Izzy | 98' | just reblogging things and venting | Mingyu and Wonwoo biased, often tempted by Joshua and Seungcheol | this account is +18 / MINORS DO NO INTERACT
Synopsis: Jeonghan is the second hand in a crime syndicate. When you catch his eye, his interest quickly turns into an obsession. And when he wants something, he'll eventually have it.
Warnings: mdni 18+, stalking, dark!jeonghan, b & e, jeonghan is a perv, corruption kink, stolen panties, masturbation (m. rec), jeonghan might be crazy idk, dirty-talk, camera set-up you don't know about, you're the daughter of an FBI agent woahhhhh, you’re his new obsession
WC: 1438+
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Jeonghan knows he should stay away.
You were everything he was not. Soft, sweet, a light in a world of darkness. Innocent.
Without ever actually meeting, you had crawled yourself under his skin. An itch he couldn't scratch, an itch that he couldn't get rid of.
And so, he watched.
Keeping tabs, learning little crumbs about you to feed his amusement. His interest was piqued; he'd become a dog with his favorite chew toy. He knew where you worked, who your friends were, and where you lived.
On days he wasn't busy, he'd cut time to quietly follow you. Always seventeen steps behind, his hands in his pockets, watching you have no care in the world. How could you not know you were being followed? How could you have headphones over your ears? He could just snatch you away, and you wouldn't even know until it was too late.
His lips pursed together, his eyebrows furrowing as he realized you were so naive - the world had not yet corrupted you. His fingers twitched, curling into his palms to form a fist. And before he could let his intrusive thoughts win and grab you, you had turned the corner, greeting your friend happily as he walked right past.
You were none the wiser.
His interest slowly morphed into an obsession. It happened the moment his tech-guy, Wonwoo, gave him a file. A simple, "You need to see this." Falling from the quiet man's lips, before he had disappeared back into his office, multiple monitors along a wall flashed through hundreds of cameras.
Jeonghan's fingers softly opened the file. A ghost of a smile curving on his lips when he saw there was a candid picture of you on the first page. His finger traces down your cheek, you are smiling so big, and then his eyes flicked to the right, family information.
Seungcheol thinks it's just Jeonghan's luck that you happen to be the daughter of the FBI director who sanctioned a special unit literally out to get Jeonghan and his people. It's tough running a crime syndicate - but Jeonghan always gets what he wants, and he's just decided he wants you.
He has Joshua come with him when he first breaks into your apartment. They broke in about ten minutes after you had already left for work. And they went into every room, one by one, opening every drawer - every cabinet. Joshua searched every pillow, every lampshade, every knick-knack you owned in the living room while Jeonghan took your bedroom himself.
His eyes slowly trailed over your bedroom with a light smirk. The lights strung up on your ceiling, the plush stuffed animals on your bed, and a pile of clothes on a chair in the corner of your bedroom. His fingers danced across your bed. You didn't make it today, and it was still warm from where you lounged in it before racing out the door. He took his time scoping out your dresser, taking a sniff of your perfume, and pocketing a bracelet you had failed to wear today.
When Joshua had moved from the living room to your kitchen, Jeonghan was getting onto his knees to open every drawer in your dresser. He sifted through your socks, smirked through your bras, and salivated through your panties. A pretty lacey one finds its way into his pocket as he moves onto your closet.
He skims through your clothes, already familiar with your favorites, which you would wear over and over again. And finishes his inspection when Joshua finds him again. "Clear," Joshua confirms the same findings as Jeonghan. You're not bugged, Jeonghan grins, perfect.
The second time he breaks in, he brings Joshua and Jihoon. They work your living room and kitchen while Jeonghan takes your bedroom again. They install cameras while you are visiting a friend for lunch.
You still didn't even know Jeonghan had been in your apartment in the first place. And he’d make sure you wouldn’t know now.
But like last time, Jeonghan takes a souvenir - another pair of your panties, this time though, from your dirty laundry basket.
When they finish installing all the cameras, Jeonghan is eager to get home. Your pretty panties feels like it's burning a hole in his pants. And his feet can’t carry him fast enough to his bedroom, the door slamming behind him with a resonating 'click.'
The moment he’s alone, he's instantly bringing your pretty panties up to his face. His eyes fluttering closed, as your scent fills his lungs and causes his mouth to water. He groans, full-out groans, low from his throat - stumbling to his bed, his cock straining against his pants, because he can't get enough of you. He shoves his pants low enough to free his aching cock. It curves up, the mushroom tip red, throbbing, and leaking profusely with his precum.
His long fingers wrap around his fat girth, your panties still shoved against his nose, and he strokes his length from base all the way to tip. His body shudders, his lips parting as he begins to imagine what it would be like if you were here. His thumb swipes over the head of his cock, smearing the precum down his shaft, and the slick creates a lewd squelch each time his wrist flicks, stroking his cock faster each time he takes another huff of your used panties.
He wished you were here.
His hand squeezes his base as his cock twitched at the thought. He could only imagine how you'd look, staring at him wide-eyed as he stroked his cock, knowing you made him like this. It was all for you. His cock swelled, hard, slick with his precum. "Mmph-" Jeonghan grunted, twisting his hand mid stroke and milking more drops of precum to drip down his heavy cock.
You're so innocent, he'd want to make you watch him for a bit as he pumped his fat cock in his hand. Would want to see your eyes round in curiosity, your tongue licking your lips. And when you press your thighs together he would demand you to strip with soft coaxing, manipulation. His stroke would turning languid, slowing down as you would slowly take pieces of your clothing off one by one.
Such a tease.
Once you were completely bare to him, he'd need you to crawl to him. He needed to see you slowly crawl across the bed up to him, your cheeks flushed as you obeyed him without hesitation.
"Lemme see that pretty pussy, Baby." His voice had a strained rasp to it. His balls heavy and filled with so much cum. His cock throbbed with need as you moved closer to Jeonghan. But it wasn't close enough; his tongue licked his lips, wet. His eyes, dark and intense, as he clicked his tongue with a tut. "No, Baby. C'mere," his hand squeezed his cock again as he nodded his head at you, his eyes hooded. "Straddle m'face, wanna see that pretty pussy up close, Baby."
Your thighs would tremble with just hovering over his face. His mouth opens, and he pants over your slicked wet folds. You'd be dripping, soaking wet. And it'd make Jeonghan's head spin, seeing your pretty pussy pulse with need. "Is this all for me?" He could only imagine the pretty little noises that would leave your lips.
His cock jerks, and he curses as he brings your messy panties down onto his heavy cock. The lacey material wraps around his precum-coated shaft along with his hand. And his eyes roll to the back of his head. His hand jerks his cock with your panties, fast. His abs flexing, a warmth pooling in his lower stomach. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," his lips are spit-covered as he curses. His teeth sinking into the bottom of his lip, trying desperately to hold in the whimpers of pleasure. His thighs shook; the obscene, soppy noises of his hand on his cock echoing with his moans.
And when he cums, it's hard and heavy. His eyes rolling to the back of his head, his jaw slacking open in a broken, choked whine. His hand refuses to stop pumping, milking every last drop of his cum from his balls until it overflows and drips down his cock, your panties, and his hand. It's messy, wet, and euphoric. His thighs continue to shaking long after his cock jerks in over-sensitivity.
Your dirty little panties, now covered with his hot, sticky cum, were filthy - ruined. His chest heaved, his lungs aching for breath as he brought the panties back up to his face. His cheeks were flushed darkly, his eyelashes fluttering as his tongue took the panties into his mouth. The taste of you mixed with his own earned another deep groan to fill his bedroom.
You tasted sweet.
You tasted like his.
-
A/N: ... So I heard dark!Jeonghan got possessed, and this was what came out. My mind didn't go to the gutter; it nose-dived into hell. Idk - my mind is a little funny.
But like always, comments, kudos, and feedback are greatly appreciated! I just like talking to people idk-
you can find more of my stuff here in my svt mstr lst - bts mstr lst
──── in which ︵ you always thought jake was the shy, inexperienced type; quiet, nerdy, awkwardly innocent compared to you and your chaotic dating life. so when teasing turns into tension during a late-night study session, you expect a hesitant first time at best. instead, jake completely flips the script, leaving you overwhelmed, speechless, and realizing way too late that maybe he was never as innocent as you made him out to be.
✩now playing - the party & the afterparty | the weeknd | - ✩viewmasterlist to check out my other works!
you met jake during your freshman year of college, back when gen eds still had lecture halls packed with hungover students and you were too busy flirting with the guy behind you to pay attention to the syllabus.
jake sat in the front row, always on time, always typing faster than the professor could speak. you didn't talk to him at first. he was quiet, soft-spoken, a little awkward—but sharp as hell, and once you were grouped for a project in psych, you realized he wasn't shy so much as selective.
you, on the other hand, were loud, social, and unapologetically open about everything—your opinions, your hookups, your weekend party plans. you weren't ashamed of how many people you'd been with. if anything, you liked watching jake blush when you casually mentioned fucking someone in the backseat of their car or getting eaten out in the frat house laundry room. he'd adjust his glasses, press his lips together, and look anywhere but at you.
now, sophomore year, you and jake were close. close enough to hang out late in his dorm with your legs in his lap. close enough to let your jokes get borderline inappropriate. close enough that you thought you knew him. in your mind, jake was textbook virgin material—never talked about sex, never mentioned a body count, always deflected when you asked.
he didn't have a girlfriend, didn't flirt, didn't date. so naturally, you assumed he hadn't gotten around to it yet. maybe he was waiting for someone special.
maybe he was nervous. maybe he just didn't have the confidence.
either way, the idea of jake having any real experience never even crossed your mind.
you were very, very wrong.
jake wasn't a man-whore. he wasn't the type to sleep around for sport, and he didn't brag. but he wasn't inexperienced either.
seven bodies, each one intentional. a handful of casual flings, one almost-relationship, and more than enough practice to know what he was doing. he just didn't feel the need to talk about it—not to anyone. especially not you. not when he could tell how much you liked playing the dominant one in the friendship. you liked teasing him, liked pretending he didn't know anything. and jake? he liked letting you think that.
which brings you to now—sprawled out in his one-person dorm room, papers scattered across his bed, half studying and half talking shit like usual. the desk light is on, casting a soft yellow glow across the room, and the sound of some random playlist hums quietly in the background. you're dressed comfortably—stretchy shorts that ride up every time you shift and a big tee that covers just enough to make it unfair. jake, as always, looks effortless in his nerdy little uniform; black sweatpants that sag a little too low on his hips and a tight, long-sleeve compression shirt that clings to every lean muscle in his upper body.
he's leaning against the wall, long legs stretched out, eyes flicking back and forth between a printout and his notes. you're not paying attention. you haven't been for at least twenty minutes.
"sooo… i slept with that guy from my art history class,"'you say suddenly, voice light and smug as you stretch out across the mattress.
jake doesn't look up. just hums softly in response, the sound low in his throat. you roll onto your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows so you can watch him while you talk.
"he was cute. decent mouth, boring fingers. kinda soft. i had to fake it twice." his pen keeps moving. steady. unaffected. you narrow your eyes.
"you never tell me about your sex life. like, ever. i could probably name your gpa, your favorite protein bar, and the order of your morning routine, but i have no idea what you're like in bed."
"maybe that's not somethin' you need to know," he says without missing a beat. you scoff, smiling. "so you do have one." jake just shrugs, not even looking at you. and that makes you grin wider.
"what?" you tease. "scared to tell me you're a virgin?" that gets him. not visibly—not in any dramatic way—but his pen pauses for just a second too long. his shoulders stay relaxed, but his eyes finally lift to meet yours. "you think so?" he asks, calm. flat. you nod, teasing lilt in your voice. "one hundred percent positive you're a virgin."
he stares at you. you stare right back. and the tension, usually playful, suddenly shifts.
still light, but dense enough to press against your chest. his lips twitch—not quite a smile, not quite a frown—and then he says it: "wan' see what a virgin can do?" your breath catches. for a second, you think you misheard him. but the look on his face tells you otherwise. he's serious. composed. like this has been sitting in his back pocket for weeks, waiting for you to finally test him hard enough. you lean back, settling against the headboard, raising a brow. "you're serious?"
jake doesn't respond. doesn't need to. he sets his notebook aside, pushes the last of his notes away, and shifts toward you without breaking eye contact. his hands find your hips first—strong, certain—and he pulls you gently, slowly, until you're flat on your back beneath him. his knees settle between your thighs, spreading them slightly as he leans down. your shirt rides up, shorts tugged tight around the tops of your thighs, but jake doesn't even glance down. his eyes stay locked on yours as he dips in, kisses you softly.
you kiss him back, waiting for the awkward tongue or messy pressure, but it doesn't come. it's gentle, yeah, but not unsure. his lips part yours like he knows exactly how he wants to take his time, and his hand comes up to cradle your jaw as he deepens it. it's a kiss that says he's not in a hurry. not at all.
you break the kiss first, smirking as you look up at him. "typical virgin," you mutter. he doesn't react. doesn't even blink. he just lowers his head to your neck, lips brushing softly along your skin.
"you don't have to be gentle with me, you know," you add, almost challenging. he hums, breath warming the dip beneath your ear. "i know."
you scoff under your breath, cocky and unimpressed. "clearly not…" and that's when he sinks his teeth into your neck, hard enough to make you gasp—hands tightening around your hips like he's just made up his mind. his bite lingers just long enough to leave heat throbbing under your skin, and when he pulls back, his voice is lower than it's ever been.
"y'know," he says, tilting his head, "i've really had enough of the attitude. i think s'time i shut you up, yeah?" your smirk returns instantly. you roll your eyes as if he hasn't just made your heart skip. "you can try, virgin boy."
he doesn't rise to it—not with words, anyway. he just hums. quiet and calm, like he's already halfway to somewhere you can't follow.
then he moves, pushing off the bed and standing at the edge with that same slow, deliberate control that's suddenly making you nervous. his hands reach out for your hips again and this time, he doesn't pull you gently—he drags you down the mattress until your thighs are hanging just slightly off the edge, knees bent, body sprawled under him like he's setting up a game he's been dying to play.
his voice comes again, firmer now: "ass up." and you listen. you shift to your stomach without a second thought, lifting your hips and arching your back into position, cheek pressed into the sheets.
you feel the air hit your thighs as your oversized t-shirt rides up, and your breath catches when jake slides your shorts down to your thighs and pauses.
"no panties?" he says, voice dropping further. "been plannin' this, haven't you?" you don't answer. your face is already warm and your body is buzzing, and part of you wants to keep playing it cool—keep pretending this isn’t throwing you off balance.
bad idea.
his palm lands on your ass, fast and loud. the smack makes you jolt and hiss, more from surprise than pain, and he doesn't waste a second before rubbing over the sting with a gentle sweep of his hand. "i asked you a question, didn't i?" he says, calm but sharp.
you swallow and nod. "yeah," you breathe. "been wanting it." he lets out a soft, breathy laugh, one that sounds more like satisfaction than amusement. "mm. such a slut." his knees hit the floor behind you, and the next thing you feel is his hands—wide, steady, practiced—gripping both of your ass cheeks, spreading them apart without hesitation.
the room goes quiet except for your breathing and the shift of fabric and skin, and then jake hums again, deep and almost pleased.
"hm. look at that," he murmurs, staring down at your soaked cunt.
"fuckin' drippin' f'me." and then he's leaning in. no warning, no teasing.
his tongue meets you with full intention, licking through your folds and groaning into your skin like he's waited months for this. his hands keep you spread open while he eats—sloppy and slow at first, then precise, mouth focused on your clit until you're grinding back against him in desperation. his tongue drags up and down before circling, sucking, licking again until your arms shake from holding yourself up.
you moan loud enough that it fills the room, and jake doesn't stop. doesn't pause. he just buries his face deeper and lets you cry out, fingers digging into your ass to keep you still. you feel the tip of one finger, then two, slip inside—easing in with a slow stretch that has your mouth falling open, eyes fluttering closed.
he pumps them gently while his tongue stays locked on your clit, and it's all too much, too fast, too good. your stomach tightens and your thighs begin to tremble, that pressure building deep and low—until he pulls away. everything—his mouth, his fingers, his warmth—gone.
you whine before you can stop yourself, pushing back toward him with your hips, but he's already standing up again, towering over you with a fresh edge to his voice.
"aw," he says, feigning sympathy, "you wanted to cum?" you whimper in response, breath shaky. your legs are sticky with slick and your skin's hot all over. he smacks your ass again, harder than before. "use your words like a big girl."
"y-yeah," you stammer, eyes squeezed shut. "please, jake. please…" you hear the shuffle of fabric—his sweatpants sliding down, the low groan that leaves his throat when his dick springs free. your hips twitch involuntarily, needing something to touch, to feel, and then his hand is on your back again, pressing you down into the bed. "stay just like that," he mutters. "don't fuckin' move."
his dick is hot and heavy as he runs it through your slick, dragging the head over your folds, letting it catch against your entrance again and again. he lets out a quiet groan at the wet sound it makes, then finally—finally—he presses in. not soft. not gentle. he sinks into you in one rough thrust, and your mouth drops open with a strangled moan.
he's big, thick, filling you all at once without a single pause to let you adjust. your hips jerk forward from the force of it, knees nearly slipping on the sheets, and jake groans behind you—low and filthy, like he's been holding back all night.
he doesn't move. just holds there, deep inside, his palm still planted on the small of your back. "still a virgin?" he asks, voice thick. you try to speak—try to throw another jab, keep the upper hand—but all that comes out is a broken moan. you manage half the sentence: "yeah, you're s-still a virg—" and he pulls out halfway, then slams back in. you cry out, thighs shaking, arms barely keeping you upright.
"since you wan' be a lil fuckin' brat," jake mutters, hips still, dick buried to the base, "you'll do the work yourself."
you whine, low and desperate, hips squirming in his grip like you're trying to retreat—but there's nowhere to go. he's still buried inside you, thick and unyielding, his palm pressed to the small of your back keeping you locked in place. you feel every inch of him, the stretch still fresh and sharp, your walls fluttering around his dick as your body tries to adjust. it's overwhelming. too full, too deep, too sudden. you shift slightly, trying to roll your hips to find some kind of rhythm, some relief—but jake doesn't move. doesn't help. he just stands there behind you, breathing heavy, watching.
"what're you waitin' for?" he says after a moment, voice flat and laced with quiet challenge. "go on. do the work. this is what you wanted, right?" you turn your head against the mattress, eyes half-lidded and lips parted as you suck in a shaky breath. you want to mouth off—want to say something smug, something cocky, keep the upper hand—but your body betrays you. your thighs tremble when you start to move, back arching deeper as you pull forward slightly, then push back onto him in a slow, testing grind.
the stretch is brutal, even with how wet you are. his dick drags against every sensitive spot inside you as you try to fuck yourself on him, try to show him you can handle it. you do it again, a little faster, trying to establish a rhythm. it's messy and uneven, but it's something. your hands claw at the sheets as you rock back again, your ass slapping softly against his pelvis.
"mm, yeah," jake hums above you, his hand sliding from your lower back to your hip, fingers digging into the flesh there as he watches you fuck yourself on his dick. "that's what i thought." you don't answer.
your breath comes out in gasps, each roll of your hips making it harder to think. you're doing exactly what he told you to, but it's not enough. not really. your pace starts to falter after a few minutes, your thighs burning and your arms weakening beneath you, and jake notices. he can feel it—the way your movements slow, the way you sink lower into the mattress with each tired thrust. and instead of helping you, instead of rewarding the effort, he tsks under his breath like he's disappointed.
"already gettin' tired?" he mutters. "but you were talkin' all that shit earlier, weren't you?" you start to whimper, hips stuttering as you try to keep going, but he cuts you off with another sharp smack to your ass—this one harder than the rest. your body jolts forward with the impact, a moan ripping from your throat as your walls clench around him involuntarily.
"pathetic," jake says, his tone flat but dripping in mockery.
"thought you could handle a 'virgin,' right? what happened to all that attitude, huh?" you try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a garbled sound—a half-broken sob against the sheets. your body feels hot all over, skin tingling, your cunt aching and tight around him. you need him to move. need him to do something.
he leans forward without warning, his chest brushing your back as his hand slides up your spine and tangles in your hair. he grips it tight, forcing your head back just enough so your cheek lifts from the mattress, and his other hand reaches around, fingers prying at your lips until two of them slip into your mouth. "open," he says, voice low and steady. "tongue out."
you obey instantly, tongue pressing against his fingers as he slides them deeper, thumb flattening on your tongue while the others rest inside your mouth. it's filthy. controlling. it leaves you drooling onto the sheets as your mouth stretches around him, throat vibrating with every sound you try to make. you moan around his fingers when he finally starts to move behind you—slow, grinding thrusts that feel impossibly deep with the way he angles his hips down.
each push forward punches a breath out of your lungs, and every retreat makes you cry for more.
"mm," jake groans behind you, his voice closer now, his hips pressing harder. "fuckin' tight. y'feel that, baby? feel how good you grip me?" you moan again, louder this time, and he just pushes his fingers down harder on your tongue to shut you up. your eyes roll back, body twitching as he begins to thrust harder, rougher, fucking you like he's trying to prove a point. his hand on your hip keeps you steady, dragging you back to meet every slam of his dick, the sound of skin against skin echoing off the walls of his tiny dorm. your thighs shake uncontrollably now, and you're practically drooling around his fingers as your body starts to break apart beneath him.
"yeah?" he pants, voice ragged with effort. "feels so good, doesn't it, baby? this what you needed? needed me deep inside you? thrusting into you all rough like that?" all you can do is sob—no real words, just broken, desperate sounds as your body trembles under the force of it all. your pussy flutters around him, tight and wet and throbbing, and jake groans deep in his chest when he feels it.
"i know, baby," he murmurs. "i know."
he pulls his fingers from your mouth and lets them trail down your chin, your spit glistening on your skin. his hand finds your throat next—not squeezing, just resting there, heavy and warm—as he keeps fucking into you at a punishing pace. you're so far gone you can't tell where your body ends and his begins, your vision blurred and your mind clouded with heat and sound and scent. his dick is so deep it feels like he's splitting you in half, like you'll never be able to think straight again without remembering what this felt like.
you thought you could handle him.
you thought he was soft.
you thought he was a virgin.
you were so, so wrong.
you don't know when your moans turn into full blown cries—somewhere between his dick slamming deep inside you and the sharp press of his hand around your throat, your body crosses a line. your legs aren't just shaking now—they're folding under you. your arms gave up minutes ago, chest collapsed into the mattress, spine arched in a perfect curve while he keeps holding you in place like he owns you. your mouth is open, your eyes squeezed shut, and everything feels tight and slick and heavy, like your body's been split into pieces and jake is the only one holding them together.
he's breathing hard now, jaw clenched above you as he fucks into you like he's possessed—deep, brutal thrusts that make your whole body jerk with each impact. his grip on your hip is so tight it might bruise. his palm slides from your throat to your jaw, forcing your face to the side so he can see the mess you've become. your spit's on your chin, your mascara smudged, and there's a thin sheen of sweat sticking your shirt to your back. he doesn't say anything for a moment. just watches. breathes. thrusts.
and then, low and clear in your ear: "you still think m'a fuckin' virgin?" you try to shake your head, but it's weak, barely a twitch.
your voice comes out as a slurred moan—something like no, but not quite human. "mm. that's what i thought," he murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction. "you run your mouth like a brat, but look at you now—barely takin' me, gettin' ready to tap out."
you feel his hand slide down, fingers slipping between your legs until they find your clit again—sensitive, swollen, already throbbing from being teased. the second he touches you there, you cry out, body jolting in overstimulation. "you close?" he asks, like it's casual. like he doesn't already know the answer from the way your cunt clenches around him every time he grinds against your sweet spot.
you nod frantically, almost sobbing. "yes, yes, please—" but it's too easy. he pulls his fingers away. slows his thrusts to an agonizing roll of his hips, dragging his dick out slowly before snapping back in hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. "yeah, no," he mutters. "not yet."
“jake,” you sob, back arching, toes curling into the sheets. "please—"
"should've thought about that before you ran your fuckin' mouth," he snaps, and suddenly the rhythm picks back up again. he fucks into you harder this time, like punishing you for every word you've said since the moment you walked into his room. "call me 'virgin boy' again. go on. say it."
you're incoherent. your lips move, but the only thing you can manage is a gasp, a plea, your hands grabbing at the blankets like they might save you. he laughs. fucking laughs. low and mean. "yeah. not so mouthy now, are you?" his fingers return to your clit, fast and rough, rubbing tight circles that make your hips buck against his. you're begging without words now, just high, desperate noises, whimpering into the mattress as your orgasm coils tighter and tighter until you're seconds away from snapping—and again, he stops.
you whine, full-body shaking, face crumpling against the sheets. you're soaked. trembling. ruined. “jake,” you cry, voice raw.
"please. i-i can't—" he grabs your hair again, pulls your head up so your ear is near his mouth. "yes you can," he says, cruel but quiet.
"you wanted this to happen, you begged for this to happen, so now you have no other choice but to take it."
then he pushes your face back down. hand back on your hip. cock slamming into you again like he's trying to make you forget your own name. every thrust punches another moan out of you, rough and desperate, your body grinding into the mattress, thighs soaked and shaking as he gives you no space to recover. no escape. just him. inside you. everywhere.
"gonna cum," you choke out, voice high and broken. "go ahead," he says, voice thick with arousal. "cum all over my fuckin' dick, mama." and you do. hard. your whole body seizes under him, every nerve on fire, pussy clenching so tight around him that he groans—loud and deep—like the sound gets dragged out of him from somewhere in his chest.
your orgasm crashes over you in waves, dizzying and uncontrollable, your cries muffled by the sheets, thighs twitching violently as you come harder than you ever have in your life.
"fuck—there you go," jake grits through his teeth. "just like that. look so fuckin' good when you fall apart." he doesn't stop. he keeps fucking you through it, deep and relentless, using your spasming cunt to chase his own high. he's not even trying to hold back now—his grip turns bruising, his breathing ragged, dick slamming into you at a brutal pace until you're crying all over again.
"shit—gonna—" jake cuts himself off with a groan, then slams into you one last time and holds there, buried deep, his dick twitching as he spills inside you. the heat of it floods your already-sensitive body, and all you can do is moan, breathless and wrecked. jake stays still for a few seconds, head tipped back, chest rising and falling as he comes down from it.
then he slowly pulls out, careful with your oversensitive body, your hips jerking as his dick leaves you. his cum leaks down your thighs almost immediately, and you can barely move. your body is limp, shaking, forehead pressed into the sheets as you gasp for air. he bends over you, fingers brushing your lower back, light now.
reverent. "you okay?" he whispers, voice softer again. real.
you nod weakly, and he presses a kiss to your spine. then another to your shoulder. and finally one to the base of your neck, right where he bit you earlier—like sealing it. like claiming it. you don’t say anything for a while. you don't need to.
Joshua Hong could be many things. For one, he is your next door neighbour. He is a rockstar, a relentless tease, a menace. But, ironically, he is always willing to lend a hand whenever you need it, regardless of the nature of your desires.
✮ pairings: joshua hong x female reader
✮ genre: smut [18+]
✮ aus: rock singer joshua, neighbours with benefits
✮ word count: 177k
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part i | insomnia
The last bit of sanity in your mind vanished the moment before you asked your hot neighbour to be your fuck buddy. Whatever prompted you to muster the courage to get the words out was something you didn't know you had inside you. But he wasn't saying no.
part ii | reverie
Joshua Hong was many things aside from your hot neighbour—he was a menace, a relentless tease. But most importantly, he was the first guy to ever make you feel wanted. And you were yet to know how dangerous that was.
part iii | pillow talk
Deep down, you knew you were growing an attachment to... whatever this was. Joshua was not intoxicating, you were wrong about that, he was addictive.
part iv | lunacy
You could no longer hide your infatuation over Joshua Hong. It was becoming painfully obvious, though you weren't sure to what extent he was aware of this. Or if he even cared, for that matter.
part v | stargazing
Joshua should've known the minute he saw you standing outside his door for the first time. Then, maybe he would've gotten the opportunity to make things right with you. But no, he let his hedonistic ways get in the way first. Now, will he get the opportunity to make things right with you?
part vi | blue hour
If there was a guideline to how to be a fuckbuddy, you were sure you had already broke every rule in the book. It was ridiculous at this point, and you were so sure that Joshua might be catching all of your signs already, because you couldn't be more obvious.
But oh, Joshua is only but a man.
part vii | lullaby
For months, you've been hiding how you really felt about your fuckbuddy and the remorse for deceiving him can be sickening. For both of you.
part viii | after dark
It all started with a deal with your next door neighbor, Joshua Hong. A little harmless deal that surprisingly led you to finding love; and a part of yourself that you were still discovering.
part viii | after dark pt. ii
side chapter | 3:14 AM
part ix | badsleeper › finale
For as long as you've been with Joshua, you've always had this... fantasy. And your boyfriend isn't one to not let you indulge.
🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request
🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked
the first move
Your VIP guest needs help, and as his personal concierge, it’s your job to give him whatever he wants.
wc: 12.5k 🤢
tags: pwp (i say even tho it has a monster wc and i already have an entire story marinating in my head for these two)
cw: maldives joshua, fem!reader, imbalanced power dynamic (reader is serving joshua as his personal concierge during his stay at the hotel she works at) but everything is consensual, joshua is a solo pop star (not an idol), whipped as usual (pls never expect anything else from me tbh i’m wholly incapable of writing a man who’s not completely and helplessly wrapped around a woman’s finger)
smut warnings: dom!joshua, ish?, unprotected piv, semi-public sex? it’s a suite on a private beach but technically any boats could just zoom by i guess?, pool sex, kink negotiation, sir kink, color system (and use of the color red), hair pulling, light degradation, fingering, oral f. receiving, breath play, edging, spanking, dacryphilia if you squint, spitting and before you point out i’m beginning to make a pattern out of svt spitting into mouths idc leave me alone, hickies, doggy style, creampie, cockwarming, scratching hard enough to break skin, brief mention of blood, i think that’s it lmk if not
a/n: i remember seeing an article about a couple who had to be hospitalized after having sex in the ocean bc the suction created some kinda vacuum and they got stuck together. so. idk maybe don’t have sex underwater but it’s your life! anyway. here it is. thanks to the anon that motivated me to work on this even if every second was complete torture :) tbh this is probably riddled with typos and mistakes. sorry not sorry bc i feel insane and i just want to be rid of maldives!joshua and i don’t want to have to read this over LMAO. have fun. i guess.
This VIP guest of yours has been quite the enigma for you. You’re used to receiving calls in the middle of the night, insisting you find pizza because your guest is tired of the “weird” (see: properly seasoned) food on the island. Or being forced to be a pack mule, lugging all of their unbelievably expensive belongings around as you follow them and watch them do random activities that don’t require any of the shit you’re carrying. Or being treated like an executive assistant, looking over your VIP’s schedules, fielding calls they keep forwarding to your desk, or even making calls on their behalf—both personal and professional. And you do it all with a smile since it means a tip almost twice your whole month’s pay because these people are so rich, they don’t even know what constitutes as an appropriate tip (and you’re not going to correct them).
But Joshua Hong is unlike any other VIP guest you’ve served before. He definitely demands almost all of your time the same way everyone else has in the past, but the difference is he manages to ask hardly anything of you at all. Which is bizarre because you’re the resort’s VIP concierge, and it’s literally in your job description to do whatever he asks—within reason, of course.
He doesn’t seem to care, though; the man is determined to simply monopolize your time and presence. It’s always the same: he calls for you with some vague variation of “I need help”, and you’ll make your way to his multi-bedroom water suite, where he’ll claim to have forgotten what he wanted but insist you stay in case he remembers (he does not). Or he’ll ask you for your opinion on something like his shirt and insist that’s all he needed but maybe you should hang around in case he needs an opinion on something else. Or he’ll ask you for a recommendation for dinner, something he could have asked you on the phone—or literally any staff member since the grounds are crawling with them. Then, he’ll ask if you can actually escort him there and when you arrive, he’ll insist on treating you to a meal (something you’ll never turn down, though if Joshua Hong continues to provide for you like this, you’ll have to stop doing groceries to refrain from throwing out uneaten food).
On multiple occasions, your help was requested to extend his stay, which should’ve been over after three days and is now approaching its third week.
And if your entire livelihood and career didn’t depend on your utmost professionalism, you wouldn’t mind being needed to this extent because to be frank, your VIP guest is the hottest you’ve ever had. You’re used to hosting men pushing 80 on vacation with their 20-something girlfriends. Or greasy incel entrepreneurs who don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. Or asshole celebrities with personalities so ugly, you can’t for the life of you find anything attractive about them. You aren’t used to hosting quiet, kind, gentle, and heartbreakingly beautiful singers who ooze and drip sex appeal, leaving a trail of it everywhere they go. So you do mind being needed to this extent. Because every time Joshua calls you, it’s the fight of your life to stay professional. It’s a test of willpower to keep your eyes from wandering below his neck, and even then, his face is so goddamn breathtaking, your mind is constantly going blank. Every time he walks a little too closely and you get a whiff of whatever delicious cologne he uses, your mouth immediately salivates. One time, he brushed your cheek because he said there was a tiny bug on it. You almost fell to your knees right then and there.
You would do something about it in the real world, but it isn’t the real world; it’s your job, and it’s a job that pays stupid well considering the kind of people you tend to. So you have to stay on top of your game, and it would be so much easier to do that if you didn’t have to have direct eyesight of your sexy VIP—if he would just stop claiming to need you at his side virtually at all times.
Of course, that would be too easy, and that simply won’t suffice. Joshua Hong requires your presence, and now, as you stand frozen at the doors leading to his private outdoor deck, watching him watching you, you’ve never resented that fact about him more.
The singer is seated in his infinity pool, gloriously backlit by the brilliant pink and orange hues of another looming Maldivian sunset that feels impossible to appreciate with him right there. He has both elbows propped up on the wall he's resting against and both eyes glued to you.
You were used to letting yourself into his suite; he always told you whether or not you should whenever he called you. You were not used to finding him half naked in the pool with his hair wet and slicked back and a tattoo you weren’t aware he even had visible on his bulging bicep. He doesn’t greet you, soft and kind like he usually does; he doesn’t greet you at all. He simply continues to watch you, his fingers skimming and flicking the surface of the water casually like he hasn’t just put you into fight or flight mode.
As nonchalant as he looks, his face belongs to someone else right now—least of all to the pop star you’ve been assisting for the last two weeks. His now heavy-lidded eyes are devoid of any of the joy and warmth they’ve shown you, now several shades darker—not in color but in want. His usually angelic smile is curled into a barely there smirk that makes you feel like he’s taunting you, and something about his posture tells you that he’s entirely, completely done. With what, you’re not sure, but the sudden, dull ache between your legs makes it very clear it wants to find out.
He doesn’t speak, obviously perfectly content with staring you down like you’re prey. The only sounds come from the gentle breeze coming through his suite’s private beach, the tide of the ocean behind him, and the light splish splash of his fingers against the water. When it’s getting to criminally awkward levels of silence, you clear your throat and stiffly force yourself to step away from his room and onto the deck fully. Even then, you stand right by the door like it’s an emergency exit.
“Mr. Hong,” you greet him, bowing your head a little. His smirk only deepens. “You called for me. How can I assist you, sir?”
He hums in thought, the sound deep and rumbling coming from his naked chest. You want to press your hand up against it and see how the vibrations of his contemplation feel. You frown a little at your inner thoughts before schooling your face and forcing your brain to focus. Joshua Hong has made you a mini fortune staying at the resort as long as he has, and if you can manage to finish his trip strong, you’ll have more than enough to cover rent until the end of the year.
“I did call you,” he confirms, nodding slowly. “I’ve called on you quite a bit during my stay, haven’t I?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr. Hong,” you lie. He’s called you more than any other VIP ever has, and you’ve hosted billionaires that made it their mission to ensure you didn’t get a wink of sleep on their watch. “I’m always happy to help you, sir.”
He snorts, smirk turning a little mean. It makes you feel entirely too warm despite the hotel’s lightweight uniform.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” he asks and gestures to the chair nearest to the edge of the pool opposite him with a nod.
“A seat?” you practically squeak, feeling a bit too out of control of your hormones to be any nearer to him than you already are. Your willpower already wavers dangerously on a good day. But today? When he looks like this? And is practically burning a hole into you with his eyes? You don’t trust yourself to keep your job if you’re not planted right here, by the exit. “I’m fine, sir. I—”
“Sit down.”
The command in his voice is something you’re not-at-all used to—not with him, and not with any of your other VIP guests. Most of your clients use their overly nice—if not totally inappropriate—schmoozing voice with you. Men who want to butter up their young, female host. Billionaires cosplaying as normal human beings so you feel more comfortable around them. For the entirety of his stay, Joshua Hong has exhibited nothing but an elegant and delicate demeanor, voice never louder than it needs to be. Always as soothing as the very breeze on this deck. Never sharp around the corners, never thick with dominance like it is now.
Your legs are moving, you’re pulling the chair out away from the outdoor table, turning it to face him, and your ass is meeting it before you realize what’s happening. As soon as you’re seated, you can see how pleased he looks and it surprises you to realize it makes you just as pleased to evoke that reaction out of him.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Hong?” you ask again, slowly this time so he hopefully doesn’t hear how labored your breathing suddenly is.
He narrows his eyes at you infinitesimally like he’s studying you, letting silence blanket over the both of you again. Finally, he answers: “I don’t need your help.”
You frown. “But… you called me, sir.”
“And every time I’ve called you for the past two weeks, I never needed your help,” he says frankly. He huffs a laugh out. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need you around to rattle off restaurants to me that I can Google.” He pauses before he apologizes for his snappiness. “Sorry. I seem to be at my wit’s end tonight.”
You believe it. He’s never been so direct and so serious with you before. You almost feel like you’re at the principal’s office getting scolded. You purse your lips a bit to keep it from turning into a confused scowl.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Hong,” you say through barely concealed annoyance. What you really want to ask is: Then what the fuck was I coming all the way down to your suite and torturing myself for?!
“Well, what other reason would a man like me want a woman like you nearby?” he asks like he’s spelling it out for a child.
You fidget a little, as your panties get more and more soiled by the second. You can’t say you didn’t wonder if he called on you because he just wanted you near him, but like anybody else would, you convinced yourself your ego was too big for your own good and that while mind-numbingly sexy, maybe Joshua Hong was also just incredibly useless. Or lonely. Or both.
You clear your throat. “I… um…”
His laugh comes out as a scoff. “Let’s be honest with each other. I’ll go first. I’ve extended this hiatus of mine countless times just to be able to spend more days around you,” he informs you. Your eyes widen at him and he nods like he agrees with something you didn’t even say. “Yeah, I’m still here because of you. Insane, right? I have a world tour to prepare for and instead, I’m still here. In the Maldives. With my entire team’s numbers blocked so they can stop calling me, and I can be left alone to think about all the things I’d do to the hotel’s VIP concierge if given the chance and the time. But I can’t keep putting my life off. I have to get back, and I don’t have the time to wait for you to figure it out anymore.”
The words leave you with absolutely no air, and you briefly contemplate scrambling out of the chair and running back through the door, never to see the singer’s face ever again.
You are going to lose your job if you stay here, you horny bitch! your conscience screams at you. Against better judgment, you stay seated and settle for squeezing your thighs tightly together.
“I call on you day and night with zero requests for you, I make any excuse to be physically near you, I shower you with compliments and praise, I try to make conversation with you—try to get you to stay around me for as long as possible before you go running back to your office… so it’s either you don’t return my attraction or you’re choosing to ignore me.”
“It’s not that I don’t return your attraction,” you assure him so quickly, you can’t even stop the words before they’re out of your mouth. “I… um, you’re very, uh, kind, Mr. Hong. I thought that’s all that was,” you say honestly. He keeps staring at you so you fill the silence with a more straightforward answer to the question he didn’t ask. “It wasn’t clear to me that you… were staying here because of me.”
He tilts his head at you, drops of water sliding down his skin in that direction, and your intrusive thoughts assault you in a way they never have before. You want to lick the droplets right off his tan skin. You want to lick, suck, bite, and bruise that skin. You want to work hard enough that your sweat mingles with the water on him now. More than anything, you want to shrivel up and die.
You find it unnerving how well he can maintain eye contact. Your gaze keeps flitting from his face, to the ocean, to the floor, to the sky, and back, and each time, he’s still staring at you like you’re all he wants to waste time looking at.
“I’m at a bit of a disadvantage,” he says, voice so low, you almost miss what he says against the sound of the tide. He doesn’t wait for you to ask what he means. “I can only make my desires so clear before this becomes a client inappropriately harassing an employee who’s being forced to be in his proximity. I’m not going to do something that you’re being paid to grin and bear politely. I only want someone who genuinely wants me back.”
Your mouth opens to respond but you stop yourself. This is your job! the annoyingly responsible voice in your head shrieks. Do not get yourself fired! Your embarrassingly wet cunt is screaming very different things at you, though.
He wants you just as badly as you’ve wanted him this whole time. He wants to touch. He wants to taste. Let him!
“We’re in the grey area. If there’s a first move to make at all… I was never going to be the one to make it,” he states, eyes so deliciously carnal, you want to jump into the pool and eat him right up. “It’s your turn to be honest. So…” he trails off as his gaze rakes your entire frame painstakingly slowly. He only continues when his eyes meet yours again. “With the assurance that you won’t be punished or your pay withheld for turning me down… I want to know. Is there a first move to make?”
“I…” you start, having no idea where that train of thought is going. “I’m…” Joshua doesn’t rush your answer, but his intense attention doesn’t waver either. He patiently waits, eyes fixed on you the whole time as you muster up the strength to say the last thing you want to. “I can’t.” The ache between your legs is agonizing. “This is my livelihood. I’ll… I’ll get fired for doing this… I can’t.”
You think it’s something that should disappoint the singer, but instead, his smirk makes a return, curving up at one corner of his pretty, pink mouth. You realize it’s because even as much as it sounds like one, it isn’t a rejection; it’s a confirmation that you need this just as badly as he seems to. You’re just holding yourself back a tiny bit better than he is.
“You’ll only get fired if someone finds out,” he says, voice raspy with want. “Do you see anyone around that would find out?”
You inadvertently look around. He’s spending five figures a night to stay at one of the most expensive suites at the hotel. It comes with its own building, its own deck, its own dock, and its own private beach. The only boat driving by would be staff coming to his suite. There isn’t anyone here, and there won’t be—not as long as you are. The front desk knows you’re here, and you’d be called over your radio before anyone would dare to show up at your VIP’s suite unannounced.
“No,” he answers for you, sounding triumphant. Like he just won an argument. “You don’t. So let me ask again.” That dominance from before seeps back into his voice now. “Is there a first move to make?”
You know that realistically, you never had a chance. Resistance was dependent on Joshua Hong never wanting you the way you wanted him. Your willpower could only go so far and if a sexy singer wanted to fuck your brains out before he had to jet back to his unimaginably lavish life, who were you to stop him?
You swallow the dryness in your throat and you give him a small nod.
“I’ll only accept words as consent,” he tells you. The authority in his voice tightens the already wound up coil in your lower abdomen.
“Yes,” your mouth answers even as your brain struggles to fully register what he just said. “There’s a first move to make.”
“Good,” he says like there was always a right and wrong answer and you just chose correctly. “Then come here and make it.”
You’re up and out of your seat as soon as he commands it. Your hands tremble as you set your phone and the tablet you bring everywhere down on the table behind you. You take your earpiece out, unclipping the radio it’s connected to from the back of your skirt and putting it beside your tablet. You unplug the earpiece and turn the volume up on your radio so you can hear anybody who calls for you on your channel, and when that’s done, you pause to realize that this is truly the last chance you have to leave. After this, you’ll be stuck with any of the consequences you might face for sleeping with your VIP.
“You can change your mind at any time,” he assures you, obviously sensing your hesitation. “Even if you get in here, even if you let me have my way with you. At any point, if you don’t want this anymore, you can change your mind.”
You glance over your shoulder to look at him. His expression is just as desirous but you can tell he’s being sincere. It’s in the eyes—those eyes that you only realize now tell on him and every thought and feeling he has. You just haven’t wanted to really look at them until this very moment.
“I’m not changing my mind,” you finally decide as you turn away from the table. You walk slowly to the edge of the pool directly in front of him.
His eyes drop to your feet as you carefully toe off your heels, and you thank whoever’s listening that you decided to get a fresh pedicure over the weekend. You slowly undo the side zipper on your skirt and you let it slip to the ground, biting your lip when the ocean breeze meets the heat of your cunt through the thin layer of mesh covering it. Joshua’s stare never wavers and his blank expression never changes, but you know his tell now. You can see how badly you’re wanted through those big, brown eyes.
You unbutton your blouse, and when it’s completely undone, you shrug it off, letting it slip off your arms to join your skirt on the ground. You fight the urge to cover yourself now that you stand in front of him in nothing but your bra and panties (a mismatched pair because your luck ended with the pedicure).
Joshua hums like he’s mulling over a thought but whatever it is, he doesn’t vocalize it. “Well?”
You lift a foot out of the skirt and place it on the first step into the pool, the water the perfect temperature. Still, you shudder against your will, and you know it’s because you’re now a measly two steps away from a VIP who’s made it clear exactly what he wants to do to you tonight. Your fear of losing your job is quickly turning into an ugly, desperate, and uncontrollable need to be filled. Filled up by Joshua Hong.
You make it down the steps too soon, the water coming up to your waist as you stand in front of Joshua, who’s still as tall as you despite sitting on the seat that lines the infinity wall.
He leans back against that wall now, water lapping up against his arms and chest as he looks at you, one eyebrow quirked like he’s asking if you’re brave enough to take what you want.
Your answer is to reach forward and rest your hands on his shoulders—so tan and warm and hard—and pull yourself up onto the seat to straddle him, hungrily pressing your drenched, aching cunt to his pelvis. Your hands immediately venture down to his naked chest— so wide and built and solid—and despite the confidence he speaks with, you feel the way his heart beats wildly under your touch. He inhales deeply and slowly, but he makes no move to put his hands on you yet, knuckles turning white as they turn into fists.
“That’s the first and last move you get to make,” he informs you. “Tonight, you’re mine to do whatever I want with. If you agree to this…” his voice gives away how little control he’s holding onto, “I’m going to fucking ruin you.” He swallows before he asks, “You still want this?”
You don’t hesitate to nod. “I want this.”
He doesn’t smirk this time; his mouth is more interested in other things—mainly yours. He reaches up and cups a hand around the back of your neck, gently pulling your face to his. He wraps the other arm around your waist and maintains eye contact with you up until the moment your own eyes flutter shut. Then, his lips are parting yours, his tongue greeting yours, his moans mixing with yours. With how gentle the singer has been the past two weeks, you don’t expect his mouth to move the way that it does. Filthy and greedy. Possessive.
It ignites something in you—feeling like you belong to Joshua, like he’s staking a claim on you. You start to roll your hips into his, your clit aching for any kind of friction he’s willing to give you. You feel him hardening under you, and you try not to quicken your movements even more in excitement.
Suddenly, the hand on the back of your neck dives into your hair and his fist closes around it, not roughly but enough to tilt your head back and have you breaking away from the kiss to look at him.
“Is this okay?” he asks as he leans forward and plants open mouthed kisses up your neck, just barely tightening his fist to let you know he’s talking about the hair pulling.
“Yes,” you breathe. He has a tight enough grip on you that you don’t even try to nod. “God, yes.”
His dick twitches under you and you groan, rubbing your cunt against him.
“What about spanking?” he asks slowly, his breath hot on your neck. When you say yes, you feel him smile into your skin just before licking the spot. “Degradation?”
“Like what?”
He comes back up from your neck to kiss your lips gently, and when he smiles—genuinely smiles—you see remnants of the man you’ve gotten to know in the last two weeks shine through. “Like… can I call you… a slut?” You instinctively squeeze your thighs. He smirks when he feels you against his own thighs, and you nod.
“What did I say about consent?” he reminds you.
“Yes,” you say aloud this time. “You can call me a slut.”
He kisses you again and it feels like a reward for following directions. You crave even more.
“Whore?”
“I… don’t think so.”
“Okay,” he says easily. “Dirty?”
“Yes.”
“Any words off limits?” he asks, massaging your waist where his hand rests.
“Uh, can I… can I let you know?” you ask, blinking hard as he goes back to licking up and down your neck, nipping here and there. You can hardly process anything other than that right now.
“Of course, baby,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice reverberating from his chest to yours. The sensation goes right to your nipples. “And how about… breath play?”
“Choking?” you ask to make sure. You’ve never done most of these; your one-night stands tended to be quick, straight-to-the-point encounters that usually didn’t even involve oral. He nods against you. “Um…”
“You can say no to anything,” he reminds you, relaxing his fingers just a bit to scratch your scalp. You sigh into the soothing sensation, and the hand not currently entangled in your hair drops from your waist in response.
It runs down your side, finding your ass, kneading the flesh there, and pulling your hips even closer to his. You gasp at the friction, and when you instinctively press your chest to his, he fully buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling like he’s been waiting for this.
“I want to try,” you finally answer, “but I don’t know if I’ll like it.”
“Okay,” he says. “Is there anything you like that you want to do?”
All you’ve wanted since Joshua walked onto the resort grounds was for him to be inside you. You never thought beyond that. You shrug.
“I don’t think so.”
He nods his understanding, hips bucking up into you as he rolls you onto him with his hand. “We’ll use colors.” All you can do is moan. “Red for stop, green for keep going. Be vocal, okay? I don’t know what you don’t like if you don’t tell me.”
“Yes, sir,” you exhale in a moan. Your eyes widen at the slip and you look at Joshua. “Ah, sorry, force of ha—”
“Don’t be,” he dismisses your apology quickly. “I like it.” He presses his fully hard cock against your clothed hole. “Do you feel how much I like it?”
You wince at how empty you feel. He’s right there. You just need to pull his shorts down, push your panties to the side, and sink down onto him. You nod frantically, pushing as far as the fabric of your panties will allow you to. “I feel it,” you bite your lip before you accidentally call him Mr. Hong. “Yes.”
His fist closes around your hair once more and a lot more roughly this time. You gasp as it causes you to flinch away. He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly.
“Yes, sir,” you immediately correct yourself. He smirks.
“You catch on so quickly, don’t you?” he asks, keeping you pulled off of him. “Such an obedient, little slut.”
His first use of the word sends a thrill down your spine that has you arching into him. But when you do, he tightens his hold on your hair, keeping you in place. He takes advantage of the little space it affords him, and he brings his free hand to your wet heat, two fingers pressing down on your clit hard.
You inhale sharply and when you try to move your hips further into his hold, he gives your hair a soft tug that reminds you of your place.
“Uh uh,” he mutters, eyes glued to where his fingers meet your pussy. “I was just calling you a good girl. You don’t want me to have to take my words back, do you, baby?”
You shake your head as much as his hold will allow. “No, sir.”
“Then stop moving and let me do the work.”
He rubs harsh circles into your clit and your eyes shut on their own accord, mouth falling open as your release builds swiftly and mercilessly in the bottom of your stomach. You hold onto his shoulders like that will help you from falling into the abyss of pleasure he’s pushing you into. Your nails start to dig into his skin but he doesn’t stop you; in fact, it seems to invigorate him because he finally shoves your panties to the side, sliding his pointer and middle fingers into you easily, his thumb continuing to work your clit as he pumps in and out.
You can’t help but cry out at the feeling of being full, even if it isn’t what you want to be filled with. Upon hearing the sound, his fingers reflexively tighten at the nape of your neck but immediately relax back to their previous grip, relieving your scalp of the sudden burn it brought on.
“And edging?” he asks suddenly, voice husky and mean. You open your eyes and look down at him to find him smirking up at you now, his fingers unrelenting as he speaks. “Green or red?”
“Oh god, please,” you whine, already knowing what’s coming next. You try to tamp down the need to grind harder—hide how close you are from him because if he knows, he’ll just stop.
“Green,” he repeats, voice dangerously calm, “or red.”
“Guh—” the word devolves into nonsense as he starts to rub the sensitive, ridged spot inside you.
“Words,” he grunts, hips inadvertently bucking up into your ass again.
“Gree-gr—” The word isn’t even fully formed in your mouth, or your brain for that matter, before Joshua is taking his thumb off your clit and letting his fingers go still inside you. You groan, this time in frustration, your hips relaxing against him as you fail to reach your orgasm.
Joshua releases his hold on your hair and you let your head loll forward, forehead resting on his bare shoulder as you breathe heavily.
“Mean,” you pant. He chuckles, running his free hand up and down your back soothingly like he didn’t just violently rip an orgasm out of your grasp.
He gently removes his fingers from your cunt, and before you can fidget and get your panties back into place, he’s pushing your hips away from him until you’re standing waist-deep in the water again.
“Are we… done…?” you ask dumbly.
Joshua laughs the same way he’s laughed at your polite jokes or the way he’s laughed at himself stumbling over his own feet while playing tennis. His eyes crinkle in the corners and his mouth opens in a big smile—far too lighthearted and cute for the current situation at hand.
“No,” he says when he finishes laughing at you. He stands along with you and cups your face before kissing you hard. When you break apart, he assures you, “We haven’t even started.”
His hands find your waist once more, but instead of holding you there, they immediately move on to your panties, shoving them down your hips and over your ass. When he can’t push them any further without dunking his head underwater, he settles for unhooking your bra, and even though you know there isn’t anyone around, you instinctively press yourself against him to keep yourself covered. He laughs again, wrapping an arm around you tightly, and you feel the vibration of his laughter against your breasts. You press your bare pelvis to his (still annoyingly clothed) at the sound.
“Mmm,” he hums as he reaches down and squeezes your ass again, welcoming the press of your heat against his. “Shy? I told you, no one’s here, baby.”
“I know,” you breathe, though you make no move to give him space.
“Though…” he trails off as he leans back enough to have a better view of your chest. His finger comes up to graze your nipple, smiling when he sees your reaction to it. “I bet a slut like you wouldn’t mind an audience, would you, baby?”
You blush fiercely imagining anyone seeing you get absolutely railed by Joshua Hong. You don’t respond at all because admitting that the idea of it excites you would be so dumb of you as someone who was just terrified of getting caught not even a full ten minutes ago.
“Bet you’d get off on the thought of someone seeing you getting fucked as hard as I’m about to fuck you,” he whispers, catching your nipple between two fingers now and tugging roughly. You hiss at the sensation. “Acting all shy, but I know you’d love for everyone to see how well you take me. How hard I’ll make you come.”
“Joshua…” you breathe.
His hold on you tightens and his eyes snap up to you, his teasing with your nipple completely forgotten. “Say that again.”
It dawns on you then that it’s the first time you called him anything beside Mr. Hong or sir.
Even though you get the feeling you should ask for permission to do anything at all, you can’t help but lean forward and catch his lips with yours, and thankfully, he doesn’t step away or tell you you’re not being good. He eagerly returns the kiss, tongue diving into your mouth like its second nature. When you part, you make sure to be as filthy as possible when you moan: Joshua.
For the first time, you see his control slip, his eyes suddenly wild and frenzied as he shoves his own swim shorts down and kicks them away from the two of you. You try to catch a glimpse, but he gets to work immediately, blocking your line of vision to his dick.
He starts kissing his way down. Down your neck. Across your clavicles. Down to your chest. Tongue swirling around your nipple as he cups his hand around you and pushes your breast up and into his mouth. Down between the valley of your tits, down your sternum. You think he’s done because any lower involves going underwater, but you’re proven wrong again. He takes a deep breath against your skin before he sinks under the surface of the water, and you jerk when you feel him kiss past your belly button, and down to just above your cunt. Without meaning to, your hands go into his hair, not to restrain him or pull the way he did, but to keep you from floating outside of your body, which you’re convinced will happen at any moment.
He doesn’t breach the surface even when your hands turn into fists, and you feel his fingers hook into your panties and pull them the rest of the way off, sinking deeper and away from your hold so he can kiss down your legs as he removes your underwear from each. And instead of coming back up like you again incorrectly predict he will, he wastes no time burying his face between your legs, his thick arms parting them and lifting up so that you fully come out of the water, squealing a little at the sudden movement and the bite of the breeze as it caresses your skin where the water was keeping you warm.
You sway to keep your balance, but Joshua doesn’t let you go anywhere. You’re seated right on his biceps, legs wrapped around his head as he presses his hands into the small of your back to keep you on his mouth. You gasp and arch your back before rolling it forward when you feel his tongue slide between your folds until it finds your clit. The movement sends your cunt further into his mouth, but he doesn’t stop or complain. He walks a few steps to the edge of the pool opposite the infinity wall.
He gently lowers you so that you’re seated on the concrete, your feet submerging back into the water. He pushes your legs open wider, until they fall off his shoulders and you’re leaning back on your palms to spread for him. Then, he’s devouring you like he hasn’t eaten in years.
Joshua’s mouth is delectably hot when it fully envelopes your clit properly this time, tongue spiraling around it feverishly. He makes out with your pussy just as well as he does with your mouth—maybe even better—and it quickly knocks you off your hands, forcing your back to meet the ground as it arches in sheer pleasure.
He pauses briefly to look up at you through heavy lidded eyes and with that voice that makes your legs quiver, he orders: “Say it again.”
You open your mouth to say his name but he continues putting his tongue to work and all that comes out is a depraved moan. He slips a finger in you and hooks it, rubbing the spot inside you once more.
“Say it,” he practically barks this time, refusing to return his mouth to your clit until you say it.
His finger rubs the spot aggressively, and you feel tears begin to run down the side of your face and into the concrete beneath you. It feels like he never edged you to begin with—like your orgasm had been building up that entire time and is now coming back tenfold.
“Joshua,” you whimper, thinking that’s not how he wants to hear it, all pathetic and needy like this, but he groans in response, pleased and bending back down to reward you. When the heat of his tongue is back on you, your hips buck into his face and you warn him, “Joshua… going to… I’m going to come.”
“Go ‘head, baby,” he mumbles without lifting his mouth off of you. He adds another finger and your hands close tightly around nothing. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”
You’re not sure what it is about being reassured that Joshua is holding you through it, but the safety you feel pushes you the final few strides, and your orgasm crashes into you like a violent wave.
“Joshua!” You’re not sure if it’s a shout or a moan, but either way, the man responds to his name and works you through the height of it, his tongue and fingers simultaneously slowing when your pussy starts to unclench, calming down to small spasms around Joshua.
When he’s sure it’s passed, he removes his fingers and pokes his tongue into your hole, causing your legs to tighten around his head. He doesn’t remove you, though, too lost in tasting your climax. You moan through it, tears still steadily streaming down your face as you start to venture into overstimulating territory. He seems to sense that, though, removing his tongue from you—but not before licking up and down your slit like your cum is a delicacy he doesn’t want to go to waste.
“Joshua,” you pant, chest heaving as you stare up at the sky above you. You can’t find the energy to sit up and look at him so you settle for closing your eyes and saying his name once more.
It isn’t until you feel the warmth of the water embracing your body again that you realize the singer has carefully brought you back into the pool with him, taking it upon himself to wrap your legs around his waist and keep you close to his chest. He kisses the tears in your eyes gently before going straight to your lips. He tastes like you and chlorine. It’s slow and sensual and not-at-all hurried or desperate the way the others have been, and somehow, that gets you even wetter. It feels like Joshua no longer fears not having enough time with you. It feels like he has the luxury of having too much time with you—like he can kiss you forever and not have to go anywhere or do anything or be anyone.
“You taste unreal, by the way,” Joshua mutters against your lips between kisses. “So much better than I thought you would.”
“You thought about this?” you ask, resting your forehead against his.
He looks at you with zero shame when he says, “Morning, noon, and night. If I wasn’t with you, I was thinking about you, dreaming about you, touching about you.”
“Me too,” you admit. “Wanted you so bad, I dreaded having to see you every day.”
“Oh? And why is that?” he asks even though if his smugness is anything to go by, he knows exactly why. You indulge him anyway.
“I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to control myself,” you say quietly.
“I’m glad you couldn’t,” he tells you before kissing you again.
Your hips move on their own, grinding against him except this time, you’re exhilarated to feel his dick sitting ready and hard just under you. You sigh and brazenly start to rock your hips back and forth, dragging your clit across the length of his cock, the remnants of your orgasm still sending shocks up your nerves. You continue anyway.
He hums, mouth turning up in a smile. “So needy, hm?”
“Yes, sir,” you openly admit. Now that you have one orgasm out of the way, you’re feeling less ashamed about expressing exactly what you want: more of him. “Needy for you. Want you inside me already.”
He grips your ass so tightly, you think it’ll bruise tomorrow. He releases briefly to deliver a hard spank to the cheek, quickly gripping the spot again to soothe the sting. You jerk into him, gasping as you do.
“Color?”
“Green,” you answer quickly as you continue to use his dick as a toy.
“You’re being a little demanding, don’t you think,” he states more than he asks. “I thought I was the VIP guest.”
“You are,” you agree, applying more pressure to your clit as you roll your hips up his cock. You suppress another sigh. “My VIP guest.”
You’re not sure if Joshua likes you staking your ownership on him because you get no visible reaction from him. All he does is ease his hold on your ass, rubbing slow circles into the flesh he just struck. “I’m going to fuck every last thought inside that pretty head out of you,” he says quietly. “Until all that’s left is my name.”
You clench around nothing.
He brings you back to the infinity wall, setting you on the seat where you first found him. He cages you in, one hand on the wall on either side of you.
“I’m going to ruin it for every man that comes after me,” he tells you, nose just barely grazing yours as he stares at your lips. “You’re never going to be loved the way I’m going to love you tonight.”
You know that “love” means something very different right now. You know that. And still, you see brief flashes of the Joshua you’ve gotten to know over the past couple of weeks and the word stirs something violently inside your chest.
“So then do it already,” you breathe, the anticipation killing you.
His hand is around your throat in a split second. He doesn’t squeeze, simply tapping his pointer finger against your jugular. “Don’t get mouthy with me now, baby. I’m ready to give it all to you.” He takes your hand and wraps it around his cock, and you moan at the size of him in your grip. “Are you going to be good?”
The hand around your throat squeezes lightly now, his fingertips applying pressure to the sides of your neck. Your breath hitches.
“Color?”
“Green,” you rasp.
He squeezes a little harder. “Are you going to be good?”
You nod, swallowing nothing. He smirks when he feels it under his palm.
“Words.”
“Yes.” It comes out more mouthed than spoken but he accepts it all the same.
Without sacrificing the pressure around your throat, he takes his free hand and hikes your leg around his waist, the other following naturally. You resist the urge to bring him closer to you, knowing it might push another button and make him decide you aren’t ready for him. So you lock your ankles together over the small of his back, but you don’t move a muscle.
“Tap my forearm twice if you want me to let up, okay?” he tells you, eyes going down to your neck. He lightens his hold just enough for you to whisper you understand before he squeezes again. You close your eyes, trying to breathe through your nose evenly. “We can always stop, baby.” He leans down to kiss your jawline before moving to the corner of your lips. “We can take it to the bed. We can fuck missionary. We can not fuck at all. Just say the word, and we do whatever you want to. Alright?”
The pressure lifts completely. “Okay. I trust you.”
He kisses you more fully. When he leans back, he brushes strands of wet hair away from your face. “I’m glad. Because I’m going to take such good fucking care of you, baby.”
Then, with both hands, he’s gently lifting your hips up and angling them to meet his. His eyes don’t leave your cunt as he watches the water-blurred shape of his cock start to push into your entrance. You grip his forearm as you stretch around him, and even though he’s not choking you right now, you find it hard to breathe as he inches into you.
He pauses when your hand squeezes harder. He leans forward to kiss your forehead, his right thumb massaging the crease of your hip. “Doing so well,” he mumbles, eyes shut as he, himself, adjusts to the tightness.
When he feels you relax a little, he opens his eyes and continues pushing, fully sheathed just moments later. You both exhale forcefully like you’ve been holding your breaths the entire time. He laughs a little at that, and you find yourself smiling too, even though you do feel like you’ve been impaled by his dick.
“You can move,” you whisper when you’re sure you’re not going to die in his arms. He doesn’t waste any time after that.
His cock slowly and carefully drags out of you, not quite all the way, before he thrusts back into you sharply. You gasp at the sensation, most of it a stinging burn rather than pleasure, but you know it’ll be a very different story once you acclimate to Joshua’s size. He keeps his movements shallow like this, only allowing for a slightly deeper thrust every time he feels you relax a little more. You feel like the wind is getting knocked out of you every time his hips slap flush with yours, his balls hitting your ass so forcefully, you think you might be able to come from that alone. By the time Joshua is pulling all the way out before slamming all the way back in, the pain has already evolved into a pleasure so foreign to you, you can’t even wrap your mind around what’s so different this time that you never received in the past.
All you know is that Joshua was right; sex is going to be absolutely ruined with every man that comes after him.
“Joshua!” you gasp as he fucks you relentlessly and recklessly now. His eyes flick up from your pussy to your chest, where your tits bounce in tandem with his every thrust. As if he’s listening to a voice inside his head, he releases his hold on one hip and grabs your breast, massaging it before leaning down to suck a bruise into it. “Oh god.”
Your moans turn downright pornographic as his fingers twist and tug on your nipple, his mouth immediately moving to another spot to bruise. His hips never lose their pace or rhythm as he paints your chest with blooms of purple.
“Joshua,” you repeat his name, though you don’t know why. He says your name right back at you and you feel it all the way down where your bodies are joined.
“Feel so fucking good,” he groans, releasing your tits and leaning up to bury his face in your neck. He kisses the skin there, merciful enough to refrain from leaving hickies that can get you in trouble at work. “I’ve waited for you for so long. Fuck. Fuck!”
“Joshua, please,” you whine, your nails dragging down his back desperately.
You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for; he’s as close to you as he can get, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. You want him buried inside you forever. You want to be so filled up with him, you can’t remember what it’s like to go without. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything or anyone else more, and you already have him right now. You don’t know what else he can do, but you know you need it.
“What is it, baby?” he asks, voice hoarse like it’s taking everything in him to have to speak right now.
“More,” you breathe, hips rising to meet his with even more force. You know your ass will be sore tomorrow. “Please, more.”
He doesn’t ask what you need or what “more” is. He just smirks as he gets impossibly rougher, thrusting into you almost violently, your shoulders getting pounded into the wall behind you. But you don’t care. You need more.
Just as your second orgasm starts to rear its head and you’re about to start chanting “yes” to the rhythm of his thrusts, he slows down considerably until he’s almost at a standstill. You shake your head.
“No…” you whine, trying to use your feet behind him to quicken his pace again. Of course, it doesn’t work.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he whispers as he rolls his hips torturously slowly, the water calming down to gentle ripples with his movement. “You weren’t about to come without asking, were you?”
“No,” you lie.
“No…?”
“No, sir.”
“Good,” he breathes, slipping his hand in between you to massage your clit gently. Your hips twitch and he smiles. “Because then we’d have to punish you, right?” You squirm under him, trying to keep from digging your heels into the small of his back to get him to thrust forward. “You want more?”
You nod frantically. “Yes, please. Yes.”
“Do you think you deserve more?” he asks, his fingers stilling against you as he sheathes himself all the way inside you.
“Yes, sir.”
“Really?” he asks, his free hand trailing down the side of your face as he continues slowly rubbing your center. “You made me wait almost three weeks… tortured me with that tight fucking skirt.” You groan as you tilt your pelvis. He leaves your clit to hold your hips still. “Uh uh.”
“Joshua…”
“Shouldn’t I make you wait too?” he asks, ignoring his name. The thought makes you want to sob. “Shouldn’t I show you how it felt? To want someone so bad—someone within reach—and be unable to do anything about it?”
“I wanted you too!” you remind him, voice embarrassingly dejected and helpless.
“Did you?” he tilts his head at you, staring you down like you’re food. Your nods are frenzied. “If you want more, you have to give me more, love.”
You clench around him at the pet name and he smirks.
“Tell me more, love,” he says tauntingly, his smile turning triumphant when you clamp down even harder the second time.
“Since I met you,” you say raggedly. He finally starts to move again—so slow and controlled, you’d be in awe of his restraint if you weren’t so desperate for release. “When I came to welcome you…”
“I remember,” he says with a roll of his hips.
You had been waiting for him at the boat with one of the drivers, ready to take him to another side of the island, where his private suite awaited. He was dressed in a linen button down and shorts, and as he came up to you, the wind blew his hair and his top back, exposing a little of his stomach. His smile was dazzling and for the first time in your career at this hotel, you were speechless. You stammered. You tripped getting into the boat. You stumbled through your tour of his suite. You forgot to list all the resources available to him. You were screwed from the start.
“Wanted you to take me right then and there,” you tell him. His pace quickens the tiniest bit at that, and you know exactly what you have to do to get your more. “You walked up to me looking so fucking beautiful—so sexy.” You moan at a particularly hard thrust. “I wanted you to bend me over in half right there. Take me in front of everyone. Fuck me like this and show them all who I belonged to.”
That seems to do it because he finally gives you more, his pace more vigorous, more unforgiving, and more brutal than it originally was. You’re glad he doesn’t ask you to keep going because you’re incapable of speaking when he’s ramming into you like this.
“I would’ve,” he grunts. “All you had to do was ask and I would have fucked you wherever you wanted it.” You gasp as his cock hits an especially sweet spot, and he angles himself to continuously hit it with each thrust. “All you have to do is ask, baby.” He plants a kiss on your lips. “And I’ll give you the fucking world.”
“Joshua,” you near sob.
“Yes?”
“Please,” you request. If all you had to do was ask, then you were going to. “Please let me come? Please.”
He kisses you again like he’s happy with your corrected behavior. You lean up to chase his lips when he parts with you, but he restrains you, grasping your jaw roughly with a single hand.
“Open,” he commands, his thumb reaching up to part your lips. You suck on it briefly and he exhales hard. He squeezes your cheeks to open your mouth even wider before he leans down, lining his mouth with yours, and you clench hard around his cock as you realize what he wants to do. “Color?”
“Green!” you practically shout at him. His smirk deepens and he leans back once more. His hand moves from your cheeks to your throat.
His lips purse and cheeks hollow for a moment as he swishes a few times. Then, he nods once at you, and you tilt your head up for him, opening your mouth wide, tongue out to make sure you don’t let anything go to waste.
Joshua’s eyes are glued to your mouth before he even does anything. He watches you with darkened eyes, his thumb pressing into the middle of your tongue as he fucks into your cunt harshly. Finally, he lifts his thumb and stretches forward, his hold on your throat tightening and restricting your airflow. His mouth twists into that irresistible smirk as he spits into your mouth. You catch all of it, and when you feel it hit the back of your throat, you both feel how happy it makes you in your pussy. He curses as your walls start to spasm. He presses more weight into his hand until you can hardly breathe, and between his hold on you and the spit, it’s all so filthy and degrading and possessive, it makes you come without warning.
You cry out as your hips jerk up abruptly. His eyes widen as he feels your orgasm replace his own hold on you. His hand releases you as he looks down where the two of you are joined.
“Oh fuck, did you just—”
His question is cut off by your broken moans and whimpers, tears once again springing from your eyes as your orgasm rips through your body, absolutely obliterating every nerve on its way up from your pussy.
“Fuck, fuck, baby, stop. Oh fuck,” he gasps, pausing his thrusts abruptly and breathing heavily as he collapses over your chest. He closes his eyes and frowns like he’s concentrating. “Stop squeezing, I’ll come. Stop, holy shit, please stop.”
It’s a far cry from how dominant he’s been this entire time, and it’s a shame the rare moment of power you feel you can’t properly acknowledge or enjoy because of the intensity of your orgasm.
“I’m trying,” you whimper, breaths coming out in short pants. “Joshua…” you either sigh or sob. You’re not sure. “Shua… feel so good. You feel so good.”
“Oh my god,” he groans miserably against your skin, fully resting his forehead on you now. You would laugh if you didn’t feel like your soul had just been ejected from your body.
You beg your heart to slow down, for your muscles to relax. As broken as your body feels, you’re not ready for this to be over with him. Even though this is already more than you could’ve ever hoped for, you don’t want it to end here. You want him to do whatever he wants with you late into the night. You want him to deprive you of sleep, food, water. All you need is him. You never want it to stop.
He slips out of you slowly and your tears slide down your face, half from your orgasm, half from the disappointment of being empty once again. Being empty too soon.
“Wait, no,” you whine as he tilts your hips back down so you’re sitting against the wall again. He shushes you with a kiss to your lips.
“Shhh,” he peppers your face with kisses. “We’re not done, it’s okay.” You realize you’re still crying when he presses his finger to the corners of your eyes, catching the stray tears there. “You’re so fucking pretty when you cry under me like this.”
He cups your face to look up at him as he stands over you. When you do, you’re astounded by how beautiful he really is. What you’re more astounded by is that he was inside you just moments ago. Joshua Hong, superstar singer due to start his sold-out world tour in a matter of weeks, was inside you trying not to fill you up with his cum seconds ago.
“I’d have you crying like this every night if you wanted,” he murmurs, thumb caressing your cheek as he holds you. He lets one slip into your mouth again, smirking as he probably thinks about how easy it was to make you come from just a little bit of his saliva.
“I’m sorry,” you grumble when he removes his thumb. He frowns.
“For what, baby? You’re doing so good.”
“For not relaxing,” you say, more tears slipping out of your eyes. “For not letting you continue.”
He snorts, hands going down to your waist. He lifts so that your legs are wrapped around him in the water, his hands rubbing your ass comfortingly. He kisses you slowly before leaning back and smiling.
“You don’t have to be sorry for that,” he assures you. “I just didn’t want to come too early.” He presses his erection into your ass to punctuate his words. You squirm a little. “We still have the whole night.” Your heart races. “The sun is barely setting.”
He glances behind you and you crane your neck around to see. The sun is finally beginning to sink into the horizon. He lets you down and turns you around to face the ocean, pulling you to lean back into him as his arms snake around your waist. You rest your head on his shoulder as you watch the sunset—not the first you’ve watched together, but it will definitely be the most memorable.
The time allotted for sunset viewing on his itinerary is apparently only a few seconds long because almost immediately, he leans down to leave open-mouthed kisses up and down your neck, and his hand comes up to cup your breast and massage gently.
He brings his free hand to your chin to turn you toward him. His lips are on yours as soon as they’re within his reach, his hand sliding from your face down to your cunt, where he slowly and way-too-gently strokes your clit. Your first moan seems to stir something in him, though, because his touch on your tit and clit both bear down harder.
You wrap your hand around his wrist, bringing his hand from your chest to your throat, wordlessly asking him for exactly what you want. He chuckles, breathy and disbelieving.
Without saying another word, he leaves your clit, fingers hooking into your hip to force you into a slight hinge. Then, his cock is pushing back into you in one smooth motion, giving you no chance to gasp when the hand on your throat squeezes simultaneously. He keeps his hand on your hip for leverage, wasting no time pounding into you.
Your thoughts disappear as fast as your breath, leaving you with nothing but the sensation of Joshua’s tip kissing your cervix, keeping you stuffed full of him.
“You wouldn’t believe my view right now,” he pants, rhythm quickly reaching a fever pitch. “So fucking pretty.”
You try to moan his name but realize you can’t, your airways completely blocked off, his grip on you unyielding.
“You like being spit on and fucked like this?” he asks, causing your walls to cave in on him. He doesn’t tell you to stop this time, though, his pace just quickening. “Such a dirty fucking slut for me, hm?”
You nod, mouth dumbly opening and closing as you gasp for air. You want to see it through. It feels so good and you want to see it through. You want the both of you to climax like this: literally breathless with his hand around your throat like he owns you as he empties his load into you. But it’s been too long now, and you’re afraid Joshua is getting carried away, too lost in the feeling of his cock dragging in and out of you to notice that your vision is starting to darken around the edges.
Hoping he remembers what he told you, you quickly tap his forearm twice, three times—actually, several times in a row with no intention of stopping—but it’s unnecessary because he releases you immediately. Without his hand to hold you in place against him, you fall forward, keeling over the infinity wall and coughing as air assaults your lungs once more.
“Red,” you rasp, brain barely catching up with the fact that you’ve already been released.
“Hey, hey, deep breaths, you’re okay.” His voice sounds far away but his hands are on your back, rubbing it gently.
You don’t know how long you two stay like that, him seated next to your body as it lays limp on the wall, attempting to catch your breath. By the time you finally do, the sun has fully set and the deck, though still doused in a shade of pinkish-purple, is considerably darker. You turn your head to look at Joshua, who’s angled toward you, one arm on the wall propping his head up, the other hooked around you, holding you close. He’s watching you, face carefully blank, but his eyes immediately give away how concerned he is.
“I’m okay,” you say quietly, throat feeling a bit sore.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and your heart squeezes at how guilty he sounds. You nod. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He scoots closer to you and wraps his other arm around you, burying his face in your neck. “I got carried away, but that’s not an excuse. It never should’ve gotten to that point. I know better, and it—”
“It’s okay,” you assure him, shaking your head. “I should’ve said something earlier. I was trying to wait it out.”
“Please don’t ever wait something like that out,” he begs, moving away to look you in the eye and show you how serious he is. “Next time, tell me immediately. You should still be able to breathe! You shouldn’t have to wait anything out!” He seems to realize he’s raising his voice because he pauses for a moment to collect himself.
“Joshua, I—”
“No, listen to me,” he interrupts, voice calmer now. “This can be really dangerous. I promise I won’t ever lose control like that ever again, but we’re not doing this next time unless you also promise you won’t wait it out. These things only work when we communicate.”
“Joshua, I’m fine—” he throws you a severe look and you hurriedly continue, “but yes, I promise. I won’t wait… next time.” You emphasize the last two words as you say them back to him. He catches on to what you’re doing but doesn’t address it, simply shaking his head and smiling. “Anyway. I’m so s—”
“If you apologize to me right now, you’ll never see me again.” You didn’t even know seeing him again was an option in the first place but you clamp your mouth shut anyway. He smirks. “Good girl. Now come on. Let’s dry off.”
“What?” You hate how whiny you’ve sounded this entire time, but you can’t stop either. “I don’t want to dry off!”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re taking a break and it’s not up for debate. Come on. I have some snacks. We can eat them and watch that movie you were telling me about yesterday.”
You look at him incredulously as he unwraps himself from you and stands. “Are you insane?! I’m not going to watch K-Pop Demon Hunters with you when you should be coming inside me!”
He pauses and looks at you with wide eyes as if he’s the scandalized one. You’re seeing more and more of the original Joshua you’ve been hanging out with the last two weeks now that your poor lung capacity has ruined the mood.
“Whoa, dirty, dirty,” he murmurs, shaking his head at you.
“Joshua.”
He raises an eyebrow at you and tilts his head slightly. You recognize it as a challenge. “Yes?”
You open your mouth but falter under his gaze. He grins before stepping toward you to kiss you all too briefly. When he pulls away, his smile is gone and he’s staring down at your lips with dark eyes.
“Stop mouthing off and get your cute ass out of the pool,” he says, voice low. He looks up into your eyes before he continues. “Or I’m going to edge the fuck out of you until the sun rises.”
You’re out of the pool and wrapped in one of his towels in seconds.
“Look at you,” Joshua mutters as he brings both of his large hands to each of your buttcheeks, spreading them apart just to let go, watching the way your ass jiggles. “Unbelievable.”
You’re on your knees, face pressed down into his pillows, already crying from being edged twice. It turns out there were still consequences from being “a whiny fucking brat” even though you did get out of the pool. Joshua runs his dick along your folds, making lewd sounds as he collects your pleasure on his tip. Your broken moans fill the room.
There’s something even better about sex with him after your brief movie break. Because in those two hours, it was clear he wasn’t just using you as a hole—though frankly, you’re more than happy to be Joshua Hong’s hole.
But no. He was a perfect gentleman. He dried you off and insisted on showering off the chlorine, gently massaging shampoo into your hair and cleaning you and peppering you with kisses without trying to pull a single move on you. Then, he got you into his clothes, blowdried your hair, and tucked you into his bed while he gathered snacks and drinks, surrounding you with everything that you’ve mentioned liking since meeting him (he was an incredible listener). And as you watched the movie, he held you and laughed at all the right parts, happily replayed your favorite songs, and he even promised he’d learn the songs to sing to you himself.
And something about those two measly hours was doing something to your cunt that you didn’t experience in the pool. It’s as if receiving confirmation that Joshua Hong would be the perfect boyfriend is making sex with him a thousand times more electrifying than it already was.
“What was that you said earlier, love?” he asks, feigning forgetfulness. “Something about wanting me to come somewhere?”
You try to scoff but it comes out as a pained sob. “Please.”
“Was it… on your stomach?” he asks, pressing his tip into your hole briefly before running it back down your folds. You groan. “Your face?” He must see you clench around nothing because he chuckles. “Huh, so you wouldn’t mind the face.”
“Joshua, please,” you pant.
“What?” he asks meanly. “What does my needy little slut want now?”
“You,” you answer simply. “I just want you.”
The silence that follows is so thick, you wonder if you said something wrong—if your desperation finally turned him off.
“Joshua?” you whimper, tears sliding down your face.
His cock pulls away from you and you fight the urge to immediately start complaining lest you get edged five more times. His hands are on you, gently turning you over onto your back. You’re naked from the waist down, but you’re still in his shirt since he insisted you keep it on—something about you looking like you belong to him while he fucked you. He fixes it when it twists around your body, then he lays on top of you, slotting himself between your legs.
He looks at you so tenderly, you feel a calmness settle over you—one that stops the flow of your tears. He brushes your hair away from your face and kisses the wetness on your cheeks.
“Are you ready?” he asks quietly, voice a lot more like the one that belonged to the man who just cuddled you for two hours. You nod. “Words, my love.”
“Yes, Shua,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”
He pushes into you fairly easily now that you’ve already taken him several times tonight. Still, you bite your lip at the sensation, closing your eyes like that will help you come to terms with how otherworldly having Joshua inside you feels. He wastes no time moving in and out of you, the sound of both of your moans, skin slapping skin, and the headboard hitting the wall filling the room.
His rhythm falters a bit when he pushes himself off you just so he can shove the shirt you’re wearing up and over your chest. He groans loudly when he sees your tits bouncing with his every thrust.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he sighs, fitting his hand between you to play with your clit.
His fingers are less collected this time, messily pressing into you with little finesse, and his thrusts are becoming unfathomably fast and rough. You realize he’s already close, and it pushes you even closer than you were after all the edging.
“Joshua,” you gasp as you feel your walls start to tighten and spasm around him again. He feels it too because he releases a series of moans that have you near screaming. “Joshua, baby!”
He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose and onto you. You catch a few drops with your tongue. He curses as he immediately reaches up and squeezes your cheeks together, forcing your mouth open and spitting into it again before you can understand what he’s doing.
“Swallow it,” he grunts and you obey.
“Please,” you beg. “More.” You moan desperately. “I’m going to come… Joshua, I’m—please, one more.”
“Come for me, baby.”
He takes a longer time collecting his saliva and when he obliges, letting you have a piece of him once more, you come as soon as it hits your tongue, nails digging into his biceps so hard, you start to draw blood. He doesn’t care, though, his hips slamming into you mercilessly as he feels your orgasm’s death grip on him. You think you’re shouting but you’re not sure because all you can process are Joshua’s moans and curses and nonsense, and then you feel it.
A warm release inside you, warmer than anything you’ve experienced, and it’s coating every inch of your insides, claiming you and rewarding you and ruining you for every man after, just like Joshua promised he would.
“Fuck!” he chants repeatedly as he rolls his hips the last few times, making sure to pump every last drop of his cum into you. You lock your ankles together behind him, keeping him there so nothing spills out. He seems to be on the same page, though, collapsing onto you with zero plan of removing himself. “Oh fuck.”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck.”
He lays there for a long time, his cock already soft inside you, but you don’t dare move or say anything. It’s just a matter of time before you’ll have to leave—before he’ll have to leave—and you’re more than content with just laying here for as long as he’ll let you.
When he finally does show signs of life, he still doesn’t pull out, instead choosing to kiss you slowly and delicately, his tongue lazily tangling with yours until he smiles into your lips.
“What?” you ask, smiling back.
He leans back and looks at you. “I’m just glad you came over tonight.”
“Me too.”
“Maybe I should cancel my world tour,” he jokes.
You laugh and the sound of it makes him join in too. “Pussy so good, it makes you cancel a world tour.”
“Pussy so good, it makes me cancel a world tour, buy a home in the Maldives, and become your house husband.”
You laugh even harder. You try not to think too hard about his words because in just three days (assuming he doesn’t extend his stay again), he’ll have to leave and continue being everyone’s favorite pop star, and really, you are just happy and grateful to have had these last two, almost three, weeks with him. So you entertain the joke, and you two paint a picture of what life would look like if he weren’t a singer or you weren’t a VIP concierge set on running her own boutique hotel one day, and you try not to get attached to any of it.
