t clearly remember what you two exactly talked about, but he does remember not wanting to leave, he remembers thinking you looked unreal and he certainly remembers wishing he could relive that moment sober so he could memorise every word that came out of your mouth.
Things have changed now though. Drastically and unexpectedly. Because just two days ago he got to speak to you again and his curiosity morphed into excitement.
You pleasantly surprised him. From the way you handled yourself around Jaemin's obnoxiously loud personality to the way you put Jeno in his place like no girl ever has before. You were witty and smart and sweet. Too sweet. And he knows that, because he's quite literally tasted you now. Just a few hours ago he had you pinned against the wall of your friend's new apartment. Just a few hours ago he had you gasping and writhing and pathetically whining his name, simply because his fingers were too much for you. And he loved every second of it.
Haechan didn't really go to Chenle's party thinking he'd get some. He was just excited to get to know you and speak to you one on one. He went into the situation hoping he could maybe flirt with you and end up with your number in his contact list at the end of the night, which he did. And maybe he was hoping he could get to walk you home and get a kiss from you, which again, he did. But he didn't expect you'd reciprocate his flirting like you were prepared for it. He definitely didn't expect you'd ask him who and what he wants to write songs about and he definitely didn't expect you to kiss him back the way you did.
He's kissed many people before. He's had good kisses, bad ones, a few memorable ones and certainly a lot of forgettable ones. He's never kissed anyone the way he kissed you, though. And he's equally never had anyone kiss him the way you kissed him. Not even ex-girlfriends. Not that he's had many, but the two he's had don't even come close. And that scares him. Because if Haechan thought he wasn't obsessed with you before, he really doesn't know what to think now. But what he does know is that it’s incredibly unfair of you to make him feel and think this much, this soon.
It's still early, the sun barely out. He's maybe managed to get four hours of sleep before getting woken up by the sound of someone retching in the bathroom down the hall. Most likely Jaemin. He almost fell asleep again after that but the sound of a door slamming, completely ruined his slumber. So, now he's just staring at his ceiling, one arm supporting his head on the pillow and the other resting lazily on his naked stomach. He feels tired but he knows he won't be able to go back to sleep now. And that's fine, because he can at least think about you. He can think about your voice and your scent and he can think about how you touched him and how you let him touch you. He can think about how you tried to keep quiet in the midst of pleasure but miserably failed repeatedly. And he's definitely going to think about how good you felt around his fingers. Perfect. There are so many things he can think about when it comes to you and there's not a single bad one. Everything related to you is good.
You said you wanted to get to know him 'a lot', and that was exactly what he wanted to hear, but he can't help but wonder when you started to feel this way. Not that it matters that much, because, regardless of the timeline, he's going to make it happen. He's going to take you out and he's going to get to know you. He's almost worried that he's going about this in the wrong order, because, ideally, he would have wanted to take you out before any kissing and sexual activities took place. Not because he's old fashioned or some kind of prude, but because he doesn't want you getting the wrong impression. He doesn't want you thinking he's only into you because of the sexual chemistry you share. Of course, he thinks physical intimacy is important, but he's always found that emotional intimacy beats all. And he wants to see if he can get to that level with you. He knows you're compatible sexually, he could tell last night you were on the same wavelength. There was no awkwardness, no uncertainty.
He could tell you knew your body well, that you knew what you wanted and he liked that you weren't shy about it. And he'd be lying if he said that wasn't one of his favourite parts of the night; the moment you guided his hand where you wanted it. He found that so attractive that he actually thought about it when he got in his bed last night and finally managed to relieve the hardness in his boxers. He loved that you weren't shy about how much you wanted him to touch you. You were the perfect amount of vocal, and your body reacted to his words the way he hoped it would. So, yes, he is positive sexual chemistry isn’t something you two would struggle with, but he also doesn't want it to be the main thing that you connect on. He wants a lot more than that.
Haechan is self-aware. He's a horny guy and he's not shy about it. He likes what he likes and there's not much he doesn't like when it comes to sex. He's very much open to exploring and what not, but he knows that he's always struggled connecting with people on an emotional level before. Especially people he's dated. He's had flings and he's had casual sexual partners. He's been in a couple of serious relationships, and he's been infatuated with his ex-girlfriends or ex flings, but he knows he’s never been in love with any of them. He remembers thinking he loved his first girlfriend, but he was only 16 back then and when he thinks back to that relationship, he barely sees it as a relationship. All they ever did was go on walks, watch movies, cuddle and make out. Eventually it just fizzled out.
His second relationship was serious, but toxic. He remembers enjoying the push-and-pull situation initially but when it all became so unbearably exhausting, it put him off relationships for a long time. Now that he's had time to be alone and process his own feelings, he knows he's capable of commitment, but he wants it to be with the right person, and he wants it to be with someone who will accept him for who he is. Haechan knows that if he found the one now, he would commit. And he doesn't know if you're the one, but he wouldn't mind exploring if you would stick around for the long run.
And so, later in the day, when he's lazily sprawled on the sofa, next to a hungover Jeno, who apparently saw you this morning and reassured him that you're definitely interested, Haechan decides to finally text you like he promised. When he opens your chat, he sees you've already texted yourself to save his number and added a little sunflower emoji next to your name and he smiles to himself. He wonders if you've added an emoji next to his name too and if so, which one?
20:03 Hae☀️: hey pretty
20:03 Hae☀️: have any free periods tomorrow?
20:09 y/n🌻: hii :)
20:09 y/n🌻: i do
20:10 y/n🌻: I am free between 1pm-3pm
20:11 Hae☀️: wanna grab a coffee with me?
20:12 y/n🌻: i'd love to
20:13 Hae☀️: woop!
20:13 Hae☀️: where shall I meet you?
20:18 y/n🌻: how about the café by the architecture building?
20:21 Hae☀️: i know the one
20:21 Hae☀️: i'll be there there at 1pm sharp
20:22 Hae☀️: don't stand me up 👉🏻👈🏻
20:24 y/n🌻: i would never 🥺
20:25 Hae☀️: thought about you a lot today
20:26 y/n🌻: really?
20:26 y/n🌻: what did you think about?
20:28 Hae☀️: yes really
20:28 Hae☀️: just...things
20:29 Hae☀️: can't say much more than that
20:29 Hae☀️: did you not think about me? :(
20:31 y/n🌻: nah
20:31 y/n🌻: not really :(
20:32 Hae☀️: 🙄
20:32 Hae☀️: ur rude
20:32 Hae☀️: and a liar
20:34 y/n🌻: oops
20:34 y/n🌻: why ask a question you already know the answer to?
20:35 Hae☀️: smooth
20:35 Hae☀️: i guess i needed some reassurance
20:36 y/n🌻: Hae?
20:36 Hae☀️: yea?
20:37 y/n🌻: I thought about you
20:37 y/n🌻: a lot
20:37 y/n🌻: like and unhealthy amount
20:38 Hae☀️: fuck
20:38 Hae☀️: didn't think you'd actually say it
20:40 y/n🌻: happy?
20:40 y/n🌻: it appears I can't say no to you
20:41 Hae☀️: very :)
20:41 Hae☀️: it appears the feeling is mutual
The rest of Haechan's evening consists of him pretending he's paying attention to the Netflix show Jeno picked out for them to watch after dinner, when the only thing he's actually interested in are the messages he's exchanging with you. You told him you're also chilling on your couch with Ningning, watching a crime documentary with a bowl of instant ramen.
"Bruh, you're astronomically whipped." Jeno laughs to himself, the constant buzzing coming from Haechan's phone making it obvious that he's been messaging you.
"Yeah, so? Deal with it." Haechan doesn't even lift his head to look at Jeno, just keeps smiling distractedly at his screen.
Jeno snorts. "At least you're not denying it." He turns his attention back to the show he's practically been watching on his own for the past hour. "I respect that."
Haechan looks up at Jeno and shrugs. "I'm no fraud, Lee Jeno. You, of all people, should know that." And that earns him laugh with a nod of approval.
“You asked her out yet?” The question casual. No teasing tone detected, just curiosity.
"I'm seeing her tomorrow between classes." Haechan's attention back on your chat.
“Like a coffee date?” Jeno asks cutely and Haechan just responds with a nod, his thumbs hovering over his keyboard as he looks up at Jeno, waiting for some sort of comment.
“That's a good first date.” Jeno's words of approval offer Haechan a sense of relief he didn't know he needed. "Just good quality time, no pressure."
“Yeah, that's what I was thinking.” Haechan's eyes are on the tv now, but he isn't really paying attention to the programme.
Jeno sees right through him. "You nervous?"
Haechan thinks about his response. Is he nervous? “More excited than nervous, I'd say.” Haechan looks up at him when he's met with silence. "What?" He asks confused when he notices his friend's amused expression.
“Nothing, just trying to think when you turned into an absolute sap.” And he laughs loudly when Haechan hits him in the face with one of the cushions scattered on the sofa. “Relaaaaax you big baby, I'm just messing with you.” Jeno throws the cushion back at Haechan and he catches is with a grunt. “I actually think this is good. You haven't dated anyone half decent in a long time.”
Haechan snorts, because Jeno's words hold nothing but the truth. “True.” He states with a purse of his lips.
“If your first date is casual vibes, you should do something fancy for the second one.” Jeno says in a skeptical tone.
“Since when are you a dating expert?”
“Shut up, you've been dying to ask for advice and you know it.” He's right, but Haechan would never admit that. “It should also be on a Friday or Saturday so you don't have to worry about being hungover in class.” Jeno points a finger at Haechan. “Karaoke could be fun!”
“Where are you taking Ningning?” Jeno's eyes widen at the question and Haechan chuckles triumphantly. "You ever gonna tell me about that or nah?"
“Your new girlfriend can tell you all about it tomorrow.” Jeno crosses his arms over his chest after pulling the hood of his jumper over his head.
“Yeah, we're gonna spend the entirety of our first date talking about your sexcapades.” Haechan responds sarcastically.
“No sexcapades, she said she's not currently dating.” Jeno says quickly with a frown.
“And that's a problem for you, because..?” Haechan gestures with his hand for Jeno to explain. “Is your ego hurt or something?”
Jeno shrugs his shoulders like a toddler. “Just a bit disappointing, you know?”
“Shit.” Haechan says with a tone of fascination. “So, you're into her then.”
Jeno shrugs with a huff and Haechan almost feels bad.
“Did you sleep with her or nah?”
“Nah, just cuddled.” Jeno admits, voice laced with disappointment.
“Jeno,” Haechan pinches the bridge of his nose to show exasperation. “You're an idiot.”
“Wha- why?” Jeno's eyes widen at his friend's insult.
“Are you being daft on purpose? She would've fucked you and chucked you out if she wasn't interested.” Haechan is putting the facts out on the table as if it's going to help Jeno realise what is happening, but to no avail. “She's clearly aware of your reputation.”
Jeno perks up at that. "What about my reputation?" His eyebrows furrowing in annoyance.
Haechan kisses his teeth. "You're a certified slut."
“Yeah and? What am I meant to do?”
“Well, if you want her, you're gonna have to work for it.” Haechan says like it's self-explanatory.
"I don't chase." Jeno mumbles stubbornly.
"No Ningning then." And Jeno scoffs at Haechan's patronising tone. "Sounds like you're in need of advice more than I am."
_
You can't really wrap your head around the fact that you're currently walking to your favourite café in campus, only this time you're not meeting up with your two best friends, you’re meeting with Haechan instead. Fuck. You're meeting up with Haechan.
You don't even know if you're supposed to call this a date. He said he wanted to hang out with you and that he can't wait to see you, but people say all sorts of things, and you don't want to get ahead of yourself. You wonder if he's nervous like you are, or if he sees this as a casual coffee break in between his routine. But then again, if it's just that, why ask you and not one of his friends? You told yourself this morning that you wouldn't overthink, but you're now realising that you're miserably failing. Ningning would not be proud.
You check the time on your phone and that instant it buzzes in your hand. Your heart beats a little quicker.
12:55 Hae☀️: what do you want?
12:55 y/n🌻: in life or..?
12:56 Hae☀️: lmao
12:56 Hae☀️: to drink silly
12:56 Hae☀️: we can talk about what you want in life when you get here
12:57 y/n🌻: caramel iced latte pls and thank you :)
12:57 y/n🌻: im 2 mins away btw
12:57 Hae☀️: thought you didn't like sweet things
12:58 Hae☀️: no rush, just ordering now
12:58 y/n🌻: i like my coffee sweet
12:58 y/n🌻: among other things
12:59 Hae☀️: cheeky
12:59 y/n🌻: im here
13:00 y/n🌻: where you at?
13:00 Hae☀️: you look cute
13:00 Hae☀️: to your left
And there he is, sitting at a table by the window, already looking at you, head tilted, eyes pretty, smile saccharine sweet. His phone is still in his hand, thumb hovering over the screen and you notice there's a new ring adorning the digit. His other hand raises and his fingers wiggle, playfully waving at you. You already feel flustered and you think that it should be illegal for a man to be this handsome.
When you walk over, he stands up and casually lifts an arm for you to slot under. "Hey you." He says quietly and you smile. Your arms instinctively wrap around his middle, and your face buries in his shoulder, taking in his familiar scent. It immediately brings you comfort, your overthinking long forgotten. You feel his arms squeezing around your figure and he playfully rocks you from side to side. You giggle and pull back slightly to look at him.
“Hey you.” You repeat his words back at him and his smile is nothing short of mesmerising. His lovely doe eyes hold warmth and tiny stars that you feel could burn you if you stare into them for too long, so you decide to look at the table instead. You spot your iced latte, placed opposite what you assume is an iced americano. “Thanks for getting my coffee, you didn't have to.”
“I wanted to.” He states plainly and unwraps his arms from you, allowing you to sit down before taking his own seat opposite you. It almost feels strange sitting with him like this, seeing him in this light. Not in a lecture hall and not at a party surrounded by your friends. Just the two of you, on a Monday, sitting at your favourite café, in the middle of the day. It’s real. It’s mundane. “Are you hungry? We can get something to eat if you want.” He speaks so fast, one would think he’s trying to cover up nerves.
You smile at his attentiveness and shake your head. “I’m good for now, thanks.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t press and you can’t help but think he looks so boyfriend coded. His big forest green jumper makes him look extra cuddly and you want to bury your face in his neck again. “Heard you bumped into Jeno yesterday.” He says, filling the silence before taking a sip of his coffee.
“Yeah, I interrupted his walk of shame.” You chuckle at the memory. “He looked quite embarrassed, bless him.” You twirl your straw, staring at the condensation dripping down your cup. “Didn’t realise he was that nosy though.” You say with a grin and your eyes move to look at Haechan who’s mirroring you.
His lips curl into a smirk. “Why, did he ask about-” He pauses for a moment, trying to find the right words. “About Saturday night.” His eyebrow raises inquisitively.
Your chin rests on your hand. “Mm-hm, apparently Jaemin messaged your group chat.”
Haechan snorts and you assume he knows which message you’re referring to. “Yeah, if you found Jeno nosy, good luck tolerating Jaemin.”
“I’m just hoping we didn’t scar him for life.”
“I mean,” he shrugs, gently tapping his fingers on the table surface. “He didn’t actually see anything.” His tone suggestive, eyes watching you, trying to gauge a reaction. “Had he walked out a few minutes earlier-”
“Shut up.” You warn and cover your eyes with both hands in embarrassment, smiling against your palms at the sound of his pretty laugh.
“C’monnnn,” he reaches across the table and takes hold of your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face so he’s able to look at you properly, while holding your hands in his, in the most delicate way. You stubbornly look away, trying to hide the blush that has taken over your face. “Aww don't be embarrassed.” He coos and squeezes your wrists in his hands, his thumbs sneaking under your sweater paws, rubbing gently against your pulse points, causing goosebumps to raise on your arms. “Okay, I’m sorry, I won’t tease anymore today, I promise.” He says in a playful tone but you still don’t look at him and maintain the pout on your face. A quick kiss on the inside of your wrist earns him your attention and then another on the opposite one makes you break your resolve completely, your eyes now on his. “Yay, there she is.”
“You’re annoying.” You huff and he chuckles again.
“And you’re still blushing.”
You retract your hand from his hold and attempt to flick at his forehead, but he grasps it again before you’re able to. He interlocks his fingers with yours and gives you a toothy grin. His perfect teeth showing and his eyes wrinkling at the corners. “How do you expect me to not feel embarrassed when you act like-” You stop yourself from saying what's on your mind and he perks up at your hesitation, eyebrows raised.
“Like what?” He asks, his voice laced with intrigue.
“The way you do.” Your gaze moves to your connected hands, taking in the way his fingers look slotted between yours. Perfect. Like they belong there.
“You don’t like the way I act?” His bottom lip jutting out in a fake pout, gently stroking the back of your thumb with his own.
“No, I do but-” You observe how his palm opens against your own, fingers extending and yours instinctively mirror the action, elbows pressed on the table and your heart flutters at how big his hand looks compared to yours.
“But?” He’s also looking at your hands now and slots his fingers between yours again, his grip tight, his palm warm and you worry he can feel how clammy yours is.
“You’re just too forward.”
“Is that a bad thing?” His tone more serious now, his eyes observing you. “I told you; I never intended to be subtle with you.” His hold on your hand loosening. “But I can stop if you’re uncomfortable.”
“No.” Your hand tightening its hold, quietly indicating you don’t want him to let go and he sports a cheeky smile, like he expected you to react that way. “I’m just not used to this.”
His eyes are curious now. “Used to people being forward?” You nod at his question. He thinks about it for a moment. “You were pretty forward yourself the other night.”
“That’s different.” You say calmly.
“How come?”
“Nights like that don’t happen all the time.” You explain with a shrug, without giving away too much.
His expression softens, and his nods in understanding. “So, you knew you wanted me before the party then.” He says it like a statement but you know he’s asking as he watches you with expectant eyes. His hand leaves yours momentarily, dropping on the table, palm facing up, waiting for your own hand to drop back into his. And it does. You trace your fingertips from his wrist to the middle of his palm, drawing along the lines there. His own fingers raising slightly to tickle against your palm, tracing patterns and you feel giddy. He’s emitting this softness you’ve never encountered in a romantic partner before and you’re not sure if you can handle it. But you want to be able to.
“I did, yeah.” You admit with a smile, eyes finding his wide ones. “Why are you so surprised?”
“I just- I did too.” He bites the inside of his bottom lip in thought. “Just wasn’t sure how to approach you before.” Your own surprise evident. “Why are you so surprised?” He mimics your question with a playful tone.
“Since when?” You ask, wanting to know more.
He hums skeptically, and you feel his knee bumping into yours under the small table, “I mean, I’ve always been intrigued.” He moves again and you feel both his knees rubbing against yours now. “But I knew I was into you after we spoke at that party in June.” Both your knees are trapped between his now and you can’t help but feel flustered, your fingers limp in his palm while his index is still tracing the inside of your wrist. It slightly tickles but it’s welcome. “You?”
You could lie and say it was the same for you. That you realised you were interested when you finally spoke for the first time. But you don’t really want to, and you don’t see the point. “I think- I can’t really place it, but I was definitely interested before June.” You expect him to tease, but he just nods in understanding, gesturing you to continue. “And I could tell you were kind of flirting, when we briefly spoke last week, so, I thought Chenle's party was the perfect time to act on it.”
“So, you’ve had a crush on me?” He smirks and his knees squeeze yours between them, finally teasing you. "Cute.” He says under his breath, eyes move to your lips for a second and then up to your eyes again. “You should’ve said something sooner.” He raises his drink and his lips wrap around the straw and you can’t help but look, remembering what they felt like on yours, on your skin, what they looked like wrapped around his fingers when he wanted a taste of you.
“I didn’t think you would’ve reciprocated.” You say bashfully and he looks at you, like he finds your words absurd.
He puts his drink down again. “I'd be clinically insane.”
His words emit a small laugh from you. "Well, I'm glad you're somewhat sane."
"Do you wanna go for a walk?" The question unexpected and your eyebrows raise in surprise. "Sun's out again." He points his chin towards the window and you turn your head to look outside. The autumn leaves are still falling but he's right. The sun is out for the first time in a few days. "Promise I'll have you back by three." He says in a playful tone and you look back at him, pretending to consider his suggestion, even though, you know you won’t decline.
_
Haechan isn't really a big fan of autumn. He doesn't hate it, but he certainly likes summertime the most. He likes being able to walk down the beach with no layers on and no worry that it'll get cold late at night. He likes the way the sun feels on his skin and he definitely prefers the way he looks when he's sun kissed. He finds that everyone looks good in the sun.
He's always associated the idea of falling in love with a nice refreshing summer breeze; not necessary, because he's content in the heat, but definitely not unwanted.
The thought of summer always makes him miss home and look forward to the next time he's able to visit. If he's completely honest, Haechan always misses home a little bit, it's always occupying the back of his mind. The city; as fun as it is living here, has always felt too different. Too chaotic. Now that you're walking next to him though, he's not missing anything and he thinks it's the first time since he moved here, that he feels absolutely and utterly content. At peace even. Even in the chilly autumn air as you two walk through the park near your campus, surrounded by brown leaf covered trees.
"What's your favourite time of the year?" He can't help but ask the question when it pops into his head.
"Hmm I think this one." You lift a finger, gesturing to your surroundings and you pause for a moment skeptically. "I think it’s mostly because I prefer autumn fashion." He chuckles at your reasoning. "Hey, don't laugh," You protest. "I'd like summer more if I could lounge by a pool in a bikini whenever I wanted." You inhale deeply, your eyes briefly closing and he can tell you're enjoying the autumn air. "Autumn is just easier, plus, I love the smell of rain." You turn to look at him before looking ahead of you again. "What's yours? You give off major summer vibes."
He exhales a laugh through his nose. "Really? What gave it away?" He looks at your side profile as he waits for a response. He thinks you look so pretty in this gloomy setting and wonders if you’d look even prettier during his favourite season.
"Dunno." You seem to be in deep thought, your lips pursing and your eyes narrowing as you inspect his face carefully. "Maybe your tan?" And he mimics your expression, scrunching his nose too and you gently elbow him. "Did I get it right?" You ask hopefully.
"You sure did." He confirms, nodding proudly and a cheeky smile makes its way to your lips.
"Why summer then?" You ask with a curious lilt in your tone.
"I guess I associate summer with my childhood." He explains with a fond smile. "It reminds me of being-"
"Carefree?" You finish his sentence and he smiles, nodding slowly in agreement. "That makes sense." You validate his thought process in the sweetest voice and he can't help but feel a certain way that leads him to slip his hand into yours. He senses your hesitation and worries he's overstepped a boundary but instantly relaxes when he feels your fingers take their place between his. You're not looking at him, but he can sense you trying to conceal your flustered state by nonchalantly keeping your eyes on the pavement.
He suddenly remembers you've got a class to attend at 3pm and slips his phone out of his back pocket to check the time. "It's half two, we should probably start heading back." He reminds you, not wanting to be the reason you mess up your schedule for the day.
"Oh shit." Your eyes slightly widen at the realisation. "That was quick." You admit absentmindedly and he laughs softly.
"Hmmmm what can I say, time flies when you're with me." He says with a suggestive pointed grin.
"Didn't realise you were this deluded." You scoff, eyes rolling playfully.
"Hey now." He warns with a nudge against your shoulder and can't hide the amused grin on his face when you giggle. "You had fun, admit it."
"Mmmmaybe." You say with a cheeky smile, and he feels his pulse increasing. His chest constricts inevitably at how cute and soft you look. Your chin brushing your shoulder as you turn your head to look at him, batting your lashes seductively. He wonders if you know the effect you have on him.
“You act all brave now, but -” He stops walking, making you halt, and you turn to look at him. “I bet I could easily make you skip class, if I really wanted to.” He says suggestively, a cocky eyebrow raising when he takes in your surprised expression. He pulls you closer, pulling lightly at your hand that's still in his and you stumble, putting a hand on his chest to regain your balance. You look up at him, and he thinks 'there it is', there's that not-so-innocent look from Saturday night. You don't shy away or get flustered this time, you stand your ground, and he suddenly wants to ruin you. But he knows this is not the time and place and he curses internally for choosing to go on a stupid coffee date. He's definitely taking you out somewhere more intimate and romantic next time, like Jeno suggested.
"And how exactly would you do that?" You ask, testing his resolve, which, apparently, runs very thin when it comes to you.
He leans down so his lips are by your ear, the hand that's not holding yours, taking purchase on your waist. "I'd show you but you'd probably get all shy on me." He murmurs and relishes in the way your hand tightens its hold on the fabric of his jumper. He feels your breathing quicken and can't help but laugh at your reaction.
He moves to pull away and the second his eyes land on yours, your hand grabs the back of his neck and your lips crash on his. His breath hitches and his eyes widen at the impact, before he relaxes against you and kisses you back. He relishes in the feel of your soft lips sliding against his, and the warmth your body radiates when he pulls you closer with his arm around your waist and when he feels you sigh, body pliantly slotting into his, he wonders if someone if playing a prank on him, because there’s no way you’re this perfect for him. You wrap both your arms around his neck securely and he moves a hand to your hip, gently squeezing, his fingers dangerously close to your ass. You whimper when his tongue makes contact with your bottom lip and he feels you tilt your head to the side silently asking him to deepen the kiss, but he decides that the next time he has a full on make out session with you is going to be somewhere private. He bites your bottom lip lightly and gives you a quick peck before breaking the kiss completely and you whine at the sudden loss of contact, making him laugh. The hand on your hip sneakily slides itself into your back pocket, giving your bum a playful squeeze, before letting it rest there lazily, simply because he can't help himself. "You're trouble, Y/N." He mumbles against your lips.
Your eyes open at that, finding his and your hand caresses the back of his neck while you suck your bottom lip into your mouth and his jeans start to feel constricting at the thought of you doing that so you can taste him again, now that he's no longer kissing you. "I'm trouble?" You ask in disbelief.
"You kissed me." He states in an accusatory tone as if he wouldn't have done it himself anyway.
"I know." You whisper, your eyes dropping to his lips again. "I wanted to." You mumble and your tone makes his brain overflow with thoughts that revolve around you and his bed, because it doesn't matter that it's Monday afternoon and you're walking around the park. In Haechan’s head, nothing matters in this moment other than the fact that he desperately wants you in ways he hasn’t wanted anyone before and that scares him. Not because he doesn’t want to. But simply because he does. Haechan wants to want you.
_
"And with five minutes to spare." Haechan says with a proud smile when you reach the entrance of the building your class is in, still hand in hand and you can't help but smile back.
“You know you're definitely gonna be late, right?” You say in a scolding tone and he scoffs rolling his eyes.
“And whose fault is that?” He says playfully, pulling you closer.
“You should've said you were meeting Jaemin at three, how am I supposed to- mmmf.” He interrupts you with a kiss against your lips, cupping your face in his hands. He pulls away quicker than you'd prefer but you still can't help the surprised laugh that escapes you.
"I know I’ll see you on Thursday, but can I take you out Friday night?" He asks, eyes wide and hopeful and you smile.
"You can." You say with a dreamy tone, taking in his pretty brown eyes and the way his smile widens when you accept to go on a second date with him.
"Good." He kisses you chastely again and rubs his nose against yours before dropping a wet smooch on your cheek, laughing at your reaction.
"Yah!" You complain cringing at the wet sensation against your skin. "Ewww, you slobbered on meeee." You whine, wiping the wetness off your face with the back of your hand, your nose scrunching in fake disgust but your heart flutters at the sound of his laugh. "Fucking weirdo." You huff, torn between laughter and exasperation.
"Be a good girl and get to class." He turns you around, putting his hands on your shoulders and guiding you towards the entrance of the building, arms hugging you from behind and the butterflies in your stomach go ballistic. "Also, sit with me on Thursday." He whispers in your ear and you shiver at the feeling of his warm breath on your neck. You turn your head sideways to look at his face and you can't stop your lips from curling into a grin.
"Be a good boy and don't tell me what to do." You whisper against his jaw, where you press a quick kiss that surprises him, his arms loosening around your shoulders in shock and you take the opportunity to turn around and loosely wrap your arms around his waist. You raise on your tippy toes so you can bring your lips to his ear. “I’ll see you soon, Lee Haechan.” You say with a low tone and to anyone else it might seem like you're just hugging, but you can feel his chest moving shallowly against your own when you give him another gentle kiss, on the cheek this time.
"What the f-" You walk away with a sweet smile, before he can react or finish his sentence and you couldn't be more satisfied with yourself. You know he's still standing there, looking at you while you walk away from him and you smile to yourself.
When you take your usual seat next to Chenle, in the back of the big lecture hall, he looks at you with a smirk, arms crossed over his chest. "So? How was it?" He asks and a giggle escapes him when you sigh with a dreamy smile on your face. "That good?"
“You have no idea.” You feel you phone buzz in your pocket and you already have an idea what to expect.
15:01 Hae☀️: that was fucked up...
15:01 Hae☀️️: you're in for a treat next time i see you
_
Thursday rolls around slower than normal this week and you know why it feels that way. You can’t wait to see him.
It’s the first time you’re running late to class though, and you’re cursing yourself for deciding to take a nap earlier. The bus that would have gotten you there on time is long gone, so your only option was to walk and be ten minutes late. You know it’s not the end of the world, students run late all the time, and it’s not like you’re anal about punctuality. It’s just that you hate being the centre of attention.
And when you walk in the lecture hall, everything pans out exactly how you had predicted; some people turn their heads to look when you enter the hall as quietly as possible and some couldn’t care less. When you skip past your usual row of seats though, taking a seat two rows ahead instead, next to the handsome boy who’s been lately occupying your thoughts nonstop, more people’s eyes drift to your direction and you’re thankful to your professor, who continues speaking, without batting an eyelid at your tardiness.
“You okay? I texted you.” Haechan leans into whisper in your ear, voice as quiet as possible. An arm extends behind you, resting on the back of your seat casually and you feel the warmth radiating on your shoulder blades, through the material of your top.
You look at him for a moment before starting to take out your notes and iPad. “I know, I took a nap and overslept.” You whisper back maintaining the decibels of your voice as low as possible and you can tell he’s holding back a laugh.
You look past him and you see Jaemin and Jeno both looking at you and waving. You mouth ‘hi’ to both of them offering a smile and your eyes land on Haechan again who’s smiling at you like he’s up to something. He relaxes in his seat, comfortably sinking into it while spreading his legs, his knee now touching yours and you know what he’s trying to do.
You also lean back and relax in your seat, pretending to finally pay attention to whatever example is being demonstrated on the board. Your knee playfully nudges his.
“Stop manspreading.” Your eyes still on the board but your attention on him.
“I’d say sorry, but it was intentional.” He states and you hold in your exasperation as well as your laugh. Your amused expression falters when he reaches to take your hand in his and rests them on his thigh. He’s too casual for your liking and too soft for your poor heart.
When he said that you’re in for a treat he really did mean it.
He walks you home that day.
-
“What the actual fuck?” Your voice is high-pitched; eyes so wide, they resemble a cartoon’s.
“What?” He laughs at your comical expression and places the mic down on the table in the centre of the noraebang room.
“You made me go first so you could embarrass me!” You loudly accuse with your finger pointing at him.
“You weren’t bad!” He can’t help the laughter that won’t stop. You’re frowning still and you look so adorable and believably annoyed. He knows it’s all pretend though.
“You were so good though.” Your frown slowly turns into a pout. “And it was all in Japanese.” Your wide eyes looking up at him from when you’re still sat cross legged on the leather sofa seat. He feels weak. You make him feel weak.
“I took singing lessons when I was younger.” He explains with a smile. “And that’s my favourite song so I’ve had practice.” He approaches slowly and takes a seat next to you, huffing and spreading his legs slightly to get comfortable while his head rests on the back of the sofa. He’s the one looking up at you now. You look so pretty in the purple and blue hues that light up the room. He definitely made the right choice bringing you here after dinner. He wanted to keep your second date PG but the way you’re looking at him right now makes him contemplate.
“Ah right. He’s an artist.” A teasing smile takes over your face as you hold his gaze. He groans and you giggle when his hands come up to cover his face in embarrassment. He feels you shift next to him and when he looks at you through the gaps of his fingers you’ve turned your body towards him, still crossing your legs. “You have a pretty voice, Lee Haechan.”
He knows he’s blushing, but he snorts, trying to feign nonchalance. “Thanks.” his hands drop and rest on his thighs.
“Did you bring me here to show off then?” Your tone still ever so teasing.
“No, but I was hoping to impress you maybe.” He admits without realising. Your effect on him frustrates him.
“By serenading me in a language I can’t understand?” Your smile is so sweet, tooth ache inducing. So sweet it’s contagious. You move a little closer and he can smell your sweet perfume. His eyes drop to your exposed neck and then to the collarbones he’s dying to press soft kisses on. “Consider me impressed.” You say and his eyes come back up to your face. You seem to be fighting your smile now and he’s obsessed with the fact that you don’t want to give away how affected you also are by him.
“What’s your favourite song?” He asks in a low voice, sitting up a bit and extending an arm along the back of the sofa. Your eyes instantly drop there, and your hand comes up to trace a vein absentmindedly. He manages to contain the shiver that creeps up on him, but he can’t control the goosebumps raising on his skin.
“Japanese Denim by Daniel Caesar.” You respond, copying his low tone. Your eyes not leaving your fingers gingerly trailing up and down his skin. “You know it?” you look at him in question.
Haechan is thankful he does. “Myyy blueee jeaaansss.” He sings the start of the chorus playfully and you giggle, pushing his shoulder lightly.
“Okay r&b king.” You joke with a laugh. He pokes your side and you flinch with a half whine half giggle. He can’t help but smile at the sound.
“I just think his lyrics are like poetry, you know?” You shrug, explaining why you see the appeal. Your hand is now resting in his arm, no longer tracing and he enjoys the weight of it. The warmth. He wants to reach out and touch you too, but he doesn’t move. The moment feels too precious to ruin.
“They really are.” He agrees with a small nod. He likes to think that maybe he’ll be able to write lyrics like those one day, but he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t want to talk about himself now. He’s too busy admiring you. “You’re so pretty.” He says softly and he doesn’t even register the words leaving his mouth until he gets the cutest reaction from you. You look away, smiling big and your hands come up to press against your cheeks, attempting to cover what he assumes is a blush. A soft chuckle escapes him and he reaches up with both hands to remove yours from your face. “Blush away, no need to hide.” He teases you. He finds that he’s good at it. He wonders if it’s because you generally get flustered so easily or if it’s just the effect he has on you. He hopes it’s the latter.
When your hands aren’t in the way, he taps a finger under your chin gently encouraging you to turn your head so he can look at you again. He then instinctively moves closer, craving to feel your warmth better and when your eyes find his again, his chest constricts. He sometimes doesn’t understand how it’s possible that he’s come to feel so attached to you in such a short amount of time, how he so easily gravitates towards you. But then you look at him and he understands. You speak and he understands. You laugh and he understands. You touch him and he understands. It almost feels foreign but never unwelcome. Never forced. And that scares him.
Haechan trails his fingers from your chin down to your collarbone, tracing softly and he slowly moves the fallen strands of hair behind your shoulder. He feels your gasp when he leans forward to leave a kiss on the curve of it. Then a little lower. And a little lower until his nose nuzzles against the dip of your collarbone. Another kiss. And another. This time his tongue makes contact first, tasting the skin, before his lips pucker on the sensitive surface again. Your breathing has turned shallow and he smiles at the sight of your chest moving up and down. Your fingers thread into his hair, slightly pulling and he sighs against your wet skin. You catch him off guard when your other hand pushes him by the shoulder and he’s about to apologise for crossing a line but then you quickly straddle him and his mind goes blank. This is definitely not PG.
“Someone could see us, you know.” You whisper against his lips and he almost moans. The hand in his hair pulls again and his head drops against the back of the seat pliantly, eyes closing at the feeling of your lips on his jawline. You scatter small kisses until you reach his ear and lightly bite on his lobe, his breathing quickens and the moan he’s been holding in eventually escapes at your next words. “Bet that turns you on though.” His hands instantly come up to hold onto something, anything. One grabs onto your waist, the other lands on your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt. “Talk to me.” You whisper sweetly in his ear before starting to trail kisses down the column of neck. The further down you travel, the wetter they get and he feels himself getting hard, his hips slightly raising to get some friction, but you don’t budge. “Behave.” You laugh against his neck in a hot puff of air and his voice comes out in a soft whine.
“Baby,” he breathes out weakly and you coo softly against his neck while gingerly sucking on the delicate flesh. He feels you place a hand on his chest, above where his heart is beating uncontrollably and he knows you can feel it too, your thumb stroking soothingly to comfort him. “Wanna kiss you.” He pleads pathetically and he feels like he might come in his pants when you suddenly grind your hips down. His breath catches in his throat and he trails a hand up your back, between your shoulder blades, to wrap around the base of your neck, pressing you down as he thrusts up into you. He smiles stupidly when you bring up your face, unburying from his neck, to look at him with wide eyes. He thinks you might scold him but instead you just wrap a hand around his neck, pressing your fingers against his pulse points in a possessive manner and he groans. His eyes shut at the dizzying sensation and when he feels your lips press on his, he relishes. His head tilts automatically to deepen the kiss and he sighs into your mouth when your tongue finds its way in. It’s intoxicating and he swears he feels high. Your hand around his neck definitely playing a part but it’s mostly your taste and the way you kiss him exactly how he likes to be kissed. Wet and filthy but still slow, sucking on his tongue to tease him. He feels his heartbeat going wild without permission when you grind down again, just the right way, the perfect amount of pressure to drive him insane.
His hands trail down to messily bunch up the fabric of your corduroy skirt so he can squeeze the flesh of your ass in his palms, fingers digging into the skin. He’s not gentle with you this time but your moans against his lips encourage him not to hold back.
You’re now grinding down with determined force and he moans into your mouth when his fully hard dick slots between your pussy lips, the only thing separating you, his layers and your underwear. He matches your pace, hips coming up when yours drop down and he realises that you’re no longer teasing him. “Think you can cum like this?” You ask against his lips, the scratch in your voice driving him insane, breathing ragged, hips quickening their eager ministrations. He nods, staring into your eyes. “You want to?” You ask again, keeping your eyes on his as your arms wrap around his shoulders to gain more support and he responds with another nod and a shaky breath. His head dips forward, eyes dropping down to where you’re connected and his hand pushes your skirt up even further, to get a better look. He groans at the sight. Your panties almost trapped between your folds, your pussy leaving a trail of wetness on the front of his jeans whenever you drag your body back and he feels himself twitch in his pants. It’s sinful. It’s perfect. You're perfect.
“Fuck, hang on.” He whispers suddenly, arm wrapping around your middle to halt your movements and he quickly unbuttons his jeans with one hand. His hips raise a little bit as he clumsily pushes the fabric down, leaving his boxers still on. “Okay.” He exhales and his hands find your hips again, guiding you to resume your work. The friction so much better now that he can properly feel your wetness seeping through the cotton and he loves that he can see the way his fat cock drags between your lace clad pussy lips.
Your whining doesn’t go unnoticed, and he looks up at your face only to find you also looking down dazedly. He relishes in the idea that you can get as dirty as he can and he takes in the sight of you now; lips parted, gasping audibly, your nipples hard and visible through your thin blouse and he’s suspecting that you’ve foregone wearing a bra.
His hands drag upwards, leaving your hips, trusting you to keep grinding down with no guidance and when he squeezes the flesh of your breasts through the fabric, his suspicions are confirmed. You moan when his thumbs rub on your already sensitive nipples, leaning into his touch and he repeats the action, enjoying the desperate little sounds you let out.
“I’m close.” He announces in a gasp, his balls feel heavy and he knows he’s leaking precum, adding to the wet patch you’ve created on the front of his boxers.
“Yeah?” Your eyes search his, hands cupping his face and kissing him again, soft this time. “You gonna cum for me, pretty boy?” He feels his eyes roll back at your words and all he can do is nod again. He anchors himself by squeezing your ass in his hands again and he loves the whimpers you let out when his hands get a little rougher, making the flesh ripple. He decides to take matters into his own hands when he feels your thighs shaking around his hips, suspecting the soreness in your muscles and his hold on you gives you no option but to quicken the pace
“Fuck, you feel so fuckin good, baby, please don’t stop.” He exasperatedly begs, his breath shaky and he feels like he’s losing it. Pathetic.
“Yes, god, m’cumming.” His voice comes out ruined, words muffled against your lips, vision blurring and his jaw drops when he reaches his peak, soaking his boxers like a teenage boy. Your hands slide into his hair when he starts shaking and he basks in the comforting touch. His head drops back on the seat again and he feels dizzy, your hips are still moving, dragging out his high and when it gets too much, he gently taps his fingers on your ass cheek, smiling dumbly. “Mmh, just give me a second.” He sighs as you take a seat, directly on his cock, softly cooing at him and kissing his cheek as you push his fringe back, revealing his damp forehead and he purrs at the gentleness.
“Good?” You ask sweetly and he almost scoffs, because there’s no way you don’t know you’ve just ruined him when he’s pathetically drenched his underwear like a horny teenage boy.
“Intense.” He hums and he feels himself shiver when you let out a breathy laugh against his skin, nuzzling into his temple. He slowly turns his head and catches your lips in a slow kiss. “Wanna make you feel good too.” He murmurs against in the kiss and when he notices the conflicted expression on your face, he doubles down. “I’ll be quick.”
“Confident?” You tease with a smile that he can’t help but return. Your teeth sink on your bottom lip when he cups your pussy and he moans at the feeling of soaked lace.
“Not like I haven’t done it before.” He teases back and he laughs when you swat at his chest. “Please?” He tries again, tone needy this time and he uses his puppy eyes, smiling when he breaks through your resolve. The second you nod, he wraps an arm around you securely and his other hand grabs at the fleshy bit where your ass meets your thigh. “Lie down for me.” He whispers and helps maneuver you onto your back swiftly.
He can’t help but smirk when your legs instinctively part for him to slot in between, and he does exactly that, coming to position himself above you, supporting his weight on one arm by the side of your head. His lips find yours again, in a hungry kiss and this time it’s his tongue that dominates yours, sliding into your mouth, tasting you just like you did to him earlier. He loves the sigh you let out through your nose when his hand slips into your underwear slowly, sliding his middle finger between your folds but what he loves the most is how wet you are.
“Can I use my mouth?” He questions mid kiss and you must like the sound of that, because he feels you grind against his palm.
“You can do anything you want, just no sex.” You say shyly. “Not here.”
“Told you, baby,” He gives your lips another peck before kissing down your neck, giving your tit a tentative squeeze as he moves downwards. “Wanna do that in my bed first.” Your moan at the promise brings a smile to his face as his hands slip into the top of your panties and drag them down your legs hastily, feeling the goosebumps on your skin. He stuffs the flimsy material into his back pocket, earning a questioning look from you and he grins. “Don’t worry, you’ll get them back.” He starts kissing from the inside of your knee to your inner thigh, wet and full of tongue.
“Stop teasing.” You whine, raising your hips impatiently when he reaches closer to where you want him. And he chuckles against your folds, watching as your legs spread even more for him.
His head rests on your inner thigh, comfortably and he looks up at your face, gauging your reaction. “What do you say?”
“Please.” You whisper and he feels his dick harden again at your submissive tone.
“Good girl.” He mutters and his hands slide up your inner thighs, thumbs pulling your pussy lips apart, revealing your cute swollen nub, all pretty and pink and he can see you’re clenching around nothing. Clear pearls of slick drip from the tiny hole that he can’t wait to lap up.
You’re more than wet enough but Haechan doesn’t think twice before letting a fat glob of spit slowly drip from his mouth and he feels his dick twitch at the sight. You moan when you feel the extra wetness land on your cunt and he does it again, watching his spit drip down to your asshole, making a mess of you. Nothing but sensual. “Yeah? You like it messy?” He breathes out in admiration and he doesn’t even need an answer, he knows you do.
His hand comes up again, fingers spreading the mixed wetness through your folds. His middle and ring fingers create a v shape around your clit, isolating the nub between them and the tip of his tongue comes out to make contact, flicking gently up and down. You both moan in unison, your hands burying in his hair to keep him where you need him and he loves how ruined you already sound, how your legs part completely, how addictive you taste on his tongue. And he loves that he can’t get enough of you.
“Mmh, fuck.” You moan when his arm wraps around your thigh, bringing his hand to separate your folds from the top, palm pressing against your pubic bone, fingers delicately pulling the hood of your clit up, revealing more of the little nub. His flat tongue licks from your hole to your clit and he repeats the action when he feels your fingers pull at his hair harder. The pink muscle then settles back to delivering quick flicks on your nub, the direct contact making you squeal and he smiles at the adorable sound. “Yes, like that.” You encourage him, the praise making his chest swell with pride. His other hand joins and his middle finger teases your leaking entrance, circling before slowly sliding in until it’s fully buried inside, your soaked walls making the glide so easy, that he’s certain one digit won’t be enough.
When his jaw gets tired, he switches to sucking harshly on your clit, making you groan and he slowly starts to move his finger in and out, curling up slightly, following the curve of your pussy. He knows you want more, your hole dripping even more slick around his finger, so he slows down as he adds a second one. You sigh when you feel the extra stretch and he knows he’s got you where he wants you when you start clenching.
“Fuck, baby, you’re creaming.” He points out in disbelief when he sees the white substance coating his digits every time they pull out of you and you whine in embarrassment. “I swear to god, I’m gonna fuck you stupid one day.” He promises against your cunt and goes back to sucking, more determined this time. His fingers start pumping quicker into you, the squelching sounds nothing but melodic in his ears and your tight walls nothing but heaven around his fingers. Your whines get louder when his speed increases and he knows he’s hitting your sweet spot every time he thrusts in, the pads of his fingers dragging against your walls. “Right there, hm?” His pace quickens even more and he looks up when he feels your eyes on him. You’re on your elbows now, jaw agape, eyes on his lips, watching him ruin you and his tongue comes out to flick quickly from side to side, his head moving with it, making a spectacle without breaking eye contact.
“I’m gonna cum.” You warn in a whisper, burying a hand in his hair again and your elbows give out, allowing your body to drop back down. He hums against your cunt, letting you know he’s got you and he feels your legs trembling around his head. “Fuck, yes yes yes.” Your voice sounds broken, your walls are kneading his fingers and he has to put extra effort into sliding in and out due to the restricting tightness.
He doesn’t stop though, even when he knows you’re coming down from your high, he keeps pushing your boundaries. He wants more. “Haechan!” You squeal when he suckles on your clit again and he laughs darkly at the cute sound. Your hand tries to push him away, legs attempting to close around his head but he’s not quite done yet, his hold around your thigh tight enough to keep you open for him.
He pulls his fingers out slowly and you whine. “Sorry, pretty.” He whispers mockingly against your clit before dipping down to lick at your pulsing entrance, smiling at the mewl you let out. He licks from bottom to top again, gently flicking at your clit when he comes up and he knows it’s too much when your body convulses and you sound like you’re crying. You’re not pushing him away though, which gives him hope. He opts to circling instead of flicking, tongue relaxed now; languid and he feels your legs spread again. “Yeah? Want more gentle?” He coos as his eyes look up and he can see your perky tits moving up and down with your breathing. He trails a hand up your body, squeezing greedily around the flesh and he moans at the feeling of your stiff nipple against his palm.
“I’m too sensitive.” You sigh and bring a hand above his, squeezing around your own tit with him as you raise on your elbows again.
“You can give me one more, though, right?” His eyes staring into yours, hopeful.
“I think so.” You nod tiredly, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the overstimulation, breathing coming out harsh. “I’m still turned on.” You admit shyly, biting down on your bottom lip as you push his fringe away from his damp forehead.
“Such a good girl.” He says dreamily and his tongue gently circles your clit again, wet hand pressing against the back of your thigh to keep you spread out for him.
Only after you come again on his tongue, does he stop, moving to kiss on your inner thigh, sucking on the supple skin there, leaving a wet patch behind along with a subtle mark. He leans over you again, taking in the sight under him. Your breathing slowing down as you look up at him, your hair fanned around you and your eyes blinking slowly. You look beautifully and utterly fucked out and so angelic. His heart swells when you reach up, pulling him close to you and he gives in right away, dropping down, resting his weight on you carefully. He kisses you slowly, pushing his tongue past your parted lips, moaning with you, knowing you can taste yourself.
“You’re hard again.” You whisper against his lips and he laughs, because of course he is.
“You are not making me cum in my pants again.” He scolds and kisses softly on your cheek as you snort a laugh, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, holding him close.
“Okay, I won’t.” You say with a smile, leaning in to kiss him again. He lets you.
—
“Do you guys have any, like, weird fetishes?” Jaemin asks randomly, interrupting your conversation with Ningning and almost causing you to choke on a fry.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Haechan pipes up next to you, genuine concern laced in his tone, his hand stroking your back whilst you cough.
“Yeah, changing the subject from ‘I’m broke’, to that, is slightly worrying to say the least.” Ningning agrees but that doesn’t stop her from laughing. “Look, even Jeno is speechless.” She points at Jeno’s shocked expression and he snaps out of it, taking a sip from his coffee.
“I was just curious.” Jaemin shrugs as he explains. “I’ve been texting this girl and the other night it turned into sexting and she asked me if I’d be down to piss on her?”
“Oh wow,” Ningning is suddenly interested. “What did you say?” She asks and he eyes widen as she awaits his response. All eyes around the table are on Jaemin now and he’s clearly thrown off, struggling to find the right words.
“Wellllll-“
“Oh my god!” Renjun exclaims and covers his mouth with both hands. “Please tell me you didn’t actually do it.”
“No, of course not.” Jaemin defends himself quickly. “I haven’t even slept with her.” He steals a fry from your plate. “Yet.” He concludes with a smug smile.
“Okay, but, let’s say you do sleep with her and she asks you to piss on her.” Haechan interferes. “Would you?” He asks with an amused expression and Jaemin seems to be in deep thought.
“I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to it but I’m pretty sure I’d get stage fright.” Says casually and stuffs a few more fries in his mouth. “Also, I don’t think I can pee when I’m hard.”
”Yeah, I was thinking that.” Jeno says with narrowed eyes. “It’s also a bit weird if you don’t know them that well or if it’s just a one-time thing, no?” He looks around, asking everyone.
“Yeah, true.” Renjun agrees. “Not that I’ve done it before, but, surely you do those kinds of things with someone you’re in a relationship with or at least someone you’ve been seeing and agreed to experiment with.” He looks at Jaemin. “But then again, you’re a different kind of breed.” Everyone laughs at that.
“That I am my friend.” Jaemin laughs darkly and leans over to kiss Renjun on the cheek. The latter pushes him away by shoving a hand against his face with a disgusted expression and you snort at the scene.
“The question is, where did you even meet this girl?” You ask with a wiggle of your eyebrows, not because you care, but because you find it amusing when Jaemin gets flustered.
His eyes meet yours now and he seems taken aback before he puts on his cheeky grin again. “Oh, I have a better question, miss thing.” His voice laced with nothing but mischief and you’re now scared. “Would you let Haechan piss on you if he asked?” There it is.
“And I ask again.” Haechan saves you momentarily. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice is calm but there’s definitely an edge to it, a warning even. He doesn’t move from his position next to you. An arm lazily resting on the back of your chair, the warmth certainly comforting on your shoulders. You instinctively lean into him, resting a hand on his thigh and his knuckles rub against your arm soothingly. Your eyes meet Ningning’s who’s watching the whole interaction smiling and you try to contain your own smile.
“What? It’s a good question, no?” Jaemin says with a shrug and you roll your eyes.
“Jaemin, I don’t know about you, but I don’t really talk about golden showers at least until after the fifth date.” You say sarcastically and Jeno snorts trying to hold in a laugh. “And that’s besides the point. You asked if we have any fetishes so I think we should all share one.”
Jaemin smirks and points a finger at you playfully. “I knew you could match my freak.” He says, giggling like a schoolgirl and Haechan’s arm around your shoulders tightens, the act unnoticeable to everyone else but not to you. Your fingers resting on his thigh, tense slightly trying to get his attention as you turn to look at his face and you can’t help but notice the frown on his face while he’s looking at Jaemin. He’s jealous and it’s obvious and you can’t help the warm fuzzy feeling spreading in your belly. When he looks down at you, his expression softens and you feel his arm relax around you. You give him a smile, which he instantly returns. You’re definitely bringing this up later.
“Take your freak elsewhere please.” Renjun says with sass, earning a few laughs around the table.
“Ugh fine, I’ll start.” Ningning says and all eyes snap towards her. “I’m not opposed to some toe sucking. There you go. Thank you. Let’s move on.” Your laugh is loud and you wish Chenle didn’t have basketball training so he could witness this shit show.
”Alright, I like sucking on toes.” Jeno confesses and you bury your face in your hand leaning into Haechan’s shoulder to conceal your laugh. You feel him chuckle in your hair as he wraps his arm around you properly and you love the heat radiating off him so much that you wish you could stay there for the rest of the day.
“Next!” Ningning says exasperatedly, sending Jeno daggers across the table. It wasn’t even his turn but you respect his efforts. Not a lot of men have managed to get Ningning this flustered before and it actually makes you wonder if any toe sucking took place that night they supposedly only cuddled. You make a mental note that this might also be worth bringing up earlier.
It’s Renjun’s turn and he seems to be in deep thought. “I honestly can’t think of anything, I think I’m pretty vanilla.”
“Surely there’s something, it doesn’t have to be hardcore.” Haechan butts in.
“I guess choking?” Renjun’s ears have turned red now and you almost feel bad, because out of everyone around this table, he’s the one that deserves to be embarrassed the least.
“Ooooh erotic asphyxiation!” Jaemin says feigning a seductive tone. “Okay, so, I may or may not like butt stuff.”
Everyone’s eyes widen at the confession.
“As in your butt or the other person’s?” Jeno asks curiously. Jaemin only responds by wiggling his eyebrows and Jeno gasps dramatically.