When you fall asleep, right there in his bed, you dream of the man laying next to you. You dream of Joshua and are too deep in it—too lost in him—to stir awake when he untangles himself from you, unblocks his manager’s phone number, and texts him to tell him he’s staying on this island indefinitely, just to block him again.
He sleeps better than he has in his entire life that night.
letting your loser boyfriend hit it raw for the first time at a party turns out better than you’d both expected.
pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!f!reader, established relationship genre/tags: college au, smut, sub!jisung, oral (m. receiving), jisung being a professional yapper as always, unprotected s*x, an ass slap or two, creampie, overstim words: 2.9k
[ note. ] — last fic upload before i leave for vacayy, hope u guys fw it. also i’m going to be posting all my fics in lowercase from now on for aesthetic purposes <3
you can read the other parts i’ve previously made here and here but this could be read as a standalone !
it’s always the same.
he’ll start talking about his newest little hyperfixation, voice notching an octave or two higher, words tumbling over each other, eyes lit up behind those too-big glasses that never sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. he fidgets with the drawstring of his hoodie while he talks, tugging it tight, then loosening it again, as if he’s trying to keep his own excitement from spilling out too fast.
and you’ll just be sitting there across from him, all pretty and patient, thighs crossed in your tiny skirt, chin resting in your hand, pretending to care. you try, you really do. but the longer he talks, the harder it is to focus, not on what he’s saying, but on him.
because he’s just so fucking cute when he rambles, way too animated and overly passionate. his hands always gesturing in wild, uncoordinated circles, one knee bouncing like he’s trying to burn off the excess energy. he talks super fast, stumbles over words, corrects himself mid-rant, and whenever he gets something right, like some equation or probability he’s been chewing on for hours, he glances at you like he’s hoping you’re proud, like he wants a gold star for being smart.
his lashes are thick behind the lenses, his lips are pink and plush and chapped at the corners, his voice isn’t that deep or confident— it’s soft, a little scratchy, but so full of warmth.
“so if you run the stats for the gacha drop rate and multiply it by, like, uh, thirty-two? you get this number, right? and then you compare that to the JP version’s old banners, and their pity system was actually better than what the global servers offer now, which is total bullshit, ‘cause mathematically it just doesn’t track when you- uh, wait, let me show you..”
he’s flipping his phone around to pull up some cluttered spreadsheet, thumb swiping too fast through endless tabs filled with numbers, graphs, and notes like he’s been preparing for this conversation all week.
you get a little closer, nodding slowly. not because you understand, but because just he looks so goddamn sweet when he’s talking like this. the way his cheeks are flushed from excitement, the way he’s sweating the tiniest bit under the collar of his hoodie, and how he’s so wrapped up in his own little world and still wants you to be part of it.
“baby,” you interrupt, reaching under the table to brush your freshly manicured fingertips along the inside of his thigh, slow and light.
he falters mid-thought. whole body stiffens up and his lips part in a soft little gasp. his glasses slip down a bit and his thumb freezes against the slightly cracked screen, looking up at you like he’s just remembered you exist and realized where he is.
“you’re so cute when you talk like that,” you smile at him, giggling sweetly like you weren’t thinking about jumping his bones right then and there.
jisung blinks, blushing immediately, making a little sound that even he couldn’t describe what it was.
“i-i wasn’t trying to be.. i mean, it’s just numbers. sorry, i was rambling again, wasn’t i? i know it’s boring…”
you shook your head, “not boring,” leaning in even closer now and never breaking eye contact with him, “just makes me wanna fuck you even more.”
he’s full-on glitching now. mouth half open, eyes wide and cheeks so red you can feel the heat radiating off him. his leg jerks under the table and his fingers clench around his phone, nearly dropping it.
“wha—” he squeaks, “you- you can’t just say that. we’re- this is a party, there’s people—”
he’s whispering now, but frantically. internally panicking. looking around like someone might’ve heard you, even though there’s absolutely no one paying mind to either of you.
you lean in some more, all slow and smug, until your lips are practically inches away from each others.
“there’s an empty closet down the hall.”
his breath hitches audibly.
you see the way his adam’s apple bobs, how fast his hand shoots up to adjust his crooked glasses, his thighs shifting under the table, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and arousal.
he’s already hard, you know him well enough to know the telltale signs. tenting his grey sweats, twitching against the fabric as you slid your hand higher. he doesn’t even try to stop you, just sits there, jaw slack, watching you with big eyes like you’ve cast some kind of spell.
maybe you have, because the thing is— jisung doesn’t really do parties. he wasn’t invited to shit like this before, not until you came into the picture.
he was always known as the weird kid in STEM. the one who played rhythm games in the library and forgot to eat lunch when he was coding. he wore sweatshirts in summer and muttered to himself and would gett teased by the lacrosse team. so he never really expected to be dating the prettiest girl he’s ever laid eyes on for nearly three months now, the one who wears expensive lipgloss and wears matching juicy couture tracksuits with her friends who stared at him like he’s an alien.
but you love and adore him in a way that still feels surreal to him. you’d hold his hand in public, kiss his cheek in the hallways, wait for him after every class, sit in his lap and call him baby, not caring if people swap odd locks about such an unlikely pair. it lowkey terrifies him, but he’s obsessed, because he’s yours.
and the fact that you want him this badly? it blows his mind. every. single. time.
your fingers drag up his thigh and he twitches again, a shaky moan falling from his lips before he bites it back. he’s warm, already leaking, probably. you can feel how sensitive he is, how badly he wants it.
you tug him up by the sleeve, smiling, your tone soft but firm.
“don’t make me ask twice.”
by your words alone, han jisung knows that he’s already done for.
+
the second the closet door slams shut behind you, he wastes zero time to be all over you— not in a confident way though. it’s messy, too eager, full of stifled sounds and nervous fingers, as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t kiss you now, he might never get the chance again.
his lips move over yours too fast and sloppy, his hands everywhere all at once, gripping your waist, your hips, your sides like he can’t decide where to touch first. his nose accidentally bumps against yours when he tries to kiss you deeper and you giggle into his mouth, gently slowing him down with your palms at his jaw.
“easy, baby,” you whisper, barely parting from him.
“s-sorry,” he breathes out, already so out of it. “i just.. you look so good tonight, and your skirt- fuck- i’ve been thinking about it all day, i couldn’t focus when you sat on my lap after class, i was so close to cumming—”
“ji,” you interrupt sweetly, brushing your knuckles over his cheek. “you’re rambling again.”
he shuts up immediately. blushing.
you lean in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, going down even further until your knees coil down to the floor, right in front of him.
he could literally feel his heart beating out of his chest.
“w-wait,” he stammers, his back already hitting the wall. “baby, you don’t have to- fuck..”
his words fall apart the minute you tug down the waistband of his sweats, his boxers go with them, and his cock springs free in front of you— flushed a pretty shade of pink, tip already leaking delicious precum, and twitching where it rests against his stomach. so thick, so heavy, so obscenely hard. you don’t even touch it before he moans.
you look up through your lashes, watching the way he presses the back of his head to the wall, lips parted like he’s trying to remember how to properly breathe.
then you lean forward, slowly dragging your tongue from the base to the tip.
he shudders so hard his legs almost give out.
“jesus christ,” he bit down on his lip harshly, “your mouth.. shit, feels too good, i can’t—”
his thighs are trembling, and his hand reaches out instinctively to cradle your jaw, anchoring himself to feel something.
you smile around the head of his cock before wrapping your lips around it, sliding your head down. soft, warm suction, just enough pressure to make him gasp. you suck deeper, taking more of him in your mouth as your hand strokes the rest in slow, steady pulls. spit runs down your wrist, the sound is wet, vulgar, echoing off the walls of the cramped space.
he groans again, louder this time. one leg shifts to stabilize himself.
“oh my god,” he gasps, “oh fuck- baby, baby- shit—”
his voice breaks on every moan, hips twitching forward, but he doesn’t thrust. he never does. he’s too good, too well-trained.
but he literally can’t stop shaking.
“you’re so good,” he whimpers, praising you to no end. “you’re so fucking good at that, i’m not gonna last.. ’m gonna- fuck, you’re ‘bout to make me cum—”
you pull off with a soft ‘pop’, your hand still stroking him agonizingly slow.
“you better not cum yet,” you warn, pressing your tongue under the head and dragging it gently along the slit. “you haven’t even been inside me.”
his whole body jolts. eyes going wide, almost scared, like the idea of fucking you now might actually break him.
“then let me—” he blurts out, hands twitching at his sides. “pleasepleaseplease. fuck, i need to. i wanna be inside, please baby, can i fuck you now?”
you smile and finally stood up, turning around to face the wall.
“fuck me like this, ji,” you whisper, hiking your skirt up and wiggling your ass against him. “fuck me raw.”
he’s completely frozen, his breath stuttering in his throat.
“wha- are you serious? wait- y/n- no condom?”
you glance back at him with half-lidded eyes, giggling.
“you wanna feel me, right?” you ask, no hesitation detected in your words. “you wanna cum inside?”
he nods so quickly its almost embarrassing, his hands are moving faster than his brain can form a thought.
“yes. fuck. please,” he choked out desperately, already fumbling his cock into his hand.
his grip is shaky, you feel the blunt head brush your folds once, twice, then he finally lines up right and sinks in— real slow and careful, bracing himself as he slides in every inch. his moan is strangled, like hes unsure of whether he’s dying or dreaming.
your wetness takes him easy, your pussy already clenching around him with need, swallowing him so greedily he loses control of his rhythm for a second. he bottoms out with a deep, gasping groan, cock buried to the hilt, your walls pulsing around him.
“holy shit,” he breathes out, practically shaking. “you’re so warm.. s-so tight.. baby.. oh my god—”
you barely have time to process the stretch before he’s stuttering forward with a broken whimper, hips twitching.
two thrusts. that’s all it takes.
you feel the sharp jerk of his cock, the way his whole body tenses up, and then the sudden warmth flooding you deep inside….
he cums early. too hard and way too fast.
you smirk, turning your head slightly, “oh no,” you murmur. “you didn’t just cum, did you?”
jisung lets out the softest, most wrecked noise you’ve ever heard and hides his face against your back, the tip of his nose pressed between your shoulder blades.
“fuck,” he groans. “’m sorry.. i couldn’t help it! fuck, it just felt too good, your pussy’s too perfect, i didn’t mean to—”
you clench around him, tight and deliberate.
his knees nearly buckle.
“you’re not pulling out.”
he gasps again, panicked and overwhelmed.
“b-but i already- baby, wait, ’m sensitive—”
you simply drown out his whines and start rolling your hips back, slow and deep, grinding against him, and he whimpers.
“then cum again,” you demand sharply.
his hands slid down the slope of your waist, fingers gripping tightly, mentally preparing himself for the next round. even though he’s overstimulated, his cock never softens. still rock hard inside you, still twitching, still leaking.
your pussy’s so wet now it’s sinful, every roll of your hips drawing a filthy squelch, your slick and his cum mixing into a hot, messy slop between your thighs. it’s dripping down his balls already.
“you’re milking me,” he whines, voice high and sweet. “fuck, fuck.. i can’t- ’m gonna cum again- already- baby, please. s’too much—”
“you can do it,” you breathe, forehead pressed against the wall. “you’re doing so good, ji. fuck, feel so full.. love your cock so much,”
he moans like it hurts.
his pace picks up, just a litttle. short thrusts. clumsy and deep.
your ass bounces back against his thighs with every movement, and he can’t stop watching it. can’t stop staring at the way your body moves for him, the way you take him. he reaches around and grabs a handful of your tits, squeezing greedily, fingers slipping under your top like he’s desperate to feel your skin. you’re bouncing in his hands with every thrust and he whimpers against your shoulder.
“you’re so beautiful,” he pants. “so fucking beautiful. your tits, your ass. god, your pussy’s made for me- i swear—”
you feel it again. the sudden twitch of his hips, the quickening pace, and then he slaps your ass once.
you freeze and so does he.
“…did you just slap my ass?” you say, trying not to laugh.
“i-i don’t know,” he stammers behind you. “i didn’t mean to.. i mean- i did, but also i didn’t- fuck, it just happened..”
you giggle and push back against him, grinding your ass into his hips.
“do it again.”
he moans and gives you another gentle, shy little slap.
“’m sorry,” he breathes. “you’re just so hot. your ass jiggles everytime i move, it’s driving me insane- i love you.. i love you so much—”
his arms wrap around your middle, pressing his lips to the back of your neck, kissing softly, over and over. each one messier than the last, wet and open-mouthed and desperate.
“i wanna stay inside you forever,” he mumbles into your dewy skin. “wanna keep fucking you like this, raw, every single day. wanna wake up buried in your pussy- cum in you before breakfast, again before bed—”
your whole body trembles. the heat’s unbearable now, your orgasm building sharp and tight in your belly.
“‘m gonna marry you,” he rambles again, “make you mine- fuck, i love you, love you, love you—”
you clench down and he cries out. hips stuttering.
his cock throbs inside you, deep and messy, and he cums again— hot and thick and endless, spilling into your cunt like he’s trying to fill you up completely. you feel it leak around him instantly, dripping down your thighs, making a mess between you.
your walls flutter and you go with him. body shaking, legs unsteady, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave.
you squirt. hard.
you feel it spray out around him, and he groans so deep it turns into a moan that curls into a whine. he’s still inside. still twitching. and your pussy’s squeezing every last drop from him.
you both go limp, falling forward against the wall, panting, soaked in sweat and cum, but fully in love with each other.
his arms stay looped around you. his lips trail down your spine, kissing every inch of skin he can reach, mouth whispering shaky little “i love you’s” in between labored breaths.
you’re still dripping. still stuffed full of him.
you feel him kiss your shoulder again, going up to your neck. his hands are still cupping your tits like they belong to him.
“you’re my favorite person,” he mumbles, voice dreamy and thick. “you’re so good to me. you’re everything.”
you laugh breathlessly. your legs are barely holding you up.
“you’re insane,”
“and you let me fuck you raw,” he says, smiling against you. “so who’s really the insane one?”
you snort and roll your eyes, tugging your skirt down. your thighs are all sticky and your knees are a little wobbly.
he pulls his sweats back up, still swaying on his feet. glasses fogged, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead, lips red and puffy from kissing every part of you.
you’re about to open the closet door when he tugs you back in and kisses you— deep and passionate. nothing controlled. just all lips and tongue and the faint taste of sweat.
“was it… was it good?” he asks shyly, eyes wide and searching.
you grin, still panting. “ji, you have the best dick i’ve ever had.”
he whines, hiding in your neck like he can’t handle hearing such high level of praise coming from you.
“you’re so fucking lucky to have me,” he mumbles into your skin.
you roll your eyes. “you literally came in two thrusts.”
“okay, but it was two raw thrusts. that’s different!” he attempts to defend himself.
he has a point. kind of.
you both sneak back into the party a few minutes later. jisung’s face is flushed, hair a mess, his walk wobblier than usual. your thighs are still slick and your lipgloss is ruined.
if anyone notices they don’t say anything.
but jisung doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.
📲 Bf!Seventeen finding out they aren't your bias | HYUNG LINE VER.
ⓘ content info ⸺ paring. seventeen x f!reader. genre | tags. fake texts, reactions, humor/comedy. warnings. jealousy, biblical references (?), swearing, member dissing member (just playfully). requested: yes/no.
ʚ A/N: My first ever request 🥺 It only took me a month to make but it's finally here. Thank you whoever requested, I had a lot of fun making it, I hope you enjoy reading it.
# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | TAGLIST | MAKNAE LINE VER.
Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!
Could you do Jake is your sisters Husband and there has always been tension between you two, one day you hear them arguing and your sister doesn’t want to sleep with him anymore because his size hurts her too much, so being the best sister in law you let him use you whenever he needs
author: oh my god- this idea got me awake at night. i finished writing it at 2:32 AM.
Raw. Real. Yours.
pairing: fem!reader x shim!jaeyun(jake)
word count: 4.3k+
genre: romance, smut, marriage au
warnings: >> sister's husband to sister's ex-husband to your husband, angst, fight, smut,cussing, biting/marking, fingering, begging, size kink, dom!jake x sub!reader, unprotected sex (a big NO-NO), overstimulation, creampie, manhandling. petnames
synopsis: when your sister argues and divorces her husband because his size hurts her too much, so being the best sister in law you let him use you whenever he needs and maybe end up marrying him?
Jake wasn’t the kind of man you noticed right away.
Not in the loud, flashy way some guys demanded attention. He was quieter than that. Taller than most, sure—six-three, broad through the shoulders—but he carried it easy, almost lazy. Like he knew exactly how much space he took up and didn’t need to prove it. Dark hair that always looked a little too long at the ends, curling against the nape of his neck when it got humid. Hazel eyes that caught light funny, turning almost gold when he was amused. And that slow, crooked smile—never wide, never showing teeth unless he really meant it. When he did, it felt like a secret being handed to you.
He met your older sister Jiwon in Busan during one of her rare weekends off. She was twenty-eight then, already a senior resident in emergency medicine, always moving too fast, always fixing things. Jake was thirty, working remote as a freelance structural engineer—mostly high-rises in Seoul and occasional overseas contracts. They matched on some app neither of them would admit to using anymore. First date was coffee that turned into soju that turned into her dragging him to a noraebang at 2 a.m. because she refused to go home sober and alone.
Six months later they were engaged. Nine months after that, married in a small ceremony on Jeju—white dress, black suit, your parents crying, you standing beside Jiwon in pale lavender trying not to feel like the spare part.
You were twenty-three at the wedding. Still finishing your master’s in urban planning at Yonsei. Broke, restless, living in the same old Gangnam apartment your parents had bought years ago when property prices were merely insane instead of apocalyptic. After the honeymoon, Jiwon and Jake moved back into that same three-bedroom place—temporarily, they said. Just until they found something bigger. Something permanent.
“Temporarily” stretched into eighteen months.
You stayed because rent in Seoul was murder and you liked the commute to campus. They stayed because the guest room was already furnished and Jiwon’s shifts were brutal and Jake traveled too much to care about hunting for a new lease.
That’s how it started. All three of you under one roof. One bathroom. One too-small kitchen. One hallway that felt narrower every time Jake passed you.
He was polite at first. Called you “kid” sometimes, even though you were only five years younger than Jiwon. Teased you about your late-night ramyeon binges and the way you left textbooks open on the couch like traps. You teased back—about his terrible taste in beer, about how he always forgot to close the balcony door and let mosquitoes in.
But underneath the banter something else was growing. Slow. Patient. Like mold you don’t notice until the whole wall smells wrong.
You caught him watching you once while you stretched in the living room after a run—tank top riding up, sweat darkening the fabric between your shoulder blades. He was on the couch with his laptop, pretending to work. His eyes didn’t move when you glanced over. Just held. Steady. Unapologetic.
You didn’t call him out. You just bent a little deeper into the stretch.
Another time you came out of the shower in nothing but a towel knotted loose at your chest. Hair dripping. Skin still hot from the water. He was in the kitchen pouring coffee. Jiwon was already at the hospital.
He froze for half a second—long enough for you to notice—then turned back to the counter like nothing happened.
“Morning,” he said, voice a little rougher than usual.
“Morning.” You reached past him for a mug, letting your arm brush his. Barely. Just enough.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step away.
You poured the coffee. Took a sip. Looked at him over the rim.
He looked back.
Nothing was said.
Nothing needed to be.
Weeks passed like that. Small collisions. Lingering looks. The way his hand would graze your lower back when he squeezed past you in the narrow hallway. The way you’d wear thinner camis to sleep when you knew he’d be up late working in the living room. The way he started leaving his bedroom door cracked when Jiwon was on night shift, like an invitation he’d never voice.
Then the fights started.
Not big ones. Not yet. Just tight silences. Sharp sighs. Jiwon coming home exhausted, Jake waiting up, both of them too tired to pretend everything was fine.
You heard pieces through the wall.
“You’re never here,” he’d say.
“I’m saving lives, Jake.”
“And I’m just… what? Waiting?”
“I didn’t ask you to wait.”
One night it got worse.
You were in bed, lights off, scrolling your phone with the volume low. Their voices carried anyway.
“I can’t keep doing this,” Jiwon said. Quiet. Tired. “Every time we try, it hurts too much. I’m sore for days.”
Jake’s reply was low, almost gentle. “I’m careful. I go slow.”
“Not slow enough.” A pause. “You’re… you’re just too big. It’s not— I can’t relax. I can’t enjoy it.”
Silence. Long enough that your pulse started to thud in your ears.
“So what?” he finally asked. “You want me to stop asking?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “Maybe. For a while. I just… need a break from feeling like I’m being split open.”
Another silence.
Then his footsteps. Heavy. Coming toward the hallway.
Your door was closed. You held your breath anyway.
He didn’t knock.
He just stood outside for a long minute—you could feel him there, the weight of him on the other side of the wood.
Then he walked away.
Back to their room.
Back to her.
But you knew—somewhere deep and dark and honest—that he’d come back.
Not tonight.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But soon.
And when he did, he wouldn’t be asking Jiwon.
The next few weeks felt like walking on a frozen lake—every step careful, every crack louder than the last.
Jiwon started sleeping in the guest room some nights. Not every night, but enough that you noticed. She’d say it was because her alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. and she didn’t want to wake Jake. You knew better. The wall between your room and theirs didn’t lie. The bed didn’t creak anymore. No muffled gasps. No low groans. Just silence, thick as smoke.
Jake didn’t complain. At least not out loud.
He just got quieter. Sharper around the edges. The easy smiles came less often. When they did, they never quite reached his eyes.
But he still looked at you.
Longer now. Bolder.
Mornings became the worst—or the best, depending on how honest you were willing to be with yourself.
Jiwon would leave before dawn, scrubs on, hair in a messy bun, kissing Jake’s cheek like muscle memory. The front door would click shut. Then it was just the two of you in the apartment waking up slow.
You started making coffee earlier. Not because you needed it. Because you knew he’d come padding out in those low gray sweatpants, no shirt, hair sleep-mussed, scratching absently at the trail of dark hair that disappeared below his waistband.
First time it happened after the fight, you were at the counter pouring. He walked up behind you—close. Not touching. But close enough that the heat of his body brushed your back like a promise.
“Morning,” he murmured. Voice still thick with sleep.
You didn’t turn around right away. Just kept pouring. “Morning.”
His arm reached past you for a mug. Bicep flexed. Forearm corded. You felt the ghost of his chest against your shoulder blades for half a second before he stepped back.
You turned then.
He was already leaning against the opposite counter, mug in hand, watching you over the rim like you were the only thing worth looking at.
“You sleep okay?” he asked.
The question was innocent. The tone wasn’t.
You shrugged. Let your thin sleep-tee slip off one shoulder. “Well enough.”
His eyes dropped to the bare skin. Lingered. Then dragged back up to your face.
“Good,” he said quietly.
That was it. No more words. Just that look. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. The way your nipples had hardened under the cotton from the cold air and his stare.
You walked past him to the fridge. Brushed his hip with yours. Deliberate. Slow.
He didn’t move. Just inhaled through his nose like he was trying not to growl.
Nights were different.
When Jiwon was on shift, the apartment felt bigger. Emptier. Dangerous.
He’d work late in the living room, laptop open, but his eyes kept flicking to the hallway. To your door. You’d leave it cracked sometimes. Just an inch. Enough for the warm light from your bedside lamp to spill out. Enough for him to hear the soft rustle when you shifted under the sheets.
One night you couldn’t sleep. Too hot. Too restless. You kicked the covers off, lay on your back in just panties, thin tank pushed up under your breasts. Window open. City noise drifting in.
You heard him before you saw him.
Bare feet on hardwood. Slow. Careful.
He stopped in the doorway.
Didn’t come in.
Just stood there, half in shadow, sweatpants tented obviously now—no hiding it. Arms crossed over his bare chest like he was holding himself back.
You didn’t cover up.
You just looked at him.
He looked back.
Long minutes passed. Neither of you spoke.
Then he finally said, voice low and wrecked, “You’re making this hard.”
You tilted your head. Let your legs fall open just a fraction. Enough that the cotton between your thighs pulled tight, outlining everything.
“Am I?” you whispered.
His jaw ticked. He took one step inside the room—then stopped again. Like crossing that threshold would break something neither of you could fix.
“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he said. Almost to himself.
You sat up slowly. Tank slipping higher. Breasts barely covered now.
“Wouldn’t what?”
His eyes were black in the low light. “Touch what isn’t mine.”
You stood. Walked toward him. Stopped when your toes touched his.
“But it’s hurting her,” you said softly. “And you’re hurting too.”
He exhaled hard through his nose. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” You lifted your hand. Let your fingertips brush the center of his chest—just once. Light. Teasing. “Don’t notice how hard you get every time I walk past you in shorts? Don’t notice how you stare when I bend over? Don’t notice that you haven’t fucked your wife in weeks and you’re losing your mind?”
His hand shot out—fast—caught your wrist. Not hard. Just firm.
“Don’t say it like that,” he rasped.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re offering.”
You stepped closer. Close enough that your breasts brushed his forearms. Close enough to feel how hot he was. How hard.
“I’m not offering,” you lied. “I’m just… here.”
His grip tightened for a second. Then loosened. Thumb stroking the inside of your wrist like he couldn’t help it.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said quietly.
“I think I do.”
He let go of your wrist. Stepped back. One step. Two.
“I’m not doing this tonight,” he said. Voice shaking just enough to betray him. “Not like this. Not when I’m this fucking wound up.”
You didn’t chase him.
Just watched him back out of the doorway.
But before he turned away, he looked at you one last time—eyes dragging down your body like he was starving.
“Lock your door tomorrow night,” he said. “If you don’t want me to come back.”
He disappeared down the hall.
You stood there, heart hammering, thighs slick, nipples aching.
You didn’t lock the door.
Not that night.
Not the next.
And every night after that, the crack in the door got a little wider.
Three weeks after that night in your doorway—three weeks of locked stares, brushed touches that lasted too long, doors left deliberately cracked—everything cracked open.
It happened on a Thursday. Jiwon came home early for once. No scrubs, no exhaustion dragging her shoulders. She looked… lighter. Decided.
You were in the kitchen making tea when she walked in. Jake was already there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you pour hot water like the motion was the most interesting thing in the world.
Jiwon didn’t sit. She stood in the doorway, purse still on her shoulder.
“I want a divorce,” she said. No preamble. No tears. Just calm. Final.
Jake didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, slow. “Yeah. I figured.”
You froze, mug halfway to your lips.
Jiwon looked at him—really looked. Not angry. Not sad. Tired, maybe. Relieved.
“I met someone,” she said quietly. “At the hospital. A cardiologist. He’s… kind. Patient. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m failing every time we’re in bed.”
Jake exhaled through his nose. Not surprised. Not hurt. Just… done.
“You love him?” he asked.
“I could.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I want to try.”
Silence stretched. Thick. Final.
Then Jiwon turned to you.
“You should know too,” she said. “I’m moving out next week. Found a place in Itaewon. Small, but mine.”
Your mouth went dry. “Okay.”
She gave you a small, tired smile. “I know things have been… weird here. Between all of us. I’m not blind.” Her eyes flicked to Jake, then back to you. “Just… be careful. He’s not gentle when he stops pretending.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Just walked past you both, down the hall, into the bedroom to start packing.
Jake stayed exactly where he was. Eyes on you.
You set the mug down. Hands shaking just enough to notice.
“She’s leaving,” you whispered.
“She is.”
“And you’re… okay with that?”
He pushed off the counter. Slow steps toward you until he was close enough that you had to tilt your head back.
“I’ve been okay with it for months,” he said low. “The only thing keeping me here was the roof. And you.”
Your breath hitched.
He reached out. Tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Thumb lingered on your jaw.
“She’s gone next week,” he murmured. “Until then… we wait.”
You waited four days.
Four days of Jiwon packing boxes in silence. Four days of Jake sleeping on the couch. Four days of you catching his eyes every time you passed—dark, patient, burning.
On the fifth night—Friday—she was out with her new someone. Dinner. Drinks. Staying over, she’d said casually over breakfast.
The apartment was empty except for the two of you.
You didn’t bother with pretense.
You wore the black lace thong you’d bought on impulse two weeks ago. Nothing else. Walked out of your room like that—barefoot, hair loose, nipples already tight from the cool air and anticipation.
He was in the living room. Lights low. Shirt off. Sweatpants slung dangerously low. Cock already half-hard under the fabric when he saw you.
He didn’t speak. Just stood.
You walked straight to him. Stopped when your breasts brushed his chest.
“Jiwon’s not coming back tonight,” you said softly.
“I know.”
“Then stop waiting.”
That was all it took.
His mouth crashed into yours—hard, hungry, no gentleness left. Tongue pushing past your lips, claiming. Hands gripping your waist so tight you knew there’d be marks tomorrow. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, legs wrapping around his hips on instinct.
He carried you to their bedroom.
Not yours.
Theirs.
Threw you onto the bed where he used to fuck your sister. The sheets still smelled faintly of her perfume.
He didn’t care.
He shoved his sweatpants down. Cock sprang free—heavy, thick, veined, already leaking at the tip. Bigger than any toy you’d ever taken. Bigger than you’d let yourself fully imagine.
You spread your legs without being asked. Thong soaked through. He ripped it off with one hard tug—fabric tearing like paper.
No fingers. No prep. He just lined up and pushed in—slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretching you open. Your back arched. A sharp cry tore from your throat—pain and pleasure so tangled you couldn’t tell them apart.
“Fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “So tight. Been dreaming about this cunt for years.”
He bottomed out with a grunt. Held there. Let you adjust. Then pulled back almost all the way—only to slam back in. Hard.
You screamed into the pillow.
He fucked you like he’d been holding back forever. Deep, punishing strokes. Bed creaking. Headboard knocking the wall. Wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.
“Look at me,” he growled.
You did. Eyes watering. Mouth open.
He leaned down, forearm braced beside your head, other hand gripping your throat—not choking, just holding. Possessive.
“You feel that?” he rasped, grinding deep, circling his hips so the base of his cock dragged against your clit. “That’s what she couldn’t take. But you—you’re taking every fucking inch like you were made for it.”
You clenched around him. Hard. Soaked. Dripping down your ass.
He flipped you over. Ass up. Face pressed to the mattress that still smelled like Jiwon.
He slapped your ass once—sharp, stinging. Then again. Harder.
“Say it,” he ordered.
“Say what?” you gasped.
“Say you’re better than her. Say this pussy was made for my cock.”
You moaned into the sheets. “I’m better. Fuck— I’m so much better. This cunt’s yours. Only yours.”
He rewarded you with a brutal thrust. Then another. Pounding so deep you felt him in your stomach.
He reached around. Rough fingers on your clit. Rubbing fast. Mean.
“Come,” he snarled against your ear. “Come on the cock your sister couldn’t handle. Come while I fill you up where she used to sleep.”
You shattered.
Sobbing. Shaking. Walls pulsing around him so tight he cursed. Legs trembling. Vision white.
He didn’t stop.
Fucked you through it. Harder. Faster. Until his rhythm broke.
“Gonna come inside you,” he warned. “Gonna mark this pussy. Make it mine.”
“Do it,” you begged. “Please—fill me. Breed me. Make me yours.”
He buried himself deep with a guttural groan. Cock pulsing. Hot, thick spurts flooding you. So much it leaked out around him, dripping down your thighs.
He stayed inside you after. Softening slowly. Still twitching.
Leaned down. Kissed the back of your neck. Almost tender.
“Whenever I want,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Whenever I need. This cunt opens for me. Understand?”
You nodded. Still trembling. Full of him. Aching in the best way.
“Yes.”
He pulled out slow. Watched his cum leak from you. Smiled—dark, satisfied.
Then he rolled you onto your back. Spread your legs again.
Lowered his head.
“Taste us,” he said.
And licked a slow stripe up your dripping slit—tongue collecting every drop of himself mixed with you.
You came again on his mouth. Softer this time. Shivering.
When he finally lifted his head, lips shiny, he kissed you. Let you taste it all.
“Jiwon’s gone,” he whispered against your mouth. “This house is ours now.”
You smiled. Small. Dirty. Happy.
“Good.”
He fucked you twice more that night.
Once in the shower.
Once bent over the kitchen counter at 3 a.m.
Each time harder. Deeper. Claiming.
And every time he came inside you, he whispered the same thing,“Mine.”
Six months after Jiwon moved out.
The divorce was quiet. No screaming. No lawyers tearing each other apart. Papers signed in a small Gangnam office with beige walls and bad coffee. Jiwon wore a simple white blouse and smiled when she handed the pen back—like she was finally exhaling after holding her breath for years.
Jake didn’t fight her for anything. He kept the apartment. She took half the savings and the car. They hugged once—awkward, polite, the way exes do when the love’s long gone but the history isn’t.
You stood in the hallway outside the office, waiting. When they came out, Jiwon looked at you for a long second.
“You’re happy?” she asked. Not accusing. Just… curious.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
She glanced at Jake, then back at you. “Then I’m happy too.”
She left without another word. Her heels clicked down the corridor until the sound disappeared.
Jake walked over. Slid his hand into yours. Fingers interlocking like they’d always belonged there.
“Ready to go home?” he asked.
You squeezed his hand. “More than ready.”
Three weeks later you married him.
Not big. Not flashy. Just the two of you, a small hanok in Bukchon, late autumn leaves turning the courtyard gold. You wore cream silk—no veil, just your hair loose and a thin gold band on your finger that matched his. He wore black. Simple suit. No tie. When he looked at you walking toward him, his eyes went dark and soft at the same time—like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
Vows were short.
“I promise to take everything you give me,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear the edge in it. “And give you everything you can take.”
You smiled. Dirty. Sweet.
“I promise to open for you,” you answered. “Whenever. However. No limits.”
The officiant cleared his throat. You both laughed quietly.
Rings slid on. Kiss was slow. Deep. His hand on the small of your back, pressing you flush against him so you could feel how hard he already was under the suit pants.
Guests—only a handful of close friends—clapped. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.
You were his wife now.
Legally. Officially. Irrevocably.
That night the apartment felt different.
Jiwon’s things were long gone. The bedroom smelled like fresh linen and your perfume mixed with his cologne. The bed was made with new sheets—black satin, because he’d smirked when you picked them out and said, “These are gonna look so fucking good bunched around your wrists.”
You didn’t make it past the front door.
He kicked it shut behind you both. Pushed you against the wall the second your heels hit the entry mat.
Mouth on yours. Hands everywhere. Yanking the zipper of your dress down so fast the fabric tore a little at the seam. He didn’t apologize. Just shoved it off your shoulders until it pooled at your feet.
You were bare underneath. No bra. No panties. Just thigh-high stockings and the thin gold chain around your waist he’d given you as a wedding gift that morning.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your throat. “My wife.”
He lifted you. Legs around his waist. Carried you straight to the bedroom—same bed, different life.
Threw you down. Not gentle.
You bounced once. Spread your legs on instinct.
He stripped fast. Jacket. Shirt. Pants. Boxers last. Cock springing free—already thick, veined, dripping. Harder than you’d ever seen it. Like the ring on his finger had flipped some switch.
He crawled over you. Caged you with his arms.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
You did.
He pushed in slow this time. Torturously slow. Letting you feel every ridge, every inch stretching your walls until he was seated so deep you felt him against your cervix.
You gasped. Back arching.
“Too much?” he asked, voice rough.
You shook your head frantically. “More.”
He grinned—dark, possessive.
Then he fucked you like a husband fucks his wife on their wedding night.
Hard. Deep. Relentless.
Every thrust punched the breath from your lungs. Bed creaking. Headboard slamming. Your nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood—he hissed and fucked you harder for it.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” you sobbed. “My husband. My fucking husband.”
He flipped you onto your stomach. Pulled your hips up. Slapped your ass—once, twice, three times—each one leaving a red handprint.
“Whose cunt is this?”
“Yours,” you cried. “Only yours. Always yours.”
He slammed back in. Deeper angle now. Hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
He reached around. Fingers on your clit. Rubbing fast. Rough. Mean.
“Come for your husband,” he commanded. “Come on the cock that’s gonna fill you every fucking night from now on.”
You shattered.
Screaming his name. Walls clamping down so tight he groaned like he was in pain. Legs shaking. Toes curling. Vision blurring.
He didn’t stop.
Fucked you through the aftershocks. Faster. Sloppier. Chasing his own release.
“Gonna come inside my wife,” he rasped. “Gonna breed this married pussy. Put a baby in you tonight.”
The thought sent another wave through you—smaller, sharper, milking him.
He buried himself to the hilt. Cock pulsing. Hot, thick ropes flooding you. So much it leaked out around him, dripping onto the sheets.
He stayed inside after. Chest heaving. Forehead pressed to your shoulder.
“Mine,” he whispered. Kissed the back of your neck. “My wife.”
You turned your head. Found his mouth. Kissed him slow. Lazy. Full of him.
“Yours,” you murmured. “Forever.”
He pulled out eventually. Watched his cum leak from you with a satisfied hum.
Then he rolled you onto your back. Spread your thighs again.
Lowered his head.
“Taste what we made,” he said.
And licked into you—slow, thorough, tongue scooping every drop of himself mixed with your wetness.
You came again on his mouth. Softer. Trembling.
When he finally crawled back up, he kissed you deep—letting you taste the mess you’d made together.
“First night of forever,” he said against your lips.
You smiled. Wrapped your legs around him. Pulled him closer.
“Fuck me again, husband.”
He laughed—low, dark, happy.
And did.
All night.
Until the sun came up.
Until the sheets were ruined.
Until you were both sore, marked, sated.
Husband and wife.
No more pretending.
No more waiting.
Just this.
Raw. Real. Yours.
@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work
summary: two top university debaters have been competing for first place since freshman year. she works hard for every point to keep her scholarship, while jake seems to win effortlessly. when they’re forced to lead an important research project together, their rivalry gets more complicated — and working side by side might be harder than losing to each other.
wc: 60k (damn— i'm sorry)
genre: heavy angst, fluff, a tiny bit of smut, very suggestive dialogue | college!au, very slowburn, rivals to lovers, drunk confessions
tags: m/f, academic rivals to lovers, slow burn that actually burns, rich boy trauma (surprise!), forced proximity, competitive sexual tension, “i hate you” but make it yearning, mutual obsession disguised as rivalry, she works twice as hard - he makes it look easy, high-stakes academia, scholarship stress, power struggle romance, “you don’t trust me” core, denial x denial, emotionally constipated idiots in love, golden boy complex, rich boy with abandonment issues, identity split (jake vs jaeyun), fratboy persona as coping mechanism, performance vs authenticity, ego built on insecurity, secretly sensitive jake, lowkey needy jake, praise-starved jake, soft dom energy but emotionally fragile, overachiever reader, perfectionism as a coping mechanism, drunk honesty, jake cries while drunk, jealousy but subtle, everyone sees it but them, chaotic friend group, niki cockblocking, intellectual intimacy, slow emotional unraveling, reluctant trust, vulnerability arc, emotional hurt/comfort, earned happy ending, emotional payoff, “we’re better together”, control issues translate to the bedroom, kiss while raining, dorm hook up, very consensual, dry humping, fingering (f rec), praise, suggested brattaming, almost-sex
this fic will also include mentions of the le sserafim and other enhypen members
a/n: hi <3 yes i disappeared for two months. life was stressful, my brain was fried, and i didn’t get to any requests — i’m sorry about that. i needed a second to breathe. but!!! i wrote this instead. you all know i don’t play about college jake. something about golden boys under too much pressure and a fratboy mask just does something to me 🫠 and honestly, i think this might be my favorite thing i’ve written. it really feels complete to me right now. also i really wanted to explore expectations, scholarship stress, golden boy syndrome, and what it feels like to perform a version of yourself that everyone loves. so yes. yes, i gave him abandonment issues. yes, i made him cry while drunk. yes, the academic power dynamics mirror in the bedroom. and no i will not apologize 🫡 also this is a really slow burn. like. really slow burn. tension-first, feelings-first, ego-vs-vulnerability slow burn. this was originally intended to have full smut, but the slow burn said no. there still is a smut scene — it’s just a little different from my usual “we’re going to hell” level of smut, but it fit the pacing better this way. it’s still heated. it’s just very them. SOOO if you like insecure men who pretend they’re fine or praise-starved golden boys with soft dom energy — welcome💔
you’re halfway through your rebuttal when jake interrupts. of course he does. sim jaeyun - jake, to everyone who isn’t close enough to him - has an instinct for timing that makes him unbearable. he never cuts you off early enough to look rude. he waits until the exact second your argument sounds airtight, then slips in with a “correction” like he’s doing you a favor. he’s been doing it since freshman year, since the first debate qualifier where he showed up late, apologized in that faint australian accent of his, and then proceeded to dismantle three seniors like it was casual exercise. “your economic model assumes stability“ he says now, voice smooth, measured. “which would be impressive if we were discussing a world that actually functions that way.” there’s a soft ripple of laughter from the audience. you don’t look at him. “the model assumes reasonable policy intervention. if you’d listened instead of preparing your one-liners, you’d know that.” - “oh, i listened“ he replies lightly. “i just disagree.” jake doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to. he stands with that easy posture, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie slightly loosened like this is beneath him but still worth winning. jake is confident. jake is effortless. jake is the version professors love. “you’re oversimplifying“ you continue, flipping a page without rushing. “short-term volatility doesn’t invalidate long-term structural reform.” - “and blind faith in structure doesn’t prevent collapse“ he counters immediately. “history’s pretty clear on that.” you finally glance at him. he’s already looking at you. there’s something infuriating about the way he debates - not aggressive, not even arrogant exactly, just assured. like he trusts his brain enough not to panic. you don’t have that luxury. you prepare. you outline. you rehearse transitions until they’re automatic. jake improvises. the moderator signals for final statements. you straighten your notes, pulse steady, and deliver your closing with controlled precision. every statistic placed intentionally, every sentence built to corner his argument. when you finish, you hear a few murmurs of approval. good. jake doesn’t check his notes before he begins. he just steps forward, hands loosely clasped, and talks. “my opponent builds beautiful frameworks“ he says calmly, nodding toward you. “they’re detailed, organized, almost airtight. the problem is they assume people act rationally. they assume institutions behave ethically. and if the last decade has taught us anything, it’s that they don’t.” he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t stumble. he adjusts mid-sentence like he’s rearranging thoughts in real time. “and when systems fail“ he finishes, glancing at you again, “flexibility matters more than control.” there’s a beat of silence before applause. you hate that it’s good. the judges deliberate longer than usual. when they return, the head judge smiles politely. “by a margin of three points… jake.” three points. that’s nothing. that’s everything. he leans slightly toward you as the applause starts. “you almost had me.” you gather your papers without looking up. “almost is still losing.” he laughs under his breath. “you’re terrifying when you’re competitive.” “i’m always competitive.”-“yeah“ he says. “i know.”
backstage is crowded, loud, chaotic. someone bumps your shoulder. you barely notice because jake is suddenly right in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact. “you relied too much on theory“ you say quietly. “you relied too much on control.” - “you improvise when you’re cornered.” - “you overprepare because you’re scared.” your jaw tightens. “scared of what?” he studies you for half a second too long. “being wrong.” - “and you’re not?” - “i am“ he says easily. “i just don’t mind it.” that’s a lie. you don’t call him on it. someone from the team claps him on the back. “jaeyun, you’re insane.” he winces slightly. “it’s jake.” they blink. “right. sorry.” he waves it off like he doesn’t care, but you notice the tension in his jaw before he smooths it away. “you’d think after two years they’d learn it“ you mutter and he looks back at you. “did you just defend me?” - “i hate incompetence.” that makes him grin. “sure.” you check your phone out of habit and freeze. there’s an email from the department chair flagged urgent. jake’s phone buzzes at the same time. he glances down, then back up at you, expression shifting from amused to intrigued. “you got that too?”- “apparently.” he steps closer so you can both read from one screen without fully admitting that’s what you’re doing. your shoulders almost touch. you’re aware of it. you ignore it. “top two ranked debaters selected to co-lead the undergraduate policy research initiative“ he reads aloud. “public presentation at the end of the semester. faculty oversight minimal.” you exhale slowly. “you’re kidding.” he looks delighted. “we’re partners.” - “i don’t want to be your partner.”-“and yet“ he says lightly, “fate persists.” you step back first. “this isn’t debate. this is research.” -“i’m aware.”-“you don’t outline.”-“i can outline.”-“you don’t.” - he folds his arms. “you don’t adapt.”- “i adapt.”- “reluctantly.” you stare at each other for a long second. the hallway noise fades into background static. he’s close enough that you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow from some story he once told about rugby at his private school in brisbane. you remember more about him than you’d like. “you’re not taking this seriously“ you say. “i am“ he replies, and for once the teasing edge drops slightly. you answer, “it’s a big opportunity.”- “for you, maybe.” he says. his eyes sharpen. “for you too.” you hesitate. he notices. “you think i don’t know?” he says quietly. “you don’t compete for fun.” you don’t like how observant he is. “i compete to win“ you reply.“same.” -“no“ you say. “you compete because you enjoy it.”-“and you compete because?” you don’t answer. he watches you for a moment longer, then straightens. “we have the briefing tomorrow at ten.” -“you read the whole email?” -“obviously.” you hate that he did. “don’t be late“ you say. he smirks. “i’m never late.” you shake your head. “you’re impossible.” - “and yet“ he says again, softer this time, “we work well together.” you don’t respond because that’s the worst part. when you were forced onto the same side last semester, your arguments flowed. you anticipated each other. you hate how natural it felt. he steps around you to leave, then pauses. “you know“ he adds casually, “if we’re co-leading this, you’ll have to stop looking at me like i’m the enemy.” you meet his gaze evenly. “you are.” he smiles slowly. “that’s the problem.” he walks away before you can decide what that means. you stand there a second longer than necessary, staring at the email again. public presentation. faculty evaluation. visibility. it’s the kind of thing that goes on transcripts. the kind that matters. of course it’s him. sim jaeyun - jake - the boy who makes everything look easy. the boy who improvises brilliance. the boy who interrupts you exactly when it hurts most. and now you’re supposed to build something with him. you don’t know which is worse - losing to him, or having to work beside him. your phone buzzes again.
unknown number.
jake: don’t overthink it. we’ll survive.
you stare at the message. you type back before you can stop yourself.
you: speak for yourself.
three dots appear immediately.
jake: oh, i plan to.
you’ve known jake since freshman year, which means you’ve known him since before he figured out how to win without looking like he was trying. the first week of college, you were already in the library at midnight outlining your coursework when he walked in wearing a hoodie from some brisbane private school, dropped his backpack on the table across from you, and asked if anyone was using the seat next to you. you’d looked up, irritated, because you don’t study socially. he’d smiled like he knew that. “relax“ he’d said back then, noticing your expression. “i’m not here to copy.” you hadn’t replied. you just went back to highlighting. the first ranking list came out six weeks into your first semester. it wasn’t supposed to matter that much, but for you it did. your scholarship isn’t automatic - it’s conditional. top three in the cohort, minimum. fall below that and the funding gets “re-evaluated.” that’s the polite wording they use. re-evaluated means meetings. meetings mean explanations. explanations mean risk. and by midterms, he was ranked first in your cohort. you were second. the worst part wasn’t that he beat you. it was that you never saw him studying. you saw him at campus parties, leaning against kitchen counters with a drink in his hand. you saw pictures of him at football games, at some rooftop event, at someone’s birthday dinner. you saw him laughing. and then you’d see the grades posted. first. jake. - second. you. now, two years later, you’re sitting across from him in a glass-walled study room, the email about the research initiative open between you. he’s scrolling through the proposal guidelines while you already have a notepad out. “we should decide on a topic tonight“ you say, tapping your pen once against the paper. “if we’re presenting at the end of the semester, we need a clear framework.” jake leans back in his chair, arms folded. “it’s been twelve minutes.” - “and?” -“and you’re already planning the presentation.” he adds. “that’s how planning works.” you say. he studies you for a second, then says, “you know we don’t have to treat this like war.” -“it is war“ you reply evenly. “public evaluation. faculty panel. rankings.” he tilts his head slightly. “you really care about rankings.” -“you don’t?” you question. -“i care about doing it well.” -“that’s vague.” he smiles faintly. “you care about beating me.” you don’t deny it. “you make it necessary.”he laughs quietly and leans forward now, elbows on the table. “necessary?” -“you’ve been ahead of me since freshman year.” -“by decimal points.”-“it still counts.” he watches you closely, like he’s deciding whether to push further. “you think i don’t notice you chasing me?” -“i’m not chasing you.” -“sure.” you close your notebook with more force than needed “you don’t even try.” that lands. his expression shifts just slightly. “you think i don’t try?” -“i see you at parties“ you say. “i see you out. i see you doing literally everything except studying.” -“and you assume that’s all i do.”-“isn’t it?” there’s a pause. not dramatic. just longer than comfortable. “i’m efficient“ he says finally. “that’s not an answer.”-“it’s the only one you’re getting.” you hold his gaze. there’s something in his tone that doesn’t match the casual posture. it’s faint, but it’s there. defensive.
you change direction. “we need a policy topic that allows for divided interpretation. something with room for debate.”-“energy reform“ he suggests immediately. -“that’s too predictable.”-“predictable wins.”-“not if it’s boring.”he raises an eyebrow. “you’re worried about boring now?”-“i’m worried about standing out.” he looks amused. “you always stand out.”you ignore that. “housing policy?” -“overdone.”-“immigration?” he hesitates, then nods slightly. “that could work.” you start outlining possible angles. he watches you write for a moment before saying, “you don’t have to prove yourself every five seconds.”-“i’m not,“ you stop writing. “and you don’t get to say that jake”-“why not?” -“because you don’t know what it’s like.” his jaw tightens just slightly. “you think i’ve never had to prove anything?”-“you don’t act like it.”-“and you think acting relaxed means i am?” you open your mouth, then close it again. that’s not how this conversation was supposed to go. jake leans back again, running a hand through his hair. “you don’t see everything.” -“then show me“ you say before you can stop yourself. he studies you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “careful“ he says lightly, but there’s no real humor behind it this time. “you might not like what you see.” your phone buzzes. you glance down. a reminder about tuition deadlines. you lock the screen quickly, but not before he notices. “scholarship stuff?” he asks. -“that’s none of your business, jayeun”-“fair.” you gather your papers “we’ll meet tomorrow at ten. don’t be late.” he smirks slightly. “i’m never late.” - “you were late the first day of freshman orientation“ you remind him. he shakes his head. “i wasn’t late. i walked in after they started talking. that’s different.” -“you missed roll call.” -“i made an entrance“ he says, and this time there’s a flash of that easy grin again. as you head toward the door, he calls after you, “and don’t call me jaeyun in front of people.” you pause. “you don’t like it?” -“it’s not for here“ he says simply. you nod once- whatever that‘s supposed to mean? “fine. jake.” he relaxes slightly at that, like you passed some small test you didn’t know you were taking. as you leave the study room, you tell yourself the irritation in your chest is purely academic. purely competitive. purely about rankings and decimal points and research proposals. it totally has nothing to do with the fact that when he said you always stand out, he meant it.
the next day you’re sitting in chaewon’s apartment with a half-melted iced latte in your hand and five pairs of eyes staring at you like you’ve just announced you’re transferring schools. “you’re co-leading it?” yunjin repeats, leaning forward across the coffee table. “with jake?” - “yes“ you say flatly. “unfortunately.” sakura lets out a low whistle. “that’s either iconic or catastrophic.” -“it’s catastrophic“ you reply immediately. kazuha tilts her head. “it could be iconic.” -“it won’t be.”
eunchae, who’s curled up on the floor next to the couch, glances up from her phone. “isn’t this kind of what you wanted? a big research opportunity?” -“yes“ you say. “not with him.” chaewon crosses her arms. “okay, but explain it again. slowly. why do you hate him?” - “i don’t hate him“ you correct. “you absolutely hate him“ yunjin says. you press your lips together. “he’s just… exhausting.” -“how?” sakura asks. “he’s polite. he holds doors. he apologizes when he bumps into people.” -“that’s performance“ you argue. -“for what audience?” kazuha asks calmly. “for everyone“ you reply. eunchae snorts softly. “that’s dramatic.” -“you didn’t see him yesterday“ you say, sitting up straighter. “he interrupted my rebuttal again. of course he did. perfect timing. perfect tone. he wins by three points and acts like it’s casual.” -“that’s because it is casual for him“ yunjin says. chaewon studies you carefully. “you’re not mad that he wins.” -“yes, i am.”-“no“ she says. “you’re mad that he makes it look easy.” you glare at her. she smiles slightly. sakura stretches her legs out on the couch. “okay but let’s be honest. you two have been number one and two since freshman year. this was inevitable.” -“it didn’t have to be with him“ you insist. “it literally did,“ eunchae says. “the email said top two.” you drop back against the couch cushions. “he doesn’t take anything seriously.” -“have you considered,“ kazuha says mildly, “that maybe you don’t see everything?” you narrow your eyes at her. “you sound like him.” yunjin laughs, “oh my god, you do. that’s exactly what he says.”- “that’s because it’s true“ kazuha replies. you shake your head. “you all see him at parties. that’s it. he’s always out. always somewhere. meanwhile i’m in the library rewriting notes for the fourth time.” sakura raises an eyebrow. “you rewrite your notes four times?” -“that’s not the point.” you argue. chaewon leans forward. “you’re acting like he personally attacked your gpa.” -“he kind of does“ you mutter. eunchae finally sits up properly. “sunghoon says jake barely sleeps during midterms.” you pause “what?” she shrugs. “he mentioned it once. said jake disappears for like three days and no one hears from him.” -“that’s not true“ you say automatically. “it is,“ eunchae insists. “sunghoon was complaining because they had plans and jake canceled.” you hesitate. that doesn’t match the image you’ve built. yunjin notices the shift immediately. “see? you don’t know everything.”
before you can respond, there’s a knock on the door and chaewon calls out, “it’s open!” sunoo walks in first, smiling brightly, followed by jungwon and niki. jungwon drops down next to eunchae without hesitation, greeting her quietly, while niki flops into an empty chair. sunoo looks around at the tension in the room. “why does it feel like someone died?” -“niki’s best friend“ yunjin says sweetly. niki gasps dramatically. “jake?” - “yes“ you say dryly. “spiritually.” sunoo laughs. “what did he do now?” -“he exists“ you reply. sunoo walks over and sits on the armrest of the couch near you. “okay, no, seriously. what happened?” -“he and i got paired for the research initiative“ you say. sunoo’s eyes light up. “oh. that’s perfect.”-“it’s not perfect.” -“it is,“ he insists. “you two are literally the same person.” -“we are not.” -“you’re both competitive. you both overthink. you both pretend you don’t care when you absolutely do.”-“i do not pretend” . jungwon looks between you and sunoo. “why do you guys act like enemies? it’s confusing.”-“because we are“ you say. sunoo tilts his head. “but why?“ you open your mouth, then hesitate. the answer sounds less convincing when you try to say it out loud. “he makes everything look easy.” -“and that’s a crime?” niki asks. “yes. it is.” everyone laughs except you. sunoo leans closer. “be honest. do you actually hate him?”-“i don’t hate him.” -“do you dislike him?”-“yes.”-“why?”-“because he interrupts me.” sunoo blinks. “that’s it?”-“and he wins.”-“by decimal points“ jungwon adds quietly. you glare at him. he raises his hands defensively. sunoo studies you for a long moment before saying, completely serious, “you guys should just fuck.” the room goes silent. “what?” you say. “i’m serious“ sunoo continues. “the tension is insane. it’s exhausting. just fuck once and get it over with.” yunjin bursts out laughing. “i was waiting for someone to say it.” -“i was not“ you snap. chaewon looks amused. “he’s not wrong.” -“he is very wrong.” you insist. sunoo shrugs. “you glare at each other like divorced parents.”-“that’s dramatic.”- “you stand too close“ sakura adds helpfully.-“i do not.”- “you do“ eunchae says. “at debates especially.” -“that’s proximity strategy.” you say. sunoo grins. “sure.” you feel your face heating slightly, which only makes it worse. “there is no tension.” -“there is so much tension“ niki says. “enough that niki and heeseung bet on who will snap first“ jungwon adds casually. you stare at them. “you’re betting on us?” - “not seriously“ niki says quickly. “it’s just… for fun.” you look at sunoo. “you’re encouraging this?” - “i just think“ sunoo says thoughtfully, “that you’re both stubborn and bored. and when stubborn people are bored, they create drama.” - “we are not bored“ you say. -“okay“ he replies lightly. “then why does it bother you that he parties?”-you freeze for half a second. “it doesn’t bother me.” -“it does“ chaewon says gently. sunoo nods. “you think he’s not working as hard as you.” -“he isn’t“ you insist. “you don’t know that“ jungwon says. -“i do.”- “do you?” sunoo asks softly.
the room feels quieter now. yunjin breaks the silence. “okay, but regardless, you two leading the research project together is objectively entertaining.” -“i don’t want entertaining“ you say. “i want stable.”-“you’re in college“ niki says. “nothing is stable.” sunoo leans back, crossing his arms. “when’s your first official meeting?” -“tomorrow morning.” he grins slowly. “can’t wait.”-“you’re not invited.”-“i don’t need to be“ he replies. “i’ll hear about it anyway.” eunchae glances at jungwon. “please don’t make this a group event.”- “no promises“ jungwon says lightly. you stand up abruptly. “you’re all impossible.”-“and yet“ sunoo says, smiling at you, “you keep hanging out with us.” you hesitate at that. because despite everything, despite the rivalry and the rankings and the decimal points, this - sitting in a messy apartment arguing about nothing - feels easier than the quiet intensity of that glass study room. “just don’t let it ruin you“ chaewon says gently as you grab your bag. “it won’t“ you reply. sunoo tilts his head again. “you sure?” he studies you one last time before saying, “for what it’s worth, he doesn’t hate you.” you pause “i didn’t ask.”-“i know“ sunoo says. you leave before anyone can say anything else, your mind louder than it was when you arrived.
you’re walking across campus with yunjin when your phone buzzes with a message from jake.
jake: study room b. don’t be late.
you glance at the screen and scoff. “he really thinks he’s in charge.”yunjin looks over at you as you both step around a group of freshmen blocking the sidewalk. “who?” - “jake“ you reply, slipping your phone back into your bag. “he booked the room and now he’s acting like i work for him.” yunjin hums thoughtfully. “maybe he just doesn’t trust you to show up.” you give her a look. “i’m always on time.”-“that’s true“ she admits with a grin. “you’re aggressively punctual.” you cross your arms as you walk. “he texted ‘don’t be late.’ like i’ve ever been late to anything.” yunjin laughs softly. “he likes getting under your skin.”-“he’s not under my skin.” -“sure.” you stop outside the academic building and glance at the time. you’re five minutes early “go“ yunjin says, nudging you lightly. “i have class in ten. try not to murder him.”-“no promises“ you reply. she grins and heads down the hallway toward her lecture room while you take the stairs up to the study rooms. as you approach study room b, you can already hear laughter inside. you frown. you push the door open and freeze for half a second. jake is sitting on the table instead of in a chair, sleeves pushed up, laptop open in front of him. niki is sprawled in one of the chairs, leaning back dangerously far, feet propped against the table leg. niki is mid-sentence when he notices you. “oh, look“ he says, straightening slightly. “she’s here.” jake glances toward the door and smiles faintly. “you’re early.” -“i’m on time“ you correct as you step inside. “you’re early.” niki looks between the two of you with open amusement. “wow. already fighting. we’re thirty seconds in.” - “we’re not fighting“ you say. jake tilts his head and says “you sound defensive.” -“i’m not defensive.” -“you somehow always are“ niki says cheerfully. you set your bag down on the table and look at niki. “why are you here?” - “i’m supervising“ niki replies, completely serious. “supervising what?” you ask. “whatever this is.” he gestures loosely between you and jake. jake lets out a quiet laugh and closes his laptop halfway. “ignore him.” -“i am not ignoring him“ you say, pulling out your notebook.
“this is supposed to be a work session.” -“it is“ jake replies calmly. “we were just… warming up.”- “by laughing?” - “yes“ niki says. “it’s something people do.” you shoot him a look. “do you not have somewhere to be?” niki pretends to check an imaginary watch. “actually, i cleared my schedule for this.” jake shakes his head slightly. “you don’t have a class?” -“i do“ niki admits. “in twenty minutes.” -“then why are you here?” you ask again. niki leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “because i heart you two got paired, and i wanted to see the tension in real time.” - “there is no tension“ you say immediately. jake raises an eyebrow at you. “you just said that very quickly.” -“that’s because it’s true.” . niki grins. “you two look like you’re about to argue over who gets the better chair.” jake slides off the table and gestures toward the chair across from him. “take it. i don’t want it.” you narrow your eyes slightly. “i wasn’t asking.” -“see?” niki says, pointing between you. “that.”. jake glances at niki with mild amusement. “you’re exaggerating.” -“no, i’m not“ niki insists. “he’s been pretending he doesn’t care all morning.” you turn your attention to jake. “you don’t care?” jake leans back against the table, crossing his arms loosely. “about what?” -“about this project.” he looks at you steadily. “i care.”-“it doesn’t look like it“ you reply. niki makes a dramatic gasp. “oh, she went there.” jake’s jaw tightens slightly, though his tone stays even. “we’ve been here ten minutes.” -“and you were joking around“ you say. -“with my friend“ he replies. “before you got here.” you hold his gaze for a second too long. “we agreed to take this seriously.” -“i am taking it seriously“ jake says. “relax.” you hate that word. “i am relaxed“ you say, sitting down across from him and opening your notebook. niki watches the exchange like it’s live entertainment. “you know“ he says thoughtfully, “if you guys just admitted you get turned on by arguing with each other, this would be easier.” jake rolls his eyes slightly. “you’re projecting.” - “i told you i’m supervising“ niki corrects. you ignore him and flip to your outlined topic ideas. “we’re doing immigration policy“ you say, glancing at jake. “unless you’ve changed your mind overnight.” -“i haven’t“ jake replies. “economic integration versus resource strain.”-“good“ you say. “i drafted a preliminary framework.” jake pushes off the table and takes the seat across from you. he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “let’s see it.” you slide your notebook toward him. he scans it quickly, eyes moving fast. niki shifts in his chair and watches jake’s expression carefully. jake nods once. “this is solid.”-“that’s it?” you ask. “what do you want, applause?” he replies lightly. -“i want critique.” -he studies the page again. “you’re focusing heavily on structural reform. we should balance it with adaptive local policies.” -“that weakens the central thesis“ you argue. “no“ jake says calmly. “it strengthens it by showing flexibility.” niki glances between you. “wow. this is intense.” you both ignore him. jake taps one of your bullet points. “if we frame it as binary, the panel will push back.” -“they always push back“ you reply. “exactly.” he says. you hesitate. he’s not wrong. niki leans back again. “you two talk like you’re negotiating a peace treaty.”-“we’re building an argument“ you say.
“it sounds like marriage counseling“ niki says. jake huffs out a small laugh despite himself. “can you leave?”-“in a minute“ niki replies cheerfully. you pull your notebook back slightly and look at jake. “if we incorporate adaptive policies, we need stronger case studies.” -“i can handle that“ jake says. you raise an eyebrow. “can you?” he meets your gaze evenly. “yes.” niki watches that exchange carefully, then smirks. “you don’t trust him.” - “i trust data“ you reply. jake tilts his head. “you just don’t trust me.”-“that’s different.”-“how?”-“because you improvise.”-“and you don’t“ he says. “that’s why this works.”-you frown slightly. “works?”-“we balance each other“ he says simply. the air shifts just slightly at that. niki notices immediately. “oh my god“ he mutters under his breath. you ignore him again. “we need to divide tasks.” jake nods. “i’ll handle case studies and adaptive frameworks. you refine the structural argument and gather economic data.”-“that’s reasonable“ you admit.niki claps softly. “look at that. cooperation.”jake throws him a look. “you’re insufferable.”-“i learned from the best“ niki replies, grinning.you close your notebook. “if you’re done supervising, you can go.” niki checks his phone and stands up dramatically. “fine. my class is starting. but before i leave-” he points between you and jake. “try not to kill each other.”-“we won’t“ jake says dryly. niki pauses at the door and looks back at you. “you know he doesn’t actually think this is easy, right?”jake immediately says, “niki.”-“i’m just saying“ niki continues, ignoring him. “she assumes things.” you cross your arms. “i don’t assume.” -“you do“ niki says lightly. “both of you do.” jake stands up slightly. “go to class.” niki laughs and opens the door. “have fun, kids.” he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. silence settles into the room.
you exhale slowly. “he’s dramatic.” jake sits back down and opens his laptop again. “he’s bored.” -“you find that funny?” -“i do“ he admits. you narrow your eyes. “of course you do.”he glances at you. “you don’t?”-“no.”-“that’s unfortunate.” you shake your head and look down at your notes again, trying to refocus. the room feels different now that niki is gone. quieter. smaller. jake clears his throat softly. “you really think i don’t work.” it’s not phrased like a joke this time.you don’t look up immediately. “i think you don’t look like you’re working.”-“that’s basically the same thing.”-you finally meet his eyes. “then what is it?”he holds your gaze for a moment before answering. “it’s just not as visible.”-“that’s vague“ you say. “i know“ he replies. you study him carefully. he doesn’t look defensive now. just tired. “why do you care what i think?” you ask quietly. he leans back slightly, considering that. “because you’re the only one who competes with me like it matters.” -“it does matter.” -“i know“ he says. the way he says it makes something tighten in your chest. you break eye contact first and flip to a new page in your notebook. “let’s just work.” he nods once. “okay.” for the next several minutes, you fall into a rhythm. you outline. he types. you debate phrasing. he adjusts it. the arguments sharpen.
the tension doesn’t disappear, but it changes shape-less sharp, more focused. for a while, the only sounds in the study room are the quiet tapping of jake’s keyboard and the soft scratch of your pen moving across paper. the earlier teasing from niki feels distant now. the air has shifted into something focused, almost tense in a different way. jake suddenly stops typing. you look up immediately. “why did you stop?” you ask, your pen hovering above the page. jake doesn’t answer right away. he narrows his eyes slightly at his screen and scrolls upward. “hold on“ he mutters, leaning closer to his laptop. you straighten in your chair. “what?” jake tilts the screen slightly toward you. “did you download this dataset directly from the initiative portal?” he asks, tapping the trackpad. “yes“ you reply, leaning forward to see better. “it’s the one linked in the official brief.” jake scrolls again, slower this time. “look at the resource strain percentages from 2018 to 2020“ he says, his voice losing its casual edge. you move your chair closer and scan the column. “they increase gradually“ you say. “that’s consistent.” -“too consistent“ jake replies, glancing at you briefly before looking back at the screen. “real-world immigration strain doesn’t trend that cleanly. especially not across multiple regions.” you frown. “it could be averaged.” -“it is averaged“ jake says, pointing at the methodology note. “that’s the issue.” you pull your own laptop toward you and open the public government archive you bookmarked yesterday. “give me a second“ you say as you start searching for the original data. jake watches silently while you compare the figures side by side. your stomach drops. “these don’t even match“ you say quietly, your eyes flicking between the two screens. jake nods once. “i noticed.”
you scroll faster, your jaw tightening. “the university dataset rounds up in some regions“ you say slowly. “and rounds down in others.” jake leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “it balances out to reinforce a specific trend.” you shake your head. “no. it can’t be intentional.” jake studies your expression. “you see it too.” you don’t respond. instead, you double-check the years again, hoping you misread something. the numbers remain the same. jake exhales slowly. “if we use their version, our argument is skewed“ he says, his tone controlled but firm. “it’s the official dataset“ you reply, closing your laptop halfway. “it’s the provided dataset“ jake corrects. you stand up from your chair and take a few steps toward the glass wall, trying to think.
“you’re suggesting the university manipulated research data for a student initiative?“ you say carefully. -“i’m saying the dataset was curated“ jake replies as he stands as well, resting his hands on the table. “and not transparently.” you turn back to face him. “that’s a serious claim.” -“it’s an observable discrepancy“ he counters. you cross your arms. “if we accuse them of manipulating data, we jeopardize the entire project.” jake steps slightly closer to the table. “if we ignore it, we jeopardize our credibility.”-“that’s dramatic“ you say. -“it’s accurate“ jake replies, his voice sharpening slightly. you shake your head. “you don’t know why it was adjusted.”-“and neither do you“ he responds evenly. “but you’re assuming bad intent“ you argue. “and you’re assuming good intent“ he fires back. you take a breath, trying to steady yourself. “we don’t need to escalate this. we can adjust our framework so we rely less heavily on those specific figures.” jake studies you for a moment before asking, “so you want to work around it?”-“i want to be strategic“ you say. jake lets out a short breath through his nose. “strategic“ he repeats, though there’s frustration underneath the word. “yes“ you insist. “there’s no reason to challenge faculty-provided material unless absolutely necessary.” jake steps fully away from the table now, running a hand through his hair as he processes that. “you care more about how this looks than whether it’s accurate“ he says quietly. “that’s not fair“ you reply immediately, your voice tightening. jake looks directly at you. “it is fair. you’re calculating risk before you’re evaluating integrity.” -“i’m evaluating consequences“ you correct. “you’re protecting your ranking“ he says. you feel your pulse spike. “this affects ranking“ you reply. “public evaluation affects scholarship.” jake’s expression shifts slightly. “so this is about being first again.” -“it’s about staying funded“ you snap. “you know that.” jake hesitates for half a second before saying, “you think i don’t have stakes here?”
“you’ll be fine either way“ you reply, your voice sharper than you intend. “you always are.” jake’s jaw tightens. “you really think that.” - “you make it look easy“ you say. “you always have.” he takes a step closer, though not aggressively. “looking easy doesn’t mean it is“ he says, his tone lower now. “then why not prove that?” you challenge. jake stares at you for a moment before answering. “because i don’t owe you a performance of my struggle.” the words hit harder than you expect. you fold your arms tighter. “if we call out the discrepancy, it draws attention. attention means scrutiny.” -“and scrutiny isn’t bad if we’re right“ jake replies.“it is if we’re dismissed“ you argue. “we’re undergraduates.”- “so what?” he asks. “if we find inconsistencies, we address them.” -“not by accusing them outright“ you insist.jake shakes his head. “you’re compromising.”-“i’m adapting“ you reply. “you’re compromising“ he repeats, firmer now. “and you’re idealizing“ you shoot back. jake looks away for a second before meeting your gaze again. “if this were reversed“ he says carefully, “and i brought you flawed data and told you to ignore it, you’d destroy me.”-“that’s different“ you reply immediately. “how?” he presses. “because you’re my partner“ you say, then realize how that sounds. jake notices. his expression flickers. “and the university isn’t?” he asks quietly. “that’s not what i meant“ you say quickly. jake studies you, something unreadable in his eyes. “you trust them more than you trust me“ he says. “that’s not true“ you respond, though your voice lacks certainty. jake exhales sharply. “you think i can afford to challenge this because i went to private school?“ he says. “you think i’ve had it easy.” -“you have connections“ you reply. “you have options.” -“and you think that equals safety?” he asks, his voice tightening. “you do have a safety net jake.“ you insist. jake goes very still at that. “you don’t know anything about my safety net“ he says, his tone controlled but strained. “then explain it“ you reply. for a moment, it looks like he might. instead, he steps back and shakes his head. “this isn’t about that“ he says. “it is“ you argue. “because you can afford to risk conflict.”-“and you think i want to?” he asks. “yes, apparently” you say. jake laughs once, but there’s no humor in it. “you don’t know me“ he says. “yeah, maybe i don’t“ you reply. silence stretches between you. jake finally says, “i’m not building our project on altered data.” - “and i’m not tanking our evaluation over something we can strategically navigate“ you reply.
“it’s not a minor thing“ he says. “it can be managed“ you respond. jake looks at you steadily. “you’re afraid.” you lift your chin. “jake, i’m realistic.” he studies you for a moment longer before saying, “running from it won’t fix it.” - “i’m not running“ you reply as you grab your bag from the chair. jake watches you. “you are“ he says quietly. you move toward the door. “we’ll revisit this tomorrow.” -“you can’t avoid this forever“ jake says as you reach for the handle. you pause briefly but don’t turn around. “watch me“ you reply before opening the door and stepping into the hallway.
it’s been three days since the study room. three days of short, strictly necessary texts from jake about scheduling. three days of you avoiding any conversation that isn’t logistical. three days of replaying that argument in your head and getting more annoyed every time. now you’re sitting cross-legged on chaewon’s bedroom floor while sakura flips through something on her phone and yunjin lies on the bed staring at the ceiling. kazuha is sitting against the wall with a notebook in her lap, and eunchae is leaning back against jungwon’s hoodie like she lives here. “you’re quieter than usual“ yunjin says, turning her head slightly to look at you. “i’m fine“ you reply, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. chaewon glances at you from her desk chair. “that means you’re not fine.” -“i’m just busy“ you say. “with the project?” sakura asks without looking up from her phone. “yes.” yunjin shifts onto her side. “you and jake still not talking properly?”-“we are talking“ you correct. “we’re communicating.”-“that sounds worse“ sakura says.“it’s efficient“ you reply.chaewon narrows her eyes slightly. “what happened?” you hesitate for half a second, then shrug. “we disagreed about data interpretation.”-“that sounds academic“ kazuha says calmly. “it was“ you insist. yunjin sits up slightly. “that’s not what you look like when it’s academic.” you glare at her. “what does that even mean?” -“it means you look like you’re personally offended“ she replies. “i’m not,“ you exhale slowly. “the dataset they gave us was adjusted.”-“adjusted how?” sakura asks. “inconsistent with public records“ you explain. “he wants to call it out.”-“and you don’t?” kazuha asks. “it’s not that simple,“ you say quickly. “if we accuse them of manipulating data, that reflects on us.” eunchae tilts her head. “but if it’s wrong, isn’t that worse?” - “it’s not wrong,“ you argue. “it’s curated.”-“that sounds like wrong with extra steps“ yunjin says. you shoot her a look. “it’s nuanced.” chaewon leans back in her chair. “and you two argued.” - “yes“ you admit. “how bad?” sakura asks. “not too bad“ you say. “scale of one to dramatic“ yunjin presses. you hesitate. “maybe… a six.” eunchae raises her eyebrows. “that’s high for you.”-“it wasn’t dramatic,“ you say defensively. “it was controlled.”-“that’s your version of dramatic“ sakura mutters.
there’s a knock on the door and jungwon pokes his head in. “are we interrupting?” “we?” eunchae repeats. sunoo walks in behind jungwon, smiling like he already knows something. “group therapy?” he asks, glancing around. “no“ you say immediately. sunoo sits on the edge of the bed anyway. “you look like you need it.”-“i don’t“ you reply. jungwon steps fully inside and sits next to eunchae. “jake’s been weird“ he says casually. your head lifts. “weird how?” sunoo glances at jungwon with interest. “oh?” jungwon shrugs. “quieter.” - “that’s not weird“ you say. “for him it is“ jungwon replies. yunjin looks at you slowly. “your fighting made him quieter, damn.” - “we debated“ you correct. sunoo studies you carefully. “about the data?” you blink. “how do you know that?” sunoo gives you a look. “because i know him.”- “that doesn’t mean you know this“ you say. “he mentioned it“ jungwon adds. you straighten. “what did he say?”- “that you think he’s reckless“ jungwon answers honestly. you look away. “and that you think he has it easy“ sunoo says gently. your jaw tightens. “i never said that.” sunoo doesn’t argue. he just looks at you like he doesn’t need to. eunchae shifts slightly. “okay, new topic before this gets intense.” -“yes“ sakura agrees quickly. eunchae glances at jungwon. “you should tell them.” jungwon looks mildly amused. “you can.” eunchae turns to you. “there’s a party tomorrow night.” you blink. “what does that have to do with anything?”- “it’s at heeseung’s place“ jungwon explains. “small thing.” - “small?” sunoo repeats with a grin. “that’s a lie.”- “it’s manageable“ jungwon corrects. eunchae smiles slightly. “he invited me.” - “and?” you ask.- “and i thought we could all go“ she says. you immediately shake your head. “no.” yunjin groans. “you didn’t even think about it.” - “i don’t want to go“ you say. “because he’ll be there?” sakura asks carefully. “that’s not why“ you reply. “then why?” chaewon presses. “i have work, plus i never party” you say. “it’s friday“ yunjin replies. “i still have work.”-“you’ve been locked in your room for three days“ sakura says. “you need air.”- “i go outside“ you say. “walking between classes doesn’t count“ yunjin replies. sunoo leans back on his hands. “you two need to stop acting like divorced co-founders.”- “we’re not acting like anything“ you say sharply. jungwon looks at you calmly. “he hasn’t said anything bad about you.”- “i didn’t say he did.” - “you assumed he would“ sunoo says lightly. you cross your arms. “i don’t assume.”- “you do“ chaewon says gently. you look at eunchae. “you’re going?”- “yes“ she says simply. “and you want all of us to go?”- “yes.” kazuha closes her notebook. “it might actually help.”
“help what?” you ask. “break the tension“ she replies. “there is no tension“ you say. sunoo laughs quietly. “you’re very committed to that narrative.” yunjin sits up fully now. “you’ve been spiraling over this argument for days.” -“i have not.”- “you have“ sakura says. “it was an academic disagreement.”- “then why do you look personally offended?” chaewon asks. you open your mouth, then close it again. sunoo glances at jungwon before speaking. “he’s not trying to undermine you.”- “i didn’t say he was“ you reply. “you kinda did“ jungwon says. you exhale sharply. “he thinks i’m compromising.” - “and you think he’s reckless“ sunoo replies. you look at him. “he is.” sunoo shrugs. “sometimes.”- “exactly.”- “but he’s not careless“ jungwon says. you hesitate. eunchae leans forward slightly. “just come tomorrow“ she says gently. “you don’t have to talk to him.”- “that’s unrealistic“ you reply. “then don’t argue“ sakura says. “he argues with me“ you counter. “and you argue back“ yunjin says. you fall quiet. chaewon stands up and walks toward you, handing you a bottle of water. “you don’t have to prove anything at a party“ she says calmly. “i’m not proving anything.”- “you always try to“ she replies softly. that stings more than you expect. sunoo glances at jungwon again before saying, “he’s going to be there regardless.”- “i know“ you say. “and if you don’t go“ sunoo continues, “you’re still going to think about it, and it’s really not that deep” you glare at him. “you’re very invested in this.”- “i enjoy chaos“ he replies. eunchae nudges jungwon lightly. “tell her.” jungwon sighs slightly. “jake almost didn’t want to go.” you look up sharply. “why?” jungwon shrugs. “said he wasn’t in the mood.” your chest tightens for a second before you push it down. “why would i care, that’s not my problem.”-“no one said it was“ sunoo replies. “it kind of is“ yunjin mutters. you look at her. “how?”- “well, you’re both avoiding each other because of some stupid data” she says. “i’m not avoiding him.”- “you haven’t met outside scheduled sessions“ sakura points out. “that’s intentional.”-“exactly“ yunjin says.
there’s a long pause. eunchae finally says softly, “just come. if it’s awful, we leave early.” you look around the room. five faces watching you. not judging. just waiting. “i don’t want to talk to him, i’ll just work on my part of the project alone.” you say. sunoo laughs. “he’s fun when he drinks.” - “that’s not reassuring“ you reply. “it should be“ jungwon says. you run a hand through your hair. “fine.” everyone perks up slightly. “i’ll go“ you clarify. “but i’m not staying late.” chaewon smiles faintly. “deal.”- “and if he starts something“ you add, “i’m leaving.” - “he definetly won’t“ sunoo says confidently. “you don’t know that.” - “i do“ he replies. you look away, staring at the floor for a second. tomorrow evening. a party. the thought unsettles you more than you’d like. “don’t overthink it“ yunjin says, like she read your mind. “i’m not“ you lie. sunoo stands up, stretching slightly. “this is going to be fun.”- “you’re enjoying this too much“ you tell him. “i’m just saying it will be fun. i promise” he replies with a grin.
heeseung’s house is louder than you expected. you hear the music before you even reach the gate, bass thudding through the warm evening air. yunjin walks ahead of you like she belongs here, sakura beside her already laughing at something chaewon said. kazuha is walking calmly at your side, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, while eunchae is texting jungwon. “i can still leave“ you mutter under your breath. yunjin glances over her shoulder immediately. “no.” - “i didn’t say anything“ you reply. “you were thinking loudly“ sakura says, pushing open the gate. the yard is already full. not packed, but crowded enough that you can’t slip in unnoticed. there are groups gathered around the patio, has set up speakers near the sliding doors, and the living room inside is lit with that dim, warm light that makes everything feel softer than it is. you step inside with the others and immediately scan the room out of habit. jake is across the living room near the kitchen island. you notice him because he’s laughing louder than usually. not the controlled, polite debate-team smile. not the half-smirk he uses when he’s about to interrupt you. it’s fuller, easier. he’s leaning back against the counter with a red plastic cup in his hand, sleeves pushed up, head tilted slightly as jay says something animated in front of him. niki is half sitting on the counter, and sunoo is talking with his hands like he’s telling a dramatic story. jake looks relaxed. you look away first. “okay“ chaewon says quietly beside you, following your gaze. “we’re not staring.”-“i wasn’t“ you reply. “i was observing the room.”-“academically?” sakura asks sweetly. eunchae’s phone buzzes and she smiles. “jungwon’s in the kitchen.”- “obviously“ yunjin mutters. “where else would he be?” you take a breath and step further into the house. the music shifts into something louder, and someone near the couch cheers for no clear reason. sunoo is the first to notice your group. he lights up immediately and waves both hands. “they made it!” jake turns his head at that. your eyes meet for half a second. he raises his cup slightly in acknowledgment. you nod once. that’s it. no confrontation. just recognition. thankfully.
sunoo pushes off the counter and weaves through the crowd toward you. “you actually came“ he says, sounding genuinely impressed. “i said i would“ you reply. “i didn’t believe you“ he admits cheerfully. “you’re very supportive“ you tell him. niki appears behind him a second later. “i give her an hour“ he says, glancing at you. “before she leaves.”-“i’m staying“ you reply. “we’ll see“ niki says. jungwon steps forward next, immediately slipping an arm around eunchae’s waist. “you found it okay?” he asks her. “yes“ eunchae says with a small smile. heeseung appears from somewhere near the hallway. “drinks are in the kitchen“ he announces. “if you don’t like what’s there, that’s a you problem.”-“that’s comforting“ sakura says. you follow the group toward the kitchen. jake is still leaning against the counter when you approach. up close, you notice his eyes are slightly softer than usual and there’s a faint flush across his cheeks. he’s not drunk. but he’s not entirely sober either. he looks at you and says, “you made it“ his tone light but steady. “i said i would“ you reply. he tilts his head slightly. “i know.” there’s something about the way he says it that feels layered, but you don’t dwell on it. jay claps jake on the shoulder. “we were betting on whether you’d show“ he says to you. “do you have a gambling problem?” you ask flatly. “just friendly speculation“ jay corrects. “she was coming“ jake says casually, taking another sip from his cup. you glance at him. “you sound confident.” jake shrugs. “you don’t back out of things.” you don’t respond to that as chaewon moves past you to grab a drink from the counter. “what’s safe?” she asks heeseung. “nothing“ heeseung replies immediately. yunjin laughs. “that’s reassuring.” sunoo hands you a cup without asking what you want. “start light“ he advises. “i’m not planning to get drunk“ you tell him. “famous last words“ niki says. you take a cautious sip. it’s stronger than you expected. jake notices your expression and smirks slightly. “too much?” - “it’s fine“ you say. he studies you for a second longer than necessary before looking away.
the kitchen grows louder as more people filter in. someone turns the music up again. jungwon and eunchae drift slightly toward the living room couch together. jay and heeseung start arguing about something sports-related. you find yourself standing in a loose circle with chaewon, sakura, yunjin, kazuha, sunoo, niki, and jake hovering just slightly off to the side. sunoo looks around at the combined group and claps his hands once. “okay. we’re merging.“- “we’re not countries“ you reply. “speak for yourself“ niki says. “i’m a sovereign state.”-“you’re barely functional“ sakura tells him. jake laughs quietly at that. you pretend not to notice how easy it sounds. sunoo gestures between everyone. “this is good. cross-cultural exchange.”-“we go to the same university“ kazuha points out calmly. “still counts“ sunoo insists. heeseung leans against the fridge and surveys the group. “are we doing something or just standing here like we‘re in a debate?”-“we can do both“ you say. jake looks at you immediately. “you would.” you meet his gaze. “you wouldn’t?” he tilts his head. “depends.” -“on?” you ask. “how competitive you’re feeling tonight“ he replies. niki groans dramatically. “don’t start.”-“i’m not starting“ you say at the same time jake says, “relax.” sunoo looks between you both. “you two talk like you’re in a panel discussion.”-“it’s a habit“ jake says lightly. “break it“ yunjin tells him. jake raises an eyebrow at her. “you first.” she laughs. “not my rivalry.” -“it’s not a rivalry“ you say automatically.niki points at you. “you said that very fast.” jake takes another sip of his drink, watching the exchange with mild amusement. he doesn’t jump in this time. chaewon nudges you gently. “loosen up“ she murmurs. “i am loose“ you reply. sunoo looks at jake and then back at you. “he’s already ahead of you.” - “i’m not competing“ you say. jake finally steps closer into the circle. “you’re always competing“ he says casually. “with you?” you ask. “with everyone“ he replies. “that’s projection“ you say. niki looks between you. “see, this is why we needed you here. the energy is unmatched.” heeseung nods. “it was too calm before.” you roll your eyes. “you’re welcome.”
sunoo suddenly looks inspired. “okay, we’re playing something.”- “we just got here“ kazuha says. “exactly“ sunoo replies. “prime time.” - “not yet“ jungwon calls from the couch. “give it ten minutes.” jake glances at you again. “you planning to stay?” he asks, tone neutral. “for now“ you reply. he nods once. “good, you really need to loosen up a bit.” you study him for a moment. “you smell like cheap beer.” he doesn’t deny it. “a little.” - “already?” you ask. “it’s been longer than you think“ he says. “you got here early?” you ask. he shrugs. “helped set up.” you pause at that. you hadn’t expected that answer. before you can respond, jay calls jake’s name from across the room. jake glances over, then back at you. he nods once, then moves away toward jay. you watch him go for half a second before chaewon snaps her fingers in front of your face. “eyes up“ she says. “i wasn’t-” you start. “you were“ sakura says. you take another sip of your drink and decide not to answer. the group slowly spreads out into smaller conversations, but there’s an underlying pull that keeps everyone within the same area. jungwon drifts back toward the kitchen with eunchae still at his side. niki climbs onto one of the bar stools. sunoo is narrating something dramatic again. jake returns a few minutes later, cup refilled. he stands slightly closer this time. “you’re quieter than usual“ he says, looking at you rather than the group. “i’m listening“ you reply. “to what?” he asks. “everything“ you say. he studies you for a moment, then nods slightly like that answer makes sense. across the room, someone cheers loudly. the music shifts again. sunoo suddenly raises his voice. “okay, that’s enough standing. we’re doing something.“- “what?” heeseung asks. “we‘re socializing like adults. let‘s playing something.” sunoo says. heeseung groans from the armchair. “define something.” - “never have i ever“ sunoo declares.“that sounds threatening“ sakura says. jake drops down onto the rug across from you, legs stretched out, leaning back on his hands. “i’m in“ he says easily, already sounding a little looser than earlier. niki drags a coffee table slightly out of the way to make space. jungwon sits down beside eunchae, automatically pulling her closer. jay flops down next to jake, and chaewon settles cross-legged beside you.