“As in you’ve had a finger up y-“
“Moving on!” Jaemin exclaims loudly, interruptinh Ningning. "Your turn, lover boy." He gestures at Haechan to continue as Jeno’s mouth is still open in shock.
“Hmm.’ Haechan ponders, his fingers tapping on your shoulder absentmindedly as he thinks. For some reason, even though it’s not your turn to answer, you feel exposed, as though all your friends are watching you both, trying to gauge your reaction at his response. You try to maintain as neutral an expression as possible and you hope he says something you might have already guessed by the times you’ve been intimidate with him. “Maybe the risk of getting caught.” He finally admits and you’re definitely not shocked.
“Speak for yourself, sicko.” Renjun defends. “Some of us like total privacy.”
“Aww you really are vanilla.” Ningning pouts cutely and Renjun scoffs.
“Y/N?” Renjun says to divert the attention from him and you fear your ears might be as red as his now. Everyone is watching you, including Haechan and you’re starting to regret suggesting this in the first place.
“Just say it, no one is going to judge.” Jeno encourages and you want to bury your face in Haechan’s shoulder again.
“Maybe Haechan should try and guess.” Renjun suggests and now you feel like you've underestimated him.
“Oh yes!” Jaemin quickly agrees excitedly, clapping his hands. “Okay, how about he whispers it to you and if he gets it right, he then has to say it out loud.”
“What if he gets it wrong?” You ask and Haechan scoffs next to you.
“He seems pretty confident.” Ningning says, pointing at Haechan’s face and when you look up at him, he’s got a cocky smile plastered on his stupidly pretty face.
“Alright, Haechanie, make us proud.” Jaemin says while holding a hand to his chest and Haechan rolls his eyes at his friend.
“Okay,” He leans closer, cupping his hand around your ear to conceal his mouth from the group. “Spitting.” He whispers so that only you can hear and you feel lightheaded for a moment. When he retracts, he gently moves your hair behind your ear and when your eyes find his, he smirks. He’s got you all figured out and he knows it. Bastard. “So?” He asks patiently.
“Correct.” You say in defeat and everyone cheers a little too loudly around the table.
“So, what is it?” Jaemin asks excitedly.
“Can I?” Haechan asks, eyes still on you, ignoring his friend and you appreciate that he prioritises your comfort. You nod with a smile, giving him permission to say it out loud.
“Spitting.” He says again, out loud this time for all your friends to hear.
“That’s quite vague, no?” Jeno says. “Who’s spitting and where?”
You turn in his direction, throwing daggers at him, because there’s no way he’s trying to be a brat. “Oh, would you perhaps like a demonstration? I’ll happily spit in your cute little boba tea right now.” Your sweet tone, insincere and Haechan bursts out laughing, head thrown back, pretty neck on display but you push that thought to the back of your mind.
“Relax woman!” Jeno says with his hands raised in surrender. “No saliva in my drink please.” He takes his drink from the table and covers the top with a hand protectively.
“You can spit in mine.” Jaemin offers with hopeful eyes, holding up his drink in your direction and you groan at his crassness.
“Dude, you’re sick.” Renjun says with a shake of his head, judging his friend.
“No, I’m just versatile.” Jaemin defends with a pout. “No one’s spat in my drink before.”
“That you know of.” Haechan says with a feigned smile, voice laced with mild irritation.
“Right, well, I hate to ruin the fun, but I have class in fifteen minutes.” Ningning gets up, grabbing her bag and drink. “Bye losers.” She says with a sweet smile and starts walking towards the exit of the cafeteria.
“Wait!” Jeno’s voice is loud. “I’ll walk with you.” He gets up quickly, clumsily gathering his stuff before following after her like a puppy following his owner, without even looking back at the rest of you. You look at them walk away, already discussing something. You think they look cute together and you wonder what you and Haechan look like to other people.
“Someone’s toes are definitely getting sucked later.” Jaemin says and you can’t help but laugh at his silly joke.
Haechan turns to you with a sweet smile. “Are you done with classes for the day?” He asks quietly, leaning his body closer to you and you smile at how comfortable he already acts around you, not caring that his friends are still there.
“Mm-hmm.” You confirm with a nod, sitting up to stretch your limbs and once the stiffness is somewhat relieved, you sink back into your chair, leaning into his warmth as he wraps his arm around your shoulders again, like it belongs there. “You working this evening?”
“Nah, I only need to go in on Sunday this weekend.” He says happily as his other hand takes hold of yours, resting limply on his lap. “Wanna come over for dinner?” He asks carefully and your eyes fall on Jaemin and Renjun who are deep in conversation about what jobs Jaemin could look for to earn some extra cash. They’re paying no attention to you and Haechan.
“Dinner?” You ask with a hopeful smile and turn your head to look up at him, his pretty boba eyes already on you and he nods.
“Yeah, I could make us something, or we could get takeout.” His cheeks are now pink and you feel giddy at his flustered look. He looks so unbelievably cute and you get the urge to give him kiss, but you don’t. Not here.
“Sure, I’d like that, but-” Then you look at the two boys sat across the table again, posing a silent question.
“They’re all out tonight, don’t worry.” He reassures you quietly, reading your mind.
It’s not that you don’t like being around Haechan’s friends, they’re all lovely and have been nothing but nice to you, but you would appreciate some one-on-one time with him. It’s been exactly a week since your second date and even though you’ve seen him around campus since then, it’s always been with his or your friends around. On the other hand, you’re now realising that neither of you have been over at each other’s places and you feel the nerves as well as the excitement brewing in your stomach.
You’re aware that both you and Haechan are still navigating the nature of your relationship and even though you know that it’s too soon to tell where it’s going, you’re more than happy to see it through with him.
You’re also aware that so far, you’ve both made very clear that when you’re left alone, it’s almost impossible to keep your hands off each other. And although, the last thing you want is to keep things between you at a superficial level, you can’t help but wonder what sex with him would feel like. And although, you want things to progress naturally, you have a feeling that if you go over for dinner, you might find out.
“You sure you don’t wanna go out with them?” You ask, checking that he’s not cancelling any important plans for you.
“I can’t think of anything worse than going to a frat house filled with a bunch of people I barely know, trust me.” He says with a laugh, his thumb stroking the back of your hand gently. “Plus, I feel like I haven’t properly seen you this week.”
“Missed me?” You tease him, laughing at his reaction. His eyes roll and he tongues his cheek, trying to conceal his smile.
“Yeah, and what if I did?” He challenges, his eyes widening, his lips forming a cute pout.
“If you did,” You trail, leaning closer as you lower your voice, squeezing his hand in yours. “Then that’s great. Because the feeling might be mutual.” You reach up with your free hand to pinch one round cheek and before he has time to react, you lean in, dropping a quick kiss on the other one. “I’d love to come over.” You say with a smile and poke the tiny dimple that’s appeared where you’ve just kissed him.
“Oh great, so you guys are fucking on our couch.” Jaemin ruins yet another moment and Haechan closes his eyes trying to compose himself. A thought pops into your head and you’re already internally laughing at your own joke.
”Now, why would we do that, when your bed is available tonight?” You say with a toothy grin and you’re sure Renjun’s loud laugh makes some heads turn, Haechan mimics his reaction, head thrown, hands clapping. “Do not test me Na Jaemin, I will break you.” You point a finger at him with a serious look.
“You two make a great match, it’s actually scary.” He says in what could be described as amazement or fear, gesturing between you and Haechan.
_
You wake up confused, looking around and seeing you’re not in the familiar space of your apartment and when you inhale deeply you realise you’re safe. Haechan’s familiar scent helps you relax again and when you move to stretch your legs, you feel a comforting weight on your back, stroking slowly. You nuzzle your face into Haechan’s neck, humming in delight as he pulls the fluffy blanket, which you assume he threw over your figures whilst you were asleep, up to your chin.
“Hey, pretty.” He whispers in your ear, not wanting to startle you, his hand now in your hair, gently scratching your scalp and you purr in delight. “We fell asleep.” His tone still low, voice a little groggy, laced with sleep still.
”Mmm, what time is it?” You mumble sleepily in his neck and he shuffles around, careful not to move you from where you’re lying comfortably on him, grabbing his phone from the coffee table near the couch you’re both currently cocooned in. Your blink your eyes slowly, thankful that the only thing producing light in the living room area, is the tv screen. Shin-chan still playing on the screen from earlier but the volume is lowered. You assume you must’ve fallen asleep mid cuddling, after dinner. You remember telling him about this crime documentary you watched with Ningning a few nights ago and how you couldn’t sleep after. You also remember him saying that you should’ve called him so he could take your mind off it, and you remember wondering if he really meant that or if he was just being nice.
“It’s almost nine.” He says quietly after unlocking his phone. “We slept for like two hours.” He yawns cutely while checking any missed notifications and you can see from the corner of your eye, he quickly replies to a message from Jeno. “Seems like Jen convinced Ningning to come out.” He announces with a snort and your ears perk at that, your head slightly raising to look at him in question and he shows you the selfie he’s received from a visibly drunk Jeno, who’s got an arm wrapped around your friend’s shoulders, who’s sticking her tongue out, also visibly drunk.
“Fuck's sake.” Your head drops on his shoulder again, groaning. “She’s gonna be hungover tomorrow.” You whine and Haechan lets out a laugh, holding you tightly against him, his arm wrapping around your middle. Your hand rests on his chest and you close your eyes, allowing the cosiness to engulf you.
“It’s fine, I’m sure he’ll look after her.” He places his phone back on the coffee table and wraps his other arm around you, squeezing you like a teddy bear, with a sigh. “Bet my left nut, he’s staying at yours again tonight.” He jokes and you snort at his choice of words.
“Why the left one specifically?”
“I’m right-handed so I thought I’d keep the right one.”
“I’m sure you’ll get to keep both anyway; he’s definitely going home with her.” You agree with his point and tap your hand lightly on his chest, while resting your chin on it to look up at his pretty face. His eyes are closed now and he looks so relaxed, you can’t help but wonder if he’s enjoying the cuddling session as much as you are, but you also don’t want to assume he wants you to stay over. “I can go home, if you wanna go to bed. It’s getting late.”
His eyes open the moment he seems to have registered your words and he looks down at you. “Or you could stay?” He suggests with hopeful eyes, gauging your reaction. “I have a spare toothbrush, and you can wear something of mine.” He can definitely tell you’re contemplating. “No pressure of course, I get if you wanna be in your own bed.” His fingers comb through your hair soothingly and you close your eyes momentarily.
"Hmm." You ponder with a smile, letting your hand trail up his chest, fingers absentmindedly stroking along his jaw, feeling the scratch of the light stubble adorning his chin and he tilts his head, leaning into the touch. “I'm sure I won't miss my bed that much.”
_
After you’ve both brushed your teeth and he’s given you a comfortable big t-shirt of his to change into, you’re ready for bed and when you walk into his room, he’s already turned the main light off and left the bedside lamp on.
He’s lying comfortably under the white covers, back against the headboard while he’s lazily scrolling through his phone. You feel giddy at how soft and warm he looks. Just like a teddy bear you wouldn’t be able to sleep without.
You place your clothes on his desk chair and walk over to the side he’s not occupying, noticing your own phone is placed on the bedside table next to him, plugged in and screen down. You smile at the thoughtful gesture and slowly lift the duvet to get under, instinctively shuffling closer to his side of the bed when he stretches his arm out for you and you place your head on his chest, resembling the position you were in earlier on the couch. His bedsheets are cold and you tangle a leg with his, wiggling your toes against his skin to warm them up, making him flinch and you giggle quietly. “Sorry.”
He places his phone down, next to yours and moves to get comfortable against the pillows while holding onto your shoulders, bringing you down with him. He maneuvers you so you’re both on your sides facing each other and his arm is still slotted under you, between your head and your shoulder, while yours lazily drapes over his waist. He cups your jaw, gently rubbing his thumb against your skin and when he kisses your forehead gingerly, your eyes close momentarily while your arm tightens around his middle, pulling yourself closer so your chest is touching his. It feels domestic and so comfortable, like you’ve shared a bed with him a million times before.
“You comfy?” He whispers and you nod, the tip of your nose rubbing against his in the process. You see the corners of his lips lifting into a smile that probably mirrors yours. “Are you sleepy?” He murmurs against your lips and you smirk, knowing he’s testing the waters now. His fingers are in your hair and his thigh is resting between your legs, so close to your aching centre that you’re worried he can feel you throbbing through your underwear.
“Not really.” You breathe against his lips, your hand on his back slipping under the hem of his t-shirt and you feel him shiver when you trail your fingers up, your nails lightly scratching, feeling the goosebumps on his warm skin. “You?” Your breath hitches when his thumb traces your bottom lip, dragging it down and your eyes travel to his heart shaped lips. You instantly wish they were on yours, but you want to let him go at his own pace.
“What do you think?” He asks rhetorically and you breathe out a laugh, biting down on your bottom lip when his thumb moves to stroke the apple of your cheek.
“I think,” you pause, lightly dragging your nails down his back, earning a whimper from him. “I’m not really thinking actually.” You confess as your hand travels to his front, fiddling with the strings of his shorts, your fingers catching the elastic band of his shorts and letting it snap against his lower abdomen, earning a gasp from him, which hits your eager lips.
“Dumb already?” He attempts to tease and the smile dies on his lips, jaw dropping when your hand dips into his slacks and past his underwear, to wrap firmly around him. His eyes close when your thumb rubs under the head and you relish in the fact that he’s almost fully hard. He feels velvet smooth against your palm, thick enough to make you think it will probably sting when he enters you for the first time, slightly curved upwards, length perfect for hitting that sweet spot in your walls. You feel yourself getting wet at the thought and your breathing stutters when his thigh makes contact with your pussy, your hips instantly pushing forward, chasing the stimulating feeling. “Mm fu-“
His lips are finally on yours, interrupting you and you moan against his mouth in relief, kissing him back like you were made for it. You can’t help but think of that night in the noraebang room; how these very lips completely and utterly ruined you for anyone else. How they devoured you like no one else has before and probably like no one ever will.
Without breaking the kiss, you push him gently and he rolls onto his back dragging you with him so you can straddle him. He buries his fingers into your hair, deepening the kiss, his tongue gliding against yours and you moan at the taste of him; toothpaste and something uniquely him. Your hands take hold of his, dragging them down your figure and you stop to rest them on your ass, smiling in the kiss when he instantly kneads and pulls at the plush skin. You allow him to lick into your mouth one more time, before breaking the kiss to sit up and take in his dazed expression. Eyes hooded, lips wet and swollen and so irresistible, you feel helpless. Before he can complain, you drop your hands to the hem of the shirt that he let you borrow and slowly start dragging it up your skin, until it’s off you and on the floor.
“Fuck.” He exhales heavily, the second your tits are free and his hand comes up caressing from your hip up to your ribs until he reaches the underside of your boob and he gently cups, feeling the weight of it in his hand. “You’re fucking unreal.” He whispers and licks his lips before sitting up and wrapping his other arm securely around your waist.
His forehead rests against your chest for a moment, inhaling deeply, almost as if he needs a minute to compose himself while still squeezing your boob in his hand and you let him, threading your fingers through his hair to offer some comfort. His warm breath caresses your nipple and your shiver, the skin around the nub pebbling against his palm. You whine at the sensitivity, pulling at his hair to guide him closer to where you want him.
He gets the message and he kisses across your sternum, his tongue coming out to make contact with your skin before it circles around your areola slowly, teasing you. The pads of his fingers digging into the skin of your boob, squeezing as he sucks the nipple into his mouth and he moans when you whine. He starts flicking his tongue, driving you close to insanity and the wetness in your underwear feels almost unbearable now, but you have other priorities.
“Hae?” You call out into his hair as he’s still sucking and licking and he hums, indicating that he’s listening, as he scatters more kisses across your chest, moving to wrap his lips around your other nipple. “I wanna suck you off.” You say quickly, before allowing the shyness to infiltrate your brain and he instantly releases the nub, with a wet pop, so he can look up at your face with wide eyes. His mouth is ajar and his lips swollen and wet with his spit. He looks fucked out like this, hair messy and you love it, because you’re the sole reason. You cup his face and he absentmindedly squeezes both your tits in his hands, pushing them together, his eyes not leaving yours.
“Yeah, baby?” He leans up and kisses you softly. “Wanna make me feel good?” He mumbles seductively against your mouth, and you don’t even think before quickly nodding.
“Mm please.” You say in a whiny voice, playing along with him, as you pull at the fabric of his top and his hands move to pull at the collar, swiftly removing it. Your hands drag down his naked chest, pushing him to lie against the headboard, continuing their journey down his body, until they reach his shorts. You don’t waste any time, pulling his boxers along with them and he spreads his legs when he’s completely naked, for you to kneel in between them. His hand wraps around his hard cock, resting on his tummy and he whimpers at the needed friction while his eyes are on yours.
“Tongue out, keep your eyes on me.” He says softly and you clench around nothing, your panties a mess by now, you have to refrain from cringing at the feeling. You instantly obey, leaning closer and sticking your tongue out, millimetres away from where he wants it. He gently taps the head against the centre of your awaiting wet muscle and you moan, fighting to keep your eyes on his, the act feeling intensely intimate. “Suck, baby.” He says, his voice still gentle but more authoritative than before. You wrap your lips around the head and suck softly, tasting his precum and you can’t help but let your eyes close at the taste and weight of him in your mouth. You pull back slightly, swirling your tongue around him and flicking at the underside, causing him to grunt. “Fuck, pretty girl, you’re so good to me, aren’t you.” He says, with a shaky voice in his state of vulnerability, and you moan at the praise as you slap his hand away, replacing it with your own, wrapping your smaller fingers around his thick length and he lets you. You start to move your hand up and down, pumping him at a quick pace while sucking around the tip again, tongue dipping gently in his slit and when his hips buck up, wanting you to take him deeper, you place a hand on his hip as a warning and he grunts. "Fuck baby, please."
You gather a good amount of saliva in your mouth and when you look up to make sure he's watching you, you let it drip down slowly, watching as it coats his cock and travels down to his balls. You smile when his eyes roll back and you lick from base to top teasingly, surprising him when you take him as deep as you can, with your hand wrapped tightly around the base.
You moan when he reaches the back of your throat, swallowing around him with purpose and you pull back up when you start to gag. Your hand follows your mouth as you slowly start to move your head up and down, trying to give him as much pleasure as you can and you know you're doing a good job when his hands curl in your hair, gathering the strands into a messy ponytail and his moans turn into whines. This time, when his hips start moving, you allow him to fuck up into you, having gotten used to the feeling of him in your throat.
You slacken your jaw, moving your hand from the base to his thigh, and he moans louder when you allow him to go deeper than before. You feel your eyes water and you know you're slobbering around him, making a complete mess as saliva drips from the corners of your mouth, gathering at the base of his cock and balls. Your hand comes up to cup them, rolling gently and he abruptly pulls your mouth off him with a loud groan.
You look at the thick string of spit mixed with precum that’s connecting your lips to his tip, as you gasp for air and then your teary eyes travel up to meet his wild ones. He looks conflicted and his grip on your hair feels tight. "What's wrong?" You ask, your voice comes out hoarse and you feel like coughing to clear your throat, but you just swallow carefully.
He manages to laugh breathlessly at your confused expression, his breathing shallow and his lips bright pink from all the biting. "I was about to cum." He explains and grabs you by the arms to pull you up.
"Ain't that the point?" You say as you straddle him again and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, some of the drool smearing on your chin and you internally cringe at the wetness, but his eyes on your mouth tell you he thinks otherwise.
"Not if you want me to fuck you, no." Your heart jumps at his words and the look on your face must betray you, because he’s smirking. "Unless you don't." He teases, caressing your thighs as you place both hands on his naked chest, your pinky rubbing against his nipple and you giggle when he shudders.
"No, I do." You confess as you lean down to kiss him but he quickly sits up, meeting you halfway as he wraps his arms around you, maneuvering you onto your back swiftly and you feel yourself bounce on the mattress when he plops you down. He kneels between your legs and without warning, he starts pulling your panties off you. You eagerly raise your hips to help him, bringing your bent legs together, so the fabric doesn't stretch.
Once the lace is somewhere on the floor, you see his lips curling into a smile as he bites on the bottom one when you mindlessly spread your legs for him again, inviting him to settle between them. He moves closer, dragging his knees on the mattress as his hands take purchase on your hips.
"Scoot up a bit for me?" He asks sweetly and he helps you move up the bed, so your head rests comfortably on the fluffy pillows, and you feel the butterflies in your stomach causing havoc with no permission, your heart thudding like crazy as your eyes find his and fuck holding back now. You just want him to ruin you.
You pull at his silver chain, your other hand grabbing the back of his neck and he grunts the second your lips crash, all tongue and teeth with no coordination. You tilt your head to the side to get better access and the wet sound of kissing fills the room. Your clit is throbbing and you desperately need him to do something. Anything. "Please, I'm so wet." You whine against his lips and he moans at your neediness, grinding into your centre. His cock sliding between your folds, the head bumping into your neglected clit and your hips raise searching for more friction.
He leans back on his heels and hunches over you, one hand splayed on your tummy, the other wrapping around his dick as he taps the head against your clit and your legs spread completely, giving him full access as you squeeze around your own tits, needing to hold onto something. Your eyes roll back when he starts firmly rubbing the swollen nub, flicking from side to side and you feel like you're about to combust, your back arching off the bed as you moan loudly.
You open your eyes the second the friction comes to a halt, and the complaint dies in your mouth when you're met with the sinful sight of him coating two of his fingers in spit before they disappear between your legs and into your needy hole. "Shit, baby." He says in awe when they easily slide into you and your jaw drops at the fullness, your eyes threatening to shut from the pleasure, but you refuse to stop looking at him. His arm muscles are flexing when he starts fucking you open, instantly finding that sensitive spot that drives you insane, his other hand still, possessively pressing down on your lower abdomen to hold you in place, his hair matted on his damp forehead, his eyes focused on your dripping centre, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in concentration. He looks so hot, you could come just from looking at him and when his thumb comes into the equation, rubbing merciless circles around your clit, you feel yourself getting tighter.
“You gonna cum?” He asks in a whisper, his eyes meeting yours momentarily and you nod quickly, eyebrows creasing at the intense pressure in your belly.
"Uh-huh, don’t stop." You respond in a high pitched plea and his pace quickens, creating the filthiest squelching noises around his hand and your eyes close, half in ecstasy half in embarrassment. "Oh my god." Your fingers knead your tits harder when you're on the edge and a moan from him is what topples you over. "Fuck, I'm cumming." Your pussy feels like it's on fire as your walls spasm, your clit throbs like it's about to fall off and your legs can't stop shaking. His fingers are pistoning into you so hard and fast, that it feels like it slightly hurts but it feels so good at the same time. Too good. You sense that you're on the verge of peeing and your voice comes out in a broken squeal. "Shit, ah, stop stop stop!" Your hand grabs his wrist in a desperate state and he looks up at your face with widened eyes, like he's come out of a trance. He stops his ministrations but keeps his fingers buried inside you.
"Fuck, baby, I'm sorry." The hand on your stomach, moving to your ribs, caressing gently. "Did I hurt you? You- shit, I thought you were gonna squirt for a second so I kept going, I'm really sorry." His pupils are shaking as he explains quickly, taking in your sweaty, disheveled form and you feel so exposed that you make grabby hands at him, wanting him close. He instantly moves, supporting his weight on one arm, careful not to crash you and you sigh when you feel his chest flush against yours, warm and damp.
"It didn't hurt." You assure him, cupping his cheeks in your hands and he closes his eyes, sighing in relief. "I just felt like I was gonna pee." You confess bashfully and he chuckles, burying his face in your neck, inhaling deeply as you run your fingers through his hair. "I've never squirted before, so I freaked out a bit." You explain quietly. "Plus, I don't wanna ruin your bed sheets before we even get to the sex part."
He snorts and raises his head to look at you again. "Pretty sure they're already ruined." He says giving you a kiss on the cheek and you move to playfully push him off you, but a gasp escapes you when you feel his fingers slightly move, reminding you they're still buried inside your sensitive walls. "Unclench a little, you're squeezing." He whispers and when he kisses you, you slowly relax your walls around his digits, allowing him to carefully pull out and you whine at the loss, making him smile in the kiss. His hand cups your sensitive core, making you mewl at the comforting warmth. "You sure you still wanna keep going? We don't have to if you're feeling sore."
"I'm fine." You wrap your legs around his waist, holding him close. “Want you.” You whisper, hands sliding up his chest, coming up to bury in his hair again, as you bring his lips down to yours, urging him to kiss you stupid. And he does.
It’s slow, steady, passionate and you feel like mush in his arms, numb to the core, your lips moving in sync with his, taking what he’s giving you. You inhale and exhale heavily through your nose, refusing to break the kiss and you moan when he obscenely shoves his tongue into your mouth, licking messily and the conversation from earlier enters your mind suddenly. “Mm- I want mmf-” He interrupts you with another messy kiss before pulling away, allowing you to speak.
“You want what?” He asks quietly, lips still grazing yours as he catches his breath. Your eyes are on his glistening mouth, and he must sense your hesitation, because he presses again, hand caressing up and down your thigh in encouragement. “Tell me, baby, I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Remember what we talked about earlier?” You try, too embarrassed to actually say the words.
“Earlier?” His eyebrows furrow in thought, not catching on straight away.
“At the café.” You whisper, your eyes drop to his mouth again, slightly hinting and when they find his again, you know he’s caught on.
“You- fuck.” He falters when your hips raise, the tip of his cock catching at your entrance momentarily before sliding between your folds. “You want me to spit in your mouth?” He asks carefully, after having somewhat collected himself, both arms coming up, trapping your head between them as he rests his weight on them. You nod, holding eye contact, hands traveling down his abdomen, fingers tracing his sides before trailing up his spine, bracing once having reached his shoulders, palms resting on the blades. “You fucking minx.” His hand cups your chin, fingers lightly squishing your cheeks, forcing your lips to pucker as he leans in to press a chaste kiss on them.
His index taps against your cheek gently, as his hold on your face loosens. “Open up.” He instructs, his voice low, eyes darkening and you feel your cunt fluttering around nothing. “Tongue out.” His fingers lightly shake your face from side to side possessively and your brain stops functioning, tongue sticking out as if on demand and you whine when you watch him gather saliva in his mouth, cheeks hollowing a little, before slowly letting it dribble down your awaiting muscle. Your eyes rolls back when you feel it and your fingernails instinctively dig into his shoulders. “Swallow.” He instructs again, and you obey with a desperate moan, revelling in his dominant demeanour. His hand wraps around your throat, feeling the movement and he kisses you again, grunting against your lips, as you struggle to keep up with him, mouth widening to take his tongue in and you feel the wetness smearing on your chin messily.
You realise no one has ever kissed you like Haechan, and you wonder if he’s always kissing his sexual partners like this. Has anyone else experienced this level of intimacy with him before? You instantly feel the jealousy brewing at the thought of someone receiving this kind of affection; this kind of pleasure from him and you surprise yourself, never having felt this possessive over someone before. Something switches in you.
“Fuck me.” You breathlessly mumble, not recognising your own voice and he moans in your mouth as your hand reaches down, wrapping around his cock, smearing the shiny drops of precum adorning his tip. His hips thrust forward into your touch and you pump him steadily a couple more times, offering some sort of relief.
He pulls away slightly, to look at you. “Let me grab a condom.” He says quickly before grabbing your ankles, unwrapping them from his waist.
“Right, yes.” You nod dumbly, feeling a little silly for having lost all sensibility because of him.
You watch him as he reaches blindly in the bedside table drawer; his eyebrows furrowing in concentration and his face lights up the second he finds one. You watch him as he sits back on his heels, ripping the foil with his teeth. You watch him as he rolls the latex carefully onto his hard cock, teeth sinking in his bottom lip as he pumps himself a few times, ensuring the condom is on properly, chest moving as he breathes heavily. You watch him as he moves closer, coating two fingers in saliva, before bringing them down to your slit again, rubbing up and down slowly before dipping them in and quickly pumping into you to prep you, even if you really don’t need it. You let him though, because you want to keep watching him for a little longer.
He looks ethereal, skin glistening in a sheen layer of sweat, his shoulders wide, his chest and arm muscles lean, bicep flexing subtly as he expertly slides his fingers in and out, scissoring them to stretch you for him. He looks like the epitome of sex and you can’t even bring yourself to moan as his palm rubs against your sensitive clit, your jaw dropping with a quiet, trembling breath when he starts jabbing at your already abused g-spot and your hands release the sheets in favour of holding your legs open, when they threaten to close.
“Think I’m gonna cum again.” You mumble in awe, eyes staying on him still.
“You think?” He asks, voice laced with sarcasm, pace quickening, urging you to unravel around his fingers for the second time tonight. “Go on, baby.” His free hand, presses against the back of your thigh, pushing your leg close to your chest, testing your flexibility and the second his eyes meet yours, you cum. Hard. “Yeah, good girl.” He praises softly and you let out a whine, allowing your eyes to finally shut, not being able to handle his intense stare, your back arching as your fingers dig into the backs of your thighs, legs uncontrollably shaking, walls clenching repeatedly around his hand, clit pulsing against the heel of his palm as he helps you ride out your orgasm.
He starts kissing up your trembling body, lips wet, tongue lapping up your sweaty skin and he doesn’t even give you the chance to catch your breath when he harshly sucks your nipple in his warm mouth as his fingers leave your heat to wrap around his hard cock, rubbing the head up and down your soaked cunt. Your hands come up to grab onto his hair, as you attempt to anchor yourself and you can’t help but moan loudly when he pushes in. And even though it’s only the tip, it’s enough to drive you close to insanity.
“Fuck!” You exclaim, forcing his head up so you can kiss him as he slowly bottoms out, distracting yourself from the stinging sensation.
You both moan when his pelvis meets yours, his pubic bone flush against your hypersensitive clit as he gives you a second to adjust. He slowly pulls out to the tip and thrusts back in, maintaining a slow, careful pace to make sure you’re feeling comfortable.
“Relax for me.” He exhales a shaky laugh against your lips and you squeeze even harder to tease him. “Fuck! Baby, what the f- don’t.” He warns with a grunt as he wraps an authoritative hand around your neck and draws his hips back a little, before slamming in with force, not a second later.
The loud noise that escapes your throat resembles a scream and your eyes roll back when he starts fucking into you hard and fast, wet slapping sounds echoing and you don’t even feel embarrassed at hearing how wet you are, the intense pleasure taking over your senses, completely clouding any coherent thought.
“Not so bratty now, are we?” He grunts against your jaw as the hand around your neck tightens slightly, causing your ears to start ringing and your eyes to water. He releases you just when you start feeling dizzy, allowing you to catch your breath. He lets out a dark laugh at your loud gasps and buries his hand in your hair instead, pulling at the roots, so your head lolls back on the pillows, giving him access to your neck.
“So fucking wet, fffuck, so good.” He slurs between sloppy kisses against your sensitive skin as his hips slow down, fucking you nice and deep at a lazy pace, torturing you. “You take me so well, baby.” His crude words causing you to clench around him as his tongue laps from the base of your neck, up to your ear, flicking the lobe playfully.
“Look.” He whispers, moist breath tickling your ear as the hand fisting you hair, forces your head forward and off the pillow, making you look down between your bodies and you obediently open you eyes. You take in the unholy visual of his cock slowly dragging out to the tip, coated in your shiny slick essence, a white ring forming at the base and your eyes threaten to roll back when he so easily slides back in, at the same torturous pace. “See how perfect you are?”
Your nails drag down his back, leaving scratch marks behind and he hums against your neck when they dig into the flesh of his ass. “Faster, please.” You breathe out and he loosens his hold, allowing your head to tip back down, his eyes finding yours as he maintains the slow pace.
"You sure, baby?" His tone mocking as he sits back up on his knees, looking down at your messy cunt practically sucking him back in every time he slowly pulls out. You reel at the sight of his feral expression, his eyes unfocused as they trail up and down your naked body, like he can’t decide what to focus on. You feel exposed to the core but your arousal wins and you moan loudly, back arching when his thumb slowly circles around your clit twice, stimulating the stiff nub.
"Hae, please." You're on the verge of tears and he must like the sound of your begging, because he doesn’t hesitate this time.
He leans down again, bringing his lips to yours, thrusts increasing in pace and force significantly but never losing preciseness, giving you exactly what you want. “Yeah, you want it hard? Fuckin take it.” He grunts, kisses turning sloppy, all tongue and teeth and you can’t stop moaning, mouth hanging open against his as he relentlessly slams his hips against yours.
“Yes, oh my god.” You exhale against his mouth, as he changes the angle slightly and starts fucking directly into your g-spot, barely pulling out before thrusting back in, his balls slapping against your ass and you’re pretty sure you’ve never been fucked this good before. “Fuck, Haechan, baby, please please please, don’t stop.” You blabber, completely lost in mind-numbing bliss, your legs spreading as far as they can go, allowing him to thrust as deep as he pleases.
“Fuck, Y/N, I need you to cum.” He whispers, tone laced with urgency, almost sounding like he’s in pain and he wastes no time; a hand slotting between your bodies, resuming the stimulation on your clit, as he supports his weight on one arm, thrusts unfaltering, unforgiving and just perfect. His fingers start rubbing rough, tight circles around the nub and your toes curl against his sides, arms securely wrapping around his shoulders, as your walls squeeze around him, indicating another orgasm approaching, and when his fingers along with the head of his cock rub against the right spot, you’re gone.
Your moan comes out broken, walls clamping down on him, legs pathetically attempting to close around him but failing as your thighs shake violently and you feel dizzy, a tear rolling down your temple from the intensity of your high.
He keeps fucking you into the mattress, thrusts turning a little sloppy now that you're squeezing around him, hips losing their steady rhythm and when the pleasure borders overstimulation, causing you to mewl, he abruptly pulls out, kneeling between your legs and over your spent body. He pulls the condom off quickly with trembling fingers and he moans as he starts jerking himself off, aiming for your abdomen as his free hand curls around your ribs, holding you exactly where he wants you.
“You look so good.” You exhale in awe as you observe him in the midst of his pleasure, his eyes shut, head thrown back, his pretty neck on display as he moans loudly and his hooded eyes find yours again for a second before they roll back into his head.
“Shit, gonna cum.” He shakily announces, your praise seeming to have worked wonders, as you feel the first spurts of hot liquid landing on your skin. You take in the beautiful sight of his shaking form, chest and neck flushed, drenched in sweat, eyebrows creasing in between, eyes still shut, jaw slack as he releases short breaths.
He’s milking himself when you look down and you can’t help but ogle at the sight of your skin covered in the sticky white mess he’s created, illuminated by the bedside lamp. You notice some of it has landed on your tits, some on your tummy and you’re pretty sure some of it is pooling in the dip of your belly button, causing you to bite back a smile.
“Fuck.” He breathes in relief as his eyes slowly open to look at you and he looks dazed, fucked out. His tan skin flushed, making him look delicious. Sweat drips down his temple, hands shaking as they rest on your thighs limply. “I think I blacked out for a second there.” He mutters in awe and you giggle at his crazy eyes, while he tries to regulate his breathing.
His cheeky smile has returned, and he leans in, taking a closer look at his work. “Damn, I did a number on you.” He teases, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sinful sight. “Pretty.” He whispers and takes your limp hand in his, lips kissing gently on the back of it, eyes looking up at you innocently, like he didn’t just fuck you stupid.
When he drops your hand, he leans down with no warning and you panic at his mischievous expression, as his head disappears between your legs.
“What are you doing?” You ask in confusion and he chuckles softly.
“Shhh.” He breathes against your folds as his hands hold your legs open and the second his tongue swipes against your heat, you squirm, trying to move further up the bed, but he tightens his arms around your thighs, holding you still. “Relax, just take it.” He whispers calmly before gently sucking on your clit. His tongue slides down to lap at your entrance, slightly dipping in, tasting you directly, before flattening and licking up to the bundle of nerves, making you mewl when he swirls around it languidly. He keeps going, alternating between sucking, licking and gently circling until your legs are shaking again. Your hands release the sheets, moving to desperately hold onto his hair, fingers pulling, not knowing whether to push him away or pull him closer and his moan vibrates against your clit, pushing you over the edge once more. You cry out pathetically, not able to form any words, cumming uncontrollably on his tongue as he refuses to let up until your whole body shakes from overstimulation.
“Please, I- I can’t- can't cum again.” You stumble over your words, as he licks against your entrance, slurping up your juices, the sounds incriminating and you don’t even have the energy to push him away anymore. You just accept that if he tries to make you come again, you’ll probably pass out. To your relief, he thankfully stops once he’s cleaned you up with his tongue.
You blink up at him when you feel his weight on you, his skin feels hot on yours, his cum smearing between you, and he doesn’t seem have a care in the world. The only thing he does seem to care about is shoving his tongue in your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself, kissing you like he owns you and at this point, he might as well spell out his name on your body with his cum, because he has completely and utterly destroyed you and you know you’re irrevocably ruined for anyone else.
“So good for me, baby girl.” He mutters wetly, mouth open against yours, breathing heavy. “So fucking sweet.” He whispers almost inaudibly and you cup his chin in your hand, squishing his cheeks between your fingers, pecking him on his puckered lips.
“You’re fucking insane, Lee Haechan.” You weakly chuckle as he tries to kiss you again, his whine childish as your firm hold on his face prevents him from doing so. “Get off me, before I piss myself in your bed, you freak. You’re pressing against my bladder.”
_
After having gently cleaned you up with a warm hand towel and carried you to the bathroom so you can sort yourself out, he’s got you back in his bed, safely cocooned in his arms and under the covers. His front is comfortably pressed against your back and you’re basking in the warmth and the nakedness.
“Now I’m definitely sleepy.” You mumble with a content smile and he quietly chuckles in your hair, tightening his arms around you, holding you as close as possible, sighing in delight.
“Mm same.” He mumbles sleepily against your neck. “You comfortable like this?” He checks, and you feel giddy at his attentiveness.
“Mm-hmm, more than.” You nuzzle back into him, lazily stroking your fingers up and down the arm that’s wrapped around your middle, his palm casually cupping your boob; not squeezing, just gently holding. You feel him smile as he presses a sweet kiss on your shoulder.
A few moments of comfortable silence pass, and just when you think his breathing has started to slow down, he quietly speaks again.
“Y/N?” He asks tentatively and his serious tone worries you.
“Yeah?” You attempt to turn your head to look at him, but his tight embrace holds you in place and you presume he needs to not be looking at you when he says his next words.
“I think-” He pauses, collecting his thoughts and you have a feeling you know what he’s trying to get at, so you give him time, hand still gently stroking his arm. “Are we on the same page here?”
“Well,” You sigh, feigning uncertainty and the tensing in his arm almost makes you regret dragging this. “That depends Lee Haechan.” The teasing smile evident in your voice. “What page are you on?”
synopsis: This camping trip was supposed to be a relaxing getaway—just a few days in the woods, swapping scary ghost stories, roasting s'mores by the campfire, maybe even squeezing in some late-night cabin sleepovers. It all sounded so perfect, right? Wrong.
Y/N ends up stuck sharing a cabin with the one person she can't stand. Fucking Choi Soobin—the guy who spent all of high school turning every assignment and exam into some stupid competition to see who's the smartest, who flashed his cocky, infuriating smirk when he beat her at their in-school debate competition she'd spent countless nights preparing for. The same guy who gave her every reason to believe he felt something for her, who blurred all the lines during their senior project—only to ghost her like none of it ever meant a thing. This has to be some kind of joke, right?
pairing: ex-academic rival!soobin x fem!reader
genre: enemies-to-lovers trope, ex-academic rivals to lovers, only one bed trope, forced proximity, angst romance filled with tension, college AU-ish, unresolved feelings
warning/s: lots of swearing, suggestive-ish
wc: 10.1K
September 2017
It had been three hours since I lugged all my stuff into Soobin’s house—project printouts, art supplies, notebooks, and my heavy-ass laptop—all piled into a chaotic mess around me.
The clock on his study desk ticked past 10 PM. I sat cross-legged on a cushion on the bedroom floor, leaning against a small wooden table, surrounded by scattered papers. Some notes were marked up with pink highlighter, others crumpled or stuck with colorful post-its.
Even the little doodles Soobin had drawn on the post-its were pinned around the table here and there, giving the chaos a strange kind of charm.
Our laptops sat perpendicular to each other, their screens casting a soft glow across the clutter. I tapped my red pen lightly against the table, eyes skimming the printed script beside me—covered in scribbles, arrows, and margin notes I could barely even read anymore.
The words were starting to blur together, familiar in that way things get when you’ve stared at them too long.
“Your part on slide nine feels a little rushed.” I said, after a stretch of quiet.
To my right, Soobin sat on a cushion of his own, sleeves of his hoodie pushed up, glasses reflecting the glow of his screen as his eyes flicked over the same PowerPoint slide.
His expression was calm—too calm for someone who was going to have his final presentation the next morning. Then he stretched, arms reaching overhead as he let out a quiet yawn, eyes half-lidded but still focused.
“You were talking too fast in other parts too,” I reminded him, not even looking up.
He let out a quiet groan. “You’ve timed me, what, three times already?”
“I’m just saying,” I replied. “You’re hitting the marks, yeah—but you’re hitting them like a robot.”
He turned to me with a raised brow. “The script’s too long for me not to talk fast, you know.”
“You’re basically rapping through the script, Soobin,” I gave him an unimpressed look.
“I read it aloud earlier. The timing was just right—You’re just the one who keeps starting the timer too early." He argued.
I raised a brow, unimpressed. “I’m not early on anything. You always leave a few seconds on the timer.”
His eyes found mine—and stayed there, just a second too long.
“So,” he said slowly, “you want me to slow down, then?”
“Just this part,” I murmured, pointing to a line with the tip of my pen. He leaned in slowly, just enough for his shoulder to brush mine, eyes following the point of my pen.
I glanced at him without thinking. His hair hung messily over his forehead, brushing the tops of his glasses. He was fiddling with the end of his hoodie string again, fingers curling around it before slipping it between his teeth, chewing on it like he didn’t even notice. All of a sudden, I realized how close our faces had gotten.
“Where?” he asked quietly, the words slightly muffled, the hoodie string still tugged between his lips.
“H-here…” I managed, barely above a whisper. I pointed with my pen to the line he needed to read. He leaned in even closer, eyes narrowing in on the script.
I instinctively pulled back, creating space between us as casually as I could manage, eyes flicking to my laptop screen like it suddenly demanded all of my attention. But I could still feel the heat blooming across my cheeks, spreading too fast to ignore.
“Yeah, these notes are good,” he said after a moment, voice quieter than before. I glanced sideways, then down at the hoodie string still hanging from his mouth.
“Do you really have to chew on that?” I asked, raising a brow, trying for playful but landing somewhere between disbelief and mild concern.
I fiddled with the cap of my pen, letting the soft sound fill the space between us as my other hand hovered over my keyboard, feigning concentration. Instead of snapping back like I expected, he paused.
His eyes flicked toward mine as he slowly let the hoodie string slip from his mouth, the fabric falling softly against his chest. For a moment, he just looked at me—head tilted slightly, like he was trying to piece something together.Then came the smallest twitch of a smile.
“You always pick the smallest fights with me when you’re nervous,” he said, voice low and even.
Not teasing—just stating it, like it was something he’d known for a while. My pen stilled mid-air.
“I’m not nervous,” I muttered, eyes fixed on my screen.
There was a pause. Then, softer, "You are. But it's okay... I'm nervous about it too."
That made me glance at him, and this time, I didn't look away. He leaned back slightly, posture relaxed, like he’d peeled something back—something he didn’t usually let show.
Oh. He was talking about the presentation.
Right.
But there was something in the way he said it. Gentle. Almost like a secret passed between us. It landed in my chest like a held breath I didn’t know I was keeping.
“I’m fine,” I assured him, trying to shake off the weird flutter in my chest.
I turned back to my laptop, leaving my pen resting on the script as I switched to the PowerPoint tab, brows furrowing while I scrolled through the slides for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.
"You’re overthinking again,” Soobin said, voice low and teasing.
I didn’t look at him. “Says the guy who helped me color-code our outline and triple-checked our citations.”
“Yeah, but I hide it better,” he replied, the smirk already audible in his tone.
“I just don’t want it to suck,” I sighed.
He let out a soft laugh. “It doesn’t. We’re fine.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He smiled—genuine this time—and reached across the table to tug my notebook toward him. Our fingers brushed for a moment. Just a graze. Nothing major. But neither of us pulled away right away.
“I don’t get why you stress so much,” he said softly, leaning forward to jot a quick note on the script with my pen.
“You always make everything better.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
He handed the pen back without looking away. “The slides. The project. You just… care more than anyone else I’ve worked with.”
It wasn’t exactly a compliment.
Not really.
But it made something twist inside me anyway.
I looked at him—really looked at him. The way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he always tilted his head when he was thinking, the subtle twitch of a smile he tried to hide whenever I got too worked up over formatting.
He was calm. Too calm. Like he wasn’t falling apart inside the way I was. I swallowed the bitterness tightening in my chest.
"You're weirdly nice when you're tired," I muttered, pretending to fix something on the PowerPoint.
“I’m always nice,” he shot back.
I gave him a skeptical look.
“Okay,” he laughed softly. “Sometimes.”
“You know,” I started, before I could catch myself,
“you’re really hard to read sometimes.”
He blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Some moments you’re open—easy to talk to. But then other times, I can’t figure out what you’re thinking at all.”
The room fell silent. He blinked slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“So are you,” he replied, voice quieter now.
“But I try.”
My heart did a stupid flip in my chest.
“Try what?”
He looked at me again, eyes steady. “To make it obvious.”
Then, it hit me,—all the signs I’d buried, the little things I brushed off as me being dramatic or reading too much into nothing.
Every look, every touch, every word.
My mouth went dry.
What the fuck was he trying to say?
I wanted to ask—God, I wanted to ask—but the pounding in my chest felt deafening, like my heart was trying to drown out the moment.
Oh my god, what if he can hear it too? I wondered.
So I said nothing.
I just stared at him, caught in the pull of it all—panic curling at the edges of my thoughts as hope blooms rapidly in my chest, confusion wrapping around it like a knot I couldn’t untangle.
“I—I…” I faltered, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Before I could think to move, he leaned in, eyes locked on mine. His hand rose slowly—hesitant at first—then steadier as his fingers reached for a loose strand of hair near my cheek.
He brushed it back behind my ear, his fingertips grazing my skin with a softness that sent a chill down my spine. But he didn’t pull away.
His hand lingered near my face, close enough that I could feel his warmth, close enough to see the subtle shift in his expression—something careful, something unreadable, something that made my throat go dry. Neither of us said a word.
His words from earlier hung between us like an unfinished sentence suspended in the air, and I was too afraid that if I spoke now, it would all collapse—too real, too raw.
We’d had moments like this before. Subtle ones. The kind that slipped by unspoken, but never unnoticed. Lingering glances in the hallway, the way his hand brushed mine when he passed notes, how his voice always softened when he would call me over to him.
But this? This felt louder. Closer.
"Y/N… I—" he began, voice low, hesitant.
But then, right on cue, his phone buzzed sharply beside us—the alarm he’d set earlier cutting through the quiet like a crack of thunder.
He flinched. So did I.
The moment shattered.
He moved quickly, fumbling for his phone on the floor beside him. The sound cut off with a single tap, but the silence it left behind was deafening. For a moment, he didn’t look at me. His gaze stayed fixed on the now-dark screen, jaw tight.
Then, voice quieter this time—measured, distant—he said,
“You should probably head back.”
My heart dropped.
He still wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Big day tomorrow,” he added, like that explained everything.
“Right…” I murmured. “Big day.”
I nodded, slowly gathering my things. Papers, pens, laptop. Anything to keep my hands busy, to ignore the weight in my chest. He reached toward my notebook beside me, the same one he’d quietly asked to borrow earlier, but his hand paused halfway—as if hesitating—before he finally picked it up.
He stood too, tidying what was left on the table with methodical care. Like if we didn’t speak on it, whatever almost happened would just fold neatly into the mess of crumpled drafts and unfinished thoughts.
Maybe that was safer.
Maybe that was us.
Almost. Always fucking almost.
I left his room without a word, not even sparing him a glance, as the quiet between us was left hanging heavier than ever.
The next morning, it was raining—a steady drizzle that blurred the campus edges and made the air feel thick with calm. He acted like nothing had ever happened.
He greeted me with that same soft smile he always wore before a presentation, handing me a printed copy of our outline. He even cracked a quiet joke about how I’d probably end up rewriting his part mid-way if I got too nervous.
But just like he said the night before—we nailed it.
The presentation went smoothly—clean, confident, every line delivered exactly as we’d rehearsed. Our professor smiled in satisfaction, expecting nothing less than perfection from us.
Our friends gave us friendly pats on the back, and compliments were thrown around—“Whoa, you guys did such a great job!” They stood by us, sharing the buzz of relief like teammates crossing a finish line.
But afterward?
Fucking nothing.
After school that day, it was like something snapped shut. No texts. No awkward small talk in the hallway.
Not even a stupid silly face thrown at me when the professor announced Soobin had gotten the highest score on our English exam.
Nothing.
He stopped showing up where I used to find him—in the library, the park, even the convenience store where we always bumped into each other.
He just stopped replying. Stopped being there.
It was like I’d never mattered beyond that stupid project. And just like that, he was gone—leaving me tangled in everything I didn’t understand.
June 2019
Two years have passed since everything between us quietly fell apart—the electric connection replaced by a silence thick enough to fill a room.
In that time, everything changed. We went from playful teasing and personal competitions to exchanging little more than sharp looks and truly hurtful remarks. It’s not like we don’t cross paths—our worlds still overlap—but somehow, it’s like we don’t really exist to each other anymore.
Standing here now, I can feel the distance—not just the space between us, but all the things left unsaid, the moments we should’ve shared but didn’t, and the memories that don’t feel warm anymore.
The rain falls in a steady downpour, tapping rhythmically against the wooden porch roof where we stand. The ground grows muddier by the second, as the trees and plants eagerly soak up the long-awaited water they craved. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine as tall forest trees towering above us, casting shadows over the clearing.
"I can't believe I managed to get stuck with you," I mutter, groaning at the sight of the tall, raven-haired boy in front of me.
His head is bowed, fingers gliding across his phone screen with quiet concentration.
He doesn’t even look up. "Trust me, the feeling’s mutual."
I roll my eyes at his comment, letting my bag and umbrella drop against the wall with a heavy thump. Digging my hands into my pockets, I glance back at Soobin.
"Do you have the key?"
He sighs annoyingly at the question before reaching into his right pocket, and silently holds out the key to me. I shoot him a pointed look before taking it from his hand and unlocking the door.
It swings open to reveal a small but cozy cabin bedroom—just enough space for two. I step inside with Soobin, opening the door to the only bathroom near the entrance and nodding in satisfaction at the sight. Behind me, I hear him move forward to inspect the rest of the room, followed by the faint sound of a complaint.
"This is a joke, right?" I hear him say.
I step out of the bathroom and find him standing in front of the queen-sized bed, staring at it like it personally offended him. He looks back at me with a disbelief expression. I shrug, casually leaning against the doorframe.
“It was the cheaper option. They were gonna charge way more if we booked each room with double single beds.” He exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. I nod toward the floor.
"The floor's always open, if you want. Though I think the racoon I saw outside might appreciate some company too."
"Haha, funny," he deadpans.
I drop my bag at the foot of the bed and sink down onto the mattress with a sigh, my mind drifting to the conversation I had with Beomgyu earlier today.
“Come on, can’t you switch with me, Gyu? You guys were roommates before, right?”
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Beomgyu said, tone apologetic but firm. “but I already talked to Kai earlier. I promised I’d play Cookie Run with him when we got to the room—he’s pretty excited to have me as his roommate.” I stared at him for a second, hoping he would change his mind. He didn't.
I exhale sharply, jaw tight. Of course this shit would happen.
This whole arrangement happened because someone thought it'd be a genius idea to assign roommates by picking straws—completely random, they said. An equal chance for everyone, they said. I rolled my eyes at the thought.
Yeah. Sure.
I had only agreed because, honestly, I mean what are the odds that I'd end up with Choi Soobin? The same boy who’s spent every semester of high school trying to one-up me on test scores and presentations.
The one who ran against me for class representative and won by just a few votes—probably thanks to his crowd of fangirls who couldn’t stop staring at him in class.
The boy kept sending me mixed signals the entire time we worked together on that final major project, only to shut me out right after without a single word.
It was a miracle we were even caught in the same room. Despite having mutual friends and going to the same university, our paths rarely crossed—only seeing each other at social events or the occasional group hangout.
Of course, only Yunjin knew about the mixed signals part. She was the only person I trusted enough to vent to—the poor girl was forced to sit through rants over lunch about how confusing and frustrating he was. But, unbeknownst to me, that same 'poor girl' was actually in on a plan—one orchestrated by none other than Choi Yeonjun himself.
Everyone was in on it except for Soobin and me.
The plan? To finally put an end to all the bickering, snarky remarks, and this endless tension between us.
I remember hearing Yeonjun calling from the living room earlier, telling everyone we’d be picking straws to decide who’d room with whom. Meanwhile, I was in my bedroom, too busy stuffing one last hoodie into my already full backpack.
There were two sets of colored straws—each set pairing two people together.
Taehyun managed to distract Soobin with some 'new workout tip' he was eager to share, flashing his phone in front of him. Soobin's eyes were glued to the screen, interested at this new advice his friend had given him, that he carelessly grabbed a random colored straw from Yeonjun's hand without even sparing a glance at it.
When Soobin held it up, the two boys exchanged a knowing glance. Soobin got the orange straw.
Taehyun gave Yeonjun a slight nod, and Yeonjun then strolled over to the others, quietly whispering which colors to pick to avoid the dreaded orange. Finally, Yeonjun made his way over to me, one last straw pinched between his fingers.
"You're the last one, Y/N. Orange was the only one that was left," he said, holding it out.
"Oh, that's fine. I think the orange is pretty cute anyway," I shrugged, more relieved to be done forcefully shoving that hoodie into my already overflowing backpack than anything else.
He grinned, eyes flicking to the straw in my hand. "Yeah? I think it suits you."
I flashed a quick smile in return. "Thanks, I've always wanted to match with a traffic cone."
Yeonjun chuckled under his breath and nodded toward the living room.
"C’mon, let’s see who fate paired you up with."
I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed him down the hall, completely unaware of the setup I had just walked straight into. We stepped into the living room. Everyone is raising their straws in the air, scanning the room for their partners, and others already finding theirs.
I couldn't help but smile at the sight, catching the moment Yunjin excitedly rushed over to Nari. They shrieked and jumped together with joy as they realized they both pulled the green straws.
On the couch, Beomgyu and Kai compared their blue straws, already deep in conversation about some game Kai insisted on playing in the cabin tonight. Yeonjun scanned the room before casually walking over to Taehyun. He lifted his red straw with a knowing grin before exchanging a 'bro' handshake with him.
Then it hit me. Oh fuck, no.
Then that means... I slowly turned my head, already dreading what I know I would see.
And there he was—Choi Soobin, standing a few feet away with the same orange straw in hand, staring straight at me.
I fucking hate orange.
My phone dings, and I glance down to see a text from Yunjin and Yeonjun.
Yunjin: Sorry about the roommate situation again, babe. Wish it could’ve been the three of us here. We miss you <3
sent at 20:17 pm.
Me: It's okay, it wasn't your fault. Miss you guys too!
sent at 20:18 pm.
Yunjin: Think you’ll survive?
sent at 20:18 pm.
Me: Yeah, just hoping I make it through the night and the rest of the trip without committing a felony
sent at 20:19 pm.
Yunjin: Sending prayers and snacks! Good luck, babe <3
sent at 20:20 pm.
I smile softly at her texts before switching over to my chat with Yeonjun.
Yeonjun: How's orange going for ya right now ;)
sent at 20:16 pm.
Me: Die.
sent at 20:21 pm.
I glance over at Soobin, who’s already sprawled out on the right side of bed, phone still in hand.
“So, you’re taking the bed?” I ask, arms crossed.
“Yeah,” he replies without looking up. Then, with a perfectly fake smile, he adds, “Just try not to kick me in your sleep, yeah?”
The sass practically oozes from his voice.
"No promises," I mutter under my breath, kicking off my shoes a little more aggressive than necessary—just to piss him off. "Accidents happen."
He snorts quietly, still glued to his phone. “That tends to happen a lot when you’re around.”
I roll my eyes at his comment, "You've chosen the right side of the bed, then?"
“Figured it made sense. You didn’t seem in a rush to claim it.”
"Oh, I didn't realize it was a race."
He lets out a small breath, not quite a laugh. "With you? It usually is."
“Chivalry isn’t dead, after all.” I mumble, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Wow. It's just like high school all over again.
A beat passes. No one says anything and neither of us smiles. The room feels tense but somehow warmer than it did a minute ago. I can't tell if its because he turned on the heater—or because this is the first proper conversation we’ve had in a year. Well, sorta proper.
It was tense, but it felt all too familiar to the both of us. It felt almost too easy to fall back into this rhythm. I don't respond right away, I just sit at the foot of the bed, unzipping my bag—only to find my clothes soaked from the heavy downpour.
I pull out the thick hoodie I had shoved in earlier, raising it in the air as it drips water onto the wooden floor.
"Fuck me."
I hold out the wet hoodie and hurry into the bathroom, draping it over the sink. I walk back into the bedroom again, digging into my bag for clothes that somehow escaped the rain. Luckily, I find some dry jeans, pajama shorts, and t-shirts, though a few items are damp.
Unfortunately, the other sweater I had packed for the trip is completely soaked as well, leaving me with only an oversized tee to keep me warm for the night.
A notification pops up from the group chat. It was Kai sending a blurry selfie with a face mask on, while Beomgyu flips off the camera, green glob smeared across both cheeks. I shake my head at the message, before pulling off my sweatshirt and heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.
I set my things down and peel off the rest of my clothes as the water takes a moment to heat up. When it’s finally hot enough, I step in, letting the steady stream wash over me—washing away the stress of the day: the rain, the long travel, him.
For a moment, everything feels still.
The sound of the shower mixes with the quiet hum of my thoughts and the steam rising from the hot water. I try not to psych myself out about being alone in the same room as Soobin again.
It literally feels like I’m trapped in some strange purgatory of old, burning tension and mountains of unfinished business
Okay, don't overreact.
When I finally step out, towel wrapped around me and hair dripping onto the bathroom tiles, I feel a little calmer than before—like I’m myself again. Or at least a version of me that doesn’t want to peel layers of skin off because of the sweat and rain clinging to me.
A version of me that might actually make it through this trip.
I dry off quickly and throw on some clothes—a loose, oversized shirt and the driest pair of pajama shorts I can find. Not great for warmth, but better than sleeping in damp, smelly jeans.
A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Clean feels good.
I open the bathroom door to the soft, warm glow of the bedroom light. Soobin is still there, now sitting on the edge of his side of the bed, phone casting a pale glow on his face. I quietly make my way to my side, keeping my back facing him as I start organizing the rest of my things without a word.
Behind me, the bathroom door clicks shut again, and the sound of the shower starts up. After a few minutes, the water stops, and the door opens once more—Soobin steps out.
“You done sulking yet?” I hear him ask.
“Not even close,” I reply, still facing away.
“Knew you’d say that.” He smirks.
I raise an eyebrow, pausing mid-rummage through my bag. Then I turn around—only to be met with a sight I wasn’t quite prepared for.
"What? You would've done the same if—Jesus, Soobin.”
My words halt as my eyes catch the sight of him standing by the bed. The boy only had a towel slung loosely around his waist and his chest still glistening with droplets from the shower.
His raven hair is tousled, carelessly swept back just enough to keep it from falling into his eyes as beads of water slowly trail down his neck and disappearing beneath the edge of the towel.
"You seriously couldn't have gotten dressed up inside the bathroom?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He looks up, a t-shirt hanging from one hand, completely unfazed. He shrugs. "Didn't realize it was a crime to dry off in my own room."
I scoff, tearing my gaze away, and forcing myself not to notice the faint flush creeping up my cheeks. This definitely wasn’t the same boy who used to trip over his words just asking to borrow a pen.
No—this version walks around like he owns the fucking air we breathe. I hate that I still notice the difference.
“Idiot,” I mumble, barely audible under my breath.
The rain continues to patter against the windowpane, its steady rhythm growing louder as the storm outside intensifies. He runs a hand through his damp hair, tousling it further, then pulls the clean shirt over his head. The cotton fabric stretches slightly, damp patches from the shower leaving faint gray marks on the white shirt.
I adjust my own shirt, making sure it sits right, before trying to my bury my attention on the mundane task instead of the half-naked—honestly, basically naked, considering it was just a damn towel—boy behind me.
The quiet stretches on, the sound of rain filling the room as I work. Once I'm finally done, I stand, glancing over my shoulder to find him now wearing a hoodie over his shirt, paired with loose pajama pants. I let out sigh in relief and, a tiny bit of disappointment before walking over to the bed.
I pull back the covers and settle into my side, leaning against the headboard. For a moment, I let my eyes fall shut, trying to quiet the mixed nerves and lingering tension still humming under my skin. A few minutes pass before I feel the mattress dip beside me.
I open my eyes slowly and reach for my phone, letting the screen light up my face as I begin scrolling through social media. I come across a few dumb videos that make me snort under my breath, one of them pulling out a soft chuckle.
We don’t look at each other for a while. We don’t need to. There’s an unspoken agreement hanging in the air—we’ll just try to get through this the best we can.
The bedside lamps illuminating the room with warm lighting, cutting through the dimness as the storm outside grows even stronger.
Suddenly, the lights start to flicker abruptly.
My eyes slightly widen as uneasiness starts creeping in just as Soobin and I finally exchange glances at one another.
Then, everything goes black—the power cuts out and the heater falls silent. Now, only the glow from our phone screens lights up the space between us. I softly gasp at the sudden blackout, fingers instinctively tightening around the blanket as I pull it closer to me, attempting to hide the fluttering fear building in my chest.
I watch as Soobin turns on the flashlight on his phone, then standing up from his spot to try flicking the lights on and off again.
"That won't work, you know," I tell him.
"Not bad to try, is it?"
I shift my gaze toward the window, watching the rain clash against the glass as the tree branches sway in the gusts of the storm. Suddenly, a sharp alarm rings from Soobin's phone, making the both of us jump. He scans his device, slowly taking his time to read the alert before looking back at me.
“Heavy rainfall. The power’s out in other parts of the area too. They say it won’t come back until the storm calms down.” I sigh, turning my phone’s flashlight on and sinking into the sounds of rain filling the room.
"Just when it couldn't get any worse" he comments, sitting back down on the bed.
"Right," I say quietly, not looking up. "Because sharing a room with me is clearly the end of the world."
He tilts his head slightly, glancing over. "Didn’t say that."
"You didn’t have to." I exhale, keeping my voice even. "You’re not exactly subtle."
I glance down at my phone, the soft light of the screen casting a faint light across the sheets. After a moment, I move to place it on the bedside table, flashlight facing up to push back some of the dimness hanging in the room.
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable—just... suspended. Like we’re both waiting to see what the other will do, but not in a hurry to break the stillness.
"How do you think the others are doing?" he asks eventually, voice lower than before.
I pause to think for a moment.
"Beomgyu and Kai are probably trying to see who can scare the other first with stupid ghost stories... or maybe watching some random movie Kai downloaded on his laptop before the trip."
He lets out a quiet laugh. "Yeonjun and Tae are probably having those deep conversations—catching up on life, figuring stuff out."
We share a quick look—something unspoken passing between us, a brief moment of shared understanding.
"Yunjin and Nari are probably the same," I add.
"Except Nari’s definitely curled up next to Yunjin by now, too scared of the thunder and lightning outside to care about the blackout."
I chuckle softly at the thought of my friends using this time to connect with each other better. It’s oddly comforting to think about them all, finding little moments like this despite everything.
A sudden flash of lightning briefly illuminates the window, casting sharp shadows across the room as the rain pounds harder against the glass. My bottom lip trembles ever so slightly, the roaring thunder outside and the blackout still gnawing at my nerves.
I bite down gently, trying to steady myself—trying to keep the spiraling thoughts from dragging me too deep into the what-ifs. Soobin notices. He doesn’t say anything, just quietly gets back into bed, pulling the covers over himself. I can feel his gaze linger as he turns to face me, his eyes settling on the faint shiver I can’t quite hide.
I force myself to stay still, pretending I don’t feel the weight of his gaze. I fix my eyes on the wall ahead, silently counting the seconds between flashes of lightning and the low rumble that follows.
Then, his voice breaks the silence—low, even, careful. "You okay?"
It's simple. Unassuming. But the question makes my chest tighten a little. I nod, almost instinctively.
"Yeah. I’m usually fine with this kind of thing. Just... this one feels different.”
A pause. Then, "You always did hate the dark."
HIs tone isn't teasing. It’s just a memory, held between his words—gentle and matter-of-fact. I glance over at him. He continues to hold his gaze at me—watching, really—not in a way that demands anything. Just... present. Like he's trying to recall a memory too.
"I didn't think you'd remember that." I murmur.
And suddenly I’m brought back to a moment during one of our late project nights, two years ago. I’d mentioned it without much thought, embarrassed as I admitted to keeping a nightlight on before I fell sleep well into high school. I’d expected him to laugh, maybe even tease and poke fun at me for it. But he didn't.
He’d just listened.
This moment feels like that version of him again. Before everything got so messy.
Soobin shifts slightly under the blanket, his voice softer when it returns. “I didn’t forget much, you know. Even when it felt like I did.”
He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. A moment of silence lingers between us.
"You can borrow my hoodie, if you want." he suddenly offers, already tugging at the sleeve like he’s ready to hand it over. "Might help you warm up a bit."
“No, it’s fine. I’m not that cold,” I say, trying to wave it off.
He shakes his head lightly, already starting to pull the hoodie over his head. “I don’t mind. I was next to the heater earlier, so I'm still warm anyway.”
“No, really. I’m okay,” I insist, even as I curl the blanket a little tighter around myself.
He gives me an unimpressed look. “Y/N, you’re literally shivering.”
"So?" I ask. He rolls his eyes before siting up from his previous position, slipping the hoodie over his head. The fabric shifts with the motion, briefly lifting his shirt and revealing a glimpse of his waist before settling into place again.
“Stop.”
He smirks slightly, holding the hoodie out again.
“Stop what?” he replies, raising an eyebrow.
“Being nice to me,” He shakes his head with an amused expression on his face, like he couldn't believe I was still thinking about that right now.
He tosses the hoodie toward me, the fabric landing softly on the bed between us before I can argue again. I can’t help but smile, feeling that familiar push-pull between us again—the unspoken acknowledgment that beneath the bickering, there’s something... softer.
“Just take it,” he says casually, settling back into his side of the bed like the conversation’s over.
“Don’t make me regret being nice.”
I stare at the hoodie for a second before slowly picking it up. It’s still warm. I hesitate—less because of pride now, more because it smells like him, familiar and oddly comforting. Like something I didn’t know I missed.
“Thanks,” I murmur, slipping it on. The sleeves are long, brushing against my fingertips, and the fabric is soft from too many washes.
But even as I settle into it, a little voice in my head starts nagging. What are you doing? Don’t let yourself fall for his bullshit again.
I try to play it cool, pushing that voice to the deepest part of my mind. But I can’t help the way I slow down just a little as I pull the hoodie tighter around me. I know to myself I shouldn't be letting it matter this much. But here I am, sitting in a dark room, wrapped in Soobin’s sweatshirt like it’s some kind of fragile, borrowed comfort, trying to make up for the years of unfinished business.
The same guy I’d been quietly pining over for years back in high school—the one who stood up for me whenever someone made dumb comments about me, the one who—
Okay, we get it.
Holy shit, I need to get a grip.
“You know, this reminds me of that time in junior year—when the power went out during finals week?” He cuts off my train of thought.
I blink, thrown for a second by the sudden shift. “What, in the middle of exam prep?”
He nods, a small laugh slipping out. “Yeah. You were freaking out because your notes got soaked in the rain, and the library shut early. You barged into the classroom like you were ready to fight someone.”
I let out a quiet groan, covering my face with one hand. “God, don’t remind me.”
“I remember you made the whole friend group take turns sharing notes with you. Bossed everyone around like it was your birthright.”
I peek through my fingers at him, trying not to smile. “Well, I was desperate. And it worked, didn’t it?”
“I mean, yeah. I didn’t mind.” He shrugs. His tone shifts slightly—quieter, softer. And something about it makes me glance up again.
“You never really did know how many people wanted to help you,” he adds. “I don’t think you let yourself see it.”
My throat tightens a little at that. I don’t have anything clever to say back. So I just look at him. And for a second, there’s nothing but the sound of the rain and something quietly settling between us. Something that’s been there for a long time.
"I remember when you used to ‘borrow’ my notes during our study sessions, and somehow they’d never make it back to me.” I say, a teasing edge in my voice.
Soobin casts me a glance I can’t quite read, then shifts his eyes upward to the ceiling. “They made it back… eventually.”
I raise an eyebrow. “After like two months. They were all crumpled by the time they came back to me, especially that one time you spilled banana milk on the cover of my notebook.”
“It was still readable.” He chuckles, unbothered.
"Barely. My color coded notes and neat handwriting deserved better."
Soobin smiles a little at that. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have let me sit next to you in class. That’s on you.”
I shake my head, lips twitching. “Unbelievable.”
“Resourceful,” he corrects, tapping his fingers lightly on the blanket.
I shift my body to completely face him, "You're still the same, Choi Soobin.." I chuckle softly.
Soobin mirrors my movement, turning just enough so we’re facing each other now, the space between us dim and quiet except for the rain outside and the faint hush of our breaths.
After a beat, he asks quietly, his voice softer than before, almost careful. “So… what are you thinking right now? Just between us.”
I offer a small, almost shy smile—less teasing, more real. “And what makes you think I’d just spill everything that easily?”
“Maybe because it’s just the two of us here, might as well keep things peaceful instead of turning this into another argument.”" He says, his voice soft but steady.
I’m not even sure when it all started—this endless back-and-forth between us, like kids fighting over the last piece of cake. What began as silent, resentful looks slowly turned into quiet digs, and now it’s just occasional sharp remarks whenever we cross paths.
It’s feels almost automatic now—like a reflex to sink into that sour mood when he’s around, the weight of all those old grudges clouding, filling me with disgust at the thought of Choi Soobin. But tonight, I'll take a slow breath and try to let it all go. I want to focus on staying civil, pushing all those unspoken frustrations aside, pretending for now that the tension between us doesn’t exist.
I let out a sigh. “Honestly? I’m just counting down the minutes ‘til the storm lets up and the power come back on.”
"Really?"
"Really." I lift an eyebrow, giving him a look.
"That’s all that’s on your mind?"
"What, were you expecting a secret confession or something?"
Fuck.
He lets out a quiet chuckle. “I don’t know... it just looked like your brain was running a marathon.” His voice is gentle, but there’s something curious laced in it—like he’s hoping I’ll prove him right.
I offer a small smile. “Well, I was also trying to figure out how we’re supposed to survive the next few days without driving each other insane.”
He laughs under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “That’s fair.”
A quiet moment stretches between us, the steady tap of rain against the window filling the space.
“But so far… I think we’re doing okay,” he says, voice thoughtful.
Then he glances over, meeting my eyes with a hint of hesitation. "Right?"
I hold his gaze for a moment, surprised by the softness in his voice—genuine, almost unsure. The kind of tone I wasn’t used to hearing from him anymore. A small part of me wants to scoff, to brush it off with another sarcastic remark. But instead, I find myself nodding—just barely.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I think we are.”
We both exchange soft smiles before breaking eye contact, the moment passing like a quiet truce.
"How about you?" I ask, voice softer now.
"Hm?" he responds, barely turning his head.
"What’s on your mind, right now?" I press gently, tilting my head slightly as I study his profile.
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Thinking about..." he trails on.
"How many points I lost in my game when the blackout kicked me out mid-match.”
I laugh softly, playfully smacking his arm. “I’m serious!”
“I am too! Do you know how hard it was to build up that streak?” He winces dramatically, rubbing the imaginary spot I hit. I roll my eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Yeah, I’m sure your streak is definitely the top priority right now" He chuckles at my comment, the corners of his mouth twitching in that familiar, slightly smug way.
I glance up at him, locking eyes—steady, deliberate. His expression shifts just slightly, something unreadable passing through, but I don’t look away. Not this time.
"Really." I murmur.
He pauses for a moment, just long enough to stir my curiosity. Something about the hesitation feels deliberate—but I don’t push. I stay quiet, waiting.
"I guess...” he starts, eyes fixed on the ceiling instead of me. “I was just thinking about how this feels a little like... high school again.”
I feel his words like a pang in my chest, old memories stirring just beneath the surface—unwelcome but familiar.
“Yeah,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “It does feel like that.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then, more carefully, “Do you… still think about that time?”
“Sometimes,” I admit, eyes fixed on some spot beyond him.
“When I start missing how easy everything used to be. Before college got... complicated”
Before it got complicated between us, too.
"I think about it sometimes too, you know.."
"Yeah?"
“Yeah. I mean, I probably shouldn’t admit it, but part of me did enjoy the whole back-and-forth thing between us." he says quietly, almost sheepishly.
"Don't go soft on me now, Choi." I say, a teasing edge in my voice.
He grins, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Me? Never."
"Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, buddy."
We both let out quiet chuckles, the tension between us easing just a little. Before I can stop myself, the words slip out,
“Do you think about what happened between us?”
He freezes, just slightly. It’s quick—almost like a flinch—but I catch it. He doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, his gaze drops to the blanket, fingers absently tugging at a loose thread on the blanket.
“…I-I don’t know.” His voice is low, uncertain.
“I haven’t really thought about it in a while.”
It’s not cruel, not even cold—just distant in a way that feels practiced. Like he’s been telling himself that for so long it’s starting to sound like the truth.
“Right.” I nod slowly, even if it feels like something inside me just cracked a little.
“Seems like forgetting stuff like that doesn’t take much for you.” I try to keep my voice even.
That finally makes him look at me. His eyes search mine like he wants to argue—but doesn’t know how to without proving my point.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, quietly.
“Then what did you mean?”
He hesitates.
I can see him trying to come up with the right thing to say—something that won’t make this worse—but he doesn’t land on anything.
So I say it for him. “Don’t do that.”
His brows draw together, confused. “Do what?”
"I don't know... Be nice to me, and when you finally let me in, you just shut me out again."
“I.. I don’t really know what you want me to say.”
“I just want you to…” I trail off, frustration tightening in my chest. “I just want you to tell the truth. For once.”
I sit up from where I was lying, the weight of the moment pressing down on me.
“I am telling the truth,” he says, sitting up as well, his voice firm.
I shake my head. “Bullshit.”
His lips part, but I cut him off before he can say anything. I don’t want to hear the excuses.
“I get it. It’s easier to pretend nothing ever happened, right? Like we can just go back to how things were.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”
He looks at me—really looks at me. His eyes trace my face like he’s trying to make sense of me.
“Do you want me to say you didn’t mean anything to me?” I freeze. I want to meet his gaze, but I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Is that what you think?”
He doesn’t answer. The silence between us feels heavy, like we’re underwater. I finally look up, meeting his eyes—and there it is: a flicker of something, maybe pain.
"Don't act like you know what's going on inside my head" he mumbles.
"Then just fucking tell me."
He hesitates, jaw tightening. For a long moment, nothing but the sound of our breathing fills the space between us. Then he exhales, looking away as his voice drops, rough around the edges.
“You act like you’re the only one who got hurt.”
That throws me. My shoulders tense, heart stuttering.“What are you talking about?”
He laughs once, a bitter sound that only makes my irritation flare hotter.
“You’re really going to play dumb now?” he asks, turning back to me, eyes sharp and unrelenting.
I don’t back down, my voice shaking with frustration. “No, Soobin. Fuck—I don't even know what you're talking about right now.”
He narrows his eyes, voice sharp and cutting through the tension.“What? You think I was just some asshole who ghosted you because I felt like it? That I woke up one day and decided to cut you out for no reason?”
“Yes!” I snap, louder than I mean to. “That’s exactly what it looked like! You shut me out—no call, no text, nothing. You left me to figure it out on my own.”
His face hardens, but something flickers beneath the anger—something that looks a lot like hurt.
“Stop acting so damn oblivious about it, Y/N!” he snaps, the anger bubbling beneath his tone.
“Oblivious about what?” I demand, my voice rising.
“The fucking letter!” he spits out, voice raw and desperate.
I blink, caught off guard.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my heart pounding.
His expression tightens, confusion mixing with disbelief.
“The note I left in your notebook—the one where I tried to tell you that I…” His voice falters, trailing off before he can finish.
I look at him, confusion twisting in my chest, my heart pounding louder. He didn't even need to say it. We both knew what he meant. Silence falls—long and suffocating—like the calm before a storm. Neither of us moves or speaks. It feels like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to break the tension. I could hear my heart thump in my chest so loudly I’m sure he can hear it too. Then, like a spark to dry tinder, the tension ignites.
“So you thought I was just supposed to know?” I burst out, voice sharp and trembling.
“That I’d just magically find your stupid note and feel the same—when you never even gave it to me?”
“I did give it to you, Y/N!” he snaps.
“I left the damn notebook on top of your locker before our final presentation that morning. You can’t tell me you didn’t see it.” he explains.
I go quiet, trying to pull the memory from the haze of that day. It was raining—I remember that. I was soaked, rushing through the hallway, trying to dry myself off. I’d thrown my umbrella carelessly on top of the locker… never even looked. His voice cuts in again, bitter.
“I found it the next day,” he says quietly, “In the trash bin. Not just the note—the whole damn notebook. Like you were trying to erase everything I said in that stupid letter, like I never mattered to you.”
He continues, "And you never said a damn thing! How was I supposed to read your mind? You shut me out just as much as I did!” His eyes flashing with anger again.
What?
“Shut you out?” I scoff, stepping closer. “You fucking disappeared! Left me in the dark. And now you act like I’m the villain?”
He scoffs back, voice low and bitter. “Maybe you threw everything away the moment you decided I wasn’t worth your fucking time.”
The air between us grows tighter, heavy with resentment and repressed frustrations. The heavy pressure building in my chest is matched with the rising intensity of the rainstorm outside. The atmosphere feels even more heated, caused by the swirling mixed emotions of hurt, frustration, and something else—something electric.
Without a second thought, my hand grips the collar of his shirt, yanking him toward me. His eyes widen in surprise for just a second—then I crash my lips onto his. His hand immediately finds my face, the other wrapping itself around my waist, pulling me even closer against him like he was afraid I'd disappear. The kiss felt raw, unfiltered, like the argument had just shifted into rougher means of showing our anger toward one another.
The taste of his minty toothpaste still lingers on his lips, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo, silently begging to let it drown out every logical thought as we pour all our frustrations we had been dragging for too long into the kiss. I move instinctively, sliding into his lap, my fingers tangling in his hair.
It all felt so messy, so chaotic.
I can almost hear a tiny voice in the back of my head saying we should talk this out like rational adults—that we shouldn’t be tearing into each other like this.
Fuck that.
I don’t stop. I know I don’t want to. Not when he's kissing me like this.
His hand slides from my waist to grip one of my thighs, anchoring me to him as I shift deeper into his lap, craving the friction. He catches my bottom lip gently between his teeth, and I gasp—just enough for him to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping into my mouth. My whole body reacts, heat pooling in my chest as my heart thunders louder than the storm outside. When we finally pull apart, breathless, neither of us moves.
Our foreheads pressed against each other, our breathing uneven, as our eyes lock into one another like we were trying our best to make sense of the situation I had pulled both of us into, not uttering a single word. Maybe we were both too afraid to break whatever this is—to say something that would snap us back into reality. A reality where we call this a mistake and pretend like this never happened, like we’ll be switching rooms tomorrow and going back to whatever we were before.
Quiet. Resentful. Or maybe.. we just don't know what the hell to say at all.
His fingers twitch slightly against my thigh before slowly loosening their grip. A flicker of disappointment stirs in me, my thoughts racing at the possibility that he might actually pull away. His eyes search mine, like he’s trying to find the right version of me—one that isn’t clouded by all the assumptions he’s built up over time.
"I… I didn't know you didn't get it," he finally says, voice low and hoarse. "The letter."
I nod gently, swallowing hard. "I didn't. I would've said something if I had."
"Would you?" he asks with no accusation in his tone. Just uncertainty. His voice is wrapped in hesitation, like he's bracing himself for something.
"Yeah," I whisper. "I would've."
He exhales sharply, eyes closing for a second like something inside him just gave way. The tension hadn't disappeared. It was just softer now. Everything between us feeling a little more fragile now, like we’re standing at the edge of something that could finally make sense.
“You really didn’t know,” he says, more to himself than to me.
I shake my head. "No. I think it got tossed before I even noticed it was there."
A beat passes as we continue to hold onto each other, like we're soaking in each other's presence for the first time without all the static.
“Then everything I thought… all this time…” His voice fades, but I know what he means. I feel it too.
All the distance, the biting remarks, the resentment (as much as they were all bullshit)—it wasn’t for nothing. It was built on misunderstandings we never cleared up. Feelings we were too scared to admit out loud, even to ourselves. We’d been stuck in denial, hiding behind the label of rivals—enemies, even—just to bury whatever this was… whatever it’s always really been.
“I thought you didn’t feel the same. That you never would,” he admits quietly.
“And I thought you never cared at all,” I say. The silence returns, but it’s different now. Warmer. Less hostile. There’s a tenderness in the space between us that wasn’t there before.
I start to feel a strange warm fuzziness blooming in my chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. His dark brown eyes lock onto mine as he brushes a loose strand of hair from my face, his fingers barely grazing my skin.
“I always did,” he whispers. My heart flutters at his confession.
This time, when I lean in, it’s slower. Softer. Soon, our lips meet again, it’s not rushed or angry. It’s quiet. Vulnerable. It’s everything we never said, everything we were too afraid to feel, poured into something that finally makes sense.
We hold each other tightly—like we’re learning how to, for the first time.
The next morning, the rain finally lets up. The air is crisp, the ground outside still damp and dark beneath the trees. Inside the cabin, the quiet is soft and unfamiliar, broken only by the rustle of clothes and the occasional creak of the floorboards.
I stir at the sound, blinking against the pale gray light filtering through the curtains. Soobin’s already up—half-dressed, moving carefully around the room like he’s trying not to wake me. Or maybe like he doesn’t know what to say if I do.
He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
There’s no bitterness in the silence—just a heaviness. Like the weight of everything we let slip last night hasn’t quite settled. He moves around the room quietly, slipping on a shirt, brushing his fingers through his hair. I watch him from the bed, the blanket pulled loosely around my waist, heart still beating slower than usual—like it’s unsure what rhythm to follow now.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. Not once.
Something about the way he avoids my gaze makes my chest tighten. Last night had felt like something cracked open. But now, in the soft gray light of morning, I’m not sure either of us knows what to do with the pieces.
Soon, we both step out of the cabin together, walking in silence toward the shared dining area. But the silence isn’t biting today—it’s just… tense. Like we both said too much last night and didn’t say nearly enough.
When we arrive, the others are already gathered around the long wooden table. Kai is in the middle of attempting to roll a grape down from his forehead into his mouth, much to Nari’s delight. She sits beside him, another grape pinched between her fingers, cheering him on like it was a sport.
The table erupts with laughter and exaggerated complaints about who snores the loudest. I smile at the sight.
“Look who finally made it,” Beomgyu grins, raising his cup of coffee. I roll my eyes, grabbing a seat beside Yeonjun. Soobin wordlessly takes the one across from me.
“Did you guys sleep in, or were you just avoiding us?” he adds.
I force a tired smile and settle into my seat. Soobin just nods. “Yeah. Just tired.”
"Last night’s storm kept us up pretty late.” I add.
“We didn’t sleep much either!” Yunjin jumps in. “Nari wouldn’t stop talking about the possibility of the lightning hitting one of the cabins that it got me fearing for my life too."
“I was being realistic,” Nari protests, and the table erupts again.
I laugh softly, eyes flicking to Soobin without thinking. The memory of our conversation the night before lingered at the edge of my thoughts.
I knew I made the right guess.
“We were talking about the storm earlier too,” Kai says, reaching for a slice of toast. “What did you two end up doing when the power went out?”
I see Beomgyu wiggle his eyebrows from the corner of my eye.
“Soobin lost his mind for a bit,” I say, voice light. "He got disconnected mid-game and wouldn’t shut up about some ranked streak,”
“And Y/N kept hogging the blanket,” Soobin adds, not missing a beat. “I don’t even know how she managed to wrestle with me while dead asleep.”
Groans erupt around us—dramatic and exaggerated. But underneath the teasing, something subtle lingers. A shift. They’re watching us now.
Not the way they usually do. Like they’re waiting for something. Like they know something’s changed—and they’re waiting for us to confirm it. Soobin stands abruptly and brushes crumbs off his shirt. “I’m gonna get some orange juice. You want anything?”
It’s casual. But the silence that follows isn’t. I glance up, just in time to catch how heads turn—slight, slow, like they’re trying not to make it obvious. But it is. Too fucking obvious.
They weren’t expecting that.
“Apple juice,” I reply, voice even. He nods once and walks off.
Taehyun leans in just enough to lower his voice. “You two okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired,” I repeat, too fast. Too practiced.
"Riiight," The boy hums, unimpressed, dragging the word out a little. His gaze lingers longer than it should. I don’t meet it.
I busy myself with the glass of water in front of me, pretending not to notice how the table feels quieter around me. Even Hueningkai, who’s usually the first to fill silences, pauses mid-bite to glance back and forth between us. It’s subtle, but they can tell. Everyone can.
The air between me and Soobin is heavier, different—like something broke open last night and we haven’t figured out how to patch it up again.
We don’t bicker. We don’t talk.
We were just stuck in this strange, unspoken truce, careful not to look too long or say too much.
Nari cheers suddenly, loud and triumphant.
“I did it! It actually landed in my mouth!” She beams, holding her hands in the air like she’d won a medal. Everyone laughs and claps, the attention shifting with relief. The tension breaks—but not for me.
Because a second later, I feel someone lean in from my left, too close to be casual. His voice lands soft and deliberate right at my ear.
"Orange does suit you, Y/N." Yeonjun murmurs, his voice low and teasing.
My gaze snaps to him, confused—until I see where he’s looking. Not at me. Not at my face. But at the purple mark hidden just behind my neck. Faint. Barely there. Not invisible, though.
Oh.
My heart skips, and I swallow. Across the table, Soobin sets down the two glasses—one in front of me, the other by his seat. His fingers brush the rim of mine for just a second longer than needed.
When I meet his eyes, he’s already looking at me.
There’s a quiet intensity in his gaze—something unspoken hanging between us. But instead of holding his stare, I look away first.
It feels easier this way.
a/n: heyyyy!! :D uhh im backkk akjsbfjasbf. I want to start posting wayy more like actually, like legit i promise. i'll also start replying to my requests and will open them soon again!!
anywayy, i still don't know how to feel about this fic since this is my first time writing something thats not a research paper in a hot minutee, but i hoped u guys like itt!!
(im also still trying to get comfortable writing a bit more suggestive fics, so this is my first entry on that!!)
also,, the way i kept giggling a bit to myself at the thought of Nari with her head just tilted up, mouth agape, moving around trying to catch that grape while everyone at the table sat in silence HELPP i find her soo cutee!!
𓅪 synopsis: do you ever truly forget a person? even those whom you have specifically paid to be removed from your mind? no matter how hard some try, some people can never be forgotten because the love and the hurt can be found in even the smallest things. memories easily triggered by nothing more than running your fingers through the grains of sand on the beach where you met, not once but twice.
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wc: 58.2k (omfg im sorry) ✶ warnings: fem!reader, angst, romance, bit of a science fiction au, memory loss, soulmate trope ish, depression, mentions of pregnancy, miscarriage, postpartum depression, talks about grief and loss, mentions of blood, multiple smut scenes, bulge kink, size kink, breast play, oral (f!rec), no protection, no pull out mention, lots of kissing, marking, scratching, fingering, multiple orgasms, crying during sex, handjob, im so sorry if i forgot some >< pls let me know if i need to add anything <3
ོ ⸝⸝⸝ now playing: back to me- the marías
an: i wrote this to make myself cry and im so sorry about that. this is based off the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, most of the movie is spent going through memories and this is a bit of my interpretation of that, although not as heavily as the movie does it. I don't know if it comes off too well here but I hope you enjoy this fic nonetheless <333 i worked really hard on this and it means a lot to me, kinda like my baby it took nearly as long to get it out from start to finish >< thank you so much to @beomiracles @heesmiles and @hyukascampfire for cheering me on for the last half of this fic it would have taken me a year to get this out if not for her and thank you so so so so much to @heejamas and @dawngyu for reading the first half of this fic when it was still happy and sunshine >< ✶ [m.list] [playlist]
He didn't know why he had come. Hands digging into the sand, the grains slipping between his fingers as he tried to recount the moments leading up to the train ride. His bed had been cold even with him in it, curled under the covers with a pounding in his head mimicking the repetitive slamming of a door somewhere down the corridor. The headache was not one that would lead to him calling out of work, and yet he was sitting on a beach in Montauk.
The surf crashing in its constant lullaby drowned out the line of Soobin's questioning. The chill of the last freeze was working its way throughout his body, enough to make him focus only on how red his nose must look, cold enough to fall off without him even noticing. There was still snow on the beach, pushed into the half melted piles around the worn down, sun bleached steps. The sky a hazy blue, only found in the winter months, grey and hidden behind a smokescreen of clouds blocking out any sun.
At first, he had not seen you standing right at the edge of the water. Scarf wrapped round and round, half shielding your face from the sea breeze. Your coat was a size too big, bunching around your wrists, fingers curled in your pockets, numb without gloves.
There had been an ache in your heart the moment you had woken up, hand curled in your pillow, wishing it was the strands of a lover's hair to run through absentmindedly. The thought had been trapped in your mind for a week, seen somewhere or read in a book you shouldn't have been flipping through during your shift at work. But it was persistent, continuously on a loop, your humming mixed with the gentle touch as if you could lull your imaginary love interest to sleep with nothing more than the brush of your fingerprints along their scalp.
It had never interested you to find someone to serenade, someone to comfort. But it had interested you to find that soft song here on the beach, the wind picking up enough to caress your cheek like the brush of a loving backhand. There had been little to do so far upstate except come here and stare at the shore while trying to find why you felt so hollow.
When you had told your roommate about taking the trip upstate, it had been nothing more than a passing sentence. “Montauk?” The word had sounded bitter coming from Kai, like the little beach town had personally hurt him in some way. “Why do you want to go there?” He had been distracted enough to spill his coffee, the counter covered, so you tried to explain whatever it was you were feeling.
“Yeah, I don't know why I just feel this need to go to the beach today.” You had shaken your head, “Don't wait up, I don't have to be into work till the afternoon tomorrow, and I might get dinner out there.”
“You want to take the last train out of Montauk?...” he had let the question linger in the air as if you were missing the context of something so clearly written out for everyone but you to see. For well over a week, it had been like this: Kai with his careful words punctuated with his scrunched brows as he watched you go about your daily life. It made the days feel like a cup at the edge of a counter, his worried looks only making it seem like you were one wrong move from shattering the glass with a careless brush of your sleeve.
“You make it sound like I suggested we should rob a bank and not look at a lighthouse on my day off,” you tried to laugh past it, shrugging on your coat that felt as if it had gotten a size too big in nothing more than a week. You toed on your shoes, hand bracing yourself on the handle of the door as Kai cursed, looking for a rag to clean up his mess, his eyes jumping back up to you like he was worried he missed your exit. It made you pause, brows scrunching. “Is something wrong?”
The question had been weighing heavily on your tongue since the first sight of Kai and his hollow eyes watching you. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, working on assignments, worrying over calls on his phone like someone was sick and he needed updates on their wellbeing. You had known him for years, longer than you knew any of your other friends. This was him after long nights of studying in his college dorm, only coming out for dinner after begging for him to take a break. This was not the smart, sensible Kai who went about starting his first year at his new job right with a neatly arranged sleep schedule.
“What?” he looked caught, playing dumb enough to make you push away from the subject. You would ask again if he kept it up because with the reaction he had now, it felt as if he was desperately trying to hide whatever it was until he fixed it. You would give him time, you would give him space until he was drowning and reaching out for your hand.
“Nothing,” you shook your head, “you can come if you want, I know the first train in, last train out, isn't really for you, especially in the winter, but it could be fun. We don't even have to stay all day,” the offer was a calming olive branch but Kai only looked away.
“I have work, why don't we go next weekend? We can take Yeonjun, and maybe it will be a bit warmer.” he was already fiddling with his phone, “I can ask him-”
“No, don't do that, we can still go next weekend, but I really feel like I have to go today, I don't even know how to explain it. I didn't realize living in the city would make me miss the beach so much.” Because your fingers ached to run through sand like they would run through hair, but it was impossible to say that to him, “And don't bother Yeonjun, he's been here all week, I'm sure he needs a bit of time away from seeing our faces.”
Like clockwork, Yeonjun had found time to spend with the two of you since last Saturday. He would be at the door, twisting the lock with the key Kai had gifted him the second you two had moved, so that someone would have the spare. In hand, he had your favorite warm drink from the shop right next to his place, his eyes scanning for Kai as he hung his coat. You wonder if he had sensed the change in him just as easily as you had. Their soft whispers in the living room lingered in the air when you rounded the corner to collect Yeonjun's kind gift.
But he had not come this morning with his to-go cup offering, and maybe that was because Kai was busy just as you needed to be. “I'll be fine. I'll text you when I'm on the train.” You go through the door before he can get the last word, closing it as you tell him. “Both ways!”
It wasn't until you were already on the train that Yeonjun called, phone tucked to your ear, voice low so the one other passenger wouldn't be bothered too much. “I could have called out, you know I love the little lighthouse, and the beach when it's cold,”
“No, you have been stuck at my apartment longer than your own. I'm sure your home office missed you just as much as your work office did.” Your knees were tucked up against the seat in front of you, arm slung across your stomach. “And the beach will be there next week.”
“I know, just call me if it gets too lonely, okay?” But tucked in between the way he said it was the undercurrent of worry, easily passed over if you hadn't known Yeonjun for years. Because as he tried to brush it off as casual, the glass was still right there on the edge of the counter, even if you weren't in the room. “Call me for anything.”
And almost as soon as you had hung up with Yeonjun, your mother called, the singsong tone echoing in the train as it pulled to a stop. You tucked the phone against your ear, hurrying off to the platform. The wind kissed along your cheeks, your lashes fluttering as you turned against the oncoming sea breeze. “Why are you taking solo trips all the way out to Montauk? It's not even the season for it.”
“Mom-” either one of your friends could have told her, your money placed right over Kai's name.
“No, you should have gone with someone, what if-”
“I'm fine, god. Why is everyone worrying over a train ride? It's not like I’ve never been out here alone, and hardly anyone ever comes out here anyway. Hell, only one other person was on the train with me,” the other lone passenger already headed out in the direction of the beach.
“I'm just worried, what if-”
“I'm fine, I'll text you just as well as Kai when I'm headed back, I'll even send you a picture of the lighthouse.” You shoved your free hand into your coat pocket, fingers already tingling from the cold, balling the digits into a fist, trying to keep the warmth tucked into the space for as long as you could. “I'll call you when I get back if that works to clear your mind.” It was the only way to soothe her enough to let you off the line.
The calls played in your head for only as long as it took you to get to the edge of the water. The lapping rhythm of the surf is enough to make your eyelids heavy. It didn't matter how long it had been since you stood on the edge of the sea; its soft song never ceased to intertwine with your circadian rhythm. And whatever longing you had been feeling was slowly washing away with the tide, pulling the ache in your fingers away until it was lost to the only place that could make you feel whole.
Closing your eyes, you let the wind coming off the water rustle your coat, tug at your red scarf. And like an unfurling ribbon, it went blowing behind you, your shocked gasp at the sudden kiss of cold on your lips more surprising than the way the scarf twisted in the air.
Soobin had been halfway to standing, hand at the back of his thigh, brushing away the sand, just about to leave, when he watched you stumble to rush after the windswept fabric. It was hurtling towards him, unravelling a string of events that would last longer than a lifetime.
He caught the scarf before it could slip by him, your shoes kicking up the sand behind you, as you slowed to a stop from your running, awkward laugh mixed in with his nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn't even realize I hadn't tied it right.”
“It's okay,” he passed it back to you, warmth from his gloved hands already seeping into your greedy skin from nothing more than a brush. “I’ve lost a fair bit of scarves to the wind here, umbrellas, and I think a pair of shoes once.”
“You took the train home barefoot?” You only made the assumption he wasn't from around here because of the shared train ride, the only other passenger stuck to hear your conversation with Yeonjun, and maybe even the one with your mom if he cared enough.
“I still had my socks but not my dignity,” he smiled enough to show the round crater dimple punctuating his cheek like a statement of cuteness, his hair caught in the wind on his brow, easily tossed and pushed aside, begging to let your fingers run through to fix. “So, might as well come to the rescue and return this to you.”
It was a moment, fleeting, and yet unmistakable: “Do I know you?” You were trying to place his face, his build, rifling through your memory looking for spaces that would seem to fit him in, and yet you came back with nothing at all. All except that ache in your fingers. “Or do you shop at the bookstore off of 6th Ave?”
Soobin was caught on your face long enough to get stumped on the question, trying and failing to picture you sitting behind the counter at the checkout, trying again for the counter at the shared coffee shop in the same building. “I do, but I d-” but he couldn't quite place his finger on it; he knew he would never be able to forget a face like yours, and it nagged him to no end when he looked at the dip of your nose and knew he had only just dreamt of a shape so similar.
“That must be it, I see so many people from all around New York, or even all the states,” you wound your scarf back around your neck, tucking the end into your coat. “You should come by next Friday, we are having this huge sale on hardbacks, although if you live far, it probably wouldn't be good to carry all of them through the city,”
“Good to know, I'm only a block over, so it's no big deal,” he felt himself flushing, cheeks and ears red over a casual conversation. Because in everything in him, he wanted to keep talking to you, and it made him embarrassed to feel this crush sink in, in nothing more than a second of easy going. He hadn't had a crush in a long time, not one that suddenly made his stomach twist in that all too familiar way; it wasn't a feeling one forgot often.
“Great, if you stop by my checkout kiosk, I'll give you a discount, a ‘save my scarf savings,’” you giggled, smile hidden, and Soobin wanted nothing more than to catch it with his eyes at least once.
He had never felt brave, not enough to step up to girls and ask questions, never brave enough to rush for the door before it shut just so that he could squeeze in on the ride up a crowded elevator. He preferred to take the long way, hoping that one day he would stumble upon a girl while she took that same trip, but it was never in his mind to reach out first. But now, with you standing here, the two of you the only ones on a beach that felt healing, he asked a question he had never predicted coming from his lips, even on the most confident of days. “Do you want to get lunch with me?”
You watched the way the wind ruffled his hair again, blowing back and exposing his forehead, only to sweep along his temples. And for a moment, there was an inkling of jealousy threaded through the sight because you wanted to be the one to do it at least once. “Of course, I know this little sandwich shop right past the last lighthouse, and I also know how to get us up to the top of said lighthouse to eat if you want.”
Soobin didn't feel a hint of discomfort at the idea. Spending a moment alone with a pretty girl over the water would have made his palms sweat, but with you? He hung onto the invitation like a token of some new beginning he wanted to keep in a jar. “Okay,” the words on the edge of some whispered hope, worried if he spoke too much, too loud, you'd slip away as easily as your scarf had.
There was something easy about the way the two of you fit side by side. As if your footsteps were on top of each other instead of behind you, leaving trails of your passing only a few inches away from the other. Your hands shoved down into your coat pockets, chin tucked as you looked at him, both of you caught on features of the other's face as if you were still looking for something. Because never in your life had you believed what was read in books, that people fall in love with nothing more than a glance, catching sight of something in the other person without having ever spoken a word to them, and just knowing.
Standing here sharing names felt like a rerun of a life you didn't know if you had lived before. Everything was so easy that time slipped away, crunched and forgotten like leaves fallen and blown away until it was only just the two of you sitting on that train back to New York.
You hadn't sat right next to each other, one seat in front of him, leaning over the back of it, peering over the edge like a child caught in her crush. You didn't want to waste too much of a good thing, greedy on the best of days, but not when it felt like if you ran out of him, you'd feel nearly as empty as you had just that morning.
The two of you had spent the whole day together, piecing a life together from all the past things until they made one person you hadn't yet discovered. And you stumbled to understand everything about him, hands pushing back the layers of him, reading the book of him cover to cover, starting with his order at the sandwich shop, all the way to his fear of slipping from the salt rusted bars keeping the two of you from falling over the side of the lighthouse into the sand.
“It feels like I've known you forever,” your fingers aching, the sentiment bubbling up slowly until it was overflowing from your lips, once, twice, a third time, sitting right there in front of him on the train home, wishing that the day wouldn't end so fast. “Is that weird?”
You were slightly lifted, looking down on him in his seat, his stare caught between a look of awe and understanding. And maybe that's what it was, that look of his round brown eyes, drawing lines along your body that had never felt so seen before. Because he only blinked back at you with a lazy grin, the kind that was only there because they didn't know it was, the kind people ask why you're smiling, wanting a taste of that carefree tilt to their lips. “No, not weird at all,”
And he wasn't lying, the pounding in his head was gone, replaced by your giggle, a bell versus that constant slamming of a door he found himself waking up to and not for. “I feel the same way,”
Neither of you knew that it had not been the first time you had met. And neither of you knew it wasn’t the first time you had reached out with steady hands and pushed his hair back and behind his ears, threading through the strands like a memory. That ache satisfied and ignited something that would make it impossible to go out because it had already been kindling, waiting to turn roaring. Only neither of you knew how easily it had been close to being snuffed out entirely after a blow strong enough to leave a candle flickering in half smoke and half desperation.
Because it had been on a beach in Montauk that the two of you had met all those years ago, a summer bustling with people, shoeless and down on dignity, Soobin had stumbled into your life. Your laugh caught him as easily as he had your scarf. Your eyes pinned to his wiggling toes, trying to shake the sand from the fibers of his socks with little progress being made. “They sell sandals right on the edge of the beach, right next to the beach houses.”
“I just think my friends are hiding my shoes from me, they will give them back eventually or i hope so at least.” because Beomgyu had taken them right off of him, tugging on his legs until he could free the shoes while ignoring Soobins shouting, Taehyun holding him down from twisting too much as Beomgyu did the dirty work. But it had been a while since he had seen either of them, too busy mingling with the rest of the summer crowd to care about Soobin and his shoes.
“Well, if they don't, just think of my suggestion,” and it would have been the end right there if it hadn't been that Yeonjun and Taehyun went to the same gym, or even if Kai hadn't shared a mandatory study schedule with beomgyu. The pairs of them suggested taking the last train out, to just stay long enough to watch the sunset over the water, to sit along the sand for as long as it took to watch the families make their ways home to the beach houses littering the shore off in the opposite direction of the lighthouses so neatly waiting at the rocky cliffsides.
No one had brought entertainment, the food had long since been eaten, and Soobin's shoes were found to make excellent toys to kick around between the boys like a makeshift ball. And it had been there where he had found the only courage he had needed to talk to you, no long path, no avoidance, just casual as you watched the way the sky went from a blue primary hue, to pink orangesicle, to a dusty salted dreamscape. Because as the boys played, the two of you started a fire, sat around the embers with knees touching and souls twisting. Talking long enough for the two of you to forget you had come with others and not alone, with only one another.
The two of you dragged behind as you walked, Soobin's shoes in hand, wet and dripping from the final kick, sending them all the way into the ocean, enough so that Yeonjun went in the still sun-warmed water to catch them before they could be lost to the tide. But he didn't even care that he was trekking in sand after him on the train, not when the two of you sat knee to knee, thigh to thigh as you listed your favorite novels. All stocked on the shelves back at your apartment, on the shelves at your job, just waiting for Soobin to buy and find one more chapter of you that he had yet to discover.
And when the train pulled into the station, he had been distracted enough to truly lose his sneakers, left under the seat; he wished he could have spent all night so long as it led to him talking more with you about nothing and everything. And when you two were supposed to split, waving goodbye to new friends and old ones, neither of you wanted to let go.
With Beomgyu on one side, teasing him, and Taehyun on the other, telling Soobin he should have given you his number, he looked back at you across the street looking back at him. And it didn't matter if he looked like a madman, he turned back, hand cupping his mouth as he shouted across that nearly empty New York street right at the head of the subway stairs, “Do you work tomorrow?”
The question had pulled everyone to a stop, your face heating up, not caring if Yeonjun and Kai joked over the clear crush you had formed over a single beach trip, “On Monday! You'll visit me, right?”
“I wouldn't miss it!” Not when he had found someone so interesting he forgot himself enough to shout into the busy city just to catch one more line with you. And while both of you left in the opposite direction, you still wore identical, hazy, love-struck, love-sick smiles all the way home.
It had been instant then, and it was instant now. The unfurrowing of your life lines not crossing once, but twice, when the two of you had done everything in your power to forget one another.
The treatment had been offered as a last ditch effort to pull your relationship out of a sinking ship. A lifeline tossed into the water, thrashing with unrelenting emotions, drowning the both of you until the waves were too high and too heavy to fight. But it had not been like that at first; your ship was just sailing, and the masts were heavy and strong with each gust of wind heading your way. No low going self-implosion waiting on your horizon. At least not just yet.
Because at the start of it all, on that Monday morning, Soobin had called in sick, faked a strained voice with the aid of his sleep-ridden one, and made sure to secure the full day without a blink of an eye. He didn't know when you started your shift, if it was in the afternoon or even at night; all he knew was that he would be there waiting to be checked out with your favorite novel tucked in the crook of his elbow.
He hadn't gotten your number, and distance made the heart grow fonder, so the only replay in his mind was the way you made him laugh and the way he wanted to see you laughing right along with him. And when he arrived, you hadn’t been in sight, the checkout counters bare of people, just as the rest of the store. His languid stroll only made him take in the place as you might have seen it. The towering light washed wooden shelves holding far too many books to not make the place feel cramped in the best way possible. Ladders sitting at the edge of each aisle waited, and he wondered how often you must have had to climb up one for a customer scared to reach a height they hadn't been expecting for a paperback.
And as he rounded that last corner, he ran into you with your apron on, the bookstore logo tattooed on the front in delicate green stitching above the neatly done black of your name. “You came,” your voice hooking him in the way it was just so easily said, an exhale that he had been waiting to feel the second he saw you again. Because it had been a bit like holding his breath. His anxious mind worked to ask him the question: Was she really like how he remembered her, or was it just the salt and the sand influencing his mind?
But it hadn't been the beach, not when you stood so vividly alive there, just as you had sitting next to him on the shore and the train. “I told you I wouldn't miss it,” because anything he had been feeling washed away, and he was just a boy in a store flirting with a girl he felt like he had known for a lifetime.
Soobin had followed you around for your shift, watching you stock the shelves, letting you talk through a book you liked, telling him the plot, the setting, the hook, line, and sinker. He didn't need to speak, didn't feel the need to interject about himself when it was so easy and intoxicating to soak up all the knowledge you laid out before him. Your dislikes were wrapped up neatly in the nonfiction section, and your likes were presented right before him in every little microexpression as you read him the opening paragraph of the one book he had come in searching for.