“rules“ sunoo says, raising his cup. “you say something you’ve never done. anyone who has done it drinks.”-“simple“ kazuha says. “and no lying“ niki adds. jake tilts his head slightly. “who’s enforcing that?”-“i am“ niki says. “you can’t even enforce your own bedtime“ jay tells him. sunoo points dramatically. “i’ll start.” he clears his throat like he’s about to present a thesis. “never have i ever pretended to understand a reading in class.” there’s immediate movement. heeseung drinks. jay drinks. niki drinks. jake raises his cup without hesitation and takes a sip. you look around, unimpressed. yunjin squints at you. “you’re not drinking?“- “i’ve never pretended“ you say calmly. jake lets out a soft laugh. “of course you haven’t.” - “have you?” you ask. jake lowers his cup and looks at you. “absolutely.” you raise an eyebrow. “that explains a lot.” he smirks slightly. “you say that like you’ve never winged a seminar.”-“i always prepare“ you reply. “obsessively“ niki adds. sunoo points at you. “see, this is what i mean. she’s terrifying.” -“it’s called competence“ you correct. jake tips his cup slightly toward you. “relax, professor.” you narrow your eyes. “i’m not tense.” sunoo claps again. “next!” jay leans forward. “never have i ever skipped a lecture to go out.” multiple people drink immediately. jake drinks again without hesitation. you don’t move. niki notices and looks at you suspiciously. “you’ve never skipped?” - “no“ you reply. “not even once?” sakura asks. “i don’t skip lectures“ you say. jake shakes his head slowly, smiling faintly. “that’s insane.” he gestures vaguely with his cup. “you need to live a little.”- “and you all need to attend class“ you shoot back. he laughs, louder this time. “i attend.”- “you arrive late“ you say. “that’s different“ he insists. “that’s worse“ you reply. sunoo is watching the two of you like this is premium entertainment. “is this considered academic foreplay?“ he mutters. “shut up“ you say automatically. jake nearly chokes on his drink laughing. jungwon clears his throat, amused. “my turn.” he looks around thoughtfully. “never have i ever argued with a professor during class.” there’s a pause. then jake drinks. niki drinks enthusiastically. “you’ve argued?” you ask them. jake wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “multiple times.”- “of course you have“ you say. he leans slightly toward you. “you haven’t?”-“i pick my battles“ you reply. “you avoid some of them“ he counters. “that’s called strategy.”-“that’s called fear of confrontation“ he says, grinning. you lean back slightly. “you’re tipsy.”-“and?” he asks. “it’s making you louder“ you reply. “it’s making him honest“ niki says. sunoo whistles softly. “oh, that’s a line.” jake waves him off. “relax.” chaewon nudges you. “you’re still not drinking.” you shrug slightly. “i’m pacing.” niki leans forward suddenly, resting his elbows on his knees. “okay“ he says casually, glancing around the circle. “we’re done pretending this is educational.” sunoo smirks. “it never was.” niki lifts his cup. “never have i ever hooked up in a university bathroom.” there’s a brief pause. then jungwon takes a sip without looking up. jay drinks. heeseung drinks. yunjin drinks. jake lifts his cup and drinks too, barely reacting. eunchae rolls her eyes lightly at jungwon. “freshman year?” jungwon shrugs. “allegedly.” kazuha shakes her head but doesn’t look surprised.
jay nudges niki. “you definitely asked that because you have a story.“- “i always have a story“ niki replies. sunoo points lazily. “most likely to hook up somewhere public.” this time, a few people point at niki immediately. niki grins. “probably.” jake doesn’t vote. he’s staring vaguely at the ceiling like he’s half listening. chaewon takes a small sip and shakes her head. “you’re all predictable.” - “your turn“ heeseung says, gesturing at her. chaewon considers it for a moment. “never have i flirted with a ta for a better grade.” there’s quiet laughter. jay drinks. niki drinks. heeseung drinks slowly. jake doesn’t. jake glances at jay. “that’s embarrassing.” jay shrugs. “it worked once.”-“you’re admitting that?” sakura asks calmly. jay nods. “proudly.” the game keeps moving without much structure now. people speak when they feel like it. heeseung raises his cup. “never have i ever pulled an all-nighter and cried about it.” that one hits differently. jungwon drinks.yunjin drinks. you take a small sip this time. jake hesitates, then drinks too. niki notices you drinking again and squints. “you’re way too sober.”-“i need to drive later“ you reply. he shrugs and moves on. jay leans forward next. “most likely to ghost someone after one date.” sakura points at niki immediately. niki raises his cup. “i have standards.”-“you have attachement issues“ sunoo corrects. jake laughs under his breath at that and reaches blindly for a refill from a bottle near the table, misjudging slightly before steadying himself. he’s definitely drunk now. jungwon raises an eyebrow at jake. “you good?” jake nods once. “perfect.” niki smirks. “that means no.” kazuha looks thoughtful. “never have i ever thought about dropping my major.” a few people drink. you don’t. jake does. he doesn’t look at anyone when he does it. the detail lingers quietly in your mind, but you don’t acknowledge it. sunoo glances at him briefly, then deliberately looks away like he’s not going to push. eunchae speaks next. “most likely to burn out before graduation.”a few people point at jay. jay protests weakly.no one points at you this time. jake watches the votes but doesn’t say anything. niki suddenly shifts the energy again.
“okay. it’s getting boring again. who’s the hottest person in this room?” there’s a collective groan, but no one looks shocked. heeseung immediately gestures vaguely around. “broad category.” - “pick one“ niki insists. sakura laughs. “that’s dangerous.”-“exactly“ niki replies. jay shrugs. “jungwon.” jungwon blinks. “what?” - “you have good hair“ jay says. jungwon nods thoughtfully. “valid.” heeseung points at kazuha. kazuha stares at him flatly. “why?”-“because you look calm“ he replies. “that’s your standard?” she asks. jake laughs again, softer this time, and lifts his cup lazily. “this is chaotic.” niki points directly at him. “answer.” jake looks around the circle slowly, clearly thinking much longer than necessary. jake finally gestures vaguely toward the group. “statistically impossible to choose.” - “that’s a cop-out“ niki says. jake shrugs. “i’m diplomatic.”- “you’re so fucking drunk“ jungwon corrects. jake smiles lazily. “also true.” the game continues without structure now - people throwing out “never have i ever” and “most likely to” whenever they feel like it.“never have i ever kissed someone from a rival department“ jay says. niki drinks. heeseung drinks. jake drinks again, slower this time. sunoo watches him carefully. niki tosses another one out. “never have i ever thought about someone here more than once.” that one is looser. casual. everyone drinks, except for you. jake sets his empty cup down and exhales slowly. he leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes for a second longer than normal. jungwon nudges him lightly. “you’re done.” jake opens one eye. “i’m fine.”-“you’re obviously not“ jungwon says calmly. jake sits up slightly, steadying himself with one hand on the floor. “i said i’m fine.” and the second he stands, there’s a slight delay in his balance. jake corrects himself quickly, brushing it off with a small laugh. “see?” niki squints at him. “you’re cut off.” jake waves him off lazily. “you’re not in charge.” sunoo stands up too, stepping closer subtly in case he needs to catch him. the game dissolves into chaotic commentary after that. people start talking over each other. someone suggests music. jay is trying to explain something loudly to heeseung. jake leans back again, head tilting slightly as he looks at the ceiling. he’s very clearly drunk now.
someone changes the music to something louder, bass heavier. jay starts arguing with heeseung about who has the worst first-year haircut. niki is halfway through telling a story that keeps changing depending on who interrupts him. jake is in the middle of it. he’s sitting on the arm of the couch now, leaning too far back, one foot hooked loosely under the coffee table like that’s enough to stabilize him. he’s laughing harder than necessary at something sunoo says, head tipping back fully this time. “you’re enjoying this too much“ sunoo tells him, amused. jake waves him off loosely. “you’re dramatic.”- “that’s my brand“ sunoo replies. jake slides off the couch arm and lands on his feet, slightly off balance. jungwon immediately steadies him by grabbing his sleeve. “i’m fine“ jake says, pulling his arm back with a lazy grin. “stop babysitting.”- “you’re not fine“ jungwon replies calmly. jake ignores him and points at jay instead. “tell them about the time you tried to impress that philosophy major.” jay groans. “why are you like this?”- “because it’s fun“ jake says. he attempts to reenact something- some exaggerated bow combined with a poorly delivered line. his foot catches slightly on the edge of the rug, and he stumbles forward into niki. niki bursts out laughing. “oh my god. you’re done.” jake straightens immediately, offended. “i am not done.” - “you tried to bow and almost face-planted“ niki says. “it was intentional“ jake insists. “it was tragic“ jay corrects. jake points at jay with unnecessary seriousness. “you’re jealous.” - “no one is jealous of that“ jungwon says dryly. jake pushes himself upright and adjusts his shirt like dignity can be recovered that easily. “i need another drink“ he announces. “no“ jungwon says immediately. “yes“ jake replies, already moving toward the kitchen. you step forward at the same time jungwon does. jungwon reaches him first and grabs his wrist lightly. “you’re cut off.” jake looks down at jungwon’s hand like it personally offended him. “you don’t control me.” - “you can barely walk“ jungwon says evenly. jake rolls his eyes and tries to pull free. he succeeds, but only because jungwon lets go. jake makes it three steps toward the counter before you move into his path. “you don’t need another one, it’s getting hard to watch” you say calmly. he blinks at you slowly, focusing like it’s taking effort. “you’re… still here.”- “yes“ you reply. “good“ he says vaguely. he tries to sidestep you. you shift slightly to block him without making it obvious. “you’re not drinking more“ you tell him. he tilts his head. “why do you care?”- “i don’t,“ you say automatically. “i just don’t want you embarrassing yourself further.” he squints at you like he’s trying to decode whether that was an insult. jungwon steps up beside you. “she’s right.” jake exhales dramatically. “you two are teaming up. that’s suspicious.”-“you’re swaying“ jungwon says. jake pauses. then, as if proving the point, he sways. he catches himself on the counter, laughing at his own lack of coordination. “gravity is aggressive.”- “okay, you’re done“ jungwon repeats.
jake looks at you again. his expression shifts slightly-less performative, more unfocused. “you didn’t drink much“ he says. you shrug. “i’m driving.” he nods slowly like that makes sense to him. then he reaches for a bottle on the counter. you move first and gently push it out of reach. “no.” he stares at your hand like it betrayed him. “why are you mean?” he asks, not angrily-just confused. “i’m not mean“ you reply. “you are“ he insists softly. jungwon steps closer now, lowering his voice. “okay. that’s enough.” jake blinks again, then leans back against the counter heavily. for a moment, he looks like he’s just resting. then his head tips forward. “jake“ jungwon says immediately. jake doesn’t respond. you step closer. “jake.” he makes a vague sound but doesn’t lift his head. jungwon grabs his shoulders and straightens him carefully. “hey. stay with me.” jake opens his eyes halfway, unfocused. “i’m here.” - “barely“ jungwon replies. jake exhales and lets his weight drop slightly forward again. you glance around. the party is still going. no one is paying close attention. jungwon looks at you. “when are you leaving?” you hesitate. “soon. it’s getting too much.” he nods once. “can you drive?” - “yes“ you say automatically. jungwon exhales. “good.” you immediately shake your head. “no.” he looks at you. “what?”- “i’m not driving him.”-“you just said you’re leaving.”- “that doesn’t mean i’m responsible for him“ you reply. jungwon lowers his voice. “he can’t stay here like this.”-“niki can deal with it“ you say. “niki’s already half gone“ jungwon replies. “and heeseung will just film him.” you glance at jake, who is now leaning almost fully into jungwon for support. “i don’t even know if he can walk to the car“ you say. “i’ll help“ jungwon says immediately. you hesitate. “he’s not going to wake up properly if we leave him here“ jungwon continues. “and i don’t trust anyone else to get him back safely.” you cross your arms. “just ask anyone, why me?” jungwon looks at you directly. “because you’re sober.” that’s true. you look at jake again. he mumbles something incoherent and shifts his weight again.“i’ll carry him to your car“ jungwon says quietly. you hesitate longer than you should. “i’ll call sunghoon“ jungwon adds quickly. “he’s at the dorm. he’ll come downstairs and carry him up.” you blink. “sunghoon’s there?“- “yes“ jungwon says. “he didn’t come tonight.” you still hesitate. jungwon’s tone softens. “please.” you look at him. “why are you asking me like this?“- “because i don’t want him waking up on heeseung’s lawn“ jungwon says honestly. you sigh heavily. “you’ll just drop him off, that’s it” jungwon continues. “he won‘t even talk to you. i’ll text sunghoon now. he’ll be waiting outside.” jake shifts again, almost slipping. and it’s true, jake probably won’t be able to talk. he’s so drunk he can barely get a word out. the ride will likely be quiet anyway, so you decide to give up. “he’s heavier than he looks“ jungwon mutters. you stare at jake for a second longer. then you exhale slowly. “fine.” relief flashes across jungwon’s face. “thank you.”-“he’s so annoying“ you say quickly. “i know“ jungwon replies. jake makes a soft, incoherent protest as you both adjust his arms over your shoulders. “don’t let him throw up in your car, but i don’t think he will.” jungwon adds under his breath. you glare at him. “that’s not helpful.” jungwon manages a small smile despite everything. “i’ll text sunghoon now.” jake’s weight settles more fully against you.
jungwon and you practically carry him to the car. jake is heavier than he looks. not in a dramatic way - just dead weight in the way only drunk people can be. jungwon has one of his arms thrown over his shoulder, and you’re holding the other side, trying not to let his shoes drag across the pavement. “he’s not this heavy normally“ jungwon mutters under his breath. “he’s not normally unconscious“ you reply. “i’m conscious“ jake mumbles suddenly, lifting his head just enough to protest. “you’re both… dramatic.” jungwon snorts quietly. “sure.” by the time you reach your car, jake’s head is lolling slightly again. jungwon opens the back door and helps guide him inside. it’s not graceful. jake’s foot catches on the doorframe, and jungwon has to physically guide his head down so he doesn’t knock it against the roof. “sit“ jungwon says firmly as he pushes jake back against the seat. jake blinks up at him, unfocused but indignant, and mutters, “i am sitting“ in a tone that suggests he believes he’s proving something. you stand by the open door for a second, arms crossed, watching as jungwon adjusts jake’s legs fully into the car and pulls the seatbelt across him. “you’re not allowed to unbuckle this“ jungwon warns. jake squints at him and replies, “you’re not allowed to threaten me in my own vehicle“ which makes jungwon sigh and glance at you. “it’s her car“ jungwon corrects, and jake goes quiet for a beat before mumbling, “oh. that explains a lot.” jungwon straightens and looks at you over the roof of the car. “sunghoon’s at the dorm“ he says. “i texted him. he’ll meet you outside.” you nod once. “if he throws up-” you begin, but jungwon cuts you off with a firm, “he won’t“ though jake chooses that exact moment to murmur, “i might“ with unsettling honesty. you close the door gently before he can elaborate and walk around to the driver’s seat. the engine hums to life, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of the air conditioning and jake shifting in the back.
as you pull out of the curb, jake lifts his head just enough to squint at the back of your seat. “you’re driving“ he says slowly, like he’s discovering something profound. “yes“ you reply evenly, keeping your eyes on the road. “that’s suspicious“ he continues, leaning his head back against the window. “how is that suspicious?” you ask, unable to stop the small edge of amusement in your voice. “because you don’t volunteer“ he says, his words slightly tangled but determined. “i didn’t volunteer“ you correct him. “you collapsed.” he makes a weak protest. “i did not collapse“ he insists. “you were horizontal“ you reply. “that’s… interpretive“ he mutters, and then goes quiet again. you drive in silence for a few seconds before he speaks again, his voice softer but still muddled. “you didn’t drink“ he says, almost accusingly. you glance at him through the rearview mirror and see him blinking slowly like he’s trying to focus on you. “i paced,“ you answer. he shakes his head slightly, the movement uncoordinated. “and you drank enough for both of us.” he hums thoughtfully, then says, “that’s efficient“ with misplaced approval. the streetlights pass in steady rhythm, illuminating his face in brief flashes, and you can see the shift happening slowly-less chaotic, more reflective. after a minute, his voice comes again, quieter and more deliberate. “you don’t trust me“ he says, and the tone makes your hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “that‘s not it“ you reply automatically. he shakes his head against the glass. “you think i’m reckless“ he says, and though the words aren’t slurred anymore, they’re heavy. “i think you take risks“ you answer carefully. “that’s not the same.” he exhales, long and unsteady. “you think i don’t care“ he continues. “i never said that“ you tell him, but he responds immediately, “you did“ and there’s no humor in his voice now. the car feels smaller as he shifts upright, pushing himself forward slightly despite the way his balance wavers. “you think i have it easy“ he says, and this time his words land cleanly. you hesitate before replying, “that’s not what i meant.” he lets out a short laugh that sounds more tired than amused. “it always is“ he says. he rubs a hand over his face and stares at his knees. “you think because i went to private school and because i don’t panic before presentations that i don’t try“ he continues, and the vulnerability creeping into his voice makes your chest tighten. “i know you try“ you say quietly. “no“ he says, shaking his head. “you know i win. that’s different.” the road is almost empty now, and his voice steadies further as if the motion of the car is grounding him. “if i’m not good at this,“ he says slowly, “then what am i?” you glance back at him, startled by the honesty in the question. “you are good at this“ you tell him firmly. he swallows and looks out the window. “that’s the problem“ he replies. “everyone expects that.” he exhales shakily and continues, “my parents expect it. my teachers expect it. everyone here expects it. if i drop, if i mess up, it’s not just a bad semester. it’s confirmation.” you don’t interrupt him this time. he presses his fingers against his eyes like he’s trying to hold something back. “you think i can afford to call out the university because i have options“ he says, his voice thinner now. “i don’t. if i look difficult, if i lose ranking, it follows me. i don’t get to just disappear.” you feel the guilt settle heavy in your stomach as he goes on. “i admire you“ he says suddenly, and the simplicity of it catches you off guard. “you don’t improvise. you don’t gamble. you build everything carefully, like if you just work hard enough, nothing can surprise you.”
he lets out a breath that wavers halfway through. “you scare me“ he admits, and you glance back at him again, stunned. “why?” you ask softly. he answers without hesitation. “because you deserve to be first“ he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. “and if i beat you, it feels like i stole something.” the confession sits heavy in the car. he drags a hand down his face and laughs weakly at himself. “this is stupid“ he says. “i’m drunk.” -“you’re honest“ you correct him gently. he shakes his head again, and this time when he speaks, his voice wavers. “i’m tired“ he says quietly. “i’m tired of being the one who’s supposed to just be good at it.” there’s a small pause, and then his breathing changes. he swipes at his face quickly, embarrassed, but you can see in the mirror that his eyes are wet. “you don’t get to fall apart when you’re the talented one,“ he says, barely above a whisper. “you just get better.” your throat tightens as you pull into the dorm parking lot.
sunghoon is already waiting near the entrance, hands in his pockets, watching your headlights approach. jake exhales shakily from the backseat. “i didn’t want you to think i didn’t care“ he says softly, his voice steadier now but fragile. “i don’t think that“ you reply, and this time you mean it completely. he looks at the back of your seat like he’s memorizing something and whispers, “i was happy when we got paired.” the words linger in the space between you. “i wanted to work with you“ he adds, and there’s no competition in his voice anymore, just sincerity. you put the car in park and sit there for a moment, the engine still running. everything feels different now-quieter, heavier, real. “you don’t have it easy“ you say finally, turning slightly in your seat so he can see you. he blinks at you slowly, exhausted, and nods once like that’s enough. when sunghoon opens the back door and carefully lifts him out, jake doesn’t resist. as sunghoon takes his weight, jake glances at you one last time and murmurs, “you work harder than anyone“ before his head drops against sunghoon’s shoulder. you watch them disappear into the dorm building, the door closing softly behind them, and for the first time since freshman year, the rivalry doesn’t feel like a war.
the next morning jake wakes up aware of two things at once: his head feels like it’s been hollowed out and replaced with concrete, and something about last night went wrong. he stares at the ceiling of the dorm room for a long moment before rolling onto his side and immediately regretting the movement. across the room, niki is already awake, sitting in the desk chair with one leg hooked over the armrest, watching him with poorly concealed amusement. “you look tragic“ niki remarks casually, spinning the chair once before planting his feet on the ground. jake squints at him and mutters, “lower your voice“ pressing the heel of his hand to his temple. from the bathroom doorway, sunghoon steps out holding a glass of water and says calmly, “drink this before you attempt to stand“ placing it into jake’s hand without ceremony. jake takes it and downs half in one go before asking, with visible suspicion, “what happened?” niki leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and asks with a grin, “you seriously don’t remember?” jake frowns and shakes his head slightly before stopping himself because it hurts. “i remember the game“ he says slowly. “i remember jay yelling. that’s it.” sunghoon crosses his arms and replies in his usual measured tone, “you didn’t come back alone.” jake’s stomach tightens. “what does that mean?” he asks carefully. niki answers first, unable to resist, saying, “it means jungwon called because you were barely functional.” jake blinks and asks, “who drove me?” sunghoon answers evenly, “your debate partner.” jake stares at him for a second before repeating, “y/n?” as if confirming something he’s not ready to process. sunghoon nods once. jake runs a hand through his hair and mutters, “that’s not ideal.” he goes quiet for a moment, then looks up sharply and asks, “did i do something?” the question comes out more urgent than he intended. “did i hook up with someone?” niki laughs immediately and says, “that’s your first assumption?” jake shoots him a look and says firmly, “answer.” sunghoon responds first, shaking his head. “you didn’t,“ he clarifies. jake exhales through his nose, some tension leaving him.
but sunghoon continues after a brief pause, “but you did cry.” the word hangs in the air. niki’s grin drops for a second before he straightens and asks, “wait. actually?” sunghoon nods once and repeats calmly, “yes. in the car.” jake stares at him. “no“ he says flatly. “i didn’t.” sunghoon doesn’t argue. he simply says, “jungwon said you were emotional. quiet, but emotional.” niki processes that for a second before letting out a surprised laugh. “you cried in her car?” he repeats, now fully invested. jake presses his palms to his face and mutters, “stop talking.” niki stands up and walks closer, still grinning. “this is huge“ he says. “you only cry during finals.” jake lowers his hands slowly. “what did i say?” he asks sunghoon, ignoring niki. sunghoon shrugs slightly and answers, “i don’t know. i saw you crying in her car. that’s it.” niki folds his arms and studies jake. “so you don’t remember anything?” he asks, this time less teasing and more curious. jake shakes his head once, carefully. “no“ he admits. “i remember getting into a car. that’s it.” niki whistles softly and says, “that’s worse“ before adding, “because now she knows whatever you said and you don’t.” jake glares at him but doesn’t deny it. he reaches for his phone with more hesitation than he’d like to show. he opens your chat and stares at your name for a long moment before typing,
jake: did i embarrass myself last night?
niki leans slightly over his shoulder and comments, “that’s subtle“ and jake nudges him away without looking up, muttering, “back off.” he sends the message and waits, staring at the screen like it might offer him context. when your reply arrives
you: you were drunk.
jake exhales softly, but the neutrality unsettles him. he types back,
jake: that’s not what i asked
and waits again.
across campus, you’re sitting at your desk, notes spread out in front of you, when your phone lights up. you know immediately what it’s about. you read his message and feel the memory of the car ride settle heavy in your chest - the way his voice cracked, the way he said he was tired of being expected to be better.
you: you didn’t embarrass yourself
keeping the tone light and detached. on his side, jake reads the message twice before typing again,
jake: did i say anything weird?
he sends it quickly, like he doesn’t want to overthink it. you stare at the screen for several seconds before answering. you don’t want to humiliate him. you don’t want to expose him.
you: you talked about rankings and stress.
that’s true, just not complete. back in the dorm room, jake reads your response and feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease. stress. that’s manageable. he types again
jake: i didn’t insult you, did i?
you: no.
he nods faintly to himself. niki watches his expression carefully and asks, “well?” jake locks his phone and replies evenly, “she said i didn’t embarrass myself.” niki raises an eyebrow and says, “that’s suspiciously generous“ but jake ignores him. he picks up his phone one more time and types,
jake: can we finish the project the day after tomorrow? i feel like i got hit by a truck.
you: sure
jake: and thanks. for driving me.
you: sure, just don’t mention it.
jake stares at that final reply for a moment before setting his phone down on the desk. the room falls quiet except for niki moving around behind him. jake leans back against the wall and closes his eyes briefly. he doesn’t remember crying. he doesn’t remember what he said. he doesn’t know how much of himself he exposed. and the fact that you now hold that information - while he doesn’t - sits heavier than the hangover pressing behind his eyes.
across campus, you turn your phone face down and stare at your open notebook without really seeing the words. you know exactly what he said. and you know he has no idea that you do. you pack your bags and meet sunoo at the campus café because he insists he “can’t process academic corruption without caffeine“ and even though that sounds dramatic, you don’t argue. the place is warm and loud enough to feel private, sunlight filtering through the tall windows while conversations blur into background noise. sunoo is already seated when you arrive, two drinks placed neatly in front of him. as you sit down, he slides one toward you and says, “i ordered your usual. you looked like you were going to overthink something today.” you wrap your hands around the cup and raise an eyebrow at him before replying, “i always overthink something.” sunoo smiles slightly and leans back in his chair. “exactly“ he says. he studies your face for a moment before shifting the conversation. “so“ he begins casually, “you drove him.” you keep your expression neutral as you answer, “yes.” sunoo nods once and asks, lowering his voice slightly, “how bad was it?” you take a small sip of your drink before responding, “very drunk.” sunoo exhales through his nose and says, “he doesn’t usually let himself get like that.” you glance at him briefly and reply, “i noticed.” there’s a small pause before sunoo tilts his head and asks, “did he text you?” you nod. “he did.” sunoo watches you carefully and follows with, “and?” you keep your tone even as you answer, “he doesn’t remember much.” sunoo nods slowly and says, “that’s probably for the best. he hates feeling exposed.” you don’t react to that, instead shifting the focus deliberately. you pull your notebook closer and say, “the dataset isn’t just inconsistent. it’s selectively adjusted. the sample breakdown doesn’t match the raw counts.” sunoo immediately straightens and opens his laptop as he replies, “jake showed me the comparison sheet yesterday.” you pause slightly and ask, “he did?” sunoo nods and continues, “yeah. he already mapped out a way to question the methodology without directly accusing anyone.”
you consider that for a moment before saying carefully, “it’s structured well, but it’s risky.” sunoo looks at you and replies evenly, “it’s measured risk. that’s different.” you fold your hands together on the table and say, “challenging the dataset could imply bias within the department.” sunoo doesn’t hesitate before asking, “do you think he’s wrong?” you look down briefly before admitting, “no.” sunoo watches you closely and says, “then what’s the hesitation?” you glance at your notes and answer, “presentation matters.” sunoo nods immediately and replies, “of course it does, but you’re good at that.” you look back up at him and say, “that doesn’t eliminate the risk.” sunoo gives you a small, knowing smile and says, “you’re not afraid of risk. you’re afraid of looking reckless.” you don’t deny it, and the silence that follows stretches just long enough to feel intentional. after a moment, sunoo raises his hand slightly as if outlining an argument. “option one“ he says, “you present the data as given. safe. high marks. no friction.” you nod faintly. “option two“ he continues, “you follow jake’s structure, highlight the inconsistencies, and frame it as critical engagement.” you meet his eyes and say, “option two could irritate the professor.” sunoo shrugs lightly and replies, “or it could impress him.” you sit back in your chair, considering that. sunoo leans forward slightly and says, “you trust him academically.” you answer without hesitation, “yes.” sunoo nods once and says, “then build on his framework. refine it. that’s what you’re good at.” he pauses before adding quietly, “he’s not reckless.” you look at him sharply, and sunoo continues calmly, “he thinks more than he shows.” you exhale slowly before nodding once. “okay“ you say. sunoo smiles faintly and asks, “okay?” you clarify, “i’ll follow up with him. we’ll use his structure, and i’ll tighten the language.” sunoo closes his laptop and says lightly, “that sounds suspiciously like collaboration.” you give him a look and reply, “don’t romanticize it.” sunoo laughs softly and says, “fine. efficiency.” as you gather your notes, he adds, “he’ll appreciate that you’re backing his approach.” you pause briefly before answering evenly, “it’s not about appreciation. it’s about accuracy.” sunoo smiles in a way that suggests he doesn’t entirely believe you but doesn’t argue further.
after sunoo’s motivational speech the walk to the study room feels strangely normal, which unsettles you more than if it had felt dramatic. students move through campus in steady streams, doors open and close, conversations overlap in the courtyard, and nothing reflects the quiet shift you feel internally. you push that thought aside as you enter the study building and walk down the narrow hallway toward the reserved room. the fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, and the familiar scent of dry-erase markers lingers in the air. when you step inside, eunchae is already seated at the table with printed notes spread in front of her, and jungwon is standing near the whiteboard with a marker in his hand, staring at an unfinished outline. eunchae looks up first and says with a small smile, “you’re early“ while jungwon glances at the wall clock and adds without turning fully toward you, “you’re usually not this early unless something’s bothering you.” you place your bag on the chair and reply evenly, “i wanted to go over the dataset section again“ then slide into your seat and open your laptop. jungwon sets the marker down and walks over to the table, folding his arms lightly as he asks, “still thinking about the imbalance jake pointed out?” you nod once and answer, “yes. the sample distribution doesn’t align with the raw counts, and if we present it without addressing that, it weakens the entire argument.” eunchae leans forward slightly and says, “yesterday you sounded hesitant about pushing it“ and you glance briefly at her before clarifying, “i was hesitant about how it was framed, not about whether it was valid.” you scroll to the shared document and reread the section quietly for a moment before beginning to type. jungwon watches the screen and asks, “so what are you changing?” without looking up, you respond, “we’re not accusing anyone of bias. we’re identifying a methodological inconsistency and inviting clarification.” eunchae nods slowly and says, “that sounds less confrontational“ and you answer, “it’s not about confrontation. it’s about precision.” jungwon leans closer to the table and observes, “you’re integrating the alternative distribution model he referenced“ and you confirm, “yes. it strengthens the critique without sounding defensive.” the room grows quieter as you restructure one of the central paragraphs, moving the statistical comparison earlier so the logic builds gradually. eunchae studies the screen and says thoughtfully, “that reads stronger“ and jungwon adds, “it shows depth without implying misconduct.” you pause, reread the revised paragraph, and then say, “it’s defensible now.” jungwon looks at you carefully and asks, “you’re comfortable standing behind that?” you meet his gaze and answer, “yes.” there’s a brief pause before jungwon asks more carefully, “you and jake didn’t argue about this?” you close your laptop halfway and respond calmly, “we didn’t need to.” eunchae glances between the two of you and says quietly, “he’ll probably appreciate that you’re not dismissing his point“ and you reply, keeping your tone steady, “this isn’t about him. it’s about the integrity of the argument.” jungwon gives you a knowing look and says, “sure“ but doesn’t press further. you reopen your laptop and read the section from top to bottom one final time before saying, “we’ll present it like this.” jungwon nods once and says, “i agree“ and eunchae follows with, “so do i.” you save the document without adding anything else. you didn’t do this to surprise him. you didn’t do it to prove anything. you did it because it was correct. as the three of you move on to the next portion of the project, discussing transitions and citation formatting, you realize something subtle but undeniable: choosing to stand beside his reasoning academically doesn’t feel like losing ground. it actually feels like the right thing to do.
it’s the next day and you arrive at the study room before him, though not intentionally this time. the hallway smells faintly of dry-erase marker and overused carpet cleaner, and the fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. you set your laptop down and open the revised draft of the policy section, rereading the paragraph you integrated from his framework last night. the structure is solid. risky, but solid. you didn’t misjudge him. you just didn’t look closely enough. the door opens, and jake steps inside looking noticeably less polished than usual. his hair isn’t styled with the same careless precision, and there’s a slight stiffness in the way he moves, like every sound is sharper than it should be. he drops his bag into the chair across from you and says, “if you scheduled this early as revenge, i respect it“ rubbing a hand briefly over his face. “it’s ten“ you reply calmly, closing the document tab and turning your screen slightly toward him. “that’s not early.”- “for someone who feels like they swallowed broken glass, it is“ he mutters, lowering himself into the chair with exaggerated care. you study him for half a second longer than usual before asking, “it’s been two days, did you at least drink water?” he blinks at you, mildly surprised. “that’s unexpectedly considerate.” - “answer the question“ you say, though there’s less bite behind it. “yes“ he replies, leaning back slightly. “niki forced electrolytes on me like i was a dying victorian child.” you almost smile. “good.” there’s a small pause while he opens his laptop. his eyes flick toward you, searching your expression in a way that feels different now that you know what you know. he doesn’t remember the car ride. he doesn’t remember admitting he was tired. he doesn’t remember saying he was happy to work with you. “did i make a complete idiot of myself?” he asks finally, keeping his tone light but not quite meeting your eyes. “no“ you answer evenly, and this time it’s fully true. he studies you for a second, as if testing for sarcasm. “that sounded suspiciously sincere.” - “it was“ you reply, folding your hands neatly on the table. “you were drunk. not reckless.” something in his posture shifts slightly at that word. he exhales through his nose and nods once. “that’s… reassuring.” you open the shared document and scroll to the revised methodology section. “i restructured the critique“ you say, turning the screen toward him. “i kept your comparative distribution model but moved it earlier so the logic builds before the challenge.” he leans forward to read, closer than necessary, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “you integrated it cleanly“ he says after a moment, scrolling carefully. “you softened the phrasing.”-“it’s not softened“ you correct gently. “it’s precise.” he glances at you. “you’re backing it.“- “yes“ you say simply. he watches you more carefully now. “that’s risky.” - “it’s defensible“ you reply. “you weren’t wrong.” the silence that follows is different from your usual standoffs. there’s no edge to it. no competition. just acknowledgment.
he sits back slightly and tilts his head. “you’re being unusually agreeable today.” - “i’m being efficient“ you answer, echoing his earlier phrasing deliberately. his mouth curves faintly. “that’s my line.”- “you don’t own efficiency.”-“debatable“ he says lightly, though there’s less challenge in it than usual. you notice he’s still pale around the edges, the fatigue not fully masked. he reaches for his water bottle and winces almost imperceptibly at the movement. “you don’t have to pretend you’re fine“ you say before thinking it through. he pauses, bottle halfway to his mouth. “i’m not pretending.”-“you are a little“ you reply quietly. he studies you for a second longer than comfortable. “you’re observing a lot today.”-“i always observe“ you say. “yeah“ he says, and this time there’s no teasing in it. “you do.” he looks back at the document, scrolling slowly. “i’m glad you adjusted it“ he adds after a moment. “i thought you might scrap the whole critique.”-“i considered it“ you admit. “but the inconsistency is measurable.”-“that’s not what i meant“ he says softly. you meet his gaze. he doesn’t elaborate. instead, he shifts back into familiar territory. “if this tanks our evaluation, i’m blaming you publicly“ he says with mock seriousness. “you can try“ you reply evenly. “i’ll bring charts.” he laughs quietly at that, the sound easier than yesterday but still tired around the edges. “you’re terrifying.” - “i’ve heard that before“ you say. “yeah“ he answers, closing his laptop for a moment and leaning back. “you have.” there’s something in the way he says it that feels layered, but you don’t press. not today. for the rest of the session, you work without arguing. you refine phrasing. he challenges a statistic once, and instead of snapping back, you explain your reasoning fully. he nods and accepts it. when he suggests adjusting a conclusion line, you consider it instead of rejecting it immediately. when you both finally pack up, he hesitates before slinging his bag over his shoulder. “thanks“ he says casually, though his eyes hold yours for a beat longer than the word requires. “for what?” you ask. “for not letting me completely self-destruct after the party“ he replies, attempting a smirk that doesn’t quite land. “you didn’t“ you say calmly. “self-destruct, i mean.” he studies your face one last time, like he’s trying to decide whether to ask something else. then he nods once. “see you tomorrow.“- “don’t be late“ you say automatically. he almost smiles. “i’m never late.” this time, it doesn’t sound like a challenge. it sounds like a promise.
the café is too crowded for this to be accidental. eunchae insisted it would be “neutral territory“ which you suspect means she wanted both friend groups in the same room without anyone technically hosting. the long table near the windows is already half occupied when you arrive, voices overlapping in loose conversation. chaewon and sakura are seated side by side, kazuha across from them with her hands folded neatly around her drink. heeseung and jay are arguing about something sports-related near the end of the table while sunoo watches with theatrical disappointment. jungwon is standing, pulling out an extra chair. jake is already there. he’s leaning back slightly in his seat, one arm draped over the backrest, listening to niki complain about a professor with exaggerated betrayal. he looks relaxed. normal. entirely unbothered. you step toward the table and jungwon glances at you immediately. “you’re late“ he says, though there’s no accusation in it. “it’s been three minutes“ you reply, sliding into the empty chair between chaewon and sunoo. jake’s eyes lift at the sound of your voice. just briefly. then they settle back on niki. sunoo leans closer to you and says quietly, “you look less homicidal than usual.” - “i’m not homicidal“ you reply, placing your bag carefully at your feet. “that’s what homicidal people say“ he answers with satisfaction. across the table, jay gestures dramatically while saying, “all i’m saying is that if attendance isn’t graded, it’s optional“ and heeseung groans loudly in response. jake laughs at that, the sound easy and unforced. you glance at him reflexively. he’s not looking at jay. he’s looking at you. it’s subtle enough that no one else reacts. his gaze shifts away almost immediately when your eyes meet his, and he reaches for his drink as if that had been his intention all along. you look back at sunoo. he doesn’t say anything. he just lifts one eyebrow. the conversation shifts topics quickly, as it always does when this many competitive personalities share oxygen. sakura brings up the upcoming presentation schedule, and jungwon immediately says, “we should do a mock panel before the faculty review.”-“that’s excessive“ jay says, leaning back in his chair. “it’s preparation“ you correct automatically. jake glances at you again. this time it lingers a second longer. heeseung notices the shift in tone and grins faintly. “you two are going to turn this into a military operation“ he says. jake shrugs lightly and replies, “she already has.” you tilt your head. “you’re benefiting from it.” - “i’m aware“ he says, and there’s no teasing in it.
the table grows louder again as niki interrupts with a new story involving a disastrous lab partner, and attention splinters into smaller conversations. you find yourself explaining part of the methodology adjustment to kazuha, tracing imaginary bullet points on the table as you speak. “the distribution model wasn’t wrong“ you clarify. “it was just incomplete.” jake is no longer part of the main conversation. he’s quiet now. when you finish explaining, kazuha nods thoughtfully and says, “that sounds balanced.” -“it is“ you reply. from across the table, jake says, “it’s better than balanced“ his voice cutting through the noise just enough to reach you. “it’s structured.” you look at him. he’s just stating it. “that was the point“ you answer. he nods once, satisfied. niki, who has been half-listening while pretending not to, shifts in his seat and watches jake more carefully now. jake doesn’t notice. he’s too busy watching the way you gesture when you explain something, the way your hands move precisely even when you’re not holding notes. eunchae leans forward and asks you, “are you nervous about the faculty panel?” and you shake your head lightly before replying, “no. i’m prepared.” jake smiles faintly at that. but only niki catches it. the conversation splinters again, heeseung dragging jay into a debate about energy reform while sunghoon quietly corrects a statistic under his breath. in the middle of it, you reach for your drink at the same time jake does, your hands brushing lightly against the side of the cup. “sorry“ he says immediately, pulling his hand back. “it’s fine“ you reply, adjusting the cup. he doesn’t look away this time. he studies your face like he’s trying to reconcile something. you’re softer today. not less sharp. just… less guarded. more considerate. he doesn’t know why. niki leans back slowly in his chair, arms crossing as he observes the silent exchange. he waits until your attention shifts back to chaewon before leaning slightly toward jake and saying under his breath, “hyung, you’re staring.” jake blinks, genuinely confused. “i’m not“ he replies automatically. “you are“ niki says calmly, not accusatory, just factual. “it’s not even subtle.” jake scoffs lightly. “you’re dramatic.” niki tilts his head. “am i?” jake doesn’t answer. he looks back at you instinctively. you’re laughing at something sunoo said, head tilted slightly back, eyes bright in a way he doesn’t remember noticing before. niki watches the exact second jake forgets to look away. then he smiles slowly to himself. jake finally tears his gaze away and says, “shut up“ though niki hasn’t spoken again. “i didn’t say anything“ niki replies mildly. “you were thinking it“ jake mutters. “thinking what?” jungwon asks from further down the table. “nothing“ jake answers too quickly. niki lifts his cup and takes a slow sip, eyes still on jake. “sure“ he says softly. jake lasts exactly four more minutes at the table before he pushes his chair back. “i’m getting another drink“ he says casually, though his cup is still half full. niki glances at it, then at him, but doesn’t comment immediately. jake steps away from the table and moves toward the back of the café where the restrooms are tucked past a narrow hallway.
the noise fades slightly as he pushes open the bathroom door and steps inside, bracing his hands briefly against the sink as if steadying something internal rather than physical. a second later, the door swings open again. jake doesn’t look up at the mirror when he says, “you’re predictable.” niki locks the door behind him and leans against it, folding his arms. “you left mid-conversation“ he replies lightly. “that’s suspicious.” jake turns on the faucet, letting the water run longer than necessary before splashing some onto his face. “it’s loud out there.”- “it’s always loud“ niki says calmly. “you don’t usually retreat.” jake shuts off the water and looks at his reflection instead of at niki. his expression is composed, but the crease between his brows hasn’t fully disappeared since this morning. “you’re reading into nothing.”-“i’m not reading“ niki replies. “i hate reading.” jake lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “you’re insufferable.”-“and you’re distracted“ niki counters easily. jake finally turns around, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. “i’m not distracted.”-“you’re staring“ niki says, not unkindly. “and you don’t stare at people unless you’re trying to solve something.” jake hesitates for half a second before responding, “she’s acting different.” niki’s expression shifts slightly-not surprised, just interested. “different how?” jake looks back at the mirror briefly, as if checking the answer there. “quieter“ he says slowly. “not quieter in general. just with me.” niki waits. “she’s not snapping back as fast“ jake continues, running a hand through his hair. “she’s… softer. but not weak. just-” he exhales, frustrated with his own phrasing. “less defensive.”-“and that’s bothering you?” niki asks. jake frowns faintly. “it’s confusing me.” niki pushes off the door and steps closer, lowering his voice slightly even though they’re alone. “maybe she’s just comfortable.” jake shakes his head immediately. “no. she doesn’t get comfortable.” -“that’s dramatic“ niki says. “you know what i mean“ jake insists, jaw tightening slightly. “she’s always braced. even when she’s calm she’s braced. today she’s not.” niki studies him carefully. “you’re very observant for someone who claims he’s not staring.” jake ignores that. “i don’t know what changed.” niki tilts his head. “maybe you did.” jake lets out a quiet scoff. “i didn’t.” -“didn’t what?” niki presses. “do anything“ jake replies quickly. “i mean-i was drunk. but she said i didn’t embarrass myself.” niki watches him carefully at that. “you trust that?”-“yes“ jake says without hesitation. “interesting“ niki murmurs. jake straightens slightly. “what is that supposed to mean?” -“it means“ niki replies evenly, “that if she says you didn’t embarrass yourself, then you probably didn’t.”-“that’s not helpful“ jake mutters. niki shrugs lightly. “you’re not upset that she’s softer. you’re unsettled because you don’t know why.”
jake doesn’t answer immediately. niki continues, “you like predictability. especially with her. you know how she reacts. you know the rhythm.” jake looks at him sharply. “i don’t care about rhythm.“- “you absolutely do“ niki replies. “you debate like it’s choreography.” jake exhales slowly and rubs the back of his neck. “it’s just-” he stops, searching for a word that doesn’t feel too revealing. “when she’s competitive, i know where i stand.” - “and now?” niki asks. jake looks down at the tile floor for a second before answering, “now i don’t.” the silence that follows is not heavy. it’s thoughtful. niki studies him with a familiarity that borders on surgical precision. “you’re not confused about her“ he says quietly. “you’re confused about yourself.” jake immediately shakes his head. “don’t start.” - “i’m not starting anything“ niki replies calmly. “i’m just saying- you don’t look at people like that unless something shifted.” jake’s jaw tightens. “nothing shifted.” niki raises an eyebrow. “then why did you leave the table?” jake doesn’t respond right away. he looks at the mirror again, at the faint flush still lingering from earlier embarrassment, at the way his expression is slightly less controlled than usual. “she was laughing“ he says finally, quieter. niki blinks. “okay?” - “she doesn’t laugh with me“ jake continues, almost to himself. “not like that.” -“and you wanted her to?” niki asks gently. jake hesitates. that’s the first real crack. “i don’t know“ he admits. niki’s expression softens just slightly. “you’re in trouble“ he says, though there’s no mockery in it this time. jake rolls his eyes automatically. “shut up.”-“i didn’t say anything dramatic“ niki replies. “i’m just making a note.” jake pushes off the counter and moves toward the door. “don’t.”-“don’t what?” niki asks. “turn this into something“ jake says firmly. niki opens the door and steps aside to let him pass. “i don’t have to“ he says quietly. “you’re doing that on your own.”
when jake and niki return, the conversation has split into two clusters. jungwon is sketching something on a napkin while explaining a policy framework to heeseung and jay, and at the other end of the table, sunghoon has shifted into the seat beside you while you’re mid-sentence. you don’t seem to notice the change in proximity. jake does. sunghoon is leaning slightly toward you, one arm resting casually along the back of your chair as you explain something about the faculty panel timeline. “if we anticipate the critique angle“ you’re saying calmly, tracing an invisible outline on the table, “we can preempt the statistical pushback before they even raise it.” sunghoon nods once and replies, “that’s efficient.” - “it’s actually very strategic“ you correct automatically, though there’s a faint smile in your voice. jake stops just short of his chair. it’s subtle -the pause. barely a second. then he pulls the chair out a little harder than necessary and sits down. niki notices. jake leans back, posture loose, expression neutral. he doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t insert himself into the conversation. he just listens. but his gaze keeps flicking toward sunghoon’s arm. sunghoon laughs quietly at something you add and says, “you think three steps ahead. that’s terrifying.“- “yeah, she’s always terrifying“ jake says lightly from across the table. you glance at him. sunghoon glances at him too. it all feels a bit awkward but jake smiles, easy and controlled. niki watches the exact way jake’s fingers tighten briefly around his cup. sunghoon shifts slightly closer without realizing it, lowering his voice as he asks you, “are you nervous at all?”-“no“ you reply. “i don’t get nervous.” jake’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. niki leans closer to him and murmurs under his breath, “you look thrilled.” jake doesn’t look at him. “i am“ he replies evenly. “your eye just twitched“ niki says mildly. -“it did not.” -niki takes a slow sip of his drink, still watching. “wow, you already hate when someone else gets her attention.” jake finally turns his head slightly. “that’s not what this is.”-“then what is it?” niki asks quietly. jake looks back across the table just in time to see sunghoon brush a crumb off your sleeve with absent ease. his grip tightens again. niki hums softly. “there it is.” jake exhales slowly through his nose. “he’s not-” he stops himself. “not what?” niki prompts, almost pleasantly. jake shakes his head once. “it’s nothing.” niki smiles faintly. “sure.” across the table, you laugh again -softer this time -and jake’s gaze drops to the table like he’s recalibrating something internally.
the dorm room smells faintly like instant ramen and laundry detergent that promises too much. jake falls down on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, phone facedown beside him like it personally offended him. niki is sprawled across the desk chair backward, arms folded over the backrest, while sunghoon leans against the wall near the window, quiet but very clearly listening. jake exhales slowly and says, “i’m not spiraling.” niki raises one eyebrow. “you said that unprompted.” sunghoon glances between them. “spiraling about what?” jake drags a hand down his face. “nothing.”- “that’s not how this works“ niki replies calmly. “you don’t get to call a team meeting and then say ‘nothing.’” -“i didn’t call a team meeting“ jake mutters. “you walked into the room, sat down dramatically, and sighed like a widow“ niki corrects. “that counts.” sunghoon suppresses a faint smile. “what happened?” jake leans back slightly, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written there. “y/n’s different.” sunghoon tilts his head. “different how?” jake hesitates before answering. “she’s not trying to kill me lately.” niki nods slowly. “tragic.“- “i’m serious“ jake insists, dropping his gaze back to them. “she’s… nicer. not obvious. just-quieter. softer. it’s weird.” sunghoon crosses his arms. “that doesn’t sound bad.”-“it’s confusing“ jake replies immediately. niki watches him carefully. “you prefer when she’s sharpening knives?”
---btw go stream enhypen’s “knife”---
“at least then i know what’s happening“ jake says. “there’s structure.” sunghoon blinks once. “you want hostility because it’s predictable.”-“i want consistency“ jake corrects. niki snorts softly. “you’re upset because she adjusted her tone.”-“i’m not upset“ jake says quickly. “i just think i’m overreacting.”-“overreacting to what?” sunghoon asks evenly. jake hesitates again. “today she was explaining the panel strategy to you“ he says, nodding vaguely in sunghoon’s direction. “she doesn’t explain things to me like that.” sunghoon frowns faintly. “you interrupt her.”-“that’s not the point.”-“it might be“ niki says. jake ignores him. “it was just… easy. she was laughing. relaxed. she doesn’t do that with me.” niki studies him for a second longer than comfortable. “you’re jealous.” jake’s head snaps toward him. “no.”-“you are“ niki repeats calmly. “i’m not jealous“ jake says firmly. “it was one conversation.” sunghoon shifts slightly, thoughtful. “you paused when you saw me sitting next to her.” jake looks at him like he’s been personally betrayed. “you noticed that?” sunghoon shrugs lightly. “you’re not subtle.”-“i am extremely subtle“ jake protests. niki lets out a quiet laugh. “you gripped your cup like it owed you money.” jake groans and drops his head briefly into his hands. “this is ridiculous.” sunghoon’s voice softens slightly. “you’ve been off since the party.” jake freezes for half a second. niki doesn’t look away from him. “that has nothing to do with this“ jake says too quickly. “doesn’t it?” niki asks. jake straightens slightly. “i was drunk. i cried. it’s humiliating. that’s all.” sunghoon’s expression doesn’t change. “you don’t cry.”-“apparently i do“ jake mutters. niki tilts his head. “you also don’t usually let her drive you home.” jake glares at him. “i wasn’t conscious enough to veto that.”-“that’s not what i meant“ niki replies evenly. the room grows quieter. sunghoon pushes off the wall and sits down on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his thighs. “you said you were happy you got paired“ he says carefully. jake looks at him sharply. “how do you-” -“you told me, also you talk when you’re drunk“ niki cuts in. jake stares at him. “what exactly did i say?” niki shrugs lightly. “enough.” jake exhales slowly, tension settling across his shoulders. “that’s not romantic“ he says defensively. “i respect her. that’s it.” - “no one said romantic“ sunghoon replies calmly. jake looks between them. “you’re both implying it.” -“we’re implying you’re reacting“ niki corrects. jake leans back again, staring at the ceiling. “she was just nice. one time. that’s probably it. i’m overanalyzing because it’s different.” sunghoon considers that. “or“ he says quietly, “you’re not used to her seeing you.” jake’s eyes flick back to him. “she’s always seen me.” -“not like that“ niki says.
jake swallows once. “like what?”-“like you’re human“ sunghoon answers simply. that lands harder than the teasing did. jake looks away first. “i don’t need her to see me“ he says after a moment, though it sounds less certain than he intends. niki leans back in the chair again. “you absolutely do.” jake exhales sharply. “you’re both insufferable.” sunghoon shrugs faintly. “you’re the one who’s bothered.”-“i’m not bothered“ jake insists. niki smirks slightly. “you’re threatened by kindness.” -“that’s not-” jake stops, frustrated. “she changed the rhythm.” sunghoon blinks. “you keep using that word.” -“because it fits“ jake snaps lightly. “when she argues, i know where to stand. when she’s calm, i don’t.” niki watches him closely. “so figure it out.” jake shakes his head. “it’s not that simple.”-“why?” sunghoon asks. jake hesitates. because if she’s not fighting him-then maybe she’s not just competing. and that’s harder to navigate. he rubs a hand over the back of his neck and mutters, “i think i just don’t like not knowing where i stand.” niki’s teasing expression softens slightly. “you could ask.” jake lets out a short laugh. “and say what? ‘hi, are you being emotionally strategic or is this genuine?’” sunghoon smiles faintly. “you’d phrase it worse.” jake throws a pillow in his direction without real force. “shut up.” niki stands up finally, stretching slightly. “you’re not overreacting“ he says more quietly now. “you’re just not in control.” jake looks at him sharply. “that’s new for you“ niki adds. jake doesn’t answer. because that part might be true. the room settles into silence, not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. after a moment, jake mutters, “if this turns into something dramatic, i’m blaming both of you.” niki grins. “it’s already dramatic for you.”
professor kim’s office smells faintly like paper and burnt coffee, the kind that’s been reheated twice and forgotten on a desk stacked with journals. the walls are lined with framed policy certificates and annotated newspaper clippings, and the bookshelf behind him looks aggressively intellectual. you sit upright in one of the narrow chairs across from his desk, notebook already open on your lap. jake sits beside you, relaxed in posture but noticeably alert in the way his fingers rest lightly against his knee. professor kim adjusts his glasses and looks between the two of you before saying, “so. how is my top-ranked rivalry experiment functioning under forced collaboration?” you answer first, because you always do. “efficiently“ you reply evenly, folding your hands over your notebook. “we’ve refined the methodological critique and adjusted the distribution model to frame it as analytical rather than accusatory.” professor kim nods slowly. “and that was mutual agreement?” -“yes“ you say without hesitation. jake glances at you briefly, then adds, “we disagree loudly but productively.” professor kim smiles faintly at that. “i expected nothing less.” he leans back slightly in his chair and studies you both. “any major friction?” you consider the question carefully before answering. “not beyond normal structural debate.” jake tilts his head slightly at your phrasing but doesn’t interrupt. professor kim looks toward him now. “and you? how do you feel about the direction?” jake shrugs lightly. “it’s solid“ he says. “she integrated the critique cleanly.” you glance at him for half a second, surprised at the phrasing. professor kim nods again. “i’ve skimmed your shared draft. it’s ambitious.”- “we’re aware“ you reply. “i’d hope so“ he says dryly. “ambition without awareness is how departments implode.”
there’s a small pause while he flips through a printed version of your outline. “this comparative distribution section“ he says, tapping the paper lightly. “whose initiative?” you open your mouth to answer, but you stop. instead, you say calmly, “jake.., jake mapped the initial inconsistency.” jake’s head turns toward you immediately. professor kim looks at him with renewed interest. “you did?” jake hesitates for the briefest fraction of a second before nodding. “yes. the sample allocation didn’t align with the raw demographic breakdown.” professor kim hums thoughtfully. “and you“ he says, turning back to you, “chose to support it.”-“yes“ you answer. “the critique strengthens the argument.” jake is still looking at you. professor kim sets the paper down and folds his hands. “that’s good leadership“ he says, directing the comment at you. “backing your partner’s risk when it’s substantiated.” jake blinks. you remain composed. “it’s not about backing him. it’s about accuracy.” professor kim smiles faintly. “accuracy is rarely neutral.” jake’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. professor kim continues, “have there been any concerns about workload distribution?” you shake your head slightly. “no. jake has been doing great.” the words leave your mouth calmly. directly. jake freezes.professor kim nods approvingly. “that’s what i like to hear.” jake’s expression shifts from confusion to something sharper, something that doesn’t quite have a name yet. he clears his throat lightly and says, “i’ve been doing what’s necessary.” professor kim raises one eyebrow. “she said you‘re doing great.” jake glances at you again. you don’t react. you simply say, “he’s thorough.” jake straightens slightly in his chair. “she’s the one who restructures everything“ he says quickly. “i just point things out.” professor kim looks between you both. “that sounds like division of strengths.” jake nods once. “right. but i’ve handled the bulk of the statistical comparison.” you blink at him. professor kim glances at the document again. “joint authorship“ he says mildly. “yes“ you reply calmly. jake shifts slightly in his seat. “i mean, she polished it. but the framework-” - “was yours“ you finish for him, tone neutral. he looks at you again. professor kim studies the shift in tone with mild amusement. “are we competing in my office?” -“no“ you answer immediately. jake says at the same time, “not exactly.” professor kim leans back again, clearly entertained now. “i do enjoy watching this.” jake exhales lightly and runs a hand through his hair. “we’re aligned“ he says. “mostly.”-“mostly?” professor kim echoes. jake glances at you. “she overprepares.” you raise one eyebrow. “you understate.” professor kim laughs quietly. “there it is.” jake shifts again. “i’m just saying, if we’re discussing contributions, it’s not one-sided.” -“no one said that“ you say confused.
he studies your face carefully, as if looking for something beneath the calm surface. professor kim taps his pen lightly against the desk. “jake.” jake looks up. “why are you defensive?” the professor asks casually. jake blinks. “i’m not.” -“you are slightly“ professor kim replies. jake straightens. “i just don’t want her carrying the narrative that i needed support.” the room goes still for half a second. you look at him fully now. professor kim tilts his head slightly. “no one said that.” jake exhales slowly. “right.” you speak before the silence stretches too long. “you didn’t need support“ you say calmly. “you identified the inconsistency before i did.” jake’s gaze snaps back to you. professor kim looks pleased. “that’s collaboration.” jake’s expression softens for a split second-then something else replaces it. he leans forward slightly and says, “but she adjusted the conclusion angle before i would’ve.” you blink. professor kim blinks. jake continues, “i would’ve been more direct.” -“yes“ you reply slowly. “you would have.” professor kim looks between you both. “is this about tone?” jake nods. “it matters.” you tilt your head slightly. “you’re arguing with praise.”-“i’m not“ he says quickly. “i just think-”-“you think what?” professor kim prompts. jake pauses. you watch him carefully. he frowns slightly and says, “if she’s telling you i’ve been doing great, i want it to be precise.” professor kim looks genuinely amused now. “you’re objecting to positive feedback?” jake rubs the back of his neck. “i don’t like vague metrics.” you stare at him. professor kim laughs outright this time. “you two are impossible.” jake leans back again, posture stiffening slightly. “i’m not competing.”-“you are“ you say gently. he looks at you sharply. kim sets his pen down. “let me clarify something“ he says calmly. “if either of you underperforms, i will know. if either of you excels, i will also know. i do not require inter-office self-sabotage.” jake blinks. “i’m not sabotaging“ he says quickly. “you are arguing against being complimented“ professor kim replies. jake looks at you again. you are watching him with an expression he can’t quite read.not amused.not irritated. just… concerned. professor kim folds his hands again. “jake.” jake straightens slightly. “you are ranked first for a reason“ the professor says calmly. “but rankings are not personality traits.” jake’s jaw tightens faintly. “and“ professor kim continues, “neither is composure.” the air in the room shifts subtly. you glance at jake again. he doesn’t look at you this time. instead, he nods once and says, “understood.” professor kim’s tone lightens slightly. “good. now, are we done subtly fencing with each other, or would you like to duel in the hallway?” you almost smile. jake huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself. “we’re done.”- “for today“ you add. professor kim looks pleased. “that’s the spirit.” the meeting shifts back into structured discussion after that, but the energy has changed. jake speaks slightly more than usual. he corrects one minor statistical phrasing that doesn’t actually need correcting. he clarifies a citation you had already cited. it’s not aggressive. it’s just… awkwardly competitive. professor kim notices. so do you.
and when the meeting finally ends and you both step out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you-jake exhales sharply like he’s just run a mile. you turn toward him and say calmly, “what was that?” he frowns. “what was what?” -“you arguing against your own praise“ you reply. he looks away briefly. “i wasn’t arguing.” -“you were“ you say. he sighs. “i just don’t like it when things sound unearned.” you study him carefully. “it wasn’t unearned“ you say quietly. he doesn’t answer immediately. he nods once, but he doesn’t look convinced. “it sounded like you were compensating.” the words hang there. you straighten slightly. “compensating?” - “for-” he gestures vaguely between the two of you. “for the other night.” you stare at him. “for driving me“ he clarifies quickly. “for-whatever i said.” your expression cools almost imperceptibly. “you think i praised you out of pity.” he winces faintly. “i didn’t say that.” he exhales again, frustrated. “i just don’t want you adjusting your tone because i had one bad night.”-“one bad night“ you repeat slowly. he nods. “i don’t need that.” you study him carefully now. “you think i changed how i work with you because you cried in my car.” his jaw tightens. “you don’t have to say it like that.”-“that’s what happened“ you reply evenly. he looks away again. there’s a small pause, then you say quietly, “i didn’t praise you because of that.” he doesn’t respond immediately. “you identified the inconsistency“ you continue. “you mapped the comparison model. that’s not charity.” he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly unsettled. “it just felt… different.”-“different how?” you ask. “you’re not usually that…” he hesitates, searching for a word that won’t make this worse. “public about it.”-“i’m not usually asked directly“ you reply. he nods slightly, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. “still.” -“still what?” he looks at you finally, and there’s something raw there -not dramatic, just unsteady. “you don’t have to soften things.” your expression changes at that. “you think that was soft?” -“it sounded-” he stops himself again. “it sounded careful.”-“i am always careful“ you say. “not like that“ he replies. there’s a beat of silence.
then you fold your arms lightly. “you’re upset because i supported you.”-“i’m not upset“ he insists. “you are.” he lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “this is exactly what i mean.” -“what do you mean?”-“you’re dissecting this like it’s a policy flaw“ he says. “and you’re reacting like i insulted you“ you counter. he rubs his temple briefly. “i just don’t want you treating me differently.”-“i’m not“ you say. “you are“ he replies immediately. you stare at him for a second longer than necessary. “you’re the one acting differently.” he opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. because that part is harder to deny. you adjust your bag again and say, “if you’d prefer i withhold credit next time, i can.” his head snaps toward you. “that’s not what i said.”-“it basically is“ you reply, your voice still controlled but noticeably cooler now. he shakes his head quickly. “no. i just-” he exhales sharply. “forget it.” you watch him carefully. “no. finish the sentence.” he hesitates. then, quieter, he says, “i don’t want you feeling responsible for me.” the hallway feels smaller. “i don’t“ you reply. “you drove me home“ he says. “because jungwon asked me to.” -“you stayed“ he continues. “not because of you?” you answer. he swallows once. “you listened.” you don’t deny that. “i don’t need you adjusting your behavior because of that“ he says. your jaw tightens slightly. “you think i’m adjusting?”- “yes.”-“then maybe you’re misreading it.” he looks at you sharply. “i supported your argument because it was strong“ you continue. “not because i felt sorry for you.” -“i didn’t say you felt sorry for me“ he mutters. “you didn’t have to.” he exhales slowly, clearly realizing this isn’t going the way he intended. “i’m not good at this“ he says finally. “at what?” you ask. he gestures vaguely again. “this,” you wait. “not knowing where i stand“ he finishes. the honesty catches you slightly off guard. “you stand where you always have“ you reply. “first?” he asks lightly, though it doesn’t quite sound like a joke. you don’t smile, and you’re so confused with what he’s saying. “no, as my partner.”, you say. he blinks. the word hangs heavier than it should.
he shifts again, clearly thrown off balance now. “right.” there’s an awkward pause. students pass at the end of the hallway, voices echoing faintly, but the space between you feels strangely insulated. he clears his throat. “i have to-” he gestures vaguely toward the stairwell. “i need to grab something from the dorm.” you look at him. “we were going to review the data update.“- “i’ll send comments later“ he replies quickly. you stare at him for half a second longer. “you’re so weird.”- “i’m not“ he says and gives you a tight, almost apologetic half-smile. “i just don’t want to work right now.” for a moment, it looks like he might stay. then he takes a step backward instead. “i’ll text you“ he says, already retreating. you watch him go. he walks down the hallway too quickly to look casual, one hand pushing open the stairwell door with more force than necessary. the door swings shut behind him with a dull echo. you remain standing there for a few seconds. then you exhale slowly. “unbelievable“ you mutter under your breath. maybe he’s right, maybe you do pity him. and somehow, that had turned into something fragile. you adjust your bag on your shoulder and start walking in the opposite direction, irritation simmering just beneath your calm exterior. if he wanted competition, you could give him that, but after the drive it would just feel wrong. you’re already pulling your phone out of your bag as you head toward the library. there’s no message from him, which you expected, and that annoys you more than if there had been something awkward waiting on the screen. you lock your phone and sit down at a table without hesitating, opening the shared document and scrolling straight to the risk section. you make three edits before your phone buzzes.
jake: i’ll review tonight.
you: send comments before midnight. i’m finalizing tomorrow morning. okay.
that’s it. no explanation. no acknowledgment of the hallway. just logistics. you work for another twenty minutes before another notification appears.
jake: you moved the risk paragraph?
you: yes. it reads stronger after the comparative section.
jake: it sounds like we’re accusing them.
you: we are.
jake: that’s not subtle.
you: subtlety created the inconsistency.
jake: you’re pushing harder than yesterday.
you: i’m being precise.
jake: whatever
the next morning he walks into the study room exactly on time, and when he sets his bag down beside the chair he says, “morning“ in a tone that is neutral enough to pass for casual. without looking up from your notebook, you answer, “morning“ keeping your voice even as you continue scanning the page. he sits across from you and opens his laptop, then glances at you briefly before saying, “i left comments on the framing“ as though announcing something procedural rather than provocative. you nod once and reply, “i saw“ still not lifting your eyes. his fingers hover over the keyboard before he adds, “you didn’t change them“ and you respond, “they didn’t need changing“ in the same steady cadence. leaning back slightly, he studies you and says, “it’s aggressive“ to which you reply, “no jake, it’s accurate“ finally meeting his gaze. he watches you for a second longer and remarks, “you’re back to stabbing“ and you answer evenly, “you apparently prefer that.” a faint, humorless curve touches his mouth as he says, “it’s familiar“ and you conclude, “then we’re aligned.” he exhales softly and shifts in his seat before saying, “you don’t have to swing that far“ and you counter, “i’m not swinging.” he tilts his head and insists, “you are“ then adds, “yesterday you were… different“ his pause deliberate. you close your laptop slowly before saying, “and you just left“ and he responds, “i needed space“ while holding your gaze. “you walked away“ you reply, your tone precise, and he looks at you directly now as he says, “you were looking at me like i’d cracked.” you remain calm as you answer, “you were talking nonsense“ then clarify, “not in a bad way.” his jaw tightens before he says, “i don’t need you adjusting because of one bad night“ and you respond, “i’m not adjusting.” he leans forward slightly and says, “you were softer“ and you reply, “and now i’m not“ before adding, “problem solved.” frustration flickers across his face as he says, “that’s not what i meant“ and you answer, “then clarify“ but he doesn’t. instead, he looks down at his screen and says, “let’s just focus on the data.”- “agreed“ you reply, reopening your laptop.
you work in silence for several minutes, the only sound the steady rhythm of typing, until he finally says without looking up, “you don’t have to pretend it didn’t matter“ his voice quieter now. you glance at him and ask, “pretend what didn’t matter?” and he answers, “the night.” you study him briefly before saying, “you don’t even remember it“ and he replies, “i remember enough.” tilting your head slightly, you ask, “do you?” and after a pause he admits, “i remember feeling stupid.”- “you weren’t“ you say, and when he looks at you more sharply, he mutters, “stop looking at me like that.” you hold his gaze and ask, “like what?” and he answers, “like you’ve decided something.”- “i have“ you say, watching him go still before he asks, “and?” you don’t hesitate as you tell him, “you’re not effortless“ then add, “you’re just controlled. like me.” he blinks once and says, “that’s worse“ a brief silence stretches between you before he says quietly, “you don’t pity me“ and you answer, “no.” he searches your face and asks, “you’re sure“ and you reply, “yes.” he nods once and says, “that’s inconvenient“ and although you almost smile, you don’t. instead, you reopen your laptop and say, “we still need to finalize the funding implications“ and he nods, returning to his typing as the air between you shifts into something unsettled but no longer hostile. after a while, he breaks the silence again by saying, “you don’t have to go back to competing just because i made it weird“ and you look up at him before replying, “i’m not competing.” he studies you and insists, “you are“ and you counter, “i’m working.” his eyes narrow slightly as he says, “you’re punishing me“ and you ask, “for what?” he holds your gaze and answers, “for walking away“ and you respond evenly, “if i wanted to punish you, you’d know.” he huffs out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh and says, “that’s reassuring“ and you reply, “i promise.” another stretch of silence follows before he says more quietly, “i didn’t think you’d… back me like that“ and you ask, “in the meeting?” he nods and says, “yeah“ and you answer simply, “you were right.” he shakes his head slightly and says, “that’s not why“ and when you remain silent, waiting, he murmurs, “forget it.” -“no“ you say firmly, adding, “finish“ and after hesitating he admits, “it didn’t feel strategic.” -“it wasn’t“ you reply, and he looks at you carefully before asking, “then what was it?” you pause before answering, “it was fair“ and he holds your gaze a second too long before looking away first. the rest of the session remains steady but tense, and when you finally pack up your things, you notice him watching you as he asks, “you’re not going to say it?” adjusting the strap of your bag, you reply, “say what?” and he says, “that you’re still annoyed.” you adjust your bag more firmly on your shoulder and say, “you’re weird“ and he responds, “i’m not.” -“you are“ you insist, and he gives you that tight half-smile before saying, “i just don’t feel like working anymore.” you shake your head slightly and tell him, “that’s not what this is“ and he asks, “then what is it?” after a brief pause, you answer, “you don’t like not knowing where you stand“ and he goes quiet. you hold his gaze and add, “and i don’t like being misunderstood“ and he looks like he might say something else. instead, he nods once and says, “i’ll send the revised funding draft tonight.” -“i’ll review it“ you reply, and this time you walk out first.
the ranking board goes up at 9:03 a.m., not 9:00 and not 9:05 but 9:03, as if the department enjoys suspense, and by 9:04 the hallway outside the faculty office is packed with bodies pressing forward in anticipation. you did not plan to come this early and you definitely did not plan to stand this close to the board, but eunchae dragged you here under the excuse of “emotional support“ and now you are wedged between jungwon and chaewon while jay stretches on his toes trying to see over everyone’s shoulders. from somewhere behind you, sunoo complains, “move. i can’t breathe and i refuse to faint before seeing my academic downfall“ and kazuha answers calmly, “it’s alphabetical. no one is fainting“ while niki mutters, “speak for yourself.” you do not speak. you do not breathe. you just scan, your eyes moving automatically to the top where the numbers settle into focus.
rank 1: l/n y/n - 4.98.
for half a second your brain refuses to process it, and then eunchae grabs your arm and says, “you moved up“ already grinning as you blink and reply, “by one decimal.” chaewon leans closer to the board and says, “that’s not the point. you moved up“ and somewhere behind you jay whistles and adds, “of course she did. unreal.” you do not look at them. you look down one line instead.
rank 2: sim jaeyun - 4.97.
your stomach tightens in a way that feels strangely wrong because he dropped, not dramatically and not catastrophically but by one decimal, and it is enough. “whoa“ niki says softly, and a subtle shift moves through the crowd, the kind that happens when something unexpected but not explosive occurs as heads turn and whispers travel quickly. you do not turn immediately because you know he is here and you can feel it, standing slightly behind jungwon, close enough to see but far enough not to be at the center of the cluster. jay is the first to say it out loud when he mutters, “that’s brutal“ though he does not sound entirely sympathetic, and heeseung replies, “it’s one decimal. relax“ while niki adds lightly, “yeah. it’s not like he dropped to fifth.” you finally turn and find jake looking at the board as if he is analyzing a case study, not reacting and not smiling, just reading. sunghoon glances at him carefully and asks, “you good?” and jake nods once before replying easily, “yeah. it’s mid-semester. it shifts.” his tone is smooth and controlled and practiced, and you recognize it instantly when he continues, almost amused, “it’s literally nothing. statistical fluctuation.” niki snorts and says, “you sound like you’re narrating your own decline“ and jake answers lightly, “i’m not declining. i dropped by one decimal“ while jay adds, “and she moved up by one.” jake’s gaze flicks to you then, brief and measured, and he says, “congrats“ the word clean with no sarcasm and no edge, and you reply, “thanks.” it should feel like victory. it kinda does, but somehow also does not. eunchae squeezes your shoulder and whispers, “you did it“ and you nod faintly as the group begins to disperse into smaller clusters, some debating what caused the shift and others laughing it off while the tension dissolves into regular campus noise. jake does not move right away. he stands there a second longer than necessary before shrugging once and saying, “guess i’ll try harder“ and it’s a joke and it’s not. niki watches him closely and says, “you don’t have to“ and jake gives him a look before replying, “i’m fine.” you hate how quickly he says it, and before you can overthink it you step closer and say, “it’s one decimal“ and he glances at you and answers, “i know.” you add, “it doesn’t define anything“ and he smiles faintly before replying, “i’m aware“ but there is something too polished about the exchange and too tidy. sunoo leans toward you and murmurs, “this is awkward“ and you whisper back, “shut up.” jake runs a hand through his hair, posture relaxed but eyes sharper than usual, and says, “we still have the funding review next week. that matters more“ and jungwon nods as jake continues, “rankings fluctuate. the project doesn’t.” he is performing calm. you can see it, and everyone else definitely can too.
as the group drifts toward the café while still dissecting the ranking system like it is a sport, with jay arguing that decimals are “psychological warfare” and sunoo dramatically claiming he deserves emotional compensation, jake walks beside you not too close and not distant either, just slightly off, and says quietly without looking at you, “you earned it.” you glance at him and reply, “so did you“ and he huffs a faint laugh before saying, “apparently not enough.” you tell him, “that’s not how this works“ and he shrugs as he says, “it is, though“ and there is no bitterness in his voice, which makes it worse. when you reach the café, everyone orders something unnecessarily complicated except him. he orders black coffee. niki immediately says, “you absolutely hate black coffee?” and jake shrugs before replying, “it’s efficient“ and niki counters, “it sounds like punishment“ while jake smiles slightly and says, “i need to study late tonight.” you watch him take the first sip and he does not flinch, and you hate that you notice that. the conversation shifts to presentation deadlines and midterms and someone’s lab disaster, and jake laughs at the right moments and contributes normally, he even teases sunoo once, but you keep catching him staring at nothing for half a second too long before snapping back. when jay says, “at least you’re still second“ jake replies smoothly, “second is stable“ and takes another sip of the coffee he obviously does not like, making your stomach twists. for the first time in years, you do not feel triumphant. you feel unsettled. you lean slightly closer to him and say quietly, “it’s temporary“ and he glances at you with one eyebrow lifting before replying, “so is yours.” you shake your head and say, “that’s not what i meant“ and he answers, “i know“ with no hostility, just restraint. eunchae suddenly claps her hands and says, “we should celebrate“ and everyone groans except sunoo, who says, “yes. i demand cake“ while jake shakes his head lightly and says, “yes, let’s celebrate her.” jungwon replies, “we can celebrate you both“ and jake answers casually, “there’s nothing to celebrate for me“ and when you look at him sharply he catches it and adds, “i’m joking“ but you do not think he is.
for years this has been the dynamic. he wins. you chase. you narrow the gap. now the gap has shifted, and instead of relief you feel like something tilted that was not supposed to.
when the group starts planning the weekend in loud overlapping suggestions, jake steps slightly back from the circle, just half a step and subtle enough that most would miss it, but you see it, and for the first time being first does not feel like victory. it feels like distance. then he checks his phone, his expression flattening for half a second before he pushes back his chair and stands. “i have a thing“ he says casually as he slides his phone into his pocket, and niki replies over the rim of his cup, “you always have a thing.” jake shrugs into his jacket and says, “it’s a busy life“ which makes jay roll his eyes and answer, “you’re second, not unemployed.” jake smirks faintly and says, “exactly. i have standards to maintain“ and you just can’t laugh. you watch him grab his bag, tracking the efficiency of the movement, until eunchae looks up and asks, “you’re leaving?” and he replies, “yeah. i’ll see you later.” there is no pause and no glance in your direction this time. he just walks out, the door swinging shut behind him. you sit there for three full seconds before standing and saying, “i’ll be back“ and sunoo immediately asks, “are you chasing him?” you answer too quickly with, “no“ and niki mutters into his coffee, “yes, you are“ but you ignore them and step outside. jake has not gone far. he is standing near the side entrance, staring at his phone like it personally insulted him, and when he hears the door open he looks up and asks, “you forgot something?” -“yes“ you say, and he waits, one eyebrow lifting slightly as you walk closer and tell him, “you’re not fine.” he exhales through his nose and says, “i am“ and when you reply, “you’re not“ he answers flatly, “it’s one decimal. you don’t need to manage my emotional stability.” you shake your head and say, “i’m not managing you“ and he counters, “you’re hovering.” you blink and say, “i’m standing“ and he replies, “same difference.” crossing your arms, you tell him, “you’re acting weird“ and he says, “i’m not.”he laughs quietly before adding, “that’s rich.” when you ask, “why?” he answers, “because you win and then you chase me outside to make sure i’m okay“ and there is something sharper under the humor now as he adds, “it’s unnecessary.” you feel that land but keep your voice steady as you say, “it’s not about winning“ and he replies, “sure.” -“it isn’t“ you insist, and he says your name more quietly, “y/n, i dropped by one decimal. that’s not a breakdown.” -“i know“ you say, and he responds, “then stop looking at me like it is.” you hesitate just long enough for him to notice, and he says, “that’s what i thought.” your jaw tightens and you tell him, “you’re allowed to be bothered“ but he answers immediately, “i’m not bothered.” -“but i know you are“ you press, and he steps back slightly, creating space as he asks, “why do you need me to be?” the question catches you off guard and you say, “i don’t“ and he replies, “then let it go.” you study him, taking in the too-straight posture and the tightness in his jaw before saying quietly, “you don’t have to pretend“ and he laughs again, thinner this time, as he says, “i’m not pretending.”- “you hate losing“ you say, and he answers, “i didn’t lose.”- “you moved“ you counter, and he shoots back, “so did you. congratulations“ the word not bitter but not soft either. you swallow and say, “this wasn’t supposed to be like this“ and he raises an eyebrow as he asks, “like what?” -“you behind me“ you admit, and his eyes sharpen as he repeats, “behind you?” -“that’s not what i meant“ you say quickly, but he answers, “it’s exactly what you meant.” you stop yourself mid-sentence and then say instead, “it feels off“ and he looks at you for a long second before admitting quietly, “yeah. it kinda does.”
the honesty slips out unintentionally, and you soften without meaning to as you say, “it’s temporary.” he exhales and says, “you don’t know that“ and you reply, “you’ll move back up.” he gives you a look you cannot quite read and asks, “and if i don’t?”- “you probably will“ you insist. “you sound very confident in me“ he says, and you answer, “i am“ watching something flicker in his expression before it closes again. “that’s the problem“ he says, and you frown as you ask, “what does that mean?” he answers slowly, “it means you don’t need to reassure me.” -“i’m not reassuring you“ you say, and he replies, “you are.” when you start with, “jake-” he cuts you off more sharply than before and says, “i’m fine. i don’t need a motivational speech.” -“it’s not a speech“ you argue. “it feels like one“ he says. you stare at him and ask, “why are you mad at me?” and he answers, “i’m not mad.” -“you’re snapping“ you say. “i’m not snapping“ he insists and runs a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through as he says, “i don’t need you calibrating your tone because i dropped a decimal.”- “i’m not calibrating anything“ you reply, and he says, “you are. you’ve been different since the party.” -“that has nothing to do with this“ you answer, and he counters, “it has everything to do with this.” you go quiet, and he notices as he says, “you don’t get it.” -“then explain“ you tell him, and after hesitating he says lower, “it’s easier when you’re chasing.” you blink and ask, “what?” and he repeats, “it’s easier when i’m ahead“ before adding, “because then i know what i am to you.” the words hang between you, and you ask quietly, “and what are you to me?” he looks at you like he did not expect the question and answers, “competition.” the word feels wrong in the space between you. “and if you’re not ahead?” you ask, and his jaw tightens as he says, “i don’t know“ the honesty slipping out before he can stop it. you step closer and say, “it doesn’t change anything“ but he answers immediately, “it does.” -“how?” you press, and he looks away as he says, “you don’t see it.” - “then tell me“ you say, and he shakes his head once and answers, “no.”- “why?” you ask. “because i don’t want to overreact to something that isn’t even real“ he says. “what isn’t real?” you ask, and he looks at you with something raw flashing across his expression before he gestures vaguely between you and says, “this. whatever this is.” your pulse stumbles and you say, “what? there is no this“ and he lets out a short laugh as he replies, “exactly.” silence stretches between you until he straightens, control sliding back into place like armor, and says again, “it’s fine. i just need to work harder.” - “that’s not the solution“ you say. “it usually is“ he replies. “you don’t need to punish yourself“ you tell him. “i’m not punishing myself“ he answers. “you ordered black coffee“ you point out. “that’s not a crime“ he says. “but you hate black coffee“ you remind him, and he almost smiles as he says, “you care too much.” - “and you deflect too much“ you reply.