And when customers came over to speak to you, asking questions, checking out, Soobin stumbled around, busying himself with sorting his feelings as if they hadn't just dumped on him like a bucket of ice cold water. He had never liked someone so instantly, so intensely, so much so that he cataloged your favorite drink from the cafe without a second thought, promised himself to try it if he couldn't kiss the flavor from your lips one day.
And when it was the end of your shift, he was your last customer; he slid the book over the counter with a smile permanently tuned onto his face. “Just the one?” your easy act as if you hadn't spent the whole time talking together, working to make him chuckle.
“Yeah, I heard this great review of it,” the scan of the barcode mingled with your giggle.
“Did you? They must have excellent taste,” you were sitting down, looking up at him, the receipt printing before you tugged it free, taking a pen and writing out your number right on the bottom with a little heart written next to that girl from Montauk. You tucked it into the book, sliding it over to him, breaking the spell of your joking with, “Will you wait for me until I clock out? I mean, you don't have to, I know you spent nearly all day with m-”
“I wouldn't want to spend it anywhere else. I know a great cafe near my place, if you want to get a late lunch?” he had blushed, cheeks and ears a kissable pink as you nodded yes. Because neither of you wanted the day to end, holding onto whatever you could so that the time wouldn't pass like it had that first day. So when your late lunch ended, the two of you walked around the park, sat at the benches looking out over the fountain, and talked like you would never run out of things to say before it was growing dark, and you both had to find a way home.
The air had been cold, dropping to a point that even the dense city couldn't keep out the wind, and you linked your arm in his, taking a step closer so that every few feet the two of you nearly stepped on one another. “So you wanted to be a…”
“Singer,” Soobin shook his hair out at the confession, your fingers drumming along his bicep, reminding him how close the two of you stood. “I know it's a bit embarrassing, but if I could do anything at all besides you know being an accountant, I think I'd be a performer,”
“I think we have to go out to karaoke for our next date.” It had been a slip of words, one he caught and held onto without letting go.
“Next date?” he had taken you right up the stairs, standing outside your apartment door with the front light glowing and golden washing down on you, putting you on the spot. You felt hot all over, face pressing into his arm like it would hide your slip up and yet it didn't matter because you wanted all your cards on the table; you wanted him to see every facet of your mind, even for a blinding second.
“Forget I said anything embarrassing, okay?” You dug around in your pocket for your keys, “and call me after your mind has been erased of my misstep.”
But Soobin didn't care, not when the slip up made him feel seen. He had felt blind, looking for any reason that you might like him enough to keep this up, whatever it was, but he knew he didn't want to be just friends. And finding out now that you weren't viewing him in that way fixed his stomach, unraveling all the knots when his mind had been leading him down a path of self-destruction and irrationalization. “Next time we can see a movie, eat, get drinks, and then karaoke.”
You had looked over at him, smiling, trying and failing to keep it away, tipping down at the edges as you nodded, “Okay,” the soft whisper so hopeful it hurt. You had just opened the door, the handle caught in your hand, as the sound of Kai's laughter rang out into the night, the faint sound of the video game filling in all the space in the hall. " And next time, kiss me before you leave.”
Soobin couldn't help but look down at your lips, eyes flickering from your mouth and back up the slope of your nose to make sure he had heard you right. His nod so shy he felt his palms sweat. It was one thing you had loved so much about him, the way he made it feel like you were the only person who had ever or could ever make him feel this way. The awkward cuteness he found himself wearing so often would trail around the two of you, with every brush of your hand, every kiss, and every word. You watched his throat bob, his mind working so fast he didn't have time to question if it was the wrong thing to do before he was leaning in.
It was a short kiss, his lips meeting yours just enough so that his mind could catch up with what he had done, so he tried to pull away. But you had let go of the doorknob, hand sliding up the front of his sweater in a way that left him aching for more, and you gave it to him, pulling him right back to your mouth and clearing his worries. Because you wanted him just as desperately as he wanted you. The small touches, the gentle laughs, and all the words you could fit between the two of you. Kissing only clarified both of your emotions, made it known that whatever was blooming would be diligently taken care of until it was a packed garden buzzing with life and understanding.
And when Soobin left and went home, he replayed the way your fingers had found their home right to the back of his neck, threading through his hair and tugging him closer. He lay in bed with the echoing of that feeling sinking into his bones like a shot of something he should have never taken, for it was the worst kind of thing to find yourself addicted to. It had only been two days of knowing each other, a few more of knowing of each other, and yet he wanted nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and tuck himself as close as he could, to feel the hum of your words on your neck as he pressed his face against your pulse.
It was instantly recognized when you closed your door behind you after that first kiss. Kai looked over at you standing in the entry, caught in that webbing only a crush could tug you into, with your fingers ghosting over your bottom lip, trying and failing to mimic the feeling of his mouth on yours, so you could aid the replay. Your names mixed in with the rhythmic teasing of the words, sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g, your hands covering your face because you couldn't help the smile at the sing-song tilt to Kai's voice.
Soobin had texted that next morning, setting a song for your ringtone, putting a heart next to your name, and deleting it again because he felt silly and like you weren't quite his just yet. But in every sense, the two of you belonged together, even if not visible to the two of you, it was impossible to deny from an outside perspective.
He worked late, woke up earlier, and had little time for himself, but he would make time for you. Before, when he would come home, loosening his tie, he'd kick off his shoes and stretch out on the couch to watch whatever he had been playing to pass the time, or even load a quick game on a weekend that he didn't have to leave the comfort of his home for. Now he was thinking of ways to blend you in without feeling like it was too much too soon. But you didn't mind any of it, taking the opportunities as they came.
So the two of you spent time grocery shopping, Soobin pushing the cart, following you down every aisle, even the ones you didn't need to spend time down, only to spend more time together, just talking and giggling as you went. He carried the bags upstairs, only making you take the bread and eggs even when you complained that you could handle more, while still making time to hold the door open for you when you made it up. Trusting you with the keys and still reaching around you to push it open.
You would sit on his kitchen counter, watching him move around, placing everything away, talking about the way he had empty walls and hardly any furniture. “You live like a college student with your first paycheck,” and when Soobin pulled open his cabinet, he pulled out a single mug and asked you if you wanted tea. “You only have one mug! How are we supposed to enjoy tea together?”
“Well, I didn't think I'd have a pretty girl over who would need her own mug, but I'm more than willing to give her mine,”
He smiled to show his dimples, cute teeth on display when you muttered, “Next date we have to go pick up a picture frame or two, and another mug.”
“I was thinking we could go back out to Montauk for the fireworks show this Friday, but only if you wanted to, or we could do something else, anything you want.” His rambling and pink cheeks only made you nod. Your laugh easing his nerves.
“We can do anything, and I love the beach, there is something about the sea that you can just never forget about, like I think I'll always remember the way the sand feels between my fingers." You held your hand out, spreading each digit in front of you, peeking between them before he reached out, lacing his fingers with yours, the width of his palm eating up your own, the pads of his fingertips soft along the back of your hand.
He had stepped into your space, right between your legs, equal height, sitting up on the counter, looking at each other, remembering your kiss, and wishing you had never stopped kissing him. His free hand rested next to your thigh, his eyes trained on your lips before he leaned in, stopping so close that the two of you brushed noses. So close that it felt easy to confess even something as small as a grain of sand, “You remind me so much of the sea.” Your hand not intertwined with his now threading through his hair, right at the back of his neck, just as he had remembered and prayed for to happen again. Your words whispered so close to his mouth that he could swallow them down and keep them tucked to his heart. “Like you’ll be impossible to forget,”
You had spoken out his exact thoughts, written them out between the two of you just before he kissed you again and again. And it never needed to be more, both of you following the ease with which the relationship was taking you. Breathing so easily, even when you pulled away and knew it was okay, felt that a kiss could be something that wasn't scary and added questions, but something shared because you wanted to, needed to.
That night had been spent on his couch watching movies and playing games, falling asleep and leaning on his shoulder, waking up to his arms around you holding you just as close as you had held him.
Neither of you had asked your friends to come out to Montauk that second time, taking the trip on one of the busiest trains that went out that time of year. With Soobin carrying your picnic basket out and you with the blanket rolled and tucked under your arm, ready to be placed on the sand amongst the families who made it a yearly thing to come out to see the fireworks. It didn't matter that you had only just met, not when you fit so closely that there was no need to stretch out your arms and ask for distance.
Both of you eating and playing a card game, the deck loosely held down by stones collected from the sand so they wouldn't blow away. The world went on around you two. The giggling of the kids being chased by their parents rang out in the salt soaked air, the sun just setting out over the water, as people started their bonfire, getting ready to roast marshmallows, to sit back and enjoy their prepared food and carefully grilled barbecue.
And when the show started, you both sat side by side, thigh to thigh, leaning back on your hands just enough to see the dark night sky bursting with colors. Red and yellow, raining down and casting threads of illumination on the pretty features of Soobin's face. Your eyes traced the shape of his nose, the dip of his dimple, the catch in his smile as he looked up in awe.
Looking at him left no room for questions; if this was a glimpse into a life you could have, you wanted it, reached out with greedy fingers, and begged never to lose. And neither of you felt like letting go just yet, not when the two of you could spend most of your time out on the beach in silence. Picnic left to find the quieter side of the sand.
It was only just up from the crowd that the row of spaced out beach houses rested. Right amongst the long sun lightened blades of grass swaying in the salty breeze. Linking arms, the two of you looked up at the two stories, half lit with families who had turned in early.
“I wonder if people live here year round, if they listen to the sea even in the winter,” you questioned as Soobin's warmth cut through the thin fabric of his jacket, soaking into you and making it easier to speak without thought.
“I don't know if the houses right on the beach are built for much snow. I'm sure they have a hard time keeping all the sand out.”
“It's kinda sad for them to just stay empty,” out over the water, the lighthouse shines, the slow circle of the beam easy to follow from any distance. You're sure that even a lighthouse keeper would find it lonely to spend their days on a cold beach in January compared to nights like this in July. “Imagine all the snow on the beach, that alone feels kinda magical, just to be left empty…”
“You would live in a house like this year round?” The question had set him thinking, picturing a life with you right here on the beach where you met, the sand building in the corner by the front door, watching the water from the porch, sharing a cup of coffee with the mug you had picked out for such occasions so early on in the relationship where it should have been a suggestion to slow down.
But it didn't feel like either of you was moving fast. For a second, it felt as if the blurred edges you had held around relationships had sharpened with a clarity you would have never known, less you met Soobin that day. The suggestion of slowness felt like wading through water instead of swimming through it. If he wanted you to spend time wrapped up in his arms at his place, you wouldn't stop him from asking with a waving yellow flag.
Being with him felt like being in the center of a high school gymnasium dance floor, blue iridescent streamers hanging from the rafters and swaying in a rhythm that mimicked your shy steps on the linoleum. The glowing mirrorball reflecting spots of incandescent light over the two of you, framing you in a world alone where you felt giddy enough to be even asked to share this dance. Soobin was wrapped up in a shyness that did not show inexperience but willingness to learn with a faint hint of worry about messing things up when they felt so fragile. It was that softness that pulled you in, and it was the confidence that you had in him that sent him stumbling right in after you down that rabbit hole of this uncharted relationship.
He didn't care if it felt too soon to just sit and think about you and him sharing a house, dancing in the kitchen, sharing a bed, inviting all your friends over just because you wanted to bask in the giddy glow he was radiating. Being a hopeless romantic felt suffocating on the worst of days, enough so that he had tricked himself into believing he was a skeptic, putting distance between his heart and his sleeve in fear of a stray swing of a backhand that would take years to recover from. He kept his place bare, buried himself in his work, and prayed to stumble on love, and he had gotten what he had wanted.
Everything he had been looking for was standing right at the edge of those sand-covered stairs, your head tilted into his bicep as you hummed in question. “I could see it, and I think I’d love to live right here, quiet in the winter, warm in the summer, seagulls as pets.”
The last line was enough to catch him unexpectedly, giggle genuine and lasting. “Seagulls? They would probably wake us up like roosters do on farms,”
“Built in alarm clocks, maybe we would become morning people? Watching the sunrise as the waves hit the rocks by the lighthouse,”
“As much as I would pray it would be warm, I'm sure the mornings and nights would be a bit chilly. I'd want to spend as much time curled up in bed as I could, snuggling for hours.” Soobin had pulled you in closer, his nose dipping to your ear as he said it, burying his face into your neck at the suggestion. The tickling of his lashes and soft lips made you laugh.
It had been the first night you had spent in his bed, the train coming in late enough for you to worry about him walking all that way back to his place alone. His persistent talk of him sleeping on the couch shut down over and over again. “It's your bed, if anything, I should be the one-”
“I'd never make you sleep on the couch,” he seemed appalled by the suggestion, pushing the door to his room open to reveal the half-made bed, still sleep wrinkled with half the duvet pulled to the side. “Here,” he had pulled out his pajamas from his neatly folded clothes in his dresser, “you can take anything you want to wear to sleep, and the bed is yours.”
It was only after you changed that he finally let you convince him to get between the sheets. The white duvet pulled up to your chin as you rolled your eyes at his suggestion of making you uncomfortable. “I've never felt more comfortable with a person before,” you reached out, taking his hand just to trace the lines of his palm, his fingers twitching from the sensitivity, curling around your own. “I've never been so happy to have met someone,”
The swell of that feeling sat in your chest, not heavy but whole. You slid closer to him, sinking into the dip in the bed his body made, until it would take effort to pull away. His arms were a comforting weight around your body as you lay your head on his chest, tucked under his chin to hear his heartbeat, the erratic rhythm of it making you smile. And you had fallen asleep that first night in his bed, listening to the way his heart slowly started to even out, his body relaxing just as well as yours, melting into one another, tangled legs and syncing breaths.
It had been easy to fit into each other's lives, your friend group getting along enough to spend every other weekend out together at one of your apartments, although your shared place with Kai became a closet as you spent most of your off time over at Soobin's. Within the year of you two being together, you had hung up frames, bought mugs, and shopped for groceries with your things mixed in the cart, Soobin reaching for them without thinking twice.
The six of you crammed into Soobin's tiny living room, the couch only big enough for two and a half. Hence, you wedged yourself into his lap, his arms wrapped around you, the younger three boys sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, while Yeonjun sat focused on the tv next to Soobin and you. Video game controllers taking turns between four of you at a time. It was all you ever needed on a weekend, time slipping past until in that soft, comforting way that made you realize that maybe these little things were all you needed to feel content.
The summer had come in a wave of heat, Soobin, and you were making it out to Montauk for the fireworks just as you had the year before, taking the last train back without the question of where you would spend the night. Pulling open the drawer he had cleared for your things, only to pick one of his shirts to wear time and time again to bed.
There was no loss of that shyness Soobin held seeing you in his bed, no loss of that admiration that you wanted to spend your free time wrapped up in him, with him. He would spend a million mornings watching your eyes open, your first instinct to kiss at his neck, the soft brush of your lips making the corner of his mouth tip up like you had found the button to his happiness right against his adam's apple, his pulse point.
He would shuffle out of bed after you, rubbing sleep from his eyes, watching you in the mirror as you brushed your teeth, his hands over your body begging you to just call out, stay back with him in bed so he wasn't so lonely on his day off. You had tried to fix your work schedule to align with his, taking shifts so that you both worked the same, so that you didn't have to resist his pleas, the temptation so easy when he was this warm.
“Stay with me,” his mouth right at your ear, as you rubbed your moisturizer onto your face, his hands slipping under the shirt you had just put on for work, thumbs running soft circles over the skin of your stomach. “I'd make it worth it,” he'd whisper, his fingers just slipping into the waistband of your jeans, tracing along the thin fabric of your panties.
It was nearly impossible to pull away from him, his promises always fulfilled, his words of encouragement and praise filling his small bedroom with each pass of his skilled fingers. Your work clothes carefully tugged off, forgotten on the floor, and not picked up until the next day because you would inevitably get up again at noon after falling right back asleep in his arms. You didn't care if you walked around his apartment in nearly nothing, his shirt taken off his back and given to you, his grey sweatpants low on his hips as he made you both a mug of tea.
You'd sit on the counter like that first time, blowing the steam from your mug that he had picked out for you that first week of being together, one extra in the cabinet for when his mom came over for a visit. Soobin between your legs looking over his own cup with his dark hair a mess from either sleep or your fingers.
And on days when you needed to resist, he would walk you all the way to your job, kiss you, and leave only to come back half an hour later with a cup of coffee, order memorized since that first day, a muffin picked from the display case because he knew you needed something to eat. He would sit in the coffee shop with his laptop, playing games or reading, following you around as you stocked books to plan weekends with the boys. “It's going to snow next week, we could go out to Montauk and sit at the lighthouse drinking hot chocolate,”
“Your birthday is next weekend, don't you want to spend it with everyone?” You had already planned to pick up his cake, the boys saying they would come over with their gifts and games.
“I kinda wanted to rent a place out there, spend it with my favorite person, in our favorite place,” he blushed as he said it, pursing his lips as if he let too much slip, as if the two of you hadn't made it any more clear that you were obsessed with each other. But he couldn't help himself, every passing day he found more that he didn't know about you, more to discover because knowing each other a year wasn't enough when he wanted a lifetime of birthdays spent in bed with you on a cold beach, kissing warmth back into each other with every passing day of new discovered knowledge. “Too much?”
“No,” you let the word out on a short, breathy laugh, “we can do anything you want, you're never too much,” you couldn't kiss him then, not while the store was half full of regulars as you reach up to put a book on the shelf but you want to, felt it calling to you whenever it was that he let that boyish shyness show. “Just let me know if I should invite everyone, even if it's only for a few hours.”
“Yeah, we can do breakfast at that spot right by the apartment, pancakes with a candle in it, that kinda thing, then we take the train out together, I don't really care, I just want you to be there.”
“Of course I'll be there, you act as if I don't basically live at your place.” You couldn't remember the last time you slept alone there. You had made quick visits to see Kai and pick up loose items you hadn't realized hadn't made it over to Soobin's. You still paid rent, and Kai said he'd never kick you out because he would always give you a place to stay, rent or no rent. The only reason he couldn't keep you from paying was because you had the account information to submit your half when it was due. And when the time came that you did officially move in with Soobin, it was never a big transition. Kai kept your room just as it was, your sheets still on the bed, your boxes still in the closet.
“I know,” he shrugged, shoulder to his ear, cheeky smile showing his dimple you found yourself kissing almost too often. “I just like to hear you say it.”
You booked your weekend stay on the beach even if it was going to snow, and changed the plans with the boys so they could catch him before the train ride out of the city. That Friday morning, the six of you packed yourselves into one booth, ordering a table's worth of food, plates clinking from the amount. You had packed a bag's worth of loose birthday candles, enough for every year you were celebrating him being alive. His stack of pancakes punctured with a rainbow of candles, the lighter you had brought going slowly as you tried to light each one, Yeonjun leaning over the table to help take one fast melting candle around to the others, trying not to get wax all over and failing.
Happy birthday was sung loud enough for people to join in over their morning coffee, clapping as Soobin shyly blew out his candles, hiding his face in your neck when the boys didn't stop singing and started to harmonize. “Make them stop,” his laugh caught right against your collarbone.
And when the two of you left to catch your train, you sat in the same seats you always did, right in the middle with Soobin sacrificing the window seat so that you could get the best view, even on his birthday. Your weekend bag was packed together and tossed over his shoulder as he held your hand while you got off. The snow had not started to fall, but would come in the night just as the forecast had stated. Both of you bundled up in your coats, walking close together until you were almost stepping over each other.
“Look at that,” the rental right at the edge of the sand, overlooking the slice of beach just in sight of the lighthouse. The place is big with five rooms, a house made to host people on the summer weekends like the one you had met on. “The street is empty, all except our place.” The road right at the back of the houses void of any cars, even the trash bins are all pulled in and kept away from any blowing winds.
“It's why I could get us the best price at the best place, the beach is private and blocked off just for us.” Even if no one was there, it felt special and all your own, cut away from the city, from everything but your love.
You had picked up the keys where you had been told they would be, fiddling with the lock, trying to get your fingers to steady with the wind pinching them enough to leave them trembling. Tossing your bag down right next to the entrance, not caring about anything else besides making it out to see the sunset over the water before it was too late. Soobin wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest, to warm both of you up.
With only the sound of the water, you both sat down in the sand, seagulls gone and the lighthouse making its rounds as the night started to dip to a faded grey, sun caught behind the clouds, so there was only the outline of light along the shore. Soobin kissed the top of your head, keeping his cheek right there over the spot as if that would keep it ingrained into the memory you were both creating.
“I love you.” The words were easy the first time, and so now, when you speak them, it's natural enough not to even be felt slipping from your lips. But the impact is felt just the same, a weight that keeps you grounded instead of suffocated, because he never pushed away your feelings and always responded the same way with “I love you more,” a fight he would die on the hill of each time you shook your head and declared you loved him more.
And even there in the open, he laid you down on the sand, the warmth of his body pressed against yours through the layers of fabric separating you, his hand hot against your skin as he slipped it under your sweater, holding your side. Your fingers cold as you twisted them in his hair, your head thrown back while he kissed along the column of your throat, muttering between each peck, “I need to get you a scarf,” his nose bumped right behind your ear, smelling your perfume, the trail his mouth made turning cold when he pulled away to find your lips again.
He'd have you right on the sand if he wasn’t worried about you getting sick from being out in the cold for so long. So he pulled you up, helping to brush the sand away from your coat before you giggled, giving him one last quick kiss to his cheek before taking off towards the house, “race you!”
It was harder to run in the sand, your feet slipping and heavy to pull up with each footfall. Soobin was right on your heels, laughing and calling out your name as you shrugged off your coat even while the snow had started its dusting. The second you had reached the long walkway up back to the house, the sunbleached wood creaking under you, you dropped your jacket, knowing he'd bend down to get it, giving you time to beat him even with his long legs.
And it was exactly what he did, “not fair!” his laugh trailing through the frosting air, salted with the fast falling flakes of snow. You were already tugging off your sweater as soon as you got to the door, pushing it open because neither of you had cared enough to lock it when it was a ghost town. But before you could step foot inside, his hand, now cold, landed against your stomach, pulling you back against him. “Nope, not this time,” his face icy from the wind pressing into your neck until you shrieked from the shock of it.
You had turned in his hold, wrapping your arms around his neck, trying to pull him into your warmth as much as possible. And he let you, cold hands slipping along your bare back, fingers dancing along the clasp of your bra, teasing you with the idea of him unfastening it. Your nose bumped against his, “I win,” your words brushing long his lips, catching in his laugh.
“You cheated.” His tone was dipped in a hazy mix of lust and love-sick desire. His eyelids heavy; body so close to melting into yours.
“I was only making it easier for you, skipping a bit of the undressing.” You pushed your hands into his coat, giving him the hint to take it off, sliding down along the toasty fabric of his sweater until you could slip under the hem.
His stomach flexed under the ghosting of your fingertips, his lips light as they kissed over your jaw, following the line up to your ear as he whispered, “But that's half the fun." His soft inhale of your perfume made him close his eyes, “like unwrapping a present.”
He did want to pull away, not even to undress himself, half rumpled coat caught in the crook of his elbows, sweater pushed half up his stomach, jeans low on his hips, the band of his underwear hugging him just right. You could see it all over him, that desperation kissed along his creased brow, the look of a man who would go to the ends of the earth for one glimpse of you, even if it was through the mist of a heavy mirage.
So when you led him up the stairs, he followed, stumbling all the way after you, stopping at the door to watch the way you fell back on the neatly made bed, sitting up on your elbows. It was a memory that was tattooed into his mind, the way you spilled out on the sheets for him. You took up all the space in his mind, so much so that if anyone walked into the room of his brain you would be the first person they turned to see, that image of you in the sand, in the sheets of this bed, or his own, hung up on the wall like a recall of every good time the two of you shared.
Soobin dropped his coat, grabbing the back collar of his sweater to tug it over his head, not caring where any of it landed when the straps of your bra were slipping from your shoulders, just barely keeping the thin material in place over your chest. “God, I love you so fucking much,” the words bubbling up out of his lips like a confession he hadn't felt slip, his voice dropping into a needy groan as you rolled your hips.
“Prove it,” your chin lifted, smile biting into him as he sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands sliding up your thighs, fingers curling around the waistband of your jeans, already unzipped and unbuttoned, showing the fine lace of your panties. He would be right at the foot of the bed till the end of time, proving his love, his desperation, his devotion, to you if you had asked.
He was slow to drag the fabric down your legs, your hips lifting to help him get it off of you. Placing one of your ankles on his shoulder, he kissed your calf, trailing up your skin as you leaned forward to brush his hair back from his brow. He wanted to take his time on you, spend all night pulling every little sound he could from the depths of your soul, make you just as flushed and flustered as he always felt when wrapped up in you. And you would let him, your thighs widening slightly just for him to nip at the soft plushness of them.
Your quiet whimpering encouraged him, his cheek pressed to your leg, he reached out to press his thumb over your clit, circling just enough to make your head roll back. “How could someone be this perfect?” and it was the raw honest curiosity in the question that made your heart flutter. The look he casts on you leaves no room for you to be shy. He would not take any head shakes of contention, not when you were already trying to push your hips closer to his fingers, wanting him as thoroughly as he wanted you.
He did not stop his teasing, the slow circles building you up at just the pace he wanted before he pulled away. Your whine was short-lived when he slipped his fingers right into you, smiling at the way your lashes fluttered for him. You tried to close your knees at the feeling, but he had wedged himself perfectly to keep you spread, one arm wrapped around the underside of your leg propped up on his shoulder.
Your eyes screw shut when his mouth falls down to your clit, kissing so softly like a thank you. His hum of approval at your gasp runs along your spine. He leisurely keeps his fingers pumping into you, kisses soft and barely there, content with making you messier, taking his time. There is no room for embarrassment with how wet you are, your hips trying to chase his mouth, needing more pressure, needing more attention.
The desperation is written out in the way you pull him forward, hand cupping the back of his head until you can feel his grin teasing you. He does not make you wait long, your orgasm so close to the surface with his lips greedy to please you, sucking and toys with your clit, fingers building up their speed before he curls them. The pressure makes your thighs tremble around him, your body too weak to keep up, you fall back, arching off the bed with a low whine cumming as he hums against your clit.
Your chest rises and falls with each breath you try to grasp, your hand leaving his head to place over your heart, feeling the way it beats erratically behind your ribs. He kisses back up your leg, leaning his cheek on your knee, watching the way you are nearly spilling out of your bra, face flushed, with your cunt still fluttering around his fingers, he keeps in place to draw out your high. “You're so pretty like this, just a mess over me.”
Soobin's lips are kissably reddened now as he leans down, blowing cool air along your pussy glistening with aerosol, your body jolts at the stimulation barely provided and proving your sensitivity. You're whining at the pout of his face, at the feeling of simultaneously being filled but not enough. His name is drawn out on a whisper as your hips pick back up their grinding, chasing another orgasm as if you had even recovered from the first. “More, please, I need more,” the words just above a whisper.
“More?” It's the tilt to his head that does it, his examination of your body laid out, not cynical but teasing, “Do you think I'll even fit?” he reaches out with his free hand, sliding up your side, pressing down on your pelvis, “Could you take all of me?”
You don't even care if you've had sex before, that he's asked these same questions and got the same answer. Your body was made for him, and yet the words always made you weak in the knees, mind going fuzzy, body aching to have him as deep as he could go. “Please.”
Your whispered plea was a direct line to his cock, already leaking beads of pre-cum and straining in his jeans. He had tried hard to last, to keep his mind, his hips grinding against the edge of the mattress, looking for some form of relief and finding little. He pulled his hands from you, loved the way you sounded as you pulled your knees in together while he stood.
He groaned deep in his throat at the taste of you, cleaning off your wetness from his fingers before undoing his belt, the clinking of the metal making you sit up. You watched the way he slowly undid his button, the outline of him devastatingly mouth-watering as he pushed his jeans down his waist. You reached behind you to unhook your bra, tossing the fabric as he freed himself.
You had never gotten over the size of him, not when the sight provoked your body to clench around nothing, your mind wondering exactly how he did manage to fit. The length of him twitching in his hand as he loosely tugs, your eyes following the movement until you're squirming, watching the way his thumb swirls along his tip. You instinctively widen your legs at the sight, free hand not twisted in the sheets, reaching up to pinch at your nipple, drawing his eyes right where you wanted him.
He can't help himself from climbing on top of you, pushing your hands away to cup your breasts, and peppering kisses along the thin skin. He drags his teeth down to your pebbled nipples, biting and tugging on them until you're whining under him, hips working against his because he's so close to slipping right into you with his cock pressed flush against your cunt. But he doesn't care, not when he's leaving marks along your skin, kissing up your chest until he's back to your lips.
Leaning up, he has his cock laid against your stomach, the length of him high enough to reach your belly button, “look at how deep I'll be in you,” his words a mix of awe and lust as you reach up to twist your fingers in his hair. And when he finally presses into you, he catches your gasp right in his mouth, swallowing it down as he resists pushing in too fast. He can only go as far as the tip before he has to pull back out to try again, taking his time when you're whining at the sheer stretch you feel when he inches in so slowly.
You're clenching around him, trembling and needing him closer. His groan pressed right to your ear when he finally bottoms out, free hand falling to your hip to try and get you to stay still so your body can adjust. “Fucking perfect,” he's muttering, kissing behind your ear as you say his name, lost in a dreamy haze as you melt for him. But your impatience is building the longer he just stays still, his hair held tight in your hands as you attempt to move your hips, but he had you pinned against the mattress under his weight, until you’re desperate enough to beg with tears building at the corners of your eyes.
It's when he finally moves that has you clawing at him, nails scratching down his back enough to leave red marks along his skin. He goes so slow at first, dragging his hips back so that you feel the veins of him, feel the way he just leaves his tip in before he's pushing right back in, building up a pace that leaves you right on the edge of insanity.
Your gasp is twisted into a shocked moan when he moves his hand from your hip and presses down on your pelvis, your body seizing around him while he applies pressure to the bulge of his cock inside you, “you feel that?” but you can't answer, mind a mess, words spilling from you incoherently while you tighten around him, “made just for me,” his voice throaty as he says it against your neck, kissing along the mark he'd made.
He's intoxicated by the way you react, hips dragging just right so that he can feel the way he's bumping just the right spot to make you tremble. Because you're shaking under him, legs widening before he reaches down further to circle at your clit. “Wait,” you're gasping because you can feel the knot in your stomach tightening to the point of breakage, so close to coming undone that you want him closer to keep you together because you know the second you cum, you’ll be falling apart, melting into the mattress without hope.
But Soobin is lost, drowning in the ocean of his desire, finding it harder to keep his moans at bay, lips greedy as they taste the vibrations of your whimpers along your throat. Addicted to the way your body feels against his, the way you draw out the rawest form of himself. And the words bubble up without him realizing what he's saying, the question, demand, plea falling out as he keeps up his pace, hips lulling you to your cresting orgasm, bodies chasing their highs without shame.
“Marry me,” he gasps, breath fanning over your ear.
You almost don't catch it, the words washing over you but not sticking until he says it again, “marry me,” the desperation laced between each syllable. You pull him closer, his hand once holding him up now falling to your leg, dragging up the back of it before hooking behind your knee to stretch you wider, allowing his hips to sink deeper.
The slight change of angle sends a ripple of pressure through your body, cunt fluttering around him before you're cumming, nails digging into his back, body trembling as he lays his weight on you. The rumbling of his moans pressed right against you as he buries his face into your neck, following right along with you as he cums. His stuttering hips stop as he presses in deep, so much farther now like this, spilling his warm cum into you in hot spurts.
He doesn't pull out as he kisses along your skin, a fine layer of sweat coating both of your bodies. And it's between the heavy breathing that he slowly pumps into you again, your soft whine at the slight overstimulation making him chuckle. He pulls back, hand dropping your leg as he finally pulls out, dipping his nose to yours, kissing away your whimper when you feel the warm gush of your combined release spill out after his absence.
You push your fingers into his hair, tucking the strands behind his ear. His cheeks flushed when he put his forehead to yours, kissing the tip of your nose. Soobin was clingy in the best of ways, trying to catch the pattern of your breathing to line up with his. His lips to your pulse, counting each flutter of your heartbeat as if it were a prayer he would have to recite later by memory. And as much as he would love to lie in your arms, melting into one on top of the duvet, he never missed cleaning you up.
And it was only when he pulled away that you started to think about what he had said. The words came back the second that he had flicked on the glowing white lights of the bathroom, like it had only taken that one bulb to turn on for you to finally realize what he had said in the heat of the moment. Marry me. Whispered like a confession instead of a plea, as if he had already known your answer, because you knew exactly how the two of you felt about each other. There was no doubt in your mind, at least not until he wasn't in the room.
He had kissed you, held you, and walked off, leaving you on the sheets with those words hanging in the air, in the light now shining directly onto your relationship. You were caught in your own thinking when he came back with a warm rag, his hand soft on your legs to pull you out of your mind. “You okay?” His question was soft, just for the two of you, a welcome reprieve from the way you turned those words over again and again; marry me, marry me, marry me.
It was not the idea of marrying him that had thrown you off, but how he had not instantly brought it back up. Soobin was a shy mess of emotions most of the time, questioning himself and if he was ‘too much’ in the relationship, unless he was grasping out at avoidance, hoping and praying you hadn't heard him. And it was that which had caught you in the webbing of worry. That maybe, just maybe, he hadn't meant to say it at all, or maybe he had and was worried about how you would take it.
You didn't know how to say it, bring it up only for him to get flustered, enough so that he confessed your deepest worry. The one where he hadn't meant it, the one where he said it was in a moment of weakness, that he didn't want to marry you, and the words had just slipped out.
“I'm okay,” you tried to blink away your thoughts, shake your head ‘yes,’ but all you seemed to be able to do was shake your head ‘no.’
But Soobin could see the lie for what it was. The cover-up was a half done job of deception as he cleaned you up and kissed your skin again like an apology. “Are you sure? Was I too much?”
He stood there, brows pulled together, looking at you with his puppy dog worry, his trip to the bathroom giving him the time to pull on his underwear, leaving you feeling exposed only because you felt like confessing your line of thinking was going to have you set out before the two of you, raw. “No, never,” and it was the truth because it was in that moment that you realized even if it would break your heart to know he didn't want to marry you, you would still swallow it down to be with him.
You looked past him to the pile of clothes on the floor, his eyes following until he picked up his sweater, the discarded lace panties still tucked in with your jeans. He picked them up, tugged his sweater over your head, and gave you the space to pull yourself together a bit. It felt so much more intimate letting him watch you pull on your underwear than letting him take them off.
His sweater was still warm from his skin, bringing you comfort to drop the question down between the two of you before you could take it back. “Did you mean it?” The four words tossed out on the bed like a spilled glass of wine, soaking into the air until it was thick with your worry and his confusion. You bit your inner lip, absentmindedly picking at your nails avoiding looking at him like it would be written on his face before he had a moment to hide what he really meant.
“What?” he was caught, not in the way you had been worried about, but in genuine puzzlement over the question itself, and that way you looked on the verge of tears, ready to shatter with his next words like stones on a carefully cleaned glasshouse.
“When you…” The words stuck in your throat, lost in your lungs, dying on what felt to be your last breath, “When you said marry me, did you mean it?”
You looked up, facing your fear with a shovel in hand to bury his rejection deep, the moment you saw the truth written out, even if it didn't match his soft words, to try and cover it up. But he did not look panicked or pitiful, like you had already painted your mind to believe he would be. No, he looked caught, a boy, a mess of innocence who had been asked to explain why in his dreams he reached out for desires unimaginable.
Because he had not realized he had said the thoughts on his mind, tucked a confession in between passion and pleasure like it was a bookmark between pages of a moment, and not a moment he should have written an entirely different story of. And now you were looking at him like it tore you apart to ask, the words a steel blade to his careful plans. He had planned it all out, thought about it the whole train ride over, a whole week, a month, even the moments you had spent right there out on the beach that day you two had met, because he had been sure then, and he was so sure now.
And he had ruined it with loose lips and a mind made of mush because he couldn't help himself when it came to you, and he didn't know how to apologize for ruining his grand proposal without even having realized he had let the words slip in the first place. “Of course I meant it, i-i-” he was hot all over, from his ears down to his neck, hand jumping to his hair to calm himself because this wasn't the way it was supposed to be, not here but on the beach where you two had met, in the snow, together on the lonely sand made less lonely when you had each other.
“Soobin-” because now, watching the way he was panicking, stumbling to find the words to fix the moment, you felt silly for worrying, silly for bringing it up because you should have known, and you did, it was only your fear blurring your sanity.
“No baby, I'm so sorry, I didn't even realize I said it, of course you would freak out, and I just walked off like it was nothing-” he was pacing, thinking over only the few passing minutes after the two of you were done, and analyzing them, “fuck and I said it twice,”
And you couldn't help but laugh, the sound a bubble holding all your pent up fear until it popped, dissipating as he looked at you and chuckled all the same because it was silly and something only he seemingly could have done. “It's okay,” you giggled, nerves settling down, now ready to shake yourself for negative thoughts when he had never done anything to make you doubt him. “Truly, Soobin, it's okay.”
But he pouts no less, sinking to his knees at the edge of the bed as if he hadn't just been there, pressing his face into your bare thighs to try and quell his embarrassment. His arms wrap around your waist as he mutters against your skin, “I wanted it to be a surprise.” You're caught in your place, looking down at him, your hand in his hair, scratching along his scalp in the same way you used to lull him to sleep on late nights.
As much as you had thought about him not wanting to marry you, it hadn't crossed your mind that he had wanted to do it then, that if he had meant to say it, it had only been in practice but not a question for you to answer any time soon. “What?”
He turned his cheek, looking up at you with his chin on your knee, before sitting back on his heels at the look on your face. Because you were searching again for something he couldn't quite decipher, eyes flickering over the bridge of his nose like you were full of disbelief.
The plan had been the beach, nothing fancier than the waves and sand, the lighthouse right on the hilltop, with the snow all around. Him on his knee, awkwardly stumbling through a speech while sinking under his weight, blinking to keep the hair from his eyes. He could see it like it had always been meant to happen, like a memory he had uncovered and needed to replay. But it didn't matter where he did it when all he wanted was to spend it confessing the truth of his love to you, because he couldn’t keep it in, and here was perfect all the same.
“I even got you a ring,” he leaned over, reaching out on the floor for his coat, fumbling in the pockets for the little velvet box he had been carrying around for far longer than he cared to admit, trying to build up the courage.
He was trembling, your gasp making him nervous in ways he had never expected. He knew how scary it would have been to ask you, but the words had already slipped out, and even in knowing you would more than likely say yes, he still had a devil on his shoulder saying otherwise. But it was laying himself bare before you that made his stomach twist in knots, not because he didn't trust you but because he was worried that he loved you too much, that you would look at him and see someone clingy in the worst ways, over emotional and searching for your love in a crowded room of passing affections.
“I was thinking a lot about what I would say and realized I'm not very good with words,” he said with a short chuckle, trying to laugh off the tremor in his voice. It took a moment for him to look up at you, your fingers curled in the hem of his sweater, the one he had pulled onto you to try and find some way to bring you comfort.
Now, you have tears in your eyes. Vision blurry as you looked down on him, dressed in nothing but his underwear, hair a mess of tousled strands, with shaking hands and stammering words. “I wanted to ask you in the place that I first realized I wanted to marry you, the place I knew you were the one. It's kinda silly to be scared now because even if I knew that first day that you would be the only one I could see myself buying a ring for, it's impossible not to be. Because I love you with everything in me. I love my friends, my family, my bed, and still, I never realized love, real love, felt like this. And I feel it in a new way when I'm with you, I read books, I watched movies, I saw how my parents were with each other, and I wanted affection, but I didn't think much of it past just being an emotion people shared,”
“But when I met you, I felt so seen. I didn't have a crush; those words feel so childish because my love for you, my feelings for you, are bigger than anything I can pinpoint in the world. When I say you're made for me, I don't mean it in a possessive way, I mean it in a, I was put on this earth to love you, kinda way. Because when I'm with you, when I'm not, I ache. I think about how lucky I am to have you when you're here, and burn when you're not, and it feels bigger than the both of us, and that is scary, but also very comforting because it only tells me that you are the one,”
“My life didn't feel like it had started until I met you, and I can't think of any other person whom I would rather spend the rest of my life with because you are mine, someone i would never be able to forget, someone i want to spend hours with on this beach, sipping tea, and reading books, sleeping in with, and loving forever, doing exactly what i know i was put here for. So I'll ask again, properly this time, will you marry me?”
He opened the little box, the ring perfect and hardly seen through your tears as you nodded, not caring how you looked and just needing to be closer to him. There was no space at the foot of the bed, but you found a way to wedge yourself into it when you threw your arms around him, face pressed into his neck, the words still on your lips as you said them again and again, “yes, a million times yes,”
The grin he had plastered on his face hurt his cheeks, dimpled, and stuck with the swell of his happiness. Neither of you cared that you were on the floor, your hand shaking just as badly as his had been, and it only made him bite back a giddy laugh. Because he was slipping the ring he had picked so long ago onto your finger, twisting the silver band until it rested just right to place the diamond on display. He kissed your still trembling fingers right along your knuckles before pulling you back in to hold.
It felt a bit surreal the next morning when the sun was filtering in through the gauzy curtains. The diamond caught the light as you held your hand up in front of you, the smile heavy on your lips, Soobin’s body curved into yours, still sleeping soundlessly. You wanted to tell everyone, call up Kai just to gush about the moment, and spill the details of the love confession you had been waiting a lifetime for. Nothing felt half full, not now, not when it was so fresh in your mind.
“Do you like it?” Soobin’s sleep ridden voice caught you, his nose still tucked into your neck, his soft yawn pressed to your collarbone.
“I love it.” It didn't matter what the ring had looked like, not when you hadn't expected to ever be given one in the first place. You couldn't turn away from it, your eyes catching it with every passing moment after he had slipped it onto your finger. While you poured coffee, brushed your teeth, and pushed Soobin’s hair back behind his ears, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking back to him, his words.
It made the house feel all your own, the two of you fitting in like testing the future life you would both share. And even when you made it back into the city, cut from the sea and salt stained air, your happiness followed after the two of you, bled into the monotonous parts of your day. His voice echoed in your mind while you stocked books at work, ‘you are the one,’ replaying over and over, your heart aching to get back home to him, even if it had only been a few passing hours since you had last seen him.
There had been love before, but there was something keenly different about coming back with a ring. Your friends who had known you two at the very start even looked on with softer eyes, truly happy smiles, while you shared over late night takeout, still wedged onto Soobin’s couch, holding your hand out to Yeonjun, giggling like you had shared your crush had slipped a note into your locker and not slipped a ring onto your finger.
“You two are disgustingly perfect for each other,” Beomgyu had joked, his teasing smile turning into something sappy, “I'm really happy for you two.”
It had been so good to bask in the light of your love, to think about what it would look like to see Soobin at the end of a long aisle. It had been easy to ask questions lying in bed late at night, your fingers grazing his cheek as the two of you whispered about wedding plans, flowers, tables, chairs, dresses, and friends. But each night that hazy state of readiness slipped from just a feeling into a blurry question of when.
It had been slow, a passing of time that felt natural to share while engaged, the planning light, dates set and passed without much worry when you were both busy and didn't make things set in stone. It didn't scare you, and neither of you pushed to plan past the late night dreams and pillow talk. And even when the ring had been sitting on your finger for longer than a year with no plans made, you didn't let it bother you.
Or you tried not to.
Soobin did not love you any less, neither of you felt any different, but the weight of the ring began to feel heavy when every new question was swept under a rug you hadn't seen being placed right at the front door of your relationship. You could shrug it off just as easily as it was to brush anything away from your mind, waving your hand at the light teasing remarks made by your friends, coworkers. But each passing word was a stone hitting against your ribs until it was hard not to see the bruising starting to bloom.
“Do you guys just not have a date in mind?” Kai had asked when it was just the two of you out.
“Not really,” you didn't want to look up from the rack of clothes you were distracting yourself with, mindlessly pushing each hanger aside without looking at the shirts.
“Are you…nervous about marrying him?” The question traveled along your skin like a bug you were trying fast to swat away.
“No-it's not- we just never really talk about it,” you felt weird to say it aloud, to confess something you were holding in when you felt it to be small. Because it would be a lie to say you hadn't been thinking about the passing time, that each month that went by, where you talked less about a wedding and slipped back into boyfriend and girlfriend and not fiancés, pained you.
But it felt small because Soobin was seemingly happy with the wait, happy to sit in a still frame instead of moving color. And nothing was wrong, you had not fought, you had not felt him pull away, it was just stagnant, a ring but with no follow through. You didn't want to seem greedy, you had a man, a devastatingly devoted man who kissed you every morning on the cheek after making you a cup of coffee, who followed you around like a love sick puppy, made time and space for you in his day not because you had asked but because he had confessed to not being able to live without you.
But it brought you right back to that feeling in the bed, the one where you sat and told yourself it was okay to swallow down his not wanting more, just so that you had enough of him. You had felt in some way that he had slipped up with his question, caught him too soon, and now, with plans half made, you could not help but think again about him not being ready. And that was okay, you knew it was, you loved him more than a marriage, but it didn't stop you from aching.
“You don't talk about it? Like ever?” You didn't have to look up to know his brows were scrunched, his slight frown working on his lips to pull you to backtrack.
“Well, kinda, I bring it up occasionally, and he always says, ‘we don't have to be married just yet to be in love, we just are,’ and it's very sweet, and he kisses me, and you know I get distracted, and it's just a cycle.” but even that feels like running, the truth heavy on your heels as you lie, “and it's not that big of a deal, he's right, we love each other, we’re just playing by ear,”
“So married…five years after the engagement is likely? Asking so I can possibly get a week off of work and not just a sneaky sick day,” but Kai's joke misses its landing, the words a piano on a string, hanging over your head with no room for you to move away.
Five years was a long time, and you were already struggling with the one year long engagement as it was, and each day, Soobin made it less clear on his direction with the casual wave of his relaxed words. While he was stretching out in the room of your relationship, you felt the walls moving in, not all at once, not enough for you to see, but it was as if the ring had moved every piece of furniture one inch over and you kept almost missing the your seat each time you tried to sit down next to him. You could get used to the room again, you're sure of it, but in five years with no wedding, you're sure the walls would be tight.
The conversation followed you all the way home, like the words had been stones you were forced to swallow, and now they turned in your stomach. Each passing second you sat alone on the couch waiting for Soobin to get back. You had tried to busy yourself, showering until the water ran cold, brushing your teeth once, twice, tugging on Soobin's sweater, trying and failing to calm your racing mind because he wasn't there to quell it.
There had been cracks already spider webbing along the windows of the little glass house you kept neatly placed around your relationship. Each one starting from your own worries, easy to ignore when no one else talked about it, but the conversation with Kai had only turned you to look at the glass, run your finger along the seam, and question if you were really okay.
And you weren't. The more you pressed that bruise, you thought you would get used to the pain, but you couldn't, and you knew well enough that it was wrong to sit in silence and leave Soobin in the dark. He had done nothing wrong, and you knew, telling him, asking him the questions directly on why the two of you were waiting would only help and not hurt.
But keeping it in would hurt. Every time he made those small comments, as if you were already married felt like a reminder that you weren’t. So you talked yourself into it, paced the living room, sat down on the couch, and stood right back up to pace again. It was how Soobin had found you biting at the skin around your nails halfway to standing when he kicked off his shoes. “You okay, baby?” He dropped his bag, suit still neatly pressed even after spending all day at the office, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
“I-” it had hit you then, the twisting nausea once mistaken for worry over a conversation long coming, now sinking into something swift and unforgiving. Your mouth filled with saliva, your feet carried you to the bathroom before you fell to your knees to throw up.
It was fast and upsetting enough to bring tears to the corners of your eyes. The back of your hand wiped at your mouth, Soobin's hand soft and warm on your back as he rubbed soothing circles, your first instinct to whine, “No, you can't watch me be sick.”
“It's okay, in sickness and in health, right? You can’t scare me off that easily,” and although the words are supposed to make you feel better, they only serve as a reminder of why you were pacing in the first place. Because it felt a bit like unintentional teasing, like you were right on the cusp of knowing the joke but not being able to fully digest it. But it was only in your mind, because Soobin cared enough to buy you a ring, to profess his love, over and over again.
You shouldn't worry, the statement repeated in your mind until it was nearly a reality. It shouldn’t matter if you got married within the year or the next five; it only matters if he loves you. And he does, enough so that he kisses your sweaty temple, and helps you stand on wobbly legs to lean against the sink while he preps your toothbrush so you can feel clean again. How could you wallow in your insecurity when he's done everything to show you he loves you, married or not? Wasn’t it greedy to beg him for a wedding when he had done everything he could to love you right?
And while you rinsed out your mouth, he kept his hand on your lower back, keeping you steady, watching you in the mirror as you brushed away the tears you had been building. “Were you feeling bad all day?”
“No,” at least not enough to get sick over, “it just hit me all of a sudden, I don’t know, I've never felt like that before, at least not without having something bad to eat first,” you sat at the lip of the tub, fingers pressed lightly into your eyes, mind working over the last things you had eaten.
“Maybe you're just getting sick, you've been sleeping in a lot lately, like when you got the flu.” Soobin got down on his knees in front of you, hands sliding up your thighs, rubbing in warmth with the pads of his thumbs, “I could go and get you some medicine, something to settle your stomach if it's still feeling upset,”
You let out a weak whine, pained over your line of thinking for hours, twisting you into knots when Soobin hadn't even brought a ribbon into the equation. You wanted to kick yourself. “No, you just got home, I don't want you to have to go back out.” You dropped your hands down to his, the bathroom light catching the diamond on your finger, “It's probably just my period coming, I'll be fine.”
He was looking up at you, brows knit in his gentle concern, ready to go out even after a long day, just to make sure you were okay, and you were worrying about him setting a date. You felt sick, but only because he was too sweet for you and your worrying mind. “I don't mind the trip, it's right on the cor-”
“No, not tonight, I'm feeling a bit better, it was just a wave of nausea, no need to worry,” you threaded your fingers into his hair, messing up the neat style he tried to keep for work. “Thank you,”
He rolled his eyes, playful and annoying, “Don’t thank me,” he sat up straighter, leaning in, “just give me my welcome home kiss, you missed it earlier,” but you turned your cheek, his lips falling to your jaw.
“No, I’ll get you sick-” but it didn't stop him, his lips falling again and again onto your cheek, down the bridge of your nose, right on the edge of your mouth.
“You just told me you felt better,” he said between each peck, his smile felt along your skin while you wrapped your arms around him, letting him pull you into the circle of his arms. “And a little sickness isn't going to gross me out when I love my girlfriend,”
Girlfriend. The word hit you as bittersweetly as honey flavored cough syrup, but you swallowed it down anyway because he cared to share it with you. And when he kissed you, you kissed him back, pushing past his work blazer and helping to unbutton and untuck his shirt. Not caring that you had already showered when he pulled you in after him, letting him scrub away your worries, kiss them away from your water drop speckled shoulders.
And when both of you were done, dried and laid out on the couch, waiting for the takeout order you had sent in, you couldn’t even remember why you had been worried in the first place. But it wasn't until you opened the takeaway box filled with rice that your nausea came back, the wave of it making your head feel light on your shoulders, with a chill down your spine.
Soobin had been next to you on the couch, chopsticks holding his next bite of food up, his cheeks already stuffed as he watched you run back to the bathroom.
You hardly had anything left to throw up in your system, but it didn't stop your body from tying. And when Soobin's hand was back to rubbing comfort between your shoulder blades, you wanted to cry again. “No, go back to eat, don't worry-”
“No, it doesn't bother me, let me take care of you.” Each word pulled the tears right from you, your emotions overwhelmed with having thrown up, feeling like a little kid at the edge of their bed, needing someone, but not knowing how to call out for them. “It's okay, baby.” he kissed the tear on your cheekbone, “I'll go get you something, okay? I'll be quick,”
It was only after you were done brushing your teeth again for the fourth time that you realized there was another possibility, Soobin pressing a swift goodbye kiss to your temple, already having his coat shrugged on to head out, when you reached out for him. “Could you pick up a pregnancy test?” You’d have gone with him if the word hadn’t made your limbs feel numb all over again, “just to make sure.”
“Okay,” he breathed the word out, let it hang on his lips like he was still trying to understand what you had asked him, but he could see the slight twinge of panic on you and didn't want to freak you out. “And I'll get crackers cause you still need to eat something,” he kissed you again, right at the crease of your worrying brow, “it's okay, I'll be right back, and we'll be fine.”
You watched the door close behind him, your hands shaking as you twisted them together, tugging on your fingers as if that could pull your anxiety fright from them. You could picture the way the two of you had been curled in the sheets, his whispered kisses pressed to the shell of your ear as he hummed, “I don't want anything to change.” you don't know why you picked that memory of all of them to think of while sitting at the edge of your shared bed waiting for him to come back.
Soobin's panic was not felt until he stood right in front of the rows of pregnancy tests, the pink, blue, and white boxes all lined up, warping his emotions into something masquerading as confusion, as if his body knew that's what he needed to lean into instead of worry. He had been here before with you, in well over two years of being together, you had experienced a pregnancy scare twice over, but never had you been sick before making the call to just pick one up just because. Never had you looked up at him like you almost knew the answer.
So he grabbed an array of boxes, all the colors, all the types, single packs and triple, carrying them to check out, watching them get scanned, and coming to terms with what he was feeling. Thought about how it would be to see any of the tests read negative, how it would be to find that it read positive. And it was only when he reached the door of your shared place and knew that in some way he would find himself sad to have you read out that it was negative, and when he pushed open the door to see you worrying, he wondered if you would feel the opposite. Because now while you turned the tests upside down on the bathroom counter, he couldn't help thinking about a baby with your smile, a small, dimpled cheek so easy to kiss when they giggled a laugh made from your love.
Both of you sat with your backs against the bathtub, your body half spilled onto his as he rested his chin atop your head, his cheek falling to your hair as you laid your hand against his stomach, counting his breaths instead of the seconds passing. “We will be okay,” he muttered, his hopeful smile trying to curve on his lips, but he didn't want to give too much away without knowing how you felt.
You were biting at the skin on your inner lip, thinking over all the outcomes, wanting more but fearing it was too much, because it was less about how you were currently feeling and how you would feel. That same game of chicken was playing out just like it had been in that bed in Montauk when he had asked you to marry him. And when you started to think about a baby, a real one with his kind eyes behind dark lashes, you couldn't stop yourself from seeing them in his arms.
But your stomach still hurt, the unknown origin muddling up your thoughts until the alarm you had set went off like someone had pulled a cord on your back to set your hands back to trembling, cupped in Soobins as he kissed along your knuckles, right against the ring he had put there with a promise to love you like he was made to.
He stood behind you, hand heavy on your hip as you lifted the first test, watching you in the mirror as you turned it over, your hand jumping to your mouth as you looked at the little pink plus sign, you reached back out, turning over each test you had decided to take, each one coming back with the same reading. You looked up at him, feeling flushed all over, both of you with tears in your eyes, and for only a second, you were worried, but that was washed away the moment he smiled, his laugh like a child's, pure and uncontrollable.
You two didn't need words, his kisses coming fast, his arms wrapped around your waist, spinning you around as you both giggled, your toes touching the ground only making you breathe out a sigh of shocked disbelief, that test still in your hands as Soobin guided it closer to his eyes. All teeth and dimples when he looked back at you, “God, I fucking love you,” and he was back to kissing you, his soft lips feeling like a thank you, like a confession, his cheeks wet as he started to cry, leaning his forehead on yours when he needed a breath, his palm falling right down to your stomach, his smile watery with his tears.
And you were crying too, crying more so when he got down before you, pushing up the sweater you wore, kissing right under your belly button, your fingers threading through his hair as he whispered right against your skin, “and I'm going to love you so, so, much,”
It didn't feel real for only as long as it took you two to make it to your appointment. The three days of waiting since the test felt as if they went by too slowly, the bubble of your joy encasing the two of you as you vibrated with your happiness. You didn't imagine it to be so hard to keep the positive test a secret, both of you deciding to wait at least until after you had seen the scans. But that first call with Kai felt like walking on a tight rope.
You had rushed to put the phone down, too worried that it would just jump from you in between casual conversation about the next time the boys would come over for dinner. Your hand fell to your stomach instinctively, even if you hadn't been showing since you were hardly far along. There wasn't even bloating, just the occasional nausea and heavy sleeping, missing alarms, and whining every time Soobin reminded you that you had to wake up with the sun.
But you had kept the secret just as well as he had, sealing your lips until you walked into the doctor's office. Soobin had called in to come in a bit later to work, your appointment made for your day off. Both of you sat in your seats in the waiting room, his knee bumping yours as he leaned closer to watch you fill out the forms needed. Your pen hesitates over the emergency contact information, wondering if you should check the little box for husband/spouse, or check the one for boyfriend/partner, under Soobin's name.
When you turned in the papers, it had been only a few minutes before they called the two of you back, the ultrasound room half dark with the soft lights from the machines and monitors. There had been little nerves until you were lying down in the bed, the paper crinkling under each movement you made, Soobin sitting on the stool next to you, holding your hand and bringing it up to kiss your knuckles.
In the half-lit room, it felt easier to confess, “I'm nervous,” when it was the two of you, your fingers toying with his, looking for anything to focus on besides your racing pulse.
“We’re okay and we are going to be okay.” his smile was a balm, his gaze falling over you in a way he had never once looked at you before. Your relationship was a ball of clay slowly being worked into new shapes as each day passed with this new information, as your body worked to grow a little physical form of your love. “I'm actually really excited right now, I feel like I just drank a tub's worth of coffee,” it would explain the way his leg bounced erratically, the thrum of it bumping against the bed like the hum of a car.
“You did have two cups this morning,” you chuckled, soaking in his excitement to try and mask your nerves.
“And I'm really excited to tell my mom,” he whispered like it was a secret, his smile eating at your heart, kissing your soul. “The boys too, I'm really excited to tell them. I've been fighting to keep it in, ignoring everyone.”
“I guess I am a little excited about that,” he kissed your hand again, keeping it in his grasp when the doctor came in, her soft smile and cheerful voice reflected in her words of congratulations.
It wasn't until she had placed the cold gel over your pelvis that she asked the question, “Married?” She had tilted her head as she said it, pulling out the wand for the scan, free hand working to click the keys on her keyboard to get started.
“Nearly,” Soobin had smiled, lifting your intertwined fingers to show off your ring. The word pressed like a weight on your chest, heart skipping a single beat, but there was little time for you to wallow in your insecurity when the doctor placed the wand to your skin, and the echo of waves filled the room around you.
Because that's what it had sounded like, the surf crashing in, pulling you into reality. The doctor's voice was a hum of sound, washed out and faded in the back of your mind as you listened in on the rhythmic swell of the ocean, “Congratulations, your baby has a very strong heartbeat,” she turned the monitor to face the two of you, finger extended out to point at the fuzzy black and white screen, “and here they are, about the size of a little sugar pea,”
It was your gentle sob that broke from you that made you realize the two of you were sitting silent, listening in on the sound of your love like someone had bottled that very moment on the beach, Soobin's toes wiggling and your laugh catching him enough to make him blush right there on the edge of the water where he had confessed his love and you found happiness.
And now both of you were crying, Soobin's laugh pressed to your knuckles, his eyes caught on the screen just as yours were, wet with joy you hadn't known would feel so sunsoaked in the bed of a hospital you'd never been to before. Nothing felt more important than that moment; nothing had felt more real. You wanted to reach down to lay the flat of your palm over the spot you knew them to be, to confess how scared you were, but never scared enough not to tell them how much you love them and would love them.
“They're so perfect,” Soobin sniffled, laughing at himself but not caring because he never knew exactly how happy he could be; how proud he could be for something as little as a heartbeat, but it wasn't little, it was a blanket wrapping around him, and instead of smothering, it was healing.
His fingers trembled as he held the printouts of the scans, the echo of their heartbeat tattooed along his skull. He had thought his life had changed seeing the test, holding you in his arms, telling you everything would work out, but he had been wrong. He had not known what it would be like to have his life truly changed.
Meeting you had felt as if everything was falling into place, like the two of you had always been a picture, and the years together had been the frame around you. But hearing the heartbeat of your baby, seeing them even as small as a little pea, had painted your picture in vivid color.
He loved you because it was the most natural part of himself; if he knew nothing, he at least knew that. Loving your baby was fixing parts of him he hadn't even known needed tending, not because they needed fixing, but just because they could. He cried on the phone with his mom, kissed you like he never wanted to stop, and texted the boys to meet you guys for dinner in the city.
And there in the circular booth of a restaurant that the six of you frequented too often, you shared the news. Held the little sonogram photos up, the golden lights reflecting off the glossy paper, but not enough to obscure the image.
Kai nearly choked on his drink, setting it back down on the table as he tried to clear his throat. Taehyun reached out for the pictures with wide eyes, needing a closer look, shocked into silence. Beomgyu gasped, mouth open in a soft O, leaning in to look at the pictures now in Taehyun's hands. And Yeonjun, sitting right next to you, pulled you into a hug. His warmth triggers your eyes to water, his kind words making the tears spill, “Congratulations,” and says for you to hear and no one else, “you're going to be the best mom.”
You sit back, cleaning at your eyes, laughing like he hadn't plucked his fingers along your heart strings to hum out the single line you wanted desperately to hear. It felt so hard to brush off all the emotions you were feeling as some kind of hormones when all you could picture in your head was spending the rest of your life friends with these very people, good men who would love your child like they were their own, singing songs, playing games.
It didn't matter how you changed because they would be there, giggling on the floor of your living room, spending nights together as a family none of you knew you had been searching for. And now it was only expanding, a seat opening up for a baby you all already loved more than you could form words for. It didn't matter about rings, promises, or distance, when all you needed was late nights like this where you sat at a table laughing over Yeonjun's cheeks being stuffed, and Beomgyus' tearful jokes. Nights where both Soobin and Kai bumped their heads on low doorways and tried to play it off. And nights where Taehyun and you watched laughing from the sidelines.
And tonight, when everyone went their separate ways at the base of the stairs at the subway station, they each held you a little longer when they hugged you goodbye, as if they were letting their comfort seep into your bloodstream just for the little added heartbeat that sounded like the ocean.
You hung the sonogram pictures up on the fridge, next to film strips of you and Soobin kissing cheeks at the aquarium, of Soobin and the boys all trying to mash themselves into one photobooth. And when the two of you had an off day, you stood in the kitchen, your favorite mug pressed to your lips as you looked at the little black and white photos. Soobin coming up behind you, hands warm and slipping under his shirt that you wore, palms heavy against your stomach like a hug. “Spend the day with me?”
“Did you imagine I had other plans on the schedule?” You melted into him, your head leaning right onto his shoulder.
“I just like to hear that you want to spend the day with me,” he kissed right along your temple, letting his lips ghost over the spot as he muttered, “preferably at the beach.”
Both of you knew it was always an option for the two of you, the train ride never one you felt like took too much time when you had the sand and sea waiting at the other end. So you packed a bag just for the day, sat knee to knee on the train, holding hands, watching the city disappear as you both made up fake baby names to see who could get the other to laugh first.
“I like the name rutabaga,” your lips fighting to break into a smile, Soobin's dimples fighting against the soft swell of his cheeks.
“Ruta-” he couldn’t help but laugh, losing as his teeth tried to sink into his bottom lip, “what even- how do you even spell that-”
“It's a vegetable,” you're giggling, the two of you trying to keep it down, your happiness sounding louder in the silent train car. “You seem to like to call them food names.”
“Only because the baby book we got says that right now they are the size of a blueberry, that's a cute name, baby blueberry.” It had been one of the first things he had picked up after walking you to work, slipping the small stack of baby books he had found on the counter. Every morning with his tea, he would sit down and flip through them, content with reading you quotes as you curled up next to him.
“That is cute,” you leaned back in your seat, hand over the button of your jeans, “little baby blueberry,”
And when the train pulled into the station, you walked hand in hand all the way down to the surf, following the same path you took time and time again. It was early enough for the sky to be washed in a grey blue haze, tipped in golden yellow where the sun tried to peek through the cover of the clouds. The lighthouse came closer and closer into view as you walked past the front of the beach houses, half empty and half full, as people started to come down for the early season.
Sitting right at the end of the row of houses was a single house with a sign in the yard, half tucked into its own space, being so far off from the others. Soobin tugged you to a stop, his hands clammy with nerves that you passed off as the warming weather.
He found it a bit embarrassing to still stumble into shyness around you, like he was still who he was before he met you, looking to impress you because he wanted all your attention. He would follow you till the end of the world with his puppy dog stare, circling around your head like a halo he had placed there. For a long time, he had planned this all out, longer than his plan to marry you; it felt like a package deal, like the house and the wedding were wrapped up together with a bow that would only be placed with your answering yes to his coming questions.
When he had proposed, it had been easy to see what he wanted next, to focus on the plans he had seen that second time on the beach when you had watched the fireworks and talked about the snow. Everything was working out, the listing for the house going up only days after the two of you had gone home from the proposal. He had debated it a lot, thought about your work and his, what it would be like truly to live out by the sea.
He wondered if it had only been a dream, something you joked about but never truly wanted, or worse, if you never truly wanted it with him, but you had said yes to his ring, said yes to life with him. So he had put in a bid on the house, looked into his savings, and wondered if it was a mistake or something you would both look back on with happiness.
And then he heard the baby's heartbeat, like a wave on the shore, the final sign telling him that dreams came true every day if you reached out for them and caught them like falling stars. Sometimes they slipped through fingers, and others they landed right in the palm of your hand, and all you had to do was hold on through the ride. So he held on, took the opportunity to look into buying the house, and now here he was with you.
It was on the same strip of beach as the one you had rented on his birthday. The long wooden walkway leading down to the sand, sun-bleached and surrounded by wispy, uncut grass. A wrap around porch already with a built-in swinging bench. The windows bare of curtains, the empty rooms waiting for all of the things you had packed away in your old room at Kais' apartment, all the things you both had picked up for Soobin's place. The two stories would hold the three of you, the baby's room already picked out, overlooking the lighthouse sitting on the cliff, just far enough to not wash the room in light all night long.
He had walked the place only once before putting in his bid, and saw his life playing out right between those walls, the hardwood creaking on the stairs enough to give the house character he was ready to remember.
His hand fell to the back of his neck, fingers trying to calm him in the way you did as he blushed, sharing what he had done. “I wanted to wait to tell you until it was all official. I wanted it to be a wedding gift, and now it's more of a…I don't know,” he tried to laugh, his lips pursing for a second as he looked at your face for confirmation that he wasn't overstepping, as if you hadn’t been dreaming of moments like this with him. “I want you to like it, and if you don't, we can always find a new place, you know, or stay in the apartment, find a bigger one in the city if you want.”
He took your shocked silence as denial, his rambling mouth working to find some way to redeem himself when he didn't need it at all, “my job said they could transfer me out here and i looked into schools and they all seem really good, they even have a after school program that takes them out for swim lessons in the warmer months. And I know that's a long time off, but I thought it would be good to look into and I know it's hectic in the summertime with tourists, but the house has enough rooms to invite the guys or family over and-”
You laughed, watery and unmistakably happy.
“Do you hate it?” because you were tearing up, looking up at him with eyes unreadable to him.
“You bought me a house on the beach where we met,” you whispered, trying to hold in as much as you could without spilling out in front of him like a bag of gems on a table. “How could I ever hate it when I love you so, so, so much?”
“Was it too much?” he reached out for you, thumb on your cheek, brushing along your skin, fingers pressed right under your ear.
“No, you're never too much,” because you didn't feel like you deserved a love like this, not when he made it so easy to love him, so easy to let yourself be loved in return. In a past life, you must have paid all your dues, worked day and night to finally make peace for this version of yourself, and you felt like your luck was running out. That one step to reach for more would break you in two instead of bending you. But if you had spent all your hard work to have someone like Soobin next to you, loving you, you had no reason to ask for more.
To live right there with the sea, with your little heartbeat, and the love of your life, you'd spend a million more lifetimes working to pay off whatever debt you must have been building. He took you to the front door, watching you as you looked around with wide eyes, hand squeezing his as you looked at all the empty space. A fireplace unlit, a wall of windows, a kitchen fit for holidays, and bedrooms made for life.
He had waited to sign the papers until you had seen the house, sharing the place in both of your names, keys hanging next to keychains you had bought at a gift shop down the street years ago. And only a week later you began packing, late nights spent deciding what to keep and what to throw away. Your names were written on boxes carried down the steps by the boys who had helped you guys. A truck rented that was large enough to fit your whole life in without you ever realizing how you had far too little and seemingly too much stuff.
The air is a mix of curse words and laughter, none of them letting you lift a thing, leaving you to tell them where to place boxes. The struggle of getting the mattress up the stairs was worse than when they had gotten it down the apartment's stairs. Taehyun and Yeonjun on either end, one always trying to go faster than the other, and neither of them listening to beomgyu, who insisted over and over again that Yeonjun was one misstep away from tripping and falling backward.
But Beomgyu was already lying out on the couch they had brought in earlier, leaning up on his elbows to shout from the living room as you and Kai unboxed the dinnerware in the kitchen. Soobin was laughing, the echo of the sound heard from all the way upstairs as he told them where to place the mattress. It was one of the last things that needed to be done; the sun only just started to set when you all decided to stay out on the beach.
Taehyun and you stayed back in the kitchen while the rest of them found something to kick around for a game. Earlier, you had paused in the day to pick up things for lunch and dinner just for the day, now you cut up the fruits they had picked, Taehyun happy to take up cooking the rest of the food. He hummed softly under his breath, the echo of the sizzling and chopping the soundtrack of your evening, before he asked without even looking up, “Are you happy?”
The question was not one that was full of concern but genuine curiosity, like he was only asking because he could see it on you. “I'm very happy,” because it was the truth, like you had been captured in a snow globe, only nothing could have shaken you to disrupt the image.
“I'm glad, I'm happy for you, I'm happy for him.” he left no room for anything else but his honesty, like he knew what it meant to you.
“Thank you for everything, the move, and bringing him to Montauk randomly one summer day.”
“Oh, don't thank me for that, any of it, I'm sure in some way you would have met and I would still be moving you two in here, maybe a little bit off from this timeline, but eventually. You two were made for each other,” he transferred his food onto plates as he said it, like it was something he didn't have to think twice about. “Should we call them in or just take it out there?”
“Let's take it out.” So you did, you carried the sides and fruits, setting them down on the beach towel you had put out with a few water bottles for them.
All of you sat down in the sand, knee to knee, listening to the waves like your little heartbeat was right there with you, the boys flushed from running around, eating like they hadn't had a feast for lunch. They all decided to stay until the morning, the lot of them driving the truck back to the city to drop it off. They asked about your new job at the little shop in town, and you told them about how you were going to miss the bookstore in the city, how your coworkers teared up and promised you always had your spot back if you changed your mind, but they knew it was falling on deaf ears.
Kai joked about being sad that his roommate was moving out, even though you hadn't spent a night at your old apartment in years. The six of you leaned back in the sand until the wind off the water started to feel a bit too chilly, your shiver felt in Soobin's arms as he held you. “Okay, let's go in; the boys have something to show you.”
“Me?” You press your hand to your chest, shocked that the night wasn't ending. And even when they took you upstairs to your little heartbeat's room, you didn't realize what you were seeing. You had believed it to be empty, your shopping not having been done just yet. But there, right under the little window looking out to the lighthouse, was a white wooden crib, a mobile of stars hanging down over the center of it like they had known your whole world needed the view of what they would look like in your eyes.
They all turned to you, holding their breath for your reaction, smiling when you pouted, “You guys just like to see me cry, huh?”
“Do you like it?” Kai looked at you so hopefully, his boyish smile breaking out as you nodded, “I love it so much.”
“We researched to find the best one,” Taehyun clarified, “even the mattress and sheets.”
“It was a bitch to build, I pinched three of my fingers,” Yeonjun said, holding up his hand, the tips of three slightly pinker than the others.
“It was only so hard to build because he couldn't follow directions,” Beomgyu interjects. He throws his arm around your shoulder, tugging you into the safe space of his side, like he knew you needed someone there to hold you even for a second, “But don't cry, we even checked to make sure it was eventually done right, Taehyun tested it out.”
“You put Taehyun in the crib?” You giggled at the thought, wiping at your cheeks even when you felt as if you had a million more tears to shed.
“He is baby sized,” Beomgyu shrugs, only feeling brave enough to say it with you blocking him from Taehyun's swift hit.
“We are only a few centimeters off from each other; you act like I'm on the floor in comparison.” he rolls his eyes.
“Thank you guys, truly this is perfect,” but it doesn't feel like enough, like no thank you will even make up for all the good things they have put into your life. And when they go home the next morning, you ache to watch them go, to see them waving goodbye from the driveway of your new life. You had told Soobin to make it a point to invite them often, to tell them never to think they are not welcome over, because you would miss not having easy access to weeknight laughs over video games and takeout.
If you had known what was coming, you wonder if you would have told him you wanted to stay in the city. But there was no way of knowing, not when your last days of happiness were spent wrapped up in Soobin, the two of you lying out on the beach, falling asleep under the sun, half hidden by the umbrella you had set out.
You listened to the sound of the waves like you were back in that ultrasound room listening to your little heartbeat. Your love for both your baby and Soobin was so sun-warmed that it soaked into you as you rested on the beach towels you had spent so long rolling into the perfect position to sit up, slightly elevated. Soobin lying sprawled between your legs, arms circling your waist, his ear pressed to your barely there bump as if the sea was their lifeline, your fingertips tracing hearts and stars on his sun-kissed back, warm and lulling him to sleep when you moved on to threading your fingers into his hair.
This was to be your life, happy and quiet on the beach, humming as the sun set over the horizon. Days spent with Soobin's lips on your skin, reminiscing about the time you went skinny dipping, the time when he had kissed you under the sprinkling snow, and yelled across the streets of New York to ask you when you worked next.
You had spent those first three months of your pregnancy happy. With Soobin's lips pressed to just under your belly button, whispering to your baby like they would talk back, pressing his ear to that barely there swell and humming in response like he already knew their answers. The two of you unpacking slowly because you will have enough time later since you planned on spending a lifetime raising your family between those walls.
Every kiss to your ring finger felt more like a promise and not a placeholder. You couldn't find it in yourself to stress over a wedding when everything was already falling into place. Because he had done what you wanted, he was committed to you, wedding or no wedding. Your baby would grow up loved, and that's all you truly needed.
But that morning, you had felt the first faint undercurrent of pain.
You wonder if you should have known what was coming. That hazy calm before the storm wrapped around you, blinding you enough so that you ignored that first unsteady sway of the boat you sailed on. Only a day away from four months, the first morning you had woken up with the sun and not after it, Soobin still curled around you in bed instead of being the first one awake, trying to sneak away to get ready for work without waking you. The window had been left open just a bit to let in the fresh air, the gauzy white curtains you had picked out blowing in the soft breeze coming off the water. You watched the way the sun filtered in, catching the specks of dust in the air, and listened to the way the surf hit the shore and how the seagulls chirped.
Soobin nuzzled in close to you, pressed his nose right to your pulse point, humming low and content with the warmth of the bed, your body. You didn't need to be up until midday when you and Soobin had plans to grab lunch with Beomgyu and his family. The lot of them renting a house down the road from your own, spending the weekend capturing what had captured you after your first train ride out to the beach.
It was just warm enough for tourists to start pouring in; the tables of every restaurant and café were packed full. But you all had grabbed your food to-go and found a spot near the docks to watch the boats take off.
All of it felt normal, easy, happy, no twinge of foreshadowing staining the edges of your picture. Not even when you waved goodbye to Beomgyu and his family as they walked in the opposite direction from your home and towards the lighthouse. Soobin kissed your head, your hands interlocked, swinging between you two while you held your shoes in your free hands, feet digging into the sand with each step, making you go slower as you watched the water.
“It feels like I'm exactly where I want to be, like I could die right now, I'm just…happy,” Soobin mutters when you're back in bed that night, looking at you in the moonlight with eyes shining, tracing the planes of your face like he was feeling them under his fingertips, following the slop of your nose, the curve of your bottom lip. “I love you so much,” like a prayer said in a confessional, whispered as if it were caught in candlelight and hope. “Nothing could ever change that.”
You had fallen asleep happy, a vase filled with water, a tapestry yet to unravel. And there, the moment you had let hide behind your ignorance, danced to life with one careless glass-shattering swoop, unweaving your endearing dreams.
It had been the sound of the faucet that woke him, the deafening rush of it like an omen whispered off the wind. His stomach had fallen, sinking down in a sea of worry over nothing more than faintly warm sheets, like everything had been fine only a few fleeting minutes ago. His arm was still under your pillow, body curved around the shape of you, except there was nothing but a few spots of blood where you should have been.
The yellowing light from under the bathroom door washed over the carpet, mingling with the moonlight. And even now, Soobin can't help but question that if he would have known what was waiting for him, would he have been able to respond differently. Mold the part of himself that fell into unwavering silence and devotion into something that could have made you stay, that could have brought you back to him.
But he could not undo the past, only erase it, and if there was anything he had wanted to erase, it was that pain; the agony of his loss, yours. And yet down deep inside of himself, he must have remembered that moment, almost as clearly as he had remembered the first time you had met, with his feet sinking into the sand, his heart on his sleeve, and the sea sounding like a lifeline, like a memory, like hope.
He would have fallen to his knees for you then, just as he did there on the bathroom floor, speckled with red and tears, your hands trembling like a caught moth between his, your ring cutting into his palm as you mixed your water-stained words, the cocktail like a shot to his nervous system. “It hurts.”
“It's okay, it's going to be okay-” but he hadn't known if that was true, the words feeling like a lie as they sank to the floor, his arms pulling you in as if that would stop the bleeding, stop the hurt. He would have done anything to take it away, shell-shocked into action, your phone turned downward on the tile as if it had slipped from your hands the moment you had noticed all the blood. He reached out for it, keeping you against him as you cried, tears pressed into his chest as he dialed the only number he could think of when you see that much blood.
He had held you until the paramedics came, his hands trembling while they told him the same things that he had just said to you, as if he were the one breaking apart. He's sure he must have been, that everything was sinking under his skin, but he didn't feel the effects, not just yet, because of the shock of it all. Because there were strangers in his house, dressed up in navy blue, soothing voices slipping right past him when he watched them carry you out, and he was there following after, trying to keep up, his shoes not even half on.
It wasn't until they pulled into the hospital's drop-off lane that he realized he hadn't even closed the door, hadn't even grabbed his keys. All he could see was your hand, so small in his, loosening your grip, the gradual release like an unraveling he wasn't ready to face. “Most of her bleeding has stopped,” the paramedic had said, the line supposed to bring some relief, but all he could feel was that ache, his mouth dry.
And he watched the way your eyes kept shut, squeezed instead of softened by some kind of merciful sleep, tears slipping down your cheeks from the corners as you bite your bottom lip to keep in the sound.
For years, the two of you had kept your relationship like a ball of clay, every new thing learned like a thumb pressed into the piece, molding the two of you into shape, unfired and easily worked. But that night had been a fire, burning and solidifying the two of you into place. If it had been a careless hand, smushing the relationship into a new shape, he's sure the two of you could have made it out.
But when they pulled you into your own private room, the lights a blinding contrast to the rest of the night, half hidden in shadow, they wheeled in an ultrasound monitor and even without the sound turned on, you both knew your ocean wave heartbeat was gone.
Left alone in your room to decide on next steps, the silence weighed heavier than the rush of your sobbing that soon broke. Awful chest-wracking sobs that tried to fill up the emptiness, tried to cover the sound of the roaring fire hardening the two of you into something that could only shatter instead of dent and take new shape.
He held you through the blaze, tried to stay a rock that would not break down, would not cry, not when you needed strength, not when you needed him.
“I'm so sorry.” Your words, drowning around a sadness he could not masterfully describe, were a bat to the glass house of his dreams, swung with no intent to hurt anyone, not even him. And yet they were a gut punch, a soul-leveling whispered statement.
The soft voice of the nurse explained over and over about how there was nothing that could have prevented what happened, nothing that could have been undone. There, they had looked at you, hands clasped in front of them, voice as soft as the look they gave, as if their gaze would add more weight to the crumbling structure above you.
Your hand rested in his, your fingers cleaned by a sweet nurse while his stayed red, your blood drying under his nails. And the only thing that came to his mind was the way the door to the house had stayed open, leaving room for more strangers to come in without knowing the scene they would step into. The undoing of your world before their feet in a way he wasn't ready to revisit so soon.
While the nurse prepped you for overnight monitoring, hooking you up and taking your vitals, he stepped just outside the door, thumbs working fast to solve any problem he could reach for, anything easily obtainable, your phone the only one he had taken in the rush of it all.
The screen had cracked during the drop, the fracture cutting across the background you had picked out of the two of you on the beach, a clumsy phone taken by Kai. Soobin's eyes had been squeezed shut, all teeth and dimples as he laughed, your lips pressed to his cheek.
He couldn't look at himself happy, not then, not when before it had felt like a mirror, and now it only felt like a lie. So he scrolled through your contacts, Beomgyu's name flashed across the screen, his silly face a welcome reprieve, and for the first time that night, Soobin felt his chin wobble. Looking at his friend even in a picture was a constant he needed then, and as the numbers on the call started to tick by, he lifted the shaking phone to his ear.
“Are you okay?” Beomgyu’s voice was a deep rumbling of worry and sleep, and in his mind, Soobin could see the way his brows must have been pulled together, his hand pushing his hair back as he looked at the time, too late in the night or too early in the morning. And then it was Soobin's voice instead of your own.
“I'm-” he hadn't said it in the room with you; instead, he had let it hold his tongue down until it felt solid in place. And now it choked out of him, the force of it moving him forward, “im so sorry,” he tried to hold the tears back, wanted to stay the stoic partner who didn't crumble but the second he had heard Beomgyu’s panic it washed over him almost as if someone had pushed him off the pier after tying a boulder around his waist, he couldn't swim to the surface of his sanity, not now when he was being dragged down by his sadness, his mouth opening but filling with water, with tears.
“Soobin? What happened- what's wrong- where's-” and somewhere in a house on the beach, Beomgyu sat up in his bed and listened to his best friend sob over the phone as if he had his heart ripped out of his chest.
He was trying to wipe his tears, but his crying felt like bleeding, uncontrollable, and he couldn't find the strength in himself to stop it, not when it was this bad, when it hurt this much all at once. “She lost- we lost the baby,” his lips moved on their own, the corners turning down, quivering as he tried to catch his breath, his free hand covering his eyes, pressing into them as if that could stop the spilling.
The words were a blade, cutting across his back, his chest, into his heart, burning and leaving him choking on the ash. He was trying so hard to calm the shaking, to stop the feeling of thrashing happening inside of him. But it was inevitable, the pain, the heartache.
Dreams had not felt real to him as a child, you, had been the person to show him they could become a reality, your laugh was the soundtrack to dreams he never knew he had, your touch making them bloom alive under his skin, and before they had never felt so tangible but now, now he knew the consequences of being so deeply in love with something, someone, some idea, hope. Because this ripped him apart, split him down the middle, and burned.
He sobbed, cried out like he was ready to spill his guts, the sounds feeling so deep within him they might as well have, the tears coming from some reserve he never knew was buried so deep. And beomgyu let him, he listened, he muttered into the hollow of Soobin's chest over and over again that, “it's going to be okay,” the nurses had said it, but he couldn't believe it, it went in one ear and out the other. But here with his best friend at his ear, his brother, he could swallow it down; he had to, for you.
“I'm getting dressed, I can be there in five minutes-” he could hear beomgyu on the other end, shuffling around, climbing out of bed, tugging on his hair as he did when he looked for something.
“No, no, I um- I called because I-i left the front door open, i-” he didn't know how to put into words that he didn't want to lose anymore, not tonight, not today. He sniffled, reigning himself in, his hand sliding along a deck as he tried to pull himself from the ocean, or at least hold on until the tide started to pull back out. “I just need you to lock up, and clothes, I-i don't have any clothes and I'm-” but his chin wobbled again, the tears that had been slowing now trying to wash back up his throat as he looked down at his stained shirt.
“I'll be there, I promise.” he didn't need to say anything else, not when he could hear the war between each breath that soobin was taking, feel it in the way his fingertips had gone numb at the sound of his sorrow. He knew his friend, knew he was trying to pull himself back together even if he had to be on strings to do so. “I love you guys.”
Soobin's teeth bit hard into his lip, the pressure heavy as his throat constricted, his breath held as if that would keep his sob back. He waited until he could handle opening his mouth without it reading the sound of a wound he didn't think would be closed for a long time, “thank you,”
And when the call was over, soobin returned to your room, face flushed a deep red, the corners of his nose, the tips of his ears, the edges of his lips, the rimming of his lashes, and you couldn't hold yourself together. He came to your bed, your hand, tapped over with the IV they had set up, curled into his, clinging with little strength. He didn't care that he probably shouldn't climb into the bed with you, but he did anyway.
He held you, your face flush against his neck, damp with your tears as you spilled out a fraction of your mourning. You didn't speak; there was no need, not even when he got up to collect the overnight bag from Beomgyu.
Soobin could find no other words besides thank you, but it did not feel like enough, not when this was no light thing, but he knew beomgyu would have brushed it off. He would have gone to the ends of the earth for the two of you without question; this was no different, no thanks needed. But soobin knew he could not stay, not when he knew having beomgyu see you like this was not anything you would have wanted. So he left, understanding and with a hug that did nothing but fracture the glass further.
Making quick work of changing, soobin made it back just as the doctors were coming in for another check-up, clipboards in their hands. soobin sat down in the chair that he was expected to spend the rest of the night in, pulling your fingers back to his, he held tight.
“We so very sorry for your loss,” the words hardened something within him, the weight of them tightening his understanding of how his future would look, it didn't matter if it took months, or years for him to grow around the pain, these words would still linger in the backs of so many peoples minds, his friends minds, his own. There would be before this moment, and there would be after. He had seen it faintly in beomgyu when he had hugged him, and now he saw it written across the doctor's faces as they explained how they could make the transition easier.
“Over the last few years, a new type of recovery treatment has been offered here at the hospital. It's minimally invasive and painless, only offered to those who have gone through tragedies such as your own. We know the pain is fresh, and the decision does not have to be made today. Because of the magnitude of your loss and grief, we offer both partners the opportunity to undergo the procedure. But I'll let Dr. Howard explain exactly what it is,”
With that, the second doctor stepped closer to the bed you lay on, the machines beeping into the silence left between the spaces of melancholy. “Hello, this is quite a horrible time to meet, and I am very sorry for your loss.”
Your fingers twitched in Soobin’s at the words, as if you too could feel the weight of the albatross being placed around your neck. “I specialize in the neurological field that targets memory. Through my many years of working with retrieving memory, we have found the very root of how they have been erased in the first place. This led to the memory erasure procedure we are offering the both of you now. It is entirely painless and leaves almost no trace at all that it has been completed; it happens right at home after a single visit to the office.”
“No,” it was instant, almost as raw and true as your tears had been, immediate, and the strongest thing you had said in hours. “I don't want- just no.” because they were offering it to erase the sound of the very thing you had held inside you, not just the sound of the waves but the outline of a dream you never wanted to live without, even when it felt as if it had slipped from your fingers in nothing more than a few hours.
It was too fresh, too painful, but you knew you needed to feel the pain, needed to know that the agony you were going through physically and mentally was because they were real, your baby had been real, they had been an amalgamation of your years spent in Soobin’s arms, an amalgamation of your love for each other. You would not wave it away as if it were nothing more than what it actually was. You would sit, you would wallow, and you would feel their loss, because it was the only thing you had left of them.
“You do not have to decide now, we only come to offer some reprieve in this trying time-” and in a flash, you felt it, red hot anger, it cut through your sorrow sharper than any scalpel they could ever wield.
“Get out- go-” you shook your head, hand shaking in Soobin’s as he tried to clear the air, his face still red but tearless as you silently shed your own at the thought of these people taking anything from your mind.
“We are very sorry-”
“Get out!” it tore through you as if you were as fragile as a piece of paper, ripped from somewhere deep between your ribs, your lips trembling as you tried to hold onto the tears, because as soon as the fire was raging, it was just as quickly snuffed out. As if it had been the last cry for help you could give before it was all over, the last breath.
Neither of the doctors stayed; they apologized once, twice, and left as quickly as they had come. Soobin did not stop them, did not speak up, and there your relationship began to mummify.
It did not happen all at once, but slowly, achingly wrapped up in the emotions you were feeling all the way home, sitting in the back of a cab with your head leaning on Soobin’s shoulder. Your hand resting over your stomach as it had before, the paperwork scattered in the seat next to you, a pamphlet for the memory erasure procedure ripped in two.
The two of you returned to an empty house, made emptier now that you were ghosts of the people you were before leaving that night. Beomgyu had made sure to pack a set of your keys into the bag of clothes he had brought for the two of you. Soobin, carrying the papers, the bag, the keys, unlocked the door for you, letting you step in first.
But you could make it in no more than the doorway, not when you knew what was waiting upstairs, the unmade bed, the bloodied floor, the nursery. You felt your head shake, your eyes squeezing shut as you swallowed down the new wave of tears as they crashed down on the shore of your resolve. “I can't-” it was too much, too soon. Because something in your heart was dried up, wrung tight in a fist that was too strong to be anyone's but your own anguish’s. Here, back in the house you had built and filled with dreams was like walking into a coffin, and going upstairs would only shut the lid.
Soobin's hand was heavy as it pressed to your lower back, warm and flat against you, trying to guide you forward through the mist clogging up the interior. “Here,” he didn't care as he dropped everything down at the doorway, he let it spill, and pulled you to the couch.
Neither of you would know until later that beomgyu had taken the time to change your sheets, stripped the bed you would not want to lie in for days after your return. The bathroom was scrubbed clean when he had not needed to do so. He had come back and cleaned because he knew what it would mean to walk back into this house and see the mess.
So you lay on the couch, soobin flush on his back, holding you against his chest, your hands making fists in his shirt, fingertips just brushing your pulse to remind you that you were alive. Because lying there had never felt more surreal, your body swaying in your mind, the couch a boat on a sea you could not hear anymore.
And maybe that's why you couldn't hear it, because there was no sea at all, just a mountain of sand, so fine it did not brush your cheeks. The wind, his lungs pressed to your ear, the only sound you heard as your world hollowed and echoed the hum of your emptiness back at you, and that one line you had heard soobin speak.
“She lost- we lost the baby,” whimpered from lips trying too hard to keep in sobs.
You wished to reach out at the anger you had felt at the thought of erasing the memory of your happiness. Hold onto it as strongly as a balloon string in the gusting wind, pull it into you so that for one moment it would not be this ache but a fire. Something that cleaned and crackled, spit sparks instead of feeling like a pit that had opened up at the bottom of your feet.
There was no curiosity as you fell down into the darkness, no light looking down on you. It was just nothingness. An empty black void that had no floor. Because as the time passed, as you lay out on the couch, with or without soobin, you looked up at the ceiling and wondered what it would be like to stand and bark instead of cry.
But as you curled into the cushion, the emptiness pressed down like a blanket, comforted you like the hand soobin had pressed on your back when you had walked in. There was no warmth to it, but it was constant, weighty, and easy.
There was no struggle to get up when you did not try; you could stay right there on the couch with no one's company but your own, and shed your incessant tears. That first week, you had learned crying was as easy as breathing, as forgettable if you did not think too hard about it. It happened, and there was no stopping it, not unless you paid attention.
Not until soobin came and wiped at your cheek, his sweater sleeve wet as he sat next to where you had found yourself stuck, melted into the threading. He did not speak, not into the silence that had taken over; he simply helped you to sit up and wrapped his arms around you, held the back of your head as you pressed your face into the soft spot where his throat met his shoulder. You could not find it in yourself to hug him back, arms limp around his waist.
You had been prepared to feel sadness, swallowing that thought down like a mouthful of salt water when you were asked if you wanted your memory erased. The pain would be better than forgetting, but you had not prepared for the way the pain had turned into emptiness. Into nothing at all.
“You should change,” he whispered, the suggestion written down on a list of things you should have done, knew you would have to do eventually, but felt too daunting to do just yet.
The sound of his voice, patient and soft, made your fingers curl into his sweater, as if the words had been the key to getting a small reaction out of you. The thought of getting up, of pushing your limbs farther than the bathroom, made you shake your head. “I don't want to go upstairs,” it was muffled but true, “not right now.”
He did not press, not when you were all bruise, purple, and far from yellowing. He stood, let you fall back to the only safe space in the house, and rest. In the night, he tucked himself behind you as he would in bed and slept, his lips at the back of your neck, his breath like a kiss that helped lull you to sleep that you would not find yourself out of until well into the next day.
Every morning you woke on the couch, your eyes opened to the dust dancing in the pale light, the sky grey, the sea churning. You would follow the trail of it, looking for something to bring you back into the beam, something that made you feel anything like yourself before. But even with the heat of the sun on your skin, there was nothing that could have made you want to climb up the stairs.
You were a knot, braided of twine, fraying around the tension, unkept and struggling to make tea in a mug you had picked out when you thought love would always be enough to make it through anything. You let the ceramic burn your fingers as you cupped your hands through the handle, did not jump when the heat scorched your tongue, or the roof of your mouth.
Tea was all you could keep down, chewing too difficult when your jaw felt locked from your grief, stilled too because soobin had gone silent, in the wake of your depression. He would hum in wordless greeting, kiss your cheek, and change the bedding on the make-shift safe space he held you in.
The couch was the only space in your house that looked any different, a divot made from the hours of rest, a collection of empty mugs scattering the coffee table, a sweater thrown over the armrest where you kept your pillow. Everything else had stayed perfectly the same, frozen and as cold as you felt when you looked upon it.
And that was the cruelest part. That everything moved on as if your world had not fallen apart right there in the bathroom upstairs. That every dream had not been misshapen, that every star you wished on had not blinked out as quickly as flicking off a light switch, when your whole life you had been reminded that the stars shone for you and your happiness. And now this house was a time capsule of your dream now lost, your ring a reminder, and your bed upstairs a collection of memories far too sharp around the edges to touch with your still healing flesh on display.
But you tried, picked yourself up at the small suggestions that soobin made, even when it felt as if it took everything in you. Because how are you supposed to tell the one person who had seemingly stitched you back to life when you hadn't felt like needing fixing that you were nothing more than an open wound that was hemorrhaging the moment you walked past the threshold of your doorway? That there wasn't enough needle and thread to cover the damage that had been inflicted by no one other than yourself. He could try to blot away the blood, pack the site, and place his tourniquet, but it was no use when you felt this far gone.
He had called out of work for you, his gentle voice rough around the edges as he talked to your new boss. The call ending was a vacuum seal to the room, sucking all the air out until you felt the film tightening around your skin. He called his job next, muttered dates and apologies like either of you had anything to be sorry for.
The sweater he had helped you put on, a day ago? Two days? Softened with wear, the laundry detergent scent of your bed, worn away each time the cuff of your wrist brushed clean your tears. The mugs, a mix-matched collection of the years you had spent together, sat, molding at the hollow of them where you couldn't swallow down the last dregs of your pretending.
You could tell him you just needed a bit more time; it was true, but after every utterance of it, where you felt worse instead of better, it felt more like a lie. And as the time went on, days blurred into something like condensation on the outside of a cold glass, you wondered how long he would be able to handle you like this.
A shell of the person you once were for him, someone who was trying to claw their way out of the darkness, but found that, as thick as it might have felt around them, it was made out of nothing tangible, nothing that could have let you sink your hooks in as deeply as it had sunk its claws into you.
He did not show it, did not say it; he kissed your temple, held his lips there, and muttered an ‘I love you’ like a prayer. Like his faith in you would pull you both from the wreckage in time, the ocean thrashing, your nails digging into the hull, refusing to leave because the building of it had been special, your initials carved into the mast. For him, you surfaced, face just out of the water, enough to try and trick yourself into normality.
So you answered the calls on your phone, even when they hurt, and accepted Kai's invitation to lunch. Soobin's careful stare followed you as you changed in the laundry room, still too much for you to make it up to your bedroom, his reminder of how he could come with, call out again from work, hold your hand on the train ride into the city.
Your refusal had been soft and insistent, he had taken care of you like he was piecing together a puzzle someone had carelessly swept off the table. Taking his time and letting the two of you breathe through your grief in their own separate, silent ways, but he was yet to find that you were missing pieces that once had been the center of your picture.
And instead of letting him know, instead of telling him, you took the train, and the second you saw Huening waiting right at the end of the station, you fell apart.
As soon as the doors had opened and you saw your best friend's downward smile, you knew you wouldn't be able to handle it anymore. Shoulders heavy, sagging under the pressure you had felt keeping them up on the ride, your meek smile dipping down as your chin wobbled, you couldn't hold in the tears again.
Limbs weak, he pulled you into his hug, warm and all enveloping, he didn't complain as people split around the two of you right at the doors, like you were standing stones in a stream that roared too loud, too fast. He didn't tell you to stop soiling his shirt while you sobbed into him; he carried the weight of your body as you melted into your sadness.
“You're so strong,” he muttered, like it wasn't a lie you threw at yourself to convince you to make it out here in the first place. He said it like he believed it, and you couldn't take it anymore. You pulled away from him, fingers rough against your cheeks, pushing at your skin to clean away the mess you were leaving.
“I'm sorry.” It had been the only words that surfaced when you looked at anyone but yourself. You bit your lip hard enough to stop it shaking, holding your breath to keep your lungs from struggling. The pain scratched at your throat, rang in your ears like the sound of nails on a door, paint flaking, and wood chipping.
“Don't.” Kai would never demand anything from you, but he drew the line here at you pretending, apologizing. “I wanted to see you, not a lie, you have nothing to be sorry about,” he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, tucking you into his armpit, and taking off some of the weight of walking.
It wasn't far to the spot you two liked to go, a place that felt safe when it had been there well before your dreams started to change into something that looked a lot like the house out on the beach in Montauk. Here, on the street where the rain soaked into the scuffed, cracked pavement, underfoot, you realized how little you had thought about the senses you couldn't feel. Before, in the house, you had thought it was just the sea, but as the train took off, the tracks sounded faint, the rain did not have its same smell, the horns honking as you crossed the street you used to live on took far too long to reach your ears.
If you had surfaced as well as you wanted everyone to believe, it would not have felt like this. This was you gasping for breath from lips pursed so the water covering your ears still wouldn't slip into your mouth like it desperately tried to. And for a moment, with Kai, you didn't have to keep your arms moving, thrashing under the waves to keep your body up, because he understood you without sitting in the same room.
He was not in the water like soobin was. Kai could reach out without also trying to keep himself afloat.
He would let you cry until your ribs hurt, shake until your bones had gone loose under your skin, and you didn't feel the pressure of having to stop so soon, to realign yourself so that your spine was strong enough to carry the weight of Soobin’s grief too. And it made you feel guilty. Devastatingly so, because you wanted to be strong, to hold him as he held you, and yet all you could do was crumble in front of him.
Here at the cafe of your past, sitting across from Kai, who pressed his knee to yours under the table to remind you of his presence. You could ignore how the scent of coffee did not make you giddy with morning anticipation, how the grinding of the beans, the chatter of the patrons, giggling of the students studying in the corner all sounded dull, traveling under water to meet your ears too late for you to care if someone called your name for your order.
Kai brings your tea over, places it in the circle of your hands resting on the table, and sits in the silence with you, unbroken as you watch the steam rise from your cup. “You're allowed to not be okay.”
And you wonder if he can see the guilt that's clawing up your throat like smoke from a house still burning even after it's sunk to the bottom of the ocean. If, after every attempt at speaking, the evidence is tattooed all the way down to the pit of you.
Blinking, you shake your head, looking anywhere but at his kindness, “No, no, it's not that, it's just-” you circle your fingers around the paper cup, missing the cardboard cupholder that's supposed to keep the heat away. You let the burn numb your hands, distract you from the stuttering, let it ground you enough to spit out the one thing you couldn't find the strength to say when out on the sand. “How can I move on when everything has changed? How do I make it better when I was the one who broke it in the first place? How do you just get back up after this?” and you're not looking for answers, just an outlet that isn't the inside of your own skull, you bite back the tears, “how do I go on when I did this to us?”
“You didn't do anything wrong, it was nothing you did-”
“I know- I know that, but the aftermath, it feels like I'm the one who's holding on, like I can't let go. And he's never asked me to. God, we don't even talk, and I think that's always what it is, my mouth feels too heavy to say anything when I see him, and he’s looking at me like he still loves me, and I don't- I don’t love me. Because I don't know who I am right now, I don't know anything, I just know I'm not who I was, who he loved before, and I'm worried,”
“Worried he won't love you anymore?” he said it like it was hard to swallow, as if he, too, could see that first time the two of you sat on the train together, blushing and giggling like you had known each other a lifetime.
“Worried that I made the wrong decision,” your voice cracks at the confession, split down the middle like a broken heart drawn on blue-lined paper. “Back at the hospital, they told me about this memory thing, that they could take away the loss, and I just- I couldn't. They wanted me to just give it all up, like it would be easy, they made it seem easy, like the loss wasn't something that needed to be remembered, as if it wasn't the only thing I had left of us before I-” your voice gave out, flatlined as you imagined all that blood.
Kai reached out for your hands, twisted his fingers between yours, and pulled you back up for air. “Nothing about this is easy, for either of you, and it's okay to go back and want to redo things-”
“But that's just the thing, I still don't want to forget them, even when it hurts, but it feels like…” like it might as well be the only path you have left to take, like the tunnel you're falling down is already taking you there, because there is no pinprick of light, just darkness. “I don't know,” you look to the glass window next to you, your face reflected, distant and only faintly familiar.
Kai doesn't try to force it out of you, and it's exactly why you knew you needed to do this, have this conversation, sit here in a space that didn't feel like the kitchen at a wake for a funeral you should have never attended. “And soobin? Did he say he wanted to forget?”
“No, we didn’t talk about it,” he had picked up the papers from the floor after that first day, put them away somewhere you couldn't see, and didn't say anything but I love you. “And that's just it, if I forgot, maybe I could be the person I can see him waiting for. Because that's what he's doing, he's waiting for me to be okay when instead I'm just rotting from the inside out, and he doesn’t deserve that, it makes me hate myself.”
Your tears patter down on the hardwood table like the rain on the asphalt road outside. You feel the drip of them from your chin, but you don't clear them, don't care about hiding as kai looks in on the mess you've made. “I love him, but I can't love him, not in the way he deserves, not right now, and it feels like I'm just empty. And I know soon, when I can't even make it up the stairs after months of this, that he will know and he will be too nice to leave me.”
Because all your dreams had turned to nightmares, the only thing that came to mind was the way it would look as he walked out the door. You wanted it to hurt, wondered if then you would feel it as sharp as a knife twisting in your stomach, or if you would have been too far gone. You let everything hang between the two of you now, let it hurt you and be just as unforgivable and inconceivable as you knew it should have been.
“You lost your baby, you're grieving,” and you know he's right, but it doesn't sink in; you won't let it.
“We, we lost our baby, but I'm the one who is making us lose everything else. I can't think about the house, the ring,” you lift your hand from his, your ring feels looser now, turning around your knuckle until it bit into your palm when you curled your fist to feel your nails dig into your flesh. “I was happy, this all made me so happy, and now all I can think about is how he got us that house to fill with life, and I've done nothing but lie on that couch dead.”
“And what would forgetting get you?” The line was a coin you turned over in your head night after night since making it back from the hospital. Soobin's lips just brushing the hair at the back of your neck, enough to remind you he was there, so close you wondered when it would hit you that the cavern you felt between you two was internal.
“It would be easier for him,” but you couldn't stop thinking about how it would be no easy thing to walk in, remembering the dreams you had of holding your baby, a baby you had not yet picked a name for, but knew you loved more than life itself, and leave with nothing, not even a scar. Your lips trembled, “it wouldn't feel like this,”
Because if it hurt, so much so that it felt like you were a black hole, it meant that you had loved them, and it was the love you didn't want to forget. Didn't want to clear out the nursery beomgyu had painted, giggling as he put paint in soobins hair; didn't want to hide the crib the boys had built and gifted to you that first night. You didn't want to forget the way their heartbeat had sounded like the ocean, how soobin had cried and held you, kissed your skin like a promise.
But the sea had stopped making a sound in your empty house, and maybe it was far easier to forget that love than drown yourself in the pit of the sadness it left behind.
You knew Kai could see it, like an outfit you wore, no matter how well you tried to dress yourself up, clean around the edges, comb your hair, brush your teeth, that sadness was still written over you like a red pen to a paper you had spent far too long on to get such low marks. He did not turn away from the sight; he drank it in, having you in front of him, he memorized the divots under your eyes, dark and shadowed by a pain he knew he had little understanding of. All he knew was that your grief was clinging to you like a second skin, bleeding into your soul, and all he could do was be there.
“I think that if you choose to forget, it won't be because you don't love them but because you loved them so much,” his voice was low, solid, and present, “and you have every right to want to hold onto that love, and every right to want to go back to the way things were. But please, please, know that no matter what path you decide, I'll be here for you,”
Your shoulders slumped, your chin turned to the ceiling as you tried to blink away the glass in your eyes, “I know,” you whispered it because it never would have been able to come out any louder than that. “And I want to try, I'm trying to get back on track so that I don't have to decide, so that I don't- I don't want,” and there before you, you dropped your one fear, the one thing that you were fighting with yourself over and over again, "I don't want to lose him like i lost our baby, its killing me, and losing him, it would be too much, i dont think i would ever recover,”
Kai nodded, his frown of understanding enough for you to stop the conversation dead in its tracks. “Small steps, I want to get better, I'll try,”
And when you were headed home, Kai walked you to the train station instead of down the block where your old bed was still made, kept neat behind the door Kai always left open just for you. He held you, and this time, you kept the tears down, clinging to him as if that was the equivalent of a thank you. “Here,” he took your hand, wrapping your fingers around the gift, not letting you give it back. “You will always have a place with me, no matter what happens, forgetting or not, I will never turn you away,”
He kissed the top of your head and sent you off. Your body slumped in your seat when you unfurled your hand to reveal a silver key, your old apartment number stamped into the side, half rubbed smooth from the years it had spent in your purse, pocket, hand. You had given it back to him when he was on the ride home from unloading your life in Montauk, months ago, and now you wished the gesture didn't feel like a step backward instead of forward. But a lifeline was a lifeline at the end of the day, no matter what turmoil it stirred inside of you.
And when you got home, soobin still gone at work, you climbed the stairs. Your hand gripping the banister hard enough to crack your knuckles, you stood looking at the half open door to your bedroom, building the courage to cross the threshold you had been struggling with since you had returned home that night.
It was small, but it was enough, and you were so, so tired.
So you peeled off your clothes and fell into bed, under the duvet, between the sheets that had been unused since Beomgyu had changed them those months ago. You looked up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the day start to settle over you. The conversation had been enough to get you to this point, to the bed you had feared, but it was a bandage, not a scab, over the wound you had been carrying.
Without thinking, just as you had the second you had known you were sharing your body, you placed your hand right below your belly button and let yourself cry. No need to hide or to feel ashamed, as you thought about how far along you would have been, how you would have known if you were going to be having a boy or a girl. You would have stayed up late at night with soobin, genuine names slipping from your lips, whispered with question marks between the ones you giggled just to poke fun at each other.