he exhales slowly before saying, “i don’t want you feeling responsible for my ranking.” - “i don’t“ you insist. and he studies you carefully before saying, “then stop trying to fix it.” you freeze and say quietly, “i’m not trying to fix anything“ and he nods once as he says, “good.” after a pause he adds more softly, “you should be happy“ and you stare at him as you say, “i am.”- “are you though?” he asks, and the question hits harder than you expect. you hesitate, and he sees it as he says quietly, “see?” you look away for the first time and admit, “it just doesn’t feel right.” - “why?” he asks. “because it feels like i stepped forward and you stepped back“ you say, and he nods slowly as he replies, “that’s how rankings work.” - “that’s not what i mean“ you say, and he knows it but does not want to say it. after a moment he tells you, “you don’t have to chase me“ and you answer, “i’m not chasing you.” - “you are right now“ he says. you exhale sharply and say, “you left“ and he replies, “and you followed“ the words sitting heavy between you. you hold his gaze and say again, “i don’t pity you“ and he nods as he answers, “i know.” - “then why are you acting like i do?” you ask, and after hesitating he says almost under his breath, “because it’s easier than the alternative.” - “what alternative?” you press, and he meets your eyes and for a second almost says it, but then his expression hardens and he says, “it’s nothing.” you feel the wall go up as he steps back and says, “i’ll see you tomorrow.” - “jaeyun-” you start, “don‘t.“, his voice cuts you sharp. “don’t call me that.” it comes out quick, almost harsh. you catch yourself. “jake.” a beat. “what’s going on with you?”- “i’m fine“ and this time it sounds less like reassurance and more like a boundary. “just-… just leave me alone y/n“ he walks away before you can stop him, and you stand there watching him go again.
by the time his dorm room goes quiet, jake tells himself it’s one decimal. he tells himself it’s mid-semester. he tells himself the ranking board is a temporary snapshot and not a verdict. he tells himself a lot of things, because if he doesn’t keep repeating them, his brain starts doing what it always does when something slips. it starts forecasting the worst outcome like it’s preparing a case file. the worst outcome is not “second place“ not really. the worst outcome is being seen as someone who can be beaten, someone who can be surpassed, someone who can be caught and left behind, because jake has lived long enough in rooms where praise turns to disappointment the moment you stop being exceptional. he hasn’t been allowed to be average. he hasn’t been allowed to be “fine.” fine is what people say right before they stop looking at you. he sits on the edge of his bed with his laptop open, the ranking board still there on the screen like it’s nailed to his wall. 4.97. the number should not matter this much. it is a decimal, a rounding error, a meaningless fluctuation in a system that loves to pretend it can quantify human effort. but his body doesn’t treat it like a decimal. his body treats it like threat. his chest is tight, his throat feels strange, his eyes burn in a way that makes him blink too hard and stare too long at the screen like he can intimidate it into changing. he isn’t crying, he tells himself. he’s just tired. his eyes are just irritated. he’s been staring at the screen too long. “that’s all“ he adds under his breath, like saying it aloud will make his body believe him, and he still doesn’t close the tab, because if he closes it, it becomes real. it becomes something he can’t monitor. the overhead light is off. he doesn’t remember turning it off. the desk lamp makes the room feel smaller, like a box, and he is used to boxes because boxes are controllable and boxes are predictable and boxes have rules. he can win inside boxes. the problem is that his life keeps getting bigger, the expectations keep expanding, and the rules keep changing without warning, and every time they change, he has to run faster just to keep the same ground.
the door opens without warning, and niki walks in first, tossing his bag onto the desk as he looks around and asks, “why is it so dark. are we having a grief ceremony“ while jake doesn’t look up and answers, “the overhead light is annoying.” sunghoon steps in behind him and shuts the door quietly, taking one look at jake and pausing, because sunghoon doesn’t joke first when something is off, but niki does as he says, “if you’re brooding about the ranking, i’m filing a complaint. it’s literally mid-semester.”- “i’m not brooding“ jake replies, and the flatness of his voice is the first tell that he is, which makes niki freeze mid-motion and stare at him as he says, “you’re sitting in the dark staring at your laptop like it owes you money.”- “i’m studying“ jake says, and niki counters immediately with, “you’re not typing“ until jake finally looks up, eyes sharper than they should be for this conversation, and says, “can you not.” niki pauses, then his gaze flicks to the laptop screen and he says more quietly, “oh. you have the page open“ and jake moves a hand as if to shut it, but he hesitates for half a second too long, and that hesitation is not about the laptop. it’s about the feeling that if he closes it, he’s admitting it matters. sunghoon’s voice is calm when he says, “it’s not about the decimal“ and jake’s jaw tightens instantly as he replies, “it is.” - “it isn’t“ sunghoon repeats evenly, and jake’s laugh comes out sharp and short as he says, “you don’t get to tell me what i’m feeling“ while sunghoon answers, “i’m not telling you. i’m noticing.” niki drags his chair around and sits backward in it, arms folded across the backrest, and says, “you don’t react like this to grades“ watching jake carefully. “i’m not reacting“ jake insists, and niki points out again, like he’s building a case, “you’re in the dark“ until jake’s fingers curl at his sides and he says, “can we drop it.” niki’s gaze stays on him as he asks, “did you two fight?“ and jake’s head snaps up as he says, “what?“ while niki clarifies, “you and y/n. you left weird. she came back weird. and now you’re sitting here like your soul got audited.” jake looks away immediately, because if he looks at them too long he’ll give something away, and he says, “we didn’t fight“ but niki insists, “you did something“ and jake answers, “i didn’t“ until sunghoon’s voice goes quieter and he says, “you snapped“ and jake’s shoulders stiffen. niki’s eyebrows lift slowly as he says, “you snapped at her?” and jake mutters, “i didn’t snap“ the denial sounding like a reflex, like something he learned a long time ago, but sunghoon says, “you kind of did. outside the café“ and jake’s eyes lift sharply as he asks, “you heard that?“ while sunghoon answers, “you weren’t subtle.” jake swallows, and his throat feels tight again, because he remembers your face when he said it, remembers the way your eyes sharpened and then cooled, remembers the instant you stopped offering softness like it was something you could put away in a drawer and lock, and when he starts with, “she kept trying to-“ he stops, hands clenching because even he can hear how pathetic he’s about to sound. niki prompts, gentler but still persistent, “trying to what“ and jake says finally, “fix it“ and when sunghoon asks, “fix what“ jake’s mouth goes dry because he doesn’t want to say it and he doesn’t want to name it because naming it makes it real, but the word slips out anyway, rough and small. “me“ he says.
niki’s expression shifts like something in him softens and then hardens in the same breath as he replies, “she wasn’t trying to fix you“ and jake says too fast, “you weren’t there“ but niki answers, “we were ten feet away“ and jake pushes on, voice sharpening as if he’s arguing a point in debate because arguing is easier than admitting he liked it. “she followed me“ he says. “she came outside like i was- like i couldn’t handle it“ and sunghoon’s eyes stay steady as he replies, “or she came outside because she noticed“ which makes jake laugh once, humorless, as he asks, “noticed what“ and sunghoon answers, “that you were not fine.” jake’s chest tightens at the phrase, not fine, the worst label, the one that means you’re slipping, and he insists, “i was fine“ but niki doesn’t buy it as he says, “you keep saying that.” jake turns toward the window as if the glass can give him distance and make his body stop reacting, pressing his palm to the back of his neck as he exhales hard and says, “it’s stupid“ but niki answers, “try us“ and jake stares at the curtain seam, jaw clenched, before admitting quietly, “she looked at me like she.., i don’t know- saw something.” the room goes still, and niki tilts his head and asks, “saw what?“ and jake snaps, sharper than he intended, “i don’t know. that’s the point“ because he hates not knowing and he hates being uncertain and he hates not being able to categorize a situation, because uncertainty is where failure grows. sunghoon doesn’t flinch as he says, “you don’t like being seen“ and jake scoffs, “that’s not-“ but sunghoon continues, calm as a judge, “you don’t. not when you can’t control what they see“ and jake’s throat tightens because he wants to deny it and laugh it off and make it a joke and escape, but his eyes burn again, and this time the wetness is real, and it makes him furious because he has spent years proving he doesn’t break. niki’s voice drops, less teasing now, as he says, “it’s not about losing first“ like he’s naming a thing jake refuses to name, and jake swallows hard and answers, “it is.” but niki continues, “it’s about what happens if you’re not first. what it means“ and jake’s laugh comes out jagged as he says, “it means i’m second“ while niki replies, “it means people stop expecting you to be perfect.”
jake’s jaw tightens like a trap as he says, “people never stop expecting“ and the truth slips out before he can guard it. sunghoon watches him and says, “there it is“ and jake turns back fast, eyes sharp, as he says, “don’t.” but niki doesn’t look away as he says, “you act like you can’t afford to slip“ and jake’s chest tightens harder because he can’t. he can’t afford it. he has built his entire safety on performance, not emotional safety, actual safety, stability, respect. the kind of doors that open when you’re the best and close when you’re merely good, and being “good” is a cliff edge in his mind. he doesn’t tell them that, but his silence does. “it was predictable before“ jake says instead, because predictable sounds reasonable and fear sounds pathetic. “it was structured“ and sunghoon asks, “and now?” and jake’s voice goes lower as he admits, “now she’s first.” niki’s eyebrows lift as he says, “and you’re second?” and jake’s fingers flex as he insists, “it shouldn’t matter“ but sunghoon answers softly, “yet it does” and jake exhales slowly as he says, “i don’t like how it changes things.” niki presses, “how does it change things?” and jake opens his mouth and nothing comes out, because he doesn’t know how to explain that the chase was a script he understood, and without the script he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be, and he can’t say that without sounding like he’s admitting he needs you to keep him sharp, needs you to keep him defined, needs the tension to keep him from dissolving into whatever he is without competition. “i shouldn’t have snapped“ he says instead, because guilt is easier to admit than fear, and niki nods once as he replies, “no. you shouldn’t have“ while jake’s voice cracks slightly when he says, “she wasn’t even wrong.” sunghoon’s expression softens faintly as he says, “she was trying to be decent“ and jake looks down, hands clenched again, as he admits, “i made it sound like she was pitying me“ and niki’s voice is blunt when he says, “because you were embarrassed.” jake swallows and says, “i hate that i did that“ and that is the truth, not the decimal and not the ranking but the fact that you followed him and tried to steady him and he threw it back at you like it was an insult. and he doesn’t say that the look on your face keeps replaying. and he doesn’t say it’s easier to take a hit from anyone else than to see disappointment in your eyes. because he doesn’t know why, he just knows. niki pushes off the chair and stands as he says, “then fix it“ and jake looks up and tries, “it wasn’t that bad“ but sunghoon’s voice is quiet and firm when he says, “you’re in the dark. it was that bad“ and jake rubs his face hard before asking, “what if she doesn’t want to see me.” niki pauses like the question actually surprises him and asks, “since when do you care about that“ and jake’s jaw tightens as he says, “i don’t?” but niki lifts an eyebrow and replies, “you literally just asked“ making jake look away. sunghoon’s voice lands steady as he says, “it’ll be alright, she followed you.” and that hits because you did. you didn’t have to. jake’s phone sits on the desk and he hasn’t touched it, because he has been sitting here trying to will his nerves into obedience and he can’t, and when he admits quietly, “i don’t know what to say“ niki shrugs and says, “start with ‘i was an idiot’” which makes jake shoot him a look as he says, “i’m not saying that“ while sunghoon’s mouth curves faintly as he replies, “but you were.” jake huffs a breath that almost becomes a laugh and fails, then grabs his jacket like grabbing something physical will stop his thoughts from spinning as he mutters, “i’ll be back“ and niki’s grin is small but real when he says, “look at that. functional human behavior“ while jake answers automatically, “shut up“ but the bite isn’t there.
he leaves before they can push further, and the hallway outside is loud with dorm life, doors opening and voices echoing and someone arguing on the phone, but jake feels like he’s moving through it underwater. his pulse is too loud. his hands feel too cold. he tells himself this is not a big deal. he tells himself this is basic decency. he tells himself this has nothing to do with anything else, even as the truth he refuses to name stays simple underneath it all. he is terrified of being the kind of person who loses control and then loses respect, and right now he feels dangerously close to that line.
by the time he reaches your dorm building, he slows, not because he’s afraid you’ll reject him, because his brain hasn’t even allowed that category to form, but because he’s afraid you’ll look at him the way you did in the café, like he’s slipping and like he’s not what he pretends to be and like you can see the fear he can’t say out loud. he stands outside the entrance for a full ten seconds anyway, then he steps inside, and for the first time all day he doesn’t turn around. he doesn’t give himself time to reconsider, and by the time he reaches your dorm floor his pulse is loud enough that it annoys him, because it’s just a conversation and it’s just an apology and he’s had harder ones. he knocks once, then again because the first one felt too light, and after movement inside and a brief pause the door opens to you standing there in an oversized sweatshirt with your hair slightly messy like you’ve run your hands through it too many times, your eyes blinking when you see him as you say, “jake?” and for half a second he forgets what he rehearsed before managing, “hey” his voice steadier than he feels as he adds, “can you step outside for a minute.” you study him like you’re searching his face for tension or sarcasm or something sharp and finding none, and then you say, “yes, sure” stepping out and closing the door behind you quietly. the hallway feels too narrow, and without thinking he gestures toward the exit and says, “let’s go downstairs“ and you don’t question it, you just follow.
outside, the night air hits differently, cooler and softer, and the campus is quieter than it was earlier with most windows lit but distant, streetlights lining the pathway in long golden stretches and casting slow pools of light over the pavement. you both walk a few steps in silence before he stops near the edge of the courtyard and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, then says, “i shouldn’t have snapped at you“ and you blink as he keeps his gaze away and adds, “outside the café. i was being-“ he hesitates, “unfair.” you wait, and he exhales slowly before saying, “you weren’t pitying me.”- “no.” you reply quietly. “i know now” he says, and there’s something tight in the way he says it, like the admission costs him, which makes you tilt your head slightly and ask, “then why’d you act like i was?” he finally looks at you, and the streetlight above throws soft gold across your face and catches in your eyes in a way that makes them look brighter than usual, almost reflective, and for a second he notices the light more than your expression, the thought strangely specific and unsettling in a way he doesn’t have language for. instead of answering directly, he says, “i don’t like when things shift“ and you frown faintly as you ask, “shift how?“ and he replies quickly, almost too quickly, “the ranking. it’s just. different.”- “it’s one decimal” you say gently. “i know“ he answers. “you act like it’s more” you say, and he replies immediately, “it’s not“ but you keep watching him and ask, “then what is it?” and he hesitates, because he’s not going to say fear and he’s not going to say pressure and he’s definitely not going to say that this morning he felt like he was slipping out of the version of himself everyone expects. “it’s just annoying“ he says finally. “i don’t like dropping.” you cross your arms lightly and say, “no one likes dropping“ and he answers, “i’ll move back up“ a hint of edge in his tone, pride and defense threaded together as he adds, “it’s not permanent.” - “i didn’t say it was“ you reply, and he looks at you again as the light shifts with a breeze moving through the trees, the reflection in your eyes flickering in a way he finds distracting for reasons he can’t explain. you don’t look triumphant or smug. you look careful. “i’m not celebrating you losing“ you say quietly. “i know“ he replies, and you continue, “you think i feel good about it.”- “i don’t“ he says. “you did earlier“ you counter, and he winces slightly as he admits, “i was being an idiot.” you almost smile and say, “you said that, not me“ and he huffs out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh as he says, “yeah. well. i meant it.” silence settles between you again, but it’s softer now and less sharp, and you glance toward the path stretching across campus where a few students pass in the distance with voices low and indistinct, the air smelling faintly like rain even though it hasn’t rained. “you don’t have to pretend you’re not bothered“ you say, and he replies, “i’m not pretending.” - “you are“ you insist, and he looks at you again, frustration flickering because lately you see through him too easily, and before he can stop himself he says, “i don’t get to be bothered.” you blink and ask, “what’s that supposed to mean?” and he shrugs like it should be obvious as he says, “it means it’s mid-semester. i’ll fix it.” - “that’s not what i asked.” you reply. he exhales slowly and says, “it’s not a big deal.” - “yeah, you keep saying that“ you point out. “because it’s true“ he answers.
you step a little closer without thinking, not confrontational, just closer, and you ask quietly, “then why’re you here“ and the question catches him because he didn’t expect it. he looks at you. really looks at you this time. and the streetlight glow softens the edges of everything, your expression and the tension in your shoulders and even the night itself, and he says, “because i don’t like leaving things like that.” - “like what?“ you ask. “unresolved“ he answers, and you search his face as you say, “you think we’re unresolved?” and he hesitates before admitting, “maybe.” you look away for a second, then back at him, and you say, “you’re not replaceable, you know“ and he stiffens slightly as he replies, “i didn’t say i was“ but you answer, “you don’t have to“ and he swallows. you step back slightly to give him space again as you say, “i didn’t move up because you moved down. those aren’t connected“ and he replies quickly, “i know.” - “you’re acting like they are“ you say, and he runs a hand through his hair as he admits, “it just feels different.” you nod slowly and say, “yeah“ and when he glances at you and asks, “yeah“ you repeat, “yeah. it does“ and that surprises him, because he expected you to argue or rationalize, and instead you just agree. “it’s weird“ you continue. “i’ve been chasing you for three years“ and he lets out a faint breath as he says, “you make it sound like a sport.” - “it was“ you reply. he almost smiles and says, “you’re competitive“ and you answer, “so are you“ and he doesn’t deny it. the silence between you shifts again, not empty and not tense, just full, and he notices the way the light moves in your eyes when you blink like it’s caught there intentionally, and he doesn’t know why that detail sticks or why he catalogues things like that about you, he just does. “you deserved it“ he says quietly, and you look at him and ask, “what?” and he clarifies, “the move up. you deserved it“ and your expression softens almost imperceptibly as you say, “thanks“ and he nods once. “i’m not going anywhere“ he adds quickly, like he has to reestablish something, and you reply, “i didn’t think you were“ but he says, “i mean academically-“ and you raise an eyebrow slightly as you answer, “yeah, i know what you meant” and he pauses because he doesn’t know if you do.
the breeze shifts again, and the campus feels strangely intimate with warm lights and quiet paths and distant familiar buildings, the kind of night that makes everything feel closer than it actually is, and suddenly he says, “you don’t have to catch me.” you blink and ask, “what “ and he hesitates before shrugging like it’s nothing as he says, “you don’t have to chase“ and you stare at him for a long moment before saying quietly, “i wasn’t chasing because i had to“ and that lands somewhere deep in him even if he can’t name where. he nods slowly, and neither of you move and neither of you step closer, but the air feels different now, softer, and neither of you knows exactly why. close enough that he can see the way your breath fogs faintly in the cool air. close enough that the streetlight above you casts gold along the curve of your cheek. close enough that he notices the tiny flicker in your eyes when you blink. he shouldn’t notice that. he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about it. you say quietly, “you’re not falling behind“ and he swallows before replying, “i know“ though the word comes out rougher than he means it to. the campus is quiet around you, the breeze moving gently through the trees, a door shutting somewhere in the distance while the world keeps going, and you’re still looking at him like that. not competitive. not guarded. not sharp. just open. it does something to him, and he doesn’t think about it or weigh the consequences or calculate the variables. he just moves. it’s subtle at first, barely a step and barely a shift, and then his hand lifts almost on instinct, his fingers brushing lightly against your jaw like he’s checking if you’re real. you inhale sharply, and he sees the question in your eyes but doesn’t answer it. he kisses you. it’s not rushed and not aggressive. it’s almost hesitant for the first half-second, like he expects you to pull away, but you don’t. your breath catches warm and startled against his mouth, and that’s what undoes him. the kiss deepens, not wildly and not recklessly, just enough that it stops being accidental, his hand sliding slightly along your cheek with his thumb brushing your skin while the streetlight glows warm against closed eyes and quiet night air and the world narrows down to warmth and breath and the realization that this feels different. soft. real. you don’t move for a second, and then you respond. not aggressively. not desperately. just there. and that’s what snaps him out of it, because this isn’t a theory and this isn’t tension and this isn’t rivalry. this is you. and he just. fuck. why did he-
he pulls back first. too quickly. like he touched something electric. the distance between you feels enormous now, and you blink up at him with your lips slightly parted and your eyes wide not with anger but confusion as you breathe, “jake.” he steps back like he needs physical space to think and runs a hand through his hair as he exhales sharply and says, “i-“ before cutting himself off and adding, “that was…“ then dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to erase the last ten seconds as he mutters, “that was stupid.” the word lands wrong. you swallow and ask, “why’d you do that?” and he opens his mouth but nothing coherent forms because he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know why your eyes looked like that under the streetlights or why the air felt charged or why standing close to you felt like standing on the edge of something he didn’t understand. “i don’t know“ he admits finally. you stare at him, not hurt and not furious, just confused, and you repeat softly, “you don’t know?” and he shakes his head once with his jaw tight as he says, “it just happened.” that doesn’t help. you look down for a second and then back up at him, and the softness from earlier is gone, not replaced with hostility but with uncertainty, as you say quietly, “i should go back inside.” he nods immediately, too fast, and says, “yeah“ and you hesitate like you’re waiting for him to say something else, but he doesn’t, because if he opens his mouth again he might make it worse. you step back, then turn, then walk toward the dorm entrance without looking back, and he watches you go until the door closes behind you. suddenly he’s alone in the courtyard with the streetlights and the quiet and the echo of what he just did, and he drags a hand down his face as he mutters under his breath, “what the hell.” he just kissed you. he didn’t plan it and didn’t think about it and didn’t even understand it, and you looked-
“god“ he mutters to himself as he groans softly and starts walking back toward his dorm faster than necessary. by the time he pushes his own door open, niki looks up from his desk and asks, “well?“ and jake doesn’t answer. he walks straight past him and drops onto his bed, covering his face with both hands, and sunghoon glances over and says, “you look worse“ while jake muffles his voice behind his palms and says, “i messed up.” niki’s eyebrows lift as he asks, “how bad?“ and jake exhales slowly before admitting, “i fucking kissed her.” silence follows, and then niki says, “you what?” and jake drags his hands down his face and stares at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him as he mutters, “i don’t even know why.” that’s the worst part, because he can’t categorize it and he can’t frame it as strategy and he can’t explain it as impulse. he just knows that when the light caught in your eyes and you looked at him like that. he stopped thinking, and now he doesn’t know what this is or what he just changed.
you barely slept and the morning after feels so wrong. you wake up before your alarm and stare at the ceiling with the memory of his hand against your jaw still warm against your skin. it wasn’t aggressive. it wasn’t careless. it was deliberate for exactly half a second. and then it wasn’t. you sit up slowly and press your palm against your cheek as if you can still feel the imprint of him there. maybe it was impulsive. maybe it meant nothing. maybe it meant something. you don’t know. what you do know is that you haven’t received a text. not a clarification. not a joke. not even a ‘sorry about that.’ just silence. you tell yourself that’s fine. you get ready anyway. he’s already in the study room when you arrive. that’s new. jake barely ever arrives first. he’s sitting at the table with his laptop open and notes spread out with unsettling neatness. when the door opens he glances up. for a split second something flickers across his face. then it’s gone. “morning.” jake says it like nothing happened. you stop just inside the doorway before replying carefully “morning.” you wait. he doesn’t say anything else. you walk to your seat and sit down slowly placing your bag beside you. the air feels heavier than usual. he doesn’t look at you again before saying “we need to restructure the funding risk section. your phrasing implies direct negligence.” you blink and answer “that’s because it was negligent.” he counters immediately “it was strategic.” you stare at him. “you were fine with that phrasing yesterday.”- “i reconsidered.” -“when.” -“last night.” the words land heavier than they should. you hold his gaze. “you reconsidered the phrasing?” -“yes.” silence. you wait for something more. he doesn’t offer it. your pulse tightens slightly and you ask “are we going to talk about it?” he doesn’t look up from his screen. “talk about what?” you stare at him. he knows. “jake.” he finally looks at you with a carefully neutral expression. “we shouldn’t let personal things interfere with the project.” personal things. your stomach drops slightly. “so it was personal.” his jaw tightens. “that’s not what i meant.” -“then what did you mean?” he exhales slowly. “i meant it doesn’t need to be a thing.” your chest tightens. “it doesn’t need to be a thing?” - “it was impulsive. it doesn’t have to mean anything.” the words are controlled. too controlled. you search his face for hesitation. there is none. only precision. “okay.” the word leaves your mouth steady. you look down at your notes and don’t say anything else. he expected you to push. instead you nod once and open your laptop. “fine. then let’s focus on the project.” he feels the shift instantly. the softness from last night is gone. you are sharp lines and clean sentences again. he tells himself that’s good. that’s safer. “we need to adjust the model.” he leans forward slightly. “your interpretation overstates causality.” - “my interpretation is accurate.” -“no, it’s aggressive.” you look at him, and respond “it’s honest.” -“it’s just risky.” the word sits there. you ask before you can stop yourself “so you’re afraid of risk now?” he freezes. you didn’t mean it like that. but it lands anyway. “i’m not afraid of anything.” the lie settles between you. you push your chair back slightly. “then what is this.” - “this is me doing my job.” -“by rewriting my sections?” you say. “no y/n, by strengthening them.” -“you’re undermining them.” he leans back and crosses his arms. “if you feel undermined that’s not my fault.” that hits harder than it should. you stare at him. “you’re being competitive.” -“we are competitive.” -“not like this.” his eyes flash slightly. “like what.” - “like you’re trying to win something.” he doesn’t answer. because maybe he is. maybe if he wins this argument this structure this academic ground he can reestablish something solid. something defined. something that isn’t a memory of your lips and the way you inhaled when he touched you.
he swallows. “you’re reading into it.” you lean back slowly. “you kissed me jake.” the words are quiet and direct. he goes still. “yes.” -“and now you’re acting like it didn’t happen.” he looks at the ceiling and says “i said it was impulsive.” -“that doesn’t erase it.” -“it doesn’t have to define anything either.” the word define catches in his throat. you study him carefully. “do you regret it?” he hesitates for half a second too long. “no.” the answer is immediate. too immediate. you don’t look convinced. he feels heat crawl up his neck. “i just don’t think it needs to complicate things.” your expression shifts. “complicate?” - “that’s not what i meant.” - “it sounds like you think i’m a complication.”. that landed. “no.”-“then what am i?” he stops breathing for a second. because he doesn’t know. you’ve always been his rival. his equal. his benchmark. his reference point. last night you were something else. he doesn’t have a word for that. “i don’t know.” the admission is quiet and unpolished. the room falls silent. you look at him differently now. not angry. not victorious. just confused. “that’s worse.” he nods once. “i know.” neither of you speak for several seconds. the air feels tight again. not electric like last night. fragile.
you close your laptop slowly. “i’m not trying to define it. i just don’t want to pretend it didn’t matter.” he swallows. it did matter. it mattered so much for him. that’s the problem. he clears his throat. “it’s not that it didn’t matter.” you look up sharply. he meets your eyes for exactly two seconds before looking away. “but i don’t know what it means.” there it is. not regression. not confession. just confusion. raw and exposed. you don’t smile. you don’t step closer. you wait for him to say something else, watching his face for any sign that he might soften again or elaborate on what he just admitted. he doesn’t. instead he straightens in his chair like a switch has flipped somewhere inside him, and the softness that slipped through a second ago disappears as his shoulders square and his posture resets into something controlled. “we’re wasting time“ jake says as he glances back at the document on his screen, his tone evening out into crisp efficiency. “we need to finalize the revised model before friday.” you stare at him for a long second, the pivot so abrupt it almost makes you dizzy, before asking quietly, “did you hear what i said?” without looking at you, he answers, “yes“ and when you press with a tight, “and?” he replies evenly, “and what?” your stomach tightens at the deliberate blankness in his voice. “jake.” you say, letting his name carry the frustration you are trying not to show. he exhales as if you are the one escalating things and says, “i told you it mattered. i just don’t know what it means. that doesn’t have to turn into a thesis“ and the phrasing stings in a way you can’t quite hide. “you’re shutting down again“ you tell him, leaning forward slightly as if proximity might force him to stay present. he shakes his head once and replies, “i’m focusing“ and he finally looks at you directly, his expression composed to the point of detachment as he says, “just forget it.” the emphasis lands harder than the words themselves, and you blink at the subtle separation in that sentence, at the way he frames this as something individual rather than shared. “why are you acting like this?” you ask, and this time there is no accusation in your voice, only confusion. “i’m not acting like anything“ he answers calmly, too calmly. you don’t let him redirect. “you kissed me“ you remind him, your voice steady despite the heat rising in your chest. “i know that” he says without hesitation. “and now you’re dissecting budget models“ you continue, watching for any crack in his composure. “because we have a budget model due“ he replies, holding your gaze without flinching. the eye contact stretches, and it feels as though he is building a wall in real time, stacking controlled sentence after controlled sentence until there is no space left for anything messy. “i don’t get you” you admit finally, the words slipping out before you can filter them. something flickers across his face at that-irritation, maybe, or something more defensive-and he responds, “you don’t have to.” the words colder than he intends. you sit back slowly, absorbing the chill in that statement, and say, “right“ because you refuse to let him see how much that landed. silence settles between you, thick and uncomfortable, the earlier fragility hardening into something structured and rigid, as if he is forcing everything back into a labeled box marked safe.
you close your laptop with deliberate care and tell him evenly, “i don’t think this meeting’s going to work.” his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he asks, “why?” and you answer, “because you’re not here.” he gestures faintly toward himself and says, “i’m right here?” but you shake your head and reply, “no, you’re not” and this time he looks away first. you stand and slide your bag over your shoulder, adding, “we’ll review the edits later“ and he nods once without lifting his eyes from the screen as he says, “sure.” you hesitate for half a second, waiting for something-an apology, an explanation, anything-but he doesn’t look up. you turn toward the door. “hey“ he says suddenly, and the word stops you mid-step. you pause without fully turning around, and he keeps his eyes on the laptop as he says, “see you tonight.” you frown slightly and ask, “tonight?” and he clarifies in a tone that aims for casual, “arcade night. you’re still coming, right?” the normalcy of it feels surreal, as if nothing fractured and nothing shifted and you didn’t kiss him under streetlights less than a day ago. you swallow and answer, “yeah.” - “cool“ he says, scrolling through the document like this is just another scheduling detail, before adding, “don’t be late.” there is a brief pause, and then he says, “bye“ the word light and almost detached. you stand there a moment longer than necessary, hoping he might finally look up and undo some of the distance he just created, but he doesn’t. so you leave. the door shuts softly behind you, and the quiet that follows feels louder than any argument would have. jake doesn’t move for several seconds after you’re gone.
the cursor blinks on his screen, steady and indifferent. then he exhales slowly and drops his head into his hands, the composure slipping now that there is no one left to witness it. he hates that you said you don’t get him. he hates that he doesn’t get himself either. he knows what “you don’t have to” sounded like. he knows it was colder than he meant it to be. but pushing feels safer than falling, and if he keeps everything inside clean lines and deadlines and due dates, then maybe he won’t have to confront the fact that when he kissed you, it didn’t feel impulsive at all. it felt inevitable. you walk back to your dorm slower than you mean to. you tell yourself you’re annoyed. confused. frustrated with how impossible he is. that’s easier to hold onto than the other thing - the way your lips still feel warm, like the memory hasn’t fully faded. it was impulsive. he said so. it doesn’t have to mean anything. he said that too. so why are you replaying it? why do you keep remembering the way his hand felt against your jaw, careful and steady? the way he hesitated for half a second, like he was giving you time to pull away? you didn’t. that’s what bothers you. you didn’t pull away. you leaned into it. and now he’s built the distance back up like the kiss was a mistake he needs to contain, and you hate that you want him to undo it. you hate that you want him to look at you the way he did under the streetlights instead of the way he did this morning - guarded, precise, unreachable. maybe it didn’t define anything. but it changed something.
you almost don’t go, and that hesitation lingers while you stand in front of your mirror adjusting your jacket for no real reason other than needing something to fix. the kiss has been sitting under your skin all day, not painful and not pleasant, just present, and the way he acted that morning didn’t help. you hear his voice again in your head saying “it doesn’t have to mean anything” and your jaw tightens at the memory because if it didn’t mean anything then why did it feel like that. but it’s okay, because tonight’s about having fun and before you can overthink it again you grab your phone and head out. the arcade is loud before you even step inside. neon lights flicker against the glass windows and reflect in sharp colors across the pavement, and music pulses through the doors in rhythmic bursts mixed with electronic beeps and the metallic clatter of tokens. when you walk in the air smells like soda syrup and electricity, and he’s already there. of course he is. jake is standing near the basketball game with jay and jungwon, his sleeves pushed up slightly as he laughs at something jay just said, and the neon blue light above the machine cuts across his face and sharpens his features. for half a second he looks up and sees you. the laugh falters just slightly before he smooths it over. you walk toward them before you can second-guess it. from across the room sunoo calls out dramatically “finally i was about to file a missing persons report” and you reply as you approach “i was on time.” sunoo gestures at the clock above the prize counter and says “academically socially questionable” which makes eunchae rush toward you and hook her arm through yours while whispering “you look good” as she scans your face like she’s searching for emotional clues. you deadpan “i always look good” and jake lets out a soft snort that you feel more than hear. when you glance at him his posture is relaxed and his expression neutral but his eyes are sharper than usual, watching you in a way that feels measured.
jay claps his hands once and calls out “teams losers buy drinks” and kazuha responds calmly “define losers” while heeseung answers “lowest combined score” and yunjin warns “you’re not pairing strategically.” sunghoon suggests “pair randomly more entertaining” and your stomach tightens faintly even though you can’t explain why. niki claps once and announces “names in a cup” and within seconds chaos takes over as jay grabs paper napkins, sunoo insists on drawing twice because he “doesn’t trust fate“ and sakura laughs while chaewon tries to restore order. you stand still while jake stands across from you and neither of you mention the obvious. niki begins pulling names and reads them aloud as the group reacts. “jay and yunjin” earns exaggerated groans. “heeseung and kazuha” draws a confident nod from heeseung. “jungwon and sunoo” makes sunoo protest loudly that he deserves a better fate. “chaewon and sakura” prompts sakura to bow theatrically. then niki pulls another slip and pauses before saying “sunghoon and y/n” and you blink as sunghoon smiles faintly and says “guess we’re winning.” laughter ripples through the group, and when niki reads the final pairing “jake and eunchae” you feel the shift before you even look at him. it’s subtle. not anger. not irritation. just recalibration. jay grins and says “cute” while yunjin adds “strategic” and jake replies smoothly “i carry well.” eunchae elbows him and says “you’re not carrying me” which makes you laugh faintly without meaning to. his eyes flick toward you and then toward sunghoon who is now standing slightly closer to you as he leans toward the game list. the proximity is subtle but jake notices and doesn’t react outwardly.
jungwon calls out “first game” and jay declares “air hockey classic” and the machines light up in sharp red and blue neon that reflects across the polished floor. the arcade hums around you with laughter and flashing screens, loud enough that conversation feels close and almost intimate. you and sunghoon take your positions across from jay and yunjin while jake stands just behind eunchae’s shoulder watching. you don’t intend to be aware of that but you are. the puck flies fast once the game starts and you move instinctively, competitive focus settling over you naturally. when you block a shot sunghoon says quietly “nice” and you smirk and reply “obviously.” from the sidelines jake’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. it’s ridiculous and he knows it. sunghoon isn’t doing anything inappropriate and you aren’t doing anything different, but watching you laugh at something sunghoon says and lean slightly toward him while explaining a move feels different tonight and he doesn’t like that even though he doesn’t understand why. eunchae nudges his side and whispers “focus” and he answers “i am” even though he isn’t. he’s watching the way the neon light catches in your hair when you move and the way your hand brushes sunghoon’s when you both reach for the puck at the same time. it’s nothing. it’s normal. and yet it doesn’t feel neutral. the game ends with your team winning by two points and jay groans “unreal” while you say smoothly “you’re welcome” and sunghoon adds with a grin “told you.” jake claps once slowly and says lightly “impressive” and the tone is easy and the smile is perfect but niki notices the slight tension in his jaw.
“basketball next” niki announces quickly and the group shifts toward the next machine. you move with them and jake adjusts his position so that he ends up near you without quite stepping beside you. in a casual tone he says “nice reflexes” and you glance at him and answer “thank you” there is a pause that stretches just a second too long before you add “sunghoon’s not bad too” because it feels strange not to acknowledge your teammate. jake nods once and replies “he’s consistent” and the word carries an odd weight you can’t immediately name. you study him for half a second before asking quietly “you okay?” and he responds immediately “i’m fine” and this time you look away first. because whatever is happening behind his eyes tonight, he isn’t letting you near it. the group migrates toward the basketball machines in a loud, shifting cluster, and the arcade swallows you back into its bright chaos.
neon reflections skate across the floor, laughter bounces off the walls, and the air is warm with the smell of syrupy soda and that faint metallic bite of tokens and electronics. jay is already declaring, “losers buy drinks, and i’m not buying anything” while yunjin argues, “that rule is authoritarian!” and jungwon is busy counting out tokens like he’s distributing rations. niki squeezes past you with a grin that’s too knowing and says, “basketball is where egos go to die” and sunoo immediately gasps and replies, “my ego is immortal niki” and chaewon deadpans, “that’s a medical concern.” you find yourself smiling despite the tension stuck in your throat, and you focus on the game list taped to niki’s phone like it can keep you from thinking about the streetlight glow and the kiss you’re all pretending didn’t happen. jake stands a few feet away, shoulder angled casually toward the machine, but his attention keeps flicking in your direction in a way that’s brief enough to deny and frequent enough to feel. “okay“ heeseung announces, pointing at the row of machines. “we’re doing two rounds. highest score each team gets the points.” kazuha adjusts her sleeves with calm concentration and says, “i’ve seen people take this too seriously” and sakura laughs and replies, “we are people” and jay immediately says, “i’m not” which makes eunchae snort. you and sunghoon end up at the machine nearest the entrance while jake and eunchae take the one beside you, and the proximity is not close enough to be intimate but close enough that you can hear jake’s laugh when eunchae says something sharp and close enough that you can hear the rhythm of the balls hitting the rim and the low mechanical voice announcing time.
the arcade is loud but you’re hyperaware of him anyway, and you know you shouldn’t be noticing the way his sleeves are pushed up again or the way he rolls his shoulders before the timer starts like this is something that matters. you definitely shouldn’t be noticing the way his voice drops slightly when he teases eunchae. you tell yourself it’s just habit. the game starts and you shoot automatically, muscle memory taking over, but your focus is fractured because every time the ball leaves your hands you hear his machine next to yours, the sharp rhythm of his shots nearly synchronized with yours. you glance sideways once and catch him not looking at the hoop but at you, just for a second, before he looks away like he wasn’t. your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with competition. beside you sunghoon murmurs lightly “focus” and you answer “i am” though your voice sounds thinner than usual. the timer buzzes and the group cheers, someone groans dramatically about losing and jay shouts “losers buy drinks, remember” while arguing that sparkling water should not count as a loss expense. you barely register the score but jake does, and you can tell by the way his mouth curves faintly when he sees his number, not smug but quietly relieved. it’s subtle yet you see the way he straightens slightly like he’s reclaimed something small and necessary, and you don’t know why that bothers you. the group moves toward the drink counter in a loud chaotic cluster arguing about who owes what, and you drift with them until the crowd presses tighter than expected. sunghoon’s hand lands lightly at your waist to move you out of the way of someone rushing past, quick and casual and nothing more, but you feel jake go still before you even look at him. when you finally glance up he’s watching, not angry and not dramatic, just attentive, his jaw tightening slightly before he looks away and says something to jungwon that you don’t catch. niki catches it though, and you see him clock the moment and smirk faintly before nudging jake with his elbow while jake mutters something under his breath and shakes his head. you tell yourself it shouldn’t matter and yet it does.
at the counter plastic cups line up in a row beside a cluster of half-empty bottles someone definitely wasn’t supposed to bring, the sharp scent of alcohol mixing with sugar in the air. eunchae points at the bright blue soda just before someone tops it off with something clear and says “that one looks illegal” while squinting at it dramatically, then takes a bold sip anyway and immediately coughs and laughs at the burn. sunoo insists on something pink purely for aesthetic reasons and carefully pours a generous splash of vodka into it while declaring it “balanced” even though it very clearly isn’t, and after taking a long sip he winces, shrugs, and keeps drinking. sunghoon leans against the counter with a dark drink in hand, swirling it lazily before taking slow confident sips that are just frequent enough to matter. niki, who claimed he wasn’t going to drink much, is already halfway through his second cup and noticeably louder than usual as he argues about nothing in particular with exaggerated seriousness. even eunchae, after insisting she only wanted “a taste“ refills her cup with far less hesitation the second time.
you reach for a cup someone has mixed, something fizzy and deceptively sweet, at the same time jake does. his other hand already holds a drink and the ice clinks softly as he shifts it. your fingers brush, barely contact but it feels like electricity amplified by the faint warmth spreading through your system from the alcohol. you both freeze for half a second as the noise around you dulls and laughter grows brighter and more chaotic in the background, and the memory of streetlights and his hand at your jaw rushes back sharper than it has any right to. he pulls his hand back first though his movements are a fraction slower than usual and says lightly “you can take it“ his tone normal, too normal, but there’s the faintest flush high on his cheeks that wasn’t there earlier. you pick up the cup slowly and reply “thanks“ then take a sip to steady yourself. it tastes stronger than you expected but you swallow anyway. lowering your voice, though sunoo is attempting karaoke in the corner loudly enough that no one would hear you anyway, you ask “are we just going to keep pretending“ your words slightly softer around the edges from the alcohol. jake takes a sip of his drink before answering as if he needs the extra second and replies “pretending what“ with less sharpness than usual. “that it didn’t happen“ you clarify while tightening your fingers slightly around your cup. you’re warm now, not just from the room but from the steady buzz settling into your limbs. he exhales slowly, the sound heavier than before, and says “we talked about this“ his gaze lingering on you a beat too long. you shake your head, the movement looser than you intended, and answer “no, you shut it down“ your words not slurred but more honest than you might have been earlier.
across the room niki bursts into loud laughter at something that absolutely isn’t that funny and nearly spills his drink as sunghoon steadies him with an amused shake of his head, though sunghoon himself is smiling more than usual with alcohol softening the sharpness of his expression. jake’s jaw tightens as he says “we’re not doing this here“ though he doesn’t step away immediately and his fingers flex slightly around his cup. “why not“ you press, taking another sip without thinking as the sweetness now masks the burn. he glances over your shoulder at the group where eunchae is dramatically explaining something with wild hand gestures, pink-cheeked and giggling, while sunoo clings to her arm and insists the floor is “tilting emotionally.” -“because this isn’t the place“ jake replies, his voice quieter and less guarded than earlier. you let out a breath that feels warmer than it should and tell him “it’s never the place with you“ and even tipsy you see it land. his composure slips just slightly. the alcohol has softened his edges and he’s not as controlled as he thinks he is. instead of stepping closer he steps back but only half a step and says “i don’t want to make it bigger than it is“ though the words lack their usual certainty. you study him with your head tilted faintly, courage fueled by the steady buzz in your veins, and ask softly “or smaller.” for a moment he doesn’t answer. the neon light above flickers across his eyes and there’s a faint flush along his neck now that definitely isn’t just from the room. he lifts his drink, takes another swallow like he’s buying time, then lowers it and admits “i don’t know“ and this time the honesty isn’t pried out of him. it just slips free. there it is again, confusion rather than denial or rejection, and it would be easier if he said it meant nothing or easier if he said it meant everything but this middle ground feels unbearable. the group calls your name from across the arcade and jay waves while yelling about a two-player shooter game, and jake glances toward them before looking back at you and saying quietly “you’re overthinking it.” you hold his gaze and reply “obviously, i have to” because you don’t kiss people impulsively and you don’t lose focus like that and you leaned into it. he swallows before adding suddenly “i don’t regret it” which makes your heart stutter, but then he finishes with “i just don’t know what it is” and you hate that it sounds honest. you nod slowly and say “okay” though it isn’t okay, and you walk back toward the group before the silence thickens.
the next game blurs into laughter and competition, niki teasing jake about something, sunghoon standing close again, eunchae dragging you into a racing seat while you feel jake’s attention like a current under your skin every time you laugh or someone stands too near or you don’t look at him. at one point you glance up and find him already looking at you, not competitive and not sharp, just searching, and you look away first because if you don’t you might do something reckless. later when the group is distracted arguing about who lost overall and who owes drinks next time you find yourself standing slightly apart near the edge of the arcade while jake stands across the room with neon lights cutting across his profile as he laughs at something heeseung says. he looks fine and composed like nothing has changed but you know better because you felt the hesitation in his hands and heard the crack in his voice when he said he didn’t regret it and saw the way he went still when sunghoon touched your waist. you’re tired of guessing and tired of replaying one kiss and one half conversation in your head like a case study. you want data and certainty and to know whether what you felt under the streetlights was real or just adrenaline and proximity and unresolved tension. you watch him laugh again and think with a slow steady clarity that scares you more than the kiss itself that you need to know.
the arcade is louder than it was an hour ago, or maybe you are simply more aware of it now. flashing neon lights bleed across the floor in restless colors while music pulses near the rhythm machines. jay is arguing about lap times like it is a moral issue, sunoo is dramatically losing to a claw machine and blaming capitalism, and eunchae is laughing too loudly at something heeseung just said. jake is standing near the racing games with one hand resting casually on the back of a seat while nodding at whatever jungwon is explaining. he looks normal. too normal. like nothing happened under the streetlights. like nothing happened at the drink counter. like you did not just spend the last hour trying not to think about his mouth. you watch him as he laughs at something, the sound easy and controlled, and then his eyes flick up and land on you. there is no smile this time, only recognition and something unsettled beneath it. you do not think. you move. you cross the arcade floor without planning your steps, the noise fading in strange patches as you walk straight toward him. he notices immediately and his posture shifts slightly as he asks lightly but alertly “what?” you stop in front of him and say “come outside.” he frowns faintly and asks “what? why?” - “just come“ you tell him, not giving him space to argue before turning toward the exit and pushing the door open into the cool night air.
a thin curtain of rain greets you immediately, droplets catching in the streetlights as they fall. he follows. the door shuts behind you and the sudden quiet feels almost shocking after the chaos inside, softened further by the steady patter of rain against pavement and rooftops. the campus is dimly lit with streetlights stretching in soft gold lines across the wet pavement, reflections rippling in shallow puddles, and the faint breeze moves through the trees carrying the distant hum of traffic beyond the gates along with the clean scent of rain. water beads along your jacket and dampens his hair within seconds. he stops a few feet from you, rain slipping from his lashes, and asks again “what’s going on?” you turn to face him, rain cooling your skin, your heart racing harder now not from nerves but from certainty. you do not know what this means. you do not know what he means. you just know you are tired of not knowing. “i have to do something“ you tell him over the soft hiss of rainfall. he narrows his eyes slightly, rain tracing down the line of his jaw, and says “that sounds ominous.” -“it’s not” you reply, blinking water from your lashes. “then what is it?” he presses as thunder rumbles faintly in the distance. you take one step closer, shoes splashing lightly against the soaked pavement, and say “for research purposes.” he stares at you through the rain and says “what?” you do not explain. you reach for him, your fingers catching the front of his rain-damp jacket as you pull him down toward you before your brain can retreat, and you kiss him.
it is deliberate. raindrops cling between you, cool against warm skin. you do not melt into it and you do not hesitate. you kiss him like you are testing a theory, your mouth pressing firmly against his while your other hand steadies at his shoulder, damp fabric beneath your palm. you’re not trying to be romantic. you’re trying to be certain. for a heartbeat he freezes, rain sliding down both your faces. then his hands move. one settles at your waist automatically, warm and grounding even through the chill of soaked clothes, while the other hovers near your side before gripping slightly as if confirming you are real. you deepen the kiss just slightly, rain falling steadily around you, not because you cannot help it but because you need to know. when you pull back first your breathing is uneven and his hands linger a second longer before dropping, droplets falling from his fingertips. the space between you feels charged despite the cold rain soaking through.
he looks at you, water glistening on his skin, and asks quietly “well, you’re tipsy.” you blink because you did not expect him to put it back on you. ”jake, you’re literally the one with a drinking problem.” rain runs down the side of your neck as you swallow. “that was different” you admit, your voice softer beneath the rainfall. his brow lifts faintly as he asks “different how?” a drop slides from his hair down his temple. you search your own reaction. it was not panic. it was not adrenaline. it was not accidental. it felt steady. “i think i liked it” you say, the words dissolving into the rain-cooled night air between you. his expression changes, not smug and not teasing, just softer, rain catching on his lashes, and he answers without hesitation “i liked it too.” there is no deflection this time and no attempt to minimize it, just truth carried through the steady patter around you. “you did?” you ask quietly, rain dripping from your chin. “yes.” he replies, and the way he says it makes your chest tighten in a way that is not confusion anymore.
he steps forward slowly, shoes splashing in a shallow puddle, lifting his hand in a way that gives you space to pull away if you want to. you do not. his thumb brushes lightly along your rain-cooled jaw and rests there the way it did the first night, but now there is no uncertainty in his touch, only warmth against the chill. “this isn’t research” he says softly, rain sliding between your faces, before leaning in to kiss you again. this time it is not measured or experimental. it is intentional. his mouth moves against yours slowly as rain falls steadily over you both, as if he is choosing every second of it, and his other hand slides around your waist to pull you closer, damp fabric clinging between you, not urgently and not possessively, just enough that the distance disappears. you feel the difference immediately. rain soaks your hair and trickles down your spine but you barely notice. this is not testing. this is wanting. your hands move to his shoulders without thinking and grip lightly, water slick beneath your fingers, as the kiss deepens, warm and undeniable despite the cold rain surrounding you.
when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours, rain tapping softly against your skin, and you are both breathing harder, mingling with the rhythm of the storm. “so…” he murmurs, voice low beneath the rainfall. “so-” you echo, rainwater slipping between your joined brows. a faint smile curves at the corner of his mouth before he says “come back with me.” your heart skips as thunder rolls faintly overhead and you ask “to your dorm?” he nods slightly, droplets falling from his chin, and replies “niki and sunghoon aren’t leaving anytime soon. they’ll stay.” he does not push. he just waits, rain continuing to fall steadily around you, pooling at your feet. you don’t say yes immediately, but you don’t say no either. you just look at him. the neon glow from the arcade sign flickers faintly against his rain-damp face while the campus beyond feels softer and quieter beneath the steady downpour, warmer somehow now that the noise from inside is muffled by the rain. it feels like the world has narrowed to this small patch of wet pavement and falling water. after a moment you ask “you’re sure?” and he nods once, rain dripping from his hair, before answering “yeah.” there’s something steadier in him now, less defensive and less sharp than he was earlier, even as rain traces the line of his jaw. you swallow, tasting rain on your lips, and finally say “okay.”
the walk to his dorm is quiet. not awkward exactly, but charged. your hands brush once by accident and neither of you comment on it. the silence between you feels thick, full of things you don’t have names for yet. when you reach his building he opens the door and gestures for you to go inside. the hallway lights are dimmer than the arcade’s chaos and everything feels calmer, more private. you’re suddenly aware of how close you’re standing to him again as he stops just inside his room. and suddenly it’s quiet. no neon. no friends. no noise to hide behind. just him. just you. for a second neither of you move and the air feels thicker here, heavier without distraction. he looks at you carefully and says softly “you didn’t really answer me.” you tilt your head slightly and ask “about what” even though you already know. he steps a fraction closer and clarifies “whether this was still research.” instead of replying you step closer, closing the remaining distance between you, and that is your answer. his eyes drop to your mouth for a split second and that is all it takes. you grab his shirt this time, not careful and not analytical, and pull him down toward you. the kiss isn’t measured anymore. it’s hungry. he responds instantly like he was waiting for permission to stop holding back, his hands sliding to your waist and pulling you flush against him, not gentle and not rough, just decisive. your back hits the door softly but you don’t care. your fingers tangle into his hair and he exhales sharply against your mouth, the sound sending heat straight through you. this isn’t testing. this isn’t curiosity. this is wanting.
his mouth moves slower now, deeper and more deliberate, and one hand drifts up your side with fingertips pressing through fabric as if he is memorizing you. you tilt your head to give him better access without thinking and your pulse feels like it’s everywhere. he pulls back just enough to breathe and his lips brush yours when he says quietly “this isn’t research.” you swallow and admit “no.” his thumb slides along your jaw and down the line of your throat, not pushing, just feeling, and the tension between you snaps fully. you kiss him again before he can think. your hands slide under the hem of his shirt and your fingertips brush warm skin, and he inhales sharply not from surprise but from the way your touch lingers. his grip on your waist tightens and there is nothing careful about it now. you don’t feel confused.
you feel heat pooling low in your stomach and spreading slowly and deliberately. he shifts and guides you backward without breaking the kiss until your legs hit the edge of his bed. he pauses there not because he’s unsure but because he’s checking you. your eyes meet and you nod once. that’s all he needs. he kisses you again, slower and deeper, and this time there is no pretending that either of you don’t want this. when he finally pulls back you are both breathing harder and the room feels smaller and warmer. your hands are still in his shirt and his are still at your waist. neither of you step away. that’s when it hits you. not a romantic revelation and not a safety epiphany but something sharper. you want him. not as a rival. not as a variable. not as a distraction. you want him. and that realization is terrifying because wanting means losing control. he brushes his nose lightly against yours and asks again in a lower voice “you really sure?” your mouth having gone completely dry. so you gave a simple yet frantic nod. well, you tried to, because the second your head moved a mere inch, he dove in.
he was so eager that, at first, it was less of a kiss and more of him aggressively pushing his mouth onto yours. he quickly resolved this, parting his lips as to interlock with yours. already caging you against the wall, he grabbed both your wrists and held them beside your head. the action made you gasp, giving jake the opportunity to slip his tongue in. your tongue battled with his for a moment, but you put up a weak fight, as your mind was going completely blank, and let him take over. jake was moving his lips away from yours, in attempt to come up for air, when you lightly bit his bottom lip and pulled it. he growled, seemingly forgetting the need to breathe as he went back to your lips, intensifying the kiss, and not daring to pull away again. you whimpered into the kiss, the sounds going straight to his cock. as your noises grew, jake’s erection continued to throb in an unbearable pain. he pressed his pelvis against your, at first moving to slowly rub it up and down. the friction made you moan, weakening his self control even more. the light grinding began to grow more aggressive, more pathetic as he was now dry humping you in entirety. he moved his hands to your hips, keeping them in place as he began to absolutely rut into you. he needed you to feel him, needed you to know how unbearably hard you made him. jake moved his lips to placed open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and neck, sensually moving his tongue over the skin as he lightly sucked. your mind was hazy, only being able to focus on the ache in your core, and the hard bulge which was repeatedly being rubbed against you. jake whined out of breath as he got off using you, burying his face in your neck. it sounded like a girl being dominated from behind as he whimpered in rhythm with his grinding.
he was so shamelessly needy in trying to rut into you like a dog, and it made your panties dampen even more. slowly, you grabbed one of his hands and lead it to your abdomen, sliding your hands down under the waistband of the shorts until his hand was right over your clothed mound. jake moaned at the feeling of getting to touch you over your soaking underwear. “you’re so wet“ jake said more to himself than to you. “yeah, i was just in the rain“ you teased. you were about to say something else, when you gasped from the feeling of jake’s hand going underneath your panties, keeping his hand still over your folds. “smartass“ he snickered. he looked at you, his eyes softening as he asked, “is this okay?”-“yes, jake. i need you”. he groaned, restricting himself from taking you right there. he wanted to make this last for as long as possible. “tell me where” you didn’t say anything, just pushing your hand against his into your core, trying to get his hand impossibly closer. he wanted to tease you, but decided to give in, slowly sliding his finger into your entrance. he wanted to make you beg for it, but decided he’d have that kind of fun with you later. for a second neither of you register the sudden violent vibration against the desk. your breath is uneven and the air between you is still thick and charged, his body close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your clothes. the vibration stops and for half a heartbeat the world feels suspended again. then it starts ringing. sharp. insistent. impossible to ignore. jake freezes and you do too. the sound slices through everything that was building, everything that felt dangerously close to tipping past the point of return. across the room the screen of jake’s phone lights up.
niki.
jake exhales sharply through his nose and mutters “are you fucking kidding me” under his breath while his jaw tightens. the phone keeps ringing. you shift slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how close you are to the bed, to him, to what you were just doing. your pulse hasn’t slowed yet but your mind is catching up fast. reality rushes in all at once. the phone stops, then immediately starts again. jake pulls his hands back like he’s been burned and steps away from you, running a hand roughly through his hair, irritation already surfacing. “of course“ he says quietly, more to himself than to you. he grabs the phone on the third ring and answers without greeting, saying flatly “what.” on the other end niki’s voice is loud and suspicious even through the speaker as he asks “where are you?” jake closes his eyes for a second before replying “dorm.” niki repeats “dorm?” and adds “since when? we’re closing out. you still owe drinks.” jake glances at you while you fix your shirt and avoid his eyes. “since like five minutes ago“ he says tightly. there is a pause before niki hums slowly and says “you sound weird.” jake’s jaw flexes as he replies “i’m not.” niki presses “you sure? because jay says-” and jake cuts him off with “i’ll be there in a bit.” niki asks casually “alone?” and jake’s silence lasts half a second too long. you feel it. “i’ll be there.” he repeats, sharper now, before hanging up. the room falls quiet again but it is not the same quiet.
the heat is still there but now it is tangled with awareness and with the undeniable realization of what you were about to do. jake tosses the phone onto the desk a little harder than necessary and mutters “that was unnecessary.” you look at him and say “what’s up with you?” he answers immediately “nothing.” and when you raise an eyebrow he exhales and adds “he doesn’t need to know where i am every second.” silence stretches between you. your breathing has steadied but your thoughts have not. you start with “that was…” and then stop. jake looks at you and waits. you search for something safer to say and finish with “we were drunk.” the explanation hangs in the air like a lifeline. jake hesitates before saying “yeah. we were.” it is convenient. easy. a way to shrink what just happened into something temporary. you nod slowly and begin “it probably wouldn’t have-” but he cuts you off quietly with “yeah. probably not.” the words feel strange. too final. he steps back another inch and the space between you widens. you feel colder immediately. “i should go“ you say. he nods and replies “i’ll walk you.” you shake your head slightly and say “you don’t have to.” he answers simply “it’s fine.” the walk back is quieter than the one here. there is no teasing and no tension, just silence. your shoulder brushes his once and neither of you react. when you reach your dorm building you both stop automatically under the faint glow of the campus lights. “so“ you say. “so“ he echoes. neither of you mention the way his hands felt or the way you pulled him closer or the way neither of you hesitated. “goodnight“ you say. “goodnight“ he replies. you turn first and as you step inside you do not look back. jake stands there for a few seconds after the door closes, then drags a hand slowly down his face and mutters to himself “we were drunk.” but he remembers everything. every second. you both do. and that is the problem.
you don’t fall asleep so much as drift in and out of consciousness, and every time you close your eyes the same images replay in precise merciless detail. you see the arcade door shutting behind you, the campus lights looking softer than usual, and the way his hand slid to your waist without hesitation. sometime around three in the morning a single thought settles heavily in your chest: you weren’t that drunk. you turn onto your side and pull the blanket higher even though you’re not cold. you replay it again, slower this time, dissecting it the way you would a problem set. you kissed him first. not impulsively and not by accident. you grabbed his jacket and pulled him down. you said it was for research. you deepened it. you went back with him. you said yes. you remember the exact tone of your own voice when you said it. steady. certain. that certainty unsettles you the most. your phone lights up on the nightstand and the glow cuts through the dark. you roll over to check it, your pulse quickening in spite of yourself, only to see the group chat lighting up the screen. jay is complaining about sunoo stealing his hoodie. niki sends a blurry photo of jungwon asleep on the bus ride back. eunchae is spamming emojis. there is no private notification. you stare at the screen longer than necessary. he hasn’t texted. you don’t know if you feel relieved or disappointed. you flip the phone face down and tell yourself you don’t care. but fuck, you absolutely do.
morning feels too bright. you sit at your desk with your laptop open and a document you haven’t actually read in ten minutes, your eyes skimming the same paragraph while your mind loops something entirely different. you hear his voice in your head asking “you sure?” and you remember that you hadn’t hesitated. you lean back in your chair and press your fingers to your temples. that is the second realization. if you had felt unsure you would have stopped it. if you had regretted it you would have pulled away. you didn’t. a knock hits your door and doesn’t wait for permission before eunchae walks in like she owns the space. she takes one look at your face and narrows her eyes before saying “you look like you either committed a crime or didn’t sleep.” without looking at her you reply “both are dramatic assumptions.” she closes the door and crosses her arms. “you left early“ she says. you answer “so did jake“ and her eyebrows rise slowly. “oh“ she says, then repeats more softly as she steps closer “oh. why did you leave with jake?” -“we didn’t leave together“ you say, keeping your gaze on your laptop. she tilts her head and asks “did you go somewhere after?” silence answers for you. eunchae gasps loudly and exclaims “oh my god.” you wince and say quickly “it’s not a big deal.” she points at you and says “that is exactly what someone says before it’s absolutely a big deal.” you close your laptop and explain “we were drunk.” she studies you and asks carefully “were you though?” you hesitate half a second too long and her eyes widen. “you weren’t.” she says, sounding almost impressed. you look away and admit quietly “no.” she drops onto your bed dramatically and asks “did you kiss him?” you answer “yes.” she presses a pillow over her face and muffles a scream while you fight a small reluctant smile. lowering the pillow she demands “did you like it.” you hesitate and try to analyze your reaction like it is a statistic. it wasn’t awkward and it wasn’t forced and it wasn’t fueled by blurred judgment. it felt deliberate. “yes“ you say finally. eunchae drops the pillow and repeats “you liked it.” you respond “i said yes.” she shakes her head and says “that’s the same thing.” you argue automatically “it’s not.” she studies you and asks “do you regret it?”
that question makes you pause longer. you replay not the intensity but the quieter parts, the way he paused to look at you, the way he asked if you were sure, the way he didn’t push. you shake your head and answer “not really” that part is clear. you don’t regret it. you just don’t understand it. eunchae softens and asks “then what’s the problem.” you lean back in your chair and say slowly “the problem is that i don’t know what it means.” she shrugs lightly and says “maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything.” you look at her sharply and say “that’s worse.” she blinks and asks “why?” you answer “because if it means nothing then it was just convenient.” you hate how that word feels in your mouth. “did it feel convenient?” eunchae asks. you think about the way your pulse spiked when he looked at you, the way your body reacted before your mind caught up, the way you didn’t want to stop. “no“ you admit. she leans forward and says “then it wasn’t.” you stare at your desk and add quietly “but he said we were drunk.” she points out “and you agreed.” you press your lips together because you did. you let that explanation settle because it was easier than dissecting the alternative. you think about the way you stepped back first, the way you said you should go, the way you didn’t text. “i don’t know“ you admit, and that is the honest answer. you don’t know what he is thinking and that is what unsettles you. the rest of the morning drifts by in a strange half focus. you answer messages and attend class and contribute to discussions. you don’t see him anywhere, not in the hallway and not across campus. the absence feels louder than his presence would have. you catch yourself glancing at your phone twice during lecture. there is nothing. no text. you don’t send one either. you tell yourself you are giving him space and being rational, but the truth is simpler. you don’t want to be the first one to act like it mattered. because what if he didn’t think it did. that thought lingers uncomfortably. you don’t regret it, but you don’t know if he does, and for the first time since the kiss that uncertainty bothers you more than the heat of it ever did.
jake didn’t sleep either. he lay on his back staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head like he could physically hold his thoughts in place. every time he closed his eyes he saw flashes of it, the wall, your hands gripping his shirt, the way you said yes without blinking. he wasn’t that drunk, and that is the part that annoys him most. if he had been, this would be easier. across the room niki shifts in his bed and groans into his pillow before muttering thickly with sleep “you left early.” jake doesn’t answer. sunghoon rolls onto his side and squints at him before adding “you didn’t answer his calls either.” jake finally exhales and says “i was busy.” niki lifts his head slowly and repeats suspiciously “busy. at the dorm.” jake grabs his hoodie off the chair and answers “yeah.” niki immediately asks “with who” and jake shoots him a warning look as he says “don’t.” niki sits up fully with a grin spreading across his face and exclaims “oh my god.” sunghoon rubs his face, awake enough now to be entertained, and says matter-of-factly “you went back with her?” it’s not really question. jake pulls the hoodie over his head and replies “yeah.” niki leans forward eagerly and asks “and...” jake shrugs and says “nothing.” niki stares at him like he just insulted his intelligence and repeats “nothing.” jake repeats firmly “nothing.” sunghoon studies him for a second before asking calmly “then why do you look like that.” jake frowns and asks “like what.” niki answers helpfully “like someone unplugged you mid-download.” jake throws a pillow at him and niki catches it, laughing as he asks “so what happened.” jake runs a hand through his hair and walks toward the sink, deliberately avoiding eye contact, and says “we talked.” niki gasps dramatically and repeats “you talked.” sunghoon adds dryly “shocking.” jake splashes water on his face and says “we were drunk.” there is a brief pause before niki replies slowly “you weren’t that drunk.” jake freezes for half a second before continuing to dry his face and mutters “you don’t know that.” niki immediately counters “i do. you were calculating claw machine angles. that’s not drunk behavior.” sunghoon snorts quietly at that. jake throws the towel back onto the counter and says “it doesn’t matter.” niki leans forward and asks directly “did you kiss her?” jake doesn’t answer and niki’s eyes widen as he says “you did.” sunghoon raises an eyebrow and asks “more than once.” jake exhales sharply and says “why are you like this.” niki replies cheerfully “because you’re being vague.”
sunghoon tilts his head slightly and asks “did you want to leave?” jake’s jaw tightens and he says “we got interrupted.” niki blinks and asks “by who.” jake shoots him a look and niki’s mouth drops open as he says “me.” sunghoon stares at niki for a full second before saying flatly “number one cockblocker.” niki gasps in outrage and protests “i did not know.” jake groans and rubs his forehead as he says “can we not.” niki points at him and says “i interrupted something.” jake snaps back “you didn’t interrupt anything.” niki immediately counters “then why are you annoyed.” jake opens his mouth and then closes it again. sunghoon watches him carefully and asks “did you want it to stop.” the room grows quieter. jake doesn’t look at either of them and instead stares at the floor before finally answering “obviously not.” niki leans back slowly and says “damn.” sunghoon’s expression shifts, no longer teasing but observant, as he responds “okay.” jake runs a hand through his hair again and says in frustration “it’s not a thing.” niki says evenly “you say that like you’re trying to convince yourself.” jake glares at him and says “she just left.” sunghoon’s eyes sharpen slightly as he asks “left how.” jake replies more flatly now “she said we were drunk. and then she left.” niki tilts his head and prompts “and..?” jake answers “and that’s it.” silence settles for a moment. sunghoon leans back against the wall and suggests lightly “maybe she just didn’t want it to be awkward.” jake shrugs and says “or maybe she regretted it.” the admission is quiet and not dramatic. niki’s grin fades slightly as he asks “did she look like she regretted it.” jake thinks about it. you didn’t look unsure and you didn’t look nervous, but you stepped back first and said you should go and you didn’t text. “i don’t know“ he admits. sunghoon studies him and says “you’re overthinking.” jake huffs and replies “i’m not.” niki smirks and says “you are.” jake grabs his phone off the desk and sees no notifications from you. he doesn’t open your chat and he doesn’t type anything. he locks the screen and tosses it back down before saying again “it doesn’t matter.” niki exchanges a look with sunghoon and sunghoon says lightly “sure.” jake pushes past them toward the door and says “i’m going to class.” as he leaves, niki mutters just loud enough “aannddd he’s gone.” sunghoon replies calmly “finally.”
for the next days you didn’t really plan on avoiding him, and that’s the problem. if it were intentional it would feel strategic, controlled, rational. instead it just happens. you take a slightly different path across campus in the morning without consciously deciding to. you slow down near the library steps longer than necessary. you pretend to check your phone when you normally wouldn’t. you tell yourself it’s coincidence. it isn’t. by the time you reach the lecture hall your pulse is higher than it should be for an eight a.m. class. he’s already there. of course he is. jake is sitting two rows down from his usual seat with his laptop open, posture relaxed in a way that looks effortless but isn’t. he’s talking to jay about something academic and nodding along with a neutral expression. he doesn’t look up when you enter. you don’t look at him either. you choose a seat on the opposite side of the room. it’s not dramatic and it’s not obvious. there are plenty of seats. no one would think twice about it. except you know. you always sit closer. the room fills slowly with low conversation and the shuffle of backpacks. eunchae slides into the seat beside you and immediately glances across the room before leaning toward you to whisper “he’s here.” you murmur back “i can see that.” she studies your face and asks quietly “are we pretending.” you answer simply “yes.” she nods once and says “cool.” you open your laptop and force your attention to the screen while the cursor blinks in the corner of a document you aren’t reading. you feel his gaze before you see it. it lands briefly, just long enough to confirm you’re here. you don’t look up. you know if you do it will turn into something. on the other side of the room jake closes his laptop halfway and leans back in his chair. he didn’t expect you to sit that far away. he tells himself it doesn’t matter. there are empty seats between you. it’s normal. it’s fine. he avoids looking at you for a full minute. then he does. you aren’t looking at him. you’re leaning slightly toward eunchae, saying something quiet with a thoughtful expression. you look normal. not flustered. not tense. just normal. his jaw tightens faintly. maybe you are fine.
the professor walks in and the room settles. the lecture begins. you take notes and when you ask a question midway through your voice is steady and analytical as always. the professor nods approvingly. jake listens. you don’t stumble and you don’t hesitate and you don’t even glance in his direction. later he answers a question, tone confident and sharp. you don’t look at him then either. now it feels intentional. halfway through class the professor announces a short paired discussion exercise and says “turn to someone near you.” you freeze. there are several people around you. none of them are him. jake glances sideways automatically. there’s someone between you. he doesn’t move. you don’t either. you turn to the person beside you without looking across the room. he does the same. the discussion lasts maybe ten minutes but it feels longer. you can hear his voice from across the room, calm and controlled and articulate. it sounds exactly like it always has. that unsettles you. you thought something would feel different. but externally nothing has changed. internally your pulse spikes every time you hear him laugh at something someone says. you wonder if he’s thinking about it. you wonder if he’s relieved. you wonder if he regrets it. when the professor calls the room back to order you don’t look at him once. as soon as class ends you close your laptop quickly and slide it into your bag before the room fully dissolves into movement. eunchae stands slowly and watches you with thinly veiled curiosity before asking quietly “you’re not even going to look.” you reply “there’s nothing to look at.”
across the room jake packs his things more slowly than usual and watches you stand. you don’t glance over. you don’t hesitate. you just walk toward the exit with eunchae beside you. he stays seated for a few extra seconds until sunghoon nudges his shoulder and says “you’re staring.” jake replies immediately “i’m not.” sunghoon answers calmly “you are.” jake grabs his bag and mutters “she’s fine.” jake walks out of the lecture hall a few steps behind you, not close enough to look intentional but close enough to notice. you’re laughing at something eunchae says and you look completely unbothered. his chest tightens faintly. he doesn’t know what he expected. maybe a glance. maybe a pause. maybe some sign. you don’t give him one. at the doors you push them open and step into the hallway without slowing. for half a second your shoulders almost brush. almost. you shift slightly to the right and he shifts slightly to the left. it’s subtle but deliberate. the distance between you feels louder than any argument would have. neither of you speak. neither of you stop. you walk in opposite directions.
the hallway spills out into the central quad and the quad is alive with noise. music thumps from somewhere near the fountain. student clubs line the grass with folding tables and banners. someone is handing out free iced coffee while someone else shouts about exchange programs. eunchae tugs at your sleeve and says “oh wait, this is today.” you glance around and ask “the campus fair.” she nods and replies “yeah. we forgot.” you scan the crowd and quickly spot the rest of the group gathered near one of the booths. jay is mid-argument about something academic. sunoo is holding two drinks he clearly did not pay for. kazuha and sakura are reading flyers like they are evaluating them professionally. heeseung stands near them and looks up with an easy smile when he sees you. “hey“ he says. you step into the circle and answer “hi.” the noise forces everyone to stand a little closer than usual because it is crowded and people brush past constantly. heeseung leans slightly toward you and asks “did you understand that last example in lecture.” you reply “yeah. it was just misapplied.” he nods and says “that’s what i thought.” someone squeezes past abruptly behind you and heeseung’s hand lands lightly at your waist to steady you so you do not stumble forward. it is automatic and his hand drops almost immediately. you barely register it because you are used to physical proximity in crowded spaces. across the quad jake does register it. he did not mean to look. he just heard your laugh and that is what pulled his attention. you look normal and relaxed and you are talking easily. then he sees heeseung’s hand at your waist. it is nothing. just a reflex. just balance. but jake’s shoulders go rigid for a second. he tells himself it is nothing because it is. heeseung is not leaning in and he is not flirting and he is not hovering. he is just there. you laugh at something jay says and heeseung leans closer to say something near your ear so you can hear him over the music. jake’s jaw tightens before he even realizes it has. “stop“ niki says quietly beside him. jake glances at him and asks “what.” niki tilts his head and says “you’re doing that thing.” jake replies “i’m not doing anything.” niki gives him a look and says “you are.”
jake looks back at the group just as someone bumps into you again from the side and heeseung’s hand briefly rests at your waist to guide you a step forward so you are not shoved into the table. and jake inhales slowly through his nose. sunghoon steps up on his other side and says quietly “okay, you’re overthinking.” jake replies “i’m not.” sunghoon answers calmly “you are.” jake runs a hand through his hair, eyes still fixed on the group, and mutters “he keeps touching her.” sunghoon looks over. heeseung’s hand has already dropped. “he’s steadying her“ sunghoon says evenly. “it’s crowded.” jake does not respond because he knows that. he knows it is crowded and harmless and that heeseung is not doing anything wrong. that does not stop the tight feeling in his chest. niki studies his expression and says “you didn’t care about that before.” jake exhales sharply and replies “i still don’t care.” sunghoon looks at him for a long second and says “you do.” jake’s jaw sets. across the quad you glance up instinctively and for a second your eyes meet his. he looks away first, not dramatically but slightly too fast. your stomach tightens and you turn back to the group, though your awareness has shifted. you feel him watching. the conversation moves on and someone suggests grabbing food from one of the trucks. the group begins breaking into smaller clusters. heeseung walks ahead with jay and jungwon while you hang back for a second. jake does not approach you and he does not insert himself. he simply stands where he is. that almost makes it worse. niki nudges him lightly and asks “you going to stand there all day.” jake shrugs and says “it’s fine.” sunghoon folds his arms and comments “you’re acting like she’s going to disappear.” jake answers more sharply than he means to “i’m not.” sunghoon studies him quietly and says “what’s up with you? you didn’t react like this before.” jake swallows. before what. before the kiss. before the dorm. before the interruption. before you stepped back. he looks at you again. you are smiling at something sunoo just said and you look completely unaware of the way he is dissecting every movement. he feels stupid because heeseung did not do anything and you did not do anything and this reaction feels disproportionate. niki leans closer and says quietly “you think she regretted it.” jake’s head snaps toward him and he says “i didn’t say that.” niki replies “but you do.” you look normal, maybe too normal. “i don’t know, she seems fine to me” he adds. sunghoon nods slightly and replies “maybe she is.” that lands wrong. jake exhales slowly while the fair continues around them with music swelling and people laughing and the group shifting further toward the food trucks. he does not move immediately. he stands there for a second longer than necessary, watching you and trying to convince himself he does not care.
niki watches him for another second before saying “okay, this is stupid” and then starts walking toward the group. sunghoon follows without comment. jake stands still for half a second longer before he follows too. he is not rushed and not tense. he is simply composed. by the time they reach the rest of you his expression is neutral again, polished. jay is mid-story about something absurd that happened in lab and gesturing wildly. sunoo is holding two drinks and insisting he did not steal them while kazuha quietly points out that he absolutely did. you glance up when jake steps into the circle. your eyes meet for a second. he does not smile. he just nods once in a casual controlled way. you nod back just as casually. he stands slightly to the side of the group, not next to you and not far either. heeseung says something to jungwon and laughs easily. it is normal. there is no visible tension. jake does not react. he listens and waits for an opening in the conversation. when one appears he takes it. “so“ he says lightly while looking at jay “did you even finish the data corrections or were you too busy flirting with the ta.” jay scoffs and says “i finished.” jake tilts his head slightly and replies “did you. because your logic in the second section didn’t track.”the shift is subtle but you feel it immediately. that tone. sharper. competitive. jay rolls his eyes and says “you’re impossible.” jake shrugs and replies “just saying.” then he looks at you briefly and adds “you caught that too, right.” there it is. not aggressive and not accusatory but pointed. you blink once before answering evenly “yes. it was a bit inconsistent.” jay throws his hands up and says “traitors.” the group laughs and jake’s mouth curves faintly. he is back on familiar ground now. competence. precision. control. you watch him carefully. he is acting normal but there is a tightness around his shoulders. he does not look at you longer than necessary and he does not brush your arm accidentally. he does not stand close. he keeps a slight distance like he is recalibrating. sunghoon notices. niki definitely notices. the conversation drifts to the upcoming research panel and heeseung mentions it casually. “you should both sign up“ he says while looking between you and jake. “you’d probably destroy it.” jake’s smile tightens slightly before he replies “we’ll see.” you glance at him but he does not meet your eyes. instead he says “it’s competitive.” you answer before you can stop yourself “you like competitive.” he looks at you then for a beat too long and says quietly “yeah. i do.” something in the way he says it makes your stomach tighten. the group starts moving toward the food trucks.
jake walks ahead this time, not next to you and not waiting. he falls into step with jay and jungwon instead, talking and analyzing and debating something minor like it matters. he looks fine. that is what it looks like. fine. you slow slightly without meaning to and eunchae notices immediately. she leans closer and says “he’s doing the thing.” you ask “what thing?” she answers “the ‘i don’t care’ thing.” you swallow. he really does look like he does not care. like last night did not shift anything. like you imagined the tension. across the quad jake keeps talking but his focus is not fully on the conversation. he is aware of where you are. he is aware that you are not beside him. he is aware that you did not try to close the distance. a thought settles more firmly in his mind: she did not actually want me. if you had, you would not be acting this normal. you would not be this unaffected. so he does what he always does when something feels unstable. he sharpens. he becomes precise. he picks apart jay’s argument and corrects jungwon’s phrasing and debates minor details with unnecessary intensity. control feels safer. control feels familiar. control does not leave. niki drifts up beside him and says quietly “you’re overcompensating.” jake replies without missing a beat “i’m not.” niki says simply “you are.” jake exhales slowly and says “it’s not a thing.” niki studies him and asks “then why are you acting like it was.” jake does not answer because he does not have one. sunghoon watches him for another second before saying evenly “just don’t be weird.” jake replies automatically “i’m not being weird.” niki, sounding almost bored now, says again “you are.” jake doesn’t argue this time. he just looks away with his jaw set and starts walking toward the library. the rest of you drift in that direction too. someone mentions reviewing notes before the research panel deadline. someone else complains about being tired.
somehow everyone still ends up in the same study room an hour later. you take your usual seat near the center of the table. jake does not sit beside you. he chooses the chair directly across instead. laptops open. papers spread. the low hum of academic focus settles in. jay is mid-rant about formatting guidelines. sunoo is pretending to understand citations. kazuha is quietly correcting something on jungwon’s screen. you start first. “if we adjust the threshold earlier in the model” you say while angling your laptop slightly so the others can see “the margin stabilizes without needing a secondary correction.” jay leans in and says “that’s cleaner.” kazuha nods once and adds “it reads stronger.” jake looks at the screen and does not speak for a second. then he says calmly and evenly “that doesn’t work.” you blink and reply “it does.” he tilts his head slightly and says “only if the secondary variable is already aligned.” you answer “it is.” he holds your gaze and says “you didn’t show that.” there is no teasing in his voice and no smirk and no warmth. just correction. you sit up straighter and say “it’s implied.” jake continues to hold your gaze and replies “implied isn’t enough.” the room shifts almost imperceptibly. jay glances between you. sunoo goes very quiet. you feel the difference. this is not your usual academic sparring. this does not feel playful. “i can clarify it” you say evenly. jake nods once and responds “yeah, you should.” it is not loud and not aggressive but it lands harder than it should. you add the clarification without looking at him. across the table he does not look away. niki leans back slowly and watches jake with narrowed eyes. sunghoon finally says in a casual but pointed tone “enough, jake.” jake shrugs and replies “it’s for the panel.” but niki answers “it was fine.” it was not about the panel. it was about control and precision and something that happened against a dorm wall that he cannot categorize. you close your laptop a little too sharply and say “i’ll adjust the whole section later.” kazuha adds gently “you don’t have to rewrite it.” you reply “i want to.” jake’s fingers pause over his keyboard for half a second. he did not mean to push it that far. he just wanted something he cannot quite define. the room settles into a strained quiet until jay eventually breaks it by asking sunoo about something irrelevant. conversation resumes but softer and thinner. you keep your eyes on your screen for the rest of the time you’re there.
the days after that study session pass quietly. not dramatically. just… thinner. you don’t see him much, or maybe you do, but only in passing-across lecture halls, at the edge of the quad, through the reflection of library windows. you don’t sit next to him anymore. he doesn’t sit next to you either. no one comments on it, but everyone notices. the group chat stays active with memes, complaints, and scheduling. he replies normally, and so do you. you don’t text him privately. he doesn’t text you either. and that silence sits heavier than it should. you tell yourself it’s fine. you tell yourself it’s easier this way. you tell yourself you don’t miss the way he used to argue with you like it was a sport. you absolutely do. today, though, you don’t have the option of avoidance. you have to meet him. the project deadline is close enough that pretending doesn’t work anymore. you stare at the calendar reminder for a second longer than necessary before grabbing your bag. you don’t want to go, not because you’re scared, but because you don’t know which version of him you’re getting-the competitive one, the sharp one, the quiet one, or the one who was ready to fuck you like it wasn’t theory anymore. he’s already in the study room when you walk in. of course he is. laptop open, notes spread neatly, posture straight-controlled. he looks up when the door clicks shut, and your eyes meet for half a second before he nods and says, “hey.” you answer, “hi“ and take the seat across from him, not beside but across. the distance feels intentional even though neither of you comments on it. silence stretches while you open your laptop until he breaks it by saying evenly, “i reworked the introduction. it was too repetitive.” you nod and reply, “okay.” he turns his screen slightly so you can see, and you lean forward just enough to read it. it’s good-precise, structured, cold. “it’s cleaner“ you say, and he nods once and replies, “yeah.” that’s it. no teasing, no smug comment, no competitive spark-just agreement. you scroll through your section and say, “i clarified the model alignment.” he responds, “i saw.” you glance up and find he’s already looking at you, so you look back down as he adds, “good.” something about the word feels smaller than it should. you both work in silence for a few minutes, the clicking of keyboards louder than usual. at some point, you say, “we should probably tighten the transition here“ and he doesn’t argue but just nods and says, “yeah.” you blink, almost missing the way he used to challenge everything you said, almost missing the way you’d argue back without hesitation. now everything feels careful, measured, like you’re both avoiding stepping on something fragile.
he scrolls through your section again, slower this time, then says, “this part could be stronger.” it’s not sharp, but it’s still a correction. you straighten slightly and ask, “how?” he replies, “it reads safe. you’re usually more direct.” that lands. you look at him properly for the first time since you walked in and ask, “what does that mean?” he shrugs lightly and says, “it just feels… restrained.” you hold his gaze and reply quietly, “you’ve been restrained too.” the words sit between you, and he looks away first this time. “i’m just focused” he says. “so am i” you answer. silence settles again, thicker now. he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. you notice the tension there, and he notices you noticing, so you look down at your screen again. across the table, something shifts in him. you’re not fighting him. you’re not pushing back. you’re not smiling sarcastically. you’re just calm, detached. you’re fine. you’re fine. i’m fine. you don’t care. you didn’t want-no. he swallows and looks at his screen again before saying, “let’s just finish this section.” you nod, and you both work for another ten minutes without speaking. when you finally close your laptop, it’s almost abrupt. “i have to go“ you say. he looks up quickly and responds, “oh.” it’s small, but it’s there. “we’re almost done…” he adds. “i know“ you reply as you stand. you hesitate for half a second. he could say something. he doesn’t. “see you“ you say. “yeah“ he answers. you walk out, and the door clicks shut behind you. he stays seated, staring at the empty chair across from him. it wasn’t better. it wasn’t worse. it was just… distant. he leans back slowly. you’re fine. you’re fine without me. i’m fine. you don’t care. you didn’t want-no. that’s not it. but he doesn’t know what it is. you don’t either.