It hurt to think, but you forced it onto yourself, broke the bone again so that it would be able to heal straight. “I miss you,” you whisper out into the empty room, and you don't know who it's for, yourself, soobin, your baby. All you know is that it's true and all-encompassing.
You sob, horribly, painfully, until you're curling in around yourself, face pressed into pillows that don't smell like him, like you, holding yourself with limbs too phantom to keep you from spilling between the cracks.
It's Soobin’s soft hand on your back that wakes you. He drags his palm across your shoulder blades, fingers brushing the soft skin on the back of your neck. “I didn't mean to wake you.” The room was washed in moonlight, his shadow thrown across your body like a blanket. He was dressed down, out of his work uniform, and cleanly washed, his hair still dripping as he climbed in next to you.
He did not ask about the room change, just pulled you in as he had on the couch, and held you until you fell back asleep.
It was your first attempt at pulling yourself back up; the rest was found in going back to work, in stepping on the tiles of your bathroom as you got ready without picturing the way the speckles of blood had looked like ink underfoot. Instead, you avoided the ground, watched yourself as you smoothed your moisturizer over your cheeks, applied cream on the dark circles under your eyes to try and lessen the contrast of the bruises your insomnia was blooming against the soft skin.
Soobin sat at the edge of the bed, his gaze following each of your movements, watching you in the way one watched a storm roll in over the sea, helpless and accepting. But he did not follow you in as he once had, no soft pleads of you to call out when all he wanted you to do was find some form of normality again.
Neither of you acknowledged the way it once had been, how he would hang off your shoulder, trying to peel off your clothes when you were trying to tug them on. His soft kisses peppering down your neck like a promise of more to come if you just stayed. His lips tasted like honey from tea he had brewed freshly for you, like love you didn't know would grow stagnant.
If you thought too much about it, felt it all at once, you'd have stayed, not because of him, not because he had asked, but because he hadn’t. You would finally wrap him in your arms instead of letting them lie limp around him each night.
You wanted that, to kiss him and not think about how it felt like a reminder of times when it made your stomach light up with anticipation, joy, like little fireflies flickering in tandem with each peck. And maybe that's what you're missing when you leave for work. A kiss from him that feels less like something he does because he's worried, but because he wants to kiss you from nothing more than desire.
“Call me if it's…” too much, you can see it in the way he waves at it, scared to say it out loud. Like if he utters the words, they will become real.
“It's okay, I think it's what I've been missing,” but it's not; it's a lie. What was missing was so much larger than work, and falling into it like he had was not something you thought would fill the space, but was well worth the try.
“I still want to know about your day,” you were standing in the kitchen, looking up at him as he brushed your cheek, holding your gaze as if he could catch what you were feeling in his hands and help you mold it into something else, something that would be easier to carry if you shared the weight of it.
But you smiled, as best as you could make it, like pretending would let it bleed into you and help. You did it for him, for what you were worried about losing, and he smiled back. Something small and fractured, nothing big enough to show his soft dimples that hadn't been seen in months. It made you waver, sway in your step when he leaned down and kissed you just soft enough to make you see how you weren't yet whole again, both of you still two ghosts in an empty house.
You were determined as you walked out to use the time away to recharge, to soak up your pretending of normality and calmness so that when you got home, it would almost feel real. The little bookstore with its sunbleached wooden bookshelves and creaking floorboards was a welcome space to try and heal in.
But it had only just passed an hour in when you felt the filter you tried to hold up over yourself begin to wane. It had not been what you believed would have broken you down. The mothers with their children sitting around the little toy lighthouse under the strings of fairylights, reading and giggling over books you had set up.
No, it had been your coworker, sitting at the checkout desk, her whisper picked up over the small shop as she tried to hold back the sounds of her happiness. She was talking to a boy, who leaned over the edge of the counter as he listened to her every last word. His dark hair was shaggy in his eyes as she leaned in, bumping her nose to his.
It was easier to ignore something you had never felt but dreamed of than it was to watch something you had before slip away. You had not planned to cry, you had found that in this last week, you had gone dry, that the nothingness had taken the well and drained it out as it had your emotions. It was what had made the decision easy to call your boss and tell them you could handle a day shift. No worry that if you thought too long and hard about everything that you would burst like a water balloon thrown right at the pavement.
But seeing some excerpt of your life before had your throat tightening, your swallow thick and hard to choke down as you busied yourself with stocking books you had no intention of reading or looking into, as you once would have. Now it was just a monotonous routine, a performance you went through while you counted down the hours until you could leave.
You did not cry on the walk home, not even when you curled yourself up on the couch as you had that first day you had gotten back, the throw pillow tucked against your chest as if it could replace soobin and his gentle breathing. But you were rocking on the boat alone this time.
If going into work had been to rebuild yourself in some kind of peace, it had done the opposite; it had only been a reminder of how much you had changed, how much your relationship had changed. Maybe in time, it would have been something that would have thinned, worn down into a shape that was completely different than the way you had started.
But it would have been after years, not months, not a single night. You would have lived out your dreams, married, in your house, wrapped up in him, in your bed, kissing like love instead of routine. It's what you dreamt of before he finally got home, his hand on your back as it always was. “Let's go upstairs,” as if he could see the backsliding you were doing down the hill you had been playing at climbing and he was coming in to help you back up the small progress you had made.
So you followed him, and as if he knew your dreams, remembered just as well as you had the morning spent with him, his hands all over, slipping into the waistband of your pants, along your sides as he pushed your shirt free from your body, undressing you. He mimicked the movements, helped you not into bed but into the shower, the warmth of the water fogging up the glass of the mirror until it was easier to play that this was the past and not a reenactment of it.
This was easier, lying against him as he washed you, scrubbed you new because you were not strong enough to do it. His lips on your shoulder, speckled with droplets of water, his fingers scrawled across your stomach as he let you curve into his chest, held you as if he had always been made to, but you just happened to find yourself in separate drawers until now.
And you cried, let the water beat down on you, let it cover your cheeks like the tears spilling because it had been a drought, and today it rained, memories and dreams like falling stars that did not bring wishes but mourning anew. Soobin could see it, worried over it the second he saw you curled back up on the sofa, the indent mimicking the shape of you, worn away and not made for you like he was.
He cleaned you, and didn't bother about cleaning himself when you needed it more. He dressed you in nothing but his old shirt and your underwear, the same as he had seen you waking up in for years, and laid you down in the bed as he had in the sand, holding you to him, twining your legs with his like a loose braid.
Your fingers holding his shirt, smelling like him, your nose running up the slope of his neck as you pulled yourself impossibly closer, wedging yourself against him until all you could think about was the way he felt so strong, so comforting.
It had been so long since you had kissed over his pulse, lips just grazing his skin. It happened, once, twice, where you let yourself lean into wanting him just as you had before it all. You held him, body once stiff, melting into the shape of someone you once were, who you wanted to be again.
And you kissed him, trailing up his throat, to his jaw, the edge of his mouth, where he gasped, not questioning the sudden surge of need, as you tangled your legs in his, rolled your hips closer to him, fingers curling in his hair like a memory.
His body reacted instantly, hot and alive, unfurled as he met you halfway, pushing as you pulled. And when he kissed you, he did not jump back from the way you went from soft pecks, finding your footing, to a full on devouring. Something had been sparked, like an ember tossed from a car wreck, catching in a grassy field, lighting and raging.
You pulled on his hair, moaning into his mouth when his leg brushed against a spot of you that had long since been forgotten. He swallowed your whimpers, matched them when you rolled on top of him, straddling his waist. It was new and yet all so familiar to find the spots of your waist he had held before, his fingers digging into your thighs, pulling you down flush against him.
Your hands rested on his chest, pushing yourself up to catch your breath, to reel in your mind at what exactly you were doing. There, the two of you froze, looking at one another, washed in the moonlight, the sound of your restless breathing the only thing filling the room besides the rushing of blood in your ears.
Soobin lay under you, lips kiss-reddened, hair a mess of inky strands on the pillow, spilling along the threads, his thumbs working circles into your hips, not coaxing but remembering. It was with a painfully fragile look in his eyes that he ran down your body. And for a moment, you almost pulled away, snuffed out the fire like one blows out a candle, but you leaned back down, ghosting your lips over his until he tilted his chin and pulled you in for the kiss you wanted desperately.
He pulled himself up, meeting you as he leaned back against the headboard, his open mouthed kisses finding the landmarks they had missed for so long: the soft spot where your jaw met the edge of your ear, the thump of your heart pressed to his lips, your collar bone, and the hollow it left at the base of your neck.
You were greedy with your touch, limbs now revitalized for this one mission of exploring him the same as you had before, flipping through the pages of a book you had thought was lost as you pulled off your shirt, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers dragging through the fine strands of hair at the back of his head. Your body arched into his as he dragged his nose down your chest, between your cleavage, and kissed at your sternum as you rolled your hips against his, still clothed at the waist and yet never feeling more exposed.
His hands reached around you, holding you close, his fingers outspread along the expanse of your back, the warmth of them all encompassing, dragging down your spine until you were trembling for him. And you hadn’t even noticed that you were crying, silent tears that caught in the pale, glowing light. Didn't notice until soobin pulled away, cupping your cheek. “Baby,”
And it broke you, your lips finding a pout until you couldn’t hold in the sob anymore, you fell forward, burying your face into his neck, clinging to him as he held you. “I'm sorry,” you tried, when you pulled away, shaking your head as you cleared your tears, “I'm fine,” but the words were watery, mixed in with your sniffle as you threaded your fingers back into his hair.
“We don't have to,” he whispered, his hands holding you still on his lap, running up and down your sides, warming you, telling you it was all okay when it was the last thing you felt.
“I want to,” you bit at your lip, trying to stop the way your chin was wobbling. You didn't know if it was a lie or not; you wanted him, you wanted normality, you wanted this moment, you wanted to remember who you were before, but you couldn't have it without tears, without some kind of ache.
“I want you,” you whispered it, looking into his eyes so he knew that, at the very least, was what you felt in your heart.
“I just want to lay here with you, okay?” and you couldn't tell if it was pity or guilt he was feeling, couldn't read this look smoothed between his brows because you could hardly understand your own emotions. All you knew was that it made you cry. The tears followed a trail down your skin, dotting along his shirt, before he cleared them away. “I just want you to come back to me, nothing more, nothing less.”
But you were here, right in front of him, hollow but not in a way that you thought would ever be filled. But you nodded nonetheless, letting him pull you back into his chest, rolling the two of you into your place in bed, the blankets pulled up into place as he kissed the top of your head.
“I love you,” as soft as a first breath, a first kiss, a heartbeat.
And you were broken, ground down to dust, sprinkled like sand, like ashes.
The next day, you called out of work, watched soobin as he got ready, while you stayed in bed, your face pressed into the pillow on his side, looking out the window, half open, watching the surf crash down on the sand. He leaned over the bed and kissed your shoulder as a goodbye, and when he came back, he found you had not moved, and you didn't even realize the sky had gone just as dark as you felt.
He washed himself, slid into the space you had kept for him, and did it all over again in the morning. Only this time, he pulled you to sit, handing you a cup of tea he had made, and cringed when you grabbed the mug around its base and not the handle. He sat until you finished it, and left without a kiss.
There on the nightstand, your collection grew, a new mug for every year you two had spent together, piled up, haphazardly stacked, spoons still glazed with honey, stuck to the hardwood. The bottle of your prenatal vitamins was wedged between the wall and the back of the drawers when you had knocked it over that second night in bed.
The window stayed open to circulate the air into the room, the curtains catching in the breeze, as you watched over and over again how the sea rose and fell without a sound. The silence of it was as loud as your relationship had become.
It hurt, somewhere distantly inside of you, the shape of it circling around the center of you like razor wire. But it wasn't enough to pull you up. All you could think about was how much you wanted to do things, but the energy that would be needed was wasted there.
As you lay, as you let yourself be, you could see the way the only energy you had left was resting like a fine layer of water where your joints met the bed, like you were a glass on its side, still clinging to something but not enough for a mouthful if picked up and swallowed down. You wouldn't have even noticed if the ocean had swallowed you whole.
It's how Yeonjun found you, the spare key you had gifted him so long ago, finally in use after not hearing from you for well over a month. You hadn't even heard the front door open, didn't hear him climbing the stairs, but even if you had, it would have been brushed off as Soobin coming home from work, your perception of time lost.
“Hey,” he said it just from the doorway, your back still turned from him, but you knew his voice, could recognize it anywhere. He had come around when you had been stuck on the couch, but you had turned him away, not wanting him to see you like that. And even if this was much worse, you didn't really care anymore.
You rolled to your side, looking at him with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, his face giving nothing away as he looked at the mess your room had become, even when you hardly got up to dirty it. The laundry was piled in the closet, spilling from the hamper so that the door didn't shut, the nightstands with their graves, the sheets just as mussed as your hair, and the sweater you had not changed out of in a week.
The house had become a tomb, stuck in place everywhere except the kitchen and your bedroom. Not one made out of stone, but one of molding mugs, dried tea bags, and silence that sank to the bottom of the floor like deadweight, suffocated and consuming. The dishes piled up, the rack of shoes next to the door empty, the contents spilled out, the mail stacked up next to the bowl of keys collecting dust.
And you, Ophelia in her river, just at the surface of yourself, drowning in clothes now too heavy around your bones. Eyes bruised, pale, and sunken around every soft curve you had possessed nearly a year ago. “I didn't know you were coming.” You didn't even move to sit up.
“I know, you didn't answer my calls.” he pulled out his phone, holding it to give him something to do besides worry, even if it was all his body was doing.
“Sorry,” and he knew you meant it, even when it was said so weakly.
“Don't be, I get to see the beach now, it's been a while,” he stepped in, crossing the threshold into the stale air even with the window open, sitting at the edge of the bed, reaching out for your hand, laying as limp as a flower cut too soon from its stem, fingers curled as if you were just starting to unfurl them. “You're cold,” he whispered, mostly to himself, thumb gently rubbing curled on the back of your hand. “It's colder in here than outside.”
“It's going to snow soon,” you sniffled, pushing yourself up, pulling your hand from his because it felt all too revealing. You pressed your fingers into your eyes, yawning as you stretched your legs out in front of you.
You knew the grey skies and seagulls' departure for what it was, the seasons changing, the crowds leaving.
“Do you remember the summer we spent two days here and I got that horrible sunburn?” he laughed at the memory, and you couldn't help but give the smallest chuckle because you did remember that summer. The one right before you had met soobin, yeonjun had been pink and red all over, sitting up from a nap on the beach and groaning as he realized his grave mistake.
“You laid yourself on the tile floor in the airbnb's kitchen and curled up like a shrimp someone dropped, even your ears were burned.” You pulled your knees up, hugging them closer to your body as yeonjun nodded, smiling at himself, at the fun you had somewhere not far from his house now.
“Kai had to cover me in that slimy off-brand aloe gel we found, and it only took two days for my skin to look like a lizard's,” he had gone back to your shared lecture with sunglasses on just to try and draw attention away from the way his nose had started to peel. You and Kai had picked on him for months after, hanging the picture of him on the floor on the fridge. “You told me that the next year we should come when it snows, that you prefer the less crowded beach in the colder months.”
“Yeah,” the two of you had made it out to the beach, too late in the day to spend much time just watching the water. You had sat in the sand, bundled in your coats, watching them string lights on the long walkway leading up to the lighthouse. The sea had been loud, crashing into every sentence you shared, the wind strong enough to turn Yeonjun's ears just as pink as they had been with his burn.
You can't even remember the last time you set foot on the sand, or the last time was that you made it past the doorway of your room. Yeonjun doesn't ask you to go, not out loud, but somehow you both end up there, right at the end of your winding pathway leading down to the sand, grey instead of its lemon-rine color it holds in the summer.
Yeonjun had helped you put on your coat, now somehow too big for you, bunching around your wrists as you curled your hands into fists in your pockets. Your scarf was still loosely hanging around the collar, the same one soobin had gotten you after proposing, bright and red like the string he had whispered was wrapped around your pinky and his.
And there the sea sat, calm, lulling back and forth, slow enough to drag its sound out until it was stretched thin enough for you to talk. “Stop looking at me like that,” because his stare was heavy when he believed you wouldn't notice, weighty on your shoulders as you kept your eyes locked somewhere in the distance, where the waves broke the grey horizon with its white rolling foam.
“Like what?” but he said it like he knew, because it was obvious, he had carried your mugs down to the kitchen sink even though you had protested, embarrassed all that once seeing them in his arms, even if he wasn't judging you.
“Like you're worried about me,” the wind cut in across your face, your lips pursed as you looked down at your shoes, dark against the sun-withered wood speckled with sand, and yet you still didn't take the final step out onto the beach just yet.
“I am,” he doesn't even try to deny it, as he steps in front of you, sinking in the sand, bending to catch your eyes, following them even when you try to look away. “How could I not be? Look at you,” it's not accusatory, it's laced with concern, pulled tight around ribs that were finding it hard to take a deep breath. “You don't-, you’re not-, I am worried.”
He let it hang between you two, looked right into your eyes as he said it, so you knew, so he could watch you swallow the bitter pill of it down. And still, even when you knew, felt it as deeply as the chill kissing the tip of your nose, you wanted to lie. “I just need time,”
Yeonjun huffed, a sound that was more sarcastic than humorous, “time,” he nodded, biting back anything else he wanted to say, before he just let it go. You could see the battle, watched as he gave up, shoulders sagging, pursing his lips as he turned away from you. “I miss you,”
It sounds so close to the way soobin had said it, I just want you to come back to me, as if you weren't standing right there before them. “I'm right here,” you had wanted to say it there in the dark, shout it out at the sea, at him, at the mirror.
“Yeah.” yeonjun sniffled, his knuckle coming up to rub at his cheek, “I know, just buried.”
“I'm trying,” but you hadn't been, not after the one day of work, a week ago? Two? They had been calling more than you had to ask for time off. You could feel that panic, somewhere flickering in the back of your mind, when you saw their number appear on the screen of your phone, but talking felt too much like teaching a lecture on something you only had an hour to learn beforehand.
Nothing around the house was done, soobin went to work for longer and longer, and the days stretched like an elastic band that had lost its shape. “It's just a lot. I'm working on it. What do you want from me? To take up meditation? Hot yoga? Join a book club for depressed housewives? If you can even call me that.” It had been the most you had spoken in one go, the deflection like a hiss from a cat backed into a corner, too scared to realize this might be someone who wouldn't hurt but heal.
“I just want you to be honest, not with me, fine, whatever, but with yourself.” Your jaw hurt, teeth grinding as you shook your head, your heel dug into the wood, and slid on the sand as you looked back up at the house.
The window of the nursery was shut, the mobile stuck frozen in place as if it had been painted against the glass. Your bedroom window open, the gauzy curtain pulled by the call of the wind rippling like a white flag in the air. “You want honesty?” Your throat was tight, pulled in on itself as you squeezed out the words you needed to say, “i hate who ive become, i hate that i cant feel like i use to, that im numb, and it makes me feel so guilty because he- he still loves me, or i hope so, and that hope makes me feel worse, because he shouldn’t,”
Yeonjun stays quiet, lets you sit with your confession between you two because he's not judging, he's grieving. “This isn't the end all.”
You look back out at the water, to the dark, wet sand where the tide meets the shore. “Like I said, I'm trying,”
The two of you stood out there for far longer than you had expected, shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, but enough for you to feel the warmth of him. And when you both made it back to the house, yeonjun picked through your fridge, the eclectic array of foods had been bought by soobin on short trips to the store on the way home from work. But it was enough for yeonjun to piece together a meal for the two of you to sit and share.
He cleaned after himself even after your protesting, washing every dish in the sink, stacking the ceramic plates and cutlery like Jenga blocks, playing at his own private game he was positive he would win after convincing you to shower.
And when you were clean, your hair still wet, Yeonjun kissed your head, scuffing over the spot with his coat sleeve as if he were cleaning a window, a joke he found funny every single time he did it. Your smile was slow but genuine; his was melancholy-tinted at the edges. “Don't stay a stranger,”
“I won't,” although neither of you knew if it was true or not, but it was enough. He left to catch a late train back into the city, looking over his shoulder at you when the door was closed.
It was only the next morning that you found yourself up early, far earlier than soobin, who slept soundlessly on his back, one arm tucked under your head like a pillow, when you opened your eyes. His chest rose and fell, and you mourned to feel so far away from him.
Without waking him, you made your way downstairs, following the same monotonous routine that felt easiest on days like this. Filling the tea kettle, you set it on the stove, clicking once, twice, on the burner until it caught with its flame.
The mugs all sat in the dish rack, half emptied in your attempt to keep up with the boost Yeonjun’s visit had brought you. And when the phone rang, you answered, knowing it was your boss, knowing you didn't feel up to going to work, and yet still you felt dejected when she muttered a soft, “We're really sorry, but it's just not working out, if we need an extra set of hands in the busy season we will give you a call, but for now it's just not the right fit anymore. I'm sorry.”
“No, it's okay, I understand,” because you did, wholeheartedly, you had called out more times than you had been in the building itself. Most times, you hadn't even called, and you were new, not like how you had kept the same job in the city for years, the seniority and friendships giving more grace.
You should have seen it coming, smelled it out when the calls kept coming and you didn't pick up, the denial written off as anything else but what it actually was.
The first mug to fall had been an accident. The brush of your sleeve as you placed your phone down had sent it toppling. The tea bag pressed under the broken ceramic. The watercolor painting of the lighthouse cracked in two, severed in a diagonal, like a sword had been wielded right through the memory.
The little Montauk slogan found on hats, shirts, and coffee mugs is kept in perfect view. The catchy little joke because the beach was right at the very tip of New York's east end, just dipping into the Atlantic Ocean.
at the end. Montauk, NY.
You had picked it up on your first solo trip out together, where you kissed his cheek over and over again as if you could spare the touches like grains of sand, giggling as you held the mug up for soobin, “so at the end of the day, you always have a mug to share,” he had smiled, dimples and teeth, nose scrunching when he pulled a hat onto your head with the same saying. Singing softly, “With youuu.” as if you had left off the last bit of your sentence and he needed to fill it in, just clarifying that he only wanted to share coffee with you, and only you.
Time still stood, like an oncoming car had flashed its brights in your eyes as you crossed a road you shouldn't have been traveling down. You read the line over and over again, at the end, as if someone had carved it into the bathroom tile upstairs the second the first drops of blood had appeared.
You didn't move to clean it, but instead reached out for the drying rack, picking up the next souvenir from a past too muddy for you to dig through. The logo of the bookstore you had worked at in the city was tattooed on the base, a chip already at the foot of the mug. You had picked it up the first time his mom had come to visit, the first time she had held your hand and told you how happy she could see he was.
And this time, you let it fall to the floor deliberately, relishing in the shattering, the sound like an exhale. Because as you picked up the next one, throwing it down, hard enough for the ceramic shards to spray along the tile like spilling beads from a bracelet ripped from a wrist, you could finally breathe, force out all the air in your lungs until you picked up the next mug.
The creamy white porcelain, one half to a whole set, a gift from Taehyun, silly his & hers mugs he had found soon after your engagement announcement. They had been sweet, painted with hearts, and the final ones to be thrown, cracking and splitting like bone, brittle and built on a promise you felt had been for a girl you didn't know anymore.
Left in the rack, a navy blue mug, bare of any inscription at all, the same mug that had been in the cabinet of Soobin’s apartment when you first met. The lone survivor of the massacre you had never seen coming until it was too late. And there, scattered on the floor, a mosaic of memories lost too soon, swept off the counter in a fit that tried to mask itself as rage but wasn’t close to it at all.
This had been a lapse, not in judgment but in your play at healing. And you had never been a good actor, because as much as you tried to hold it back, suck down gulps of air to avoid the shake in your resolve, you couldn't hide from the tears. “No, no, no,” the single syllable repeated like a prayer, a plea, a spell, as you fell to knees far too weak to rest on an altar made of fragmented dreams and vows.
You swept the mess with the side of your hand, trying to collect the fragments, not feeling them cut along your palm, into your pinky finger. But the burn traveled up to your elbow, your whine mixing in with the whistle of the tea kettle, screaming and screaming, continuously ringing in ears that had blocked out anything but the echo of their own sorrow.
Soobin rushed down the stairs, disheveled, hair an inky mess, as he slid to a stop at the sight of you, bent, bloody fingers curled around a fractured half of your Montauk mug, pulled to your stomach, as if it would pull you back together while you swept the shards of glass up with your free bare hand.
For a second, he froze, stuck, still half asleep as he had been that night, the whistling kettle mimicking the ring in his ears before he hurried to push at the pot from the burner, his hiss at the heat from the metal quick before he kneeled down with you. “Stop-”
He swept up your hand, thin shards of the ceramic digging into his skin as he cupped yours, your head shaking, as he moved to catch the large piece you had been reaching for. “Soobin-” but it was too late, his hand brushed at just the right angle, the burn of it as instant as the kettles had been. And there along his lifeline, blood bloomed.
“Fuck-” he sucked in the word, his fist closing instinctively over the wound.
“I-” but you didn't know what to say, how to apologize for so much destruction. There was no word for how sorry you were, not just over the mugs, or spilled blood that now dotted the floor like a cruel retelling of your mutual ruination, but for everything.
He didn't let you continue; he pulled you away from the kitchen and the shattered relationship you both had bled on the tile. Standing behind you, he cupped your hands over the running sink in the downstairs restroom. Peeled your fingers back away from the single piece you clung to like he would an orange, letting the shard of your past clink to the base of the blood-spotted bowl like a lost baby tooth that you would never get back.
With care, he held your hands under the warm stream, brushed his thumbs over the length of your fingers, letting the pink water wash over the saying you had never associated with pain until now, at the end. Montauk, NY.
There he waited until the water had gone cold, gone clear, and pulled away.
You could hear him sweeping up the mess, the glass clinking against the dustpan loud like the grinding of cars sliding against the on-ramp rail. And in the mirror, your reflection only showed you in grey, speckles of blood over your sweater. It's how you found yourself in the closet. The door pushed open just enough so that you could step into the mess of the laundry.
Your foot sank into it, and the light flicked on as you looked at the half-empty hangers. The mess of the drawers was half pulled open, as if you and soobin had been in a rush to collect the necessities and leave as fast as possible. It didn't matter what sweater you pulled out to replace the one you wore so long as it did its job. You added to the pile on the floor, kicking at it as if that would help.
Half hidden, a pale white box was tucked into Soobin’s dresser, the emptying of his shirts from his collection revealing it just enough to catch your eye. Nearly the size of a shoe box, only flatter, was the hidden archive of that very day.
It was almost as if it had been calling you, laid out just right in your line of sight when you were thinking about it the most. Because when you push back the lid, the ripped pamphlet is waiting at the top of your discharge papers. The Memory Erasure Procedure, as done by Dr. Howard M.
The tear had almost underlined the name, all while cutting the grassy background of a sunny field in two. A picture of how your days could be if you just went and cleared away all the bad memories, or so they wanted it to appear.
You picked up the second half of it, the slogan making your jaw ache, restoring peace & renewing clarity. It had hurt you, hand still trembling in the back of the cab, but steady enough to know you hadn't wanted it. It had been your instinct to deny it, to go against the way your body, your mind, wanted to grieve, felt too unnatural to dig around in someone's head for memories that didn’t hurt.
But they did hurt; they broke something inside you to look back on, if you lay in bed and thought too long about the sand, Soobin’s ear pressed to your belly, your laugh, his. It was all enough to have you crushed far longer than you had intended the memory to leave you.
You had been holding onto them still, waiting for the moment when they would clear up, when the haze around them was not poisonous to breathe in, waiting for the part in the play when you knew it would end happily. Only it was months later, nearly a year later, and you weren't better, no incline on your health but a downward spiral that was never ending, as if you had been sucked down the drain and hadn't yet fallen into the lake just yet.
And that's the bit you were holding on to, the just yet, you were waiting for the moment of clarity to come on its own, the internal peace that would work its way into the spaces that had collected dust and echoed your silence back at you. But whatever hill you had been climbing was steep, steep enough to burn your calves and lock them in place, freezing you in time so that when the landslide came, it swept you back to the bottom and buried you under the rubble, and now you were too tired to dig yourself out from the mess.
There had been hope that someone would come and help, but it was given up when they had attempted, and you found that there was a certain comfort in the darkness, one that was familiar because it was coming from deep within your bones, as if somewhere inside you, that instinct of an animal knowing its time was near had taken over. You had circled your spot like a vulture did its prey, and laid down and sank deeper into the reprieve.
You could see the end, felt it with every absence of a kiss on your cheek when soobin left for work, where he had called for extra hours outside of the house he had built on the very dreams and memories they had offered to erase.
Your thumb ran over the list of benefits they provided: Reduced symptoms of grief, trauma, or anxiety, Improved mood and emotional stability, Enhanced ability to form new, healthy attachments.
It shouldn't have felt so gutting. The list was like a sharp knife that completed the evisceration. And you knew it was everything you should have wanted, for yourself, for him. How easy they made it seem, painless, no scars, just spots in your mind that you couldn't fill in. days and moments that would be replaced like most insignificant moments in life were, you would know you had lived that day but it would be written off as having done what you always did, not anything life altering enough to be forgotten.
At the first mention, it had made you angry, your snap as loud as a whip, as fractured as the mugs you had just thrown down, and yet now even that memory had been eaten by the emptiness. And now all you sat with was guilt.
If there had been time to think, talk it through, maybe the two of you could have been saved. Mourned and let it shred you to ribbons, and then find yourself awake in bed braided anew. But you had let yourself, your relationship, your dreams, rot at the bottom of a sea that never stopped churning. And soobin had fought the waves, carried you as best as he could, but you could see how tired it was making him to love you.
And how could he not be tried? As much as Kai and Yeonjun could tell you otherwise, they did not live in your skin, did not sleep in the same bed as him and wonder how life for him would be so much easier without you in it. It kept you up, not just the lost dreams but the torment of knowing you were the problem. He could get up, brush his teeth, comb his hair, get dressed, work, and what could you do? What had you done?
The seedlings of the separation had been set early, maybe even before the loss, maybe in the thin stretch of the years between the engagement and the wedding that never came. Maybe your rose colored glasses had been too thick, too pink, too red, for you to see the signs. You had picked over that scab so often that the wound would never heal, and this, who you had become, had only stitched the skin in the opposite direction, flayed instead of healed.
He waits, patient, and as hopeful as the boy who had waited until Monday rolled around so he could see you again at your job. And as of right now, it feels like he will be waiting a lifetime because you don't have a breadcrumb trail leading back to the girl you used to be.
If time could heal all wounds, how could it not also create them? He would wait, he would stay, he would watch you, love you until it was only because he remembered that he once had, not because he did. You would suck the life out of him, you already had, even if you were the only person who could see it, admit it. And you couldn't let him do that.
Couldn't let him sit and love you, couldn’t let him sit and wait for someone who knew they were too far gone, who had stitched their shared loss into their skin and wore it like a tattoo, and let it scream out into the silence. Couldn't let him pour himself empty into your glass that was riddled with fractures.
If you love him, really, truly, deeply loved him, you would give him the only thing you had left inside you, worth anything at all; your ability to let go. The opportunity to move on without having you there to hold him back.
There was no fight left in you when you made the decision; your mind was set, and even that didn't evoke anything else besides sadness.
You dropped the pamphlet, placing the lid back onto the box, and neatly closed the drawer. Soobin was still in the kitchen when you made it down the stairs. He didn't question when you pulled on your coat, your shoes forgotten as you walked out in nothing but socks onto the deck.
The tide was pulled back, showing the rippled, dark, wet sand. The line was distinct and cut across the expanse of your eyeline like someone had taken scissors to the sea and the shore. The air was just cold enough so that every exhale was like a puff of smoke, fanning out in front of you like a lost soul, curling around the edges of your lips like a goodbye kiss.
“It's going to snow.” You didn't move at the sound of his voice, low and falling down your back like rain. Gingerly, he wrapped your dropped scarf around your shoulders, the brightest thing against the cloudy backdrop and your dark coats.
You tilt your chin towards the sky, frosted pale blue, just bright enough to let you know somewhere the sun is hidden under all the layers of white sheet clouds. Icy and bitter, the wind burns your cheeks until soobin blocks the gust, stepping next to you.
It's enough to bring the tears forward, the building of them catching on the edges of your lashes, not quite falling as he hums,” I don't even remember the last time I came out here to see the beach.”
Neither of you had to say why, not with the rise and fall of the waves, the cawing of the seagulls gone for the season, the boats pulled in with the water this choppy. It was just the sound of the sea, even the lighthouse stood abandoned, the row of houses a graveyard of wood and glass. For all you knew, it could have been just the two of you out this far off the end of the Long Island peninsula.
“Soobin, I’m-” he can hear the weaver in your voice, in the way it gets caught in the cold and freezes in the wind.
“Don't,” no matter what it was that you were going to say, he knew he didn't want to hear it, couldn't swallow it down when being out on the beach felt as close as he had been to you in months. Your hands, pushed into your pockets, left just enough room for soobin to link his arm with yours. “Walk with me?”
Neither of you had your shoes on, and neither of you cared. The walk down was slow, and you leaned into him, his warmth. And this time, you didn't stop right where the wood dipped into the sand, but stepped out, let the grains slip around your feet, and watched how soobin wiggled his socked toes.
You wanted to tell him, explain how you couldn't do this anymore, but when you opened your mouth, all that came out was a short, breathy laugh. Because he was here, still, pulling your scarf around you, blocking the cold, striking memories like you would a match, and despite the wind, you were willing to cup your hand around the flame so it wouldn't go out, not just yet.
Dropping your head to his arm, you let yourself go and whispered, “I love you,” because it was true; despite all else, you knew that.
“I love you more,” said like it was the start of a song you hadn't heard in forever but knew all the words, felt it in your fingertips, and sang along to every bittersweet nostalgic note. It hurt that you had almost forgotten it, almost as badly as you knew it would be to forget the color of his eyes. “So, so, much more,”
You turned your nose into his coat sleeve, breathed in the scent of him deep enough to let it catch in your lungs, and held the air until you were sure you wouldn't burst into tears. “No, I love you more,” and even with your voice weak, it was a declaration, a vow, an oath. A vocal snapshot collected from all the flickering facets of your past together, where you had said the words between kisses, moans, and casual goodbyes.
The two of you let the silence settle, the sea pushing back at it with its rise and fall, the waves sounding like the turning page of a book caught at its edge, the kind you had to check to make sure it wasn't ripped by the end. And you wondered if he, too, was thinking of your shared heartbeat, if it was at the shell of his ear like a whisper of a past you only thought of when the ghosts hummed late at night.
“I lost my job.” You didn't need to say anything else, not when you both knew it was coming eventually. But you had needed to fill the space with something other than the creeping memory of the silent ultrasound.
He lifted his free hand, letting it cup your cheek, not turning your head away from his arm but resting. “There are hundreds of jobs out there for when you're ready.”
Your lashes were soft against your cheeks, forehead heavy against his arm, before you reached up to take his hand, as you pulled away just enough to look up at his already expectant face.
He was so pretty, even in sadness, the cupid's bow of his lip, still slightly parted, ready to tell you no, because he knew what was coming, it was written all over you. You were looking up at him like you were tracing over every last feature of him, trailing the pen across his eyebrows, following his lash line, painting the exact shade of brown his eyes were. “Stop,” he shook his head, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, holding himself back from saying it any louder.
“I think it would be better if I went back to the city,” his fingers curled around yours as he twisted his lips into a pout carved out of denial.
“No-,” because he knew you meant alone, without him.
“Just for-,” he didn't let you lie, he pressed his lips to yours, drinking down your words, pulling them away from you as if it would make it any better.
The kiss was soft, testing as the first one had been, and when he pulled away, his nose bumped yours, and he was flushed. Cheeks a shade of pink you had imagined was lost with the version of yourself that had been pulled from under your ribs. He looked as if he were worried he had startled you, as if he had accidentally caught an animal in hands that had only meant to feed it. As if you had just told him they sold shoes right at the end of the street.
The wind rustled his hair, brushed it along his temples, and pushed the strands back to expose his forehead. And for a small moment, you mourned that you would never be back here with your fingers in his hair, your jealousy of the wind making your hand twitch. If it was going to be the last time, one last memory, you might as well just sink into it until you drowned.
You lifted just enough to crash your lips against his, unlinking your arms with his so that you could thread your fingers into his hair, leaning into the familiar give of his mouth and the curve of his body. He wrapped you up in him, tugging you closer as your scarf brushed your cheeks as it fluttered from the breeze you couldn't feel when he was so warm.
He kisses you like there was no time lost, as if you never stopped pulling that soft shyness from deep within him, as if you were cracking him open, splitting him right down the middle so that he could make room for you to share his space. He wanted all of you, in any way you gave it to him, in this love disguised as lust, and even in sadness.
Neither of you knew how you had found yourselves in the sand, your cold fingers at the base of his neck, his lips on the edge of your mouth, sliding down your jaw, his nose cold as he dragged it down your throat. He whimpered into your skin when you dragged a hand down the front of his chest, gasping when you slipped your hand into the hem of his shirt.
You felt each breath under your fingertips, his stomach flexing as he rolled you onto your back. You matched him with every kiss, every push, as you widened your legs, memorizing him with every sense you could. Because he smelled like the day you had shared a bed for the first time, where he laid next to you as stiff as a board, blinking up at the ceiling as you linked your hand in his. And his breath caught just as it had the first time the two of you had made out on his couch. His body shuddered above you when you kissed under his ear.
Neither of you had to speak, not when you could read every I love you, between touches and heartbeats, like a eulogy, so focused on holding onto the moment, tattooing it along your skin as he dragged his hand down your side and pushed up your sweater just enough to feel your skin against his. Your breaths mingling in the cold air, puffing out like mist, like lost promises, lost time.
He didn't let the chill reach out for you, letting his open coat block most of the wind, his body doing the rest as he rolled his hips against yours. And he didn't stop you when you reached down to the button on his jeans, unzipping them just enough for you to slip into the waistband of his underwear. He moaned into your mouth when you wrapped your hand around him softly. You swallowed the sound down, held it in your lungs.
It had been so long since either of you had been so close in this way, past the shower and the attempt in the bed that felt empty even with you in it. He hummed against your pulse, his open-mouthed kiss caught against your skin when you let yourself get lost in the familiar motion of drawing out his desire. You had been here before, just like this, with his hand sliding down your side until his fingers pushed past your panties and could circle sweetly over your clit.
He’d kissed salt and sun from your skin, blushed just the same as he did now, not from the cold but from your touch, greedy to feel more as he rolled his hips into your hand. Mimicking your slow movements, he soaked in every soft sound you made, pushing his fingers into you, pressing the heel of his palm in place for you to grind.
It didn't matter how long it had been, not when you had spent years learning every little thing about each other, enough so that you knew that this last attempt at memorization was futile. Still, it wasn't because you wanted a last goodbye but because you needed it, and he deserved it. So you whispered the word into his mouth, “please,” as if begging him to ask you to stay instead of begging for more.
It didn't matter that you were on the beach, the very one you had met, or that it was winter, just as you dreamt of spending with him. You let him push your pants down, let him melt into you, keep you pressed against your coat, the sand. You gasped at the heat of him, the stretch, the familiarity.
Your hands, still sore from your cuts, made from memories too sharp, burned as you tangled your fingers into his hair, his face pressed firmly to your neck as he let himself be surrounded by you. The two of you in a world alone, wrapped up in your affection, your lust, the nostalgia.
There was no rush; every movement, careful and deep, threaded with memory, so close as if neither of you could stand to be apart. He held you, kissed the salt on your skin from his tears away, as he had the salt from the sea. Not caring about crying when you were so close to slipping away from him. He knew it, felt it between every breathy whimper the two of you shared. This was different than the last time you two had tried; he had felt you grasping at him desperately, trying to hold on, find purchase on him as if it would have been able to pull you from the water.
This time, here now, he knew you were letting yourself go, breathing him in as if he was the last bit of air you would ever swallow down before your lungs stopped trying behind ribs too bruised from chest-wracking sobs. And he was greedy, he wanted you, even like this, in any way he could, because he loved you, loves you, had never stopped, and he never thought he would, and he was just as willing to give everything up for one more moment.
His tears caught on the hollow of your throat, sliding down your skin like an undone necklace, his lips finding your jaw, catching your moans when he finally pulled his mouth back to yours. He held you as you trembled, coming undone for him one last time, his weight keeping you in place as he reached a high too bittersweet and yet blisteringly vehement.
And he didn't ask you to stay, not when he clung to you as if he was moments away from waving you off to a plane he was too late to grab a ticket on. You were as close as you could get, legs wrapped around him, arms locked around his neck, his nose pressed to your cheek, his browbone slotted into the hollow of your eye as he whispered against your skin like a ghost would into an unsuspecting ear, “Do you remember when I called out for you in the street?”
His hands slid under you, between the sand and your coat, fingers tucked against the warm spots where the two of you met chest to chest. And you can see him back at the beginning, shoeless, one hand shoved deep into his pocket, the free one cupped around his mouth as he yelled into the night, the streetlights shining down like golden sunrays, his hair a mess, his expectant smile, his dimples.
And just as the snow began to fall, in small, fragile puffs that melted on your cheeks and clung to his hair, you whispered, “I remember everything.”
“That was the day I knew you were the love of my life,” and he held you as he had on the couch, as he had the moment he could finally wrap his arms around you for the first time. kissed you just as he dreamed he would while taking sips of coffee from paper cups he picked up from your job, just to get a taste of your lips. And the two of you lay in the sand like a swaying boat on a sea gone dry.
His letting go and your running was a mutual mercy.
This is what you repeated when you stood at the train station, your ticket the only one printed for the empty ride. The scarf tied around your neck felt heavy on your shoulders, your nose tucked into the fabric as if that would convince you in some way he would still be with you. Because his hands had been so soft as they wrapped you up as if you were a gift he had been all too excited for, peeling back the paper the day before he was supposed to open it, careful to make sure no one would know he had sneaked a peek. As if he were hopeful you would still be there in the morning, still his, even if you were in the city, even if you weren’t in your shared bed.
The scarf felt like a name tag, one you wouldn't throw away, but tuck into the back of the closet like you would a receipt between pages of a book for safekeeping. The color is like a burning reminder of him, and as you try to keep the wind from your cheeks, you're flooded with memories of how he smells, what it was like to press your face into the fabric of his sweater, his pillow.
The heel of your palms are numb, nails pinched against your skin, jaw aching as your teeth rattle, grind, the pressure holding in each trembling breath that wants to turn into a weak whine. You focused on the feeling of your closed eyes, how your lashes felt heavy with unshed tears you refused to let go of, not willing to look up at the way the snow fell on the beach with increasing speed since leaving the sand.
It fell like rain, sheets and sheets of the flanks swirling in the air under the streetlamps lined up on the edge of the platform you stood on alone. Your world felt like a salt shaker, taken in a careless fist over a boiling pot, too casual with the flicking of a wrist that never intended the harm it was causing with one simple movement. Every inhale with closed eyes and aching hands made you sway, like you were the tide and he was your moon, beckoning you with slowness and promises you had to push against like waves at the edge of the rocky cliffs the lighthouses sat on.
There was no Shakespearean end, no half-written tragedy uncovered with your closing of the door behind you, only silence. And when the train pulled in, tugging on the red end of your scarf with its arrival, you couldn't help but follow the line of its direction. He would be sitting on the back porch watching the snow exactly where you left him, the sea loud enough to cover the sound of your leaving, because to him it swallowed even the silence.
You looked back because somewhere deep down you wanted him to be running back up the side of the hill, flushed red, socks slipping in the sand and snow, begging you to come home even if it was a house that hadn't been a home for far too long. There was no reason to be disappointed not to see him there; you had done nothing but ruin, nothing but lie stagnant like water at the bottom of a covered well, no stone he could throw at windows or like pennies mimicking wishes could change that.
He did not come, he did not beg, and you did not stay, no matter how much either of you wanted to do the opposite. You climbed the short steps into the belly of the empty rain, let the seat right by the door swallow you down, and waited for the memories to chew you, to spit you out on the streets of New York. because behind you, the ghosts of the past sat giggling, sharing book recommendations to blushing boys who lost their shoes, who whispered funny baby names just to see you smile, who kissed you under every bridge you passed.
You let the ghosts leech off your sadness, a final gift as if that would make them stay longer than you would ever know. Feeding their memory so that even when you forgot, they would sit here, haunting the very train you took to fall in love.
There was no reason to push any of the thoughts away, not when you had so little time to dwell on them. You had only one thing in your pocket besides your phone and key ring, the half-ripped pamphlet with the number to Dr. Howard's office.
As much as it said it would not hurt, you wondered if you would know, somewhere deep down, that something was missing in you. You had not known exactly how vast and empty you could feel, not until this wave of depression, and if that could be hidden, would the memory of him be tucked away somewhere? Folded down over and over like a piece of paper or burned to ashes?
Loving soobin would leave a scar, even if they said it would be unnoticeable. There was no amount of perfected surgery or magic that could pull him away from your being unmarked. In the fine wedding of your heartstrings, his fingerprint was etched; you had not known it, not until he looked up at you with his boyish smile and eyes warm enough to feel like nostalgia. It was not something they could erase, not entirely, because it was a part of you far longer than you had known him.
It would not be easy to erase him when he was woven too deeply into the threads of your tapestry. You knew it as soon as you stepped off the train and looked out at the road, packed with cars leading to places you never envisioned going, with people you never cared to meet. His question hangs in the air like a knife on a string. Do you remember when I called out for you in the street? Here you had been just a girl, and you learned that heartbeats had wings, ones that were made of wax and beat for boys who felt like the summer sun on bare shoulders.
You ran, not caring about the stares, face scrunched to keep back the tears because it felt all too real now, three hours away from him. Your coat was too heavy, too warm, suffocating when it wasn't snowing in the city just yet. Every step down your old street, up the stairs to your apartment shared with a life before him felt heavy, weighted with iron tied around your ankles.
You had not called Kai, not when you had only thought about soobin and his hands, his last breaths puffed into your lungs as if it would reanimate you. It had slipped your mind to ask if it was okay to run to him when you were looking for someone to tell you it was okay, that it would all work out no matter what you chose to do.
Instead, you had picked up the key that Kai had turned into your palm, and fell into the familiarity of coming back to your shared apartment as if it was another day after class, or work, only now your hands were shaking, trembling enough to miss each attempt to fit the key into the lock.
Everything was overstimulating: the flickering overhead light down the hall, the sweat now making its way down the back of your neck from so many layers of clothes, the tears that blurred everything around you and made your throat tighten enough to feel like a hand had replaced your scarf. “Fuck,” you blurted the word, moments before the door pulled open.
Kai stood bathed in the golden light from the lamp in the far corner, still dressed down in his pajamas, hair a frizzy mess, eyebrows pulled in concern at the very sight of you being at his doorstep. “Kai,” his name was a sob, like the bubbling sound from a stopper being pulled from a tub's drain.
He pulled you into him, tucked your face into his chest, and held you while you fell apart, the gentle swaying of his body allowing you to spill out. It didn't matter how or why you showed up, he would take you in just as he said he would. You let him pull you in past the door, and as soon as he let you go to shut it, you ripped off your scarf, shedding your coat, your shoes. Your hands wiped at your cheeks, knuckles digging into your eye sockets to force yourself to stop the incessant tears.
You wanted to sound clear, to make it known that this was a decision made from reason and not one made from wallowing, even if it was all that was written over you.
Holding your breath, you looked around at the space you once shared, now tinted with the years of Kai having been alone. The small touches you had placed over it were still there, only added to. He kept the hooks by the front door, still half filled haphazardly with his winter coats, your jacket placed right where he always kept the spot open for guests. Your scarf slipped to the floor, even after he had taken the time to make sure it would stay in place, the red fabric like a pool of blood at the entryway.
He still used the blanket you kept on the back of the sofa; the pillows never switched out, even as they started to flatten over the years. The coffee table was picked out for its color and price when the two of you had scraped by for cash to spend on to have somewhere to eat besides standing in the kitchen. He had added to the collection of photos on the fridge, replacing the magnets you had taken with you to the house in Montauk with his own memories.
Your old bedroom door was closed, right across the living room from Kais, the door half open to show where he must have climbed out of bed on his off day to let you in.
Life had gone on, yours, his, even if it felt familiar, it felt distant. As if you were stepping back into your childhood bedroom after the first year of college, no ghosts but dusty reminders of what you had grown into. The bittersweet nostalgia felt cold around its middle like a reheated meal you hadn't let do a full turn in the microwave. And there on the side table, a picture frame of your friend group, Kai’s sisters, all sitting around the living room on his birthday, crammed onto the small two-seater couch, smiling for the camera. Soobin's face was pressed into your cheek, his eyes scrunched in a laugh because you were fighting hard to get away from the way his lashes had been tickling you.
You had only been able to call Kai for his birthday this year, promising him that in a week you would make it up to him when you felt less under the weather, even when both of you knew you weren't fighting a cold.
It was the picture that pushed you to say why you had come to, “I can't do it anymore,” and even if all you felt was shame to come out with the confession, you were shocked to find relief in between every syllable. “I thought when I saw you in the city that I would be okay, that eventually I would get better, that somewhere there would be a light at the end of the tunnel, and I just hadn't found it yet, but it’s taking so fucking long,”
And he knows what you mean, the realization not something that he thought was shocking when he could hear it in your voice after every call, knew it when yeonjun had gone and came back with red-rimmed eyes after the train ride home. “It's so much, and I lost my job, and I don't even really care about it, and I think that's the thing. I know how I would have reacted before, and now not even feeling a hint of that? Every emotion is so far away, and I can't do it anymore. I can't sit there and make him suffer through it with me when I don't think there will be any end to it, not unless I forget what happened.”
“Did you talk to him about it? Have you told him-”
“What is there to tell? I know exactly how he will react. I love him so so much, I can't hide that, because that's all there is, that's what's left, but it's so hard to act on, to be who I was for him before when I first started to love him, who i was when we first moved into the house because now im just empty, and he still would love me and when he couldn't anymore, because one day he will see what I've done to us, he will still stay and let himself be brought down by me because that's who he is thats that he does,” you fall to the couch, elbows heavy on your knees as you lean your face into your hands.
“You didn't do anything wrong, none of this is your fault-”
“I know that, somewhere deep down, I'm sure I know it, but we are losing everything. I lost my job, I lost my feelings, we lost…we lost our baby,” you whisper the end of the sentence, and you're sure it's the first time you've said it allowed. Soobin had been the one to make the calls to your family, to your friends, you had replayed the sound of his voice, growing cold with each pass of condolences and weak thank yous, over and over again in your head until it was all you could hear.
You should have been there with him, at his side, leaning on him as he leaned on you, carrying the weight of the truth so that it was spread between you two instead of sinking you both. But you had been just as silent as he had grown. Let him sit with the heavy words from people who didn't really know you two, their comfort like bullets to glass, far too cracked to do anything but shatter. Everything happens for a reason. You can have another one, move on by bringing in happiness, showing that the spark is still there, and you can still be happy…
It was all bullshit. You had heard it in the distance, and you hadn't given him any outlet to talk it through, both of you shell-shocked, knowing it was meant well, and yet it did anything but soothe your hearts. And maybe that's also why you were running, some selfish part of you was embarrassed about who you had become for him, a partner who did not know how to help with his grief, had not tried. Your mother had told you that it was natural and not something you should beat yourself up about. But it was so hard not to throw fists at a mirror that now only showed the parts of yourself that you hated.
You had tried, but it felt so lackluster in comparison to what he had done for you, how he had made attempts and had been met with a brick wall, and still did not give up, even if it was silent. He was waiting for you so that you could build new dreams together, build yourselves back up, and work through your feelings in healthy ways that would help process your grief.
But it was so easy to get stuck, so easy to think about what was gone, what had gone wrong, and still he waited loving you even when you didn't anymore.
“I'm drowning, fully, and I don't know how to help it, but I know this,” you pull out the pamphlet, place it down on the table before you, letting kai take the half ripped sheet, “every time I think about picking myself back up to live out the dreams we had set out for us im right back down in my bed. Because once I think about it, all I can see is how easy it was for it to be taken away from us, how easy it was for the wave to come and knock me on my ass. There was no fighting it. I'm trying, but I can't do it anymore, not when I see him and what I did to him. I'm not the girl he proposed to, not the one he fell in love with anymore. We hadn't gotten married in all the time it took before I got pregnant, years, it took the thought of having a baby for him to talk about it again, for us to move out of the city, and now that's all gone.”
“And I don't know why I'm so caught up in that dream being lost, why I can't get out of bed, why I can't let him love me. That's why I can't let him suffer anymore, because at the end of the day, I wouldn't want to marry me either, I wouldn't want to be saddled with someone who crumbles instead of snaps, he deserves so much better than whatever I have to offer, and I can't do this anymore. I try, Kai, that's that part, this is me giving it 100% and I want to give so much less, I feel it, weighing me down, it keeps me in bed, it keeps me from forgiving myself for what I did-” you’re bleeding tears, they coat every words and shaking breath as you lay out every thing that had been plaguing you.
Your last moment on the beach had pulled a thread from you, anchored it to the sand and sea, and as you ran, you unraveled. That fine red sting pulling taut as you spoke without fear because you needed Kai to know why you were doing this, you needed someone to know it was out of love, just as well as it was selfishness.
The couch dipped next to you, his weight drawing you closer to him before he wrapped you in his arms. And without knowing it, your shoulders sank involuntarily at the realization that it was not soobin pulling you into his sweater, but Kai. “You didn't do anything wrong,”
“But I did! It was me, it was my body, it was my baby, it was my life, and I ruined it. I can't do this anymore, I can’t sit here and feel this anymore, and I love him so much, so much it hurts, it rips at me, it kills me and I cant lose him not like I lost our baby, and I’d rather forget it all then wait for him to realize im the cause, that im everything I know I am, I can't do that to him, I can't hurt him anymore than I already have and I don't want to forget him but I have to, I need to, for him,”
“You don't have to, you could go to therapy, stay here for a bit, give it a week, a month, time.” His hand, warm and heavy, soothes circles over your back, grasps at ways to calm you. But your mind is made up.