the hallway outside the study room feels colder than it should. you adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder and walk faster than necessary, like distance will make something settle. you replay the entire hour in your head: the way he didn’t argue, the way he did argue, the way he called you restrained, the way he wouldn’t look at you for too long. it wasn’t hostile. it wasn’t warm either. it was careful. and careful feels wrong. so wrong for some reason. you step outside into the evening air and spot sunoo sitting on the low stone wall near the entrance, scrolling through his phone with dramatic concentration. he looks up when he hears your footsteps and says, “you look like you just finished a breakup.” you stop and reply, “that’s aggressive.” he shrugs and says, “but you do“ you hesitate before walking over and sitting beside him. “how was it?” he asks casually. “productive,..” you reply automatically. he gives you a look, and you correct yourself by saying, “awkward.”- “ah” he responds. you stare straight ahead at the quad, watching people cross between buildings in the soft evening light. “he’s being weird“ you say finally. sunoo tilts his head and asks, “weird how?”- “different“ you answer. “too controlled. or too distant. or both.” sunoo hums thoughtfully and says, “he’s been quiet.” you glance at him and ask, “with everyone?” - “not exactly“ he replies. “just… sharper. like he’s trying too hard not to be.” you frown slightly because that makes uncomfortable sense. “he keeps correcting me“ you admit. “that’s not new“ sunoo says. “no“ you reply, shaking your head slightly. “it is. it’s not the same.” sunoo studies you more carefully now and asks, “did something happen?” you look away. you could lie. you don’t. “we kinda kissed“ you say quietly. sunoo’s entire posture straightens as he says, “you what.” - “it wasn’t planned“ you explain. “when?” he presses. “after the arcade.” his mouth opens slightly as he asks, “and?” - “and nothing“ you say too quickly. he narrows his eyes and says, “that’s not how that works.” - “we were drunk“ you reply. “were you?” he asks. you pause. sunoo’s expression softens immediately as he says, “oh.” you exhale slowly and explain, “he said we were drunk. i agreed. and then he’s just… been like this.”- “like what?” sunoo asks. “like it didn’t matter“ you answer. sunoo considers that before saying, “he doesn’t look like it didn’t matter.” you blink and ask, “what does that mean?” - “he looks like he’s overthinking“ sunoo replies. “not indifferent.” you look down at your hands. “he feels distant“ you say quietly. sunoo nudges your shoulder lightly and says, “maybe he’s confused.”- “great, so am i” you admit. that hangs there. you replay the way jake looked at you tonight across the table, the way he paused when you stood up, the way he said, “oh.” it wasn’t nothing. but it wasn’t enough either. “i don’t know what he wants” you admit. sunoo smiles faintly and says, “that makes two of you.” you let out a small breath that almost feels like a laugh. the quad lights flicker on one by one as the sun lowers. you don’t feel angry. you feel unsettled. because something shifted.
the days after that study session don’t explode. they settle, which is somehow worse. you don’t fight. you don’t flirt. you don’t fix anything. you just exist in the same spaces slightly apart. in lectures, he sits two seats away now. not directly across. not beside. just… offset, like neither of you are claiming anything. you catch him looking at you once in the reflection of the classroom window. he looks away before you can be sure. you stop checking after that. it’s easier. you tell yourself that. this morning feels heavier than usual. the sky is dull and overcast, the air cool enough that you pull your sleeves over your hands as you walk toward the building. the reminder about today’s discussion still lingers in the back of your mind. the professor mentioned it last week: cold-calling, open floor analysis. jake thrives in those settings. he always has. you don’t know why that thought tightens something in your chest. when you step into the lecture hall, he’s already there. that focused, controlled stillness he wears like armor. he looks up when you enter, just briefly. his eyes pause on you half a second longer than neutral, then he looks back down. you sit three seats to the side this time. not too far. not close. just enough to keep things unspoken. the room fills gradually. sunoo slides into the seat behind you and whispers, “you look stressed.”- “i’m not“ you reply. he mutters, “you say that like you’re auditioning for something“ clearly mocking jake’s tone. you can’t really laugh at that. across the aisle, jake closes his laptop for a second and rolls his shoulders back, like he’s bracing for something. you notice the movement. you shouldn’t. but you do. he looks tired. not visibly. not dramatically. just… tight.
the professor walks in exactly on time, placing her bag on the desk with the kind of calm precision that signals today will not be passive. she scans the room and says, “i hope you reviewed the reading. we’re doing discussion differently today.” a ripple of quiet moves through the hall. she writes a question on the board. it’s layered, the kind of question that invites complexity but punishes overcomplication. you read it once. twice. your brain starts mapping an answer. before anyone else speaks, jake does. his voice is steady. confident. “it hinges on structural misalignment within the model’s assumptions“ he begins, leaning back slightly in his chair like this is familiar territory. you don’t look at him immediately. you focus on the board. but you hear the shift in his tone. measured. calculated. he’s in control. he continues, dissecting the framework piece by piece. it’s articulate. logical. thorough. maybe too thorough. the professor tilts her head slightly. you notice that too. he keeps going, layering complexity on top of complexity, pulling threads from earlier readings and weaving them into something ambitious. the room is quiet. listening. he finishes with, “so the instability isn’t accidental. it’s embedded.” silence lingers for a second. the professor nods slowly and says, “that’s an interesting angle, but that’s not what i asked.” the words land softly but clearly. a few people shift in their seats. you look up now. jake’s expression doesn’t change immediately. “i understood the question“ he replies calmly. his tone is still composed, but there’s something under it. thin. tight. the professor’s gaze sharpens just slightly as she says, “then answer it.” the room goes still. you feel your pulse pick up. he adjusts in his seat and says, “i did.”- “no“ she replies evenly. “you reframed it.” that’s when you see it. the smallest crack. his jaw tightens. he inhales. across the aisle, sunoo goes very quiet. you look at jake fully now. not because you want to. because you feel it happening. he straightens slightly, leaning forward this time, and says, “the reframing is necessary. the premise is flawed without it.” the professor folds her arms lightly and replies, “you’re avoiding the constraint.” the air shifts. this isn’t playful debate. this is precision meeting resistance. jake doesn’t back down. “you can’t isolate the variable without addressing-”- “that’s not what i asked“ she repeats. silence. the kind that presses against your ears.
you watch him calculate. you see him choosing. he could pivot. he doesn’t. “then the question is incomplete“ he says. a few people glance at each other. it’s subtle. but it’s there. the professor’s expression doesn’t change, but her voice lowers slightly as she says, “or you are.” that lands. the room holds its breath. you feel something twist in your chest. he doesn’t look at you. he stares at the front of the room, posture rigid now. and for the first time in a long time, he looks… cornered. he opens his mouth to answer again. and you know, before he says anything, that this is where control starts slipping. the room is still. you can hear the faint hum of the projector above the board. you can feel everyone waiting. he leans forward slightly, his voice sharper now as he says, “the constraint ignores structural dependency. if you isolate it without reframing-”- “that wasn’t the task“ the professor interrupts. it’s not harsh. it’s worse than harsh. it’s calm. and final. a flicker passes over his face, too quick for most people to catch. you catch it. he shifts in his chair. you can see the choice happening, pivot or push. he pushes. “the dependency matters“ he insists. “you can’t evaluate the output without-”- “you’re overcomplicating it“ she says evenly. “just answer the question.” silence presses down again, heavier this time. you don’t look at him, but you feel him unraveling. he exhales through his nose, barely audible, his fingers tapping once against the edge of his desk. he answers again, shorter this time, more direct, but it’s off, just slightly, not disastrous but not right. the professor pauses, then says, “that’s incorrect.” the words settle into the room like dust. no one moves. you don’t either. your eyes stay on your notebook, but your focus is gone. you know that tone. you know what that means. it’s not humiliation. it’s precision correction. but for him, it’s exposure. he doesn’t respond immediately. he just sits there, still, then evenly says, “i don’t think it is.” it’s quiet, but defensive now. the professor tilts her head and replies, “it is, jake. it’s wrong.” there’s no anger in her voice, just certainty. a few people glance toward him. no one says anything. he doesn’t look at you, not once, and that makes something twist tighter in your chest because you know he feels it. he hates being wrong publicly. he hates losing footing. he hates slipping. you tell yourself to stay out of it. he doesn’t need you. he won’t want you. he’ll think you’re-
you hesitate.
your fingers press against the edge of your desk. the pause stretches too long. he inhales again, sharper this time. “i see what you’re saying“ he says finally, though his tone makes it clear he doesn’t. “but that interpretation assumes-”- “it doesn’t“ she replies calmly. “it assumes clarity.” the word clarity lingers. you look up now, really look at him. his jaw is set. his shoulders tight. he’s not going to pivot. he’s going to dig. and if he digs, this turns into something else. you shouldn’t step in. you know that. he’ll hate it. he’ll feel exposed. you hesitate again. one second. two. the silence becomes unbearable, and then you say, steady and careful, “i think what he’s pointing toward is the instability in the output curve.” your voice cuts through the room softly, not loud, not abrupt, just enough. you don’t look at him when you continue. “if you isolate the variable without reframing the dependency, the margin collapses. but if you assume the constraint holds, then the output stabilizes.” you keep your tone neutral, clinical. you don’t frame it as correction. you frame it as translation. the professor turns toward you and asks, “and does the constraint hold?”- “yes“ you reply evenly. “because the instability he’s describing only appears under secondary alignment failure, which wasn’t part of the original condition.” silence again, but this time it’s different. the professor nods once and says, “exactly.” the word lands cleanly. the room exhales. you don’t. you keep your eyes on the front of the room. you don’t look at him. you don’t need to. you can feel it. across the aisle, he doesn’t move, not immediately. then you hear it, the faint scrape of his pen against the desk, controlled, measured.
the professor moves on. discussion resumes. other students speak. the tension diffuses, but not for you and not for him, because you know what just happened. you stepped in. you reframed. you fixed it. you gave him an out. and he didn’t look at you. he still doesn’t. he writes something down too hard. the pen scratches louder than it should. you focus on your notes, but you feel the air shift between you. you saw that. you hesitated. you stepped in anyway. he didn’t need any help. no. he swallows. he keeps his eyes on the board. i’m fine. you don’t care.you didn’t want to- no. that’s not it. the professor calls on someone else. the room moves forward. but something in him has already slipped. discussion moves forward. other students offer comments. the tension in the room thins slightly, though it never fully disappears. you keep your focus forward. you don’t look at him. you don’t need to. you can feel him recalibrating, writing too hard, too straight, too still. a few minutes later, the professor circles back. “as y/n pointed out“ she says, glancing in your direction, “the instability only manifests under secondary misalignment. that’s why isolating the variable works within the original constraint.” the word she hangs in the air longer than necessary. a couple students nod. jay murmurs something like, “that makes sense.” and that’s it. but for jake, it’s the second hit. you don’t move. you don’t react. but across the aisle, something in him shifts. he straightens slightly in his chair, too abruptly. the professor continues, “which is also why reframing the premise isn’t required in this case.” reframing. his word. his word used to dismiss the necessity of his answer. you feel it before you hear it, the change in his breathing. then his voice cuts in. “that depends on how rigidly you interpret the premise.” it’s controlled, but thinner now. the professor pauses. “it depends on the question“ she replies. “the question was incomplete“ he says. there it is. not loud. not explosive. just sharper than it needs to be. a few heads turn. the professor studies him for a second and says, “it wasn’t.” silence again. he doesn’t let it go. “you restricted it“ he says. “and you expanded it“ she counters calmly. “beyond the scope.” the room is still. you can feel sunoo behind you tense. you don’t turn around. you keep your eyes forward. jake exhales sharply through his nose and says, “that’s not the same thing.”- “it is“ she replies. “and if you can’t operate within constraint, you’ll keep missing the point.” that lands harder than the first correction. missing the point.
you see it happen in real time. his posture shifts. his fingers curl around his pen. he doesn’t look at you. not once. he looks at the board, then at the professor, then down at his notes. and then he closes his notebook too hard. the sound cuts through the room. no one speaks. he stands up. not dramatically. not with a slam. just sudden. “i need a minute“ he says. his tone is flat, controlled, but his jaw is tight. the professor doesn’t stop him. no one does. he grabs his bag, walks toward the door, and he doesn’t look at you. not when he passes your row. not when the door opens. not when it shuts behind him. the room exhales after he leaves. the professor waits a second, then says, “all right.” discussion resumes, but it’s softer, thinner. you stare at the empty space where he was sitting. your chest feels tight. not because he was wrong. not because you were right. because he looked like he was unraveling. and he wouldn’t let you see it. you don’t take notes for the rest of the class. you don’t hear the rest of what the professor says. you register words. you don’t process them. your pen moves once or twice across the page out of habit, but the lines are useless, half-formed sentences that don’t connect to anything. the seat he vacated feels louder than the discussion that resumes. he didn’t look at you. not once. you replay that detail over and over like it matters more than everything else. when class finally ends, chairs scrape against the floor in staggered rhythm. conversations spark up in low, cautious tones, like everyone is aware something just shifted but no one wants to be the first to name it. sunoo appears at your side almost immediately. he doesn’t say anything at first. he just stands there. you close your notebook slowly. “that was…” he starts.- “yeah“ you answer before he finishes. you both look toward the door. he’s not there. of course he’s not. jay approaches next, more careful than usual. “is he okay?” sunoo asks. you don’t know how to answer that. “he’ll cool off“ jay says quickly, as if trying to reassure himself more than you. “he just hates being wrong.” you nod once. but it wasn’t just about being wrong. sunghoon joins the small circle now, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. “he shouldn’t have pushed it“ he says. “yeah“ you say quietly. “he shouldn’t have.” there’s no satisfaction in your voice. no triumph. the hallway outside fills quickly as everyone filters out. you take your time packing up, even though there’s no reason to. you could leave. you could pretend it wasn’t personal. you could let him sit in whatever that was. but the thought of him spiraling alone irritates you more than it should. “he’ll be outside“ sunghoon says, almost like he read your mind. you glance at him. sunghoon shrugs slightly and adds, “he doesn’t go far.”
you hesitate. then you stand. you don’t announce that you’re going after him. you just do. the hallway air feels cooler than the classroom did. students move around you in clusters, unaware of the tightness sitting in your chest. you scan the corridor. he isn’t there. you walk farther down, past the vending machines, past the stairwell, and then you see him at the end of the hallway near the windows, standing still, hands on his hips, looking out over the quad like the world personally offended him. you slow your steps. for a second, you consider turning around. you don’t. you walk up beside him, not too close, not far either. he doesn’t look at you. “i didn’t need help“ he says. you hadn’t spoken yet. “i didn’t say you did“ you reply evenly. he lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “you stepped in.” there’s no gratitude in it. just tension. “you were about to argue in circles“ you say calmly. “she wasn’t going to let you.” - “i had it“ he insists. “you didn’t.” the words come out sharper than you intended. he turns his head slightly now, not enough to fully face you but enough. “you think i can’t handle it?” he asks. “that’s not what i said.“- “it’s is.“- “i clarified“ you reply. “that’s all.” his jaw tightens. “right.” the single word drips with something you don’t recognize. you exhale slowly. “why are you acting like i’m trying to put you down?” he finally looks at you fully now, and there’s something raw in his expression, not anger, not exactly, wounded pride. “you aren’t“ he says. “that’s not how you’re acting.” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “you made it worse.” you blink. “how?” - “you translated me“ he says. “like i couldn’t say it right.” the accusation stings more than it should. “i was trying to help.” - “i don’t need your help”- “i know.” silence stretches again.
students pass behind you, unaware of the charged air between you. he looks away first. “i’m not incompetent“ he says quietly. you stare at him. “i never said you were.”- “but you hesitated“ he says. that stops you. you hesitate again now. “don’t bullshit me“ he continues, voice low. “you waited y/n.” because you did. you waited. because you knew he wouldn’t want you to step in. because you knew he’d take it personally. because you were trying to decide if helping him would hurt him more. “that doesn’t mean i think you’re incompetent“ you say. “it means you thought i couldn’t recover“ he counters. you swallow. “you were pushing“ you say carefully. “and she wasn’t going to bend.” he laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “so you have to step in?” -“yes.” he nods once, slow. “i don’t want you to do that.” the words feel loaded. “do what?” you ask. “fix it.” - “i wasn’t fixing you“ you say. “i was just finishing your thought.” - “that’s worse.” you stare at him. “why?” you ask. “because it makes it look like i needed you to.” you don’t know how to respond to that because the truth is you don’t care how it looked. you cared that he was digging himself deeper. “i didn’t do it for them“ you say quietly. “i did it because you were about to make it worse for yourself.” he looks at you again. something flickers in his expression, confusion, hurt, maybe even something softer. then it shutters closed. “i don’t need your saving“ he says. “i wasn’t saving you.” - “then why do you care?” he asks suddenly. the question lands harder than anything else. you inhale. “because i do.” the words leave your mouth before you filter them. the hallway noise fades for a second. he stares at you, not defensive now, not sharp, just still. “i don’t want you to care“ he says quietly. and that’s what cracks something inside you. “you don’t get to decide that“ you reply. his jaw tightens again. he steps back slightly, like the proximity is too much. “drop it“ he says. “i’m not trying to fight you.” you answer. - “i know.” - “then stop acting like i’m the problem.” he looks at you for a long second, then away. “i’m not“ he says. but he is. and you both know it. you don’t say anything else because you’re not going to beg him to tell you what’s wrong. you turn and start walking back down the hallway. he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t call your name. doesn’t move.
the rehearsal room is mostly empty when you walk in, a standard seminar space with stackable chairs pushed against the walls and a long rectangular table cutting the center in half like a line neither of you are supposed to cross. the projector is already on, the first slide washed-out blue against the whiteboard. it’s early evening. the light outside the tall windows has turned that flat, colorless gray that makes everything look less defined. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. the air smells faintly like dry erase marker and old ventilation. jake is already at the front. his laptop is open, sleeves pushed up, clicking through the slides slowly and deliberately, not reviewing, inspecting. a neat stack of printed notes sits beside him, edges aligned so precisely it looks intentional. he doesn’t look rushed. he looks braced. when the door shuts behind you, he glances up just once and gives a small nod without smiling before turning back to the screen, as if the slide matters more than the timing of you walking in. you take the seat across from him without thinking about it, not beside, across. you set your bag down and open your laptop. the room hums with the projector, the trackpad, your breathing. it should feel routine. it doesn’t. it feels like something is being held in place carefully and deliberately, and neither of you are testing how much pressure it can take. he clicks back to the first slide again, the one you have already run through twice. starting over will not fix what he is trying to fix. you begin anyway, delivering the same opening sentence in the same measured tone, the one you can summon even when your stomach feels too tight. three lines in, he shifts in his chair. you wait for the interruption. it does not come. that almost throws you more than if it had. you keep going through the dependency chain, the constraint behavior, the margin stabilization under the original premise. you gesture once to the graph without looking at him. you can feel his attention like weight, not casual, not analytical, heavy.
you finish the slide and click to the next one. he says nothing. you click again. still nothing. it is not that he agrees. it is that he is holding himself back. you can almost see it, the restraint, the effort not to correct you, not to adjust phrasing, not to sharpen something just to feel in control again. you reach the end of your section without being stopped. your hand lowers, the clicker still in it. you turn. jake is watching the screen, his jaw tight. not angry. contained. that is worse. you set the clicker down carefully. the sound is too loud in the quiet. “so, what now?” you ask in a neutral tone. he blinks once, like he forgot you were there and is recalibrating. “now we run it together“ jake replies. “okay“ you say. he stands. you meet him at the front, not close enough that your shoulders touch, but close enough that you hear the subtle change in his breathing when you step into his space. he has always been good at presenting. he speaks like nerves do not exist, like words are tools and he owns the entire workshop. today it sounds the same, until you listen for what is not there. half a beat too fast in the middle of a sentence. a breath pulled in sharper than necessary when he transitions to the section he was challenged on in class. a pause, small, almost invisible.no one else would catch it. you do. you watch his hands instead of the slide. his fingers flex once at his side, then still. he gets through the section that tripped him up earlier, his voice steady, his pacing controlled, his precision intact. but something underneath it is bracing. when he finishes, he glances at you, brief and almost involuntary, then looks away immediately, like eye contact would confirm something he is not ready to name. “your turn“ jake says, and you pick up from his slide, matching his tone automatically. for a moment, it almost feels normal. coordinated. familiar. then you reach the line he edited earlier. “when the constraint collapses-” you say, and the phrasing feels wrong in your mouth, not incorrect, just not yours. jake’s gaze lifts immediately, but you keep going. you can feel him listening, not for clarity, not for argument, but for deviation, for control. you finish the slide and let the silence sit until he nods once and says, “good.” it does not feel like approval. it feels like a checkbox.
you set the clicker down and ask, “are we done?” he glances at his notes and replies, “we should run it again.” you lift your shoulders slightly and ask, “why?” jake answers, “timing matters.” you reply, “we’re on time.” he says, “i want it clean.” you answer, “it was clean.” he meets your eyes and adds, “it can be cleaner.” you hold his gaze without raising your voice and ask, “why are you like this right now?” his jaw tightens slightly before he replies, “like what?” you gesture vaguely at the slides, the edits, the way he is hovering over every sentence, and say, “like you’re sanding everything down until it doesn’t sound like me.” he answers, “it’s supposed to sound like the project.” you reply evenly, “it is the project and i’m part of it.” he says, “i know“ too fast, and you study him before asking, “do you?” his eyes flick away and he reaches for his notebook instead, saying, “we need to tighten the conclusion.” you do not move. he flips a page like the paper can shield him and adds, “if we shorten the final section, we can emphasize the model alignment“ still refusing to look at you. you watch him retreat into structure in real time and say, “jake.” he stops flipping pages but keeps his eyes down and answers, “what?” you ask quietly, “are you okay?” the question lands heavy. he does not look up when he says, “yeah. i’m fine.” there it is. you do not argue. you just nod and say, “okay.” the word shifts something. he glances up then, quick and searching, like he expected resistance, but you give him none. you sit back down and open your laptop. the room feels too large. he keeps writing, too deliberately.
you scroll to the final slide and notice something has changed. you point at the screen and say, “this isn’t what i wrote.” he finally looks up and says, “it’s better.” you reply, “it’s just different.” he holds your gaze and says, “different isn’t always bad.” you let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh and answer, “it’s not just different.” his expression hardens as he asks, “what do you want me to say?” the bluntness catches you and you respond, “what?” he gestures at the room and says, “you keep looking at me like i’m doing something. i’m rehearsing.” you stare at him and reply, “you’re not just rehearsing.” his eyes sharpen as he asks, “then what am i doing?” you hesitate because the real answer is not about slides and say, “you’re controlling.” his jaw flexes and he replies, “i’m preparing.” you say more softly, “no. you’re controlling.” silence settles between you. the projector hum feels louder. he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated not at you but at himself, and starts, “can we just-” before stopping. you do not help him. you do not fill the silence. you let the unfinished sentence sit between you. he swallows, and for a second his expression slips, not anger, not pride, something thinner, before he blinks it away and says steadily, “let’s run the conclusion.” you nod slowly and say, “okay.” you stand, pick up the clicker, and move back into the projector light. he joins you but not fully. he stays just outside the brightest edge, like he does not want to be entirely exposed. you start the conclusion, your voice steady. he does not interrupt. you reach the line you softened, the one about implications, about how the model behaves in real conditions, about what it suggests beyond the data, and you deliver it the way you wrote it. jake shifts, not an interruption, a recoil. you keep going.
when you finish, you turn to him and ask, “any issues?” he opens his mouth, then closes it. his eyes flick to your face, then away. “no. keep going“ jake says, too flat. you do not move. “you didn’t like that part“ you say quietly. his shoulders stiffen. “it’s fine“ he replies. “apparently it’s not“ you answer. his eyes lift sharply and he snaps, “stop psychoanalyzing me.” you freeze. “i’m not“ you say. “you are“ jake says, his jaw tightening. “you keep asking if i’m okay like i’m-” he cuts himself off. the room goes still. you keep your voice low and say, “i didn’t say anything.”- “you don’t have to“ he replies. silence stretches between you. you take a slow breath and say, “you’re acting different.” - “so are you“ jake says. that lands harder. “how?” you ask. he hesitates just enough. “you’re distant“ he says. you blink once, slow, and keep your face neutral, like that will stop your throat from tightening. “you’ve been distant“ you reply. “i’m here“ he says. “so am i“ you answer. he exhales through his nose, frustrated and cornered, and asks, “then why does it feel like you’re not?” the question is not sharp. it is tired. you look at him carefully and say, “maybe because you keep treating everything like it’s fragile.” his eyes narrow. “i’m not“ he says. “you are“ you reply. “i’m trying not to let it slip“ he says. “what?” you ask. he does not answer. instead he says, “we’re wasting time.” you nod once and say, “we are.” he glances at you, startled, like he expected resistance. you do not give it. you sit down and open your laptop.
he stays standing too long, like he is deciding whether to say something else. he does not. he sits back harder than necessary, posture rigid. outside, the campus darkens. streetlights flick on. the window reflects both of you in faint blue, two silhouettes separated by a table stacked with notes. you make a small edit to the conclusion. he watches your cursor move, then looks away quickly. silence again. he flips to the next slide. you have run it three times. he adjusts a bullet point, then another. you do not look at the screen. you look at him. he feels it. “timing was off“ jake says without turning. “it wasn’t“ you reply. “it was“ he says. “by how much?” you ask. “three seconds“ he answers. you blink and ask, “three seconds?”- “yes“ jake says. you stare at him. he is serious, the cursor hovering over the timeline like it personally offended him. “that’s what we’re doing. three seconds“ you say quietly. “it adds up“ he replies. “we won’t run long“ you say. “we might“ he counters. “that’s not the same thing“ you reply. “it matters“ he says. “it’s three seconds“ you answer. “it’s discipline“ jake says. that word lands wrong. your shoulders stiffen. “discipline?” you repeat. “yes“ he says. “since when is this about discipline?” you ask. “it always is“ he replies. “no“ you say evenly. “it’s about control.” his head snaps toward you. “it’s about structure y/n“ he says. “you’re hiding in it“ you answer. the air shifts. his jaw tightens. “i’m not hiding“ jake says. “you are“ you reply. “i’m making sure we don’t fail“ he says. “we won’t“ you answer. “you don’t know that“ he says. “i know you“ you say. the words leave before you can filter them. he goes still. “i know you“ you repeat, softer now. “you don’t need to grind this down to prove you’re in control.” something cracks, not loud but visible. “i don’t get to lose control.“ jake says. the admission is quiet. too honest. you stare at him. “what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask. he swallows. “nothing“ he says. that is a lie. you both know it. he looks away first. “run it again“ he says. you do not move. “no“ you reply. he blinks. “no?” he asks. “it’s good“ you say. “we don’t settle for good“ he replies. “maybe you don’t“ you answer. that lands. he studies you like he is trying to see what changed. “are you pulling back?” jake asks quietly. you hold his gaze before answering, “i’m adjusting.” - “to what?” he presses. you hesitate, then say, “to you.” that lands, and his expression shifts, subtle but real. “that’s not an answer” jake says. “it is” you reply. “you’ve been on edge. i’m not going to keep pushing if you’re going to treat everything like a threat.” silence stretches, his jaw tightening before he says, “let’s just finish.” back to structure. back to safety. “you’re not tightening the timing,” you say. “you’re suffocating it.” he doesn’t answer immediately, his jaw flexing once before he says, “run it again.” now the presentation argument feels connected to the emotional one. you don’t move.
“jake,” you say. “what,” he replies. “you’re obsessing,” you tell him. “i’m preparing,” he answers. “no. you’re obsessing,” you say quietly. his fingers tap once against the trackpad, controlled and sharp. “you’re rushing the emphasis“ he says. “i’m not“ you reply. “you are“ he insists. “i’ve presented before“ you say. “so have i“ jake answers. “and?” you press. “and we don’t hedge“ he says. “i’m not hedging“ you counter. “you are“ he replies. “by breathing?” you ask. “by softening the line“ he says. you stare at him. “you’re hearing what you want to hear“ you say. he closes the laptop halfway, then opens it again. “you didn’t emphasize the model alignment“ jake says. “i did“ you reply. “you didn’t“ he says. “you’re looking for problems“ you answer. “i’m fixing them“ he replies. “there weren’t any“ you say. “there were“ he insists. silence presses in. you set the clicker down slowly and ask, “why are you acting like i did something wrong?” the question is calm. that makes it worse. he doesn’t look up. “i’m not“ he says. “you are“ you reply. “i’m correcting“ he says. “you’re dissecting“ you counter. “that’s the point“ he replies. “no. that’s not the point“ you say, your voice dropping slightly. he leans back. “you’ve been different“ jake says. your grip tightens aroung the clicker until the plastic edge bites your finger. “what?“ you ask. “since heeseung’s party“ he says. you keep your face neutral. “in what way?” you ask. “you don’t argue anymore“ he replies. “i do“ you say. “barely. you just agree“ he says. “i’m choosing when to push“ you answer. “you never used to“ he replies. “you never used to nitpick three seconds“ you say. his jaw flexes. “you’ve been careful“ he says. “careful how?” you ask. “like you’re afraid to push“ he replies. “afraid of what?” you ask. “you tell me“ he says. the accusation under it is unmistakable now. “you’ve been sharp“ you say. “no, i’ve been focused“ he replies. “you’ve been distant“ you say. “you have“ he answers. “you pulled back first“ you say. “no“ he replies. “yes“ you insist. he exhales, frustrated. “you froze“ jake says. you go still. “i didn’t“ you reply. “you did“ he says. “i was thinking“ you answer. “it didn’t look like thinking“ he replies. that’s the first real hit. you hold his gaze. “you don’t get to rewrite it“ you say. “i’m not“ he replies. “you are“ you insist. he runs a hand through his hair, this time not controlled. “you hesitated“ he says. “and you don’t?” you ask. he goes quiet. “that’s not the point“ jake says. “it is if you’re bringing it up“ you reply. “i’m not bringing it up“ he says. “you just did“ you answer. the room feels smaller now. “you’ve been different since that night“ jake says again, lower. “you keep saying that“ you reply. “because it’s true“ he says. “how?” you ask. “you look at me like you’re calculating something“ he replies. “maybe i am“ you say. “why?” he asks.
you could say it. you don’t. instead you say, “because you fucking cried in my car.” there it is. he stills completely. “and then you acted like nothing happened“ you continue. his throat shifts. “i didn’t act like nothing happened“ he says. “you did“ you reply. “i just didn’t turn it into something“ he says. “it already was something“ you answer. “for you“ he says. “for both of us“ you reply. he looks away. “you’ve been careful with me. like i’m breakable“ jake says. you stare at him. “that’s not true“ you say. “yes, it is“ he replies. “you think i see you as fragile?” you ask. “yes“ he answers. the answer is immediate. no defense. no delay.it hits. “you’re always stepping in“ he says. “because you were spiraling“ you reply. “i wasn’t“ he says. “you were“ you answer. he pushes his chair back slightly. “i had it“ jake says. “and you’ve been punishing me for it ever since“ you say. that lands. “i’m not punishing you“ he insists. silence again. heavy now. the fluorescent lights hum. outside, the sky is fully dark. “you don’t get to decide how i see you“ you say finally. he looks at you. “and you don’t get to decide i needed saving“ jake replies. neither of you moves. “i don’t need you to manage me“ he says. it’s not loud. but it cracks. “i wasn’t managing you“ you reply. “it felt like you were“ he says. you step closer without thinking. “it felt like you were pretending nothing mattered“ you say. his breath catches. “it does matter“ he replies. “then stop acting like it doesn’t“ you say. the words hang there. he looks at you, really looks at you, and for a split second the control drops. not anger. not pride. fear. then it’s gone. “you’ve been weird“ jake says, and you immediately reply, “stop saying it like that.” he tilts his head slightly and asks, “like what?” you answer, “like everything changed because of me.” he says simply, “it did.” you go still. “what?” you ask. “you changed“ he says. “so did you“ you counter. “because you did first“ he insists. “jake“ you say, your voice sharpening. “you fucking cried in my car.” he flinches, small and real, and you continue, quieter now, “and then you kissed me, and then you acted like it was just-” - “just what?” he cuts in. “circumstantial“ you finish. “we were drunk“ jake says. “that’s not the point“ you reply. “then what is?” he asks. “you pulled away afterwards“ you say. “so did you“ he answers. “i didn’t“ you insist. “you froze“ he says. “i hesitated“ you correct. jake’s jaw tightens as he answers, “same fucking thing“. “no“ you say, your voice tightening. “i hesitated because i was trying to figure out if you were going to regret it.” that lands. he goes completely still. “i never said i would“ jake says. “you didn’t have to“ you answer. silence stretches. “i don’t regret things“ jake says quietly. you look at him. “and that’s not even what this is about“ he adds quickly, like he exposed too much. you say, “you’ve been acting like i embarrassed you.” - “i didn’t,“ he replies. “you translated me“ he adds. “because you were digging yourself deeper“ you answer. “that wasn’t your job“ he says. “maybe i wanted it to be“ you reply. the words hang heavier than you meant them to. his eyes lift slowly. “you don’t have to fix me“ jake says. “i wasn’t fixing you“ you reply. “it felt like it“ he says. “it felt like you were self-destructing“ you answer. he inhales sharply at that. “i really don’t need you babysitting me“ jake says. “i’m not babysitting you. what’s up with you? why are you acting like this?“ you reply.
his jaw tightens. “i don’t like feeling like i needed you“ he says. there it is. no anger. just stripped. you don’t move. “i never thought you needed me“ you say quietly. “you hesitated“ he says. “and you’ve been acting like that meant something“ you reply. “it did“ he says. he looks at you fully now. “it felt like you were deciding whether i was worth stepping in for“ he says. the room goes quiet. “what? that’s not what i was doing“ you say. “it looked like it“ he replies. you swallow. “you think i was evaluating you?” you ask. “yes“ he answers immediately. you shake your head once. “that’s insane“ you say. “it’s fucking obvious“ he replies. “to who?” you ask. “to me“ he says, and looks away the second he says it. you exhale slowly. “in class“ he says. “that’s what you’re talking about?“ you reply. he doesn’t answer. “i paused because i knew you’d hate it“ you say. his eyes snap up. “so you knew“ he says. “yes“ you reply. “i knew you’d take it personally. i waited to see if you could turn it around.”- “and you decided i couldn’t“ he says. “no“ you answer, leaning forward slightly. “i decided you were going to keep arguing and make it worse.” - “that’s basically the same thing“ he says. “it’s not“ you reply. his gaze drops to your hands on the table. “you don’t get it“ jake says. “then explain it“ you answer. he hesitates. you don’t rescue him. he exhales, frustrated. “when you look at me like that-” he starts. “like what?” you ask. “like you’re measuring“ he says. the word lands heavy. “i wasn’t measuring you“ you reply. “you were“ he insists. “no“ you say. “you do it when you’re trying to figure out if something is worth the risk“ he says. you go quiet, because that’s not entirely wrong. his voice drops. “you looked at me like i was a calculation“ jake says. the fluorescent lights hum. you stare at him. “i wasn’t calculating you“ you say. “don’t bullshit me y/n“ he replies. silence again. thinner now. “you think i don’t know when i’m spiraling“ he says quietly. “i think you don’t always see it“ you answer. his jaw tightens. “i don’t need you watching for it“ he says. “i wasn’t watching“ you reply. “i was-” you stop. he catches the silence. “you were what?” jake asks.
you hold his gaze. “i was trying not to lose you in front of everyone“ you say. that one lands harder than anything else. he goes completely still. the control drops for half a second, then snaps back. “i wasn’t lost“ he says. his voice sharpens. “stop deciding that for me“ he says. “stop pretending you weren’t“ you reply. silence. heavy. electric. then, quieter, “i don’t need you to translate me“ jake says. “i know“ you reply. “i don’t need you to save me“ he says. “i wasn’t saving you“ you answer. “i don’t need you choosing when i’m worth stepping in for“ he says. that one almost breaks something. you stare at him. “i never once thought you weren’t worth it“ you say. he looks at you, actually looks, and for a second the anger falls away. “i just didn’t want you deciding i couldn’t handle it“ he says. the admission is small. raw. sober. you step closer without meaning to. “i didn’t think you couldn’t handle it“ you say. “then why did you hesitate?” he asks. your voice drops. “because i didn’t know if you’d hate me for it“ you answer. that’s the first fully honest line of the night. it hangs between you. neither of you moves. the projector flickers faintly. his breathing shifts. you can see the spiral building under his composure now. and he hates that you can see it. his mouth tightens like he’s biting back something sharper. you lean forward slightly. “you want to know what i was thinking during that pause?” - “i already do“ jake mutters. “you don’t.” you say, not looking away. “i was thinking you’d rather argue yourself into a corner than let someone help you.” he flinches. small. real. “i was thinking you’d rather look stubborn than look vulnerable“ you continue, quieter now. “and i was trying to decide if stepping in would make you hate me more than being corrected would.” silence. his fingers curl against the edge of the notebook. “don’t“ jake says. “don’t what?” -“talk like you know me.” -“then stop making me fucking guess.” that lands. he looks away sharply. his thumb presses hard into the edge of the table. “it was humiliating,” jake says, almost under his breath. everything stills. not about you. not about the kiss. about class. about being wrong. about losing control. “i know“ you say. his jaw tightens. “you made it worse.”- “how?” you ask. “because you were right,” jake says, the bitterness in it clean. “and she said it like-” he begins, then cuts himself off. you wait. he doesn’t finish. instead he says, “it made me look like i couldn’t do it.” you answer, “you were already being corrected.” - “i wasn’t done,” he replies. “you were digging,” you say. his eyes lift, hard now, and he says, “you think you saved me.” - “i don’t think that.” you answer. “but you did” he insists. “i clarified” you reply. “you always clarify” jake says, clipped. “you always have the right words. you always-” he stops. “always what, jake?” you ask, your voice comes out too calm. he rubs a hand over his mouth. “i don’t know, you just you don’t get it” jake says. “then explain it” you tell him. he exhales sharply. “when you stepped in,” jake says slowly, “everyone stopped looking at the model and started looking at you.” the words land heavier than you expected. “and i hated that i needed that.” you go still. “i didn’t think you needed it” you say quietly. he looks at you sharply. “you did. that’s why you hesitated.” you frown slightly. “i hesitated because i knew you’d take it personally,” you say. “not because i thought you couldn’t handle it.” he doesn’t answer.
and that’s when it clicks. it wasn’t about whether he could handle it. it was about the fact that you saw the moment he couldn’t. you swallow. “i wasn’t deciding if you were capable,” you say carefully. “i was deciding if you’d rather fall on your own than let me stand next to you.” that hits. he looks away. “and you’ve been punishing me for that ever since,” you say. “i haven’t” jake insists. “you have” you answer. he stands suddenly, not violent, just too fast, and the chair scrapes loudly. “you looked at me like i was fragile,” jake says. “no,” you reply. he says, “you looked at me differently.” you hold his gaze. “i did,” you admit. that surprises him. “because i saw you differently,” you continue. the room goes quiet. “not worse,” you add. “just real.” he swallows. “you’ve been careful around me since that night in your car y/n.” he says again. “we both know that” he adds quietly. “because you started acting like i shouldn’t have seen that” you reply. “i didn’t say that” he answers. “you didn’t have to” you say. silence stretches thin. “i don’t even remember what i said” jake admits quietly. “i just remember feeling-” he stops. “like what?” you ask. “exposed,” he says, the word almost swallowed. you step closer before you can stop yourself. “jake, you were,” you tell him. his breath shifts. “but you’re acting like that was a weakness.”, you add. “i don’t get to be weak,” jake says. that line lands harder than anything else tonight. you stare at him. “you do with me…” you say. he looks at you like he doesn’t know what to do with that. for a second, just one, the control drops. then it snaps back into place. he turns abruptly and walks to the front, clicks to the next slide, and says, “we need to run it clean.” back to structure. back to safety. you watch his back. it’s almost painful how fast he hides. “this is so ridiculous” you say before you stand too. “fine”. you move beside him, not close enough to touch, and start the conclusion again. your voice is calm. measured. he interrupts once. “pause,” jake says. you stop. “say it again,” he adds. “why?” you ask. “the emphasis matters,” he replies. you repeat it. he nods. no comment. no warmth. just control. you finish the last slide. the clicker lowers. he flips his notes even though there is nothing left to flip. you wait. he almost speaks. his mouth parts, then closes. he looks back at the screen instead. you swallow. “we’re done for tonight,” you say. “yeah,” jake replies. he doesn’t look at you. you pack your laptop. the zipper sounds too loud. you pause at the door. he almost says your name. he doesn’t. you leave. behind you, the projector hums for a few seconds longer before it shuts off, and the dark that replaces it feels heavier than the light ever did.
the classroom is already half full when you walk in, and the low murmur of voices and soft clacking of laptops make it look like any other day, which is the strangest part because the world looks normal even when you do not. you pause in the doorway long enough to take in the rows, the projector cart at the front, the professor’s bag slung over the chair near the desk, and then you move toward your usual area without letting yourself look for jake too obviously. he is already there, seated near the front with his laptop open and his notes laid out like he is about to sit an exam instead of do a preview presentation, posture straight, shoulders set, head angled down as he scrolls through the slide deck with careful, precise movements. the glow from the screen lights the underside of his jaw, his sleeve cuffs are pushed up, and his watch catches the overhead light when his wrist shifts. he looks composed, too composed, like if he holds still enough nothing can touch him. you pick a seat one chair away from him, not far enough to be obvious, not close enough to invite conversation, the space between you stupidly small and still deliberate. you set your bag down, unzip it quietly, slide your notebook onto the table, and hesitate on the zipper pull for half a second before forcing your fingers to move again because your body keeps trying to pause on moments that do not deserve attention. you open your laptop and the screen wakes with a soft chime that feels louder than it should.
jake does not look up, does not greet you, does not shift away either. his hand goes to his notes, and you watch without meaning to as he straightens the stack by tapping the bottom edge against the table once, twice, aligning the paper perfectly before tapping the corner and smoothing the top page like he is flattening invisible creases. you swallow and glance down at your own materials. you do not need to check yours. you know the slides, the points, the flow. last night proved you know the flow even under pressure, even with him pressing and pressing and pressing. your brain can still recite the conclusion in exact order without looking at a screen, but your body is still carrying that conversation like a bruise you keep touching accidentally. the professor walks in and sets a coffee on the desk, a few heads turn, the room shifts into quieter readiness, someone laughs in the back row and it fades quickly, chairs scrape, a phone vibrates then stops. jake clicks to the first slide, then back, then forward again. it is small, almost nothing, and you still notice it. he is checking the deck like it might change if he looks away. his jaw tightens subtly while he scrolls down the slide list on the left panel, pausing on the model alignment slide for a beat too long before the cursor moves away. he clicks to the conclusion slide, then back to the intro, then back to the middle as if tracing the path he is supposed to follow. you keep your eyes on your screen but remain aware of him in your peripheral vision like a heat source, present and constant. you adjust your chair slightly, the metal legs squeak, you wince internally and force your shoulders down. jake’s fingers stop for a moment and he turns his head just enough to glance at you, not inviting, not pushing away, neutral and almost blank like he is confirming you are there. you keep your face flat and your posture calm as if last night did not happen, as if the air between you is not still carrying unfinished words. he looks away first. you exhale slowly through your nose. your own hands begin aligning your notebook with the edge of the table, tapping your pen once before stopping when you realize you are mirroring him. you do not want to mirror him. you want to be normal. you scroll through the slide deck once to give your fingers something to do. the text looks familiar, the graphs look familiar, the structure is solid. jake checks the slides again and you hear his trackpad click twice.
then you hear something else, quiet and under his breath, almost to himself, “if we frame it as variance, it’s cleaner.” jake murmurs without looking up. the words land like a small confession even though they are about nothing. you keep your eyes on your screen but your throat tightens because he is rehearsing beside you and it is proof he is nervous even if his face refuses to show it. he taps his notes again, straightening them like the paper might anchor him. you realize you have been bouncing your knee and force it still. stillness feels like control. you can do control. you can do contained. you glance up at the front of the room where the professor is setting up the schedule, students flipping through notes, someone whispering and laughing quietly. the normalcy makes your stomach roll faintly. jake reaches into his bag and pulls out a second set of printed pages, lays them on top of the first stack with deliberate care, lines them up again, edges perfectly aligned, turns the remote over in his hand, and sets it down exactly parallel to the laptop. he is organizing his environment like it can organize his head. you have seen him do that before during finals week. you have seen him do it when he is stressed. you did not realize how familiar the sight would feel. you close your laptop halfway and open it again, regretting the motion because it feels like you are copying him, then type an irrelevant placeholder line into the notes section just to give your fingers direction. jake glances at the clock, the second hand ticking, then back at the slides, lips pressing together then relaxing, fingers flexing once like he is shaking tension out of them. you wonder if he slept and hate that you wonder, hate that you care. you stare at the blank notes line until it blurs, blink and refocus, rub your thumb against your index finger under the desk in a tiny grounding motion. jake shifts in his chair, hoodie fabric dragging softly against plastic, leans closer to his laptop, shoulders tightening, scrolls to the slide where your section begins, cursor hovering over it before moving away, then clicks to the intro again. he is checking it twice, again, like he does not trust it or himself. the thought softens something in you for half a second before you crush it down. you look at his hands, short clean nails, a faint red mark on one knuckle, fingers tapping the edge of the paper once before stopping again. he is not shaking, not visibly anxious, just too still, too precise, too prepared. it looks like discipline. it feels like fear. you do not say that out loud.
the professor clears their throat and says, “alright, you’re preview presentations are coming up. we’ll do the preview run-throughs today. keep it tight, treat it as practice, and remember you’re here to improve, not to impress.” a few students nod, someone sighs quietly, a couple exchange looks. jake’s posture does not change but his fingers tighten on the remote. you inhale and count your breath. in. out. in. out. you glance sideways. his eyes are on the screen but his lashes lower for a second as if resetting himself before his gaze sharpens again. he leans closer and whispers the line again, quieter, “if we frame it as variance…” then stops mid-thought, jaw tightening as he swallows. you watch that swallow like it is louder than anything else in the room. your fingers curl lightly around your pen. you remember him in your car, voice cracking, words tumbling out, and now he is back to structure like it is the only thing keeping him upright. you shift slightly, shoulder almost brushing his, but you keep your distance. contained. not hostile. not warm. jake finally speaks to you, voice low and directed without looking over. “you have your part memorized, right?” jake asks quietly. you blink once and answer evenly, “yeah.” he nods once and replies, “good.” the word is flat, neutral. you almost respond but do not. the professor calls the first group, niki and sunghoon, to present and the room shifts again as students stand and gather materials. you feel jake’s knee bounce once under the table before he presses his foot flat again. the professor glances at the time and says casually, “you two will be after them.” jake’s chin dips in acknowledgment and you nod as well, the simple fact of being next making your shoulders settle lower and your stomach roll faintly as your fingers align your notebook perfectly with the table edge. jake checks the slides one more time, clicking through the intro, the framework, the model alignment slide, the conclusion, then stopping and staring at the screen for too long while the professor laughs at something up front and someone drops a pen that clatters and rolls. jake does not move. then very quietly, like the words are meant only for himself, he mutters, “don’t fuck it up.” it takes you half a beat to realize he is not talking to you. your breath catches and you cover it by clearing your throat and adjusting your laptop. you do not look at him. you do not speak.
the group before you finishes to polite, scattered applause, and the professor nods while offering a few notes about clarity and pacing that you barely hear because you are already aware of jake standing before the professor even calls your names, aware of the way he slides his laptop into position and gathers the remote in one smooth motion like muscle memory. “next,” the professor says, glancing down at the list before looking up, “jake and y/n” and jake is already moving. you follow a second later, your pulse steady but present, not frantic, not slow, just there, stepping up beside him not too close and not too far as the projector light washes the front of the room in pale blue, flattening everything into clean lines and shadowed edges that make him look sharper somehow, more defined. he does not look at you, he looks at the class, and he begins evenly, “good afternoon,” his voice calm, not too loud, not hesitant, just controlled. it is a good voice, measured and polished, the one he uses when he is certain, and something in your chest loosens slightly as he moves through the introduction without a hitch, the framing tight, his pacing deliberate but not rushed, glancing down at his notes once briefly before looking back up as if he only needed to confirm something minor. his hands are steady, the remote does not shake, and when he transitions to the problem statement he does it cleanly, saying, “what we noticed was that the inconsistency wasn’t random. it followed a pattern tied directly to the third sample set,” while gesturing lightly toward the slide. you see the professor nod once, subtle but approving, and jake does not overplay it or linger on it, he simply continues, the structure audible in his delivery, introduction, context, data framing, everything in the order you rehearsed. he does not check the slides twice now, he trusts them or at least looks like he does, and your fingers rest lightly around the clicker you will use when it is your section while you keep your face neutral and attentive, tracking him in ways no one else is, the cadence of his breathing, the rhythm of his pauses, the slight shift of his shoulders with each new section. he moves into the methodology and explains with precision, “this approach allowed us to isolate variance without overcorrecting the baseline. instead of adjusting for outliers immediately, we mapped the deviation across three cycles to see if the instability sustained.” it is good, more than good, and he sounds prepared and composed, like someone who did not spend the night before arguing about humiliation and hesitation and whether he is allowed to be weak. the class listens with quiet engagement, a few people typing notes, one student looking up more intently when he mentions the third cycle, the professor scribbling something on the printed rubric. you become aware of your own body beside him, your weight evenly distributed, your hands still, your breathing unconsciously matching his rhythm. the professor nods again, someone in the second row tilts their head in interest, and the room relaxes into the rhythm of it. you are supposed to be tense, waiting for something to go wrong, but there is nothing wrong as he clicks forward, does not overexplain, does not repeat himself, does not spiral, exactly as composed as he wanted to be.
jake clicks to the next slide mid-sentence, not by much, just a fraction too early, the graph flashing up before his words fully land. he does not stop. “-which is why we prioritized consistency,” jake finishes smoothly, but you hear the half-beat misalignment between thought and movement as he shifts his weight slightly and tightens his fingers around the remote. you notice the way his shoulders lift a little higher than before as he keeps going. “this model holds under external fluctuation,” he says, the sentence solid and confident, but he says holds twice, the second time softer, like he is correcting himself without wanting anyone to notice. no one does. a student in the second row keeps typing. the professor watches with the same neutral attentiveness as before. jake inhales too quickly and moves into the comparison section, skipping the bridge line you both practiced until it felt automatic. he just jumps. “and when we tested alternative structures,” he says, voice a shade faster now, “the deviation flattened in ways that looked stable but weren’t.” it is not how you phrased it together. it is not wrong. it is just rushed. his jaw tightens, the muscle flexing once near his ear before settling, and he gestures at the slide, the motion sharper than before, less fluid, his hand cutting through the air instead of guiding it. he is still making sense, still articulate, but the rhythm is off. you feel it like a skipped stair. he swallows and keeps talking. “what this shows is that structural discipline matters,” he says, and the word discipline lands heavier than it needs to, like he is gripping it, holding onto it. he presses the remote again too early. the slide shifts before he finishes the sentence, a flicker of light crossing his face as the projector changes, and he pauses for half a second, not enough for anyone else to register, but to you it stretches. you feel your body react before your brain does, your fingers tightening around the clicker, your weight shifting forward as if you are already leaning into something. jake starts again. “what this demonstrates is-” he says, then stops. the silence is microscopic, but it is there. his eyes flick briefly toward the left side of the screen, to the slide list, checking where he is, and then almost involuntarily his gaze shifts sideways to you. it is not a request. it is not a plea. it is a reflex, and it disappears just as quickly. he looks forward again. “this demonstrates that the framework absorbs variance instead of amplifying it,” he repeats, faster now. he did not need to repeat the beginning. he is buying time. his breathing has changed, the inhale slightly higher in his chest, the exhale a little too controlled. the class does not move. the professor does not react. no one is uncomfortable. but you are, because you can see the exact moment where control turns into strain. he is speaking too fast now, not dramatically, just enough that the pauses between sentences are shrinking. he is compressing, stacking, not letting the air settle. he gestures again, and this time his fingers flex mid-motion like he almost lost grip of the rhythm. your pulse ticks up. you know this pattern. he does not spiral outward. he spirals inward. he tightens until something gives. he clicks again and the slide changes. he is ahead of himself now, not lost, not confused, just running slightly faster than the structure he built.
you feel the decision forming in your chest. you could wait. you could let him correct it himself. you could give him space. but the space is shrinking. “and this consistency-” jake says, then stops again, his jaw tightening when the word does not land cleanly. it is small. it is nothing to everyone else. but you see it, the almost, the place where he might overcorrect and start explaining too much, the place where he might try to prove something instead of just say it. his thumb presses harder into the remote, and you realize you are already moving, not visibly, not dramatically, but internally stepping forward before your body does. jake’s voice tightens just slightly on the word “consistency,” and you feel it before you understand it. it isn’t wrong. it isn’t bad. it’s just off. the rhythm he had at the beginning, the calm, measured flow, has narrowed into something sharper, more compressed. he is speaking like he is outrunning something invisible. you don’t let yourself think about last night. you don’t let yourself think about hesitation. you don’t let yourself calculate whether he will take this personally. you just move. “building on what jake just explained,” you say smoothly, your tone steady and even, not louder than his, not softer, and you don’t look at him, you look at the professor, gesturing lightly toward the slide as if this was always your cue. your heart is beating faster than it should, but your voice doesn’t betray it. “the reason we prioritized consistency is because the model doesn’t collapse when pressure increases,” you continue, keeping your phrasing aligned with his rather than replacing it. “it adjusts without losing its shape.” you keep it simple, not dense, not layered, not corrective. you aren’t fixing him. you’re finishing the line. you feel the room settle, not because anything dramatic happened but because the rhythm evens out again. the professor nods once. a classmate types something. someone shifts in their chair. no one reacts. you don’t glance at jake to check if he’s okay. you don’t soften your tone. you don’t give him an out. you finish the thought and then, without pausing long enough to own the space, you turn slightly toward him and say, “and that’s where the comparison becomes important.” you give it back not physically or ceremonially but by stepping half a pace back and letting the air return to him.
jake registers it immediately. he knows you just stepped in. he knows you didn’t have to. he knows you didn’t make it obvious. for half a second his mind blanks, not because he forgot what to say but because something in his chest shifts in a way he didn’t expect. she didn’t hesitate. that is the first thing that lands. she didn’t wait to see if he would recover. she didn’t measure whether he was worth stepping in for. she just did it. his throat feels tight, but not from panic this time. from something else. he nods once, subtle and almost imperceptible, and picks up the thread. “right,” he says, his voice steady again, the word coming easier than he expects. “exactly.” he continues without overexplaining, without stacking, without forcing, and his breathing evens out. the strangest part is that it’s easier now. he doesn’t feel exposed. he doesn’t feel corrected. he feels backed. the thought unsettles him, but he keeps talking. you focus on the screen so you don’t focus on him. you can feel the shift even without looking. your pulse is still a little high, but your hands are steady. you don’t feel embarrassed. you don’t feel triumphant. you don’t feel like you won anything. you just feel aligned. you didn’t hesitate, and that matters more than you expected. jake moves into the next slide, this time clicking at the right moment. his tone regains its earlier control, but it’s softer at the edges now, not weaker, just less rigid. he finishes the comparison section cleanly, with no repeats and no compression. he feels the difference too. he doesn’t know why it feels different. he expected stepping in to feel like exposure, like proof that he couldn’t hold it together. instead it felt seamless, like you trusted him to keep going. his chest tightens again, but not from anxiety, from recognition. you didn’t look at him when you did it. you didn’t make eye contact to check if he was falling apart. you didn’t lower your voice like he was fragile. you didn’t translate him. you continued him. that is the part that sticks. he keeps speaking, but part of his brain replays the moment in real time. she didn’t hesitate. you let him carry the next section. you don’t hover. you don’t prepare a second intervention. you stand beside him like a partner, not a guardrail. when your section comes, you step forward naturally, not rushed and not apologetic. you deliver your part with the same steady tone. you don’t overperform. you don’t compete. you just speak. when you finish, you don’t look at him for approval. you just wait. jake watches you as you talk. he doesn’t mean to. he tells himself he is listening for timing, for structure, for transitions, but he is watching the way you stand, the way your shoulders are relaxed, the way your voice doesn’t waver. she didn’t hesitate. the thought keeps looping. it collides with the memory of him saying, “you paused,” with him accusing, with him insisting you weighed him, and now you didn’t. the presentation winds down.
you finish the conclusion together, alternating lines the way you practiced. the last slide fades in at exactly the right moment. there is no awkward silence and no stumble, just a clean end. “thank you,” jake says, and this time his voice is fully even. the professor nods and says, “good structure. tighten the comparative phrasing slightly, but overall, strong.” strong. jake nods once in acknowledgment. you both step back to your seats. your legs feel slightly lighter than before. you don’t look at him immediately. you sit, open your laptop, and pretend to review the professor’s notes while your heartbeat catches up. you didn’t save him. you didn’t correct him. you didn’t fix him. you just stood beside him, and somehow that feels bigger. jake sits down next to you with one seat between you again. he keeps his eyes on the screen in front of him, but his thoughts are louder now. she didn’t hesitate. she didn’t look embarrassed. she didn’t translate me. she stayed with it. he swallows. he doesn’t look at you. he doesn’t know what to do with the shift in his chest. it isn’t relief exactly. it isn’t gratitude. it isn’t pride. it’s something more unsettling, because if you didn’t hesitate, if you didn’t weigh him, then maybe he was wrong, and that thought lands heavier than the stumble ever did.
class resumes like nothing happened. the next group stands, the projector shifts decks, someone clears their throat, chairs scrape, and the room resets into ordinary noise so quickly it almost feels absurd how fast the moment dissolves into routine. you sit one seat away from jake again, and the space between you feels smaller now, not because it changed but because something did. you type a single line into your notes so you do not just sit there replaying the last ten minutes, your fingers moving automatically while your brain stays half at the front of the room, half at that half-second where he almost lost it. you didn’t hesitate. the thought settles somewhere under your ribs, quiet but firm. beside you, jake closes his laptop more slowly than usual, not dramatically, just deliberate, aligning his printed notes again and tapping the edges together until they are perfectly straight. he does not look at you, but he is aware of you, too aware. she didn’t make it obvious. that is the part that keeps replaying in his head. she didn’t look at me first. she didn’t lower her voice. she didn’t step in like i was fragile. she just continued. the professor dismisses class, and the room fills with the sound of bags zipping, chairs dragging back, conversations picking up immediately like they were waiting for permission. you slide your laptop into your bag and stand. jake stands at the same time. for a second you are too close, your arms nearly brushing as you both adjust your bags, and you step slightly to the side, creating space without making it look intentional. you start walking toward the door and he falls into step beside you. neither of you rush and neither of you slow down. the hallway is louder than the classroom was, voices echoing, lockers closing, footsteps layering over each other, and you focus on the floor tiles ahead of you, counting the pattern without meaning to.
jake breaks the silence first. “that worked” jake says, his tone neutral and controlled, not proud and not dismissive, just factual. you nod once and answer, “yeah” keeping your voice steady, not sharp and not soft, as you both keep walking. there is a pause while a few students pass you laughing about something unrelated, the world moving as if nothing shifted. jake adjusts the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder and glances at you briefly before looking away again. “you didn’t have to.” jake says, without elaborating, without saying thank you, without saying he needed that, just leaving the sentence there. you keep your eyes ahead as you respond, “i know” and the words land between you. you didn’t have to, but you did. jake swallows. she just knew. that part unsettles him more than anything. she knew she didn’t have to and she did it anyway, not to win, not to prove something, not to translate me, just to keep it steady. you reach the steps outside the building, the afternoon light softer now, the sky edged with early evening gray as students scatter across the quad. you stop at the top of the stairs and say, “so, i’ll look over the comparative phrasing tonight,” adjusting your bag strap. he nods once and replies, “i will too.” it is not competitive. it is not defensive. it just is. there is nothing else to add, no apology, no rehashing last night, no almost-confession, just the air between you changed in a way neither of you are naming. you start down the steps and jake turns in the opposite direction at the bottom. for half a second he almost looks back. he doesn’t. you walk toward your dorm with your hands tucked into your sleeves, your thoughts quieter than they have been in days. he walks toward his with his jaw set, his mind replaying one thing over and over. she didn’t hesitate.
the dorm room is loud in the way it always is at night, not chaotic and not quiet, just layered. sunghoon is half-lying across his bed with one arm behind his head and his phone balanced on his chest, scrolling with the distracted focus of someone pretending to relax. niki is sitting cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table with a controller in his hand, swearing softly at the screen every few seconds. the overhead light is off and only the desk lamp and the tv glow fill the room in uneven patches of yellow and blue. jake closes the door behind him a little harder than he means to. neither of them look up immediately. “how’d it go?” niki asks after a second without taking his eyes off the game. “fine.” jake answers, dropping his bag beside his desk chair and keeping his tone even, flat, controlled. sunghoon shifts slightly and glances over at him. “preview done?” sunghoon asks. “yeah” jake replies without elaborating as he pulls his laptop out of his bag and sets it on the desk without opening it. he does not need to check the slides again. he knows them. he knows every line. he just stands there for a moment longer than necessary. niki snorts at something on the screen and says, “she jumped in.” jake’s shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly as he replies automatically, still facing his desk, “she didn’t jump in.” niki pauses the game and looks over. “she did,” niki says casually. “mid-comparison.” jake exhales through his nose. “it was a transition.” sunghoon lifts an eyebrow slightly. “you lost the bridge.” jake turns around at that and leans back against the edge of his desk. “i didn’t lose it,” he says, a little sharper than he intends. “i skipped it.” - “same difference,” niki shrugs. “it’s not,” jake answers too fast. niki studies him for a second and sets the controller down on the table. “relax,” niki says. “it wasn’t a big deal.” jake does not answer because that is the problem. it was not a big deal. no one noticed. the professor did not blink. the class did not react. he didn’t even think niki would notice. and yet... sunghoon shifts upright now, more attentive. “you didn’t look pissed, you looked relieved,” sunghoon says calmly. jake’s jaw tightens. “i wasn’t.”- “you were” niki replies lightly, not mocking, just stating. jake pushes off the desk and moves toward the small kitchenette area, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge even though he is not thirsty. “you’re reading into it” he says as he unscrews the cap. “no,” sunghoon says evenly. “we’re not.” jake takes a sip he does not need and can feel the shape of that half-second in his chest even now, the slide flipping too early, the breath catching, the split-second where he thought not now. he swallows and screws the cap back on. “it was fine” he says. niki leans back on his hands. “we’re not saying it wasn’t.” jake’s fingers tighten slightly around the bottle. “she didn’t make it obvious,” sunghoon adds. that lands. jake’s gaze flicks up for a second. no one in the room is smiling. no one is teasing. they are just observing. “she doesn’t usually hold back” niki says. jake lets out a quiet scoff. “she just- she didn’t hold back.”- “she did,” sunghoon replies, voice steady. “you know she did.” there is a pause. jake feels irritation flare up, quick and sharp. “you’re making it sound like i needed saving.” no one answers immediately and that silence is worse. niki shrugs slightly. “you didn’t look mad,” he says. “that’s all we’re saying.” jake feels his stomach drop in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment. he runs a hand through his hair and pushes it back harder than necessary. “because i wasn’t.” - “exactly,” sunghoon says. jake’s eyes narrow slightly. “what’s that supposed to mean?”- “it means,” sunghoon replies calmly, “you don’t usually let stuff slide.” jake’s mind jumps automatically to defense. “it wasn’t worth fighting.”- “or,” niki says, “you didn’t want to.” jake feels something shift under that and does not respond immediately.
he crosses the room and sits down on the edge of his bed instead, elbows resting on his knees while the tv light flickers across his hands. “i’m not competing with her right now,” he says finally, the words feeling strange in his mouth. niki raises an eyebrow. “that’s new.” jake’s jaw tightens again. “we’re working together.” - “you’ve been working together all semester,” sunghoon says. that is not the same, jake wants to say. before it was tension. before it was edge. before it was something sharp that kept him alert. but now he does not finish the thought. niki picks the controller back up but does not unpause the game. “you’re not mad she helped…” he says again, quieter this time. jake’s head lifts. “i’m not-” he stops because he is not and that realization annoys him more than if he were. he looks down at his hands as the memory flashes in his mind without permission, the way her voice cut in steady and smooth, ‘building on what jake just explained…’ not correcting, continuing. he felt the panic ease immediately. he did not have to recover alone. he shakes the thought away. “it doesn’t matter,” he says. sunghoon watches him carefully. “if it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be thinking about it.” jake looks up sharply. “i’m not.” - “alright” niki says lightly, and there is something knowing in it. the room feels smaller suddenly, the air heavier. jake pushes himself upright. “i’m going out” he says. niki glances at the clock. “now?” - “yeah.” sunghoon does not argue. he just nods once. “don’t overthink it” sunghoon says casually. jake huffs a quiet breath that is not quite a laugh. “i’m not.” but the moment he steps into the hallway and the dorm room door clicks shut behind him, the noise drops away and the quiet is louder than it should be.
he walks without a destination at first, down the stairs and out the front door. the night air is cooler than he expected and it hits his face and sharpens everything. he shoves his hands into his pockets. she didn’t make it obvious. she didn’t hesitate. he exhales slowly. she likes control. that’s all. that’s why she did it. not because she- but she did not look at me when she did it. she did not frame it like a correction. she did not make it about her. she just stood beside me. he feels the edge of something uncomfortable press against his ribs and he quickens his pace. this does not mean anything. it was a presentation. it was timing. it was discipline. that word echoes in his head. discipline. structure. control. he walks faster. the campus is mostly quiet now, streetlights humming faintly overhead, the pavement damp from earlier rain and reflecting the yellow glow in broken lines. his sneakers hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, each step measured and deliberate. walking usually helps. it gives his thoughts structure, direction, momentum. tonight they refuse to line up. she didn’t make it obvious. the sentence keeps circling. he exhales through his nose and adjusts his pace, faster now, like speed might outrun it. it was a presentation. people interrupt. transitions get skipped. it happens. he has done worse before and recovered cleaner. this was not even a mistake. it was a minor slip. the professor did not react. the class did not react. it was fine. he repeats it internally, controlled, like he is rewriting a narrative. it was fine. but his chest tightens anyway because he remembers the half-second, the slide shifting too early, the silence microscopic but there, the split-second thought that hit before he could stop it. not now. he had felt it, the edge of exposure, the possibility of looking sloppy, of looking unprepared, of looking second. his jaw tightens at the memory. and then your voice, steady. ‘building on what jake just explained…’ he slows slightly without realizing it. she did not rush. she did not sound sharp. she did not emphasize the correction. she did not even look at me. she just continued. he replays the moment again. the panic had eased instantly, not vanished but softened. he had not had to fight the room back. he had not had to reclaim control aggressively. she had adjusted the rhythm and given it back to me. his steps falter slightly before he corrects them. that does not mean anything. it was teamwork. we are partners. of course she stepped in. he clenches his jaw. she always steps in. she is competitive. she likes control. that is all. but something about that explanation feels thinner now because you did not look competitive. you did not look satisfied. you did not look like you had scored a point. she just looked steady. he hates that word. steady implies intention.
he reaches the edge of the quad and slows, hands deep in his jacket pockets now, the pavement damp from earlier rain and reflecting the yellow streetlight in broken streaks. he tells himself this is distraction. he has been off since the ranking dropped, since the stupid decimal shift. that is what this is. pressure. nothing else. but the ranking does not explain the relief. that is the problem. he had felt it, clear and undeniable. relief. not embarrassment. not anger. relief. his breathing shifts again. he stops walking for a second, staring out across the empty lawn. relief means he did not want to fight it alone. relief means- he cuts the thought off. no. it just means she timed it well. it means she is good at reading the room. it means she is strategic. he nods once to himself like that settles it. then why did it feel different? the question lands without permission and he does not like it because it did not feel like strategy. it felt- he swallows and does not finish the word. he pushes off again, walking faster. he is overthinking. niki got into his head. that is all. ‘you looked relieved.’ he huffs under his breath. he was not relieved. he was just- he does not have a clean word for it. the memory shifts slightly in his mind, your hand moving toward the clicker, your tone steady, the way you did not frame it as correction, the way you did not soften it either. she treated it like it was normal, like i was still in control. he slows again because that is the part that does not fit. she did not translate him. she did not fix him. she did not protect him loudly. she adjusted beside me. he exhales slowly, his breath visible in the cool air. that should not matter. but it does, and he does not know why. he stands there for a second too long, staring at nothing. something shifted, and he does not like that he cannot name it. he pushes himself back into motion again, jaw tight. it does not mean anything. it was just a presentation. but the thought follows him anyway, stubborn and quiet. it felt better standing beside her. it follows him like it has weight, like it is something physical he cannot shake off, and he hates that immediately.
jake keeps walking anyway because walking is what he does when something does not fit, because movement makes things make sense, because movement turns chaos into sequence, but the thought does not fall into sequence and does not belong to any category he trusts. it was one preview. a half-second slip. he recovered. it was fine. so why is it still in his chest? he exhales through his nose, jaw tightening, and forces his pace faster across the damp pavement while the streetlights above hum faintly, their glow breaking into reflected fragments on the wet ground. a couple of students cross the quad in the distance laughing about something that has nothing to do with him, and he does not listen because he does not need to, their voices fading behind him like static. he tries to dismiss it again. jake digs his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and keeps walking as if the pressure of fabric against his knuckles will anchor him. he can still feel the plastic remote in his palm even though it is not there anymore. he can still feel the moment the slide flipped too early, the flicker of light across his face, the micro-pause that only he and she would have noticed, and only she did notice. that is part of it. it hits him again, sharp and inconvenient: you noticed. he does not like that his brain uses you like that, like it is automatic now, like your existence is a reference point in his head, and he pushes it away. of course she noticed, she always notices, she always tracks, she always pays attention to details other people miss, and that is what makes her good, what makes her annoying, what makes her dangerous.
his pace slows without him meaning it to and he corrects it immediately, walking faster again, because he hates losing control of his own body and hates the way his thoughts are dragging him sideways. it was not the normal satisfaction of a clean recovery. it was not even about being right. it had been something else, and he hates that he cannot name it. he reaches the edge of the quad and slows near the steps, staring out across the open grass, the campus at night looking almost staged like it was designed to feel calm, path lamps glowing at regular intervals, trees swaying lightly in the wind, air smelling faintly like rain and cold stone. he stands still for a second too long. something shifted, and he does not like that he cannot name it. he pushes himself back into motion again, jaw tight. it does not mean anything. it was just a presentation. but the thought follows him anyway, stubborn and quiet. it felt better standing beside her. his mind flicks to the ranking board without his permission. midterm day. the decimal. down by one. yours up. he remembers the heat in his neck - and the way you weren’t smiling. you weren’t celebrating. you were watching him. jake remembers walking up like it did not matter. he told himself it didn’t matter. one decimal. a stupid fucking decimal. yours up. his down. and you weren’t smiling. you were watching him. you were not celebrating his slip. you were just looking at him differently. not smug, not victorious. softer. but he hated it. hated it because it felt like pity. hated it because pity is for people who lose. hated it because he could not afford to be someone who loses. he had played it off, joked, smiled, acted like the decimal did not matter, but he had felt it like a bruise. and then later, when the campu had emptied, when the noise had faded, when it was just him and you and the air between you still carrying that weird tension, he had done something he still could not explain. he had not meant to- except he had. and that contradiction is the part that makes his stomach tighten now. he had leaned in. he had closed the space. he remembers the moment with brutal clarity, not because it was romantic but because it was the first time in a long time he did something without running it through strategy first. he leaned in. he could have stopped. he didn’t. no hesitation. no strategy. it didn’t feel like rivalry. it felt inevitable. the word lands in his head again and he hates it. inevitable implies a pattern. inevitable implies it started earlier. inevitable implies he did not choose it, except he did.
he stands still again near a lamppost staring down at the wet ground, his reflection broken in the puddles into pieces distorted by light, and he flexes his fingers inside his pockets like he is trying to wake them up. he is not supposed to feel inevitable about anything except success. he moves again, taking the long path around the quad as if distance will untangle his thoughts, and arcade night flashes next, not the games or the laughter or the noise but the walk back, the way the air cooled after the arcade heat, the way the night felt quieter than it should have been with so many people around, the way you kept glancing at him like you were checking something you did not want to admit you were checking. then the door closing. the shift. the quiet that fell like a heavy blanket. he remembers the dorm hallway light harsh and yellow, the way his pulse was too fast, the way his head felt slightly fogged, the way he kept telling himself it was just alcohol, just tension, just the night, and then the feeling that followed, not drunk chaos, not blurred impulse, deliberate. that word again. deliberate is worse than inevitable because deliberate implies choice. he remembers how close it got and does not let his mind linger on physical details. your breath changing, his hand not pulling away, you not pulling away, the moment where everything could have stopped and did not, not because you could not but because neither of you wanted to. he swallows, throat tight, and turns his head sharply like he can shake the memory out physically, walking faster now, the rhythm of his steps turning almost aggressive. he does not like that those memories do not feel messy. he does not like that they feel chosen. chosen means he let you in. chosen means he lost control. chosen means he wanted something that was not strategic. he hates that the thought makes him feel exposed even though no one is here. the campus path curves toward the library, the building dark except for a few lit windows on the lower floor, probably students studying late, silhouettes moving inside, and he feels a familiar tightening in his chest. an old pressure that has always driven him. be exceptional. don’t be second. don’t let anyone see you struggle. and that pressure is comforting because it is predictable. but now another thread is weaving into it, something he did not ask for. you. he thinks about your face during the preview presentation, the way you did not look at him before you spoke, the way you did not soften your voice, the way you did not announce that you were helping, and the way you did not even make it about him. you just continued.
he cannot stop replaying the way the relief hit his body before his brain could argue it away, can still feel it, the tension in his shoulders loosening, the breath coming easier, the rhythm returning, and relief is a word he hates because relief implies need, need implies weakness, weakness implies second place. he stops again near the steps of the library and stares at the railing like it has answers, hearing his own breathing, the faint buzz of the streetlights, a distant door opening somewhere and then closing. proximity. that is all. you are working together, of course it feels different. it is stress, midterms, rankings, the project, it is tension, rivalry turning sideways. it is habit. i’m is used to her being there. used to pushing against her. but the explanations do not stick and slide off the truth like water off glass, because if it were just rivalr, relief would not feel like safety. because if it were just tension, it would not feel steady. because if it were just ego, he would not care that you stepped in without making him look weak. the problem is not that you helped. the problem is that he wanted you to. that thought lands and it does not land softly, it lands like a weight. he does not move, not even a step, not even a shift of his shoulders. his hands stay in his pockets, his jaw locks, his breathing slows, not because he is calming down but because his body has gone into a weird still mode where it is bracing for impact. he waits for a counterargument, waits for the defensive voice that always shows up with a clean answer. and nothing comes, because his brain is running images without permission now. not explicit and not romantic. just devastatingly simple. you not smiling when he dropped that decimal. you watching him instead of celebrating. you stepping in during the preview. you walking away after he snapped. not because you did not care, but because he made it impossible to stay close without getting cut. he has been telling himself you pulled back because you regretted something. telling himself you froze because you did not want it, telling himself your distance was rejection. but what if it was self-protection? what if you withdrew because i hurt you? what if you did not hesitate today because you never hesitated about me in the first place? his chest tightens again, not with panic exactly but with fear. because if that is true then he has been wrong. and if you weren’t his enemy, then who was he fighting? he stands there still as the thoughts stack up like blocks he cannot rearrange. i don’t want to beat her. the sentence forms slowly in his head and it feels like it breaks something just by existing. i don’t want to beat you. i wants you beside me. that is worse- because wanting someone beside him implies partnership, partnership implies trust, trust implies vulnerability, vulnerability implies losing control. he swallows again but his throat stays tight. i don’t want to lose her. the thought comes next, sudden and blunt, like it was not filtered through his ego at all, and he goes even stiller as if that is possible, his brain stalling. why? the word is almost angry. it can’t be-
shit. he exhales slowly, breath fogging in the cold air, and stares out across the empty quad again, path lights humming, grass dark, the campus a still image. for the first time since freshman year he is not thinking about rankings, not thinking about decimals, not thinking about being first. he is thinking about you walking away. and that possibility, quiet and simple and not dramatic, feels worse than losing. he does not move. he does not reach for his phone. he does not text. he does not call. he does not fix it. he just stands there in the middle of the night with the streetlights humming overhead and the awareness sitting in his chest like something irreversible
the campus looks ordinary in the morning light, students moving between buildings in loose clusters with coffee cups and backpacks and low conversation, everything predictable, structured, familiar. you spot him at the long wooden table outside the economics building before he sees you, already there with his laptop open, notes spread beside it, a pen balanced neatly across the margin of a printed draft. you slow down slightly without meaning to and approach. he glances up when your bag touches the bench. “morning” he says, without a smirk, without a dry remark about punctuality. “morning” you reply, and your eyes drift to the screen automatically. slide 14. you pause. “that’s different” you say. he nods once. “yeah” he answers, offering no explanation, and when you wait he turns the laptop slightly toward you. “i adjusted the transition after the model comparison.” he says, just that, no performance, no claim of credit, no subtle implication that he caught something you didn’t. you blink. “you adjusted it?” you ask. “it was clunky,” he says simply. “the shift into limitations felt abrupt.” you stare at the new wording. he split the bridge into two steps, tightened the language, removed one of your longer sentences. it reads better. you hate that it reads better. “you didn’t have to” you tell him. he shrugs lightly. “it flows cleaner this way” he replies, no edge, no satisfaction. you sit down slowly, aware of the strange absence in the air, like a missing note in a chord you’ve gotten used to hearing, and you open your laptop. “run it from the top?” you ask. he nods. you begin with your section, moving through the regression framing controlled and precise, leaving space deliberately in your explanation, a minor phrasing vulnerability, a statistic that could be challenged if someone wanted to. he usually would. you reach the end of the segment. silence. you glance up. he’s listening, chin resting lightly against his knuckles, eyes steady, not calculating, not waiting to interject. “that’s it?” you ask before you can stop yourself. he tilts his head slightly. “yeah?” he says. “you’re not going to push back?” you press. a small pause. “if i disagree, i will” he answers, no sarcasm in it. you feel your shoulders tense. “that’s not what i meant” you say. he studies you for half a second longer than necessary. “i know” he replies, then gestures toward the next slide. “continue.” you do, but your rhythm is off, prepared for interruption, for debate, for the sharp back-and-forth that’s become instinct. without it your words feel slightly unanchored. you finish again. he nods once. “good” he says. you stare at him. “that’s all?” you ask. “do you want me to argue?” he asks, no challenge in his tone, just a question. you hesitate. “no” you answer. he accepts that immediately and leans forward to adjust the font size on one of your bullet points. “it’ll read better from the back” he says, his hand hovering over your section not possessive, not dismissive, just precise. you watch him make the change. he doesn’t narrate it, doesn’t draw attention, doesn’t look at you afterward for approval. he just continues. “you want to run the q&a simulation?” he asks. “yes” you reply. you switch roles. he presents now, structured, controlled, smooth. when he reaches the variance explanation you instinctively lean forward, ready to cut in, ready to refine his wording before it slips. it doesn’t. he tightens the phrasing himself. you blink. he finishes the segment. “thoughts?” he asks. you open your mouth automatically, almost say something sharp out of habit, but instead you say, “it’s clear.” he nods once, polite grin, no subtle victory, no teasing comment about how generous that was of you, and he just clicks to the next slide. the air feels strangely neutral, not hostile, not warm, just even. you didn’t realize how much the friction structured things until it disappeared.
you try again. “in the second example,” you say carefully, “you’re assuming the panel will accept the sampling frame without challenge.” he considers that. “they won’t,” he replies. “but i’m not going to escalate it unless they do first.” you blink. “you’re not?” you ask. “no,” he answers and folds his hands loosely in front of him. “it’s cleaner if we don’t force the tension” he says, and the sentence sits between you. cleaner. you don’t know why that word unsettles you. you’ve always associated him with controlled chaos, sharp improvisation, strategic provocation. now he sounds deliberate, measured. something shifts under your ribs, not panic, not irritation, just displacement. the rivalry had a rhythm. push. counter. refine. correct. you knew your place in that rhythm. if he steps out of it, you’re not sure where you stand. “run it again.” you say a little too quickly. he nods. this time you listen more than you speak, tracking his phrasing, his tone, the way he transitions between sections. there’s no defensiveness in his voice, no subtle competitiveness woven into his inflection. he doesn’t perform the debate. he performs the work. you notice the small things: he references your model without framing it as separate from his, he says “our projection” instead of “your estimate,” he adjusts one of his own sentences mid-delivery when it sounds too sharp. you didn’t even ask him to. he just does. and when he finishes, he closes the laptop halfway. “that was solid” he says. you stare at him. “you’re so calm” you observe. a beat passes. “why wouldn’t i be?” he replies. he’s right, why wouldn’t he – it’s not like he had the biggest breakdown since high school last night.
students pass behind you, someone laughs too loudly, a door slams somewhere in the building, the world continuing. you look at him again, trying to locate the edge you’re used to. it’s not gone. it’s just quieter. you fold your arms lightly. “why are you not trying to win this rehearsal?” you ask. he meets your eyes evenly. “i’m just trying to get it right.” he answers immediately, uncomplicated. you don’t know what to do with that. you look away first. he doesn’t. you feel it, the absence of competition as pressure, not dramatic, not loud, just different. you close your laptop slowly. “same time tomorrow?” you ask. “yeah, sure” he replies. he gathers his notes, stacks them neatly, and slides them back into his bag without flourish, without careless stuffing. you’re still holding your laptop half-open when footsteps cut across the concrete behind you, too fast and too coordinated to be random, and you already know it’s going to be someone you can’t ignore. jay’s voice hits first, bright and shameless. “oh my god,” jay says as he, jungwon and kazuha slow down beside the table, “look at you two. studying in daylight. i feel like i’m interrupting a very serious documentary.” you blink once and set your laptop lid down a little harder than necessary because you were about to leave and now you’re not, and you hate that the timing makes you look like you were lingering. jake doesn’t seem bothered, which is worse. he just shifts his bag strap onto his shoulder and looks up at jay with the expression he uses when someone is talking too much and he’s deciding whether it’s worth responding. “we’re done” jake says evenly, and there’s no bite in it. jay grins like that’s an invitation. “yeah, sure” jay replies, dragging the word out as he drops into the seat opposite you anyway. jungwon doesn’t sit, but he leans against the edge of the table with his hands in his pockets, scanning the open screen like he’s clocking the slide deck without meaning to, while kazuha sets her bag down on the bench with a quiet thud, polite but unapologetic, as if this table has always been communal property. you shift your weight slightly, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, and you can feel how your body is already preparing for the old rhythm. someone jokes. jake deflects. you sharpen. he counters.
the conversation snaps into place like a familiar mechanism. jay’s eyes flick from you to jake and back with exaggerated curiosity. “so,” jay says, tapping the table once, “are you guys in a truce era or are we still doing the whole academic enemies thing because i miss the tension. it was entertaining.” heat rises faintly up your neck at the word tension, not because it’s new but because it’s not accurate anymore, not in the way people mean when they say it. you keep your face neutral and say, “we’re just working” because that’s safe and factual and boring enough to end the subject. jake doesn’t contradict you, which is the first sign something is off in a way you don’t have language for. he just reaches down and nudges his bag with his foot, pushing it closer to the bench like he’s anchoring it. jungwon tilts his head and asks, “preview went fine?” and you open your mouth to answer out of habit, but jake answers first, calm and concise. “it was fine” jake says, and it’s not dismissive. it’s not cocky. it’s just a statement. jay makes a face like he’s offended by how uninteresting that is. “jake saying ‘fine’ is terrifying,” jay says, pointing at him like he’s presenting evidence, “because that means he’s either lying or about to win something.” you expect jake to smirk or toss something sharp back, because that’s what he usually does when jay turns him into a caricature, but jake only lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “we’re not winning,” jake says. “we’re presenting.” the words are mild, but they land with an odd firmness, and you watch jay blink like he’s recalibrating.
kazuha slides into the seat beside jay, crossing one leg over the other, and looks at you with a small smile. “you look tired,” kazuha observes lightly, like it’s casual and not a diagnosis. you hate that she’s right, and you hate that your first instinct is to deny it, so instead you adjust your grip on your bag strap and say, “i’m fine” because that’s what you always say when you don’t want to explain anything. jay makes a sympathetic noise that’s mostly fake. “we’re all fine,” jay says dramatically, “we’re just slowly dying inside as midterms approach again.” you feel jake’s gaze flick toward jay for half a second at the mention of midterms, then away, so fast you almost miss it, and you don’t know why that tiny movement sticks in your mind. jay’s eyes drop to jake’s bag, then to the corner of the printed draft peeking out of it, then back to jake’s face with obvious delight. “wait,” jay says, leaning forward, “hold on. jake has paper.” he says it like he’s caught a rare animal in the wild. “jake has printed paper.” jungwon lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, and kazuha’s eyebrows lift. jay turns his head toward you like you’re supposed to confirm it. “he doesn’t even look like he studies,” jay declares, voice loud enough that a couple of passing students glance over, “he just shows up and wins. it’s sick.” you glance at jake automatically, expecting him to laugh it off, to smooth it over, to keep the persona intact. jake doesn’t laugh. jake doesn’t even smile. he just says, “i do jay.” three words. flat. final. it’s not defensive the way it would be if he said it too quickly. it’s not performative either. he says it like it’s a fact that doesn’t require debate, like he’s done pretending the myth is convenient.
the silence that follows is small but real. jay’s grin falters just enough to show surprise, and jungwon’s gaze sharpens with quiet interest like he’s watching a crack form in glass. your fingers tighten around your bag strap, then loosen when you realize you’re gripping it too hard. jay recovers first, because jay always does, and he laughs. “okay, damn,” jay says, “sorry, didn’t know i was touching a nerve.” jake’s eyes stay on jay, steady and unamused, but not hostile. “you weren’t” jake replies, and something about the calmness of it makes the air feel different. you swallow, your throat suddenly dry, and you can’t decide if the discomfort is because jake just corrected the narrative out loud or because a part of you feels exposed, like your old assumptions are standing in the sunlight. more footsteps approach, familiar and quick, and you don’t have to turn to know who it is because niki’s voice carries like he was built for interruptions. “why do you look like someone just insulted your entire bloodline?” niki asks as he drifts toward the table, and sunghoon follows half a step behind him, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable in the way that means he’s clocking everything. niki’s eyes flick over the group, then land on jake, and his mouth twists into a grin. “what’s up man-” niki says, dragging the word out. jay points at jake like he’s proud. “i said he doesn’t look like he studies,” jay admits, “because it’s true.” niki’s grin widens, but there’s something sharper under it than joke, like he’s enjoying the chance to poke at the myth because he knows exactly how false it is. “you should see him during midterms,” niki says, tone teasing but edged, as he drops into the chair closest to jake like he owns the place, “man goes ghost.” he says it like it’s funny, like it’s casual, like it’s not also a confession that jake’s calm is curated. jay laughs too loudly. “ghost?” jay repeats. “jake?” niki nods like he’s confirming a fact everyone should already know. “yeah,” niki says, glancing at you briefly and then back to jake, “like you’ll text him and he’ll reply three business days later with one word, and then you’ll realize he’s been in the library basement pretending he doesn’t need oxygen.” sunghoon makes a quiet sound that could be agreement or warning, then adds, “he forgets food exists,” in that same calm voice he uses when he’s stating something obvious, and you feel your chest tighten again because they’re saying it like a joke, but jake isn’t smiling, and neither are you. jake exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to the table for half a second like he’s counting his reactions. he doesn’t deny it. he doesn’t deflect it. he doesn’t snap at niki to shut up. he just says, “you’re exaggerating” and it’s the closest thing to a protest he offers. niki’s eyes brighten like he’s been given permission to push. “am i?” niki asks innocently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and sunghoon’s gaze flicks to jake in a silent check-in. jake’s jaw tightens once, barely, then relaxes.