You were always back in that hospital bed, screaming to be left alone, avoiding the one thing that maybe could have kept all this pain away in the first place. So quick, so simple, like knocking off all the dinnerware from a table, but you had been worried about the mess, concerned about collecting the pieces of broken glass like scattered bones grown from wombs of memories, that you had rejected everything besides grief. And now everything was laced with regret, and all you wanted was the first option.
All you wanted was painlessness. It was the only dream rattling around in a heart made up and dressed like a tomb.
Kai knew it, you both did. His attempts at convincing you otherwise were lost, and when he called yeonjun and left the two of you alone in the apartment, he knew it too. Saw it in the way you had begged to sleep on the couch, scared to find yourself in a bed that you had shared with soobin only a few times, the mattress far too short and his legs too long, having to curl up into you like the perfect excuse to hold you tighter.
Instead, you lie on the couch as you would in your own home. Yeonjun didn't even speak up. He sat with you, your feet resting on his lap, his coffee cup, too cold for winter, dripped onto his numbing hand as the ice slowly melted enough for him to ask, “Are you sure?”
You had already made the appointment for that day, making Kai promise that he wouldn't tell Soobin, that he wouldn't tell anyone besides Yeonjun.
The office had asked for memorabilia from your relationship, one item that had significant enough meaning to keep soobin right at the forefront of your mind. You had nothing more than the clothes you had come with and your engagement ring. Your fingers curled, but you did not take it off, not yet, not until they asked you for it, not until the last moment.
Yeonjun had promised to pick up the rest of your things in time from soobin, swearing to keep the secret even when you could see it on him that he didn't want to. You could only tack it to the list of reasons why you felt so guilty, your one choice of not erasing your memory sooner rippled the waters enough to affect everyone around you. If you could go back, you would. You had been closest to the shore then, closest to soobin, to your baby, to the life you had dreamed of.
“I'm sure.” Even if it was heavy like a lie on your tongue, weighing the statement down with some resonance of truth, you carried it all the way to your appointment.
Yeonjun held the door open to the sterile office space, the walls grey and peeling, tacked up with inspirational posters every few feet like a color bandaid on a scraped knee, too small to cover all the damage, but pretty enough for its job.
It was nothing like the hospitals you had been to before, more like a dentist's office, the few seats already filled with people holding boxes and photo albums like driftwood on a thrashing sea, they prayed would calm soon. It was a small building with no more than three rooms in the back, faint elevator music covering the soft, muffled voices behind the thin walls.
“Good morning,” the receptionist smiled, the brightest person in the room, the sunny disposition shining down on the wilted flowers we all found ourselves being once we had decided this was the only option. “Appointment?”
For a second, your throat had tightened up, as if tears would come instead of words; spill with a desperation that read more like a plea than a declaration. You swallowed, hands tightening on the hold you had on your coat, tugged off from your shoulders to use as a blanket between you and the realization of what this all meant.
It was Yeonjun who spoke up for you, nodding and taking the clipboard, papers, and pen with his pursed smile, the one he used for work and bad days. He led you to the only two free seats together, waiting for you to sit so that he could make sure you weren't running. He wouldn't stop you if you did. You're sure it would make him happy to leave here with you, intact but not whole, but the rawest form of you that there would be before bits of you were picked out like fruit from a cake.
He passed the clipboard over, set the pen in your hand, and watched as you filled out your name. It was the only thing you could do to distract yourself, list out the basic information about you that had nothing to do with soobin, no, that wouldn't happen until later, until at least the second page of forms, where you would have to list out your explanation of why you were here in the first place.
The stinging in your eyes was like someone was blowing air right along your lash line, your blinking only working for so long before you were finding it hard to read the checkmark boxes asking who you had brought along with you to take you home. It was only a little reminder of Soobin, of a time when you had been happy enough that the anxiety was eaten away at the edges like ends of books you had stacked on your shelf; spouse/partner.
It had been so simple then, when your problems had been nothing more than cold feet worries and not soul-crushing silence, but even now you can't help but want him right here with you, pressing his knee into yours, his legs too long for the chair so he needed to spill closer to yours, when really all he wanted was to be closer to you, touching you. His laugh lit up the silent room, echoing as he joked about the posters, eyes going wide when your name was called, like he had been caught by a teacher for passing notes.
The pen slipped from your fingers, falling before you had even realized you had been crying so openly. Yeonjun bent and picked it back up without much thought, held it out for you on the flat of his palm like an invitation, one to take or one to leave. He'd walk out with you if you asked, you kept reminding yourself over and over about it, and still you couldn't stop now, not here.
But it didn't feel real until they pulled you back without him, your lifeline slipping between your fingers with lightning speed at a rate you couldn't catch, but you could feel the burn of. The chair, much like that of a dentist’s, was cold and squeaky, the pleather not worn down or softened by any number of people who had come and shared this very seat. The lights dimmed like the ultrasound room you had shared with soobin by your side, a screen pulled up right in front of you just the same.
Your knuckles ached, the grip you held on your coat too tight as you bit back the wave of fresh tears threatening, the questions rising from somewhere deep you didn't want to look down into. If you went back, pulled away now, and ran all the way to the waiting bed you made for the two of you, neither of you would survive.
You could go, let him tuck you in close to him, whisper that everything would be alright when you both knew it wouldn't. You could convince yourself that he was telling the truth long enough to make it feel real, even for a night.
But what were you running back to? An empty house, gutted clean with the cracked porcelain made from memories you found so easy now to throw away, or so it seems. The ocean singing its mocking tune that you couldn't quite hear unless you were thrown into the deep end, haunted by the sounds of heartbeats and I love yous.
There he would be sitting, waiting for you to drag him under the tide that had spit you out like weathered driftwood that hadn't touched the sand long enough to remember just what it had been grounded to before it snapped and drifted out into a sea it had never seen coming. He would wake next to you, in the house you had turned into a crypt, and place the last mug of tea down on your nightstand like he would flowers right at the edge of your grave. Whisper so soft like he would blow you out like a candle if he spoke too loud, kiss your temple like the cold headset they now laid against your skin.
The dry acidic tang of the rubbing alcohol they used to clean at the edge of your brows burned your nose. Gentle fingers making sure the headset, icy and awakening, was set right into place, the drone of the doctor's voice coming in waves, painless, simple, all you have to do is remember for one last time.
Your ring, the one he kissed at your knuckles while in bed, in the sand, slipped from your finger, placed, clinking like the tines of a fork on a glass of champagne for a wedding the ring never saw, on a silver tray just a foot away from you to look at and picture him as if he wasn't always on the forefront of your mind. Hands now empty, lay so neatly against your coat in your lap, as if forcing yourself not to curl them into fists would help distract you from what you were doing. And when they told you to close your eyes, you let your lids fall heavy, let yourself get lost in the memories, in poison you had slipped in the well to tell yourself that this was the right way, the only way.
The machine hummed low next to you, the buzz of it like the beating of a moth's wings, like the littered kisses he'd pepper along your hairline.
“Baby?” his nose nuzzled against your ear, so close it almost felt real, his voice a memory of a time you had been just on the verge of waking, tucked under the sheets in his apartment, his hands a heavy weight against skin worn into sleep-ridden bliss. “Stay with me?”
You had lived this moment, heard him whisper over and over again the one thing you had been waiting for him to ask when you were laid out in the sand, when the snow began to fall. You had turned in his arms, legs tangling with his, pressing your face into the warm spot at the base of his neck, nose dipping into the hollow of his throat as you pulled him in closer. “Ask me again,”
“Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me…” the words faded out, slowly until you couldn't even hear what was being said, only the rumbling from your own throat as you rolled out of an empty bed for work. The heater had been turned off late into the night, Kai and his plans to save money on the electricity, leaving both of you to sleep bundled up under layers of blankets, wrapped around you like arms.
You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, cringing at the overhead light from the bulb right over the checkout counter, a stack of books waiting for stickers at your side, as your jaw ached from the stretch of your yawn. He laughed, the kind that you knew his dimples would show through, teeth just caught at the bottom of his lip, “sleeping on the job?”
He placed a mug, steaming with tea, on the smooth wood, as if it were on your kitchen counter, not the register. Distantly, you can remember that you had lost a job, cried over it until you had broken something that had hurt instead of healed. But here right now, soobin was leaning over the checkout, bending to kiss the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes, “you kept me up all night.” he had been humming in the kitchen, clinking plates, mugs, making something late at night because you had craved it.
“They kept you up all night.” You couldn't help but smile, hand falling to the waistband of your jeans, only fitting snug enough to make it seem like you hadn't changed overnight. “How are my girls doing now besides being tired?”
“Girls? Our baby is the size of a pea, and you're just picking a girl just because?” You tilted your head, looking up at him like some lovesick, love-struck fool, mid shift. But he was blushing, flushed pink, his smile turned downward as if he was trying too hard not to act caught detailing dreams you hadn't yet shared while tucked in bed at night.
“I'm happy with whoever they end up being, so long as they are healthy, but when I think about you holding our baby, I see you and her, and she smiles like you.” he was just pulling in to kiss you, taste the edge of your happiness caught on your lips, when someone cleared their throat.
You were caught frozen, distracted enough to spill the paper cup of tea you had grabbed at the beginning of your shift right over the edge to splash on your shoes. The customer waiting in the spot you had just been looking at, lost in some daydream you can't remember, passing you a book about whales, the familiar lighthouse out in the distance, just at the edge of your periphery as you ground your reality, listening to the echo of the waves on the shore. The water just reached the tips of your shoes, threatening to soak your socks if you didn't take a step back. “Do you remember our first time out here? Together when we walked on the beach?”
“Like the back of my hand,” you had held it out for him, showing him the smooth expanse of skin, fingers spreading before he caught them in his, intertwining them like yarn woven to make a blanket, a sweater, before he pulled your knuckles up to kiss. You had no ring then, not until the next time you went out to Montauk together for his birthday. But for now, it was you and him, caught in the snowglobe left unshaken, just a picture of a memory now being cleaned of dust bunnies dressed in the shape of him.
“Can we stay here?” Your heart was picking up speed, beating to the rhythm of your steps as you ran, feet dragged down from the sand slipping into your boots, clinging to your socks. Laughing as he chased you, bent to pick up your coat, your dropped sweater as you pushed open the door of your home.
Not a house, but your home, with its creaking floorboards and open windows, the fridge covered in magnets, the sonogram picture hung right next to the filmstrips, every mug stacked in the dish rack. And soobin is standing in the kitchen with your baby on his hip.
This was something close to a memory, the dream you had caught in your hands that first night in your bed after taking a million pregnancy tests. sick and yet too happy to care as he kissed your skin, explored your body in ways he never had before, fingers drawing shapes of hearts and whispered names like first laughs made in cribs that birthed fairies like stars blinking alight in the sky.
He called out your name, a question on the edge of his lips as he looked over his shoulder at you, one hand holding a spoon as he stirred the pot he had boiling, bouncing the baby with their dark hair, giggling as the bubbles rose and popped, the floor a sticky mess as you stepped into the kitchen. The sweet powdery smell of baby lotion mixed with the salted air from the sea breeze. “Listen to how happy she is,”
Your breath stilled, frozen in the moment, the weight of your dream so close to the feeling of holding her in your arms, not quite able to see her face but seeing the swell of her dimpled cheek as soobin bent to press his face into her neck, blowing a raspberry just to hear her squeal.
In your dream, you had met them in the middle, brushed your fingers into your daughter's hair, and listened to the happy babbling. But now the image blurred out of focus, as if you had drawn them with ink and not the starlight the dream had been made of. Dipping the parchment into the water now swirling around your feet, the colors running, the ink bleeding, dripping like blood on tile, in the sink, until the water ran clean.
Your throat was tightening, mouth opening, gasping as you watched your empty house fill with the sea, water rising, the hollow halls purged clean of anything but salt, and you. The rush was loud, like a dumping waterfall off a cliff, the hum heard even under the water as the riptide pulled you in. Spit out into reality as you surfaced, the offices dimmed lights a stark reminder of what exactly was happening, what was being lost.
It was only at the dripping of your tears off your chin that you realized why you felt as if you had broken through the surf. “No-no- not that one-” the words sounded so loud, so desperate like closing fists and prayers. The memory of your proposal crashing into you at the sight of your ring sitting on the metal tray.
“I even got you a ring.” his trembling hands cupped the little velvet box, his laugh so shy, the tremor in his voice carrying over your bones, sinking into your joints and building you up at the realization that this was exactly where you had wanted to be. Happy and lovesick, right at the end, on a bed in Montauk. Eyes burning, hazy with tears that welled up just at your lashline like they did now.
His voice was echoing around you, the words left when the sight of him, the feel of him, was slowly slipping away behind your tears. “I was put on this earth to love you, kinda way. Because when I'm with you, when I'm not, I ache. I think about how lucky I am to have you when you're here, and burn when you're not, and it feels bigger than the both of us, and that is scary, but also very comforting because it only tells me that you are the one,” like a church choir sitting in the rafters, he went on, your body remembering the motions, how he pulled you in, how he kissed you.
You reached out fingers digging into your coat, tight enough to bruise knuckles, crack skin, as you cried, because now everything felt wrong, you didn't know how, didn't know why, but it felt so wrong to erase wanting this boy who was blushing before you as you leaned against your apartment door. “And next time, kiss me before you leave,” you were saying it, but somewhere distantly your mouth could only form the words, “no- not this one, let me keep just this one-”
Soobin was looking down at your lips, his throat bobbing with his forced swallow, his mind working so fast he didn't have time to question if it was the wrong thing to do before he was leaning in, reaching for something you couldn't remember if you had ever had before. It was all too short, so shy like sitting under a playground slide, the woodchips digging into your palms the way your nails did as you clawed to hold onto this one thing.
Because your hand was sliding up his sweater, drawing him in closer like you were nothing more than the only person in the world who could bring him to his knees. His lashes fluttered, hazy and drunk off the feeling of you curling your fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, wanting him just as desperately as he wanted you; every small touch, gentle laugh, so you pulled him in for one last kiss.
Your eyes were heavy and raw, blinking open in the golden, dimmed office, lips buzzing as if you had only just been kissed, the salt of your tears bittersweet on your tongue. Your knuckles creaked, stiff and aching like you had them curled around a steering wheel for hours on a road trip. Nothing was pointing out why the crescent-shaped indents from your nails were burned in like a gruesome engraving into your palms.
But somewhere right on the edge of your vision, you could tell something was off. Inside, there was a space so vast and full of seawater that there must have been something lurking underneath. You were a corked ship in a bottle, snuffed, and filled with echoes, but hollow while seemingly being told you were complete.
“All done!” the doctor clapped behind you as the nurse lifted the headpiece from your temples. “Your scans are all clear, and it looks like you are free to go.”
But it must not have been right, there was something you wanted to ask, found it right at the tip of your tongue, and yet you couldn't imagine what it was that you were forgetting. Your thumb swept over the indents your nails had left, counting: one, two, three, four, over and over as the nurse wheeled away an empty metal tray that had been sitting in front of you.
There was nothing you could ask, nothing you knew how to pin down, when all you felt was empty.
ོ ⸝⸝⸝
It was easier to imagine you were still in the house, somewhere in another room, late to bed as if you had a long shift and an early morning. He would sleep because you had sent up to the room to warm the sheets, promised you'd make it up before he closed his eyes, and yet you never did.
He left the bed wrinkled, the covers just pulled back on your side, just as you had left it that morning that he woke to find you a mess on the floor of the kitchen. Your sweater still thrown over the foot, dotted with blood gone dry, left out from his meticulous tasks he had set out to do while you were gone.
The list had been long, and there was dust collecting around every corner of the house. He started with the ceiling fans, pulling a ladder from the garage left by the previous owners, climbing up with no worry of falling off with no one spotting him. You would have laughed at how he climbed far too high, bending back at an awkward angle once he realized he could hardly do anything with his head pressed flush against the rooftop.
But he didn't find it funny, his jaw ticked, tight as he imagined it, angry at the way his reality was working up. The dust falling like the snow had over the sand; like ashes over the grave the couch had become the first time you had come home from the hospital.
He vacuumed, the house silent instead of full of the music you would play loud enough to sing over the violent hum of the hover. The windows were open, the cold puffing in through the curtains pulled back, his coat and sweater on as if this was all he could get, the heater turned off when it was just him, and since he wasn't keeping you warm.
He washed every dish in the sink, the single mug, carried down load after load of laundry, separated them by color, by delicacy, and made the laundry room his oasis. You had always dumped the warm clothes on him while he sat on the couch playing games. The fabric softener's scent flooded his senses before you jumped on him, pulling him as close as you could get him, not caring if he lost his game when he felt so cozy like this.
You would sit watching him play over a voice call with Beomgyu and Kai, folding everything into piles that he would carry with him upstairs to put away after you had fallen asleep, curled up. It was how you had done it at the apartment and the start of your lives right at the edge of the sea.
He didn't want to sit back on the sofa and think about how you had tucked your feet under his thigh on the colder nights, holding up socks to see which pair went together when they were seemingly all the same. So instead, he stood folding clothes straight from the dryer, precise with his technique, taking his time until the light in the dryer went off and all the clothes had grown cold.
He mopped baseboards, fixed squeaky doors, and repainted the porch swing blue. Anything to keep his mind off the fact that it had been two weeks and you had not called him, had not texted him, had not breathed a single thought in his direction.
Maybe it was better. Something that you truly did need, you had spent so many years together, nearly every day and every night had been in the same bed, the same house, with words shared over the phone, or between shared air.
Like a bone snapped in half, his life had fallen into two distinct pieces: you on one end and him on the other. And maybe to you this was a rebreak so that you could heal properly, and it was taking a lot longer than the first time the injury had occurred. Hastily plastered over in hopes that it would all be alright, but the splint had done nothing but make the two of you heal in a shape he had never seen before, close to the real thing but not quite right.
He told himself over and over that you just needed time, more than he could give you when he was right there; he would wait in the same bed, on the same beach, far away, or close by, but he would wait. If it were the last thing he would do, it would be done, and he would clean the house, go over every little thing that had been set askew, and place it right so it made it easy.
But with each thing he cleaned, each thing he fixed, you were still gone, and the house was cold and just as empty as it had been before you left.
It pushed him to the beach, to sit out in the snow, not feeling the wind on his face, but feeling the way it threaded through his hair like your fingers would. The boats would be out, rare now that there was hardly anything to catch, but to watch the whales as they came by chasing warmer waters. The lighthouse would shine its light in its constant circle, going round and round as he told Taehyun not to worry about coming over, that he was busy enough.
“Just for the weekend,” he wasn't trying to push; Taehyun was only giving him the option, showing that he was on his side as if there were sides at all. But it felt wrong to have someone else come into his space when you weren't there.
Any other time, he would have been okay to have him over, but Soobin had left the door open for you and no one else. He was waiting for you to walk in next. Even if he wanted to see his friend, even if he knew it was okay to show you were grieving someone alive or dead, he still wanted to do it alone, and now that the house was clean, he wanted to do it alone on the beach.
It was the closest place he felt to you when you weren't here, the last place he had held you, kissed you, told you he loves you. He could lie in the bed all day, smell you on the sheets he had neglected in his cleaning, see the spots of your blood on the sweater, and still it would not be as close as he felt with you right in the sand.
It was the first place he knew you would go if you came back, right to the edge of the shore, looking out over the water with him, reaching out and sticking your hand in his pocket to grasp his, twisting your cold fingers into his warm ones, leaning your head against his shoulder without saying a word because there was no need to. He wanted that back, needed that back, and this was where he could imagine it best.
Looking up at the house felt like looking at a closed book, as if someone had written the ending as soon as you had left, and now he was here with the only copy. He couldn't stand it.
He wanted to run to the city, scratch at the door of Kai’s apartment, and beg you to let him stay, to make a home right there like you had before, when everything felt easy, when everything was better. He’d sell the house, put all the money back into a studio with windows looking out at the park, or a townhouse, a brownstone, anything you wanted, so long as you let him stay.
Because all he wanted to do was have you back, whole or not, and maybe that was selfish, maybe he was greedy, but it's all he ever felt after one taste of your love. Living three hours away now felt like torture; a few blocks like it had been at the start would be enough for him, enough to relearn each other. Trace fingers over all the new scars and grooves that had been carved into skin far too weak to realize the damage that would come with playing at happiness.
He wanted you back, in any amount he could get, and he'd change just about everything to get it. Because he had never stopped loving you, he had not come to any grand conclusion that he wanted to stay separated once you had pulled away. If anything, it had made it so clear that he could not do it alone, and he could not spend any more time waiting when it was eating him alive.
He was angry, far too angry at himself, at the situation, at the damn house and its mocking bedrooms painted to hold cribs and wedding photos. Now it was a dusty shelf, cleared of dust he supposed, but still a mausoleum of all the dreams that he had let slip right past him.
Letting the sea drown out his thoughts helped, but only so much; he was raging on the inside, thrashing around searching for meaning in the middle of an ocean that had been searched thoroughly enough to have nothing left for him. He let the cold burn, slip past his coat, gnaw on the parts of him that had been left out to dry after the sea had gone stagnant with your leaving.
It was never anger at you, always at himself, for his silence, but every time he had opened his mouth, nothing had come out. The words were stacking up inside him, shifting around with every movement, every dusting, every fake smile he walked in with when going to work. He was not okay, not entirely when you were here, but now it felt so much worse. With you, he could hold onto something that he knew was right, and without you, all he could think was a list of things that needed to be done, what he should have done differently.
It had only been a few days after you had left that he came out to the beach on a grey day like this, his navy blue mug in hand, spilling as he stepped out onto the sand. Standing in the kitchen, smelling chemically cleaned, he had made it out and stood where he does now. Picturing himself in his mind standing behind you as you slept on the couch.
He had wanted to say something, anything, to make it better, if there was a way that he could make it better. But he had stayed silent, shedding his work shirt, and climbing in behind you, holding you because it's all he could think to do. What was there to say to someone you had let down?
Without thinking, he had thrown his mug into the sea, tossed it like he would a stone, and it had flown, heavy and smooth, tea a ripple in the air before hitting the dark water and sinking without a sound. It had only taken him a second before he had rushed in after it.
The water had been cold, soaking into his clothes, his coat suddenly heavy enough to keep him down, his eyes burning from the salt, his mouth flooded as he gasped at the icy shock of the needle pricks digging into his neck and hands. It had not been hard to find the mug, to turn it upside down, feet dragging in the sand as he walked out of the ocean on a day far too cold to be this wet.
Pressing his thumb into the ceramic hard enough to hurt, he sank to the sand, not caring anymore if he was too close to the water's edge. He let the tide come in, watched the way the sand darkened, and poured away from him, sinking him lower and lower.
You would have laughed at him, a blush creeping on his cheeks at the sound, instead of how they only turned red now because of the cold. He pushed his free hand into his eyes until the world went white and then red, into black. He laid back, snow still pushed back on the shore where the tide couldn't melt it. It didn't even affect him when it slipped down the back of his collar. All he did was laugh, sharp and cutting, splitting him in two at how ridiculous he was being.
He had thought of selling the house then; it's the same thought he had now, dry and more of a sound mind than he had been so soon after you had left. Now he just watched the lighthouse, the beam spinning, guiding ghost ships that would never find their way past the rough waves; relentless in their search.
Maybe that's what he had become, someone who sat still and waited, silent, or maybe it hurt him to admit that's all he's ever been. Burning as the lighthouse did, stuck circling for someone that had already seemed to vanish from view without him seeing it. But he had seen it, felt the way you had slipped away from him, and he had been holding onto the remnants, the house, when he should have followed, run after you, and helped patch up the relationship that had been wrecked, and he had been too stunned to help before.
It's why he found himself back in the city. Getting off a train that led to you, standing in front of your old apartment, counting each of his breaths as if it would finally give him the courage to step up and knock on the door he remembered so well.
He had whispered his speech to himself on the train ride, pacing back and forth at the station before it pulled in. A love confession tied up in promises and pleas, apologies and vows. What felt like a lifetime ago, he had spilled out before you, speaking without thinking truths he had not found fully formed until they left his lips.
It had been the most honest telling of his emotions that he had shared, and even when he felt as if he was going to be sick, he had said what he knew to the deepest part of himself. You were made for him, the one person whom he had been put on this earth to love, to ache for. And it ruined him, pulled him apart at the seams to be so far from you, to sit there amongst your things and know you weren't coming back.
He had sensed it when you had kissed him in the sand, one final time before you ran, and he hadn't run after you, even when everything in him was telling him to go after you.
But that would have been selfish, he knew; you needed time and space. He knew it when you came back from visiting Kai and seemed revitalized, or as much as you could be at the time. It had made him jealous, the snake of it twisting around his insides for only as long as it took him to realize how anything to make you better was worth it.
This was like that, this was as if he was standing, watching his friends talk about memories he wasn't privy to, happy they had a good time, and yet trying to find his own space to fit into. He wanted nothing more than for you to be happy, to find a routine that helped you get out of bed, even if it looked different without him. But it didn't stop the feeling of guilt, as if he wasn't enough to help, hadn't been the one who could, even after promising everything he was and had to you.
He wanted to see you happy when you opened the door, even if it was a different kind of happiness that he had not been able to provide, but it wouldn't burn any less, and it was something he would never confess to anyone, not even you. It was something he would have to learn to get over, and for now, he avoided that pain with more distractions.
The city was so much louder than he remembered it: the car horns, the lovers yelling in the street, the shuffling of his own feet against the concrete as he walked down the familiar road to your old job. He hated to admit that it made him feel so small, hated the echoing mock of it all, asking him what exactly he thought he was doing here.
But he needed time, something to give him a warm up to seeing you again, in whatever state you would be in when he intruded on your well deserved seclusion. So he picked the one spot he remembered you best, the neutral middle ground outside of your place or his.
The bookstore had not changed much since the last time he had picked you up here. The shelves were stacked high, with books littering the tables and carts yet to be put away, the coffee shop's buttery desserts and bittersweet coffee filling the air with warmth and fresh baked memories. You had talked about wanting to bottle the scent: books, coffee, and cinnamon, something to light when at home, tucked together on the couch with no plans.
He stood in line, this time not looking back at the checkout counter you would have been waiting for him at. His smile plastered on his face as you made silly faces at him or blew him kisses. He would pretend to catch them, unashamed of the people around him watching his display of obsession. He had walked into your orbit, and he would stay as long as he could, circling you like a moon, round and round, never dizzy.
But now your ghost was waiting at the edge of his periphery, the memory like a haunting, your air kisses jaw breaking sucker punches if he looked too long at something he had let burn too bright. So instead, he focuses on the chalkboard menu even when he knows he's ordering the same thing he always orders. The same cup of coffee taste that he had kissed off your lips so many times before.
He practiced how exactly he would pass it to you in his mind. Where he would place it, whether you were in the living room, your bedroom, or the one opening the door for him. He stood in line, blushing as if you were looking up to him then, and not just a figment of his imagination, a mix of who you were at the house in Montauk and who you had been living in your apartment when everything had been fresh and new.
You'd lean against the door, not quite letting him in. This sad, resigned look falling away to the faintest smile, the kind that warmed his cheeks and twisted a hand around his heart. He would let you pull it free from his ribs, let you yell at him to leave, go back to the beach, wait. He would let you pull him in, hand twisting in the fabric of his sweater as he pressed his forehead to yours, shyly breathing out that he couldn't stay away any longer, couldn't keep himself from seeing you.
He was a tornado of emotions, ribbons tied tight over his insides, guts made into knots at the idea of you pushing him away. He would sell the house, move back to the city, start over, fresh like scar tissue, anything, even if it hurt.
The barista called out his name, messily written on the side of two takeaway cups when he heard it.
Your laugh, bubbly and alive.
If there had been a moment to haunt him, it should not have been now, not when he was so close to seeing you. Not when you had not run through the halls of his dreams, or down the sand dunes covered in sand after him as he jumped into the winter water. You should have been there, even if you were just a laugh he had imagined hearing. This felt cruel but not artificial. Because deep down he knew he could never forget the way your laugh had sounded, anywhere, caught in the wind, at his neck, pressed into his skin, his lips, and most certainly here between the stacks of books where you had spent so much time trying to keep it down when he told you jokes that weren't even fun.
It shocked him still, limbs prickling over as they had when he went in after the most trivial mug you guys shared. He feared turning around to find a stranger who had the same laugh, although he didn't think it was possible, and that's what made it so much worse. He knew exactly how you had sounded, had captured the sound in his mouth and swallowed it down, answered to it over the phone with his own laugh, played the soundtrack in his dreams because he knew.
And when it came again, it echoed in his ears, over the coffee grinder, over the honking cars in the stress, and even over the sound of his own racing heart. Because it was beating wildly in his chest, both hands fisting coffees, the sea of people parting around him as he stood looking down at his feet, as if he looked back, he would know there would be an angel waiting, frozen in stone just as him, but there.
“I'll call you after my shift ends,” it was small, something he had heard too many times when he had been late at work and you had early off. He remembered the way you would tease him about lying in his bed with him gone, rolled up in the blankets half dressed, waiting for him. He’d groan, beg the universe for more time off, or at least schedules that lined up, and still he would wait for your call on your walk to his place, standing outside his work building on a break just to stay on the phone after your shift had ended so he knew you made it home safe.
“Stop worrying, you act like I haven't had this job and the exact same walk back to the apartment before.” and again you chuckle, “Okay, I'm hanging up now, Kai, byeee, stop worrying about me pleaseee,” and he turned around, fully to see across the short path it was to the checkout where he had found you so many times before just like this. Two coffees in hand and a prayer that no one else would walk up to disturb the two of you for the whole shift, so he could stay perched right there talking your ear off as if he had nothing better to do because he didn't.
He didn't know exactly what to expect when seeing you again, at least not here, not when he had been planning everything in his head about seeing you in the apartment, laughing or not, but here it felt as if he had walked into a spider web, caught like the fly on the way he saw himself as now.
You turned off your phone, placing it face down next to the register as you pulled a stack of books over for you to place stickers on. It had been one of your favorite things to do, meticulous in your work as you lined up barcodes and numbers with the spine.
And he couldn't help himself but admit you did look better, fuller, as if you were finally taking meals at the right times, eyes less sleepless but still slightly hollow from the months of late nights and long days.
It scared him to think he had not grown at all in his time apart, that you would see someone stuck in a past you had run from and did not care to turn back to. He had done nothing but clean, and even that had been in silence, no pondering besides the questions of what he could have done differently, and the anger. He felt nothing now but panic that he would not live up to whatever it was that had helped you.
Worried that you were growing separately and not intertwined as you had been before. And it was okay, maybe the two of you had been too codependent, maybe it was good to find yourselves away from one another. But he still felt as if he hadn't found anything at all. He had done nothing but keep everything the same, silently waiting to orbit his moon again.
He squashed his fears, takeaway cups burning into his hands because he forgot the paper sleeves at the sound of your happiness, and he walked up to the counter.
You did not look up at first, and he took the time to follow the shape of your nose, how it dipped and led to your lips, pulled between your teeth as you lined your sticker, concentrated on the task to not notice him. Not until he whispered a weak, “hey,”
It had taken almost everything in him to say, his heart bleeding on his sleeve as you looked up, your eyes, the ones he knew so well, passing over him, and this time without a spark of realization for who was standing in front of you. “Hi, how can I help you, sir?”
Soobin gave a humorless chuckle, dry and brittle enough to crack a bit of the ice inside him. Maybe it would have been different if you had looked as he remembered, or if you had said it with the light in your eyes that you got from joking with him, or even if it didn't gut him to truly realize that he really had done nothing but wallow while you grew.
But as the time stretched where he did nothing but look at you without speaking, he realized there was no recognition in your eyes. This was a look you gave to customers who truly did come to the counter to ask for help, your questioning, “Sir?” echoing around him before he opened his mouth like a fish out of water.
He wasn't even angry, shocked that he must have looked so different, just as you did as time passed, but it had been two weeks, nothing long enough to forget, and yet you didn't even get the glint he saw at the edge of your eyes when you turned your attention to him. He had seen it even at your lowest, memorized the look as if he had been a light you couldn't turn away from and chose to look at head-on.
Now there was nothing. Not a single glint, no teasing, no anything. Just a girl who had gone off and left him bleeding because it was better than bleeding out right next to him. Maybe he had been pulling you down, and he hadn't even noticed. Every talk he had with himself over these past two weeks had been right; you had been right to leave because he truly hadn't been enough for you. And he knew it must have been the truth seeing you here like this.
“I forgot what I was going to say.” And as his world was falling apart, you smiled the same as you did on the beach in Montauk, when he didn't know you, and you didn't know him, and your laugh grabbed him in its hold just the same. Saying, “They sell sandals right on the edge of the beach, right next to the beach houses,” instead of, “If you remember it, just let me know, I'll be here all day.”
He felt himself nod, chin making the motion as he turned on a foot too numb to know where it was going, and he left. Pushed past the door with his back so that he could catch on glance at you, not even turning to watch him leave, your head dipped to place the next sticker on the spine of a book he would never read.
His hands were trembling, following the pattern of the earthquake he was experiencing as his hands clammed too tight over the cups he had picked up, one for you, one for him, now crushed, coffee spilling over the backs of his hands like a caress’ he’d brush over your cheeks. The scalding hot liquid bleeding into the cuffs of his coat before he let the cups fall to the concrete floor, splattering like paint onto his shoes, the street.
Eyes burning, he knew how he must look, fighting back tears, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot as he gasped silently for air. His chest tightened with every step he took, air scratching down his throat as he reached into his pocket for his phone, for something to ground him as he was running away. Fingers numb and far too slippery, he dialed the only person who would give him a straight answer.
Kai had been avoiding his calls, texting back hours later with the same line, She's doing okay, I'll let you know if anything changes. But it seems he had lied, you had changed right before his eyes, and he hadn't found it important enough to mention. ‘Okay’ seemed to mean something internally different to him than it did to Soobin. This was better than okay; seeing you like this was when you was so much better was devastatingly bittersweet. You did not look as you did coming home from your job in Montauk; this was a new look, refined and aged as if your healing had taken no time, and his had stayed still open, frozen.
He was happy and yet torn apart. Yeonjun could hear it over the phone, the shocked gasping mixed with the swift humiliation that he knew would come, “I just saw- I um-” he was breaking down, walking so fast, weaving between the walkers on the street, avoiding bicyclists, and honking cars. He didn't know where he was going, paying no attention to street signs but needing to bring back the distance as if that would help fix him too, give him the sight you had gained living back out here.
“Soobin-” he didn't know what to say, didn’t know how to even when he had known it would come eventually.
“She acted like she didn’t even know me,” he was crying now, tears hot on his cheeks, his hand pressing too hard into his skin to push them away.
There was no need to be angry, not now, not at you. He knew this is what was best, this is what was needed for you, the relationship but it didnt hurt any less to see you happy without him, sitting at your old job like the world had moved on and he had been there on the beach waiting for you to dock your boat at the edge of the clif you had planned to build your life together.
He was cracking open again, as if seeing you had snapped him, and now everything was spilling out, raw and unfiltered as he went, “she just- God, she just looked right past me, she didn’t see me like she does, she just smiled,” he laughed something broken and ugly, wet with his tears, voice slick with the sound, “was i that bad? Had I been that bad? Did I not see it? Did I not have it in me enough for her to stick around to not act like she doesn't know me anymore? Or have I changed that much not having her with me? Have I been that different?”
Soobin walked right into someone, tilting and running into the wall from the collision, “Watch it!” he didn't even register the stinging of his shoulder, moving forward without any plans.
“Where are you?” Yeonjun stood on the other end of the line, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his keys. He had witnessed you falling apart and didn't enjoy hearing your other half melting away.
“I don’t know,” he was crossing street after street, not caring if the light was green to walk or not, he didn't even know the direction, just away from what felt close to shame. You hadn’t even been wearing his ring.
“Meet me at the diner near your old place, the one we had your birthday at before you moved,” he was nodding like Yeonjun could see, looking up at the street signs now having something to do, someone to explain, a direction to go besides home to a house he had cleaned till he saw bleached bone and faded memories. “Stay on the line, I'll be there in ten.”
Neither of them talked as they made their way, the clash of sound from Yeonjun’s side of the phone mixing with Soobin’s as he made it into the only empty booth in the otherwise full diner.
It was the one in the far back, the same one he had sat at for his birthday, only now it was him, clutching the plastic casing of his phone with white knuckles, and fighting back tears as the fresh sleet started to rain down against the window behind him. The low hushed mumbling of the other patrons felt like bees in a hive, buzzing over his skin, tingling behind his ears at the spot you loved to kiss when tucked into bed against him.
There was no hiding from yeonjun when he came, hair wet and sticking to his temples before he pushed it back, shaking from the cold after getting caught in the frozen rain. Soobin was hot all over, but he knew his body must have felt it somewhere that he was dripping, his breaths had come out in puffs of smoke, the city blurring around him as he made it in, the neon sign fuzzing out around the edges telling him he had arrived.
He had not tried to wipe his eyes, not anymore as he sat back, replaying your words coated in professionalism, “how can i help you, sir?” it felt like a knife he couldn't quite pull out, one he didn't know if he had placed there himself or if you did.
“She looked right at me and pretended to not even know me,”
Yeonjun had nothing to say, his jaw tight, cracking under the pressure of his teeth as he tried to hold in the confession he knew soobin deserved. Kai had promised not to tell but yeonjun never did, he had promised to look out for him, not keep secrets. And now soobin was a crumbling house, the roof ripped off in the storm, folding in on itself with splintering wood and curses.
“Shes better now, or looks it… she looks happy, she's laughing,” he sniffled, lips turned down as he tried to hold in the sob waiting to break through, "happier than she was with me,” it had been all he wanted, for you to find some way back to him, to be okay.
You had not broken up with him, you had taken the ring, left all your things, made it seem as if you would be right back, the bed still unmade, your sweater thrown over the edge, his heart still in your palms. He wanted you to find yourself, to know that it was okay to grieve in any way you needed but he hadn't seen you pushing him away, hadn't seen this cruel ending coming, and maybe that's what had been the final stab. Knowing that whatever you had found, he could not find with you, had not been a part of some plan that was out there in your healing, instead, he was this: a boy sitting in a diner where he once wished for a life with you on candles weak enough to snap under careless fingers.
“I wanted her to be happy, to smile again, to laugh,” and he felt evil for wishing anything different, not if he was the one who had been bringing you down. “I just didn't think she would act as if she didn't know me. I should have run after her, but that's stupid because she wasn't doing well; she needed this, she didn't need me. But it hurts so fucking much to realize that,”
“Wanting her to be okay doesn't change the fact that it would hurt like hell to be without her.” Yeonjun took a breath, using the clinking of the plates from the bar seats to push in further. You were his friend first, but it would kill you to be in his place; it would kill you to know that just as Kai and Yeonjun tried to convince you of his love that he did feel the loss of you just as deeply as you would have felt his. “Soobin, she's not acting.”
His face felt tight, the confusion settling in for as long as it took for yeonjun to continue, to mutter the name of the procedure as if it hadn't been on his mind. It had been the one thing that had brought back so much emotion into you in the last few months, your anger sharp and instant, so vivid in comparison to the way you had hollowed out for him. He knew exactly why you had done it, what had pushed you over the edge to get to this point.
“I thought I was…I don't know why I thought I was ever going to be enough.” The words caught on his trembling lips, his sob soft like a last breath, the confession taking everything in him, his last little hope that he had over everything. Because he understood exactly what it all meant, “I should have known, I should have seen it coming,”
Yeonjun opened his mouth, but soobin did not stop; he kept going, spilling out as if the knife had finally been pulled and it was taking all the blood from his body, every word that was left of him. “I would have changed. I didn't know how, but I could have learned. I cleaned the house. I would have sold the damn thing; it doesn't mean anything without her. I would have done anything. Instead, I just stood around and watched her bleed out in front of me without saying a damn thing and thought it was love, and I deserve it- I promised so much and I wasted it all- Even through my grief, I tried,”
“Stop it- she didn't do it because you weren't enough-”
“You can't tell me it wasn't one of the reasons- I was content, pushing through the day and letting us try and heal around each other, and I didn't even see, I mean I saw- but I hoped I would be enough, even if we were apart, even if it took us time, I hoped she would come back to me.”
“She loved you, down to the last second, I know she did, and she didn't do it because she didn't, she did it because she loved so much. I know she wanted to be more for you, to do more, and she felt this was the only way, and I'm so sorry,” Yeonjun looked down at the table, his eyes following the soft circles decorating the wood, sanded down to be something useful. He had kept to himself for a long while after you had come back to Kai's apartment from Montauk, sobbing, hollowed out with the only sign of life being that aching sound he would never get out of his head. He knows Soobin had tried; you had told him enough for him to see it, but that wasn't the poison that had been put in the well. “But love is not just about showing up, it's about showing yourself, and I don't think she's been herself for a long, long time,”
And soobin didn't think he had either. Not since he lost you and you hadn't slipped through his fingers two weeks ago, it had been the moment he had woken up alone in a bed dotted with blood in the space you should have filled.
He took the train back to the house out in Montauk, no more home than a museum, walked past the front door and around to the back, the moon hanging heavy in the sky, the stars hidden behind clouds painted over their canvas. He walked down the creaking wooden sun-bleached path to the sand, his jaw just as set as his mind was when he pulled his phone out to call Beomgyu.
Answering on the first ring, he cautioned his name, “Soobin?”
“I need you to tell me what I'm doing is right, even if it's wrong,” he could hear Beomgyu’s shuffling on the other end, sitting up in bed, on his sofa. “Just lie to me,” and maybe he called Beomgyu because he knew he wouldn’t.
“Today I went to see her, and I heard her laugh. Like a genuine one, the kind that makes you want to laugh with her, the kind that I love so much and haven’t heard in forever,” he bit on his inner lip, hard enough until it bled, before he continued, “and the second I heard it, I knew I'd ruin it, just by being there,” he whispered it, said it aloud because he didn't have you who would have known what he was feeling with a single look.
“And then Yeonjun told me that she…she erased everything, and I feel so selfish,” he had thought it over on the train, just as you must have when you left and he didn't run after you. And he would have, he wanted to, but had beaten himself down into the sand just hoping that you would ask him to come with, that you would turn back around and chase him with the realization that you needed him just as badly as he needed you.
Only now he felt as if he was holding onto the corpse of your relationship, clutching you to his chest, every memory a compression on a chest long since done rising and falling, every plea was a breath past lips that did not wish to breathe any longer. Keeping his memories now after knowing what you had done to survive felt like desecration, and he knows himself.
If he kept on to everything, he would die; it would poison him to know that he couldn't run to the city to find you, to confess his love over and over, even if you didn't know him. He was selfish when it came to you, and he hated it about himself, and he didn't want to ruin your happiness to find a taste of what had been. He saw what the memories had done to you, what they had done to him, and it was not anything he ever wanted to you to feel ever again. Forgetting would be a mutual mercy for you both. I final goodbye that did not tease him with the possibility of messing up the one thing you had wanted. Peace.
“If I did the same, it would be like meeting her halfway, carrying the rest of the burden to bury, because I don't think I can live knowing I had everything I ever wanted and all I needed to do was go to New York to try and get it back. I’d ruin everything again, and I hate how badly I want to do it anyways, even when I know it's wrong. If i dont erase her, ill still be imagining her laughing as I dust the house I got for us, I’d dream she was just in the living room and I fell asleep too early for her to see her climb in the bed after me, I’d jump into the water and search for her until I drowned. I'd never give her up, not when I needed to, not when I knew the result of letting her walk away the first time. I would have never let her leave, Beomgyu, I’d take it back, I’d run after her, I’d do it all over again because I love her, I love her, I love-”
And for the first time Beomgyu spoke, soft and unwilling to hide the pain he felt for his friends, “do you really think that's love?” anything was better than nothing at all, years of your relationship would be gone in an instant, and maybe it was better than pain, maybe anything was better than that, but he’d like to hope somewhere out there you two would find each other, work it out without having to erase the love.
His throat closed, but he forced the words out anyway, “I think it’s the only thing I have left to give her,”
Soobin sat with the phone in his hand until he watched the sun start to rise, long after the call had ended with Beomgyu, who promised to take care of the house, sell it with all its furniture that you had picked out, help him move back into the city, and take him to the inevitable appointment.
He was ashamed to say he felt closest to you sitting in the office chair, his one item to bring forth your memory tucked against the healing scar across the lifeline on his palm. A single folded receipt that he had saved under a fridge magnet, your handwriting tattooed along his veins, your number, the one he almost called every night, right on the bottom with a little heart written next to that girl from Montauk.
You had been that girl, and so, so much more to him. And when they pushed back his hair with their gloved fingers, it made him cringe to know he would not remember the feel of your hands twisting the fine strands of his hair until he fell asleep.
He wondered if you had been scared or relieved to sit back against the unforgiving pleather of the chair. If the stink of the alcohol pad and the buzzing of the headpiece made you just as sick as he felt. Queasy enough to close your eyes and fall back into a memory you had not visited in so long it felt like coming home.
“We will be okay,” he had been optimistic, leaning against the bathtub, your body spilling onto his as he silently hoped for the pregnancy tests to read positive because all he could see was a baby with your smile, echoing your laugh. Walking into a bedroom on the beach, with you leaning back against the headboard, your baby laying on your chest, and him climbing in after you.
Every warm sheet wrapped around you, only for his eyes to open to find he was asleep on a bed swaying in the middle of the ocean, cold and empty, your ring, the one he kissed at your knuckles waiting on the pillow, the one he leaned down to press his face into until he couldn't breathe.
“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” your fingers in his hair, scratching down his bare back, lips kissing his shoulders, right at the nape of his neck, he turned over, pulling you into him, pressing his face into your collar, into your warmth. “I should be able to sleep in on my birthday.” your laugh alive, and for him and not a room full of people you didn't know, even ones you had chosen to forget.
“But if you sleep in, I won't be able to give you my gift,” and he rolled onto you, followed the same trail of kisses he repeated until he knew in another life, every spot would turn into a freckle, a vivid mark of his love left for him to find time and time again throughout every lifetime. He caught your words on his lips, your moans in his mouth, your laugh right against his ribs. His hands digging into the sheets, the sand, his nose drawing along your chin until you pushed him, rolled him onto his back, sitting above him like the sun.
He closed his eyes for only a second, and you were gone, and he was alone again, sitting up as he gasped, half naked in the snow, his boxers cold, his socks wet. “Oh god, you fell.” Your laugh doubled you over, shivering and pale as you wrapped your arms around your middle. He did not remember whose idea it was to go nearly skinny dipping mid January in the ocean, the snow thick on every guardrail, the wind cutting against his wet skin. “Hard.”
You had run up to him, let him pull you down with him, screeching at the cold waves lapping at the shore, his lips turning blue as the two of you grabbed all your clothes, running back to the rental beach house to climb into the tub, the hot water raining down as he peeled off your bra, soaked your hair with the steaming showerhead. The rush of the sound was loud like the passing train outside his childhood bedroom window.
The same window that faced out to the tracks, his bed, still made with his old high school navy blue sheets, nestled against the wall where you examined every photo he had pinned up. He had never had a girl in his bed before, not that one, not anyone he loved as much as you. “You have stars on the ceiling,” the sticky faded green stars, still holding on to the white popcorn of the roof. He had flipped off the switch, let them glow for themselves as you lay back against his only pillow, making room for him to climb in next to you, close enough so both of you were slightly hanging off either edge.
“My mom put them up for me, said I have stars on my baby mobile, and they helped me go to sleep.” Your knuckle had brushed the back of his hand until he stiffened, blushing in the dark of his room as if you two hadn’t kissed, as if you hadn’t just met his mom, and said I love you.
You had slipped your hand into his, looking up at the green stars as if you were lying in the grass on a warm summer's day, sharing first love confessions, and he couldn't help himself but say into the night, “I wish we had met when we were kids, but I still don't think that's enough time to love you the way I was made to,”
And somewhere down the hall, he had heard the phone ring, his mother's voice interrupting the moment as she yelled out for him to pick up the landline for her. But before he could roll away, you had tightened your hand in his, pressing a whisper to his ear like a kiss, “There's never enough time, so make sure you stay with me.”
“Wait-” he wanted to a redo of this one, to not let the words morph into a lie so far down the line, his hands, sweaty against the armrests of the chairs, slipped as he tried to get a better grip to sit up with, a nurse pressing him down softly muttered behind her mask, “we are almost done,”
And as he leaned back into you, the phone still ringing, like the warning bell of a disaster waiting to happen he whispered back, “I promise I'll stay, I’d run after you, I don't think I'd ever just be able to watch you leave,”
He shook his head, hard enough for the head piece to jostle, the nurse rushing to place it back as he reached for the phone in his memories, answering with a lovesick smile warped onto his lips when he saw your name appear on the caller ID, a white heart at the end as if he could mimic the one you had drawn for him on the receipt he kept pinned to his fridge.
“We made it to the end,” he could hear the smile in your voice, right over the sound of Yeonjun and Kai bickering in the back. On the yearly trip the three of you took out to Montauk, the first weekend you would be spending without an excuse to see Soobin, even if it had only been a month since you had met.
“You say it so hauntingly,” he sat on his couch, leaning back, trying to imagine you curled up right next to him, looking up with that specific shine you got in your eyes that made him feel like the only person in the world.
“Hauntingly beautiful, I hope, since it just so happens to be the spot we will be telling our friends we met at,” he had wondered if this was what the honeymoon phase was, or if this would be the rest of his life, giddy to pick up the phone when you called, aching to have you right next to him. He knew you had meant your families. Your friends, and his had been teasing the two of you for the entirety of the month when you came back to your separate apartments with grins wide enough to make anyone wonder what had gotten into you.
“Right at the end?”
“Right at the end.” You echoed back, “We should get a mug for your place that has that on it, something for me to drink out of.”
“You drink out of my mug just fine,” he could see you sitting on his kitchen counter, blowing the steam of your tea into his face, your bottom lip flush against the navy porcelain as you tried to convince yourself the too hot mug was ready to be sipped from. He’d take it from you so you wouldn't burn the roof of your mouth, again, and kiss you just because he couldn't help himself, your lips so warm he couldn't help but pull you in again and again.
“But I want to share tea, not watch you sip on a glass of cold water, while I get hot water,” you had brought it up every time you came over, and he wanted to hold out longer, listen to you beg to spend time with him even if it was just to share tea and fold the laundry you had brought over to his place and his in unit washer and dryer.
“Fine, next time we go out there together, we can pick up a mug, maybe make it a tradition,” you cheered over the phone, happy, and he even ventured to guess, in love, even if it was new, it had felt like he had known you a lifetime.
“I miss you.” It had only been four hours then, or maybe even in his memories, he knew that he would be sitting in that chair, missing you for a lot longer than he ever wanted to.
“You dooo?” You had stepped outside, so close to the surf he could hear the sound of the waves like a heartbeat.
“I do.”
You gasped, hand over your heart, or maybe wrapped around his, “You know that basically makes us married now?”
“Does it?” and he was a blushing mess, smiling in his empty apartment, dimples hurting his cheeks, teeth digging into his bottom lip.
“Uh-huh, so now you have to make plans to join me and see the place where we are going to spend the rest of our lives,” the waves crashed, and he could almost see the lighthouse, golden like the light he knew your love bled.
“In the place we met?”
“The very same,” he could see it written out on the mug, knew it was the place he'd propose to you, even if in that moment he felt as if the two of you were already married, your pinkies tied together with an invisible red string, winding round and round the two of you, pulling you in together until the end of time.
“I do miss you… a lot,” and he couldn't tell if he had said it allowed, like he was repeating the lines of his favorite movie, or if it was an echo of a past he was now desperately regretting letting go of. He imagined your face looking up at him, his eyes tracing the slope of your nose, catching on your lips right before he pulled you in for a kiss, your eyes recognizing him in every shade of your life, even past this.
“I guess you’ll just have to come over and meet me in Montauk.”
an: this fic is heavy and i found it very cathartic for me to write it. ive never lost a child but its been something thats haunted my nightmares for years. i channeled a lot of my own fears into this fic as well as making it an outlet to talk about the toll depression can take on a person. ive been there and i would never wish that upon anyone. i know its not much but either way just know im always open to talking <333 thank you so much for taking the time to read this fic. and shoutout to anyone who read this on mobile, if you scrolled out and still read it i love you so bad and im so sorry- ⸝⸝⸝
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years after a painful breakup, you’ve built a quiet life in los angeles—until fate brings atsumu back, forcing both of you to confront a love that never truly ended and decide whether to start over, this time on steadier ground.
starring. miya atsumu x fem!reader
genre. romance, mild angst.
wc. 12.9k
author's note: here's the part two of when love isn't enough hehe
It had been years since you left Atsumu, years since you walked away from everything familiar, and somehow, here you were—half a world away in Los Angeles. At first, it was supposed to be temporary, just a short trip to clear your head, a pause before you figured out what came next. But the weeks slipped by, then months, and before you realized it, the idea of going back had faded into something you tucked away at the back of your mind.
The city wasn’t easy, not at first. It was loud, overwhelming, and too different from what you knew. But it kept you busy, kept you distracted, and maybe that was what you needed most in those days after the breakup—noise to drown out the quiet ache of remembering.
You found work eventually, a remote job that paid well enough and gave you structure. Most mornings were spent in your small apartment, typing away at your desk by the window while sunlight poured across the floor. But whenever the walls felt too close, you’d take long walks through the city, letting your feet lead you wherever they wanted.