“we’re leaving” jake says again, not to the group but to the situation, and it’s not angry. it’s controlled. it’s him trying to reclaim the exit he was going to have before jay arrived. you shift again, adjusting your stance like you’re preparing to follow him, and you realize with a jolt that you’ve been aligning yourself with him instinctively, physically, without deciding to. your stomach twists at the realization, and you force your expression back into neutral. jay is still grinning, oblivious to the subtle tension because he’s not the one living inside it. “wait,” jay says, “so you’re telling me jake is actually human?” niki laughs. “barely,” niki answers, and sunghoon’s mouth twitches like he almost smiles. kazuha looks at jake with softer curiosity now, like she’s seeing him from a new angle. “you really study?” kazuha asks, and it’s not mocking, it’s just genuinely surprised. jake meets her gaze briefly. “yes,” jake says, and then, because he doesn’t seem to know what to do with that kind of attention, he adds, “i just don’t like to talk about it.” the sentence is plain, but it lands harder than anything else he’s said today, and you feel it hit somewhere low in your chest like a weight shifting. you remember the times he disappeared during midterms. the gaps where he wasn’t at group meetups. the way he always showed up afterward looking normal again, like he’d simply been out having fun. you remember how easy it was to assume the reason for his absence was comfort. privilege. safety. a faint sting settles behind your ribs. jay misses the complexity and barrels forward. “okay,” jay says, “but like you still make it look easy.” niki’s grin fades slightly, not fully, but enough that you notice the shift. “looking easy doesn’t mean it is” niki says, still casual, still teasing, but the edge is sharper now, like he’s warning jay without turning it into a confrontation. sunghoon doesn’t say anything, but his gaze holds steady on jay for a second too long, and jay finally lifts his hands like he’s backing off. “alright, alright,” jay says, laughing, “i get it, you guys are sensitive about your golden boy.” jake’s eyes flick up at that, quick and cold, and for a second you see the edge you were trying to locate earlier, the one you know. it’s there. it’s just been kept on a leash today. he doesn’t snap, though.
he just slings his bag higher on his shoulder and says, “okay, we’re done” like he’s closing the conversation with the same precision he stacks paper. you should feel relief, but you don’t. your mind keeps snagging on the same points. jake is not effortless. jake is not careless. jake is not coasting. jake is private. privacy doesn’t fit neatly into your rivalry logic. you can compete with arrogance. you can compete with talent. you can compete with ego. but you can’t compete with someone you don’t fully understand, and the thought unsettles you more than it should. niki stands and stretches, bumping jake’s shoulder lightly with his own as he passes. “don’t forget to eat” niki says, half-joking, and jake’s mouth tightens like he’s refusing to react to the softness hidden inside the tease. “i will.” jake replies, and you don’t know if he means it, but you do know he didn’t roll his eyes. he didn’t joke. he didn’t brush it off. he just accepted it. jungwon checks his phone and says, “we’re grabbing coffee,” and kazuha nods, already pulling her bag strap up. jay points at you. “you coming?” jay asks. you open your mouth to say you have class because you always have an excuse ready, because leaving is easier than sitting in discomfort, but you hesitate, and the hesitation is physical before it’s mental. your fingers shift on your bag strap. your weight rocks back on your heels. “i have class,” you say finally, because it’s true and because you need the escape. jay groans dramatically and waves you off. “of course you do” he says, already turning away as the group begins to drift.
kazuha gives you a small smile and jungwon nods once, and then they’re walking off, their conversation fading into normal campus noise like nothing happened. but something did. the table feels emptier even though you and jake are still standing there. you look down at the closed lid of your laptop like it can give you structure, like it can give you the familiar certainty you like living inside. jake doesn’t move right away. he adjusts the strap on his bag again, fingers tightening once on the fabric, then releasing. you watch the motion and realize you’re tracking him the way you track data points, like you’re trying to find a pattern that explains him cleanly. you hate that your first instinct is to soften toward him. not in a romantic way. not in a sweet way. in a pity-adjacent way you don’t trust, because pity is a trap. pity changes the power dynamic. pity makes you careless. pity makes you misread people. and yet the idea of him going ghost during midterms, of him disappearing not because he doesn’t care but because he cares too much, presses uncomfortably against your old assumptions, and a quiet heat rises behind your eyes like irritation that has nowhere to go. you clear your throat, not because you need to but because you need sound. jake glances at you. “what?” he asks, neutral. you almost say, “nothing.” you almost say, you could’ve told people. you almost say, i didn’t know. instead you say the safest thing you can find. “are you really going to eat?” a beat passes. then jake’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it doesn’t fully form. “yes,” jake replies, his tone still calm but softer at the edges. “i’m not trying to die before presentation day.” you huff a quiet breath that could count as a laugh if you let it. “good,” you say. jake studies you for half a second, like he’s trying to read why you said it that way, and you feel that familiar pressure building in your chest. the pressure of being seen not as a competitor but as a person who cares enough to ask. he looks away first, as if he doesn’t want to sit in that recognition. “same time tomorrow?” jake says, not a question. “yeah” you answer. he starts to walk, then slows, matching your pace without commenting on it, and you hate how natural it feels for your steps to align. you walk toward the building together, not touching, not close enough for anyone to comment, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him when the wind shifts. jake stops at the entrance of your lecture hall and nods once. “see you” he says. “yeah” you reply. you turn toward the door, and you feel his gaze on your back for a second longer than necessary, not intense, not possessive, just present. you don’t look back. you tell yourself you don’t need to. but your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag anyway as you walk inside. you thought he was effortless. now you’re not sure what he is. but you know this in a way you don’t like admitting. it’s harder to compete with someone you can’t reduce. it’s harder to feel victorious when you start noticing what it costs them.
the week before midterms always does something to campus, like the air gets thinner and everyone pretends they’re fine while quietly unraveling. you tell yourself you’re not going to a party. you tell yourself you have too much to do, too much to lose, too many reasons to stay in your dorm with a highlighter and a spreadsheet. you tell yourself you don’t need loud music and sweaty rooms and cheap alcohol to cope with pressure. you tell yourself all of that right up until eunchae is standing in your doorway with her arms crossed and a look that says she’s not leaving until you move. “you’re coming,” eunchae says, and she says it like it’s a fact, not a suggestion, while chaewon leans against the wall behind her with that calm, unimpressed expression she gets when she’s already planned your entire evening for you. sakura is sitting on the edge of your bed scrolling through her phone like she owns your room, and yunjin is already halfway into a jacket, grinning like she’s about to have the fun of her semester. kazuha, quietly lethal as always, offers you a hair tie like she’s bribing you into compliance. “you’ve been staring at the same page for an hour” chaewon points out, and her tone is too gentle to argue with. “that’s called focus” you reply automatically, but eunchae cuts in immediately, rolling her eyes. “that’s called spiraling” eunchae says, and she doesn’t even sound mean, just certain, like she’s observed you long enough to know the difference. you open your mouth to protest again, but yunjin steps closer and bumps your shoulder with hers, warm and insistent. “it’s one night,” yunjin says, and her grin turns softer for half a second. “you’re not gonna lose your scholarship because you danced for forty-five minutes.” sakura looks up and adds, “also, we’re not letting you sit here and stress-cry alone” and the fact that she says it so casually makes your stomach tighten, like you’ve been caught doing something you didn’t want anyone to name. you hate that it lands, and you hate that they’re right, and you hate that your chest loosens a fraction anyway like your body’s already giving in before your pride does, so you stand up with a sharp exhale and grab your jacket, muttering, “if i fail my midterm because of you, i’m haunting all of you.” eunchae beams like she’s won something. “deal,” eunchae says, already turning toward the hallway, and kazuha slips her arm through yours in a quiet, grounding way that makes you feel less like you’re being dragged and more like you’re being escorted.
the party is on campus in one of those apartments that somehow always ends up being the center of whatever social event happens before everyone collapses into exam mode, and you can hear it before you even reach the door, bass vibrating through the walls like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to you. the hallway smells like perfume and cheap cologne and something sugary, and someone you don’t recognize stumbles past laughing too loudly, nearly knocking into you until sakura shifts smoothly and blocks you with her shoulder like she’s been doing this her whole life. “breathe, it’ll be fun.” kazuha murmurs near your ear, and you do, because her voice is calm enough to make your nervous system listen even when your brain doesn’t want to. eunchae knocks once and then doesn’t wait, pushing the door open with the confidence of someone who has never questioned whether she belongs somewhere. warm air rushes out immediately, heavy with sweat and alcohol and heat from too many bodies in one space, and the sound hits you like a wall: music, laughter, someone yelling over the song, glass clinking somewhere in the kitchen. chaewon steps in first like she’s unbothered, sakura follows with a smile that’s too practiced, yunjin looks delighted, and you hover half a step behind them for a second longer than you should, because you already want to leave and you haven’t even fully entered. eunchae turns back and catches your wrist lightly, tugging you in with a grin. “welcome back to being a person” eunchae says, and it makes your face heat because you don’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed, so you do neither and let her pull you inside.
you clock the room fast because that’s what you do when you’re uncomfortable: you inventory. a cluster of people near the couch, someone perched on the armrest with a red cup, a couple making out in the corner like they forgot walls exist, a line forming toward the kitchen where the drinks are. you recognize heeseung immediately because he’s tall and loud and somehow always looks like he’s having the best time even when he’s doing nothing, and he’s leaning near the counter with a grin while sunoo stands beside him, laughing with his whole face like the world isn’t currently built to stress him out. jungwon is there too, shoulders relaxed, eyes sharp like he’s watching everything at once, and jay is mid-story, hands moving dramatically as he talks, the kind of person who can turn midterm dread into a joke if he tries hard enough. then you see niki, and he’s already got that gleam in his eye that means he’s about to cause problems purely for entertainment, and he’s standing in a loose circle near the kitchen island like he’s holding court. and then jake is there. you spot him before you can pretend you didn’t. he’s leaning against the edge of the counter like he belongs there, one hand holding a shot glass, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messier than usual like he didn’t bother making it perfect. the light in the kitchen makes everything look warmer than it should, and it catches the line of his jaw when he tilts his head back to laugh at something heeseung says. he looks easy. he always looks easy. that’s what makes him infuriating, and it’s what makes a part of you go tight with something you refuse to name. heeseung nudges him with his elbow and says something you can’t hear over the music, and jake’s mouth curves into that lazy, controlled grin that used to feel like a weapon when it was aimed at you in class. niki lifts his shot glass like he’s toasting the concept of poor choices, and jake mirrors him without hesitation, like the motion is automatic. heeseung claps his hands once and calls out, “okay, okay, pre-midterm therapy shots” and his voice cuts through the noise just enough to carry. jake tips his head slightly and says something back with a calm confidence you can’t hear, and the fact that you can’t hear it makes you want to move closer, listen. and also makes you want to turn around and leave immediately.
eunchae notices your stillness because eunchae notices everything, and she leans in close enough that her hair brushes your cheek. “don’t,” eunchae says softly, and she doesn’t even have to specify what she means, because you know. don’t glare. don’t overthink. don’t turn this into a war in your head. you swallow and force your shoulders to relax, and you let kazuha tug you toward the living room like it’s no big deal, like your pulse didn’t just spike. sakura says something cheerful to someone passing by, chaewon accepts a drink with a polite nod, yunjin laughs at a joke that barely registers in your ears, and you try to make yourself match their energy because you don’t want to be the person who ruins the night with your tension. but your eyes flick back to the kitchen anyway, because you’re not made of stone, and because jake is still there, tipping a shot back with heeseung and niki like he’s immune to consequences, like midterms aren’t going to chew everyone up next week. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up-just briefly-and for a second you think he’s looking at you. your stomach tightens. then he turns to heeseung again like nothing happened, like he didn’t just shift your entire nervous system with one glance you’re not even sure was real, and you hate that you’re standing here calculating him while pretending you came to relax.
you take a drink from the cup kazuha presses into your hand, the plastic warm from someone else’s grip, and you tell yourself this is fine. it’s just a party. it’s just noise. it’s just one night before midterms start to swallow the campus whole. and yet, when another round of cheers erupts from the kitchen and you hear heeseung shout, “again!” you find your gaze drifting back like it has its own gravity, because jake is laughing at him again, head tipped slightly, eyes bright, and niki is already pouring another set of shots like he’s committing to the bit. the music is louder in the kitchen. of course it is. it always is, because that’s where the shots are, where the counters are sticky and the floor vibrates slightly from too many people shifting their weight at once. eunchae is the one who pulls you closer without asking, because she lives for this exact chaos, and chaewon follows with the calm composure of someone who can drink and still remember formulas the next morning. sakura slips into the circle smoothly, smiling at heeseung like she’s amused before he even says anything, and yunjin is already hyping someone up about midterm “survival shots,” while kazuha stays half a step beside you, steady and quiet. you don’t intend to end up next to jake. you just do. heeseung is laughing mid-sentence, one hand thrown over niki’s shoulder, the other pointing dramatically at jake like he’s narrating some grand victory, and jake is leaning back against the counter with a shot glass in his hand, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he ran his fingers through it one too many times. he looks easy. he always looks easy. it makes your jaw tighten before you can stop it.
niki finishes pouring and slides a glass toward jake. “pre-midterm cleanse” niki declares with a grin that’s already too sharp to be innocent. heeseung claps jake on the back. “jaeyun,” heeseung says loudly, proud and teasing at the same time, “i heard you killed that preview, dude. professor kim mentioned it in office hours. said it was ‘impressive.’” jaeyun. the word lands wrong. not for the room. the room just laughs. someone whistles. sunoo leans in with an exaggerated “of course he did” and jake goes still, small and brief, half a second you wouldn’t see if you weren’t watching him. his fingers tighten around the shot glass. his jaw locks. then he says, flat and immediate, “don’t.” heeseung blinks. “what?” he asks, and jake doesn’t smile as he tells him, “you know i hate that.” heeseung laughs like it’s a joke. “hate what? it’s your name,” he says, and jake’s eyes flick up for just a second, not defensive, not embarrassed, just sharp. “not here.” jake says. the music swells again and someone shouts from the living room, and the moment almost gets swallowed whole. heeseung lifts both hands in surrender. “alright, alright. jake” he corrects lightly, still grinning, but you’re still watching, because that wasn’t embarrassment, and it wasn’t annoyance, and jake lifts the shot glass and tips it back without breaking eye contact with the counter before setting it down harder than necessary, the sound clicking sharp against the granite. niki notices, of course he does, and he mutters under his breath, “damn, touchy” not loud enough to escalate it. jaeyun doesn’t belong here. jaeyun belongs to professors mentioning him in office hours. to expectations. to quiet admiration. to something polished and impressive and untouchable. jake belongs in kitchens that smell like tequila and lime, and the fact that he separates the two so instinctively makes something shift in you. heeseung pours another round. “okay, redemption shot for over-praising!” heeseung laughs, and jake doesn’t protest as he reaches for the glass again. you step closer without meaning to and tell him, “maybe slow down” leaning in just enough so the music doesn’t swallow your voice. jake glances at you and asks, “why?” and there’s something steady about him, not sloppy, not even that tipsy yet, just a little looser than usual. you fold your arms lightly and say, “we have rehearsal tomorrow” and jake tilts his head slightly as he answers, “and?” you reply evenly, “and i’m not covering for you if you show up hungover.” and the words are simple, but the air changes as niki goes quiet and jake doesn’t look away. “i didn’t ask you to.” jake says, calm and controlled, but with an edge under it, and you answer, “you don’t have to.” and that lands harder because you both know what it means. you stepped in before. you adjusted. you smoothed it out. you made it seamless. jake sets the second shot down untouched this time and says, “you don’t get to manage me.” not raising his voice, not sneering, just stating it like a boundary. your jaw tightens as you reply, “i’m not managing you. i’m being realistic” and jake asks, “about what?” with something sharper in it now. you say, “about the fact that this project doesn’t just affect you” while the music pulses through the cabinets and someone shouts your name from the doorway and you don’t look.
jake studies you like you’re an equation he’s not sure he wants to solve and says, “of course i’ll show up” and you reply before you can stop yourself, “that’s not what i’m worried about” making his eyes narrow slightly as he asks, “then what are you worried about?” you don’t say what you’re actually thinking. you say, “that you think this doesn’t matter,” and jake lets out a quiet, humorless breath as he says, “it matters.” you tell him, “then act like it,” and that’s when it snaps, not loud, not explosive, just clean, as jake says low, “i don’t need you to supervise me.”. you shoot back, “and i don’t need you to pretend you’re invincible,” and there’s a flicker in his expression at that, not anger, something else, as he asks, “you think this is pretending?” you don’t hesitate when you tell him, “you always try to make it look easy” and the words hang between you.
the room stays loud around you. people laughing, someone bumping into heeseung and apologizing, yunjin dragging sakura toward the living room, chaewon saying something dry to jungwon that makes him grin, but the space between you goes quiet. jake holds your gaze and then says, very quietly, almost too quiet for the room he’s standing in, “jaeyun doesn’t get to screw up.” it isn’t dramatic. he doesn’t look at anyone else. he doesn’t elaborate. he says it like it’s obvious, like it’s fact, and you don’t respond because suddenly you understand, not fully, not perfectly, but enough. j
aeyun is the version people brag about in office hours. jaeyun is the one professors mention by name. jaeyun is the golden one. jaeyun doesn’t drink too much. doesn’t hesitate in presentations. doesn’t need help. doesn’t misstep. jake does. and jake hates when the two get confused.
he picks up the untouched shot and slides it back toward niki instead. “not that one,” jake says flatly, and niki raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, just sliding the extra shot back toward the bottle with a little clink like he’s filing it away for later. you should step away and you should let the moment dissolve, but jake is standing there, jaw tight, gaze fixed somewhere between the counter and the floor like he’s forcing his thoughts into a straight line, and you can’t not say it when you tell him, “don’t do this” your voice low enough that it shouldn’t carry even though the way his attention snaps up makes it feel louder anyway. his eyes flick to yours as he asks, “do what?” and you fold your arms lightly because if you don’t put your hands somewhere you’ll fidget and if you fidget you’ll look like you care too much, replying evenly, “drink like you don’t have consequences. rehersal is tomorrow.” his mouth twitches like he’s about to make a joke, but he doesn’t, instead exhaling slowly through his nose and saying, “i’m not getting wasted” and you point out, “you’re doing shots” only for him to answer, “so is everyone else” and when you tell him, “that’s not an argument” his gaze sharpens as he says, “it’s not supposed to be.” irritation flares, quick and familiar, and it would be so easy to slip into the old rhythm, but you’re not trying to win right now and you’re trying to keep tomorrow from collapsing, so you say, “jake. we have rehearsal. we have the dataset response. we have q&a framing. if you show up hungover, i’m not doing this alone.” and something flashes in his expression fast enough that anyone else would miss it, not anger but offense at the idea underneath it, as his shoulders square like he’s bracing and he says, controlled, “you’re not doing it alone y/n.” while you lift your chin and tell him, “then act like it.” his eyes narrow and for a second it’s like the room blurs and it’s just you and him and the edge between you that always seems to sharpen when you least expect it as he replies, “i am acting like it.” and you say, “you were literally about to take another shot” and he looks at the counter and back at you and says, “because we’re at a party,” and when you press, “and?”, he answers, calm but strained anyway, “and i can handle it.” and you say before you can stop yourself, “i don’t care about that.” he pauses, a small, dangerous pause, and then asks too evenly, “what is it about then?” and you don’t answer immediately because the truth sitting behind your teeth is messy, because you saw him flinch when heeseung said jaeyun and you saw him go still like someone had grabbed him by the throat with expectations and you don’t know what to do with the fact that it made you want to step closer instead of away, so you pick the cleanest version and say, “it’s about tomorrow. i’m not risking this because you want to ‘let loose’ tonight,” and he gives a short laugh that doesn’t match his eyes as he says, “you think this is me letting loose?” and you blink and ask, “what else would it be?”.
his jaw flexes and he looks like he’s about to say something and stops himself, the silence filling up with all the things you both keep circling without naming. he asks,says, louder than you expect and louder than the music, “you think i don’t care about tomorrow?” as it cuts through the room like someone yanked a cord and the kitchen doesn’t go silent but it shifts, people pausing mid-laugh, mid-sip, mid-sentence, heeseung’s grin faltering, jay’s eyebrows lifting, jungwon straightening slightly, and even sunoo’s smile dropping into something curious while your stomach drops, not because of the words but because of the volume, because jake doesn’t do loud unless he’s cornered. heeseung leans across the island sensing tension like a shark sensing blood and grinning like he lives for drama that isn’t his. “yo, are you guys arguing about regression models right now?” and jay laughs and says, “please tell me you are” while jungwon’s gaze flicks between you and jake, calm but alert, and niki stays beside jake watching him with that sharp, almost-too-aware expression he gets when he knows exactly where the line is and is waiting to see who crosses it. you keep your expression steady even though your pulse jumps as you reply, “that’s not what i said.” and he steps half a pace closer, not aggressively but enough that you feel it, saying sharper than the first, “stop supervising me.” and that’s the one that gets everyone’s attention because now it isn’t just a disagreement and it’s personal, heeseung’s eyes widening slightly like he’s just realized he walked into something real, jay’s mouth opening like he’s about to make a joke and then shutting, jungwon’s gaze staying fixed on jake, measuring. niki moves, not dramatically and not like he’s body-blocking, just a casual step closer to jake’s side with his shoulder brushing jake’s like he’s inserting himself into the orbit before the gravity gets too strong, and he says lightly with a warning under it like a leash tightening, “okay. don’t be weird,” while jake doesn’t look at niki and keeps his eyes on you as he continues, still loud enough to carry and still controlled enough to not sound drunk, “you’ve been acting like i’m irresponsible. like i’m going to blow this up.” you inhale slowly to ground yourself and repeat, “you’re doing shots” because it’s the only factual thing you can cling to without falling into whatever this is becoming, and he shoots back, “and you’re acting like i’m not going to show up,”
you say, already regretting the wording because fix is the wrong word and fix is the trigger word and fix makes it sound like you think he’s broken, “i’m acting like i don’t want to have to fix it” and jake’s eyes flash as he says, “there it is. that.” and when you ask, “what?” he says, “that tone. like you’re already planning to cover for me” while niki taps jake’s shoulder once as a quiet signal and murmurs, “bro,” trying to pull him back without making it obvious, but jake doesn’t move. heat rises behind your ribs as you say, steady, “because i have. i have covered for you. you don’t get to act like that’s not true”. niki steps between you, “okay, okay, time-out. this is a kitchen. not a therapy circle,” and jay snorts, relieved at the escape route, adding, “yeah, take your academic trauma somewhere else.”
the tension doesn’t dissolve, it just gets pushed aside like furniture, and niki uses the moment, leaning in closer to jake’s ear with concern masked as annoyance as he says, “you’re getting heated. chill,” while jake replies automatically, “i’m fine” even though the words don’t match the stiffness in his shoulders, and niki mutters, “you’re not,” before straightening and raising his voice just enough to sound casual as he says, “come on. breathe. you’re gonna start arguing about dataset framing in the tequila zone,” drawing a couple laughs as jake exhales through his nose and, like his body finally remembers the room is full of eyes, lets niki steer him backward, not because he’s weak but because he’s choosing control. before jake turns away fully, he looks at you again. the music is loud enough to blur edges, the kitchen lights too bright, and when someone bumps into the counter behind you tequila sloshes dangerously close to the rim of a plastic cup, the party keeps moving like nothing just cracked open in the middle of it. you’re still standing exactly where the argument stalled, and he studies you for a second, not long enough for anyone else to clock it but long enough for you to feel it land, his jaw tight, not angry, not defensive, just braced, and you don’t even know what you would’ve said if niki hadn’t stepped in. you don’t know what you were about to accuse him of. jake’s mouth moves before he can stop it as he says, “you really think i don’t care?” not shouted but loud enough to cut through a dip in the music, and a couple heads turn while jay lets out a low, amused “okayyy” like he thinks this is still a bit. heeseung lifts his brows, grinning, waiting for a punchline, and niki’s hand tightens on jake’s shoulder as he says under his breath, “don’t.” while jake doesn’t look at him and keeps his eyes on you, and then, softer, so soft it barely survives the bass vibrating through the cabinets, jake adds, “you think i’d care this much if it wasn’t you?”.
it isn’t performative or dramatic, sounding almost irritated, almost exasperated, like he’s frustrated you don’t already know. no one reacts because no one heard, and the world doesn’t pause, but you do, because the sentence doesn’t feel like a joke or ego or rivalry, it feels like something that slipped past his filter. jake’s expression shifts a fraction, not regret, not exactly, more like awareness, like he realizes the line crossed some invisible boundary he’s been pretending isn’t there, and niki doesn’t push it, only leaning in again as he says low, “okay. that’s enough.” you stare at jake trying to translate it into something safe, because it could mean he cares about the project because you care and it could mean he cares about being seen by you and it could mean-
but before you can answer or even breathe properly, sunoo shouts from the living room, “jake! come drink like a normal person!” and niki tightens his grip on jake’s shoulder as he says louder with his grin back in place like armor, “yeah. come on, romeo. stop fighting in the kitchen,” and jake turns toward the noise and then back to you one last time, not regretful and not taking it back, just aware, before letting niki pull him away into the living room where bodies and music and laughter swallow him like nothing happened, but something did. you’re left standing in the kitchen with your drink untouched in your hand, the plastic cup warm against your fingers, the bass vibrating through your bones, and the sentence replaying in your head like a glitch you can’t close out of. across the room jake is on the couch with niki leaning in close to his ear and saying something that makes jake run a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset, and he looks up and your eyes meet for a second, and you don’t know what to do with the fact that he doesn’t look away first, so you look down at your cup and back up. but he’s still there, still watching, not competitive and not amused and not careless, just steady, like that sentence didn’t belong to the party noise and like it belongs to something else. something you’re not ready to name. and you hate it because you can’t tell whether it was nothing or whether it was the first real thing he’s said to you all semester.
the rehearsal room is too bright, not warm-bright, not late-afternoon gold, just fluorescent and unforgiving, the kind of light that makes everything look sharper than it feels, and you get there early, telling yourself it’s because you want one uninterrupted run-through before the final presentation, because timing matters, because transitions matter, because if you shave three seconds off slide seven the conclusion lands cleaner. it totally has nothing to do with not wanting to walk in at the same time. the room is empty when you unlock it, the projector humming faintly as it warms up, and you set your bag down, plug in your laptop, pull up the deck, click through slide one. slide two. slide three. your reflection flickering briefly across the white screen before the first title loads, and you stare at it longer than necessary because the party sentence replays anyway
you think i’d care this much if it wasn’t you?
it’s not even the full sentence every time. sometimes it’s just care this much then again if it wasn’t you- you swallow as the door opens, not turning immediately because you hear him first. the soft click of the handle, the measured steps across the floor, no rush, no hesitation. and he drops his bag in the chair near the back wall and says, “morning,” in a tone that is completely normal. you click to slide four and reply, “morning,” just as normal, and that’s the problem. he moves to stand beside you instead of across from you, close enough that you can feel the residual cold from outside clinging to his jacket but not close enough to touch, and without looking at him you ask, “do you want to start from the methodology or the intro?” and he answers easily, “intro. timing felt slightly off last time” slight, not wrong, not flawed, just slight. you nod once and begin, moving through the introduction smoothly, pacing measured, voice even, and he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t adjust your wording, doesn’t correct emphasis, and when you finish the opening section and glance at him out of habit he nods once and says, “good,” and that’s it, no tighten the transition, no slow down on that statistic, no raised eyebrow, no subtle challenge, just good. you move into the framework section and he takes over on cue, clean, no stumble, no hesitation, no improvisation, efficient, too efficient, and you wait for him to cut you off when you overlap slightly on slide six, but he doesn’t. when you reach the conclusion the room feels wrong, you click to black and silence fills the space where debate should have been.
he checks his watch and says, “three minutes under” and you answer, “that’s fine” and he nods and says, “that’s good” and you hate how agreeable that sounds. you cross your arms without meaning to and say, “you didn’t interrupt once.” and he looks at you with mild curiosity and replies, “you didn’t need interrupting” and you answer, “that’s not the point” and he tilts his head slightly and asks, “what is the point then?” and you open your mouth, close it, look back at the blank screen instead of at him as the fluorescent lights hum, and after a moment he says, “you adjusted slide eight. the transition is cleaner,” and you respond, “i know,” and he adds, “i noticed” and when you look at him and say, “okay” it’s just another calm acknowledgment, no spark, no competition, no ego, smooth, too smooth, and that unsettles you more than last night did. you pick up the remote just to have something in your hand and say, “this feels weird.” and he replies, “but the presentation looks fine?” and you say, “i know.” and he studies you a second longer than necessary and asks, “you want to focus on delivery?” and you answer, “that’s not what this is” and he asks again, neutral, controlled, open, “what is it y/n?” and the sentence from last night presses against the back of your throat because he said it like it meant something and now he’s standing here like it didn’t. you turn fully toward him and ask, “what did you mean?” no build-up, no softening, just direct, and he doesn’t pretend not to understand, doesn’t ask you to clarify, doesn’t deflect to slides, just meets your eyes and says, “you know” and you hold his gaze and tell him, “don’t do that.” and when he asks, “do what?” you gesture vaguely between you and say, “that. answering without answering. avoiding.” and his expression stays steady as he says, “i’m not avoiding it” and you reply, “it feels like you’re acting” and after a pause he says evenly, “i’m not.” and the phrasing lands heavier than it should because he’s right, he’s not acting different, he’s acting normal, and that’s what’s wrong. you almost pivot, almost reach for the laptop, almost say this is stupid, almost redirect to slide transitions, old instinct telling you to hide in structure, hide in competence, hide in measurable things, but you don’t, you stay where you are as the silence stretches and the projector fan hums quietly behind you, and he waits, not impatient, not pushing, just there, and that’s worse, because now you have to decide whether you’re going to say it or pretend you didn’t hear it at all. and you don’t pretend, not this time.
“you don’t get to say something like that and then act normal.” you tell him, the words steadier than you feel. jake doesn’t look surprised when he replies, “i told you i’m not acting.” you shake your head and insist, “jake, you said it like it meant something”, and jake holds your gaze as he says, “it did.” you hesitate, then push forward. “then why are we standing here like we didn’t just-” you stop yourself before finishing and amend, “why are we standing here like this is just rehearsal?” jake answers evenly, “because we have a presentation in a week.” - “that’s not what i mean” you reply, and when he says, “i know” without softening, it only sharpens your frustration. “you said it,” you continue. “you wouldn‘t care if it wasn’t me.” - “yes” jake says. you take a step closer and tell him, “then don’t stand there like you didn’t.” jake responds, “i’m not saying i didn’t” and you counter immediately, “you are acting like it didn’t shift anything.” he studies you, then says, “i’m just not turning it into something chaotic.” - “it already is chaotic” you argue. jake corrects you quietly. “it’s chaotic for you.” you look away, jaw tight, and say, “you act like none of this costs you anything.” he stills and asks, “costs me what?” - “energy. focus. whatever this is” you answer, gesturing between you. “you act like you can compartmentalize it and move on.” after a brief pause, jake says, “when you look at me like i’m effortless, it makes me feel invisible.” you frown and respond, “that’s not what i’m doing.”- “i didn’t say it was intentional” he replies. “invisible how?” you ask. jake inhales and answers, “like i don’t have to try.”-“that’s not fair” you say. “why?” he asks. “because i never said you don’t try.” jake answers quietly, “you don’t have to.” you open your mouth, then shift your wording. “you make it look easy.”- “that doesn’t mean it is” he says. “i know that” you insist. jake meets your eyes and asks, “do you?” you hold his gaze for a second too long, because you don’t. not really. you know he studies. you know he prepares. you know he isn’t coasting on instinct. but you’ve always framed his control as natural, like composure is something he was born with instead of something he built. you think about the way he never looks rushed, the way he never looks unsure, the way you’ve used that steadiness against him in arguments like it proved he was less affected.
you swallow. “i-” you start, but the word stalls before it can turn into defense. he watches you closely, not accusing, not smug. just waiting. and for the first time it occurs to you that maybe you’ve mistaken his restraint for indifference, and the realization doesn’t settle gently-it shifts something, sharp and destabilizing, and you inhale slowly as it rearranges the ground under your feet. “and the kiss?” you ask, not softening it or circling it, and the words hang between you like something thrown too hard to retrieve. jake doesn’t blink or laugh or reach for a safer angle. he just says, “not strategy.” clean and final. you stare at him. “not-” you begin, then stop, because your mind is still trying to file it under something controlled, something tactical, and you swallow before asking nothing at all. jake adds evenly, “i don’t kiss people i’m competing with.” as if that should settle it. your chest tightens and you demand, sharper than intended, “what are you even saying?” he holds your gaze and replies, “you think i’d complicate this if you didn’t matter?” the calm certainty of it lands harder than raised volume ever could, and you struggle to categorize his expression-no smirk, no defensiveness, nothing easy to dismiss. he watches you think and says, with the faintest edge, “you’re thinking too hard.“- “i’m not” you answer automatically and force yourself back to something concrete. “you said it didn’t mean anything.” he corrects you without flinching. “i said we were drunk.”- “i wish i knew what you were thinking.” you reply, quieter now. jake nods once. “i know.” you press further. “and the night at your dorm. the-” your voice falters, but he doesn’t make you finish. “that wasn’t nothing either,” jake says simply. your pulse jumps. he continues, measured, “i didn’t want to reduce it to…that.”- “to what?” you ask. “to a mistake,” he answers. you swallow and say, “but you acted like you did. after.” his jaw tightens slightly as he admits, “because it was easier.”- “for who?” you challenge. “for both of us.” jake replies immediately. the truth of it stings, and you try to steady yourself. “so what,” you say, “you’re saying it wasn’t to throw me off?” his eyes narrow, in quiet offense. “you think i’d need that?” you freeze, realizing the implication. jake holds your gaze and says, level and deliberate, “i don’t do things like that to win. not with you.” heat rises behind your eyes, but you keep your voice even. “then what was it?” he doesn’t look away. “it was me not stopping,” jake says. your breath catches. after a beat, he adds, quieter, “and it was me letting you see that.” the room feels too bright as you try to process it.
you just stand there, stunned, as he meets your gaze steadily, like he’s been waiting for you to understand. and something in you finally stops fighting for an explanation that keeps you safe. he watches you and repeats, softer but no less certain, “you think i’d complicate this if you didn’t matter to me?” because the truth is too clear to ignore. he didn’t lose control. he chose exposure. he chose- oh.
OH.
of course. of course that’s what it was. of course that’s why the silence after the phone rang felt like grief. of course that’s why the “we were drunk” excuse tasted wrong in your mouth even as you used it. of course that’s why the smoothness today feels worse than any argument. because he wasn’t treating it like nothing. he was treating it like something he didn’t know how to hold, and he still came back, he still showed up, he still stood beside you. your throat goes dry. you almost laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s absurd how long you’ve both been circling the same obvious truth like it was dangerous. you almost say something sharp, almost turn it into a joke, almost protect yourself with cleverness. you don’t. you just stand there, stunned, your heart beating too hard in a room that is too bright, looking at him like he’s a new variable you didn’t account for, and he looks back like he’s been accounting for you the entire time. jake steps closer, not quickly, not like he’s trying to corner you, just one measured step that makes the air shift, and your body reacts before your pride does-you step back automatically, heel catching the leg of a chair as you steady yourself with one hand on the table, fingers splayed against the cold surface, that sharp flare of panic igniting under your ribs. not because you don’t want him but because you do. because wanting him has already proven it can turn your brain into static. because you remember the dorm hallway and the dim lights and the way you let yourself slip before pretending you hadn’t.
jake stops immediately he doesn’t follow, doesn’t close the space you created, just pauses like he’s reading the step back instead of taking it personally, and that restraint hits harder than anything else. “y/n,” jake says, low. a careful test to see if you’re still here. you swallow. “i don’t want it to be like that again” you say before you can polish it. his brow lifts. “like what?” jake asks. “you know,” you reply, hating the wavering edge in your voice. “complicated. messy. the next day. the pretending.” jake holds your gaze, steady. “it won’t be.” jake says. you let out a short breath. “you can’t promise that.” - “i can” jake answers, certainty flipping your stomach. you search his face for the catch and find none. “how?” you ask. his jaw tightens slightly. “i’m not confused” jake says, and the sentence lands like a firm hand at the back of your neck. “you’re saying you were confused before?” you press. “no,” jake replies, shaking his head once. “i’m saying i’m not going to act like i am.” your throat tightens. “i kissed you because i wanted to.” jake says, simple and clear, and the words hit your chest like weight. he watches your face. “that day,” jake continues, “after the midterms. when i apologized. i wasn’t trying to fix anything. i wasn’t trying to make you forgive me. i wanted to kiss you.”- “jake-” you start, but he keeps going. “you asked me if it was still research in my dorm,” jake says. “and i told you it wasn’t,” you whisper. he nods. “i meant what i said. and i didn’t just mean it then.” silence swells. “i kissed you because i wanted to.” jake repeats quietly. “and i’m not going to pretend it was an accident. not the café. not the dorm.” your fingers curl against the table. “and the arcade?” jake asks, careful. heat creeps up your neck. “i wasn’t drunk,” you admit. “not enough to not know what i was doing.” jake waits. “and what were you doing?” jake asks softly. you force yourself not to retreat. “i kissed you because i needed to know” you say. “know what?” jake presses. “if it was real,” you answer, the word too big and too honest. “or if it was just me being stupid.” - “you’re not stupid,” jake says immediately. “that’s not the point,” you reply, breathless. he steps closer again, slower this time, giving you the chance to move. you don’t. “the café kiss wasn’t an accident,” you say. “i told myself it was.” jake’s jaw tightens. “and the arcade was me trying to see if it felt the same.” his eyes flicker. “and?” jake asks, lower. “it did.” you answer. the room feels suspended. “i wasn’t sure what it was… feelings, you know?” you admit, sharp and terrifying in their simplicity. “i’ve had them. i just didn’t want them.” jake’s expression shifts, something loosening. “yeah,” jake says quietly.
he steps close enough now that you feel his warmth, not touching, just there. “i’m sure,” jake says. “about you. about this. and i’m not going to make you guess. not anymore.” you stare at him, stunned by the simplicity, your fear not gone but reshaped into something smaller, something survivable, because he’s cutting off the pretending and the uncertainty right here, with certainty, with choice, with you standing in a room that’s too bright and finally not pretending you don’t want what’s in front of you. he’s close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him. not touching, just there. “you don’t have to overthink this,” jake says quietly, not teasing, not challenging, just steady. you swallow and answer, “that’s a big ask” and a faint, almost private smile touches the corner of his mouth before jake replies, “i know”. the silence stretches between you but it isn’t sharp anymore, it isn’t defensive. it’s something thicker, waiting. his hand lifts slightly-not reaching yet, just hovering like he’s giving you one last exit he won’t take and never has. your heart pounding hard enough you’re sure he can hear it. “for once,” you say, breath uneven but voice sure, “i don’t want to fight this anymore.” and his eyes soften. not weak, not gentle, just certain. jake answers, “then don’t.” without closing the distance, without forcing it, simply waiting, and this time you don’t step back.
the air feels heavier now. thicker in your lungs. you can feel his warmth without touching him, like your body already knows what it wants before your brain catches up. jake’s eyes drop to your mouth again. slower this time. deliberate. your breath shifts first. then his follows. you step into him. his hand comes up carefully. his fingers brush along your jaw, then slide to the back of your neck. his touch is controlled, grounded. like he’s steadying both of you. you don’t give him time to reconsider. you kiss him. it starts soft- it doesn’t stay that way. his lips move against yours with quiet certainty that makes your knees feel weaker than they should. he exhales into your mouth, warm and unguarded. your hands slide up his chest automatically. your fingers curl into his shirt like you need something solid. he pulls you closer firmly. your bodies line up. there’s no space left between you. you feel his breathing against your own. you feel the tension in his shoulders where he’s trying to stay composed and failing. the kiss deepens. your mouth parts and he follows. slower now. more deliberate. his hand tightens at your waist. his other hand slides into your hair. his fingers thread gently but possessively at the base of your skull. it isn’t frantic like the dorm. it isn’t restrained either. it’s hungry in a quieter way. your pulse spikes when his tongue brushes yours, enough to make your breath hitch. he makes a low sound in his throat. it goes straight through you. you tilt your head and press closer. the control slips a little. the kiss turns deeper. warmer. slower and more consuming at once.
his hands slide from your waist to your hips. he holds you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. you break for air. he doesn’t move far. his forehead rests against yours. his breathing is uneven. his lips hover close. he kisses you again. not your mouth this time. the corner of it. slow. then along your jaw. your pulse jumps when his mouth trails lower. he presses kisses beneath your ear. then down your neck. “jake-” you breathe. there’s no real protest in it, just surprise. his lips curve faintly against your skin. “you remember,” jake murmurs near your collarbone, kisses inbetween his voice, low and rough, “how that night ended?” your fingers tighten in his hair. “i remember a phone call-” you manage. he huffs softly against your neck. “i remember you pulling me down like you’d already decided,” jake says quietly and kisses your neck again “i remember you telling me it wasn’t research,” heat floods your chest. he presses another slow kiss to your skin. “and i remember not finishing it.” the words land low and clear. his hand slides slightly higher at your waist. he doesn’t cross a line. he just reminds you how close you are. “so,” jake says, lifting his head enough to look up at you, eyes darker but steady, “should we finish what we started in my dorm?” your face burns. you push lightly at his chest, while grinning at him. “jake.” you warn, but you’re smiling. he raises a brow. “what?” jake asks. “you’re unbelievable.”- “you were pretty committed,” jake replies smoothly. “against the wall. on the-” you press your palm to his mouth before he can finish. “presentation first.” he kisses your palm lightly before lowering your hand. his grin widens. “you’re ruthless.”- “focused.” you correct softly. you glare at him, but it’s playful. he leans in once more and brushes his lips against yours. shorter this time. lighter. a promise instead of a culmination. “fine,” jake says, stepping back half a pace. “slides.” you inhale slowly and steady your breathing as he moves beside you again. close. not touching. your shoulders brush. neither of you pulls away. you click to the next slide. he leans closer to look at the screen. his voice is lower now and a bit awkward. “slide seven transition still needs tightening,” jake says. you glance at him sideways. “prove it.” he smirks. the room feels different now. not too bright. not too quiet, just charged.
presentation day arrives a week later with sunlight too bright to ignore. the campus feels sharper this morning. colder almost. the air is crisp in a way that makes everything feel like it matters more. you’re already in the rehearsal room when jake walks in. not because you’re anxious. just because you like the quiet before everything starts. the projector hums softly. slides are open. your laptop glows against the dimmer walls. you hear him before you see him. measured steps. no rush. the door closes behind him. you don’t turn immediately. “you’re early” jake says. you click to the title slide without looking up. “so are you.” a beat passes. then warmth at your side. his hand slides lightly to your waist. he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your temple like it’s something he’s been doing for months instead of six days. your pulse still jumps. “morning,” jake murmurs against your hair. you try not to smile. “morning.” he lingers half a second longer than necessary before stepping back. there’s no awkward checking of boundaries. it’s just easy. you glance at him. he’s wearing a button-down you haven’t seen before. sleeves rolled once at the forearm. hair slightly messy in a way that looks accidental but isn’t. “you changed the shirt” you say. jake glances down. “it’s presentation day.” - “you had a perfectly good one yesterday.” he raises a brow. “this one’s better.”- “for who?” you ask. “for me” jake replies. you narrow your eyes. he steps closer without asking. his fingers brush the edge of your collar. he adjusts it carefully. “you’re crooked,” jake says. “i am not.” you roll your eyes but let him fix it. the contact is brief and intentional. he steps back and scans you like he’s reviewing a final draft. “better,” jake says. “you’re insufferable.”- “you’re welcome.”
the door opens again. niki walks in mid-yawn and stops. he looks at you. then at jake. then back at you. “…wow.” niki says slowly. you stiffen slightly. jake doesn’t. “what?” jake asks mildly. niki gestures between you. “you two are-“- “rehearsing,” you interrupt. niki squints. sunghoon appears behind him, already dressed like he’s heading into a boardroom. he clocks it immediately. “finally.” sunghoon says under his breath. your cheeks warm. jake doesn’t deny it. he just picks up the remote. “run-through?” jake asks you calmly. like nothing has shifted. like everything has. you nod. sunghoon watches for another second and then smirks. “don’t let it make you sloppy,” sunghoon says. “it won’t,” jake replies. “it makes us efficient,” he adds. niki makes a face. “gross.” but you both ignore him as the room settles. slides advance. you begin. your voice is steady. jake transitions seamlessly. it feels familiar but different. there’s no edge now. no attempt to outpace each other. when you pause, he fills the space smoothly. when he emphasizes a point, you support it instead of challenging it. it feels less like a duel. more like rhythm. after a few minutes jake cuts in gently. “slide eight transition.” you glance at him. he smirks slightly. you narrow your eyes. “still think it’s weak?”- “hardly” jake says. you step closer so your shoulder brushes his. “how hard?” you whisper. niki groans. “please do not flirt over regression analysis.” jake leans in and lowers his voice so only you hear it. “not now.” you glance at him. “focus.” he smiles faintly. “i am.” you try not to think about last night. the way his voice sounded when he said your name. the way he held you like he had nowhere else to be than on top of him. you swallow. jake notices immediately. “you’re pacing,” jake says quietly. “i’m not,” you cross your arms. “i’m preparing.” -“are you nervous?” -“i’m not.” he steps closer again.“you don’t need to be,” jake says. you look at him. he doesn’t look nervous. of course he doesn’t. “are you?” you ask. he shrugs lightly. “not really.”- “that’s suspicious.” a corner of his mouth lifts. he leans closer. “last night helped” jake murmurs near your ear. heat shoots up your neck. you elbow him lightly. “jake.”- “what?” he asks innocently. “we are about to present.”- “i’m aware.” you try to glare but fail. he straightens.
down the hall the auditorium door opens. your names are called. it’s time. jake looks at you. not competitive. not challenging. just steady. “you ready?” jake asks. you inhale. the nerves are still there. but they’re different now. “yeah,” you say. he holds your gaze for half a second longer and nods once. “let’s go.” he doesn’t grab your hand. not yet. but as you walk toward the stage together, your shoulders brush.
the lights on stage are warmer than the rehearsal room but just as exposing. you step forward when your name is called. the clicker feels steady in your hand. you don’t look at jake when you begin because you know he’s exactly where he needs to be. “good morning,” you say, your voice carrying clearly across the auditorium, and the introduction unfolds smoothly as you outline the core question, the scope, and the limitations of the institutional dataset without rushing, your pacing deliberate and controlled. when you reach the final line of your opening, you glance at him briefly and jake steps in seamlessly. he doesn’t shift the tone. he builds on it. his explanation of the methodology is concise and precise as he walks the audience through the regression model without overcomplicating it. he gestures toward the slide and highlights only what matters. the transition between you feels natural, not stiff with rehearsal. you step slightly aside to give him space. when he finishes, you move back in without hesitation and guide the audience into the comparative analysis. on slide seven your mind blanks for half a second. the statistic you intend to cite slips just out of reach. jake fills the space smoothly. “as reflected in the secondary regression output,” jake says, supplying the number without breaking rhythm. you nod once. “exactly,” you continue, reclaiming the flow as if the pause never happened, and the presentation keeps moving. you reach the section where the supplementary dataset appears on screen and a subtle shift ripples through the room because it isn’t part of the original brief. you explain the expansion clearly. “while the university-provided dataset offered strong internal validity, it lacked longitudinal depth beyond the institutional sample,” you say. jake continues without missing a beat. “we integrated an external dataset to test whether the observed pattern held under broader conditions,” jake explains. you advance the slide and the comparative visualization appears. “it strengthened the predictive consistency.” you conclude. the presentation moves toward the final section and you and jake stand closer now, not alternating distance but occupying the space together. the conclusion lands cleanly. you summarize the implications and jake reinforces them. the final sentence is delivered in alignment, not overlapping and not forced. you both stop speaking at the same time. applause follows, stronger than you expected.
the q&a begins. a judge leans forward. “you chose to incorporate an external dataset that was not included in the original materials. why take that risk?” the judge asks. you answer first. “we wanted to test whether the trend we identified was institution-specific or structurally consistent,” you say. jake adds, “relying solely on the provided data would have limited the robustness of the conclusion.” you continue, “the supplementary dataset allowed us to evaluate predictive stability across a broader sample.” the judge nods slowly. “and you’re confident in the reliability of the external source?” she asks. “yes,” jake replies calmly. “it’s peer-validated and publicly archived. we verified the methodology before integration.” the judge leans back. “ambitious,” she says. “but well defended.” when the final question ends, the moderator thanks you and you thank the panel. as you walk off stage, the noise of the auditorium softens behind you. your hand brushes jake’s at your side and this time neither of you pulls away immediately. “you recovered slide seven,” you say quietly. “you set it up,” jake replies. you glance at him and he looks back. the competition isn’t gone. it just feels different now. and for the first time all semester, you know exactly why.
the hallway outside the auditorium feels strangely quiet once the doors close behind you, the applause fading and voices blurring into background static so that for a second it’s just the two of you under harsh overhead lights with adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. your hands warm and your pulse unsettled as jake exhales slowly and rolls his shoulders like he’s releasing something he’s been holding for weeks. “you were annoyingly good,” you say before you can stop yourself, and jake glances at you with calm amusement before replying, “you weren’t bad” which makes you narrow your eyes and repeat, “not bad?” and he tilts his head slightly and corrects, “impressive. if we’re being honest” and you fight a smile and fail because the energy between you feels lighter now, not tense or sharp, just charged differently.
from inside the auditorium you hear sunghoon begin his introduction and you turn toward the sound automatically and say, “they’re starting” and jake follows your gaze and answers, “yeah” and you lean back against the wall for a moment, letting the adrenaline settle enough to think clearly before adding casually, “they still have to present,” and jake looks at you and asks, “and?” but you don’t answer right away, instead pushing off the wall and stepping closer, not rushed or dramatic, just enough to shift the air as you continue lightly, “and that means we’re technically free for the next hour” and his expression changes almost imperceptibly, his eyes sharpening as he says quietly, “oh-” while you pretend to consider something important and then tell him, “you did well. better than i expected” and he raises a brow and replies, “that’s concerning” and you continue evenly, “you should be rewarded,”. and when he asks, “for the presentation?” you correct him, “for being composed. it’s rare.” and he steps closer so you can feel his heat again. his gaze locked on your eyes and asks, “and what exactly does that reward look like?”. you glance toward the auditorium doors before answering, “your dorm’s close” and the silence that follows is charged rather than awkward as jake’s jaw tightens slightly and he mutters, “you’re for real?” and you reply, “it would be efficient” and he lets out a short laugh and says, “you realize i’m going to remember this” and you answer, “i hope so ” and for a second neither of you moves until his hand finds your waist and pulls you half a step closer, natural and unhurried, and you don’t resist as he looks down at you and says softly, “you were so nervous,” and you answer, “i wasn’t.” and he insists, “you were,” and you don’t argue as his thumb brushes lightly against your side and he adds, “you didn’t need to be,” and you admit, “you filled my gap” and he smirks faintly and says, “i always will.” which makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with adrenaline. applause breaks out again from inside and you tilt your head and say, “they’re going to be good,” and jake replies, “probably” and you add, “but not better,” and he studies you and observes, “you’re still competitive?” and you respond, “i’m still winning.” and he leans closer and asks quietly, “are you?” and you meet his gaze and answer, “yes.” and after a long second he slides his hand more firmly around your waist and pulls you fully in before pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek, affectionate and certain, and you let your hand settle against his chest as he steps back and his hand lingers a moment longer before you say lightly, “walk faster,”. he raises a brow, “is that an order?” and you answer evenly, “it’s a suggestion”. he steps in just enough to shift your breathing before murmuring, “careful. you’re being very brave for someone who’s about to be alone with me.” and you tilt your head slightly and reply, “then don’t let me win.” which makes his grin slow and deliberate as he says, “you know i don’t lose,” and then adds smoothly, “after you.” you turn toward the exit with sunlight spilling through the windows as you pick up your pace, hearing his footsteps behind you, unhurried and certain. you reach the doors first because you like the head start, but he reaches you a second later. he always closes the gap.
DON‘T FORGET TO INTERACT AND LMK IF YOU LIKED IT THX- tagging a few of those who interacted with my last college jake fic — let me know if you’d like to be removed or added for future fics ♡ @yazziiyy @jaehyunluvsnct127 @mid0risims @moonxjake @mortallynumberonecoffee @heavejae @marigold55 @meowieshibal @heartsski @psjelee @evxnsbae @jjongsies @hii01mii @nshmriki @en-chantedtomeetyou @inspiredchaos @aheewonenthusiast @heesuengswife @allinitformofusand @yourgirlyoi @moonlitmyg @marghe-22 @aeryyr @pinkmaciej @slut4riki @vampjaeyun2 @tmtxtf-library @yoiiaoki
· strangers to lovers | sub!bangchan x poc!reader
· wc - 9.9k
· cw - oral (f. rec), fingering, spit, unprotected piv, overstimulation (m. rec), brief aftercare, light choking, alcohol consumption
· a/n - LMAOO cryingscreamingdying i have not done this in long time,, like really it's been a while gO EASY ON ME. and also hi hello wow *nervous laughter intensifies*
“Not cocky, just Chan.” He smiles, an honest smile without the smug little mask. There's nothing deceiving about it this time. “Nice to meet ya.”
You and your friend arrive on the property, and immediately, you know you're overdressed. The villa up North, it sounds like something you might want to wear your highest heels for. So that's what you did, heels, your best black halter neck dress, a watch that doesn't tick. You've never been to a party like this, a party this big and out of town. Your friend is no better, truly a baddie and her baddie friend from head to toe.
You walk alongside her up the windy path that you'd be complaining about if you both didn't pregame as hard as you did. The house is rustic and down to earth. A stone chimney with warm colors, brown and green and a deep mahogany all over the front patio. You see the party through the front window, gold toned lights showcasing the blur of people, but it's casual at best.
The most casual thing about your appearance is the neutral tones glossing your lips.
“Girl, what the fuck…” Your friend notices first and can't help but mutter to herself, heels clicking against the concrete path. You can't help but cover your laugh, “Nah, it's okay. We can't be the only ones.”
You go up the path, checking out the homey vibes and admiring it in its full glory. This house is straight out of a Pinterest mood board, undeniably so. The music gets louder the closer you get, and the worries about your outfit start to fade away as the bass sweeps them to the back of your mind. There's a few people sitting at the patio, smoking whatever it is they need to to be social butterflies.
“Let's see,” Your friend whispers and presses her hands together briefly in a mock prayer, then reaches for the knob and pushes. It's more lively inside than it looks on the outside. The music is a good mix of y2k classics and current hits that make you instantly start to nod your head. You're glad you didn't take that extra shot beforehand or else you'd have an instant headache.
The attire is casual with a few outliers, a relief. There are more than two pairs of unnecessarily tall heels and that makes you sigh, a grin on your lips. You nudge your friend, “See, I told you, bitch.” And nod your head in the direction of a group with more shiny jewelry twinkling under the warmth of the lights than you two. “Party in a villa, it's misleading as fuck. I told you.”
Your friend rolls her eyes with relief and visibly relaxes, shoulders uncoiled. “Thank you, God.”
“We splitting up or stayin–”
“Don't ask me stupid questions right now please,” she grabs your wrist and starts forward, forging her path and shaking her head. “Like, for real. Please.”
You throw your head back and laugh, “My bad, my bad.”
There are drinks somewhere. She can sense it, somehow. As if she's got an air tag on the kitchen, she leads you both to the island full of bottles and drinks, cups, ice, snacks. Everything. Tipsy girl heaven.
“Hah, nice.” She nods, grips the neck of a bottle without reading the label. Your wrist is released in favor of a cup, so many cups you'd think Solo sponsored the party themselves. She grabs two and starts on filling them, laughing mischievously. “‘Bout to get into some shit tonight, I can feel it in my bones.”
You watch her pour up two cups while also surveying the party as well. There's oddly more space in the middle than the outsides, the deeper into the house you get the more chill it seems to get. Counterintuitive, but gives you room to breathe. She hands you your cup, overfilled but who really cares when it's free liquor?
“Cheers, bitch.” She holds up her red plastic spark of joy, “To the fallen homies.”
You scoff, eyes narrowed. “We are from upstate.”
“To the fallen homies!” She insists, holding the cup closer to yours. “C'mon now, stop playin’ with me.”
“You know what? Fuck it.” You shrug, bump your cup to hers and tip your head in her direction. “To the fallen homies, whoever they are.”
You sip in unison, and only one of you gags. The burn in your throat tells you that it's definitely something authentic and probably too expensive to be at a random party, but you indulge nonetheless.
“Aw, shit.” She grimaces, picking up the bottle to read the label, “Fuck me.”
“Should've done that before. Serves you right.” You shake your head and sip again, surveying the open floor plan further until you notice the fireplace. A group of people sat around the couch next to it. You're too nosey not to want to go over there.
You peek over shoulders and heads taller than you, obstructing your view. “Fuck they got goin’ on?”
Your friend looks in the same direction, shrugs.
“Hm, adventure time.” She glances at you. “Tryna find out?”
“I meeean,” You start, then your feet answer for you and your heels click over to the couch. Your friend’s heels click behind yours, redwood flooring carrying you over to satisfy your curiosity.
The deeper in you go, the more niche it seems to get. The party seems to have two groups, the flashy, aura farming, instagram story olympians, and the actual real people. Around the couch is a group of people dressed eclectically and seemingly focused on one person.
There's a coffee table littered with beer bottles, red cups, and an empty box for Bicycle branded cards. You look along the line of people sitting on the couch and find the apparent center of attention. A white Fendi tank, a ring for his pointer and middle finger respectively, and flushed knuckles shuffling cards.
“He wanna be David Blaine so bad.” Your friend murmurs, you can't help but to blow a harsh breath of laughter through your nose.
“Not that. Anything but that.”
He offers the deck to who he was talking to last, the boy in front of him. “So, cards are shuffled. You just saw me, right?” He speaks with so much confidence, as if that in itself is the trick.
The boy nods. He continues, “And you believe me when I say I'd never cheat, right?” Another nod.
He smirks. “Good. So then, your card shouldn't be at the top of the deck. Go ahead, take that top card and see for yourself.”
The boy hesitates, reaches as if the card might bite him. “You're fucking with me. I can feel it.”
“Never.” He smirks wider, glances down at the deck. “Go ahead, it won't run from you.”
The boy waits, smiles. Snatches the top card and looks down, sighs. The smile fades. “This isn't my card.”
“Ah, fuck. It's not?” He pretends to be surprised. Scratches the side of his head. “Hm, that can't be right. Certainly it should be on the top. I mean, you saw me shuffle the deck. It shouldn't be…”
He slides his thumb along the side of the deck, cuts it and then repeats. Three times. Separates the deck as evenly as he can into three stacks on the coffee table. “Here.” He picks up the top card from the left stack. Three of spades.
The boy's smile returns tenfold.
“And your card,” He points to the boy next to his current subject, hand hovering over the right stack, “The fuck is it doing here? I thought I told you to hold onto it, hm?” Eight of clubs.
The group, or rather crowd, gasps and laughs, grinning with disbelief and dopamine.
“How the– you can't steal the card I'm holding! I'm holding that one!” the boy, Changbin, shouts before he looks down and finds the Joker. His under eye twitches with confusion. “Chan, you fucking wizard.”
You share a glance with your friend, more intrigued than you'd both like to admit.
“Hm. Chan.” She lifts a brow, mischievous again.
Chan chuckles, then shrugs. “Gotta pay attention,” He looks around the group and finds one last victim. Lucky for you, you stand out like a flower in the desert. He smiles, tilts his head up and eyes you from your heels to your ponytail. “Like her. She's payin’ real close attention.”
Your eyes widen with surprise at being called out, especially in the middle of an unfinished trick. “Aren't you supposed to be focused on the cards?” You say before the liquid courage drains out of you. You hear a faint ‘oop’ from next you, your friend brushing a strand behind her ear.
Chan raises a brow, “I can multitask. Thought that was a given.” He glances down, points at the last unrevealed stack in the center. “Wanna help me with this last stack, doll?”
“Oh, he has an accent.” Your friend whispers. You don't react because you're locked in and must stay focused.
“Help you with what exactly?” You take a step closer, in too deep to back out now. He leans forward, elbows to knees, eyes never leaving yours. “A few little things. That alright?”
“Go ahead.” You stop right in front of the table. He looks down at your watch and raises a brow, scoots over on the couch.
“C'mere, get comfortable.” He pats the spot next to him, inviting and oddly alluring. You reciprocate the brow raise, sensing the tension he's skillfully building around you both. You oblige, clicking over to the empty spot and sitting with your back leaning against the arm of the couch, turned to face him.
“Now, just a few things I need from you.” Chan turns to face you too. “A number, a suit, and your magic touch. Gotta be your touch, or else someone will think I'm cheating.” He turns to look over his shoulder, the two boys from before watching with undivided attention.
They glance at each other, then at Chan. “Yeah, ‘cuz you're a fuckin' wizard.”
“Not a wizard,” He mumbles and shakes his head, looking back to your unwavering gaze. “Now, since you're dressed to the nines tonight, I suggest a nine. That okay with you, love?”
You prepare to agree, and one of his prior subjects, Hyunjin, points with accusation from next to him. “Cheater! Let her pick!”
“Hyunjin, you're way too into this.” Another boy, Seungmin, pats his shoulder from where he's stood beside the couch.
Chan closes his eyes briefly with a sigh, rolls his neck to one side, composing himself again and meeting your eyes with a fresh grin. “So, nine?”
You nod. “Nine’s fine.”
“Perfect. Next, a suit. Any suit you want.”
You glance at your friend, she's already looking at you. She shrugs, mouths “I don't fucking know either.” You look back to Chan.
He smiles, eyes crinkled at the sides. “Need me to tell you the suits, don't you, doll?”
You nod again. “Read my mind.”
Chan scoffs, looks down at his lap. “You're lucky you're cute and I can't be mad at you.” Then back at you. “Four suits. Spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs. Any of those sound good to you?”
You cross your legs, your knee brushing against his. Your back hits the corner of the couch, relaxed with a warm chest from the liquor and his subtle flirting that draws you into him and the trick he's setting up. “How about hearts, Mr. Fendi?”
He licks his lips, both brows raised now and an amused hum. “Ah, she knows her brands. A perceptive one. Trick might not work if you look too hard, you know.”
“You're the professional here, no?” You cross your arms over your lap, now it's your turn to look him up and down. You aren't subtle about it the way he was.
Chan smirks again, leans forward to the coffee table again. “You said it, not me.”
He runs his palms over his lap, points down at the untouched stack, “Alright, we got our number and our suit from the pretty girl in the pretty dress, and now all I need is your magic touch. If that's okay with you?”
“What kind of touch were you thinking of?” You sit up on the couch, more involved.
He extends his hand to you, silently asking for yours. “May I?”
“You may.” You give him your hand, acrylics neatly done and palm sliding into his. He doesn't look down at your joined hands yet, but his thumb runs across your knuckles before you can change your mind.
“Thank you, baby.” He smirks just enough to draw one from you, too.
He's clearly teasing now, testing the waters. It would be arrogant if he wasn't already two for three on the trick so far. “Now, see that top card there?” He points with his free hand.
“Mhm,” The back of your neck feels warm from the alcohol, your not so free hand brings your cup to your lips and sips more courage.
“Would you please be my good little doll and tap those cards for me?”
“Just a tap?”
He nods firmly, a single nod. “Just a tap.” His thumb mimics his words, tapping the back of your hand before it rubs over the smooth skin, leaving a faint prickly sensation. “Promise.”
You can't help but to smile, tongue in cheek. If he's got nothing else, he sure does have audacity. “Yes, sir.”
“Go on, then. I'll be waitin’ for ya.” He nudges his head over to the stack. You look at the card back, no clue what card is actually on top. You saw him do it, the shuffling and the cutting of the deck. He didn't cheat, couldn't have. Didn't have the time to. You stand up, pull your dress down before bending your knees to reach over, middle and ring fingers tapping the stack three times.
“Third time’s the charm, huh?” Chan says, watching your every move. His eyes drift to your legs as you stand and he was right. He can multitask. He notices the body shimmer on your skin, a lotion maybe. Looks nice under the warm lights, like glitter on honey. Before he can lose focus, his eyes dart back between you and the coffee table. He knows what he's doing.
You sit back down next to him, a satisfied grin at your participation. “That is what they say, isn't it?”
“Certainly is,” He nods, voice lower and more smug the closer he gets to the revelation. “Now, I've got your number, or hopefully I will by the end of this trick,” He looks into your eyes, “I've got your suit, and your beautiful magic touch. Think I'll get lucky?”
“If you can pull this off, we'll see.” You say, a product of your sip of courage. The group around you two are spectators to more than just the trick, the chemistry palpable. You aren't sure if it's also just part of the trick, but you couldn't care less with your mind and body so loosened up.
Chan’s eyes widen for a moment and he straightens up a bit, adjusts his jacket collar. “Wow, I better not fuck this up then.” He mumbles, his smirk renewed. He rests one hand on your knee, thumb finding its place caressing the skin right beneath your dress’s hem. His attention turns toward the group. “My lovely doll here, she saw me shuffle. Saw me cut the deck. And she knows I'd never cheat, don't you?” He only turns half of his attention to you, eyes peeking from the side over his shoulder, knowing you're listening. Knowing you're paying close attention to him.
And you are. “Mhm.”
“That's my girl.” He knocks on the table twice, thumb tapping your knee with something like praise, “Let’s see, then. We take our new friend here, flip ‘er over, and one, two, three…”
He takes the card off the top of the stack, flips it over, and surely enough, nine of hearts. The group erupts with disbelief again, skepticism from some, but another dopamine hit nonetheless. “There she is.”
“You are a wizard! I know a wizard when I see one, hyung!” Hyunjin stands, pointing with determined accusation.
Seungmin reaches a hand to his shoulder, patting a small thud over his leather jacket. “No more beers– hey! No one give Hyunjin any more beers.”
Chan picks up the nine of hearts, shows it to you with a smug smirk. “This belong to you?”
You look between the card, your pretty little magic card, and his brown eyes that seem to be looking for a prize. You can't confirm it, just a gut feeling. “Lucky guess.”
“I'm wounded.” He mutters low, shakes his head, eyes searching yours. “Thought you said I was the pro. Doubting the pro?”
“Don't get cocky now.”
He chuckles, eyes crinkled again. His hand pats your knee gently before it leaves entirely, body turned to face the table. “Never that.”
Chan picks up all the stacks, combines them and taps them against the refurbished wood to straighten them out before his fingers contort around them.
First, a riffle shuffle, both hands holding an even cut taut before the cards fly into a joined stack supported by fingers curled to the first knuckle, gliding against the pads of his thumbs. They sit over his fingertips as they fall to settle into a single proper stack with a final release of his curled fingers. Then, a faro shuffle, cutting the deck into two even stacks again and letting the edges slot together like pieces of a puzzle. His fingers curl again to keep them tight, not too tight as to bend the deck and dent the cards, and they fly neatly from one hand to the other.
He's too focused on the cards to see you glance knowingly at your friend, that look you give when you know you can read each other's minds. If you had to guess what she was thinking, it would be, “And he's good with his hands.”
“Alright, any other victims?” Chan looks up from his skilled shuffling and around the group, a boastful expression. They all look amongst each other, then Hyunjin gets up from the couch and shakes his head. “I need another drink before the wizard tricks me again.”
He walks past you and Chan, Seungmin hot and quick behind him. “It's like you hear me, but you don't ever listen to me.”
“Hyunjin-a, get me one!” Changbin shouts, but ends up following too. The rest of the group lingers, chatting and acknowledging Chan while also diverting attention to the party they were temporarily distracted from. Your friend sees you comfortable on the couch with Chan and decides to linger too. Not too close as to eavesdropping, but close enough to have your back if shit hits the fan.
“So, you always bring cards to parties?” You ask, turning your attention to Chan with another sip from your special red cup.
He turns to you, more directly facing you now that he has more room to himself. He smoothly tucks the cards into the box, then the box into his jacket pocket. “Not always. Friends like to watch when they're wasted.” He hums a laugh, glancing at his own beer bottle before leaning over to grab it, “How ‘bout you? Always look so fancy or is this a special occasion?”
“Want me to be honest?” You tip your head down, peering up from lashes adorned with mascara.
“Always, angel.”
“I was deceived.”
Chan laughs, hearty and genuine following a swig from his own bottle of courage. “Deceived? That your kink or somethin’?” He is the professional, the master of deception in his own rite. He's successfully deceived you, in the best way possible.
“I guess so.” You take another languid sip, ignoring the warmth that starts to sweep over your forehead and threatens to unslick your hair with a thin layer of sweat. You want to mentally scold yourself for not checking the proof of this alcohol, but you're too loose to care now.
“Well, lucky for me you were. You're hard to miss, you know.” He sits back, one knee pulled up on to the couch as he makes himself comfortable. “Glad I got to deceive you, too. You're fun to play with.”
“Told you not to get cocky.” You warn, entertained by his nonchalant and certain attitude. He's so sure of himself, but somehow it's not repelling. Quite the opposite.
“Not cocky, just Chan.” He smiles, an honest smile without the smug little mask. There's nothing deceiving about it this time. “Nice to meet ya.”
────────── ♡
Your watch is useless. You haven't checked it since you've been here. Your phone is in your clutch, out of sight and out of mind. Chan is your entertainment even without the cards, and you're the same for him. The others came back with drinks and the music seems to have gotten louder, the air warmer.
The couch is reserved for the two of you now, inching closer and closer every twenty minutes or so until your leg is draped over his knee, elbows propped as you lean into his personal space. He invites you, encourages you. A hand resting over your calf, then your knee, then your thigh. And eyes on you.
“You live around here?” You ask, tracing shapes over your cheek as your palms support your chin, relaxed and engaged, trying not to be a sleepy drunk.
You've already covered the basics. Name, age, who you came here with, how you got here. You asked about the accent, it made him laugh. He asked about yours, you rolled your eyes. It made him laugh.
“I do not actually, not too far out, though. ‘Bout an hour away.” Chan answers, head tilted lazily. His cheeks are tinted, blood flowing now that he's a few beers in.
You smile, teasing. “‘Bout an hour away,” In your best imitation of his accent. He tries not to smile.
“Troublemaker, huh?”
“Me? No, nah. Not me.” You look away, innocent.
“No?” He asks again, playing along, hand squeezing your thigh. His fingers pretend to scratch over your dress, but it's too soft and makes you aware of every point of contact between you two.
You glance down at it, but not long enough to let him know it's getting to you. Shake your head once, voice lower than intended. “Mm, nope. Not me.”
“Hm.” Chan's eyes narrow, playful but mindful. He knows what he wants his prize to be.
Another thirty minutes go by, your legs draped over his lap now. He closes the distance with a tentative hand hovering near your waist, still testing the waters. You share a laugh with him about something you both observed around you, the center of the party starting to fill out more than when you came in. The music is more lively, there's more people dancing, more people to mentally undress, more prospects to explore. But still, your entertainment is right next to you.
“In school, workin’?” Chan asks, babysitting a half drank cup of what the fuck ever. His eyes aren't glassy, not really. But you can see your reflection a bit more clearly in them than before.
“Both. Schedule’s full, but I manage to make time when I can.” You answer, hand playing with the ends of his hair absentmindedly. Twirling around your full set of French tips.
“Baby's busy. That's nice.”
“You?”
“Me? Just work, just me. Music stuff. Been at it for years.” He sips, finally.
“Oh yeah? Gonna write a song for me?” You joke, fingertips grazing the nape of his neck. He shifts his shoulders, your touch unexpected. Sits up a bit straighter.
“Gotta give me some inspiration.” He looks amused, considering. “Wanna be my muse?”
“For a check?”
“Pump the breaks.”
“Hm, I'll think about it, then.” You lift a brow and take his cup gently from his loose grip, take a sip for yourself. Chan watches you steal it from him with no objection, your lips curling around the rim and leaving a shimmery brown gloss stain as proof that it happened. He smirks, chuckles. He could get used to this.
“Okay then, princess.” The nickname was supposed to be an insult, but he says it like an affirmation. “She knows what she wants and just takes it, I see.”
“Nice guys finish last.” You wipe the corner of your lips and then hand him his cup back.
He looks down at it, then back at you, then down again. Brings it to his lips right over the glossy remnants and takes a sip, then another. Maintains that eye contact, just to fuck with you.
“Mhm, eyes on me.” You murmur, unfazed. Your voice scratches an itch for Chan, his gaze softens against his will. His plan backfired and now he has goosebumps.
The time becomes a blur. Your hair is down now, hair tie around your wrist and your watch in your clutch because it's heavy and impractical now that even your eyelids are weighted. Chan is your chair now, and his lap is warmer than the couch. His hands are more than certain by this point, resting on your waist with the same one from before still on your thigh.
You hear a song that reminds you that you came here with someone. “Shit, did I lose this bitch?” You mutter to yourself and look around. Every turn of your head is like smearing paint across a canvas, definitely looking at something but can't decipher what.
Chan scoffs, looks around with you. Then taps your waist and points ahead, “Nah, she's fine.”
You follow his finger in the direction of your friend and his friend, dancing like they might as well be fucking. Her arm is reached around his neck from behind, hips on hips. He's leaned into her ear, or her neck. It's hard to tell, but they're both smiling.
“She's not gonna remember this.” You laugh, but somewhere in your chest, you're happy for her.
“Hm. Neither will Hyunjin.” Chan laughs and watches the two with a tinge of surprise, but at the same time, it's Hyunjin. He likes having hands on him, even if he'll never admit it.
“A match made in heaven.” You shake your head, turning your attention back to Chan. You peek into his cup that's now become yours somehow, then into his eyes with a deceptively innocent grin. “There's no more.”
He smiles, thinks it's cute how you've adopted his cup as your own over the course of the night. His hand on your waist rubs along your side, a light touch. “Want me to fix that, don't you?”
“Would you?”
He pats your waist, signalling for you to stand. You shift off of him instead, occupying the spot you abandoned earlier, and he stands. He doesn't leave, just looks down at you expectantly.
You look back at him, head tilted and slowly blinking.
He smiles wider, offers his hand to you. “C'mon, baby.”
“You're comin’ back, aren't you?” You play as if you're challenging him, arms crossed over your chest.
“You think I’d leave my doll to sit on this couch alone? When she's already blinking like she's half asleep?” He leans down, calling out over the music. “C'mon, I'm not losing you. Not for a second.”
He offers his hand out again, a more serious and stern expression underneath the smirk. “Today, princess.”
You look him up and down, run your tongue over the front of your teeth trying not to smile. But you give in, of course you do. Your hand slides into his just like earlier, just a bit clammy now, but it's mutual so it's fine.
Chan pulls you up and into him, hand returning to your waist to steady you. He looks down at your heels, then back up to your eyes. “Atta girl.”
Before you can change your mind, he's guiding you through the crowded space and over to the kitchen, one hand on your lower back and the other one holding yours. On the way over, you pass your friend and lock eyes. You share a glance that reads, “You good? I'm good. Okay, cool.”
She found fine shit, you found fine shit. All is well, you have your phone and she has money for an Uber if things go left.
Chan makes a path through people, heading to the kitchen with you like he's a bodyguard. Glancing to the side to make sure you're still there despite him feeling your warmth under his hands.
“Here we are, let's see what's here.” He says, stopping at the kitchen counter. It's the only place that isn't surrounded by people, the only space where you two can breathe for a second. He lifts up different bottles and actually reads the labels.
You grab a new cup, or start to before he grabs your wrist loosely and moves you away.
“Just tell me what you want, baby.”
You pause and do a kegel.
“Oh, I'm fine. Was just trying to be helpful.” You retract your hand, fidgeting with your necklace instead. You didn't expect that.
“I got our cup right here. Just stay with me and take it easy.” He pours something into the cup. Brown, and not much of it. It must be strong.
“Yes, sir.” You watch him move with that glint shining and a grateful grin, eyeing him with admiration. Your ankles cross, thighs pressed together.
“Good girl.” It slips out before he can stop himself. He's been calling you pet names all night, but they're starting to hit different now that you're both warm and light as a feather.
You decide to find a quiet spot away from the center of the party, away from the thumping bass and bumping bodies. Chan suggests outside, but it's too chilly and you don't want to ruin the warmth of your buzz with the breeze. He hesitates, but ultimately suggests upstairs. He hasn't seen the second floor and neither have you. You decide to bring him on an adventure with you.
This time, you guide him on your path while he holds the cup, your fingers digging into his pulse point as you lead the way. He watches you, really watches you, and takes a small sip of your shared drink as you click up the stairs in front of him.
The second floor is breathtaking, still rustic but elegant with the dark wood and pops of creme, tan, and that neutral lighting that isn't too bright and isn't too dull. Just perfect.
“Left or right?” You ask, looking at the doors on either side of the hallway.
“Uh, left?” Chan replies as if there's a right answer.
“Bet.” You go into the last door down the hall on the left without hesitation. You gasp in awe, even the bedrooms are perfect. “This is so adorable!”
You let go of his hand, walking into the room like you own it. Chan notices your confidence, it's hard to miss. The door creaks a bit and he closes it behind him, leaning against the wall as you explore. “It is pretty nice here, huh?”
The music is still loud, but muffled through the wooden floors and insulation. More manageable.
You two chat here for a while, sitting on the edge of the bed together until the energy from downstairs follows you here. It's like magnets trying not to attract but failing miserably. Both a giggling mess, his jacket comes off and so do your heels, sat neatly at the foot of the bed. Chan insisted.
“Feel better without those heels?” He laughs, kneeling up on the bed.
“Would feel better if I took them off two hours ago.” You lay down next to him, dress ridden up but ignoring it. The fabric is starting to feel too tight, you want it off anyway.
“Baby girl's feet are sore, are they?” Chan scoots down, picking up one of your ankles. “I can help with that.”
“Can you now?” You giggle, propped up on your elbows to look down at him.
“Mhm. If you want.” His thumbs are already hovering over the sole of your foot. “That okay with you?”
“If it's okay with you.” Who are you to say no to a foot massage from a kind stranger?
“More than okay.” He takes your permission and nods, thumbs pressing into your aching feet with purpose. Working from the sides of your foot to the middle, down to the heel, then up to the ball of your foot.
You watch him work, how focused he is. There's a comfortable silence, but you don't know why it's comfortable. You try to dissect the moment.
“You gettin’ off on this?” It's playful, but you can't help but wonder.
He shakes his head, smiling as his thumb slides from the arch of your foot up between your toes. “Just wanna make you feel good, angel.”
You lie back on the pillows, the plush minky duvet cover is your own personal cloud. The lighting isn't too harsh, dimly lit and casting a romantic shadow across the room, across Chan's jawline.
“Is this your thing? Card tricks and foot massages?” You prod at the moment some more.
Chan chuckles, “Nah, it's not. Not really.” He shifts to position himself at the end of the bed between your feet, facing you fully. “Just for you.”
“Just for me?” You repeat, voice dropping into a teasing rumble that's just barely slurred.
“Just for my nine of hearts.” He sits your foot down and taps your other ankle, “Next foot, angel.”
You get a pang of something in your chest, excitement maybe. Your foot practically levitates into his hand. He chuckles again, softer. “Good girl.”
You swallow down and watch him, “Say that again.”
Chan glances up at you, his smile fading but not completely erased. His eyes search yours with a new depth to them. His prize is getting closer.
“Good girl.”
“Yeah?” Your restraint is slipping.
He licks his lips, nods slowly. “Mhm.” Then returns to his task with a huskier tone than before, his restraint clearly being tested, too. “So good for me.”
His hands work out knots and put pressure on all the right places, then he finishes with your feet and starts on your calves. He didn't mention going higher, but you don't stop him. Just watch him.
“Tense?” He asks.
“Loose.” You answer, only one beat between his words and yours.
“Good.” He moves up higher, fingers applying pressure up your legs and stopping at your thighs. He looks up at you, “This alright?”
“Go on.” It's impatient this time. He picks up on it immediately and grins.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good boy.”
His eyes widen a bit, but not in disapproval. He stretches the side of his neck, head tilted to one side and his eyes on you. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You double down.
He takes a deep breath, hands warm on your skin and working to relax your pillowy thighs. His exhale is rough with growing need.
“Say it again.” He whispers. He figures he'll cut his losses if you don't hear him. But you do.
“Hm,” You giggle to yourself, reaching a hand down and threading your fingers through his hair.
“Good boy.”
Chan blinks rapidly, clearing his senses to make room for you. Just you. He needs more of you.
“Good for you.” His hands trail up higher, bypassing your dress and pushing the fabric up as he explores your skin with barely contained hunger. “I'll be good for you.”
“Promise.” It's not a question, it's an order.
“I promise.” He's leaning down, eyes on yours as he does.
“Higher.” You say it just to see if he really does it.
Chan focuses on your body again, hiking the dress up higher over your hips and revealing your black thong. He can't help but admire you, his breathing more shallow with anticipation.
“This is okay with you, right?” He makes sure, checks in before he indulges fully.
You nod and hum, reaching down yourself and grazing your fingertips along the waist of your thong. “More than okay.”
He stops hesitating and takes your word, leaning down with one hand supporting him on the bed and the other holding your hip firmly. His lips press a kiss onto your stomach, right below your belly button, then another one under that. Peppering sweet, progressively sloppier kisses across your skin that makes you have to fight the urge to press your thighs together again.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.” He mumbles, eyes fluttering closed. His thumb circles soothingly over your hip, a gentle massage there too.
“Keep going.” You instruct gently, skin ignited wherever he lays his lips.
Chan gets a chill along his spine and listens, a barely audible moan following. He's free to indulge now, not shy about making you feel good. His hand on your hip slides down to your thigh, inching closer to your core.
The music downstairs isn't as upbeat now, but certainly isn't slow. It's a steady pulse of kicks and bass and compliments the moment like the stars compliment the moon. He kisses down, down, over the mound and closer to the gusset of your dampening thong.
You watch him, hand still in his hair and combing through as silent encouragement.
“Skin’s soft.” He mumbles again, hot breath ghosting over the dampness. “So pretty.”
“Havin’ fun?” You purr, provoking another moan from him.
Chan hums, kissing your lips through the fabric. His hand moves one leg aside, hooked under your knee and lifting it up over his shoulder. You follow through and rest your leg where he puts it, your relaxed heel now pressing into his back.
“Push ‘em to the side, love.” You encourage him more outwardly this time, watching him make out with your clothed core.
“Mhm, thank you, baby.” He's hungry, focused. His fingers hook around the only obstacle left, tugging the soaked gusset aside and revealing his prize. He opens his eyes for this, your pretty cunt glistening with excitement just for him. His fingers spread you open, pointer and middle and a wide V to see all of you.
“Fuck…” Chan's hips buck softly into the bed. His tongue tastes you with one slow, long stripe from your hole to your clit, and he watches your reaction closely to commit it to memory.
Your legs don't threaten to close, instead spreading wider with your knees up to give him room to work. “Wanna make me feel good?”
His lips wrap around your clit, humming his answer while his tongue circles the soft flesh with determination. He pulls back enough just to say, “I do.”
Chan is a man starved, his lips puckered and sucking with passion as if he's got something to prove. As if he wants you to be glad you spent all night with him and not someone else. As if to say thank you.
“Use your tongue. Licks, baby.” Both of your hands reach down to tangle in his hair now, hips grinding slowly into his face. He listens and flicks your clit with his tongue, spit pooling down to your hole clenched around nothing. You buck and gasp quietly, then exhale a moan like a sigh of relief and laugh beneath it all. “Perfect.”
He works steadily, building up the speed and intensity over time with his eyes closed again, savoring your taste. He hums moans to himself, his hips rolling into the mattress and partially satisfying his own excitement.
You reach over to the nightstand and grab the cup you're sharing with him, taking a sip and feeling the warmth spread through your chest again. That combined with his hands planted on your waist pulling you down into his mouth makes you breathe a bit heavier, moan a bit clearer.
Chan pulls back for a second, but not long before he rips a hand from your waist and spreads you open again. His thumb gently slides through your folds and gives him room to massage your clit with his tongue, licking and sucking faster just to see you shudder.
“Sh– hmm…” your face tenses with pleasure, a soft nod that you know he's looking up at and your eyes drift closed. “That's nice.”
He smiles around your clit, the same pointer and middle fingers sliding effortlessly as they press into you up to the rings. You give him the shudder he was looking for. “Fuck… that's really nice.”
The sound that gushes from you is lewd in every sense of the word. Wet and soft, a squelch that alludes to how much you want this. Chan hums a chuckle around your clit, pulls back just enough to speak. “This all for me?”
Your cheeks burn from alcohol and the smile you can't hide. “Shut up.” You whisper, flustered.
“Gladly.” He laughs and concedes, wanting to be good for you. He knows his affect by now, he doesn't need to remind you.
His fingers drive into you with a steady rhythm, opening you up more and more with each thrust. The flicks of his tongue match that rhythm with precision.
After a while, Chan closes his eyes too, enjoying this more than he imagined he would.
“Like that… that's my good boy.”
He hears you moan for him and doubles his efforts, your praise acting as fuel for him. His fingers dig into you and search for that special spot, knuckles curled and rubbing the ridges that make you gasp louder.
Your hips buck again, your back and shoulders tense and slightly arched. The ball of your foot digs into his spine, but it's nothing but his cue that he can't stop now. Not when your body is asking so nicely.
“Chan, yes– oh god, yes.” You moan and it's raspy for a moment, the sharp inhales of pleasure drying out your throat. Your hips move on their own and grind into his fingers and mouth, chasing your peak with him.
“Mhmm,” he hums around you, his fingers driving into you with a hard thrust and staying in deep while he rubs the inside of your pussy with maddening precision. His tongue lays flat licks over your clit, alternating between that and shamelessly loud slurps that make you accidentally clutch his hair in your fists.
You start to apologize, but Chan growls in response and grips your waist tighter with his free hand. The pain is good, means you're using him the way he likes.
“I'm gonna come if you keep that up, baby.” It's not a threat, it's a heads up. He doesn't let up, not even to respond this time. His breath hits you, out through his nose with moans of his vibrating around your clit. Your trembling legs tell him everything he needs to know.
“Please,” Chan murmurs, pulling his fingers out before stuffing you again, faster and deeper with urgency. “Come for your good boy.”
You tighten around him, the squelching obscene. His tongue flicks your clit, pushing you further off the edge each time until your walls clench and spasm around his fingers.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Your knees want to close, but his free hand pins your leg firmly before you can try and run. His tongue works you through your climax, helping you come down nice and slow as his fingers finally stop.
He pulls them out of you, pulls back to look at the mess he's made. “Tastes as good as it looks.” Chan's voice is husky and crude, deeper than when he started. He sits back, gently letting your leg down from his shoulder and kneeling between your legs. His fingers, still drenched in your arousal, slip between his lips, tongue sucking off the rest of you like he was saving your taste as a souvenir.
You're breathless and your hairline is damp, glad you put your hair down. Your hands fall to rest over the bunched up fabric in your midsection. “You're so good f’me, Chan.” You watch him climb up to you, hovering with arms caging you in.
“I can be even better, perfect for you. You want that?” He asks, hopeful. "Please?"
You nod, sticking your tongue out in a silent order that makes his cock jump in his jeans. His eyes are hooded with lust, tongue working to pool up the remnants of you before his tongue sticks out and drools it onto yours.
Both of you moan in unison, the calm before the storm. You taste yourself and smile, eyes twinkling in the golden lights. Chan's thumb reaches up and cleans up the corners of your lips, saliva threatening to spill.
“Mm mm,” He mutters, pushing it back into your mouth with a soft smile, “Don't run. All yours.”
Your lips wrap around his thumb and suck, head bobbing like it was something else. His cock twitches and his free hand reaches down to free it. “Such a pretty little thing, sucking me so nice. Love your tongue…” he watches, sits back on his knees and unzips his jeans, pushes them down desperately with one hand.
He finally manages to get them down enough to free his twitching length, instantly fisting and stroking with assistance from his leaking tip. He lets out a low, yearning sound, a cross between a moan and a whimper. Your tongue twirls around his thumb and if he closes his eyes, he can imagine it around his cock. Too vividly.
“Fuck, fuck.” He moans through gritted teeth. “Can I please be inside you, please, baby?”
You pull off of his thumb slowly with a soft pop, a thin trail of spit still connected before it breaks and you look at the longing in his eyes and his furrowed brow. “You want that?”
“It's the only thing I want.” He admits, breath thick with anticipation that's boiling over and becoming unbearable. “Please? I'll be good. So good and make you feel amazing. Please?”
“Promise?” It's gentler than before, but there's an undertone of something dark and dominant. Like if he's not, he'll be met with consequences. You slip your thong off, hips raised as it slides down your legs and gets kicked aside.
The hairs on the back of his neck rise, he nods damn near frantically. “I promise. I swear, princess. I fuckin' swear.”
You don't say anything, just reach a hand down and replace his with yours, stroking his cock with the same speed as he was. Your legs are spread again, knees higher and eyes commanding for him to hold them up.
Chan notices your intense gaze and blinks quickly, acting fast and hooking both hands behind your thighs to push your legs up higher. “Yes, baby.” He whispers as he obeys.
Your hips are tilted up and you're still clenching around nothing from your orgasm, but you glance down and line his cock up with your entrance before grabbing his hip and running your thumb over his skin to prompt him.
“Yeah?” He looks down at your face before gripping the back of your thighs and sliding in, the feeling of you stretching around him making him grip tighter. “Fucking hell, thank you, angel.”
He pushes in and your head falls back, balling handfuls of Fendi as he bottoms out. He twitches and you clench back, call and response.
“S’big.” You slur a moan as he reaches to press that spot he found before. Your hips tilt and adjust on their own, your body knows what it needs and how to get it. “Deep… fuck, you're deep.”
“I can go deeper.” Chan rasps, wanting to impress you. He knows how to get the most out of his length, anything for you. He pulls out about halfway, then pushes in carefully but certainly does get deeper. His grip on your thighs press your legs as high as they can comfortably go, and his hips press into you until it's nothing but skin on skin.
You feel his abs tense under your touch, but you don't see it because your eyes are shut tightly, mouth agape. Chan is watching you like it's his sole mission to make you fall apart on his cock, like nothing else has ever mattered. He's too gone off beers and brown liquor for anything else to matter, the buzzing of the bass downstairs adding to the blur of warmth crawling up his skin.
“I can do it. I can make this pussy mine.” He whispers, pulling back and setting an easy pace to start with. The sound of your wetness around him isn't lost on you, in fact it's one of the only sounds you hone in on. Unlike Chan, you couldn't give two shits about the muffled snares and hi hats, you're focused on the imprint his cock is making in your stomach. Or at least that's what it feels like.
“Faster, Chan.” You command it, voice unwavering and eyes reopened, peering down at where you're connected. Your fistfuls of his shirt pull him in, motivation.
He growls and obeys, faster but not wild. He composes himself because he knows better. “Like this, love?”
“Faster.” You repeat, jaw tight. You're watching him thrust into you, monitoring like it's a job.
“Faster?” He asks, knowing he'll have to keep himself in line. That'll be hard when he knows he'll want to come so badly.
Your gaze meets his, sharp and impatient. “What did I say?”
“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, then bites the corner of his lip and speeds up. The bed creaks a bit and the springs of the mattress sing in tune with the muffled music, but again, motivation.
“Like this?”
“Harder.”
“Fuck,” he grits, thrusting up with more force. You obviously want him to struggle, want to see him try and hold back just for you.
You see his efforts to restrain himself, to let you feel good first and lend his cock to you with selfless thrusts that reach places you can't. It makes you tighten with satisfaction.
You smile, laughing between moans, “There he is, so good for me. You can do it, baby.”
Your praise is like a drug at this point, each hit only adds more fuel to the fire. He grunts and presses your knees back higher, hands holding you firmly in place with hips drilling into you incessantly. Skin slapping, breaths clashing.
Chan buries himself in again with a snap of his hips and groans, head lowered as he grinds up into you. You grip his shirt tighter, if that was even possible, neck and face flushed in a deep drunken blush. He evokes a sound out of you that makes you bite your lip to hide it.
“Goddamn,” he moans, panting and thrusting shallow to reach as deeply as he can. He isn't too loud, just enough for you to hear. “You're makin’ it hard f’me… this pussy’s makin' it hard f’me.”
“Don't stop. Not until I tell you to.” You give him a clear request and it almost sounds sweet, but that underlying commanding tone rears its head again. “You hear me?”
Chan grunts with each breath, the vein protruding from the side of his neck and the ones down his forearms giving way to how hard he's trying not to come. “Easy on me.”
“Don’t wanna be my good boy anymore?” You threaten to rip the rug of praise right from under him and he whimpers. Breathy and needy, he whimpers.
“Fuck, no, don't say that–”
“Don't stop until I tell you to, baby. Trust me.” Your hands reach up to hold his neck, pulling his face closer. Your noses brush and your eyes lock.
“Can you do that?”
Chan swallows down any further protest and nods, forehead damp against yours.
“Yes, yes I can…”
He proves it when he picks up the pace, thrusting into you with devotion and determination to get all the praise he can fuck out of you. He growls through moans ripping from his throat, muttering a string of curse words that make his furrow tense up with pleasure.
You pull him closer and press your lips to his, a stark contrast to his increasingly erratic thrusts. His lips are warm and you taste remnants of yourself and whatever he was drinking earlier. Your tongue slips against his, moans crashing into each other freely while his fingers dig into your skin with a bruising grip.
There's a slight bulge in the pit of your stomach that shows exactly just how far he's reaching, but you're both too busy muffling moans and tasting each other to notice. You can feel yourself floating up into that familiar feeling, your next release right around the corner. The moans that pour out of your mouth into his are climbing in pitch.
“Chan,” you murmur against his mouth, tearing a hand from his neck to reach between you two and frantically flick your clit, chasing once again. “Don't stop, don't you fucking stop.”
“I got you, I got you.” His deep rumbling grunts reassure you, pace steady and headboard knocking against the pretty dark wood walls. “Give it to me, let me see it.”
You tighten around him more deliberately now, clit throbbing under your fingers. You're panting until a single rough breath staggers in your throat, a moan you couldn't muffle quickly enough erupting from your chest. You look up at him, eyes glazed over as you flood around his cock. “Don't stop.”
“I'm close.” Chan watches you come undone and can't hold back much longer. Your hand wraps around his throat, squeezing the sides. A warning.
“Don't.” You demand, eyes locked with his again. His are wide, skin hot with desire. He shakes his head, panting heavily. “Baby, please. Please, please let me– shit, let me come. Please, I'll do anything. Please.”
He's whimpering and grunting, cock twitching with restraint. Once you're done riding out the highs of your orgasm, you squeeze his neck tighter. “Pull out.”
“Fuck, wait, wait–”
“I got you.” You tell him before he starts begging again. “Trust me.”
“Mmm, fuck… fuck, okay,” Chan pulls out and reveals his cock, stiff and dripping, covered with you. You reach down between the two of you, using the hand around his neck to push him back a bit.
“Legs down.” You instruct him to let you go, knees lowering back to the bed as he listens and lets you jerk him off. He stays right where he is, sitting back on his knees with his head thrown back.
“Mm, princess,” he moans, covering his mouth with his hand. You reach up and grab his wrist, eyes soft for him. “Let me hear it.” You insist.
“Can't hold back,” he stutters, letting his wrist fall slack in your grip until you let it go, steadying yourself with a hand on his hip. “Can I? Can I, baby?”
“Can you what?” You ask, deceptively calm.
“Can I be…” Chan pauses to hold it in, groaning with struggle. “Be good for you?”
“Only if you say it.” You grin, stroking him faster. “Say you're my good boy.”
“Shit, shit… Mm, I'm your good boy, princess.” He grins too, gripping the soft bedding beneath him. “I'm your good fuckin' boy.”
“Come for me.”
His eyes shut tightly at the command he's been waiting for, hips bucking forward with a broken moan as he spills over your fist. “Thank you, thank you, fuck, so much…”
He's coming hard, sticky and warm over your knuckles. His chest is tight with pleasure, but it starts to burn when he's weak and twitching and you're still stroking him, pace unchanging.
“Fuck, wait.” Chan's eyes open again, the pleasure crawling up his spine and mingling with the chills spiking over his skin. “Wait, wait, wait.”
“Say it again,” you smile, watching the realization set in for him that you're not done yet. “Say thank you for letting you come.”
He seethes a quick breath through gritted teeth, growling and reaching a hand up to hold on to his hair. “Baby, please–”
“Say it, Chan.”
He can't deny that he likes being used, even like this. Anything to be your good boy. He whimpers again, a slutty sound that's so adorably desperate. “Mm, I'm… thank you, princess. Thank you for letting your good boy come. Feels good, so good. So, so good.”
“Finished now?” You coo, watching his face turn bright red.
“Yes, baby. I'm done.” He's polite despite the overwhelming pleasure, eyes glossed over with proof of his control.
Once you start to slow down, he lets out a breath he's been holding and starts relaxing fully, shoulders slumped and shaky elbows barely holding him up. He leans forward and one buckles, nearly falling into the bed before you press your palms to his shoulders and keep him upright.
“Easy,” you rub his shoulders with a softer touch, coaxing him to calm down and lie back on the bed, pulling him down with you. “C'mere. Breathe.”
Chan follows you, kicking his jeans off completely and getting more comfortable with you. His shirt is wrinkled and so is your dress, bunched up right beneath your bust. He ignores it entirely, resting between your legs with his head on your chest. He's still moaning, still feels your fist pumping him with unrelenting speed. It's etched into his brain now.
You wipe the cum he spilled onto your hand over your tongue, curious. “Mm, my good boy tastes… sweet?” You sound pleasantly surprised.
“Thank you.” He breathes more evenly, still focused on remembering how to. The compliment doesn't fully register, but he knows to say thank you.
“Love?” You say, wiping the rest on the bedding that you'll probably never see again after tonight.
Chan looks up at you, using your chest as a pillow. He's dripping sweat and thoroughly flushed, less bright but still very red. “Hm, yes, angel?”
“Doin’ okay?” You're soft again, sweet and gentle.
He nods, “I'm good, yeah. Catchin’ my breath.”
“Take your time.” The palm of your hand rubs his back, the other one brushing his hair back. The silvery blonde strands are detangled between your fingers, smoothed out and more manageable after all the pulling.
Chan is grateful for the gentle ministrations, helps him calm down from that very steep high. You both take a moment to just be, inviting the sounds of the party downstairs back into your awareness. Distant chatter and persistent bass fill your senses and remind you that you just met Chan tonight for the first time. It doesn't feel like it to you, not after all of that.
His breathing evens out nicely after a few minutes and his hands pull you closer, “You okay?”
You smile, brushing his hair out of his face, “I'm okay.”
“Need anything? Blanket or somethin’?”
“Not right now.” You glance over at the cup on the nightstand and decide to pass. You need water.
“Alright… I got you.” He taps your waist.
“Mhm. Take it easy.” You pat his back, then pause. “Think there's a bathroom nearby?”
“I really fuckin' hope so.”
You giggle, warm in your chest for a different reason now. “We'll find one. Gotta be somewhere close.”
Chan nods, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You press one to the top of his head.
“Good boy, Channie.” You whisper, scratching the top of his head.
He smiles wide, eyes crinkled at the corners like he just finished performing the perfect trick. “Thank you, princess.”
⤷ WC - 3.1k
⤷ Smut | dom!lee know x afab!reader
⤷ CW - Pet play, anal sex/play, oral (m & f rec), spit play (barely), light themes of humiliation, d/s dynamics
⤷a/n - I have no clue how to summarize this. it's smut, straight smut.
⋆。‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧。⋆
“C'mere.” Minho doesn't look at you when he says it. He knows he doesn't have to. He's busy messing with something you don't care about. His watch, maybe. You aren't paying attention.
He hears your bare feet slide over the carpet. He steps to the side, glances at you. “Sit.”
The bell around your neck jingles when you do. It hits your collarbone like a soft reminder. You watch him. Eyes wide and glistening in the warm evening light spilling in through the blinds.
Minho doesn't praise you. Not when you do exactly as he expected. You have to earn it.
He turns to you, slowly, tracing every inch of you from the bottom up. He clocks the way your toes press into the carpet, the way your pretty puffy tail shifts against the sofa when you squirm. Then there's your eyes, you're begging with them. He sees it.
“Hungry, baby?” You whimper, swallow hard, you're not allowed to speak. Kitties don't speak. “What was that? Hm?”
He tips your chin up, just a touch. “Chirping f’me?” his thumb brushes over your bottom lip. Slow, soft, your lips part like you can't help it.
“She is hungry.” The tip of his thumb wedges gently between your lips, you part them wider with every inch he feeds you. “Wider.”
The pad of his thumb presses firm over the center of your tongue for a second, then he lifts it. “Stick it out.” You do.
Minho cups your chin with one hand, fingers a little cold to the touch. He takes his pointer and middle on his other hand, and slips them over your tongue. His eyes are dark, watching every swallow, every blink.
He slips his fingers in further, and further, so slowly that you press your knees together in anticipation. You need something. Something more.
He slips in to the knuckle, tips of his fingers at the back of your throat. Your eyes flutter shut, you try not to choke. He presses, and you can't help it. “There she goes.” He presses in until he can't anymore. “Purring f'me.”
He pulls out faster than he went in. Spit following his fingers from your lips. He smears it over the corner of your mouth, squishing your cheeks just a little. “Head back. Mhm, open.”
You keep your tongue out, eyes watering while you watch him pucker his lips right above you. He spits into your mouth slowly, letting it drip onto your tongue. “Swallow it.” he watches you, moves his other hand down to feel the bob of your throat.
“Good girl.” You nearly moan, you want to. You don't. “c'mere, on your knees.” You slip off of the couch, legs and cunt bare under an oversized tee. Your ass presses into your heels, the tail settles between your legs. The shift makes you clench around the plug, stuffed snug inside.
Minho turns away from you, he walks slowly, like he's got all the time in the world and he knows you'll be waiting for him every second of it. He takes a saucer from the counter, brings it back and sits it in front of you.
It's milk. You blink down at it, then back at him. “It's oat milk, if that's what you're worried about.” he smirks, amused by himself. “You were hungry, right?”
You whimper again, he smirks a little wider. “Go ahead, drink some.”
You look back down at it, shift on your knees then press your palms to the floor and lean over it. Minho sits on the edge of the couch, watching you lean in and lick. Once, twice, your hair falls around you, he holds it back in a ponytail. The cat ear clips shift where he pinned them, still secure for now.
“That's it. Drink it all, jagi.” he coos, sweet and deceiving, but you listen. Your tongue darts out just how he likes it to—not too fast, not too slow, just enough for him to really see it. The bell around your neck jingles.
Minho's lips are parted. His breathing is quiet but you know him well enough to know it's shallow. He likes this too much. He likes seeing what you'll do for him, and what he can do to you.
“All done?” He tugs on your hair gently, prompting you back. Your eyes find his in an instant, a rivulet of milk trails down your chin. He could fuck you right then and there, but he stops himself.
“I don't think that filled her, did it?” He picks up the saucer and slides it onto the coffee table. “Mm mm, I think she wants a little more.”
You perk up, hopeful. Minho catches on, just barely smiling. “Come.” He points to the spot between his knees, just enough room for you to settle. You crawl over on all fours, it makes the plug press right where it feels too good, it shows on your face before you can help it.
“Poor thing.” He doesn't mean it, and you like that. “This'll take your mind off of it.”
The sound of his zipper hits like relief. You clock how slowly he does it, track the way he pushes his jeans down just enough to free himself, then decides to go all the way.
He kicks them to the side, lifts his shirt up just a little. “Still hungry?” You moan this time. You can't help it. Minho's brows raise, he hums like he's deciding if he should correct you.
“Very hungry, huh?” He spares you, you breathe a little easier. “Go ahead, have some. No paws.”
He presses his cock towards you, just two fingers pressing at the base to make it a little easier, but not enough. You lean forward, hands balled into fists and pressing into the sofa, you nearly take him, and he moves last second.
“C'mon, kitty, you can do it.” you try again, tongue out, you lick him just barely. “Look at her trying so hard.”
Your cheeks burn, humiliation hot under your skin as he makes you chase his cock with an open mouth. His words are cooed, each one more condescending than the last.
You try again, angle your head just right, and he lets you have it. “Ah, there we go. That's my pretty girl.”
You sink down on him, tongue flat on the underside. He's a mouthful, just enough for you to take him all the way down and stay there, choking a little just how he likes it. You swallow around him, his lips part with a heavy breath.
“That's it, that's it, slow like that. Just like that.” Breath punctuates every one of Minho's words, like he can't catch his breath with your mouth on him like this. His moans are quick, pushed through clenched teeth.
Each drag gets messier, spit pooling, running down over his balls, running down your chin. “Messy little thing.” His voice is rougher now, it almost doesn't sound like him. Almost.
“Take it all the way down one more time. Mhm, one more–mhm.” Minho presses his lips together, head falling back against the couch just for a second. “Stay.” You whimper, eyes watering, throat working around him.
His hips buck up, just barely, just a little. “You sound so pretty when you purr for me.” the sound you make in response isn't one you recognize. You stay down for another ten seconds, tears streaking your cheeks.
“Up.” You gasp for air, spit following you in thin strings when you pull up. Minho finally takes a full breath, looking up to watch you catch yours too. Something is different in his eyes now, loose.
“C'mere.” You pause, unsure what he wants. He waits three seconds before reaching down and grabbing your wrist. “Here.” He pulls you up into his lap, his bare wet cock pressed against your bare wet cunt.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, you settle over him gradually, sinking into the warm pressure. One of his hands is on your hip, the other coming up to flick your bell with his thumb. He leans up for a kiss, slow and lingering, sweeter than he looks like he wants to be.
“How is she?” He pulls back enough to look at you, asking gently, but there’s still something loose behind his gaze. “Speak. What's your color?”
You swallow, taking a breath like you forgot how your voice works. “Green. I'm okay.” It breaks on the last word, you clear your throat. Minho reaches over to the side table, picks up a bottle of water and unscrews the cap for you.
“Drink enough.” He brings it to your lips, watches you swallow, then again. He sips after you. “Good?”
“Good.” He discards the bottle, looks back at you. He really looks, eyes darkening in real time.
Then, he presses up against you. “Don't make a sound.” Your lips press together, hard. The tip of his cock bumps your clit. He does it again, hands on your hips now, moving them for you.
“Sounds sticky down there.” he groans, watching the hem of your shirt darken with the mix of slick and spit. Your tail is fluffy against his knee, each grind shifts it just right. “M’ gonna eat now.”
He doesn't wait for you to react. He lays you down, hands sliding right behind your knees and opening you up for him. A sound punches out of you, he ignores it. Your knees fall apart by themselves, he doesn't have to hold you. You know.
“Stay still.” he's just looking, inspecting. His thumb comes up, presses right at the top and glides through your folds. “Jagi–” he says it like he can't believe it.
Minho takes two fingers to spread you open, a v that puts every pretty slick part of you on display. One finger dips inside, you puff a heavy breath. “Pretty tail.” he murmurs, fingers trailing down to your ass. The plug sits pretty, snug between your cheeks. He tugs at it just a little, eyes flicking up to catch your expression.
You moan despite yourself. Brows furrowing, lips parting. Minho tsks, then tugs again. “Quite, kitty.” You press your lips together, clenching where it feels too good. “Let's see how you did.” He tugs one more time, a pitiless quiet chuckle follows when you squirm.
Then comes gentle pressure, Minho slips the plug out slowly, watching the way your body moves around it in awe. It releases with a pop and Minho's palms press flat against your ass, spreading you open to see better.
The sound he makes tells you everything you need to know. His thumb rims you slowly, you clench around nothing—then something in him breaks. Whatever was loose behind his eyes before is lost all together now.
His mouth is on your cunt in an instant. Warm tongue pressing against you, licking then sucking with an obscene slurp and repeating. The tip of his thumb dips into your other hole, the rest follows easily.
Your eyes cross, heart beating in your ears and breath heavy. You feel light and heavy all at once. Too good. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking then adding his tongue. His eyes are open, lids drowsy with greed, but open. Minho pulls back, just for a second.
“Speak.” You do. God, you do. It's loud and rough, something between a curse and a groan. You drag a breath in then let out another, higher this time. Minho keeps eating, tip of his tongue teasing your clit while his pointer and middle slip into your other hole.
“I–I'm, please please. Please, I'm–” it doesn't make sense. You don't care.
He spits on your clit, and watches it run down, down, to where his fingers stretch you open. He pulls out, spreads it then dips back into your ass slow enough to watch you clench around him. He presses flat wet licks to your cunt, moving in time with every shallow thrust of his fingers.
“You’re ready for more, aren’t you, kitty?” you nod, the bell jingling along with your movement. He pulls his finger out, nice and slow, spits down onto your hole and rims it with the tip of his tongue. You shudder, he goes deeper. His tongue fucks into you in short shallow pulses, then licks up to your cunt and kisses your clit.
He does it one more time, then he pulls back, sits up. “Flip over, on your stomach.” You scramble to your knees, eager in a way that’s humiliating by itself. Minho pumps himself while you settle, reaching over you for the lube and applying generously. The sound it makes is teasing.
“Behave,” he adjusts you, hands on your hips, arching your back himself, posing you. “and I’ll let you come.”
“Yes, sir.” Minho scoffs at the honorific, amused that you used it by choice and not order. He likes it more than he’ll ever admit.
He murmurs something soft and rough, “ready?” or something like it, you don't hear him, but you feel him. The head of his cock rubs over you, getting it wet, warning for a second before pressing in.
The stretch feels brand new every time. His thumb rubs slow where his hand is splayed over your hip. The other helps feed his cock into you inch by slow inch.
“Min, ‘s tight.” You moan together, he starts to say something then stops, fingers pressing into your hip a bit harder.
“Half way there, take it f’me.” You breathe, melt into him, open up for him. “That's a good–good girl”
You gasp, it cracks in your throat. He bottoms out. It feels full and perfect, it takes the hunger right away.
“Where do you feel me?” He leans over you, kissing slow over your shoulders, then your neck. He moves, just barely, just testing. “Show me.”
Your mouth is open, but sounds don't exist for you. Words don't make sense. You manage to bring a hand back, unsteady until it finds his wrist and slides his hand low on your stomach, right where he'd bulge if he showed your cunt some attention.
Minho presses, just enough to have you really feel him. His hips pick up, “right here?” He holds the plush of your tummy, teeth skimming over your shoulder now.
“Min–” your hand falls away from his and grips a pillow. “Please, faster, please.”
It's a slow build, faster and faster until the sound of skin on skin drowns out your collective moans all together. He shifts sitting up straighter, hands holding tight at your hips to pull you back onto him.
You clench, Minho moans through clenched teeth, eyes glued to where he disappears into you. Tight and hot. You're gripping the armrest, the pillows, nothing grounds you enough.
“Sounds so pretty.” He goes a little faster. “Such a good girl, she's such a good, good girl.” and faster, fucking into you like your made of something lighter than flesh.
“Creamin’ and moanin’ and taking me so fuckin–mm, mmhm.” Your cat ear clips are falling out, he wraps his fist in your hair and makes it worse. The bell around your neck jingles like a faulty doorbell.
“M’ gonna, gonna come, please, please please.” He doesn't answer, doesn't give permission, he just leans in, reaches around and makes it worse. He presses two fingers to your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. Deeper now, slower.
“Don't.” You squeak, whine, beg without words. “If you come I take it all away, you hear me?”
It's impossible and he knows it. He gets off on it, fucks you better at the thought of it. “Wait.”
“I can't.” you're sobbing, tight in places you never knew you could be and loving it more than you should. “I can't, I can't.”
“Yes, you can.” He pulls your hair back, arching you deeper, thrusting and staying deep inside. “You will.”
He lets go of everything at once, then starts again. Not slow, not gentle, he fucks a sound out of you that you've never heard but you do it again. He spits onto his cock, watches it disappear, then groans.
Then again, making noise like he's allowed to now. Louder, looser—closer.
“Give it to me in five.” Your face is wet with tears, drool, “four.” You're floating, you swear it. Somewhere in between the pleasure and something else entirely.
“Three.” Minho's no better, watching, listening, balls tight and ready. “Two.” He palms your ass, pulling into you one more time, then again, then again. Then—
“One.” It rips through you. Washes over your nerves like a chill then restarts. You clench, moan and moan and forget to breathe, until it all falls silent. Minho manages one off center thrust before he breaks. Hot and sticky inside you, he moans with it, panting and thighs shaking.
He moves with it, slow and shallow, pulling out inch but slow inch until he pops out and watches it spill over.
“Fuck.” One hand is on his cock, the other on your ass, opening you up just enough to watch. “Stay right there.”
You couldn't move even if you wanted to. You stay, still floaty, still trying to catch your breath when warmth presses in slowly.
“Minho.” He groans against you, tongue licking flat over you. “Min.”
The tip of his tongue rims, presses in, cleans up the sticky mess he left behind. He dips down low, low, low, until he's tasting your come too. The sticky sound of him fisting his own cock mixes with your moans.
You press back into him, pressing your cunt into his tongue and shaking when he sucks. “Come on my face, one more time, jagi.”
“‘S so much.” He hums, you shudder.
It sounds wet, feels warm, the press of his tongue against the aching pulse of overstimulation. You clench when he's rimming you, he moans when you press your ass back—and you come harder this time.
Your knees give, Minho doesn't catch you, he follows you, one hand spreading you while he eats your ass through it. His hand never slows around him. He keeps it up until his own orgasm follows. He makes a choked sound before falling into a fit of overstimulated moans.
Quiet follows. Stillness that feels foreign. You're still floaty, still living in between now and then when he touches you. Softer than before, coaxing you closer to him. He settles you against him, arms wrapped tight.
“Color?” He drapes a blanket over you, grabs the water from before.
“Green” you mumble, tongue too heavy to do much better. “M’ okay.”
“Mm. Have some.” He brings the bottle to your lips. “Good girl. Good job.”
He drinks some, settles deeper into the couch, then hugs you tighter, guiding your cheek to rest against his chest. “Breathe. Take a second.” you hum, your breath falls in sync with his, your eyelids droop, heavy now.
Minho kisses the crown of your head, you lean into it, and the bell around your neck jingles.
a/n - I never write for Minho, did I do okay? I'm nervous asf.
❥Thank You For Reading! Please Reblog or Comment to let me know how you liked it! It makes my day! 💕
(where the ex-boyfriend who broke your heart shows up as your new coworker after 4 years)
pairing: lawyer!chan x lawyer!fem!reader
genre: lovers to exes to coworkers to ?? | angst, fluff, smut
rating: explicit, minors DNI
wc: 20.1k
warnings: aged up chan (he and reader are about 29), this story vaguely uses the american legal system, some flash backs/time jumps (for the lovers to exes part), they were both kinda idiots, poor communication, ambiguous relationships (reader), eating, drinking, soooo much kissing, teasing, fingering, oral sex (f. rec), nipple play, implied/kinda fade-to-black sex, that's it i think
a/n: endless thanks to @haologram for her patience with me because i really don't know why this took me so long. this is part of her amazing don't hate, litigate collab. i love you so much alta! we'll call this a happy birthday month present. thank you to my bby @joshujin for creating this amazing banner (and 6 other options because she's insane).
Your assistant knocks on the frame of your office door and pokes her head in. She’s got a concerning smile on her face that instantly makes you nervous about whatever she’s about to say. You and her had connected the second you hired her and you can read her facial expressions well. Right now, it’s giving news that’s going to make you mad. She, on the other hand, doesn’t look apologetic about the news at all.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to hate whatever you’re about to say to me?” you ask, leaning back in your chair.
“Because you’re good at reading me,” she offers without any apology.
“I swear to god if you tell me that client rescheduled again, I will fling myself from the roof,” you say with a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.
Taylor lingers in your doorway without losing her smile. Which is a good indicator that whatever she’s about to say isn’t that. “No, but it might be worse. So, the stairs to the roof are down the hall, second door on the left.”
“Funny,” you bite. She comes into your office and closes the door behind her.
“We’ve got a new hire starting on Monday,” she carries on without you asking.
“And that concerns me, why?” you ask, returning to your computer and falsely figuring she got this one wrong. The closed door seems like overkill for a new hire, but what do you know?
“Because he’s going to be in our division. Everyone is whispering about him. About how good he is at closing cases and how attractive he is,” she offers, still keeping at least something to herself.
You fix her with an unimpressed stare. “Don’t tell me you’re already drooling over another attorney that you haven’t even met yet.”
“No, I know we have a no-dating…” she starts and you roll your eyes.
“I could not possibly care any less about that. Date whoever you want,” you say without looking up at her. “But, dating an attorney is exhausting. 0/10, would not recommend.”
“You know, I’m so interested to learn more about why you feel that way,” she says. This, finally, makes you wonder where she’s going and makes you meet her eyes again.
“It’s been a long week, Taylor, I’m going to need you to start connecting some dots,” you relent.
“Oh, you know, I was just thinking you always talk about how you’d never date another attorney and I just think it’s so…interesting that we have someone else from your law school starting at the firm on Monday,” she says.
That’s enough to make your eyes go wide and your blood run cold. “What’s the name of the new hire? The partners never mentioned it.”
“Lee Chan,” she says with a knowingly sympathetic look. For a second, you think you forget how to breathe. And then you’re a million miles away.
What the actual fuck is Lee Chan doing accepting a position with your firm after all these years? What kind of game is he playing? It seems cruel to be doing this now. Or maybe you’re overthinking it. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with you. After all, isn’t it a bit conceited to think that Chan coming to one of the best firms in the country has anything to do with you? What you do realize is that you have a lot of unresolved emotions to get over. There are probably just as many unanswered questions.
Of course, this would all be a lot easier if the person joining your firm wasn’t the same one you still thought about. Your hypothetical one who got away.
This definitely makes work a lot more complicated.
Offers are starting to come in for all the 3Ls and everyone is nervous. Everyone wants to know that they’re going to have something lined up for after graduation. Everyone wants to get their top choice. It’s competitive, but so is everything else about law school so it doesn’t really feel surprising. You and Chan manage to navigate it as well as two people in a relationship during a stressful time can. Neither one of you really talks about how you both applied to some of the same places. Or how the two of you are competing for your top option. What you do talk about, though, is how you plan to navigate the potential distance.
“What happens if we get jobs that put us on opposite sides of the country?”
The question makes you look up sharply at your boyfriend. You’re lying on the couch with your feet in his lap, reading a book for fun. A welcome change for the law books you’re normally reading. His book sits discarded on the arm of the couch and he’s watching you intently. You mark your own page and sit up so that you can have an actual conversation.
“I thought we were mostly applying in the same areas,” you begin, dipping that toe into the water.
He frowns for a second. Like somehow this is a test and you don’t have the right answer. “Well, we did. But, we both need to take the best options before us, right?”
“I’m not asking you to put me above your career, Chan,” you say with exasperation.
“What does that say about our relationship if you’re not asking that?”
“That we both understand what’s at stake in the next few years of our lives. That we both know how important our placements are in the first year after finishing law school.”
“Or that it’s not built to last,” he says under his breath.
There’s no malice in the statement and you can hear it for what it is. Apprehension. Nerves. He’s worried about your future, both together and individually, as professionals. You’ve watched the way other relationships between law students have played out during your first two years at school. It’s easy to bond over shared experience. But, the reality remains. Everyone in law school is competitive or you wouldn’t be there. Everyone is at least a little bit Type A. In a field that is, theoretically, built on compromise, sometimes compromising in personal relationships is the hardest part.
It’s not time to get quite that serious, though. Not in your eyes. You slide over on the couch so that you can cross your legs and have them press against Chan’s thigh. With one of his hands in yours, you give him a look full of feeling.
“I love you, Chan,” you say and watch the way some of the tension melts away. Like he needs to hear that reassurance. Even though the pressure of the program should feel familiar, it’s still nice to remember that you have each other.
“I love you, too.”
“I know everything is kind of up in the air right now, but we’ll figure it out.”
“But, what if that means that there’s a country’s worth of distance between us?”
The unsaid words are plain as day behind the question. Your law school classes aren’t small, but it’s also not like university. You know everyone. Hear everything. Have too many stories of former classmates in the years ahead of you. The first year after graduating is tough. Important. There’s just over two months between graduation and sitting for the Bar exam. Then, you have to actually figure out how to practice. Depending on your area, that can mean insanely long hours as the lowly first year associate. There’s barely enough time to sleep or eat a balanced meal. Add in long distance and, well, you can see why Chan looks the way he does.
“Can we cross that bridge if we get to it?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, but you see some of the tension return. You run your thumb along the back of his hand you’re still holding.
“Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out,” you assure him, speaking more to his hand because the emotions are hard. “You’re my best friend. I never thought I would feel this way. It’s like you slid into my life so quietly I didn’t realize. We’ll figure this out because we’re us.”
“I knew you’d fall for me,” he jokes. When you look up, his eyes sparkle in that way you love. In the way that makes the worries slip away, even for just a second.
“You’re persistent,” you concede with an eye roll.
“Come here.”
He pulls you into his body. You settle into his side like you have countless times before. At least for the time being, things feel like they’re going to be okay. Like you really can figure it all out as long as you have each other. The road ahead may be difficult. It may have cost countless relationships before. Maybe it’s naive, but you feel like you’ll be the ones who really can figure it out.
Some of the initial optimism about you and Chan fades once the offers start to trickle out. Everything about your future depends on where you end up after graduating. At least, that’s how it feels when you’re in the thick of it. When you hear from your top choice and it’s the equivalent of being put on the waitlist for a university, it crushes you. It’s competitive, you know that. Yet, you felt so sure. Your summer positions and letters of recommendation are top notch. It’s also in the exact right area that you and Chan think would be perfect for post graduation.
Of course, you have other options. You’ve worked your ass off in classes, sacrificed free time. All the while knowing that the end would justify the means. Now, you have to decide if you should wait to see if you end up getting an offer or just accept another choice. It’s everything you want and part of you thinks that it’s worth waiting. But, you also know that if you wait, you risk losing out on a guaranteed position. It’s hard to talk it out with Chan, too, because he says that he hasn’t heard from your top choice at all. You know he applied. Know that he’s an excellent option for them to hire as well. It feels cruel to talk to him about something that he wanted as well. If the positions had been reversed, you try to wonder what you would tell him. Try to wonder if you could be happy for him getting your dream position. You want to think you could.
Ultimately, you do talk to Chan about it because he’s your best friend and your biggest confidant. You want to know what options he has heard from and he wants to know the same as you. It makes your heart drop to know that one of the best offers he’s gotten really is across the country from your dream firm. Not that you didn’t know he applied, because you did, but he didn’t seem to think he would get it. Things feel even more real when he encourages you to not make any immediate decisions. He knows you can’t wait too long. Just thinks that it’s worth really thinking things through. Surely, people will be making their own decisions soon and maybe it means that your dream spot opens up.
It ends up being eerily prophetic. Two days later you get a call offering you the position. You know that you should tell them you need to consider it. Know that you shouldn’t make it obvious this is what you’re waiting for. Know that you should remember you weren’t the first choice.
You don’t.
Everything goes out the window and you accept the position right then and there. At least the person on the other end of the phone seems friendly. Not overly judgmental at your enthusiasm. It’s probably a good thing, after all. You’ll get your formal offer via email and more information closer to graduation.
Chan has his computer on his lap when you get back to your shared apartment. It’s still a bit of a weird feeling, sharing a space with him for your last year of school. As soon as he hears the front door shut, he looks up. Sees your face and it’s like he knows. Only smiles and asks if you got it. All you have a chance to do is nod enthusiastically before he jumps up and collects you into his arms. Peppers kisses all over your face and declares that the two of you need to celebrate. Everything feels light and easy again. Like you really can take on the world.
There’s another bump in the road when the high of getting your top choice wears off. Chan talks to you about which firms he’s gotten offers from and you realize what post graduation is going to look like. You encourage him to accept the position that puts him a plane ride away from you with a smile. With assurances that you’ll be fine, which you’re not sure either of you really believe. One thing is certain, though. Although he has options that put him closer to you and your firm, he can’t take them. Can’t even think about them. Because if he takes one of them, it’ll only be so he can stay close to you. It might seem fine at first. Maybe it seems fine forever. You just can’t take the chance it ends up causing resentment.
So, you have the conversation you didn’t want to have earlier. Realize just how much better life is with each other than it is separate. It’s going to be tough, but people survive distance in their relationships all the time. There’s FaceTime and you can plan trips. Can even do a lot of work remotely. That’s one thing you can thank the pandemic for. And before you actually start the positions, you can be each other’s support systems while studying. The prep courses all have online options. Who better to watch your mental breakdown over studying than someone else going through the same thing?
It all feels cautiously optimistic. It’s going to be hard, but you’ve already been together since your second semester of your first year. Going on two years already. And you have until the summer to be together every day. To iron out any of the details. To make plans for after graduation. And, most importantly, just enjoy the time where it’s easy to be by each other’s side.
You spend your last weekend before Chan becomes unavoidable wondering how to move forward. Although you don’t work with anyone else you graduated with, the legal community is small. Everyone knows where you went to school and what year you graduated. Even your assistant is able to put it together that you know Chan. Admittedly, she does know you better than most at the firm. At times she’s kind of like a diary. Still. Nobody at the firm knows about your history.
Four years ago, at the end of your final year of law school, Lee Chan took away a future for the two of you that seemed all but certain. That’s why you avoid being anywhere that he is at all costs.
Whoever says that time heals all wounds obviously doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Dulls them, sure. Teaches you how to get on with things. Teaches you what to look for in the next relationship. You’re not sure you’re healed, though.
Proving she knows you far better than she should, your assistant guesses correctly. Chan is the reason you don’t date other attorneys. Yes, it’s an ex relationship from law school before becoming attorneys. Still, the rule applies. After all, school isn’t what caused things to fall apart. You can’t help but think about when things were still good. Full of that cautious optimism that you could face whatever comes next together. It’s funny, in hindsight, how typical it all feels now.
As they say, though, the only way out is through. You try to keep hold of that energy as you prepare for a new week where you’ll get (re) acquainted with a new coworker. Try not to overthink that he’s going to be joining your team. Really, how else could it go? It’s not like the universe could take it easy on you and at least send him to another team. Not like you can fault him for wanting to come to a firm with so much name recognition. A firm, you remind yourself, that he also wanted four years ago.
When you wake up before your alarm, you figure you might as well do something with the nervous energy that won’t leave you alone. You don’t usually put a lot of effort into getting ready on the days you know you’ll just be in the office. It’s also the first Monday of the month, which means that the day starts with a team meeting run by your senior partner. You’ll be seeing Chan first thing in the morning. That’s definitely not the reason you take a little extra time picking out your outfit and doing your makeup, though. And definitely not the reason you woke up early.
Another positive about waking up a little earlier is that you have plenty of time to go to the good coffee shop. It’s not out of the way. It’s just popular. While you’re waiting in line, you fire off a quick text to your assistant telling her that coffee and a treat is on you, but she’ll have to wait to see what it is. You at least bring her coffee frequently, a fact that apparently makes some of the other assistants envious. Unfortunately, there’s not much you can do about the other attorneys beyond encouraging them. Taylor saves your ass on a weekly basis and you would be completely lost without her. Coffee seems like the very least you can do.
(When you actually get to the office and find her desk, you’re regretting your decision a little. Taylor wouldn’t be the best assistant imaginable if she didn’t know you inside and out. Of course it’s too much to ask that she let you live. No. Instead, she’s roasting you for looking so nice for the monthly meeting before she even thanks you for the coffee and pastry. Doesn’t actually thank you until you’re turning around to go into your office.)
Once it’s time for the meeting, you head over to the big conference room with Taylor since the first part is for the full staff before just the attorneys meet to catch up on the month ahead. You can feel Chan’s presence when you walk into the conference room before you see him. Or maybe it’s that you can feel a different energy. Others on the team are interested in meeting the new addition, which makes it easier to just quietly grab your seat. Taylor, thankfully, keeps her face impassive. For all the times she clowns you privately, she never does it when others could be involved. It’s part of why you love her so much.
You can’t stop yourself from glancing over at Chan, though. He looks exactly the same and somehow entirely different. His warm eyes still light up in the same way you remember when he smiles. Older though. Maybe a little bit wiser. But, his eyes still crinkle in the same way when he laughs. He’s still got that smile that makes everyone around him want to smile. His style is still mostly the same, just more expensive. Designer suits replacing something off the rack. Yet, he does it in a subtle way. Something unassuming that makes him seem quietly confident rather than arrogant. His hair isn’t dyed anymore, which makes sense in the situation. You’re just glad to see that he hasn’t cut it too short either.
It takes a moment to clock that he notices you looking at him. You spare him a small smile. One that would only seem forced to someone that knows you. Then, you cast your eyes down at the agenda on the pretense of finding it interesting. Ignore the way Taylor shifts from her position next to you. You can do this. There isn’t a choice. You’re going to get through this meeting and then continue to get through it all one day at a time.
The first part of the meeting is the same as always. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth noting. Well, except for the senior partner praising Taylor for stepping up to help with a few cases. You had already taken her out to say thank you (on the firm’s dime), so this just feels like a way to boost her confidence even more. The next month doesn’t seem to be out of the ordinary, all things considered, so the first portion of the meeting runs quickly.
The second half is a little more difficult to get through. Once it’s only the attorneys, it’s harder to ignore Chan’s presence. Especially given that a large part of the meeting focuses on him stepping into his new case load. He’s replacing another associate, Henry, that decided to quit the legal field entirely out of the blue. Too burnt out. Not enough work-life balance. Just not his speed. It’s the usual list of reasons. He had, at least, stayed on long enough to tie up loose ends enough for the firm to find a replacement. That’s where Chan gets to come in. If he minds, he doesn’t show it. Only seems eager to prove himself. Your senior partner seems delighted. You wish that you had someone to turn to for support.
By the time the meeting winds down, you think that you might have managed to get out relatively unscathed. You still have to work with your ex. His office is still going to be right next to yours. But, you don’t have to interact with him beyond the niceties. Then, the senior partner calls your name as everyone gathers their things and your heart sinks.
“Yes?”
He turns to Chan with almost a fatherly smile. Of course. There’s always a familial smile when another man joins the team. You almost bite the inside of your cheek to help keep a neutral expression. To turn off the subtitles that your face comes with, as Taylor would put it. It’s a perfect mask when your boss turns back to you.
“I hear you and Chan were in the same class,” he starts and you feel the forced smile slip into place.
“That’s right,” you say in a falsely cheery tone.
“Why don’t you show our new ace around?”
“Oh, I…”
“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” Chan interjects and throws you an unreadable look. “I’m sure everyone here is busy.”
“Oh, nonsense. Nobody here knows Henry’s case files better than her. Those two were always putting their heads together. My best duo on the team.” the senior partner says. “His assistant will be able to get you to a point, but it’s good to have another set of eyes. What do you say?”
“Of course,” you answer after a moment. “Anything for the team.”
“Great,” he says and claps Chan on the back. “I’ll just leave the two of you to catch up.”
“So,” Chan says as soon as the door closes. Sticks his hands into his pockets and looks down. Like he’s the one who’s got the right to feel anything here.
“Henry kept things really organized and his assistant is actually great if you want to keep her,” you say.
“Oh, yeah. Well, I said I would.”
“Great. Your new office is this way.”
You walk past him without a second glance and trust that he’s following you. A moment later, he falls into step and you point out the different areas he might need. Conference rooms, a room with physical law volumes and past case law if he wants hard copies, one of the break rooms that’s closest. He nods along, but doesn’t say much.
When you reach his office door, you push it open and indicate for him to step in before you. It’s relatively sparse since Henry moved out of it. He left behind the desk, chair, and wooden cabinet that the firm paid for, as well as his own couch and coffee table.
“I’m sure the partners spoke to you about a budget if you’d like to replace anything,” you say, casting your eyes over the space. It feels empty, cold. Henry kept so many personal touches and reminders of life outside the office that you weren’t surprised when he shared that he was leaving. Your boss also hadn’t been lying. It’s hard to make friends at work, but Henry definitely qualified.
“They did,” he confirms as he looks around. His eyebrows knit together and he frowns a little. “I like what’s already here, actually. It feels…”
“Functional?”
“Familiar.”
“Oh.”
He turns to look at you and it’s the first time you realize you’re not the only person struggling in this situation. You take a deep breath before you can meet his eyes again.
“I, uh, I helped him pick it out,” you say and Chan raises his eyebrows. “The furniture.”
“Makes sense why it feels familiar.”
Part of him looks uncomfortable at the conversation and it takes you a minute to realize why. You’re speaking before you can even consider why it matters for him to know you were only friends.
“His partner absolutely vetoed taking it with him when he quit. Said they didn’t need reminders of the office,” you say with a fond laugh. Watching Henry meet his partner and fall in love had been wonderful.
Chan seems a little lighter, yet still unsure. “Sounds like he found what he was looking for.”
Your final year of law school hasn’t been easy, by any stretch. What they say is true, though. Your first year scares you to death. Second year works you to death. And third year bores you to death. So it hasn’t been easy, exactly. But, you feel like you’re sitting well with a job locked in (as long as nothing crazy happens with final grades), classes that feel more manageable, and a boyfriend that you love more than anything by your side. Every once in a while, you get a nagging feeling in the back of your mind. Like there’s something you should know or something you missed. You chalk it up to nerves about the future. As someone who likes a plan and likes to know what’s coming, it’s a little unnerving at times. Even with as prepared as you are. It’s impossible to plan for everything.
That becomes painfully obvious when you’re meeting with your advisor at the end of the year. She’s been a pillar of support for you over your time as a student. It’s been a different relationship to the ones you’ve had with previous advisors. Probably because she knows that you’re about to be an equal and treats you like one. That’s how all three years of school have been.
Just as you’re finishing up lunch, she turns the conversation to post graduation plans. Something you’re expecting, but not quite prepared for.
“Are you getting excited about getting into the legal world?”
“I think so,” you say. “Nervous and I hate that I’m going to be so separated from Chan, but I feel really fortunate to have gotten my top choice firm.”
“It was incredible that he did that for you,” she says and your brow furrows. Chan has been an incredible help throughout school, but you’re not sure what he has to do with you getting an offer. Your confusion must be plain on your face because your advisor continues. “I heard about him turning them down. He found out if he turned it down, then you’d get the call next.”
“He…what? He turned down the position so I could…”
Your brain is spiraling out of control trying to process the information. A million thoughts fight for dominance at the speed of light. Why would he do something like that without even telling you? Did he think that you couldn’t get a good position without his help? Did he think you would try to talk him out of doing it? He would probably have been right about that, at least. There’s no way you could have let him turn it down if it was something he wanted as well just so that you could have it. Not only because it’s not fair to him, but also because now it feels tainted to you. Undeserved. Like something you almost want to turn down even though you can’t this late in the year. Not now when plans are in place and you don’t have a fall back option.
Then, there’s the fact that you feel betrayed by the person you love the most in the world. Maybe that’s not fair. It’s still how you feel. He’s kept this from you for months. Told you that he didn’t get the position at all and focused on a position across the country. Didn’t even discuss what would make the most sense for the both of you as a couple. He decided something that impacted both of you. If he hadn’t turned it down, he could have accepted. Sure, part of you would have been envious. The other part of you knows you had another offer waiting that would have kept you both in the same area. It feels like the walls are collapsing in on you.
“I’m so sorry. I thought you knew…” she begins and you just shake your head. Try to blink back the tears of too much information pouring in at once.
“It’s fine. I have to go.”
The only thought you have is to get back to your apartment to find Chan. He should be home because he’s got the afternoon off from classes and he doesn’t like staying on campus if he doesn’t have to any more than you do. Too much tension. Too much stress.
He clocks that something’s wrong as soon as you come in the door. At first, he assumes it’s just that you’re sad about the end being so close and saying goodbye to your advisor. When he tries to offer a hug as comfort, you shrug out of it. Hurt flashes across his face and it makes your heart constrict. He’s the last person in the world you ever want to hurt. The last person in the world you ever thought would hurt you.
He did, though. Whatever his intentions were, he hurt you and has been keeping a secret for nearly the entire school year. It throws all your trust issues right back into the forefront of your brain. One-sided conversations chase each other around. Each worse than the last. Only one thought breaks through, though. And it’s probably the wrong decision. Yet, you’re going to make it anyway.
“I can’t do this,” you say to him without meeting his eye.
“Can’t do what? Graduate? Study for the bar exam?”
“No, this, Chan. You and me. I can’t do it.”
It’s obviously the last thing he expects. He steps back from you like he’s been slapped. And there’s the downside of knowing someone as well as you know him. You watch as the gears turn in his brain and he cycles through a million thoughts or feelings. Feel everything along with him.
“What?” is all he manages to say.
“I think we’re just fooling ourselves,” you say. A lie. A total and complete lie. You’re a coward. It’s easier for you than the truth, though. Easier than giving him a chance to justify a decision he made for both of you without asking you.
“I don’t understand…”
“We’re going to be so far apart. This first year after school, it’s so important. We’re going to be killing ourselves to make an impression. There’s no way we’re going to be able to figure out once a month weekends and working remote. I don’t even think we’ll be able to commit to regular FaceTime calls with the time difference.”
“Where is this coming from? We’ve talked about…”
“I know what we’ve talked about,” you cut through. It comes out sharper than you intend and you take a breath to steady yourself. “I know. I just also know how this could go. One of us misses a call from the other. Texts get more staggered. It’s harder to hold space for someone who’s not there while trying to make connections in a new position.”
“I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but we love each other.”
“Is that enough?”
It’s the second time he pulls back like he’s been slapped. If only you could tell him that you’re hurting yourself just as badly, maybe worse, than you’re hurting him.
“I think it’s enough. We’ll never know until we try though.”
“You took the position across the country.”
“Because you encouraged me to take it!”
“Of course I did!” you shout back, tears spilling over now. Chan goes to wipe them away before pulling his hand back. The tension hangs thick as you gather your thoughts. “I wouldn’t ever ask you to sacrifice your career or mine. I couldn’t.”
You see it. Just for a second. Know he’s wondering about a double meaning to your words. He shakes his head. Clears the look off his face.
“I didn’t see anything as sacrificing my career. We knew this was going to be complicated and I just figured we’d work through it together. If I’d have known the distance would be a deal breaker, I never would have accepted that job.”
“And I never could have lived with myself if you missed that opportunity,” you say softly. It’s an impasse. You’re picking a fight on an issue you know he’ll believe because it’s easier. Cleaner.
“It would have been my choice,” he says, eyes trying to convince you of the things he can’t say.
“I don’t want to end up hating you, Chan. I don’t want to end up resenting you because the distance is too hard.”
“So you’re going to break up with me instead?”
The question is a little derisive and the emotion looks all wrong on his face. That’s not the soft, kind, caring face you know. But, you’re the one that put that look on his face. Maybe it’s your punishment for being too scared to have the real fight.
“I know how it sounds. I still have love in my heart for you. I just think this is what’s best for us so that we can…I don’t know, save some of this.”
“Some of what?”
“This. Us,” you say and he just shakes his head.
“I don’t get you,” he admits and that hurts more than anything else. How could he feel that way after all this time?
“I just think…”
“I heard you,” he says sharply. And then he looks at you with another face you don’t recognize. One that’s hard and cold. “If you don’t think this is going to work, I know better than to try and change your mind. You’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met…”
“I’m not stubborn.”
He smiles despite himself at that. So on brand for you. “It’s always been one of the things I loved most about you. But, because I love you as much as I do, I can’t pretend to be less than this with you. I can’t go back to some semblance of a friendship when I know what it’s like to love you and be loved by you.”
Your heart stops for a second. Even though you started this, you’re not sure you want to finish it. Can’t imagine a life that doesn’t contain Chan at all, even though you’re so hurt by him. “Are you saying it’s all or nothing?”
“Yes.”
The simple answer says far more than you expect. You look down so that he can’t read the conflicting emotions on your face. It doesn’t matter. He still closes the distance, finally, and puts a finger under your chin to lift it up. Wipes the tears away from your face so gently. Presses a kiss to your forehead that only makes you hurt more. For a second, you reconsider everything.
“I don’t understand, but if this is what you want. What you really want. Then, okay. I just can’t go back to only being your friend. I need to protect my heart, too.”
There’s nothing left to say. You just wrap your arms around Chan and consider it’ll be the last time you feel his warmth enveloping you. It’s somehow the most dramatic and least dramatic break up that you can imagine. It feels both settled and unsettled. That’s probably what happens when you don’t have the strength to have the real fight. When you pick something that’s still real without being the whole picture.
It’s a little frustrating to watch Chan charm literally everyone in the office so quickly. Especially because his office is right next to yours and you can see the stream of people that pop in and out. Especially your coworkers who go to him to talk through cases now. Instead of you. Which is extra annoying because you’ve been here longer. Worked your ass off to prove yourself from being a junior associate to now. Whereas Chan benefits from a good reputation right off the bat. Granted, it’s not entirely the same thing. He’s new to the firm, but not the practice of law. So, it tracks that he doesn’t need to go through the same things you did joining straight out of school. The rational part of you knows he probably dealt with that at his original firm. Doesn’t make it any less annoying, though.
Everyone just instantly likes him. And that’s not really that surprising, either, is it? In so many ways, he’s still exactly the person you knew and loved in law school. The person that could make anyone feel comfortable. The one that liked to be at the center of things. Always happiest surrounded by people. It’s no different now, which makes it hurt that much more. So much of him still feels so familiar to you years later. It makes the memories harder to keep tucked away in a little box. He’s grown, sure, like you know that you have as well. He’s still inescapably Chan, though. The time since school hasn’t hardened him. Hasn’t made him jaded. Wiser, maybe. A little more cautious in things, sure. Still upbeat despite that. When you put aside all the pain it brings back to the front, you can admit that you understand why people accept him so immediately.
After a day filled with too many meetings and phone calls, you decide to stay late to catch up on some cases. Even though you know you can also work from home, sometimes it just feels easier to stay at the office. You know yourself. Once you settle down on your couch with your laptop and the TV in front of you, you’re far less likely to be productive. Far more likely to scroll or talk to friends or watch something. So, you close your door, put some headphones on, and get to work.
By the time you look up again, it’s just after 8 o’clock and you’re not sure when it got so late. If not for the grumble of your stomach, you may have just kept working. As it is, you consider if there’s anything in the break room that can hold you over. You’re so close to feeling caught up that it feels like a shame to go home and break the flow. You stretch out your limbs and stand to go on what feels like a pointless mission. There’s so rarely anything worthwhile in the breakroom because it gets snatched up immediately. What you’re not expecting, though, is to open the door to your office and nearly run into a very surprised looking Chan.
His eyes go wide and he steps back, hand falling to his side. It seems like he was about to knock on your door. The surprise of not being alone in the office turns into surprise at seeing him outside of your office. There’s a bag in his other hand that looks like some kind of takeout. You pull your headphones off your head and the silence of the office washes over you. That same silence stretches awkwardly between you and your ex.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he starts.
“It’s fine. I didn’t realize anyone else was still here,” you say. Awkward. It’s so awkward and stilted between the two of you now.
“Ah, yeah, I still feel like I’m trying to get a handle on some of these cases,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. It’s a stark contrast to the confident Chan you know and see around the office. “I saw your light on under your door.”
“I was just catching up on some cases. It’s always something,” you say and he chuckles a little in agreement.
He holds up the bag of food and you finally realize it’s from a place around the corner that you love. “I figured you probably hadn’t eaten either and there’s nothing good in the break room.”
“That’s where I was headed.”
“I ordered something for you when I was ordering for myself and I was just gonna drop it off so I didn’t bother you…”
You sigh in resignation and step to the side to make room in the doorway. “Come on in. We can eat together.”
“Really? I don’t want to…”
“It’s fine,” you say and cut it off before he can make it more awkward. Can’t fully resist making a joke. “I know how much you hate to eat alone, anyway.”
“Which is very reasonable,” he retorts and you roll your eyes. He sits down at the small table you have and you put your headphones on your desk. Then you settle down at the table with him.
“This place is good.”
That makes him look up from his task of pulling containers out of his bag. Seems to surprise him a little. “You eat here?”
“Not all the time. It’s just close so I’ll order it sometimes for lunch or if I’m staying late.”
“Huh. I’ve only had it once so far, but figures it’s a place you like,” he says and chuckles. It puts you a little on edge, though.
“What does that mean?” you ask, more bite than you intend. He looks like a deer in headlights for a minute and you remember being 1Ls together. Fight the urge to apologize.
“Oh, just, nothing,” he says and quickly regains his composure. “I just meant…never mind.”
“No, sorry,” you say. Let the tension go from your shoulders. “It’s just that this is…”
“Hard?”
“And a bit weird, yeah,”
“We work together now and I get it’s weird. I’m not going to bring personal stuff into work, but I also can’t pretend I didn’t know you better than anyone in the world when it’s after hours like this and we’re the last two here,” he says and you look down into your lap.
“I didn’t realize everyone else had already left,” you say because it’s easier than what’s on your mind.
“Seems like we’re the only hard workers,” he jokes and you roll your eyes. At least it feels like you can look up again to take in the food.
“What did you order, anyway?”
In response, Chan pushes some of the food over to you. Of course, it’s one of your go-to orders on the menu. Something you’re not sure you can admit to the ex sitting across from you. Some things really don’t change.
“If you don’t want that, I also got…”
“No, it’s…exactly what I usually get.”
You pull the food towards you, realizing that you are kind of starving now that you’re sitting down to eat something. Once again, Chan seems to follow your lead. Lets you set the pace and tone. The two of you eat for several minutes in silence that doesn’t feel that comfortable. Once upon a time, it would have felt as natural as breathing. Now, for all the ways he’s the same, he’s also a stranger to you. When you meet his eye, you wonder if he’s thinking all the same things as you. Wonder if he’s thinking about your relationship and when it all fell apart. Wonder why he came to this firm when he probably could have gone anywhere. Wonder how you’re going to get through all of this.
“We can’t keep acting like we don’t know each other,” he says softly. So much for the silence.
“I’m not acting like I don’t know you, Chan,” you say. Tired. This whole thing takes up entirely too much space in your brain.
“No?”
“Of course not. Everyone knows we went to the same school. I’m not pretending we didn’t know each other. I’m just pretending we weren’t…”
“In a relationship?”
Same old Chan, you think. There’s just something about him that always cuts through everything to the point. Which, of course, makes a good lawyer. But, he also manages it in a way that doesn’t sound arrogant. Makes it sound like he just cares about the answer.
“I guess, yeah,” you admit. “I don’t really need the partners clued into my personal life like that.”
“Is that the reason?”
There’s something unreadable on his face. Something you can’t place no matter how hard you try. Maybe it’s a hardness. A sense of the walls going up. It feels foreign when he still looks so much like the person you loved.
“I don’t really want people to know that the person who broke my heart now has the office next to me. So, yeah, I’d say it’s the reason,” you say and watch the shock take over his face. Maybe it’s too honest. Maybe you shouldn’t…
“The person who broke your heart?” he asks and it stops your spiral short.
“Yes?”
“I broke your heart?”
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s some bullshit revisionist history you’ve got going on there.”
That brings you up short as well. Revisionist history? For saying he broke your heart? It occurs to you, then, that you didn’t ever give him the real reason. Surely, though, after all this time he must know. Must have worked it all out. He’s always been one of the smartest people you know.
“I’m not sure how…” you start.
“You broke my heart. That’s how I remember it. And I’m still here trying to follow your lead and bringing dinner because I know you forget to eat when you get too focused,” he says and your eyes widen.
“I am sorry that I broke it off so suddenly back then. I guess I just figured after all this time that you’d…”
“Be over it?”
“Have figured out why I really broke up with you.”
Now it’s his turn to look a little surprised. You hate it though because it makes him look younger. Reminds you of the person you fell in love with. “You could have talked to me about whatever was going on.”
“Funny, I could say the same of you.”
“We talked about everything.”
“Yeah, I thought so too,” you say and hate that it still comes out sounding bitter.
“What are you talking about?”
For his part, he does look confused. Does genuinely seem like he’s not sure what you mean. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse. Probably worse, you think. Maybe he doesn’t dwell on the relationship the way you do. Or maybe he didn’t know you as well as you thought to be able to work out your thought process. Maybe you just should have had the real fight.
Enough. It’s been long enough. One of you needs to bridge this gap and it’s long past time for a candid conversation. Even if nothing else changes, the two of you need to clear the air. “I thought we talked about everything. I thought things were good.”
“They were,” he insists. “It came totally out of the blue when you…”
“Did you think I would never find out?” you ask suddenly, cutting across him. You look around the office and take in all the signs of your hard work over the past four years. Before he can answer, another thought escapes. “I thought this firm was everything I wanted back then.”
“I know,” he says softly and you look back at him.
“How could you do that without talking to me? How could you think I wouldn’t find out?” you ask and see the realization hit him. Watch the moment that his whole body slackens. Watch the way his mouth opens and closes. The way he frowns in thought. The way he leans back in his chair like he’s buying time to figure out what to say. There was a time, years ago, that he would just say something right away. This new, more thoughtful version of him is a sign that you’re both older now.
“What was I supposed to say? You would have tried to talk me out of doing it,” he says as if that’s a valid reason.
“Of course I would have!”
“See?”
“How is that a ‘see’ moment?”
“Because it was your dream position and you wouldn’t have let me make this decision if you had known.”
You frown. Take a beat to collect your thoughts. If you’re having this conversation, it needs to be right. You need to say the things you should have said back then. It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts, during which Chan is, thankfully, silent.
“I know I wanted it, but you wanted it too. It shouldn’t have been something you decided without me,” you say and hold up your hand when he opens his mouth. He falls silent again. “It was a conversation. If you still decided to give up the offer, then that would be your decision. I still deserved to know, though. I had other options I was nearly as excited about close by. You didn’t.”
Chan waits for a moment. Probably to see if you’re done speaking. Or possibly to weigh his next words. “Are you telling me that you would have let me give this firm up if I had told you?”
“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug. It’s honest, at least. “I just know you can’t make decisions like that on your own. We were supposed to be a team. Then to just get blindsided with the information at the end of the year…”
“Yeah, how did you find out?” he asks and you give him a withering stare. He throws up his hands. “Sorry, I’m just curious.”
“My advisor mentioned it in our meeting and that was another whole level of feeling betrayed because there were all these people who apparently knew. Who thought that I knew.”
“I am sorry for causing you to feel betrayed,” he says after a moment.
“It was just…a lot,” you admit. “Like, I felt like you didn’t trust me. Then, I felt like you thought I couldn’t get in here without a leg up from you. And I felt like our relationship wasn’t that important because by giving up this offer, you took one that took you clear across the country.”
“I don’t think there was a right answer to that, honestly,” he says and you raise your eyebrows. “Even if I had talked to you, I’m not sure if there was any right answer. If I took the position and you took one of your backups, I would worry you resented me for getting it over you. If I still ended up turning it down, I’d worry you wouldn’t feel like you could enjoy deserving it. Or we would still break up because of the distance.”
“I guess that’s a fair point,” you concede.
“I am sorry,” he reiterates. “I didn’t stop to consider how you would feel if you found out. I just wanted you to have everything you deserved.”
“I appreciate that,” you start. Take a deep breath because you know you have something to say as well. “I’m sorry, too. I was so hurt that I never stopped to consider that I was also hurting you by not talking to you.”
“We kind of fucked that one up, huh?” he asks and you chuckle.
“We really did,” you agree.
“So, friends?” he asks, eyes hopeful. You roll your eyes again, though there’s less irritation behind it now.
“Don’t push it.”
Things mostly feel easier after clearing the air with Chan. Outwardly, nothing really seems that different apart from the two of you working together more. Then again, most of the firm doesn’t know you’re also exes. Taylor notices the shift in interaction, of course, but doesn’t comment on it beyond giving you a look when she clocks that you’re being nicer. It’ll probably be one of those things that she keeps in her back pocket until the right time. A complete demon and yet you know there’s nobody better out there.
The following weeks pass in kind of a blur. Work carries on. Cases move forward. It’s actually kind of nice to be on speaking terms with Chan again because he’s an incredible sounding board. One that knows how your brain works. One that can point out the flaws in your thought process without you ever voicing them because he’s seen you work through countless case studies before. And one that’s equally willing to reassure you when you’re already on the right track with handling a case. It’s not that you really question it often. Sometimes, one little detail throws the entire plan off and it can be difficult to tell if that detail actually matters or if it’s just something to downplay.
That’s when other attorneys on the team start to notice what they assume is a growing friendship with you and Chan. Without knowing the history, it looks like the two of you bond quickly. Sure, most reason it away. Assume that you must have at least hung out sometimes going to the same school. A couple wonder if there’s something else going on. Something Taylor assures you that she shuts down quickly. According to her, it comes from a couple of the other assistants and paralegals that find him attractive. Can’t fault them for something that is obvious and, objectively, true. You still have eyes even if you’re trying to navigate a friendship with your ex in very unusual circumstances.
The man in question pops his head into your office one Friday afternoon. You’re expecting the usual case question. Although, sometimes he does switch it up and say something just entirely off the board. Every few days he seems to just come up with something ridiculous to ask you to catch you off guard.
“Are you going to the happy hour after work?” he asks. Apparently, today it isn’t either of the usual suspects. It makes you look up from your computer. “Joshua just asked if I wanted to come and he said you’re usually hit or miss.”
“Of course he did,” you say with a shake of your head. Joshua is the team lead for your group and probably on track to be a partner down the line. Despite that, he’s still incredibly easy to be around. The kind of guy you probably wouldn’t realize is an attorney without knowing. He’s also perpetually trying to get everyone out together to unwind outside of work. Thankfully, he also keeps everything within the team and never repeats it to the partners. Too good for a place like this, you think. “No, I’m not going. Not this time.”
“Oh is it…is it lame?” Chan asks after he steps into your office so he can drop his voice.
“What?” you ask, surprise evident. “No, not at all. I really like Joshua. He just loves to gossip within the team when I don’t show up for the happy hour.”
“Ah,” Chan says and smiles. He looks behind him and then drops his voice again. “So, it’s safe to go, then?”
“Oh, definitely,” you say softly in return. “Honestly, you can trust going whenever he invites you because he’s intentional about it.”
“Good to know,” Chan says and straightens back up. “Why aren’t you going then?”
“Oh, uh,” you say. Hesitate. The actual reason is that you’re going on a date. Is that something you share with your ex, though? Probably, if you’re trying to navigate a friendship. It’s not like he’s waiting for you to give him another chance. You’re coworkers and working back to some kind of friendship. It’s the kind of thing you would share with Joshua if he asks.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry.”
You shake it off and put on a smile. “No, it’s fine. I just have a date tonight.”
“Ah,” Chan says and it sounds different from the earlier one. That face that was once an open book is unreadable now. Then, a bright smile. “First date?”
“Uh, no, actually. We’ve been out a few times,” you say and Chan nods along. You’re not sure why you carry on. That’s really all he needs to know. “It’s tough with our schedules, though, you know?”
“Yeah, dating is hard. I haven’t been on a date in ages,” he says and then seems to cringe a little. Maybe a little unsure why he’s sharing that with you of all people.
“Maybe you’ll meet someone at happy hour,” you say awkwardly. Chan looks at you for a moment to process the last comment and you want to kick yourself.
“You never know,” he says with a falsely bright smile and a shrug. “Maybe I’ll see you at it next time.”
“Yeah, for sure,” you agree.
Just like that, he’s out of your office and you want to crawl under your desk to die. No such luck when Taylor walks in and shuts the door behind her under the guise of talking through the upcoming schedule. It’s not unusual. In fact, it’s something you do multiple times a week. It’s not her reasoning this time, though. This time, she informs you that she heard the entire conversation with Chan (because she was intentionally eavesdropping outside the door). Naturally, she shares her thoughts after hearing you call her a demon for the hundredth time.
Then, because the universe is fair, Joshua pops his head into your office just after Taylor leaves to mention happy hour. It’s a small comfort that he doesn’t know you have a date because it means that Chan isn’t talking about it. But, you have to share the date news with Joshua as well and deal with all his teasing over it. At least it’s good natured. Joshua seems to accept this excuse for not going without missing a beat. Even wishes you luck and commiserates that dating sucks. It really reinforces why you think he’s such a good guy.
After that interruption, the rest of the day thankfully passes without any other awkward moments. It feels like a small victory that you wrap up your day without falling through a hole in your office waiting to swallow you (and any ensuing embarrassment). Briefly, you consider popping your head into Chan’s office as you’re locking up your own. Can see his door is still open, meaning he probably hasn’t left for the happy hour yet. But, Joshua comes around the corner with his signature smile and you settle for calling out a generic wish for a good weekend. Once he gets a little closer, you jokingly tell him to behave himself at happy hour and not to get the team too drunk. Because things aren’t entirely fair, Chan appears in his doorway during this and gives you another smile. You tell them to have fun again and make as quick a departure as possible without it being more awkward.
Once you leave the office, you know you cannot focus on anything going on there. Cannot consider the happy hour or who’s going to be there. It’s hard enough to date as it is and the last thing you need is to let yourself get distracted from a genuinely good person. Parker’s a nurse in pediatrics and he actually cares about kids. Doesn’t get hung up the way some doctors seem to with some kind of God complex. All he wants is to help kids feel healthy and safe. And more than that, he actually cares about people. Wants everyone to have the same access to basic human rights like food, housing, education, safe conditions, opportunities, etc etc etc. He listens when you speak and actively seeks out your opinion. If this is how he approaches you after only a handful of dates, you wonder what he’ll be like down the line?
Even though Parker’s schedule can be crazy, it feels like he’s intentional when he sees you. Keeps his phone tucked away and gives you his full focus. Only a true work emergency could interrupt your time, something he stresses as a non-negotiable for him. How can you know if it’s something serious if you don’t give it a chance? Each new date shows that he does actually listen and tries to put a little of each of you into the plans. And you love his philosophy of not going out to dinner on the first date because it can force awkward conversations or even worse silences. By the time the second date comes around and he takes you to dinner, it does feel so much easier. Parker seems like he checks off all the boxes on the list you insist doesn’t actually exist.
There’s only one problem. Well, can you call it a problem if you’re not sure what the problem actually is?
Parker is perfect both on paper and seemingly in person. A great match for you. Someone who respects you and everything that you want. Someone who makes you laugh and is considerate and kind and smart and insanely attractive. Yet, despite all the reasons you know that he’s perfect, you still feel like something is missing. There’s something that’s just…not there. He’s not the guy you settle for. Nobody who dates him could ever consider it settling.
So why does that feel like what you’re doing?
By the time you end up back at work on Monday, you’ve mostly put any weirdness from the end of the previous week behind you. It’s amazing what a good therapy session (read: brunch with your closest friends) on a Sunday can do. You’re just feeling a little off having your ex working on the other side of your office wall. It’s to be expected, really. Everything is going to be fine. Your relationship with Parker will keep growing. Seeing Chan will get easier. You repeat it to yourself all the way to work and believe it by the time you get there. You walk into your office and offer smiles on your way.
This is going to be a good week.
Or, is it? You consider a lot of things for the upcoming week. Your team lead coming into your office in the first hour of new week doesn’t make the list. Yet, there he is. Looking as put together as always. Eyes alight with some kind of concealed mischief. The kind he only lets those he actually trusts see. That sight actually makes you relax back into your chair. Which is likely the opposite of a normal reaction. But you know it means that he’s here to gossip. Probably, at least. Definitely not to talk about work.
“You missed a fun happy hour,” he says and you nearly snort. Of course.
When it’s early in the day (and on a Monday, no less), it’s safe enough to chat. People are so worried about getting the week started that they don’t bother with other people’s conversations. Well, people other than Taylor. But, you trust her and so Joshua does, too.
“You say that every time,” you point out. Because he does.
“This was different.”
He says that every time, too. You don’t need to point it out. Instead, you just play along. It feels like the least you can do for a lead you actually like. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why was it different?”
“Chan, obviously. I cannot believe I haven’t invited him out yet! Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. Gives you a look of mock betrayal and you actually let out a small snort while trying to cover your laugh.
“Tell you what, exactly?”
“That he’s a magnet for attention. He’s so attractive that they just couldn’t stay away.”
It makes your heart constrict for a moment to hear that. You don’t give yourself time to think about why. Not in front of Joshua. You like him a lot, but you’re not ready to talk about that. And he will definitely notice something is up. So you do the only thing that you can think of to disarm him.
“Joshua,” you say, fixing him with a look, “you are an incredibly attractive guy that people can’t stay away from.”
It works. At least enough to cover you for a moment. For all his confidence, he does get shy when you give him compliments. Maybe because he knows you don’t give them out as easily. Or because he knows that you mean it. You’re not prepared for the pout that follows, though you should be.
“Not attractive enough for you to come to happy hour more often, apparently,” he says and you actually roll your eyes.
“I was on a date,” you remind him and he puts a hand to his heart.
“And not with me. You wound me.”
“This is harassment. I’m going to call HR.”
“And say what? Marjorie loves me.”
He’s got you there. She does love him. Everyone loves him, honestly. It’s kind of hard not to with that easy air about him. It’s more impressive knowing how cutthroat he can be on a case.
“You know, Joshua, it kind of sounds like you were just looking for a wingman,” you say and he shrugs, that sparkle back in his eyes.
“Maybe I was,” he admits and leans in. “I don’t think we paid for any drinks after the first one.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you let those poor women buy you drinks?” you ask incredulously.
“Why not?”
“Joshua, I know what you make!”
“Now what kind of a feminist would I be if I told those women how to spend their money?”
“Unbelievable,” you say through a laugh. He laughs along with you before settling down.
“I did actually try to cover it, but they insisted,” he says and you smile along. You know, even without him telling you. That’s just the kind of person he is.
“Maybe I will have to come to the next one. See you in your element,” you say, though the idea fills you with mixed emotions.
“It was nice to get to know Chan, though,” he says after a moment. “I was a little surprised that he didn’t strike up a conversation with anyone. But, I guess we were doing a lot of talking.”
“It’s good for you to get to know a new member of the team,” you say noncommittally.
Joshua looks around and you know that look well. It worries you for a moment. When he determines the coast is, evidently, clear, he leans in and drops his voice. “He actually told me he had a serious girlfriend from law school that took him a long time to get over. That they broke up just before graduating. It seems like he regrets whatever happened. Did you know her?”
At least it’s easy to mask your reaction here because he gives you the perfect out. “Joshua, you are so nosey.”
It doesn’t determine in the slightest. He’s unabashed. “Come on, do you? You were in the same class. You must know who he meant.”
“Sure, I know who he meant,” you say with as much neutrality as you can manage. “The school wasn’t that big. But, I’m not telling you. That’s his business. And it’s been 4 years since we graduated. I’m sure it was just the alcohol talking.”
“I don’t know,” Joshua says, more contemplative for a moment. “It seemed like he’d been thinking about her recently.”
You only hum in response and make a show of looking back at your computer when the ding from Teams lets you know that you have a new message. You roll your eyes. “I swear to god.”
“That looks promising,” he says with an amused chuckle before rising to his feet. He turns back to you at the door. “Were you friends?”
“Hm?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from the screen to look back up at him.
“You and Chan. I know you were in the same graduating class, but were you friends?”
The answer comes quicker than you expect. And comes out sounding neutral, to your surprise. “I’m not sure if friends is quite the right word.”
It’s not a lie. Not exactly. You and Chan were a lot of things to each other, friends certainly being one such thing. But, to say that you were only friends doesn’t feel honest, either.
“Ah, well, glad you seem to be working together now. Don’t forget, we’re doing a team lunch tomorrow so make sure you have your order in before you leave tonight.”
“Got it,” you say and he waves before heading back to his own office.
Another two weeks pass at work. Things don’t feel quite the same as they did with Chan after having that dinner and talking. You’re still getting along well, for the most part. It’s just that he keeps it more professional. Doesn’t act like he knows your mind quite as well. Instead, he gets closer to other members of the team again. It shouldn’t irritate you and yet…
When Joshua tells you that he’s going to kidnap you so you don’t miss the next happy hour, you just agree without issue.
Which is how you end up sitting at a hightop in the bar area with Joshua, watching how some of the other team members interact. It’s actually kind of nice, being out like this. Something you don’t want to admit to Joshua, though he can likely see it on your face. You follow his gaze and see Chan standing at the bar getting another round of drinks with a gorgeous woman trying to get his attention. Try not to let it twist your stomach. Of course, you know that he dates. He should date. But, it’s very different to see someone actively hitting on him.
“See what I mean?” Joshua asks, unnecessarily calling your attention to Chan.
“He’s charismatic,” you say, voice surprisingly even.
“I need him as a wingman.”
“You know what probably isn’t helping you?”
Joshua turns back to you and raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Sitting here with me. People might get the wrong idea,” you say and smile as he barks out a laugh.
“We both know you’re way out of my league,” he says and you laugh harder. “What? You are?”
“Oh, please,” you say between laughs. “How many times have we gone through this?”
“One more doesn’t hurt,” he says, that demonic twinkle in his eyes.
“You wear me out,” you say.
“I could if you’d let me.”
“Stop!”
“I know, I know,” he says, throwing up his hands. “I know the rule.”
“Oh, yes, that’s the only reason,” you retort sarcastically, but you’re smiling.
Nobody else can get away with saying shit like that to you. At least, nobody else that you work with. Joshua gets special privileges, though. Which, unfortunately, he knows all too well. It’s mostly because you know he doesn’t mean it, not really. Maybe, on some level, you would both consider it in another life. Not this one. The two of you work so well as friends and there just isn’t anything more there. No spark. No interest. An appreciation that you’re both attractive. Because, yes, you have eyes and he’s definitely gorgeous. That’s where it ends.
Chan approaches the table, balancing drinks carefully in his hands, and sets them down before either of you notice. When you do, you give him a smile.