That was how you stumbled upon it—the little café bookstore tucked between a laundromat and a flower shop. The sign above the door was faded, its letters curling at the edges, and yet something about it drew you in. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of coffee beans and aged paper. Wooden shelves leaned slightly under the weight of books, and sunlight filtered in through tall windows, catching in the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. It felt like a place that existed outside of time, a pocket of quiet in the chaos of Los Angeles.
That was also where you met Mr. and Mrs. Hayashi. They were an elderly Japanese couple who greeted you in soft, lilting voices, their accents reminding you faintly of home. Over steaming cups of tea and slices of cake, they told you how they had once lived in Hyogo before moving to Los Angeles with their children decades ago. Now retired, they ran the café together, more for love than necessity. Their kids had long since built lives of their own, scattered across different states, but still visited when they could.
You became a regular before you even noticed it happening. It started with one visit, then another, and soon the café had become part of your daily rhythm. Some days, you brought your laptop and worked in the corner seat near the window. Other times, you simply sat with a book, letting the hours stretch quietly around you.
Eventually, it felt natural to help out. You offered to carry trays, wipe tables, restock shelves. What began as casual gestures turned into part-time work, though to you, it never felt like a job. You just liked being there. You liked the calm, the soft hum of conversations, the rustle of pages being turned. You liked how Mr. Hayashi always insisted on brewing your coffee himself, claiming no one else could make it “just right,” and how Mrs. Hayashi fussed over you with little snacks, saying you looked too thin.
They treated you as though you were their own. Sometimes Mrs. Hayashi would slip her arm through yours as she guided you to the kitchen, chattering about recipes or old memories of Hyogo. Sometimes Mr. Hayashi would tell you stories from his youth, his voice low and steady, his eyes crinkling with warmth. In their presence, something inside you softened. You hadn’t realized how much you had missed the feeling of being cared for—of belonging somewhere without needing to explain why.
The café became a sanctuary. Every time you pushed open the door, the weight on your chest felt just a little lighter. And though you rarely thought of Atsumu anymore, there were moments—quiet, fleeting ones—when the comfort of the Hayashis, the warmth of the café, reminded you of the kind of love you once thought would last forever.
Business had always been steady, the kind of quiet success that kept the Hayashis comfortable without overwhelming them. But as the weeks passed, you began to notice more and more new faces wandering in. The city was buzzing with anticipation—the Olympics were drawing near, and with one of the stadiums only a short walk away, the neighborhood grew livelier by the day.
What was once a tucked-away secret began to transform into a gathering place. Fans in brightly colored jerseys stopped in before heading to matches, their excitement filling the air. Some wore scarves or caps with team logos, clutching tickets between their fingers as they ordered lattes to-go. Others lingered at the tables, chatting animatedly about lineups, training rumors, and which players they hoped to see on the court.
Sometimes, entire groups would come in, their voices rising and falling as they debated predictions for the games. The word “volleyball” was spoken so often it became part of the café’s daily soundtrack, woven in between the clinking of cups and the turning of pages. You caught fragments of conversations—names you hadn’t heard in years, familiar to you in ways that made your chest tighten before you quickly pushed the feeling aside.
The Hayashis marveled at the surge in business, laughing softly at the unexpected rush. “We’ve never sold this many pastries in a single morning,” Mrs. Hayashi would say, wiping her hands on her apron with a smile. Mr. Hayashi, meanwhile, claimed the café had become a “lucky charm” for visitors, insisting his hand-brewed coffee was partly responsible for their teams’ success.
For you, the increase meant longer shifts and busier days. You moved quickly between tables, balancing trays of cappuccinos and slices of chiffon cake, bowing slightly when groups thanked you in accented Japanese or warm English. There was a steady hum of energy in the air now, but strangely, the café never lost its softness. Even with the crowd, it still felt safe—like it belonged to another time, untouched by the chaos just outside its doors.
And every so often, when a group of fans leaned across their table, whispering about an upcoming match, your ears would catch on a name you recognized. A name you once used to hear nearly every day. It was always fleeting, drowned out by laughter or the grind of beans, but it was enough to stir something inside you—something you weren’t ready to name.
You had already expected him to be part of the national team once again. Atsumu Miya—the boy you once loved so deeply it ached, the man whose ambitions had always burned bright enough to scorch everything around him. Of course he’d be here. Of course he’d make it. You used to cheer for him with your whole heart, standing in front of the TV during his first Olympic debut in Tokyo. You remembered how proud you had been, how you believed nothing could ever shake the two of you.
But then Paris came. And with it came the cracks—the missed calls, the arguments that left you hollow, the birthdays and anniversaries forgotten beneath the weight of his training schedule. You had tried to hold on, tried to remind yourself that love meant patience, but somewhere along the way, you realized you were holding on alone.
Even now, years later, the memories clung to you like faint scars. They didn’t bleed anymore, but they still ached if you pressed too hard.
The café had been your balm, the place that quieted the restless hum in your chest. That morning was no different. You were behind the counter, sliding trays of freshly baked pastries into the glass display case near the register. The warm air from the ovens lingered in the space, wrapping the café in a sweet, buttery scent. Mrs. Hayashi hummed softly as she stacked cups, while outside, sunlight streamed through the windows, catching on the edge of a customer’s open newspaper with Olympic headlines splashed across the front.
It was almost peaceful—until the door chime rang.
“Welcome—” you began automatically, straightening up from behind the counter.
But the word caught in your throat.
A tall figure had stepped inside, moving with that same easy, athletic gait you knew far too well. His hair was a little shorter than you remembered, still a golden blond but now neatly styled back, strands catching in the morning light. He wore a plain hoodie and joggers, nothing extravagant, but he still carried himself like someone who drew attention without trying. His voice was low, distracted, as he spoke quickly into the phone pressed to his ear.
“Yeah, yeah, three americanos, two iced teas—ya heard me, right? No, not vanilla, caramel. Who ordered vanilla?” he muttered, a sigh threading into his Kansai accent.
You stood frozen, your hand still resting on the warm glass of the pastry display. It was surreal, watching him so close again after years of only remembering him in fragments—in echoes of laughter, in the sharp pang of arguments replayed in your head, in the hollow silence that followed your goodbye. And now here he was, in the place you had built to escape him.
At first, he didn’t notice you. He was too focused on his call, repeating orders with exasperation as if talking to a teammate who wasn’t listening. He laughed lightly, shaking his head, shoulders relaxing the way they always did when he teased someone on the line. For a brief moment, you almost let yourself believe he was just another customer.
But then his gaze flicked upward, almost absently, scanning the counter.
And when his eyes landed on you, the words died in his throat.
The phone slipped slightly from his ear, his lips parting but no sound coming out. His brows knit, his expression shifting in a way you couldn’t quite read—shock, disbelief, something softer lingering beneath.
“Oi… I’ll call ya back,” he muttered abruptly into the receiver, his voice low, hurried, before he ended the call without waiting for a reply.
The silence that followed was deafening.
For the first time in years, you were staring at Atsumu Miya not on a screen, not in a memory, but standing right in front of you.
“Uhm… hey.” His voice broke the silence at last, casual but a little too careful, like he was testing out a word he hadn’t said in years. Atsumu shoved his phone into the pocket of his hoodie and walked toward the counter, each step sounding louder than it should’ve against the wooden floor.
Your throat felt tight. You weren’t sure if you should smile, frown, or pretend you hadn’t heard him. Your hands busied themselves with adjusting the already-neat rows of pastries, as if the warm glass between you could shield you from the weight of his gaze.
Up close, you could see more of him. The faint lines near his eyes that hadn’t been there before, the subtle tiredness tucked behind his golden irises—the kind of wear that came only from years of pressure and spotlight. His shoulders were broader, posture straighter, but there was still that restless energy in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had grown, matured even, but at the core, he was still unmistakably Atsumu.
“It’s… been a while, huh?” he said, scratching the back of his neck, his eyes darting briefly to the shelves behind you, then back to your face. He gave a quick, crooked smile—nervous, unsure, nothing like the confident grin you remembered from before.
You nodded once, the word catching in your chest before you finally managed, “Yeah. A while.”
The silence that followed stretched thin, like a thread pulled too tight. Around you, the café carried on untouched. Someone laughed softly from the corner table. A spoon clinked against porcelain. Mrs. Hayashi’s humming floated from the kitchen. And yet, the world had narrowed down to just the two of you, separated only by the counter and years of unspoken history.
Atsumu cleared his throat, glancing down at the pastries like they’d suddenly become fascinating. “So… uh. You work here now?” His tone tried to be casual, conversational, but his voice dipped at the end, betraying something heavier underneath—hesitation, maybe guilt.
“Something like that,” you answered, your tone clipped, neutral. Your hands fidgeted with a stack of napkins, folding and unfolding them just to have something to do.
He nodded slowly, lips pressing together like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. His gaze lingered on you, almost searching, as though he were looking for traces of the person he once knew. The weight of it made your chest feel tight.
You broke eye contact first, turning to straighten the plates beside the display case. The motion was unnecessary—they were already lined up perfectly—but it gave you an excuse to avoid the way his presence stirred old feelings you weren’t ready to confront.
“So… how long’ve ya been here?” he asked, his voice softer now, less forced.
“Long enough,” you replied.
Atsumu gave a quiet, almost awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck again. It was such a familiar gesture that it made your stomach twist. For years, you had known his tells, his nervous habits, the way his bravado melted when he was uncertain. Seeing it again—here, in this café that had become your safe place—felt almost cruel.
Neither of you knew what to do with the silence that followed. Customers moved around you, the door chime jingled faintly as new faces entered, but it all felt distant. What lingered between you and Atsumu wasn’t the noise of the café—it was everything unsaid, everything unresolved.
And standing there, you realized how strange it felt to see him like this. Not as the rising star you once watched under blinding stadium lights. Not as the man you once loved fiercely enough to believe in forever. But as someone who looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak your name anymore.
You swallowed the tightness in your throat, sliding a pastry bag across the counter as if the motion could cut the moment clean in half. “One second,” you murmured, stepping past him to call out a pickup order waiting by the register. He shifted aside silently, watching you with that same unreadable expression.
It was easier to pretend, easier to keep busy. So you did. You asked him what he wanted, rang it up with steady hands, and told him to wait by the side counter for his drink. No warmth, no sharpness either—just a polite distance. He seemed to understand, nodding once before retreating a few steps back, phone back in his hand but unused.
That should have been it. A one-time encounter, an accident. But it wasn’t.
Because after that day, Atsumu kept coming back.
Sometimes in the mornings, fresh from his run, his hair still damp with sweat, hoodie clinging to his frame. Other times in the evenings, after practice, when his posture sagged a little more with fatigue. Sometimes he came alone, sometimes with teammates in tow, the café filling with their laughter and banter in a mix of Japanese and English.
And always, he found his way to the counter where you stood.
You kept things light, never more than small talk. The kind of surface-level chatter that filled the space without risking the depths beneath. “How’s practice?” “Busy today?” “Same order as usual?” Words that asked nothing, revealed nothing.
But something lingered anyway.
Sometimes you’d catch his gaze following you across the café, lingering a second too long before he turned back to his cup. Sometimes he’d walk in, spot you, and his lips would twitch into a half-smile, small and tentative, as though he was testing whether you’d accept it.
And one evening, as you were wiping down a table near the front, you noticed his eyes flick down to your hands. To your ringless hand. His smile faltered for the briefest moment, quickly smoothed over, but you noticed. You always noticed.
The air between you shifted after that. He grew quieter, less joking, like he was thinking about something but biting it back. The weight of it pressed against you with every visit, and though you tried to ignore it, you felt it too.
It was a late night when it finally broke. The café had emptied out, the chairs stacked, the soft clatter of dishes echoing faintly from the kitchen. You were wiping down the counter when Atsumu lingered by the door instead of leaving with his teammates. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders tense in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost careful. You looked up, startled to find him still there. His eyes searched yours, steady and a little too honest. “Can we… talk? After you close?”
The words hung in the stillness of the café, sinking into the space between you.
Your grip tightened around the damp cloth in your hand. Your heart thudded loud enough that you were sure he could hear it. A thousand thoughts surged at once—memories, questions, the ache you’d buried so carefully.
But when you opened your mouth, only one word slipped out.
“…Yeah.”
And though the café remained the same around you—the faint hum of the fridge, the low clink of dishes, the scent of coffee still in the air—you knew that nothing would feel quite the same after tonight.
The Hayashis had already left, though not without their usual warmth. Mrs. Hayashi pressed your hand before she went, her eyes crinkling in that way that told you she understood more than you said aloud. Mr. Hayashi gave Atsumu a polite nod, one that lingered a little too knowingly. They told you it was fine to stay behind, to lock up when you were ready. And though they didn’t say it outright, you could feel it in the air—that gentle, wordless understanding that they knew something was unfolding, something fragile, something you couldn’t hide even if you tried.
The door closed behind them with a soft chime, leaving only you and Atsumu in the quiet.
For a while, you busied yourself with the last of the closing tasks—wiping the tables, straightening the chairs, checking the pastry case one last time. It gave you something to do with your hands, something to keep you from glancing over your shoulder where he still stood, waiting.
But the weight of him was there, constant, pressing at the edges of your awareness. You could hear the shift of his sneakers against the wooden floor, the occasional slow exhale, like he was rehearsing words he wasn’t sure how to say.
Finally, with everything else tucked away, there was nothing left to hide behind. You set the rag down on the counter, smoothed your palms against your apron, and turned toward him.
The café felt different now, emptied of everyone else—more intimate, more fragile. The shelves full of books seemed to watch silently. The soft amber light above the counter painted the space in warm tones that made your chest ache with memory.
Atsumu hadn’t moved. His hands were still shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as though bracing against something only he could feel. When your eyes met his, it was almost too much—like standing too close to a fire you weren’t sure you could bear.
You broke the silence first, your voice low but steady. “So. You wanted to talk?”
Atsumu nodded slowly, then took a step forward, closing some of the distance between you. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flickering down for a moment before settling back on yours.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, stripped of the easy charm he’d always carried. “I’ve been wantin’ to for a while now.”
You nodded once, unsure what else to do, and gestured toward a small, cozy table tucked near the shelves. The same table you sometimes used during slow afternoons to read, hidden half away from view. It felt safer there, less exposed than talking across the counter.
You both sat down. The silence stretched for a moment, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the back. You folded your hands together, pressing your thumbs against each other to keep from fidgeting.
“What is it you want to talk about, Atsumu?” you asked, your voice softer than you expected.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the floor before he finally looked at you. His eyes, so familiar it hurt, carried something raw. “Us.”
The word landed heavy between you. Simple, but loaded with everything you hadn’t spoken in years.
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “Atsumu…” His name felt foreign and familiar all at once on your tongue. “That was a long time ago.”
“I know.” He nodded quickly, too quickly, like he’d rehearsed that part. His hand came up to rake through his hair, the same nervous habit you remembered from years ago, before he let it fall uselessly onto the table between you. “I ain’t here to make excuses. I was selfish. I thought volleyball had to come before everythin’, like if I loosened my grip even a little, I’d lose it all. And I didn’t realize I was already losin’ the one thing that mattered more.”
Your chest tightened. The memory rose before you could stop it—the dim light of your old apartment, your packed bag by the door, his voice cracking as he begged you to stay. The way you’d cried too, because leaving him had felt like tearing out your own heart.
“I couldn’t keep asking you to choose,” you whispered, grounding yourself in the present. “It wasn’t fair. You loved your career, and I loved you too much to stand in the way of that. I didn’t want to become… a burden.”
His head shook sharply, almost violently. “You weren’t a burden. Don’t ya dare say that.” His voice trembled, the edge of desperation in it cutting through his composure. “You were the best thing in my life. And I threw it away. Not ‘cause I didn’t love you—‘cause I was too blind to see I could have both if I just tried harder.”
His jaw clenched, the veins in his hands tightening as he gripped them together. “I still hear your voice from that night, y’know. Every time I missed somethin’ important, every time I saw the empty seat I swore I’d save for ya—I heard it. You cryin’. You tellin’ me you were tired. And I hated myself, ‘cause I gave you every reason to walk away.”
You blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in your eyes. He wasn’t just confessing—he was unraveling, piece by piece, laying every regret bare on the table between you.
He swallowed hard before speaking again, quieter this time, almost broken. “I kept your letter.”
Your breath caught.
“I kept it with me everywhere,” he continued. “In my bag, in my locker, sometimes even on the nightstand when I couldn’t sleep. You wrote… that maybe if things were different, if I got better, there’d still be a chance.” His voice cracked. “I lived off those words. I don’t know if you meant ‘em, but I did. And it’s why I kept tryin’ to be better. Not just for me—for you.”
Silence filled the air between you. Heavy. Unforgiving.
Finally, you found your voice, though it shook. “Atsumu… I’m not angry anymore. I don’t hate you. I never did. I was just… tired. And I had to save myself.”
His lips parted like he wanted to respond, but he hesitated, his shoulders trembling faintly as though he was holding back. Then he leaned forward, his voice raw and stripped down.
“I still love ya.”
The words shattered the quiet, echoing louder than they should have in the empty café. Your heart clenched, because it wasn’t a dramatic confession, not a performance. It was simple, vulnerable, and painfully real.
“I never stopped,” he admitted. “Not once. I tried. God knows I tried. But everythin’—every match, every win, every damn medal—it all felt empty without you. I don’t expect ya to forgive me, I don’t even expect ya to want me again. But I need ya to know that I’d spend the rest of my life provin’ I won’t let ya down again. If you let me.”
He lifted his gaze to you, and for the first time you saw the full weight of his regret, his longing, his love—all laid bare. He looked nothing like the boy you once left crying in your apartment. He looked like a man who had carried his mistakes for years, who was desperate to put them down only if you’d let him.
Your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. You had healed, you had built a life without him, and yet… here he was, the one person you thought you’d never face again, holding out the rawest part of himself for you to see.
And for the first time in years, you let yourself wonder—if love, once broken, could still find a way back.
Your lips curved into the faintest smile, bittersweet but soft. Atsumu’s breath hitched at the sight, as though he hadn’t expected you to smile at him at all.
“Do you remember,” you began, your voice quiet but steady, “what I wrote at the very end of that letter?”
His brow furrowed, but only for a second. You saw it in his eyes the moment recognition struck—like the words had never truly left him.
“I said…” Your chest rose with a shaky inhale. “I hope someday we find our way back to each other—with brighter hearts, and steadier hands.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was tender, trembling with possibility.
Atsumu let out a sharp exhale, half laugh, half sob. He dragged a hand over his face, shaking his head. “God, I read that line a thousand times. I thought maybe ya just wrote it to soften the blow, like… like it didn’t mean anythin’.”
“It meant something,” you whispered. “It still does.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, wide and disbelieving. “Ya mean…” His voice faltered, cracked at the edges. “After all this time—?”
You nodded, your throat tightening as you forced the words out, words you’d never admitted to anyone else. “I still love you, Atsumu. I never really stopped.”
His breath caught audibly, shoulders sagging as though the weight he’d carried for years had just slipped free. But you weren’t finished.
“Time did change us,” you continued, your voice firmer now. “And maybe that’s the proof we needed. We’re not the same people we were back then. You had to grow on your own, and so did I. But…” You leaned forward slightly, your eyes locked on his. “Our past… it’s too broken to go back to. Too much pain, too much hurt. But that doesn’t mean it was all wasted.”
You swallowed, letting the words steady themselves on your tongue. “Not all of it was broken, Atsumu. We had years that were good. Years worth remembering. High school, late nights on the phone, sneaking into gyms when we weren’t supposed to, cheering for each other even when no one else did—those were real too. I don’t want to throw any of that away. Because it made us who we are now.”
Atsumu’s eyes glistened, his throat bobbing as he tried and failed to hold back the flood of emotion.
“But I don’t want to patch up the past,” you went on gently. “I want us to start from the beginning. Not pretending nothing happened, but choosing to move forward anyway. To learn each other again—with brighter hearts, steadier hands.”
For a long moment, he only stared at you. His jaw clenched, his eyes shimmering, his whole body wound tight like he was afraid to breathe and break the moment. Then, slowly, he reached across the small table.
His hand hovered there first, trembling in the air between you, asking without words.
You hesitated only a heartbeat before placing your hand in his. Warmth. Familiar. Different. It didn’t feel like slipping back into the past—it felt like stepping into something new, something rebuilt.
Atsumu’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, tentative but reverent. His lips parted, his voice low and hoarse. “I’ll prove it to ya. Every damn day if I have to. That I’m better now. That I won’t let ya down again.”
You squeezed his hand gently, grounding him. “Then prove it. Not to the person I was years ago. But to me, now. The one sitting here in front of you.”
His laugh was wet, shaky, but his smile broke through like sunlight, raw and radiant. “Deal.”
And as the café lights glowed softly above you, two hearts—once fractured, now mended with time—beat in quiet harmony, ready to begin again.
That night was only the beginning.
Atsumu started coming to the café almost every day after that. Sometimes, it was in the quiet lull of the morning, sweat still clinging to his shirt from a run, when the café was just beginning to stir awake. Other times, it was late in the evening, his hair damp from practice, exhaustion clinging to him but his smile still finding its way to you.
He never pushed. Never demanded. He simply showed up. Sat at the counter with a mug of coffee, sometimes alone, sometimes with a teammate or two, but always with his gaze finding you as you moved through the space.
When your shift ended, he would walk you home. Even if it meant dragging himself through fatigue, even if his legs had already taken more than enough miles for the day, he insisted. “Ain’t no trouble,” he’d shrug, though the way his steps slowed to match yours told a different story.
And every so often, he came with flowers. Small bouquets wrapped in plain paper, usually made up of whatever blooms the corner shop had that day. He’d hand them to you awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to do something so gentle anymore. Sometimes he’d bring a second bundle, placing it carefully on the counter.
“For Mrs. Hayashi,” he’d explain, cheeks faintly pink. “Ya know, for always keepin’ this place warm.”
It didn’t take long for the Hayashis to notice, to exchange knowing looks whenever Atsumu lingered long after his cup was empty. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t need to.
One afternoon, while you were restocking the pastry display, the café door chimed open. You glanced up, ready with your usual greeting, only to find a familiar face instead.
“Osamu?”
Your voice carried both surprise and a kind of comfort. Unlike Atsumu, Osamu had been a steady, quiet presence over the years. A message here and there, the occasional call, enough to keep the bond intact even when everything else fell apart.
He gave you a smile, softer and more knowing than his brother’s. “Long time, huh?”
You laughed, wiping your hands on your apron. “Too long. What are you doing here?”
Osamu stepped closer, pulling something from the pocket of his jacket. A crisp envelope, edges neat, pressed flat like it had been carefully guarded. He slid it across the counter to you.
Curious, you picked it up, feeling the faint stiffness of the cardstock inside. Your brows furrowed as you pulled the contents free—a ticket. Bold letters printed across the front announced: Volleyball Nations League – Semi Finals.
Your breath caught.
Osamu’s smile widened just slightly at your reaction. “He didn’t ask me to give this to ya. Matter of fact, he doesn’t even know I came.”
You blinked, looking between the ticket and Osamu. “Then… why?”
“’Cause I know him. And I know you,” he said simply, leaning against the counter. “He’s been comin’ here every chance he gets, yeah? You don’t see it, but I do. That look in his eyes—it’s the same one he had back in high school when he first told me he was gonna confess to ya.”
Heat rose to your cheeks at the memory, but Osamu’s tone stayed gentle.
“You don’t gotta decide anythin’ now. But… if you’re ready, I think you should be there. Not for the crowd. Not for the team. For him. He’ll notice if you are.”
You stared down at the ticket in your hand, the bold letters suddenly feeling heavier than paper. For years, you had been there—every game, every league, every moment under the blinding lights. From high school gyms to roaring Olympic arenas, you had always been a face in the crowd he could count on. Until you weren’t.
And that absence had left its mark—on him, on you, on everything in between.
Now, holding this ticket, it felt like more than just an invitation to a match. It felt like a bridge back to something you’d both lost, a quiet chance to stand where you once always stood—not as someone left behind, but as someone choosing to return.
For the first time in a long time, you had the chance to be there again.
You told the Hayashis about it later that evening, the ticket still tucked safely in your apron pocket. The café had already emptied for the night, the hum of the lights soft above you, the scent of coffee still clinging to the air. You hadn’t planned on telling them, not really—but the words slipped out between wiping tables and stacking chairs, like the secret had been pressing too hard against your chest.
The moment you mentioned Atsumu’s name, Mrs. Hayashi’s eyes lit up knowingly, her lips curving into the kind of smile only mothers seem to carry. Mr. Hayashi chuckled low under his breath, shaking his head as though he’d been expecting this all along.
“You must go,” Mrs. Hayashi said immediately, her hands closing warmly over yours. Her palms were soft and steady, grounding. “This is important. More important than any shift here.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but Mr. Hayashi cut in gently, his voice calm and certain. “We’ll handle the café. We’ve done it for decades; one day won’t matter. But one day for you—it could change everything.”
Your chest tightened, and you looked down at your hands, still cradled in Mrs. Hayashi’s. “It’s just… it’s been so long. I don’t know if I should—”
Mrs. Hayashi squeezed your hands, her gaze kind but firm. “You’ve already given so much of your heart to this place, to us. But we are not the ones who should carry all of it. Don’t you see? You’ve been waiting for this without even realizing.”
Her words struck deeper than you expected, and when you looked up, Mr. Hayashi was watching you with the same steady expression he often wore when offering quiet advice.
“Follow your heart,” he said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “If you don’t, the regret will follow you instead. Better to face love honestly than to spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been.”
Your throat tightened, tears threatening to blur your vision. You blinked them back, whispering, “You sound like my parents.”
Mrs. Hayashi laughed softly, brushing her thumb over your knuckles the way a mother might. “Maybe that’s because, for us, you’ve already felt like a daughter. And as parents, we can only say this—don’t be afraid to give yourself another chance at happiness.”
The lump in your throat grew harder to swallow, and all you could do was nod, clutching the ticket a little tighter in your pocket.
“Go,” Mrs. Hayashi urged again, her voice warm, almost pleading. “Be there for him. Be there for yourself. So when you look back years from now, you’ll have no regrets.”
You exhaled slowly, the weight in your chest finally loosening. “Thank you. Both of you.”
And for the first time in years, the thought of sitting in the stands again—watching him take his place on the court, hearing the roar of the crowd—didn’t just feel like a memory you missed. It felt like a promise waiting to be renewed.
The following morning, you made your way to the arena, the ticket clutched tightly in your hand. Your heart fluttered with a mix of nerves and anticipation, the kind that made your chest ache in the most familiar, human way.
Outside the entrance, you spotted Osamu, leaning casually against the stone pillars with Kita by his side. Both of them looked up and smiled as soon as they saw you. Osamu’s eyes crinkled at the corners, warm and knowing, like he had already guessed exactly why you were here.
“You made it,” he said softly, stepping forward. His voice carried that quiet reassurance he always had—the kind that made you feel like no matter how long it had been, some things remained constant.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” you replied, returning his smile, though your stomach twisted with butterflies.
Kita chuckled from beside him, shoulders relaxed. “You’re about to see him play, huh? Watch closely—he’s not just playing for the team today. He’s… well, you know.”
Osamu nodded, his gaze flicking toward the arena doors as though he could already see Atsumu warming up inside. “Yeah. Today’s different. I can tell. The way he’s been—he’s not just focused on the game. He’s thinking about you. About what’s possible now.”
Your chest tightened at that, a mix of nerves and warmth flooding through you. “I don’t want to mess this up,” you admitted quietly.
Osamu’s hand brushed yours briefly, reassuring. “You won’t. You’re here. That’s all that matters. He’ll see you, and everything else—well, it’ll follow.”
You inhaled deeply, feeling the crisp morning air fill your lungs, steadying yourself. The stadium loomed ahead, vast and alive with anticipation, but it didn’t feel intimidating—it felt like coming home.
And as you stepped closer to the entrance, ready to take your place in the stands once more, you couldn’t help but feel a quiet, hopeful certainty: what you and Atsumu had left years before might just have another chance to bloom.
You found your seat in the stands, the ticket still clutched loosely in your hand. The arena buzzed with energy—fans shouting, the squeak of shoes on polished courts, the metallic echo of the scoreboard updating—but somehow, it all faded into the background.
It didn’t take long before you realized you weren’t invisible. Hinata, ever bright and hyper, spotted you almost immediately from across the court. His eyes widened, and before you could even wave, he shot his hand into the air with a huge grin.
“Hey! Over here!” he called, voice carrying across the noise of the arena.
Bokuto, true to his canon personality, caught on instantly and joined in, waving enthusiastically, his laughter echoing off the walls. “Oi! You made it! About time, yeah?!”
You couldn’t help laughing softly, waving back at them. The recognition warmed your chest. These were players you’d grown close to over the years—through training camps, league matches, and tournaments. They knew you, they’d cheered alongside you in the stands before, and seeing their familiar, joyful faces made the arena feel a little smaller, a little safer.
Sakusa, ever composed, gave a subtle nod from across the court, while Aran’s calm smile and Suna’s quiet acknowledgment made you feel noticed without the chaos. Even among the roar of the fans, you felt a thread of connection running through the players who had shared this world with both you and Atsumu.
Then your gaze landed on him.
Atsumu.
He was stretching near the net, towel draped around his shoulders, eyes focused—or so it seemed. And then, like a spark lighting a fuse, his gaze flicked upward and caught yours.
Time slowed.
For the first moment, the world outside the court disappeared. He froze mid-stretch, jaw tightening slightly as he blinked, disbelief and recognition fighting across his expression.
You raised your hand, just a little, and his lips twitched—like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust the emotion yet. Slowly, almost painfully, he mirrored your movement, raising a hand toward you.
Your heart hammered in your chest. All the hours, all the waiting, all the memories and heartache—everything led to this single, suspended moment.
Behind him, Hinata and Bokuto were still cheering and waving like they’d just spotted a superstar, but Atsumu’s focus didn’t waver. The tiny gestures, the smiles, the presence of someone who had once been his world—it hit him like a wave.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt steady.
No crowd, no noise, no looming pressure of the semi-finals mattered. All that mattered was you.
Atsumu crouched behind the end line, towel tossed aside, fingers tightening around the ball. His gaze flicked toward the stands again, and there you were—eyes fixed on him, heart hammering in your chest. That brief glance stretched into a long, suspended moment. For a heartbeat, the roaring fans, the blinding arena lights, and the sheer intensity of the match faded into nothing.
He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, steadying himself, and raised his arm for the serve. Time seemed to stretch as he released the ball and launched it forward. Each move, each set, each spike that followed carried a subtle edge you hadn’t seen in him before—a fire that burned just a little brighter when he knew you were watching.
The match was electric. Every point was a battle, the scoreboard ticking up in a tense back-and-forth. You found yourself holding your breath with every serve, every dive, every perfect set. His teammates moved with precision, responding to his calls, but it was obvious: Atsumu was playing not just for the win, but for you. Even the smallest glance toward your direction, a subtle smile, a quick nod—he was letting you in, even while immersed in the chaos of the semi-finals.
Behind him, his teammates were also keenly aware. Hinata, ever the expressive one, kept sneaking glances up at you between plays, eyes widening as if to make sure you hadn’t left. Bokuto, like a human firecracker, threw occasional thumbs-up gestures your way whenever you caught his eye, grinning from ear to ear. Sakusa, Aran, and Suna all noticed too, subtle nods and quiet smirks that acknowledged your presence, a silent way of saying, we know what this means to him, and to you.
By the end, the match had been grueling, close to the very last point. Two points difference. A narrow loss. The arena erupted in applause, but the roar of the crowd barely reached you. You were still focused on him—sweat glistening on his forehead, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes scanning the stands, searching.
Osamu appeared beside you, calm and knowing, with Kita just behind him. “Come on,” Osamu said quietly, a slight grin tugging at his lips. “They’re waiting for you. Go meet them.”
You took a deep breath, your hands tightening around the ticket in your pocket. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Kita said softly, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “They need you. And you need this, too.”
You followed them down the stairs, weaving carefully through the crowd as the team began to notice you. The moment your presence registered, the arena erupted in its own smaller kind of chaos.
Bokuto was first. He barreled toward you with open arms, laughter spilling from his lips. “It’s really you! We missed you so much!”
Hinata bounced eagerly next, barely able to contain himself. “You came! You’re here! We were hoping you would!”
You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, allowing yourself to be swept up in their familiar warmth. They enveloped you in their energy, all the years of distance and separation dissolving into these small, joyful gestures.
They finally stepped back, leaving a clear path for you. “Go on,” Bokuto said with a grin. “He’s been looking for you the whole match!”
And there he was—Atsumu. Standing tall among his teammates, chest heaving from exertion, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. He hadn’t noticed the applause, the cheering, or the flashing cameras. His eyes had been searching, and the moment they landed on you, everything else faded into nothing.
Time seemed to slow again. He froze mid-motion, a set of spikes waiting behind him, his entire body tense. And then, recognition, relief, and something softer flickered across his face.
His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak, but no words came. He simply held your gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting the moment carry the weight of years apart.
You felt your heart tighten as he took a tentative step toward you. The arena around you seemed impossibly distant. The roar of the crowd, the scent of sweat and polished wood, the bright stadium lights—it all disappeared. There was only him. Only you.
Every flicker of memory—the highs, the lows, the heartbreak, the laughter, the quiet late-night conversations—surfaced in that single, suspended heartbeat. And when Atsumu finally extended a hand, trembling slightly, it wasn’t just a gesture toward the present—it was a bridge across all those years, reaching for something new, something restored, something fiercely, vulnerably alive.
“You came,” he whispered, voice low and slightly unsteady, his eyes searching yours as if needing confirmation.
“Well,” you said, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “a particular someone who looks like you told me to come.”
“I absolutely don’t look like that p—”
Before Atsumu could finish, a sharp smack landed on the back of his head. Hard.
“Who are you going to call a pig, you fucker?” Osamu barked, laughing as Atsumu doubled over, rubbing the sore spot.
You laughed, soft and warm, feeling the familiar rush of joy that had been absent for too long. It was a feeling you hadn’t realized you’d been missing—the teasing, the quiet camaraderie, the sense of home that came with being around them again.
Once the laughter settled, Atsumu slipped his hand into yours, fingers curling around yours instinctively. You didn’t even have to look at him to know he felt the same—like no time had passed, yet everything had shifted, changed, deepened.
He walked you back to your apartment, the city lights stretching around you both. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic. Neither of you spoke much, content to let the silence between you be full rather than empty.
Once you reached your doorstep, the team’s invitations still ringing in your head, Atsumu glanced down at you, a small, wistful smile on his lips. “They want us to celebrate. Olympics milestones, even if we lost.”
You shook your head softly, squeezing his hand. “We’ve had enough celebration for today. Let’s just… keep this between us.”
He nodded, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. “Yeah. I like it better this way.”
The night stretched softly around you, quiet except for the faint sound of the city beyond your window. And then, almost impulsively, Atsumu made a decision.
“I’m staying,” he said, his voice low but certain, “for the off-season. Here. With you.”
You froze for only a moment, heart skipping, before smiling—a small, radiant smile that carried all the hope and relief of the past years. “You sure about that?”
“As sure as I’ve ever been,” he replied, his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly. “I want to be here. With you. For now. For everything.”
And just like that, the city lights around your apartment seemed softer, warmer. For the first time in years, everything felt like it might just be exactly where it was supposed to be.
The days that followed fell into a rhythm—awkward at first, but gradually, wonderfully natural. Atsumu moved into your apartment with the same kind of energy he always carried on the court, lugging his duffel bag inside with a grin, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
But instead of tossing his things carelessly around like before, he was deliberate this time—neat piles folded into corners, shoes lined by the door. And when it came to sleeping arrangements, he was firm.
“You can take the bed,” you told him that first night, arms crossed as you leaned against the bedroom doorframe.
“I’ll take the couch,” he replied immediately, dragging the sofa bed open with surprising ease.
“Atsumu,” you said, a laugh slipping out, “we’ve shared a bed before. It’s not—”
He shook his head quickly, cutting you off. “I don’t wanna make ya uncomfortable. Not again. Not until ya ask me yourself.”
His voice was serious, more than you expected, and for once, he didn’t try to charm his way around it. You opened your mouth to argue, but stopped when you saw the stubborn glint in his eyes. So, you let it go.
And so, Atsumu slept on the couch. Some nights, you’d hear him shifting around, the old sofa creaking under his weight, but he never once complained. Instead, he’d grin in the mornings when you caught him rubbing the back of his neck. “Comfiest couch in the world,” he’d insist, even though you knew he was lying.
During the off-season, Atsumu quickly became a fixture at the café. At first, he came to keep you company—nursing a cappuccino in the corner, earbuds in, scrolling through his phone. But it didn’t take long for the Hayashis to rope him into helping.
“Strong arms like yours shouldn’t go to waste,” Mr. Hayashi said one morning, dropping a box of books into Atsumu’s hands before he could protest.
And that was that. Soon, Atsumu was moving tables, hauling supplies, and shadowing Mrs. Hayashi as she taught him how to brew coffee. He burned his tongue at least three times taste-testing espresso shots and once managed to splatter steamed milk across his shirt.
Mrs. Hayashi only laughed, patting his shoulder. “You’re a work in progress, Miya-kun. But you try. That’s what matters.”
And try he did. He fumbled, he learned, and slowly, he became part of the café’s rhythm—his presence no longer out of place.
It was in those quiet moments, amid the steady hum of the café, that Atsumu found himself learning more about you than he had in years. The Hayashis would slip little things into conversation—the way you’d spent your first Christmas in Los Angeles with them, how you’d helped repaint the café one summer when business slowed, how you’d made the bookstore corner your project because you said “every café needs a place for stories.”
One golden afternoon, the café nearly empty, Atsumu was wiping down tables while you crouched by the bookstore shelves, rearranging a display of new releases. Your hair fell loose as you tilted your head, lips pursed in concentration as you adjusted the spines. The light caught on your profile, soft and unguarded.
It was then that Mr. Hayashi paused beside him, leaning slightly on his cane. “She is a precious gem, you know,” he said quietly, his voice low but steady.
Atsumu blinked, straightening. “Sir?”
Mr. Hayashi’s eyes softened, carrying the weight of memory. “My wife and I—we were once like you two. Stubborn, prideful, thinking the world would wait for us. But love like this…” His gaze flicked toward you, still unaware of the conversation. “It doesn’t come often. And when it does, it’s foolish to let it slip through your fingers.”
Mrs. Hayashi, overhearing from behind the counter, added gently, “She’s strong, Miya-kun. But strength doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel. If you’re staying, then stay truly. No half-hearted promises. No chasing the world while leaving her behind.”
Atsumu’s throat tightened, his chest heavy with their words. He glanced at you again, bent over the books, brushing dust off a cover with the same care you gave to everything in your life. For a moment, the sound of the café faded, replaced by the echo of his own thoughts—the memory of his hands trembling as he clutched the letter you left him years ago, the nights he spent replaying his mistakes, and the vow he’d made to himself to be better if he ever got another chance.
And now, that chance was here.
He swallowed, his voice quiet but certain. “I won’t let her slip away again.”
When you finally looked up, sensing his gaze, Atsumu was already staring at you. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—they carried something you hadn’t seen in years. Something steady. Something sure.
The days fell into rhythm, slow and deliberate, as if the universe had agreed to give you both space to breathe. Evenings often ended on your balcony, the two of you side by side with mugs of tea or half-finished cups of coffee, the Los Angeles skyline flickering in the distance. You’d talk about everything and nothing—how practice went, what new pastries Mrs. Hayashi wanted to add to the menu, memories from high school you hadn’t dusted off in years. Sometimes the talks stretched past midnight, your laughter echoing into the quiet streets below.
And in the mornings, it was gentler still. You’d wake to the faint smell of coffee, Atsumu already in the kitchen experimenting with what he learned at the café. The results varied—sometimes perfectly balanced, sometimes undrinkable—but you always drank it anyway, if only for the way his face lit up when you told him, “Not bad, Tsumu.”
Yet through it all, Atsumu never crossed a line. He didn’t hold your hand unless you offered it first. He didn’t lean into hugs unless you pulled him close. He didn’t fall back into old habits, no matter how much his body seemed to itch for them.
There were times you caught it—the brief hesitation in his movements, the way his hand would twitch as though he wanted to brush hair from your face, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long when you laughed. But he always stopped himself, letting you set the pace.
It was strange, almost disarming, seeing Atsumu like this. Once, he had been so bold, brash even—pulling you into his world with the sheer force of his energy. But now, he waited. He respected the distance you needed, and in that waiting, you saw a different side of him. A quieter, steadier love.
And you couldn’t deny the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time you realized—he was still here. Not because he was owed anything, not because he expected the past to be erased, but because he wanted to prove himself to you, one patient day at a time.
The days blurred together with the quiet steadiness of routine. He learned how to sweep the floors the way Mrs. Hayashi liked, how to fold the café’s signature napkins just right, how to stock the books without denting their spines. It wasn’t glamorous, but he did it without complaint. Sometimes he’d hum under his breath while helping you, his voice low and unpolished, but grounding in a way that filled the air with something safe.
One evening, after closing, the café was still bathed in the soft glow of the hanging lights. The chatter of customers had long faded, replaced by the muted shuffle of your shoes as you moved boxes of the latest book releases toward the display shelves. Atsumu was beside you, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes as he bent down to lift a heavy stack.
You had just tugged one box closer when your foot caught on the flap of another. Your balance wavered, and instinctively, you reached out—your hand grasping Atsumu’s arm, pulling him forward. The next thing you knew, the two of you had toppled, landing in a heap on the wooden floor.
Atsumu’s arms braced around you, one hand planted firmly beside your head to keep from crushing you, his chest hovering above yours. The world tilted, narrowed, until it was only the faint thud of your heart and the warmth of his body so close you could feel the heat radiating off him.
His breath stuttered as he looked down at you, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t hide it—the raw ache, the want, the love that never left. You could see it all in the tremor of his lips, in the way his eyes searched yours as if asking for permission he’d never take without it.
And maybe it was the years of distance, the nights spent wondering what if, or the tenderness of how he had come back to you—not demanding, not pushing, just waiting. But something inside you broke open.
Your hand slid to the back of his neck, pulling him down. And when your lips met his, it wasn’t gentle. It was deep, emotional, raw—like two puzzle pieces lost long ago finally finding their way back, fitting together as if they had never been apart.
His breath hitched against your mouth, and then he kissed you back with everything he had been holding in—years of regret, of longing, of love that had never stopped burning. His hands, still cautious, cupped your face as if you were fragile, precious, something he couldn’t risk breaking again.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven, like he was trying to steady himself. His chest rose and fell in ragged waves, and for a moment, the only sound between you was the thundering of two hearts trying to remember how to beat together again.
“I’ve dreamed ‘bout this,” Atsumu whispered, his voice hoarse, as if the words were scraped raw from the depths of him. “You in my arms again. Wakin’ up from nightmares and pretendin’ it was real. I used to reach for ya in my sleep, only to remember you weren’t there.” His lips twisted, a humorless smile that almost broke into a sob. “Thought maybe I’d never get the chance. Thought I’d ruined it all for good.”
The truth in his confession hit you so hard it hollowed your lungs. You blinked up at him, and the sheer vulnerability in his eyes—the boy you had loved, the man he had become, all of him laid bare—was enough to unravel you. Tears slipped free before you could stop them, warm trails spilling down your cheeks.
Atsumu stilled, his body tensing. His hands trembled as they slid from your jaw to your cheeks, thumbs brushing at the tears with heartbreaking gentleness. “Don’t… don’t cry,” he pleaded, his voice cracking in a way you hadn’t heard since the night you left him. “I don’t wanna see ya cryin’ again. Ever since that night, I swore—I swore I’d never be the reason you cried again.” His breath hitched, his throat working around words that seemed to burn him. “And here I am… makin’ ya cry again.”
You shook your head, more tears falling despite yourself, and you reached up, pressing your hands over his, grounding him. “These aren’t the same tears, ’Tsumu. Not anymore. These… they’re different.”
“Different?” His voice was small, uncertain, like a boy asking for permission to hope.
A shaky laugh slipped out of you, even as more tears blurred your vision. “Back then, I cried because I thought we were ending. Because I thought we’d lost everything we built. But right now…” Your fingers slid to the back of his neck, pulling him just close enough that he could feel the truth in your breath. “I’m crying because we’re here. Because after everything, you’re still the one I want.”
His jaw tightened, his eyes closing as if the weight of those words was almost too much. And then his arms wrapped around you fully, desperately, pulling you against him like he needed proof you were real, that this wasn’t another dream he’d wake from. You could feel the shuddering of his chest against yours, the way he buried his face into your shoulder as though hiding how close he was to breaking.
“I don’t deserve ya,” he mumbled against your skin, muffled and rough. “But I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life provin’ myself to ya if that’s what it takes. Just… don’t let go of me again. Please.”
Your tears fell faster at that, but there was no heaviness to them now, no regret—only release. You tilted his face back toward yours, your thumbs mirroring the way he had wiped your tears moments ago. “You don’t need to beg anymore, Atsumu. I never stopped loving you. Not once. And maybe we broke back then, maybe we both lost our way—but I don’t want to throw away everything we had. Not all of it was broken.”
Memories flashed like photographs behind your eyes: the first time he confessed in high school, the long hours waiting for him after practice, the laughter spilling over midnight ramen, the warmth of his hand in yours after his first V-League win. All of it—yours, his, yours together.
You leaned in, your lips brushing his in a promise rather than a question. “So let’s start again. From the beginning. With steadier hands this time.”
His breath shook out of him, almost a sob, before he kissed you again—deeper this time, raw and unrestrained, like two puzzle pieces that had finally found each other again after years apart. His hands cradled you like something sacred, and you held him just as tightly, knowing this wasn’t an ending anymore. It was the start of something entirely new.
His breath shook out of him, almost a sob, before he kissed you again—deeper this time, raw and unrestrained, like two puzzle pieces that had finally found each other again after years apart. His hands cradled you like something sacred, and you held him just as tightly, knowing this wasn’t an ending anymore. It was the start of something entirely new.
That night, in your apartment, Atsumu lay beside you in your bed, careful not to crowd you, but close enough that the warmth between you was undeniable. His fingers traced lazy shapes on your back, almost like a grounding ritual—as if touching you in this way could convince him that this wasn’t another dream he would wake from. Every inhale, every gentle brush of his thumb over your skin, was both a reassurance and a silent apology for all the time lost.
A few days later, the calm was broken by the shrill ring of his phone, the MSBY logo flashing on the screen. Atsumu froze, his hand hovering above it as though touching it might make the call disappear.
“Shit…” he muttered, his usual confidence nowhere in sight. “They’re callin’ ‘bout the V-League… I—I don’t wanna make the wrong choice. Not again. I can’t mess this up…”
You sat up beside him on the couch, brushing a hand over his arm, feeling the tremor there. “Tsumu,” you said gently, “hey, look at me. You don’t have to decide alone. You don’t have to choose between your career and… us. Not like this.”
He ran a hand through his hair, panic still flickering in his eyes. “But what if I mess up? What if I hurt you again?”
You leaned closer, placing your hand over his cheek, feeling the heat of him through his skin. “You won’t. You’ve already proven that you can be patient, that you can be here for me, fully. That’s what matters. You don’t have to sit out the league if you don’t want. This… us… doesn’t demand it.”
He blinked, voice barely above a whisper. “But what if I can’t balance it? What if—”
You shook your head, cutting him off softly. “We’re going back to Japan together. Not because I need to follow you blindly, not because I want to sacrifice the life we’ve built here, but because I want to. Because it feels right. Because it’s home. And it’s my home too. I’ve been away too long, Atsumu. And now… now my heart is finally at peace, with you here.”
Atsumu exhaled, a long, trembling sigh, his forehead resting against yours. “So… we go back together?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing your lips lightly over his. “Together. And this time… everything will be different. Not perfect, maybe, but real. And steady. With us fully in it.”
His arms wrapped around you, holding you so tightly you could feel the pulse of him, the relief, the years of regret melting into something new. “I don’t deserve you sometimes,” he murmured into your hair, voice breaking, “but I swear… I’ll spend every day proving that I won’t hurt you again. Not ever.”
You felt tears spill down your cheeks, soft and warm, not from sadness, but from the weight of all that had finally shifted. You tilted your face up to him, pressing your lips to his briefly, softly, as if to anchor him, anchor yourself. “And I’ll let you,” you whispered. “We’ll let this be the start we both needed.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, gentle, savoring the moment, letting the years fall away until there was only you, him, and the certainty that you were coming home together—not to sacrifice, but to reclaim. Not for him, not for the league, but for yourselves, finally, fully, and in peace.
The next few days were spent in a flurry of bittersweet goodbyes and quiet preparations. You packed up the apartment you had lived in for almost four years, sifting through boxes and memories with a careful tenderness. Some things you sent ahead to your old shared apartment in Japan, cargoing the few items you had cherished most—the framed photos from high school tournaments, the little trinkets Atsumu had given you, a few books that had become part of your life in Los Angeles. Other things you sold or donated, knowing that the life you were returning to wasn’t about clinging to possessions, but about carrying the right pieces with you.
Atsumu, ever methodical, stayed mostly quiet as he helped—stacking boxes, labeling fragile items, carefully wrapping the sentimental things you wanted to take with you. He never moved apartments himself during these years, so much of the past was already rooted in Japan, waiting for your return. Yet every so often, his fingers would brush yours, a gentle reminder of presence, and a reassurance that the transition wasn’t just about logistics, but about being together.
When it came time to say goodbye to the Hayashis, the farewell was warm and full of gentle teasing. Mrs. Hayashi fussed over you both, pressing small care packages into your hands—packets of tea, little homemade pastries to remind you of the café. “You two better write and visit!” she scolded with mock severity, her eyes twinkling.
Mr. Hayashi, leaning on his cane, smiled softly at Atsumu, then gave him a nudge. “Miya-kun… you hear that? Don’t ever let this girl go again. You’ve got one chance. Treat her right.”
Atsumu looked at you, his eyes soft but serious, and you squeezed his hand.
Mrs. Hayashi laughed and added, “Honestly, you two better not wait too long to fly back here for a wedding. We’ll be expecting it!”
The joke made you all laugh, and even Atsumu chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t put that kind of pressure on us yet,” he said, though the warmth in his tone betrayed the truth—he was already imagining it.
As you stepped out of the café one last time, the afternoon sunlight casting long shadows across the street, you felt the mix of excitement and nostalgia settle over you. Los Angeles had been your home for nearly four years, full of new memories, friendships, and growth. But now, hand in hand with Atsumu, you were returning to a place that had always been a part of you. A place where the past and the future could finally coexist.
And the Hayashis waved after you, laughing and calling out, “Don’t forget about us!”
You waved back, smiling through the bittersweet tug in your chest, feeling a quiet, solid peace that had been absent for far too long. You weren’t leaving your life behind—you were bringing the best of it with you, and stepping into a future you were ready to embrace, together.
The flight back to Japan was quieter than you expected. You and Atsumu sat side by side, fingers intertwined, both lost in thoughts that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. For him, it was the strange mixture of excitement and nerves—returning not just to the country, but to the life he had once lived without you fully by his side. For you, it was anticipation tempered by a deep, serene relief, the sense that you were finally reclaiming a part of yourself that had been waiting.
When the plane touched down, the smell of the air hit you first—sharper, familiar, tinged with the subtle scents of the city you had grown up with. You held Atsumu’s hand tighter as you passed through the arrivals hall, feeling the pulse of home in the rhythm of your footsteps. Every familiar street corner, every building as you made your way to your old neighborhood, whispered promises of a past that had never truly left and a future that now felt tangible.
Finally, you arrived at the apartment you had shared for years. The building looked exactly as you remembered: the chipped paint on the door frame, the small potted plant perched near the entrance, the faint squeak of the front gate that Atsumu had teased you about countless times. You paused at the threshold, taking it all in, feeling the flood of memories—both painful and joyous—that the space held.
When you stepped inside, the quiet of the apartment embraced you. It smelled faintly of the months it had been empty, mixed with the subtle lingering scent of Atsumu—clean, familiar, reassuring. Your gaze immediately went to the hallway, and your breath caught. The pictures were still there, lined up in the same order, frozen moments of your life together: laughter after practices, your first V-League win, small stolen moments of quiet happiness.
Atsumu shifted beside you, his voice low and nervous. “I… didn’t take them down,” he said. “I thought… maybe you’d come back one day.”
You reached out, fingertips brushing a frame where you both laughed with abandon after a late-night training session. “You kept them,” you whispered, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Even after all this time.”
He took your hand, holding it tightly, thumb stroking the back of your palm. “Yeah… some things, some people, you just don’t let go of,” he said, his voice catching. “Even when I thought I had to.”
The apartment itself felt untouched yet alive. The familiar worn floors, the couch with its mismatched cushions, the tiny bookshelf that had once overflowed with novels, now held your favorite books once more—your small history together preserved in every corner. As you walked through each room, memories surfaced with every step. Laughter, quiet evenings, arguments resolved, moments of vulnerability shared—they all seemed to settle back into their rightful place, as if waiting for this exact day.
Atsumu followed closely, sometimes placing a hand on your back, sometimes brushing a strand of hair from your face, his own eyes wide with a mix of awe and relief. “It’s… it’s really here,” he murmured when you reached the living room, his voice thick. “Us… back here.”
You turned to him, smiling softly through the warmth of tears. “It feels… like coming home,” you whispered, your hand resting over his heart.
He pulled you into a careful, lingering hug, as if memorizing the weight and shape of you, as if to assure himself that this wasn’t fleeting. “Yeah,” he breathed, voice rough with emotion. “Me too.”
For the first time in years, it wasn’t just the city, the apartment, or even the streets that made you feel safe. It was him. It was the two of you together, reclaiming what had been lost, forgiving the past, and stepping into a future that was wholly your own.
You finally set down your suitcase, the quiet settling in around you, and let yourself lean fully into the moment. Outside, the city carried on as always, but inside, everything was still, perfect in its familiarity.
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