“What did I just walk into?” he asks cautiously. Joshua turns to him with that winning smile.
“Oh, just me teasing her,” he says. “I saw you over there getting hit on and had to point out that this one here is way out of my league.”
Your cheeks flush a little. It’s not that you don’t want Chan to realize the way you and Joshua tease each other. It’s just that, well, you don’t want your ex seeing you interact like that with someone else you both work with. It’s awkward. Chan, for his part, seems to feel more awkward about the first comment. Interesting.
“Ah, she wasn’t…” he starts and Joshua cuts him off.
“Man, I saw her. She would have left with you right then and there,” Joshua says.
Awkward. It’s so awkward. Chan slides back into his seat with the two of you and shrugs.
“I’m not interested,” Chan says.
“I know last time you said…” Joshua starts.
“Well, what about you?” Chan cuts across.
“I was just saying that!” you agree. “He’s never going to get any numbers if he’s just sitting here with me.”
“That’s why I said she was out of my league,” Joshua shares with Chan.
“She’s right, though,” Chan says with a shrug.
“Eh, I don’t really come out looking to get numbers, anyway,” he says and you laugh at the surprise on Chan’s face.
“What do you come out for, then?”
You and Joshua share a look before you both start laughing. You’re the first to regain your composure. “The chaos.”
“Nice,” Chan says with a snort.
“Consider yourself lucky. He doesn’t let everyone in so quickly,” you tease.
“No, that’s true,” Joshua agrees easily and then his eyes catch on something. “Oh, hang on. I’ll be right back!”
And then he’s gone. Just like that. Just like so many other times. It feels a little awkward, even with the help of some liquid courage. You’re not really used to being around Chan yet. Not sure if you ever will be.
“Is he always like that with you?” Chan asks after a moment when it becomes clear that Joshua isn’t going to rush back.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Saying things like you’re out of his league.”
You laugh and then realize Chan is at least partly serious. It makes you pull up a little short. “Yeah, pretty much. He doesn’t mean anything by it, so it doesn’t really bother me.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t mean anything by it?”
You fix your ex with an unimpressed stare that makes him throw up his hands in defense. “Yeah, Chan, I’m sure he doesn’t. We’re just friends, as much as you can be working together like this.”
“That makes sense,” Chan says and takes a sip of his drink. “He does seem like the kind of person that you’d be friends with.”
From anyone else, that might sound a little passive aggressive. Or like it means something else. You know what he means, though. Joshua is exactly your kind of friend. Serious when he needs to be, chaotic all other times. It just flows easily. Never feels like work. And somehow, Chan making that observation, makes things feel a little less awkward. At least for the time being.
The night descends further into chaos, in a way that it doesn’t usually when you go out for happy hour. Maybe that’s because happy hour turns into apps. Which turns into more drinks. Which turns into more apps. It even includes a change of scenery from one place to the next when you realize that you all might need to put a little more food into your stomachs. By then, only Joshua, Chan, and you are left. Which actually feels kind of nice. Somehow having Joshua has an unknowing third wheel makes any remaining awkwardness with Chan melt away. Of course, it could also be the alcohol and the light atmosphere.
Eventually, you do all realize that you need to head home and start the process of paying your bills. When you and Chan both go to pull out your phones to order Ubers, Joshua gives you a quizzical look. One you’re not sure you like. Thankfully, he clarifies immediately.
“Why wouldn’t you both just share one?” he asks and your eyes go cartoon character levels of wide.
“Uh,” Chan says and gives you a look.
“You live in the same building,” Joshua carries on and that only confuses you more.
“No we don’t,” you contradict like it’s the silliest thing in the world.
“Yes, you do,” he insists. “Chan told me where he lived last week when we went to happy hour. Skyline Grove?”
“Oh,” you both say at the same time like it’s brand new information.
“I haven’t run into you around,” you say and Chan shrugs. “Weird.”
“It’s a nice building,” Chan says.
“And massive. I should’ve mentioned it, but I figured you’d realize,” he says. “Anyway. Why waste money when you’re going to the same place?”
It’s such a simple suggestion and yet it sends your stomach lurching all the same. The two of you look at each other for a moment, but this is a crossroads. It doesn’t make any sense at all to say no. You and Chan are going to the same place. Of course, you could lie and say you’re actually going somewhere else. Except happy hour went way longer than expected and it’s clear you don’t have other plans. You’re just…not really sure you wanna be alone in a car with Chan when you’re a little buzzed.
“This one’s on me, then?” Chan asks, giving you a surprisingly nonchalant look.
“What a gentleman,” Joshua says and claps Chan on the shoulder. He pulls out his own phone. “That’s usually my title.”
“Because you gave it to yourself,” you mutter, putting your phone away.
“I heard that.”
“I meant you to.”
Thankfully, the Ubers come quickly. Chan opens the door and lets you slide in before him. Something that Joshua doesn’t seem to notice since he’s getting into his own car. You settle into one side of the car and try not to look over to the side next to you. Don’t realize that Chan is having just as much of an internal struggle as you are.
“I didn’t realize we lived in the same building,” he says after the silence starts to feel too heavy.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s one of the nicest places in the area,” you say.
“And there was one of those corner units available. The views are so nice,” he says and you laugh.
“Up on the 18th floor?” you ask and watch the way his brows furrow.
“Yeah…”
“They offered it to me when the last tenant decided not to renew because I’d mentioned wanting to possibly move to a higher floor. But, I’m all settled now,” you say. Then, like you can’t help yourself, you tell him where you live. “I’m in that same unit but on the 10th floor.”
“Well, we always did have similar taste in apartments,” he says with an ironic laugh.
“Guess so,” you say.
“Thanks,” he says suddenly and you turn to look at him. His face is mostly in shadow with it being so dark outside, but your brain fills in the blanks without even realizing it.
“For what?”
“Not making it weird to just share a car.”
“Oh, well, we’re going to the same place.”
“Does he know?”
“Who?”
Chan sighs and fully turns his head towards you. You can read the look in his eyes even in the low light. Or maybe it’s just another thing you remember. “Joshua. Does he know about…”
“No,” you say immediately. “No, Chan, nobody at the office does. Well, apart from my assistant, but she guessed. Joshua isn’t so cruel that he would do that if he knew.”
“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“No, I know you didn’t…”
It’s awkward again. Thankfully, you’re nearly at the apartment building now. It’s also nice that the Uber driver doesn’t comment on the situation. He’s probably seen worse in the city on a Friday night, though. Once he pulls over in front of the building, Chan opens the door and slides out. Holds it open for you to do the same so that you don’t have to get out on the side with traffic.
You’re not really sure what to do now. So, you step forward to scan into the building and hold the door for Chan behind you. The two of you make your way to the elevators in silence. It’s a little surprising to find the lobby so quiet on a Friday night. But, people are probably either waiting until it’s a little later to go out or already wherever they plan to be. It’s that weird in between time. That means that it’s just the two of you in the elevator. Chan presses your floor and then his own. When the door opens, you turn to him and try to find the words. He only smiles.
“See you at work on Monday,” he says and you only nod before heading out. Don’t look back to see the way he watches your back down the hallway.
The whole night just feels a little surreal from the safety of your apartment. You toe off your shoes and set your things down on the table by the door. Only grab your phone and head into the kitchen. Even though you know you should just grab a glass of water, you also pour a small glass of wine. A lot of your buzz has worn off and all you can think about is the car ride. Or the way that Chan looked all night. Or the way that women just seemed to flock to him. Not that the last bit should matter when you’re seeing someone.
Parker. You need to think about Parker. Maybe even check to see if you have any messages from him. Not that you owe him a play-by-play of your whereabouts. It’s one of the things you like about him. That and the freedom that he agrees to so easily. You both have the same philosophy when it comes to dating in your late 20s. Don’t put pressure or labels on something when you’re only a few dates in. But, also don’t leave things lingering without an actual conversation. You know you’re probably getting close to that point of needing to talk. Which is fine, he’s great.
So, why is your brain still wandering back to the way Chan looked at the bar? The way his shirt looked a little tight in places or the way his pants fit. He’s always had a good fashion sense, but…
No. You cannot do this to yourself or you’ll drive yourself crazy. This is a door that needs to stay firmly shut. You’re considering if you should pour yourself a bigger glass of wine when there’s a knock at the door. It at least serves to pull you out of whatever dangerous path your brain wants to go down.
You get up, set the wine glass down on the table, and walk slowly to the door. Forget to check who it is through the peephole before just opening the door. A mistake, obviously, because there he is. The man you can’t seem to get off your mind. The one you know you can’t revisit the past with. He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants. Like he couldn’t wait to change after getting home.
“Sorry, I just…” he starts and the rational part of your brain shuts down completely.
No thoughts, just desires, as you reach forward and grab him by the shirt. Pull him over the threshold and against your body. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest moment before he collects you against his chest and kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Like you can’t remember him ever kissing you before. You nip at his lower lip and he responds by squeezing your ass. Distantly, you register that your door is still open. It seems Chan also realizes it because he crowds further into your space and uses his foot to close the door behind him. Doesn’t break the kiss, though.
It isn’t even really clear which one of the two of you is in control. That, at least, feels normal. Familiar. Even though everything else feels new. He spins the two of you around and backs you up into the door. Claims your mouth as his own over and over. Each kiss more demanding than the last. You slide your hands up under the hem of his shirt and run your hands up his back. Appreciate the way he shivers under your touch. It’s so easy to fall back into this pattern. To remember all the things that drive him crazy.
Seems like it’s just as easy for him to remember. He uses one hand to anchor your hip against the door behind you while he pulls away from your lips. Trails his mouth along your jaw. Tilts your head back with his free hand to give himself better access to your neck. Presses further into you so that he can reach just the right spots there. The ones that make you moan just from the contact. You seek purchase the only place you can: on his body. Digging the tips of your finger into where you hold onto him.
“Chan,” you whine out when he moves down to your collarbone and moves your shirt out of the way.
“Mmmm?” he hums into your skin without stopping.
“This is a terrible idea,” you mumble. Gasp as he reaches for the hem of your shirt.
“Probably,” he agrees, still keeping his lips against your skin. He pulls back to look at you for a moment, pupils dark with desire. His hands are on the hem of your shirt and the question is plain as day in his eyes. “Do you want to stop?”
He’s not asking if you want him to stop. He’s just asking if you want to stop. Because he knows that this is as much on you as on him. Maybe more. You shake your head and move your hands over your head.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you say softly.
Then, he’s pulling your shirt over your head and unfastening your bra. Casts both to the side without a care. And you know that you should move somewhere else, but you’re not sure you can. Not when Chan dips his head to leave sloppy kisses across your collarbones. Not when he kisses down the valley between your boobs. Not when he swirls his tongue around your nipple. Your entire brain goes a little fuzzy. Some things never change. Chan still seems just as obsessed with your chest now as when you dated in law school. And you’re happy to let him give you all of his attention. He can be so singularly focused. In times like this, you certainly don’t mind.
It gets to be too much. You need something more. Makes you pull him back and appreciate the confusion on his face for approximately 2 seconds before you pull his shirt over his head. Not everything about him looks exactly the same. He’s always been someone who took pride in staying in shape. This new, more mature Chan is something different. When he tries to step back and pick up where he left off, you hold him at arm’s length with a hand gently splayed over his chest. Want to just drink him in.
“You can look at me later. I want you now,” he says, voice low and full of desire.
“Should we go further into my apartment, or…?” you start to ask and he shakes his head before you even finish.
“Later,” he says and reaches for your pants. Unbuttons them while he kisses you again. Slower this time. More deliberate. He’s kissing you with purpose. He pulls your pants and panties down in one motion and you step out. Pull his mouth back to yours so that you don’t have to think.
He pulls back again and you pout at him. Doesn’t he know that you don’t want all this in between time? You give him a look that he doesn’t immediately answer, prompting you to ask. “What?”
“Turn around,” he says.
It’s a familiar dynamic between the two of you. A constant push and pull about who gets to be in control. You would give in and then he would and it went on. This feels like falling back into that old pattern. Yet, you agree without questioning it. Just turn around against your front fucking door, like some desperate, horny college student. Feel him slot his body against your back. Feel that he’s hardening. Definitely not hard yet, but you can feel the way he pokes into your ass. Chan brushes your hair over one shoulder and kisses behind your ear. Works down to your pulse point and sucks your skin between his teeth. Thankfully, you don’t have to tell him to be careful. He just is.
And then you see what he’s doing. Get how desperate he is for you. He pushes your legs apart as he continues kissing down your neck. Presses his fingers into your mouth and you suck on them without thinking. Swirl your tongue around his fingers and earn a satisfied hum in response. It vibrates against your skin. Chan winds his hand down your body and between your legs. Presses his spit slick fingers into your entrance.
“Chan, fuck,” you hiss when he presses his first finger in.
“So wet for me, sweetheart,” he whispers into your skin. “Did you miss my fingers?”
“Mmmm, I…” you start, only to moan when he starts pumping into you. Hooks his fingers just the way he remembers you liking it.
“Did you miss this?” he asks, free hand roaming up your body to take one of your boobs into his hand again. Squeezes it a little roughly as he keeps pumping his finger into you.
“You’re a shit,” you manage to hiss out through a moan.
“I’m not sure I heard you,” he says and presses a second finger into you. Alternates between scissoring his fingers inside you and picking up the pace.
“Fuck,” you moan out. He jerks his hips into your ass and you feel that he’s getting harder. You’re not the only one losing yourself here. “God your fingers!”
“That’s what I thought,” he whispers, right into your ear. Moving his lips from your neck just for a moment. You miss the feel of his lips on your skin.
“Oh my god,” you whine and then he does the worst thing imaginable. He pulls his fingers out. You whip your head around to look at him over the shoulder. “What the fuck?”
“Easy, sweetheart, turn around again for me,” he says. Soft and sweet. Totally at odds with the fire burning in his eyes.
You comply even though you don’t want to. You were so close to coming all over his fingers and you don’t want to lose that. The disappointment is short-lived. He drops to his knees in front of you. Right in your hallway. With your back pressing into your front door. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and looks up at you. Presses his tongue flat against your core and you might actually cum just from that. Nobody should be allowed to look that good. That sinful. It’s too much. And that’s before he actually licks into your cunt for the first time.
It’s enough to have you throw your head back against your door. Not too hard, though. Chan doesn’t waste his time. Doesn’t tease you anymore. Just focuses on fucking his tongue into your waiting pussy like he’s been waiting for this chance for years. Uses a finger to tease your clit and hums appreciatively in response to each moan. There’s so little for you to anchor yourself to in this position. Not that you really care. It’s impossible to stay standing, but it would be unimaginably worse to have him stop. Not right now. Not when you’re this close. When Chan brings a finger back up, you’re gone.
“Chan, fuck, no, I’m gonna - fuck!” you shout out as you feel that coil about to snap. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. If anything, he picks up the pace. Does everything that he can to push you over the edge. It doesn’t take long before you’re coming all over his face. He laps it all up. Doesn’t waste any of it. Just works you through your high and pushes you just past.
He’s not completely demonic, though. He does pull back. Gently helps you get your leg off his shoulder and back on the floor. Slowly picks himself up to slot against your body again. Grabs at your hips possessively to pull you into him. Kisses you fiercely and you taste yourself on his tongue. It’s not nearly enough. Not by a long shot. You pull back without creating any space.
“Come on,” you say, finally pushing him a little away from you so that you can step away from the door, “let’s go take this to the bed.”
And it’s easy to fall back into these patterns, too. Easy to grab his hand and pull him into your apartment. Easy to push him back onto your bed after stripping off his remaining clothes. Easy to wrap your fingers around his cock and look at him just the way he likes. Easy to remember just how much he loves your mouth wrapped around him. Easy to bring him just to the edge before pulling off. Easy to see the desire mixed with adoration when you climb on top of him to ride him. Hard and fast. Too needy for anything else.
It’s just so easy to carry on until the early hours of the morning, until you’re both spent, in the dark of your apartment.
Things always feel a little different in the light of day. After a late night, a much later one than anticipated, it’s well into the morning before you wake up. You’re kind of groggy and your body is sore. Tentatively, you start to stretch, only to realize there’s an arm around your stomach. It’s then that you register the feel of a body behind you. Of course Chan is still there. And of course you remember everything from the night before. There’s just a part of you that figured he might have left before you woke up. The steady sounds of his breathing bathe over you. It’s such a familiar sound and it almost feels comforting, just for a moment. At least, until you really stop to think about what all of this might mean.
Gently, you pick up his hand and slide out of your bed. Somehow manage to not wake Chan up. Tiptoe over to the door and slide out of the bedroom. You take a moment to lean back against your closed bedroom door to collect your thoughts. It’s fine. This is all fine. You can definitely figure it all out. Not if you keep standing against the door, though. So, you quietly head into the kitchen. Put on a pot of coffee and retrieve your phone from the living room.
You’re in the midst of scrolling, totally lost in your world, when arms wind around your middle. It startles you for a second before you remind yourself it’s just Chan. He presses a kiss to the side of your face when you turn it slightly. Still makes you feel a little tense. Something he doesn’t seem to pick up on given that he doesn’t move his arms.
“Morning,” he says, voice still thick with sleep.
“Morning,” you repeat. He kisses you again and then untangles himself from you so that he can step around you.
“So, should we dive right in, or…?” he asks.
“At least let me have some coffee first,” you say, only a little exasperation.
“Ah, right. I forgot,” he says and then drops his voice with a smirk. “Doesn’t seem like I forgot much else.”
“I will throw you out,” you threaten.
Chan throws up his hands in surrender, but the look on his face tells you that he’s not sorry. Not really, at least. A moment later, the coffee maker beeps. You reach for a couple of mugs and Chan goes into your refrigerator to get milk and creamer. You pour two mugs and he finishes them off, exactly the way each of you likes. Without another word, you both head into the living room and sit down on the couch. He lets you take a couple of sips before broaching the conversation again.
“So, now that we have coffee,” he starts and you sigh.
“I guess I can’t avoid it,” you agree.
“Avoid it?” he asks, brow furrowing. “Do you regret it?”
“Oh, no, Chan,” you say softly and reach out to him. “No, of course I don’t. It’s just…”
“Just?”
“Complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Chan offers and you search his face. For a moment, he’s just the boy you fell in love with in law school. Open and honest and impossibly easy to read. That makes it a little more frightening, though.
“I think the hardest part for me is that you believe that,” you say carefully. Watch the way his face morphs before returning to something more neutral.
“I mean, why wouldn’t I believe it?” he asks.
You’re not even sure how to answer that. There’s so many reasons. You’re exes. You work together. For the most part, nobody you work with knows Chan is your ex. There are still a lot of unresolved feelings, clearly. You’re technically seeing someone, though not exclusively. It is the easiest direction to go in, though.
“I’m still seeing someone,” you point out and his face falls a little.
“Oh, I just kind of thought…”
“I mean don’t get me wrong. It’s casual. We’re not, like, committed. But, still…”
“Well, if it’s not even serious, then I don’t really see the issue.”
“There are a lot of issues, Chan. We’re just…us. I’m only just getting to know you again.”
“I guess I just kinda figured…” he starts and frowns.
“Figured what?”
“I figured that…I don’t know. I figured when you pulled me in and kissed me last night it might mean that you want the same thing as I do,” he says. Your eyes go a little wide at the admission.
“And what is it that you want?” you ask. Chan gives you a look that you’re not quite used to anymore. One that says you’re a step or two behind and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.
“You,” he says simply and then sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “It’s always been you. It’s always going to be you. It hasn’t worked with anyone else in the last four years because I just can’t get over you. And then this…”
“Chan…”
He shakes his head and stands up. A little sad. Maybe a little defeated. A little resigned. “I’ve said what I need to say. I know you well enough to know that we’re not in the same place. So, I don’t know. I guess figure out where you are and let me know.”
“Chan, please, just give me…” you start and he shakes his head.
“I’m not an idiot. I know we’ve got a lot of things to talk about if we’re going to try again. But, I can’t sit here and act like I don’t love you or last night didn’t mean something different to me. I can’t,” he says, voice wavering ever so slightly.
“Last night meant something to me, too, I’m just…”
“I get it. I’ll see you at work on Monday,” he says and heads off towards your front door without another word. All you can manage to do is sit in the awkward silence that settles around you in his absence. Well, fuck.
You have a lot of things to think about. What to do about Chan. What to do about Parker. That should probably be the first thing that you address, honestly. It’s not serious, but you also don’t want to waste his time. If you can fall back into bed with your ex so easily, then you probably don’t see forever with him. Something you probably already knew, on some level.
It’s all too much and so you do the only thing that any reasonable person can: call your best friend to go out to brunch. At least he can give you so much needed perspective. And from someone whose love life is significantly less messy than yours.
After lunch, and at least partially hearing out your bestie’s advice, you do go ahead and break things off with Parker. Your friend suggests it because, according to him, at least, you’re not over Chan. You decide to go ahead and do it because it seems clear that you and Parker are on different pages. Like the truly great guy that he is, he just accepts it. Appreciates you letting him know and not continuing on if you don’t feel like you’re on the same page. Honestly, he’s the perfect guy for someone, but definitely not for you. All you feel after the conversation is relief. You don’t feel any clearer about Chan, though. Which you point out to your friend, who only seems to think it’s you avoiding it. Whatever.
Your biggest issue is that you’re not sure if Chan is serious. Not sure if you can let your walls down to let him in again. It just all seems kind of sudden to you. After near radio silence for four years, he’s not only back in your life, but at your firm as well. He’s quietly slipping into areas where it’s a little hard to ignore him. Your friend points out that leaving a good job to come to the exact firm you work at doesn’t exactly seem sudden. It doesn’t seem like this is just all on some whim. It also doesn’t seem like it’s driven by you having another relationship, especially given how casual it was. And, sure, it’s scary to take a leap like this. Even scarier when it’s someone you used to know so intimately. Doesn’t that make it kind of worth it, too?
What you don’t admit to your friend, though he can obviously tell, is that you’re scared. Chan is that one person. The one always somewhere in the back of your mind, even when you don’t realize it. Possibly even your one that got away, if you could stop being too stubborn to admit it. In those quiet moments, you also kind of thought of him as your right person at the wrong time. Which is exactly the type of person you should give a second chance to. Things are different now. You’re both older. More established in your careers. Maybe even both able to admit making mistakes.
It’s scary. Giving Chan a chance means risking breaking your heart all over again. And how do you go about picking up the pieces this time?
“Did you and Chan get home okay?” Joshua asks, plopping into his chosen chair across from you in your office on Monday morning. Your brain short circuits for a minute trying to catch up. Does he know what happened? Could he? Thankfully, he mistakes your confusion for being too deep in case prep. “Did you already put the happy hour behind you? I can’t believe you didn’t know you lived in the same building.”
“Oh, yeah,” you say and give a light laugh. Turn back to your computer. “Yeah, it’s crazy. We got home fine, though.”
“Where is he this morning?” he asks and you give him a look.
“How should I know?”
Joshua gives you a kind of knowing look that you definitely do not like. It looks like he’s up to something and you’re not sure you want to know what it is. “You live in the same building. I just figured you’d start carpooling now.”
You roll your eyes, hoping that’s all he’s going for. “You’re annoying.”
“I just like it when my team all gets along.”
“We’re not going to get along if you don’t leave me the fuck alone.”
“Is that any time to talk to your boss?”
“You’re not really my boss.”
“This is a hostile work environment,” he says and stands up, pretending to be serious. He almost pulls it off too.
“This is my office,” you point out.
“Fine, I’ll go bother someone else,” he says and walks towards the door.
“You could also work on your cases,” you call after him.
You know that he’s only like this because it’s a quiet day in the office. The partners are all out, either on vacation or at offsite meetings. It’s that time of year when people try to get little breaks in before things pick up again. It’s also one of your favorite times of year because it’s quieter. Maybe Chan is doing the same thing. Against your better judgment, you click over to the shared calendar and see the first half of his day is blocked off. It makes you panic until you notice that it’s an existing meeting. Something on the schedule from before he even started at the firm.
Then, Joshua sends a text to the team’s group chat (the one without the partners), saying that he hopes Chan feels better soon. It’s clear from the message that they talked privately and that Chan is going to be working from home the rest of the day. Something that Joshua suggests since it is quiet in the office. And, really, there isn’t much that you can’t do at home unless you have in-person client meetings or have to go to court. Everyone sends their well wishes and you include your own so that nothing looks suspicious. Your mind wanders, though. Is he really not feeling well? Or is it because of you? It seems kind of conceited to think that you could have that level of impact on him. Still, you worry. Realize that you care more than you thought.
By the time you leave the office, surprisingly on time, you know what you want to do. At least in part. You swing by a pho place that you love and pick up a couple of bowls to go along with some appetizers. All the things that you remember Chan liking from when you were in school. By the time you make it to his door, you’re questioning if this is really a good idea. Maybe he really doesn’t feel well. Maybe he doesn’t want to see you. Or maybe he’s not even home. Before you can send yourself down another mental spiral, you knock on his door. Almost hope that he’s not home.
Then he opens the door and your heart stutters a little.
He’s not this adorably confused look on his face when he sees you. A mix of disbelief and something else. He’s got his glasses on and his hair is a little messy. Like maybe he might’ve been laying in bed. It should not be doing something to you the way that it is. For all you know, he might really be sick and you’re making it weird. His eyes travel down to the bag in your hand. Finally, he clears his throat.
“What are you doing here?”
You hold up the bag like some kind of peace offering. “I brought pho. Thought you might need something to eat if you’re sick.”
He snorts lightly. Rolls his eyes, yet there isn’t much heat behind it. “I’m not sick. I just didn’t want to come in and see you yet.”
“Oh.”
“Come on in,” he says after a moment. Another sigh. Like he can’t really believe what he’s saying. You have the good sense to look a little sheepish as you slip in behind him. Set the food down for a moment to toe off your shoes and then follow him into the kitchen.
The two of you are quiet as you move around each other to get the food ready. Though he doesn’t say anything about you staying to eat with him, he pulls out utensils and gets you something to drink from the fridge. Warms up your bowl first before doing the same to his own. Helps you set his little table so that the two of you can sit down to eat. Can’t totally help the appreciative look on his face when he opens his bowl and the smell hits him.
“I’m sorry, Chan,” you say when the silence starts to feel like too much.
“That could be about a lot of things,” he says, eyes meeting you hesitantly.
“That’s fair,” you concede. Set down your spoon and give him your full attention. “I’m sorry for Saturday morning. I could have handled that so much differently.”
“I could’ve handled it a lot better, too,” he says after a beat. “Or, you know, not thrown it all on you that way.”
“Did you mean it?” you ask, pushing around the remaining contents of your meal to avoid looking up at him. He pauses long enough that you look up. And it’s just…Chan. Soft smile that makes you want to smile back. Gentle eyes. Open face. The person you remember loving more than anything in the world.
“That it’s always going to be you?” he asks and you nod. “Yes, I did.”
“I’m not sure what to do with that,” you admit.
“Why don’t you just start with how it made you feel?”
“Scared?” you venture and sigh. “Nervous. A little tense. Excited. Homesick.”
That makes him laugh. “Homesick?”
You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “You always felt like home. And then you said that and it was just…I don’t know. I missed the feeling of you being my home.”
“I’ve missed it too. Every day for the last four years.”
“Chan,” you say and laugh affectionately. “I know you have not been just pining after me for years.”
“And if I have?”
“That might be scarier.”
“Why?”
It takes you a minute to formulate your reasoning. “What if it doesn’t work? What if we’re just risking ending up in the same place again? What if I can’t live up to the version in your head? And now we work together…”
There it is again. Chan. Your Chan. The way he looks at you makes you think you could fly if you tried. “What if it does work? Are you really going to tell me you’re too scared to take the chance and get everything we’ve ever wanted? Where’s the girl I fell in love with in law school? She wasn’t afraid of anything.”
“Of course I was,” you disagree, smiling so fondly.
“It’s okay. I’ll hold your hand if you get scared this time,” he says. Confident. Sure. ready to take the leap yet again.
And it’s not the same. Not really. You’ve both had four years to think about everything that happened then and everything that might happen now. To figure out what you want and what you don’t. To figure out how to have the hardest conversations. To take risks because you’re not students anymore. To take a second chance. How often in life do people really get those? Do you really want to turn it down because you’re scared? Do you really want to wonder?
“I just…” you start and he shakes his head. Rises out of his seat and holds his hand out to you.
“Let’s just try something. Without the happy hour or anything else,” he says and you give him a look. But, you want to trust him too. You nod.
Chan closes the remaining space between you. Runs a finger along your forehead to brush a hair off your face. Meets your eyes and there’s this look of intense vulnerability there. Like he means that he can be brave enough for both of you. At least for now. And then he pulls you into him and kisses you. Sweet. Soft. Searching. The kind of kiss that two friends might share if they’re trying to see if there are deeper feelings there. Or maybe it’s the kind of kiss that tests where each of you is now.
Whatever the case, you feel it. Almost instantly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull yourself tighter against him. Deepen the kiss and take the lead. Let your tongue tangle with his. Grasp at him to erase any space. He hums into your mouth as he holds you close. You break the kiss long enough to guide the two of you back to his couch. Urge him to sit down and immediately straddle his lap. Chan looks a little smug as you settle and he grabs your hips. A little like he’s getting exactly what he wants. You might be too, though. You lean in to kiss him again and he meets you hungrily. Not just letting you set the pace, but actively chasing it with you. Chan’s hands grip your hips tightly as you roll against him. Feel the way he groans at the friction.
Honestly, you kind of want to fuck him right here on the couch and don’t even know if you can wait. Would too, if not for the doorbell suddenly ringing through the apartment. You give him a look and find he’s just as confused as you are. Clearly not expecting anyone.
“Will you…” he starts as you shift to get off him.
“Are you expecting anyone?” you ask and he shakes his head.
“Just give me a minute. I’m going to go into the bathroom,” he says.
It’s your turn to nod. You try and smooth down your clothes. Take a couple breaths. As soon as you see him get to the bathroom, you move towards his front door. Mentally prepare to make some excuse to whoever it is. Nothing prepares you for the person on the other side.
“Oh, hi.”
Your brain immediately short circuits because what the actual fuck is Joshua doing on the other side of the door looking at you like that. Suddenly, you’re wishing that you had checked your appearance in a mirror before answering.
“Joshua.”
“I was coming by to see Chan,” he says and looks at the door. “I’m pretty sure this is his apartment and not yours.”
“No, yeah, it is. I just stopped by to bring him some food since he was sick,” you say and Joshua looks entirely unconvinced.
“Right,” he says, drawing out the word.
“He’s just in the bathroom if you want…”
“I was just bringing by some case files that weren’t scanned yet in case he wanted to work from home again tomorrow,” Joshua says and holds out the folders.
“Did you want to come in?”
“No, why don’t you just give them to him?” Joshua asks. That smug smile makes you want to burrow into the floor and die.
“Look, Joshua,” you start and take a deep breath. “It’s just…well, I said some things after happy hour that I shouldn’t have and I just wanted…”
Joshua holds up a hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation for why you’re here. There’s no rule against hanging out.”
“Right, but…”
“You might owe me an explanation for why you didn’t tell me that you were, you know…”
“Coming over?”
The look he gives you says that he knows a lot more than you realize. Thankfully, a moment later he puts you out of your misery. “That you were the ex he couldn’t get over.”
Your jaw drops open. You’re usually so much better at maintaining composure. Then again, that’s not really true when you’re close to someone, is it?
“I don’t…”
He waves you off. “There’s been a million signs for someone that knows you as well as I do. Be careful and for once in your life, don’t worry about the damn rules.”
“Thanks, Joshua,” you say earnestly. He gives you his real smile. That one that’s soft and kind and reserved for people he also cares about.
“Work from home tomorrow. I’ll see you Wednesday,” he says and turns to leave before you can respond. After a moment, you walk back in to find Chan peeking out from the bathroom.
“Who was it?” he asks and steps towards you.
“Well, I guess that cat’s out of the bag,” you say with an uneasy chuckle.
“What do you…?”
You hold up the files that Joshua brought by. “That was Joshua dropping these off in case you wanted to work from home again tomorrow.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you…upset that he knows?”
You study Chan’s face for a moment. Realize that he is just letting you set the expectations. Set the tone and the speed and everything else. “No.”
“So?”
“If you can forgive me for not responding in the best way the other morning, then I guess we try again?”
The smile that breaks across his face nearly takes your breath away. So soft. Genuine. Full of affection. Like he’s in his first year of law school again. All bright eyed and full of optimism. A second later, he closes the space between you and pulls you into his body. Peppers kisses all over your face, making you laugh in a way you haven’t in years.
“Wait,” he says, pulling back. You frown at him. “You did break it off with that guy, right?”
Of all the things to ask right then, you cannot believe this is what he asks. It pulls another genuine laugh out of you. Makes you swat at his arm. “Yes, you idiot.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When did you do it?”
For some reason, the question makes you hesitate. Do you admit how deep in this you already are? “Saturday.”
That pulls him up short. “Then why…?”
“I was scared, Chan. And I didn’t want to break off whatever it was with him just because of you. If I’m being honest, it’s been a while coming,” you say and sheepishly look away. Take a breath and meet his eyes again. Time to be brave. “I knew it was wrong after that date I went on. The one that I missed happy hour for?”
“So I wasn’t crazy,” he says triumphantly.
“I mean, you are, but not for that reason,” you say and earn your own swat. “I don’t know, I was just on the date and something wasn’t clicking. It wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t so perfect?” Chan asks, a little smug.
“No, he really is perfect. On paper, at least. But, he’s not you. And you’re all my heart seems to want now that you’re back in my life,” you admit. Brave. Keep being brave.
“You could have had me way earlier,” he says. The barest pout makes an appearance.
You shake your head. “I’m not sure it would’ve worked then. I needed to grow. To realize what I wanted and what I didn’t. I think we both needed it.”
“Maybe,” he concedes and then looks over at you again. “Can I go back to kissing you?”
“Oh my god,” you exclaim. It’s so like him to break up a heavier moment with something light. Still, you do want to kiss him.
It’s nothing like a few nights prior. No frenzy, no desperation. The kiss starts straight off being deep and intense. The kind of kiss that makes you wonder why you ever bothered dating anyone else in the world. The kind that claims you, body and soul. The kind that seals promises into your lips. The kind where you could agree to absolutely anything and know it still would be okay.
Maybe it had to fall apart before so that it could work now. Maybe it’s not so scary to try and figure it all out.
summary: seungcheol has a crush and maybe a tiny a secret (or a big one) but when he finds out his princess peach doesn't care...life is suddenly good
tags/genres: college!au, friends to lovers, didn't know they were dating, virgin!cheol, mingyu is a lwk menace
word count: 2.3k
warnings: mdni | nsfw (specifics under cut)
warnings: masturbation, oral (m receiving)
Seungcheol didn’t necessarily like parties. They were loud. And there were always too many people.
And it was too hard to talk to anyone else. Even when he wanted to talk to them.
So it was obviously perfect that he was sharing an apartment with guys who liked hosting parties roughly every single weekend.
It made total sense.
But he’d been friends with Mingyu and Soonyoung since they were kids. So he didn’t really have an option.
Besides, the one perk of rooming with Soonyoung was the fact that y/n was his stepsister. And she was always around.
Like always.
Even though that meant that she and Soonyoung were constantly bickering over every stupid detail, right down to who was actually going to win Season 6 of Top Chef…despite the fact that Season 6 of Top Chef was like 12 years old and had a clearly googleable winner.
Seungcheol didn’t care for the very sensible reason that whenever y/n was around (always), she literally treated him like furniture - she sat in his lap, played with his hair, and always knew what menu he preferred from the places they ordered food from.
And she never judged him for playing as Yoshi when they played Mario Kart. He was not trying to argue with Mingyu or Soonyoung for “Mario privileges” that inevitably led to some kind of literal fight.
He was too tired for that.
Instead, y/n would toss him a controller and quietly take a second one, and sit in his lap, and they would play through a game while Mingyu and Soonyoung fought it out.
Her Princess Peach game was actually really good. Better than Mingyu or Soonyoung.
And when it came to parties, she always appeared and made it less awkward for him. Especially when everyone was coupled up.
Because Seungcheol was never coupled.
Not officially, anyway.
He didn’t even try, actually. Because why when y/n was there and …
And if he were going to ask someone out, it would be her.
It would definitely be her.
He’d thought about it for ages. But it kind of freaked him out because she knew him. Like knew that he definitely had a phase where he thought the girl from Team Rocket was really hot.
And none of that bothered her - not his dorkiness, or the fact that he got too nervous in groups, or the way he was just quiet sometimes.
She never seemed to care.
Other girls definitely cared. Seungcheol had been dragged on enough double dates with Mingyu to know that he was not a universally accepted flavor of ‘boy.’
Mingyu had drunkenly called Seungcheol an “acquired” taste, and he’d also said for Seungcheol to forget anyone who didn’t like him for him.
It was a sweet and slightly derogatory conversation with a guy who could pull any girl he wanted.
Seungcheol just wanted to pull y/n.
But there was one thing that kind of gave him pause. And it wasn’t just social awkwardness.
It was the very real fact that Seungcheol was a virgin.
He thought about fucking. He thought about hooking up.
And it was like dating, because why spend time at loud parties when he knew who he liked? And it wasn’t just that he knew who he liked, it was like who else would he even try to fuck, like meaningfully, anyway…
Y/n was the only irl girl Seungcheol really thought about. Even when he was jerking off, and his mind wandered, it always kind of landed on her and the way she sometimes left little braids in his hair and how soft her skin was and how perfect her lips were and the way her shampoo reminded him of something warm and sexy. And the way she sometimes basically climbed into his hoodie to take a nap on the sofa with him.
She was better than porn when he needed to come.
He would lie there, breathless, fingers sticky, staring at the ceiling, wondering vaguely if she ever fingered herself. And if she did, did she ever think about him?
He’d gotten far enough with girls to have squeezed tits and felt a few pussies.
So he wasn’t working purely from imagination when he imagined y/n’s perfect tits and how they would feel in his hands. Or when he imagined her pussy being tight and wet and needy for him.
And then he would shower and go to study and probably end up next to her in the library.
•••
But tonight was kind of weird.
She looked annoyed with everyone at the party.
She kept sighing.
And drinking.
And watching Mingyu.
Seungcheol didn’t love that. He hated it, actually, the way her gaze kept shifting away from him and landing on someone else.
“You okay?” he asked, leaning in, wanting to touch her chin.
She sighed and nodded. But her gaze drifted again.
He watched her for a moment longer. “You look annoyed,” he whispered.
“Do I?” she asked and grabbed his sleeve, pulling him upstairs.
Seungcheol wasn’t expecting to be pulled into his own room and have the door locked.
He also wasn’t expecting the sudden press of her lips against his.
His eyelids fluttered closed. He thought it would stop suddenly, but it didn’t.
After a moment, his hands went to her waist, pulling her close. Her fingers carded through his hair, and her hips rolled lightly against his.
She sighed softly and pulled away just enough to look at him. “Mingyu’s a dick,” she murmured.
Seungcheol blinked slowly. “What? Why?” he asked.
She flushed slightly. “He said that I should stop flirting with you if I’m not going to do anything…” she trailed off.
Seungcheol immediately felt his face warm. “What?” he asked again.
“Stop saying ‘what?’,” she whispered, hitting his chest lightly.
“Fine, but you’re like 14 steps ahead in a conversation I wasn’t part of,” he said quickly.
She sighed and nodded. “I know, okay, just he said I cock block you and if I’m not going to make a move then I’m being a dick,” she said it all rapidly in her “fucking-Mingyu-knows-NOTHING” voice while she walked around Seungcheol’s room, picking up a tennis ball and throwing it against the ground a few times.
Seungcheol sat on the edge of his desk. He was fully aware of her angry tennis ball tossing. She did it when the one econ professor she had this semester kept drilling her on partial derivatives.
He waited for her to make a few loops before he reached out and caught the edge of her shirt, pulling gently, wanting her closer.
She folded easily against him, sitting in his lap. She sighed. “You know, just because he fucks everything with a pulse,” she muttered.
Seungcheol snorted. “Shit, that’s — kind of accurate,“ he laughed.
She nodded, still looking angry. “It’s just not his business,” she murmured, leaning on Seungcheol’s shoulder. “But you’re my Yoshi and I’m your Princess Peach and Mingyu is pretending he’s having an MMA match with my idiot stepbrother because MARIO BRO, so fuck him,” she whispered, nuzzling closer to Seungcheol.
Seungcheol was quiet for a moment. “So, in this scenario, Princess Peach likes Yoshi and Mingyu is a prick?” he asked, voice soft.
She nodded. “Yes, but it’s, you know, all the time - Princess Peach likes Yoshi all the time, and fucking Mario needs to shut up,” she muttered, her lips brushing Seungcheol’s throat.
Seungcheol nodded, kissing the top of her head, smiling to himself.
She stayed there for few minutes, her fingers tracing slightly against his shoulder. And then she sighed and leaned up - her warmth going with her
Seungcheol watched.
She turned back to him. “So do you - do you want to make out?” She asked, voice soft, gaze going everywhere but him.
He nodded. “Yeah,” he answered.
She hummed in response and slid off his lap. He watched her go to sit on his bed. He swallowed tightly, seeing her actually there, literally on his duvet. Not based on friendly pretexts but because she wanted to make out.
He moved.
His brain was slightly mushy.
He didn’t sit next to her.
He somehow moved so he was straddling her, and she was leaning back, his hands tracing along her thighs, pulling them around his waist while he ducked down, lips finding hers easily. She moaned sweetly, her fingers catching in his hair.
He felt the way her hips pressed against his. He let go of her thigh, fingers tracing up to her hip, along her side, and to her breast.
Her thighs squeezed his waist as she licked into him.
She gasped when he pinched her nipple. He felt the way she arched into him - the way her hands started to trace down his back and under his shirt.
He kissed her harder, wanting her. When he leaned back, breathless, he stared at her for a moment. “Good?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, you?”
He blinked slowly, nodding and leaning into her again, renewing the kiss, licking into her, tasting her.
He was very good.
Everything felt slow. Slow and good and sweet.
He let her pull his shirt off. She dropped it off the edge of the bed and topped him easily. He leaned back into the pillows, watching her pull her shirt off, the way her hands went to her tits, squeezing them while she watched him.
He was already so hard - too hard. The soft rocking of her hips against him was almost evil. But then she caught his hands with hers and guided them to her breasts.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
He gave a small nod, biting his lip. A tiny part of his brain almost registered that this was all thanks to Mingyu and his big fucking mouth. But Seungcheol was quick to shut that part of his brain down. So quick.
Instead, he leaned up, keeping her balanced against his thighs while he kissed and sucked her left breast and then her right one, listening to her moan his name softly, feeling her pull his hair gently.
And when he pulled back, he was surprised to see the way she looked at him, her pupils blown, her lips bitten red and slick with spit.
“Still good?” he asked.
She nodded. “Mhmm, perfect,” she murmured, leaning down to him, kissing him again, her tongue hot against his.
He felt her press him back, and he followed along, lying back, letting her shift from his mouth to his throat, down his chest.
And then his stomach.
Her fingers were already unbuttoning his pants when he felt her lips ghost the waistband of his underwear. He felt the small kisses and the warmth of her mouth over him, through his boxers.
He groaned, his hand catching in her hair, winding in the soft tresses. He tried to control his breathing.
He didn’t want to come too fast.
He didn’t want to be obvious.
But her lips were so fucking soft against his skin. And the way she worked his pants and underwear off, the way his dick sprang free, and the fact that she bit her lip and moaned when she saw him was maybe more than he could handle.
The way she kissed the side of his cock was delicious and obscene. And more than Seungcheol had imagined.
He closed his eyes tight, grasping the edge of the pillow with his left hand, his right hand still winding softly in her hair.
Her mouth was so warm, he gasped hard. He closed his eyes tighter, trying to stay focused.
He was surprised when she leaned up. “Too much?”
He let out a breath. “No,” he mumbled.
She shifted up, close, leaning over him. She leaned in carefully, her lips brushing his, and then she kissed him gently, her fingers circling his dick.
He moaned into her as she jerked him off. Her grip was good, better than his. He closed his eyes tight again.
It was like she knew. Because she paused again, pulling away. “Just come,” she whispered against his cheek.
“You barely touched me,” he mumbled. Shame had apparently exited his brain along with everything else that wasn’t her.
She smirked, kissing his temple. “And then you’ll get hard again, and I’ll go down on you again,” she whispered.
She worked his cock again. And this time he didn’t worry about lasting, he just felt his orgasm and the way she worked him through it.
And then she sat up, grabbing tissues from a shelf and wiping him clean.
She sighed and traced her hands down his chest. “Fuck, you’re really hot,” she murmured.
He smirked. “Yeah, I just came from like you looking at me, so…” he trailed off.
She rolled her eyes. “And?”
He managed to avoid enumerating the times he’d heard Mingyu through the wall with a girl, and the way it lasted for like an hour.
Instead, he just squeezed her hips, letting his gaze shift along her torso.
“You really don’t care?” He asked, softly.
She shook her head. “No, Yoshi,” she sighed, “Princess Peach was very clear earlier - and if Princess Peach wanted a different dick without all the cute, sweet things that she associates with Yoshi, she would be pursuing a different dick,” she answered, brows slightly raised in anticipation of further commentary.
Seungcheol couldn’t help the grin he felt forming on his lips. “Right,” he mumbled.
She nodded, glancing up at him. “Right.”
•••
They didn’t fuck.
She borrowed Seungcheol’s clothes, grabbing a tshirt that was apparently her “favorite” to pair with boxers, and then she snuggled next to him while they watched Howl’s Moving Castle.
And when Mingyu started fucking someone against his desk at approximately 2:45 AM, she sat up, rapped on the shared wall and shouted, “Shut the fuck up Kim Mingyu! Your ancestors are watching!”
Seungcheol couldn’t help but giggle as she dove under the covers to hide against him. He snorted and pulled her close.
They both listened to the resounding silence, which only made Seungcheol grin because he’d never been able to get Mingyu to shut up.
PAIRING: Hitman!Junhui x Spy!Reader
SUMMARY: You and Junhui have the perfect life together. Sure, you've failed to mention you're a spy for Clockwork and he never mentioned being a hitman for Protocol, but what couple doesn't lie? The lies work - until Junhui is tasked with killing you, his perfect wife who has secrets he never dreamed of.
TOTAL WC: 15,647
AU: 1920s Era, Action
GENRE: Established Relationship, Angst, Smut, Romance
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: General violence, fighting, action sequences, shootouts, illegal activities especially for the 1920s, attempted assassination between spouses, mild depictions of blood and gore and death, mild bullet wounds and stitching, a lot of internalized guilt and shame, both characters are lying to each other about the same thing, some angst throughout, explicit sexual content including oral (f. rec), unprotected vaginal sex, mild overstim, mild praise kink, vaginal fingering, lil bit possessive during sex, multiple orgasms, multiple positions... I think that mostly covers it.
AN: I am so excited to be releasing this today! I hope that Junhui's debut on my blog is as good as the people deserve and lives up to the hype! More Junhui to come soon, but for now, enjoy my Mr. and Mrs. Smith inspired world :) This is not beta-read sorry :/
A/N 2: This is for the Puttin' on the Ritz collab by @studiosvt and I could not be more honored to be apart of this project.
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | PUTTIN' ON THE RITZ COLLAB
JUNHUI ALWAYS SAYS YOU'RE A GOOD WIFE, BUT YOU KNOW YOU'RE NOT. Junhui excuses a lot of your behavior though, because he is a good husband. He is everything a good husband ought to be - hard working, intelligent, kind, strong, and doting. Better even, is that he's not exactly a traditional husband, which might make the neighbors think he isn't a very good one. He doesn't ask questions, he doesn't chastise you when you keep unexplainably strange hours and business travels, and he doesn't get mad at you.
Ever.
You know you're not a good wife. You're a decent cook and you cook meals as often as you can. You always send holiday cards to his coworkers. You make sure to pack him lunches. You kiss him when he goes to work. You sit through tutoring sessions with him, letting him think he's teaching you Mandarin. You show up for all of the neighbors party's on his arm, and you leave him to his hobbies without pestering him to clean up the house or do chores.
But you're a liar and good wives don't lie to their husbands.
Outside, the city that never sleeps is wide awake. The cab rattles up Fifth Avenue, the horn blaring as a Model T Ford roars past, the chrome reflecting under the glow of the streetlamps. Overhead, the skyline is filled with shadowy outlines of the buildings, the Woolworth Building tallest among them, watching over the city. Your eyes snag on a billboard for Lucky Strikes, bright and bold against the night sky.
Glancing at the slim watch on your wrist, you realize you're late again. Your business meeting had run long, and though Junhui thinks you were off in Brooklyn selling medical equipment, it's a far cry from your real job spent tangled in coded messages and back-alley assassinations for Clockwork.
Your agency demands perfection. Your husband does not, thank the Lord. He had agreed to meet you at the Harringtons' holiday party in their Upper East Side townhouse - probably because he expected you to be late - and he was probably fending off back-handed compliments and inquiries about where is your slippery wife?
Junhui wouldn't mind. He never did.
That was because he was the perfect husband. Your perfect husband that you lived with in your perfect home, a graceful brownstone on East 77th Street. It was a late-Victorian building made of warm brown sandstone, flanked by wrought-iron gates and a manicured front stoop. It was the perfect home inside and out, with parquet floors and walls paneled in dark walnut and decorated with the perfect art.
It was a perfect home for a perfect couple. You'd chosen it together three years ago, shortly after your wedding when Junhui's investments in radio stocks and automobile companies began paying well. He traveled nearly as often as you did - Chicago, China, Paris, London - but the house waited in its perfect little shadow.
Pretending to be perfect was a requirement. Junui didn't have to play the part, though. You did.
The taxi pulls up to the curb and you pay the driver with a crisp bill. The air has a chill bite to it when you step out, the faint scent of coal smoke drifting from nearby chimneys. Your heels click on the pavement as you hurry up the steps, the fur stole around your shoulders scratching against the silk of your dress as you go.
You briefly touch the necklace at your throat to ensure it's there - a gift from your husband when he had visited his parents in Shenzhen. You'd changed in a hurry at an agency safe house downtown, but you made sure to look every bit the part of a dutiful wife to a successful financier, including wearing the beautiful and often thoughtful gifts he showered you in.
As you reach the door, it opens. You startle when you see Junhui smiling at you, as though he had been waiting by the window for your arrival to time welcoming you just right. Which he had been. You'd seen his familiar silhouette on the second floor, but you hadn't expected him to beat you.
"There you are," he says softly, smiling.
He's dressed in a tailored black dinner jacket that pulls tight across his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt with a wing collar underneath. The silk bow knotted at his throat is knotted with precision, but you reach up to tweak it anyway, just because you can.
Junhui's hair is slicked back, the lamps in the hallway turning his skin gold. Your heart skips a little as he escorts you inside, a strand of dark hair escaping his slick back to brush endearingly over his brows. You can't help but stare a little at his face - handsome and expressive, and a large part of the reason you'd noticed him at a gala five years ago.
A little flare of possessiveness goes through you. You wonder if he has any idea how all the wives of his friends wish they were married to him instead, the handsome and mysterious businessman from overseas.
As always, he doesn't ask where you've been. He never does. Instead, he reaches for your hand and leans forward, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. "You look stunning, tiānshǐ. The Harringtons will be envious. Mrs. Harrington was asking about you - said she missed your deviled eggs at the bridge club."
You force a smile, the guilt twisting like a knife. "I'm sorry I'm late. The client in Brooklyn was particular."
He waves it off, helping you out of your stole before hanging it in the hall closet. "No need to say sorry, my love. I finished up early at the office today. Seungcheol was in a mood about the margin calls, but nothing a good lunch at Delmonico's couldn't smooth over."
Your heart squeezes when he chuckles and shuts the closet door. If your husband had any idea how often your business dealings brushed against the very financial world he navigated, he'd be dizzy and confused for days.
Junhui is intelligent, which makes your role as his wife more challenging than most people of your profession were willing to take on. He dissected market trends, turning modest inheritances through calculated risks in utilities and aviation stocks. He's the kind of husband who notices things but doesn't say anything, and you love him for it.
You shouldn't love him. You do anyway.
It's hard not to. He's unwaveringly kind, always tipping waiters generously, remembering birthdays for neighbors and secretaries, volunteering on the weekends to tutor kids in English and Mandarin alike. And doting - flowers delivered just because, notes tucked into your pockets, evenings spent rousing you from the couch to move you to bed.
And he is stuck with you for a wife. He calls you a good wife, but good wives don't lie. Spies do, though.
The Harringtons' part waits, full of jazz and bootleg champagne. Another evening of playing the perfect couple. Another evening of secrets.
Inside the Harringtons' home glows bright against the December night. The air is thick with the scent of pine from the massive Christmas tree in the corner, cigar smoke, and sweet perfume. A jazz trio plays in the corner of the parlor where Junhui escorts you, his hand steady and warm at the small of your back.
The moment you step into the room, heads turn. Not dramatically, but you feel every eye flicker to you - you're trained to know that kind of thing - every gaze appraising.
"There she is!" Charles Harrington’s voice booms from across the room. "The elusive Mrs. Wen at last. We were beginning to think you'd been kidnapped!"
The small circle around him chuckles quietly. You smile but he has no idea that you have been kidnapped. Thrice, in fact, when you were younger and less experienced with the agency. Once recently on purpose as part of an interrogation.
"What a ridiculous notion, Charles," you laugh back, approaching with Junhui. "Only delayed by a very stubborn client. I'm afraid Brooklyn doesn't keep the same hours as Manhattan."
"Brooklyn," Caroline Harrington scoffs. She glides toward her husband in a gown of silver lamé that catches the light. "You're so terribly modern, darling. Most of us wouldn't be caught dead on that side of the bridge at night."
Junhui laughs that low, easy sound of his, dispelling tension before it can gather. "She's braver than most."
You think your husband would make a good spy. He works the room without even trying, nodding here and shaking hands there, dipping to compliment women appropriately and warmly. People like him because he makes them feel seen without ever making them feel studied, which is important in crowds like this.
You accept a teacup from a passing tray and sniff lightly. It's bootleg gin with a twist of lemon and when you take a sip, you wince. It's not very good gin, but with the laws around alcohol, who really can get good gin? You sip while Junhui drifts toward a knot of brokers near the fireplace,
Caroline tucks her arm through yours, steering you toward the buffet. "Come, let me show you what everyone's been raving about. The oysters came in this morning straight from the Sound. By the way, your deviled eggs were the talk at bridge club last week - which you missed. You'll have to give me the recipe."
"It's nothing special. Just a little paprika and too much mustard."
"Nonsense." Caroline flutters her fingers at you. They're covered in rings, a mix of antique and new. "Everything you touch turns gold, it seems. Junhui is a lucky man. And so patient, too! Most husbands would be positively feral if their wives were running around Brooklyn."
You feel the comment for what it is - a gentle probe. You're used to the women trying to ferret out your secrets, all of them more eager than the last to unwrap the mystery that is Junhui's wife. You meet her smile like you always do, unwavering as you sip your gin.
"He's very understanding," you reply. "I'm the lucky one."
She hums, agreeing but not liking your dodging of her question. She won't press until she's had more cocktails, at least. Caroline is not the boldest woman in the circle of people you tentatively call friends, but after a few drinks, she'll be demanding answers you won't give.
Across the room, Junhui catches your gaze. He tilts his head slightly, a silent question - are you alright? You nod once and he gives you a small, private smile. You smile back, heart still racing a little.
Stupid, traitorous heart.
The music shifts and turns the energy in the room, couples dancing. One of Junhui's friends - Chan, as you recall his name - offers you a dance. Junhui winks at you and you sigh, letting the younger man pull you into a dance.
You don't like dancing, but the muscle memory kicks in. Clockwork had you trained in all manner of skills, including dancing. It was a useful skill when you were at galas and parties, using it to move about the room as another form of surveillance.
You can't help but do it now, scanning the room over Chan's shoulder to take everything in. There's a banker who had been too friendly with a certain German attaché last month, a woman who touches her pearl choker like a nervous tick, a man in the corner who hasn't smiled a single time because his wife is giggling with a group of finance men, and there's Junhui, watching you watch the room.
When the song ends, your partner bows to you and you thank him for the dance, drifting toward your husband as he turns to you with another cup of gin. You step close to him and he leans down, breath fanning your ear as he murmurs, "Why is it you always look ready to start a coup?"
"It was only a small one."
He smiles and kisses your temple. "And this is why I don't play bridge with you."
"You don't know how to play bridge, Jun."
"I'd learn for you."
There he goes again. You don't know what to do with him. This song and dance is both familiar and strange. You'd married Junhui because you could and because it was allowed within your line of work. Marriages made people of your skill set seem normal. Harmless. And Junhui had been vetted and cleared, as normal as they could get.
You hadn't intended to marry him because you liked him, but you certainly did. Which is why you felt rotten guilt every time you thought too much about it, how he had no idea that his wife had an entire double life eliminating people that a secret agency deemed too dangerous to continue living.
Because that's mostly what Clockwork was about. World advancement and keeping humanity in a forward propulsion was Clockwork's main goal, which meant that the agency had its fingers in all manner of realms: political, financial, corporation, social, casual, cultural, environmental. There is no shortage of influences across the globe that your agency doesn't have, and you are only one of its thousands of agents.
You sip your gin, letting the burn ground you. The party swirls on, louder and looser now. Someone has opened the French doors to the terrace and cold air rushes in, carrying the scent of snow and distant coal smoke. A few brave souls venture into the cold to smoke, the acrid smell of cigarettes drifting in with their laughter.
Junhui eventually sets his cup on a side table, turning to face you with a soft grin.
"What?" You ask, laughing as he pries the cup from your hand to set it down.
"Dance with me?"
It's not really a question but you nod anyway as he takes your hand to draw you into the slow sway of the next song. His palm is warm at your waist, his other hand cradling yours, fingers rough. You always thought it was strange that he had such rough hands for a financier. You ignore it, resting your cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the bay rum and the faint trace of cigar smoke.
"You're quiet tonight," he notes softly, switching to his native tongue. You smile. It feels like you get a part of him no one else does. "Are you alright?"
"Long day."
It was. You'd killed a man today, but you can't tell him that. So you settle for this, swaying against him with the steady beat of his heart pumping underneath your cheek. He doesn't push you - he never does.
You look up at him - really look. The soft glow of the chandelier turns his eyes warm and dark, the single escaped strand of hair still brushing his brow. For a single, reckless second, you want to tell him everything. You want to tell him how you'd been recruited right after you turned eighteen to an agency more secret and elusive than the CIA. You want to tell him sometimes your weeks on trips are spent overseas hunting people down. Extracting information. That even when you're halfway around the world, you hope your gentle husband is reading a book in his study.
You don't tell him. You can't.
Resting your head against his chest again, you think how nice it is to have the perfect husband and how sad it is that he has a rotten wife.
-
The clock strikes midnight as Junhui stands in the alley behind the speakeasy on Mulberry Street, a siren wailing in the distance. The air smells like the rotted garbage coming from the flowing bins and the metallic tang of the rusted fire escapes above him.
His gloved hands are steady, keeping his hands dry from the warm blood that flows from the neck of the man in his clutches. The Clockwork agent gurgles, wet and desperate before he sags forward. Junhui lets him crumple against the cold brick wall, blood spattering as he goes. The body hits the ground soundlessly - no noise, just how Junhui prefers it.
Silence is Protocol's highest priority, and tonight, he is very much that.
He wipes the blade methodically on the man's coat, noting that it's a nice make from Paris. He only knows fashion because you like fashion, and he thinks that maybe the next time he's in Paris he should grab one himself. You'd like that, he's sure.
Junhui tucks the weapon back into the hidden sheath at his ankle and stands. His pulse is even and his breathing is controlled despite the adrenaline rushing in his veins. He scans the hallway, but the only witness to the murder is a stray cat prowling near the dumpster with luminous eyes.
As usual, it was too easy. Clockwork operatives are often arrogant, too reliant on their skills and their agency's aura of inevitability. They always were. Junhui stares down at the man with a flicker of irritation. The self-righteous architects at Clockwork think they're better than everyone, molding the future and the world to their vision of engineered perfection.
Sighing, Junhui straightens his tight, the silk smooth under his fingers. You'd bought him this tie for Christmas a few weeks ago. He makes sure to wear it often and to make sure you see that he's wearing it. He likes when you buy him things, even though he certainly deserves nothing for you. You're the perfect wife buying her seemingly perfect husband gifts, but if you had half the idea of the rot inside of him, you might not spoil him so much.
He steps out into the alley, merging into the foot traffic on Mulberry, the chill January wind whipping at his overcoat. Horns blare from taxis on Canal Street and the faint sizzle of chestnuts from a vendor's cart reaches him as he walks, hands shoved in his pockets to keep the cold out.
The walk to the subway is brisk. Businessmen stagger from speakeasies, ties askew, breath fogging in the cold. Junhui pauses to buy a newspaper from a newsboy, tucking it under his arm as he goes. Blending in is as important as possible. No one knows there's blood on his gloves and a murder weapon hidden at his ankle.
Protocol had trained him well. They'd recruited him early at university as an economics theory major, his mind and intelligence surgical - exactly the type of agents they like. His background in martial arts through his childhood proved lethal as well, making him the perfect blend of already dangerous and easy to teach.
He'd risen quickly, specializing in clean hits that required little glamour or grandeur. Being unnoticed was his preference, and he was good at it.
Except when it came to you. You had noticed him at that art gala five years ago, wandering over to him and asking him what he thought of the art. He'd recited something rote from his flashcards he had looked at in case someone had asked him his thoughts, but he hadn't expected to need them. You surprised him like that all the time, and he surprised himself by wanting to see more of you after that night.
Surprised himself even more when he asked you to marry him.
Junhui's life isn't exactly fit for marriage, but it works. You're busy as a medical supplies seller, traveling around the boroughs and often other cities. It's a strange job for a woman to have, but he doesn't care. It keeps you happy and out of the house when he's gone, which is really all that matters.
He boards the uptown train, finding a seat in a half-empty car that rocks northward as it takes off. The lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows on the faces around him. He takes it all in with a single sweep, a habit that he will never let go. No one here pays attention to him - there's a pair of young lovers murmuring in the corner and a single hotel worker asleep, his head against the window.
Junhui leans back against the vibrating window, the cold glass pressing through his coat to his shoulder. There's no one here who can give him any trouble, so he shuts his eyes for a bit and lets his mind wander back to you.
You're probably asleep by now, curled under the heavy quilt in the brownstone you share together. The image brings a faint smile to his face. You're a good wife, despite the whispers from the neighbors about your erratic schedule and why you have a job at all. Women don't need jobs.
But your job makes you happy, and Junhui is in the business of keeping you happy.
On more than one occasion Charles Harrington has told Junhui he should be asking more questions about a woman who travels around Brooklyn at night. Junhui doesn't ask questions, though. He never does. You don't ask questions about why a financier needs to come home after midnight from meeting with a private client, so shouldn't he return the favor?
Sometimes he wonders if you have affairs. He can't help it. He wouldn't blame you if you did. You say and do all the right things - and yet Junhui isn't around nearly as much as he should be. Plus, you're not very intimate. Junhui's guilt doesn't let himself touch you often, too afraid to kiss you the way he wants and breathe you in like he desires, knowing that it's the ultimate betrayal to do so while lying to you.
Husbands shouldn't be liars.
But no, Junhui dismisses the idea of you stepping out on him. It's not in your character. You're loyal and steadfast, and you like to pack notes in his lunches. You send holiday cards to his invented coworkers, let him delve into hobbies without a word of complaint, even if it's piano sessions that stretch into the night. You never complain about the lack of intimacy, never push for more.
You're just you. Perfect.
The train jolts to a stop at 77th Street, the doors opening with a hiss. He exits into the quieter residential part of the city, the wind carrying the promise of snow and the gas lamps lighting the way. Your home waits at the end of the block, the windows dark save for a single gold glow of the hall lamp you always leave on for him.
He smiles. It's a small thing, but it tugs at his heartstrings as he ascends the stairs. Coming home to you is far too easy when his marriage to you is mostly supposed to be a cover up. It makes him look normal in a world full of couples - that's what he told Protocol, anyway. It wasn't out of some silly attempt to make a normal life or anything beyond that except… he does like you.
Inside the house is dark. His shoes click on the parquet floors and he can smell lavender that you'd probably been burning again. He hands his overcoat in the closet and shuts it as silently as he can before he moves upstairs like a shadow.
The bedroom door is ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling through. He pushes it open gently and sees you asleep on your side, one arm draped over his empty pillow, the quilt pulled to your chin against the winter chill. You look ethereal, your lips parted faintly, the tiniest snore leaving you.
Fondness surges through him. He has no idea how he ended up with someone like you, how he, with hands forever marked with violence, ended up with someone as kind and patient as you are. He creeps over to you and gives you a brief kiss on the brow, unable to help himself. It rouses you from sleep immediately but he hushes you.
"Y'okay?" You mumble.
"I'm fine, I'm sorry I'm home late. I'm going to shower."
"Okay."
He smiles at you. "Go to sleep, my love."
"Mhmm."
You thud back against the pillow and he smiles before heading over to the adjoining bathroom. He waits to turn on the light until he has the door shut behind him, unwilling to wake you again. He avoids looking in the mirror - he knows what he'll see: young, handsome, incredibly manicured. The perfect man who seems unassuming. It's all an act, the sins hidden beneath the curated surface.
Junhui strips methodically: jacket over the hamper, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the faint scar from a botched hit a few years ago. Thankfully it had happened before you, and he was able to use the excuse of surgery when you asked about the scar.
Steam billows when he turns the shower on as hot as he can get it. He feels like it's important to burn away the sin of the kill when he comes home to you, too afraid to get into bed like you'll smell the blood on his skin or sense the darkness in his shadow.
As he lathers soap, he thinks about the Clockwork agent briefly - the surprise in his face, the bubbling sound he'd made when the knife went in. Another life ended, another contract closed.
Protocol owns him. They have since they recruited him. Junhui never expected it to matter, but as the lies pile up, he feels worse and worse about it. You're as safe as can be with him, but sometimes he wonders if it would be a better life to give you over to someone who can be there for you more often.
When the shower is over, the silence is deafening. He rushes to pull his pajamas on, itching to be in the bed that smells like you and near your warmth. He exits the bathroom, letting his eyes adjust to the dark bedroom, smiling when he sees you're still sleeping.
He gets into the bed and you murmur incoherently in your sleep, shifting closer to him. He wraps an arm around you without thinking and your warmth seeps into him, chasing the alley's chill away.
For a fleeting moment, he lets himself forget the blade and the alley, pretends the kill didn't happen. Here in this bed with you, he's just Mr. Wen and you're Mrs. Wen. He's your husband, the financier, nothing shady, nothing nefarious.
It won't last long. Tomorrow morning he has to find an excuse to tell you he has to leave for Paris in two days. The assignment had come before he'd even completed his hit tonight, a terse telegram in one of the many safe houses assigned to him.
Two days to prepare for a hit isn't much, but he's used to it. It isn't a lot to go off of either, which meant it is a high profile hit. They hadn't even given him a name or affiliation, and he isn't sure what look for the flower meant. Junhui is smart though, and he has a feeling he'll know what it means when he sees it.
Tomorrow, he'll tell you over breakfast. Apologies, love. It's off to Paris. You'll nod and kiss him easily and pack his lunch without question. The cycle will repeat.
Junhui closes his eyes and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You sigh and melt into him, and for now, it's enough. But tomorrow, the lies resume like clockwork.
He smirks at the joke before finally giving into sleep.
-
Junhui perches on the narrow roof of a building overlooking the Île de la Cité, directly across from the Notre-Dame. The sacred dome of the church looms over him like a giant while the Seine slithers below, its twin towers clawing at the sky.
The wind coming off the river is sharper than he expected, the damp chill of water and the faint rot of algae wafting to him. Below, Rue du Cloître is a churning river of people. Parisians in heavy coats hurry past the cathedral's facade while tourists cluster together and snap photos with box cameras.
It's hard to hear anything up here with the wind, but the clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the shrill honk of a black car trying to navigate the narrow bridge echoes to him as he finishes his set up, adrenaline pumping already.
He's set up on the flat roof of an old ecclesiastical residence, the kind of old and rotted place no one looks at. He wishes he had an overcoat, the thin shirt doing very little to keep him warm. Warm is a luxury he can't afford today, dressed in grey to blend in with his surroundings with a compression scarf pulled up to cover his lower face.
A rifle rests steady on its bipod, a sleek prototype from Protocol with a silencer and a modified Berthier with a German-made telescopic sight that lets him count the threads in a jacket on his victim if he needs to. It's obscene in its precision, and it required him several forged and real documents to get it through security and onto the private plane he took to get here.
Junhui watches below, shivering in the early morning. He's been here since first light, watching the cathedral steps, the parvis, the bridge. The crowd thickens as the morning wears on, and he watches a priest in a black cassock moving with purpose toward the side door.
No flower though. He's not sure what exactly it means, other than he'll know when he sees it. Not even the women here are dressed in floral, but the fleur de lis is everywhere. Somehow, he thinks that's not what the message meant, though. So he waits, mind straying errantly to you on occasion.
He'd felt his usual stab of guilt when he told you he was going to Paris. You'd simply smiled and told him to bring you back something pretty. The perfect wife, letting him disappear like always. He doesn't deserve you. He thinks he never has.
Sighing, he moves the scope, strafing right and then left. A flash of gold flints in the sun, small but unmistakable. He thinks nothing of it first, adjusting the scope to fix the focus. He's got the scope on a woman's throat, the delicate chain of her necklace glinting in the light. The lotus pendant on the thin chain shifts as she walks and Junhui's blood turns cold.
The pendant looks exactly like the one he'd purchased you in Shenzhen. For my wife, he'd told the jeweler, smiling because you remind him of a lotus - pure and resilient. He adjusts the scope again, heart pounding as he zooms out.
And sees you.
His stomach drops. The rifle trembles for the first time in years and he readjusts, hoping his proximity to the church lends him a miracle as he prays that it's a trick of the light, that a stranger is wearing the same necklace. But the profile sharpens and he sees the line of your jaw, the way you tilt your head, the small scar on your chin you'd told him was from a childhood fall.
You're here. In Paris. At the exact coordinates that Protocol had given him, at the exact time. With a flower he gave you.
You stop in the middle of the parvis, suddenly still. The crowd flows around you like water around a rock, a vendor bumping into your shoulder. You don't react, though. Your head turns, sweeping the crowd like you sense danger. Junhui's heart is hammering, his hands shaking as he watches you through the scope until you suddenly lift your eyes, sweeping the rooftops.
Your gaze lands impossibly on his position. He knows you can't see him - there's no way. He's three stories up with the sun at his back, and his in shadow. But he recognizes the look on your face, a predator suddenly aware there is something bigger and scarier than them hunting. Your shoulders go stiff and he tracks the way your hand twitches toward your coat pocket.
Panic slams into him. Not you. Not the woman who kisses him goodnight, who leaves notes in his lunch, who makes the brownstone feel like home instead of a safe house. The rifle is suddenly too heavy in his hands. How can you be the target? And why are you here? Only a single answer makes sense, and he cannot even think the words, lest they come true.
Suddenly, you bolt. It makes Junhui lurch, jerking the scope to track your movements but you immediately blend into the crowd. He curses and tears the rifle away, shaking as he breaks the weapon down and shoves the pieces into its satchel with frantic speed.
Gravel scrapes under his boots as he bolts for the stairwell, heart hammering. The stairs are dark and narrow but he takes two at a time, bursting onto the street level and startling a flock of doves. The crowd is thick, bodies pressing close. He weaves through them, shouldering the satchel as he scans for you.
Terror grips him. What if you disappear? What if Protocol has a backup for you? What if you're here to kill him?
He cuts through a narrow passage off Rue du Cloître. He spots you up ahead, your coat flashing as you turn into a shadowed courtyard entry. He accelerates, boots splashing in shallow puddles, his hand slipping into his pocket for the concealed gun on instinct.
He steps into the courtyard mouth just as you whirl, a gun in hand pointed directly at him. His heart squeezes painfully, both of you freezing. A thousand emotions flit across your face in that second, the gun trembling in your hand as you stare at him, open mouthed. You look as terrified as he feels.
"Junhui?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, voice cracking.
A patch of sun hits you between roofs. You don't squint in the light, trained to stare at him. The light catches on your necklace, the lotus looking right back at him. Find the flower. He sure has, he just hadn't expected it to be his wife.
"Hi, love."
-
You circle the parvis of Notre-Dame slowly, the cobblestones uneven beneath your low heels. The cathedral looms above, its twin towers dark against the pale sky. Gargoyles leer down at you, watching you as though they know what you're here to do. Perhaps they do. You're not particularly religious, but the marvel of Notre-Dame inspires a healthy respect for religion as you eye the stone facades.
The air is sharp with the smell of the Seine, the damp stone and river mud serving as a faint undercurrent to the coal smoke from barges sliding past on the water. Tourists cluster together near the main facade, collars turned up against the wind. You duck your head as you walk, your necklace swinging with every step.
Clockwork's instructions had been simple, delivered through the encrypted telegram in your hotel room: enter the cathedral, eliminate the woman in the blue coat near the altar, no witnesses, vanish.
Bone-deep anxiety has clung to you since you docked in La Havre. Junhui had mentioned his business trip was in Paris as well, though you know he's off doing finance deals or something in the Bourse. He's somewhere buried in tickers and ledges and here you are walking toward a holy place to will a stranger.
Still, the feeling won't leave you.
The anxiety gets worse, turning to a sharp prickle at the back of your neck, the same instinct that has saved you in back alleys and safe houses over the years. It's the instinct that tells you someone is watching you.
You pause near a vendor cart selling postcards of the rose window, pretending to browse. Your eyes sweep the crowd, but there's no one obvious or lingering too long. You move again, circling as the wind picks up, carrying the scent of chestnuts.
The prickle sharpens.
You stop in the middle of the parvis, the crowd flowing around you. A vendor bumps into your shoulder and murmurs a quick apology in French, but you don't listen to him. You tilt your head, eyes lifting slowly as you scan the rooftops across the way. There's a bunch of old ecclesiastical buildings, their grey roofs slick with frost and chimneys.
Sunlight catches something - metal bright and brief. Your heart lurches when you realize it's the unmistakable flash of a rifle scope glinting from a high vantage point.
A gunman. Your stomach drops. Clockwork hadn't mentioned backup, which means this is opposition. Protocol, most likely. Their agents have been trying to kill you for years, but the paid thugs aren't nearly as refined as they think they are.
Without thinking twice, you bolt.
You weave through the tourists, shoulder clipping a man, apologies lost in your flight. The parvis gives way to a narrow street and you fash down it, your breath coming out in short gasps as you run, coat flapping. You hear nothing but your own pulse as you turn right and then left, ducking under an archway and past shuttered shops with faded signs.
What you need is a dead end, somewhere to wait and eliminate whoever follows. The gun in your pocket is loaded with two shots - enough to get the job done.
The alley narrows further, the walls high and mossy, sunlight barely reaching you. You spot a courtyard up ahead, a small and forgotten space behind an old residence, the iron gate half opened with ivy crawling over it. Perfect. You slip inside, drawing your gun and turning, ready.
Footsteps echo, fast and deliberate. You ready yourself, widening your stance as a shadow appears at the gate and -
Your husband stands there in a gray shirt, compression scarf pulled down around his neck, pistol in hand but low. His hair is mused from the wind, strands falling in his eyes that widen when they see you - shock, followed immediately by something raw and pain.
You freeze.
"Junhui?" The word comes out cracked, a million thoughts racing through your mind.
He doesn't move closer, gun still raised. "Hi, love."
The courtyard feels too small, the walls pressing in. The damp air is thick in your throat, and the lotus necklace burns against your skin like a brand. You stare at him - your husband - the man who kisses your forehead, who plays piano in the parlor, who never asks where you've been. Here. In Paris. With a rifle bag on his shoulder.
The pieces crash together.
"You were on the roof." Your voice was shaking. "That was you."
He nods. "Assignment."
The word turns your stomach to acid. Assignment. Not finance, not stocks. Assignment.
"Protocol?"
He swallows, gun lowering a little as he nods. "Clockwork?"
Understanding hits you like a physical blow. His agency has hated yours and vice versa for years. Clockwork's vision of controlled progress doesn't quite match with Protocol's military pragmatism, and somehow despite both agencies vetting, the two of you have married enemies.
Or have you? Has he known all along? You're not sure, but the horror on his face is either well practiced or genuine. You don't lower the gun just in case, despite the fact that he sags, defeated.
"You're here to kill me," you tell him. It isn't a question.
"I didn't know it was you. Until I saw the necklace. The flower." You don't move. "I'm not going to kill you."
"How do I know that?"
"I guess you don't." He puts his gun in his coat pocket and holds both of his hands up, a white flag. "Kill me if you wish."
His words hit like a slap. You recoil physically, your arm dropping as you lower the weapon. He seems a little relieved, but you're horror stricken. Kill him? You don't think you could, even if your life was on the line. Which it is, the two of you facing each other, breath misting the air.
"What about you?" He asks, drawing you from your whirlwind thoughts. "Why are you here?"
"Assigned to some woman. I obviously didn't complete it." You tuck your gun away carefully, eyeing him carefully. "I saw the flash on your scope."
He frowns. "The sun was behind me." You lift a shoulder. You're unsure what reflected off his scope, but perhaps it had been divine intervention after all. "We have to get moving. They're expecting confirmation. If we don't, they'll send someone else."
"We?"
He nods, checking a watch. "You're my wife."
"I'm… I'm Clockwork. You're Protocol."
He lowers his wrist and looks at you - really looks at you. You study him, your heart hammering, a dull ache in your chest blooming. He's still Junhui - at least he looks like it. He's your husband with warm brown eyes, who speaks softly and loves to kiss you on the forehead, who is patient and kind and steady.
And apparently he's a contract killer. But he didn't kill you. You hope it means something.
"You're my wife," he says again, softer this time.
Junhui extends his hand, slow and careful. He's wearing gloves but you take a few tentative steps toward him, placing your hand in his. His fingers close around yours, and even through the leather, they're warm. You step closer and he pulls you through the gate and into the alley, keeping you close.
"We're going to need to run," he murmurs looking down at you. "Just trust me enough to get us somewhere. Then we can talk. Can you do that?"
You think about it. Your training is telling you to kill him and run, to save yourself. But every instinct you have that is not the rained spy is looking at him - the man you married, the man who has rubbed your back when you were sick and warmed your hands in his pocket - is looking at you with nothing but honesty.
It's stupid. You know it is. Protocol isn't known for their spies as much as they are for their hitmen - Junhui would have been taught to blend in and run, but they're not an intelligence agency the way Clockwork is. They aren't taught to manipulate to the degree you are.
So you nod. You see the relief pass on his face as he tugs you gently, both of you breaking out into a run.
The city presses in, the narrow passageways smelling like damp stone and yesterday's rain. Your breath syncs with his, footsteps matching, the panic there but shared now. Not once does he let go of your hand, tugging you out of the way of a passing bike and into the safety of his arms for a brief moment.
Junhui leads you to a small doorway behind a boulangerie, the scent of fresh bread wafting out. He pulls out a compact telegraph key from his pocket, and for a second you think he's going to notify Protocol he has you in his hands. Your heart starts to slam in your ribcage, realizing that the love you have for him - that you're not supposed to - has been your undoing. Still, you don't reach for your weapon, unwilling to kill him even if-
He catches your panic. "I'm telling them you're dead," he notes, voice dry.
"Oh."
You do the same, tapping out a coded message to your operatives at Clockwork. It'll only buy you hours - maybe a single day. You're not sure.
"We need to get out of Paris," he says. "Home will be dangerous, but if we're going to survive we need to go there first." You hate that you agree. "Le Bourget? Private flight?"
"Yes."
Junhui hails a taxi near the river, the water dark and choppy under the bridges as an afternoon storm rolls in. You sit close to Junhui as the driver navigates the city, but not touching, the space between you heavy. Your mind spins - the brownstone waiting back home, its walnut panels, the piano - a life of mutual lies catching like tinder and burning down around you.
-
Le Bourget airfield is bustling with activity in the afternoon gloom, hangars looming like metal beasts under the gray sky. The smell of fuel hangs heavy in the air and the hum of propellers whirring buzzes in your ears as you cross the wet tarmac.
Junhui's hand hovers at your elbow as you walk, not quite touching. You feel the loss of his touch acutely, a small ache at the sudden distance between you. You don't know where you stand now, the man you've known for the last five years suddenly a complete stranger.
Somehow, you feel it only serves you right.
Junhui leads you to a waiting plane, the engines warming with a low rumble that vibrates through you. The plane is small, the cabin cramped with leather seats worn from use, the air inside tinged with tobacco. You climb aboard, settling into a seat by the window, rain streaking the glass like tears. Junhui sits across from you, the space between your knees too close in the small plane, knocking awkwardly.
Tension threads your shoulders as the plane readies for takeoff. You feel exposed and out of control - it was Junhui who arranged the flight, assuring you that he could do it discreetly and safely. Still, there was no guarantee there were Clockwork or Protocol agents already working on knocking your plane out of the sky and into the Atlantic.
The thought unsettles you as the plane taxis and takes off, your ears popping as the city falls away below Paris, a patchwork of stone and river. You watch it shrink, the Eiffel Tower a distant spike on the horizon.
Your mind whirls like the propellers, skipping between the flash of his scope and your agencies turning you against the other. But mostly your thoughts are on the man across the way from you. Your husband. The man you thought was perfect, who called you tiānshǐ and kissed your forehead. The man who is Protocol, a killer like you, but from the opposite side.
You weren't supposed to, but you'd fallen for him along the way. You wonder now if that was on purpose, if he had lured you into his arms to act as a shield of normalcy. Your intention had been to seem normal and married, but you'd fallen for the way he smiled at your broken Mandarin, the way he kept the notes in his lunches, the quiet evenings where he'd play piano.
But now? Doubt creeps in, cold and insidious. Was any of it real for him?
The plane levels out, the rumble steady now. You turn from the window and look at him. He's watching you already, expression unreadable.
"How'd you charter this without Protocol?" You ask. "Sounds difficult."
He hesitates, then nods. "Someone in Interpol owed me a favor. From a job a few years back. Clean flight, no records."
Interpol. It shouldn't surprise you - he's Protocol after all, with connections in shadows you never imagined. It's another small layer peeled back, revealing the man you didn't realize was your husband all this time.
The cabin is silent for a long moment, just the hum of the plane and the rain on the fuselage. Finally alone, the questions he seems to be holding bubble to the surface.
"Can we talk?" He switches languages, watching you dubiously.
"Of course we can. You first."
His lip twitches. "So you do speak it fluently." You flush, caught. "You learned way too fast. I'm a good teacher but your accent was always good."
"I speak seven languages."
"I speak eight."
"Show off."
He leans back, the smile fading as he looks you up and down. "It started in college," he tells you. "I did study economics at Columbia. I was good at it. Money was tight with my family in Shenzhen and me in school. Protocol approached my senior year and said I had potential. Offered training, pay, and a way to send money home." He pauses, fingers drumming. "Martial arts from childhood helped. I specialized in going unnoticed."
You listen, heart aching. The man he describes is the one you married - intelligent, steady. But now this one is darker. Something else.
"And me?" You ask. "At the gala?
"I was there for a job," he admits. "You approached me and asked about the art and I recited flashcards but… I didn't anticipate you. You were smart and funny, and I liked you. After I checked that you were safe - which was wrong, I should add - the agency realized marrying you made me look normal. Protocol approved."
The words land like a punch even though you saw it coming. Cover. Normal. Not love. Not the way you'd fallen for him, piece by piece. You'd thought maybe it was real - that despite your lies, he loved you. But for him, it was a necessity. Fondness? Sure. But you were a tool to appear harmless.
It serves you right, you suppose, but sadness swells. You've been in love with him for years - or were, before this. The man who called you angel, who never pressed for intimacy despite your guilt keeping you from touching him most nights. And here you are expecting him to love you when he did the very thing you were supposed to do.
He's succeeded where you have failed.
It breaks something in you and you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly needing it like armor. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.
"Your turn," he urges.
You swallow, nodding as you start, your throat tight. "Clockwork recruited me when I turned eighteen. Right after high school. Saw potential in my test scores or whatever. Trained me in everything - codes, killing, covers." You pause and look at the wedding ring on your hand. "The gala was a surveillance job. You stood out - handsome, different. I approached on impulse, which was rare for me. Didn't intend to keep seeing you until I did, and Clockwork thought a husband would help me blend in."
He nods, absorbing it. The plane dips slightly, turbulence rattling the cabin. You grip the armrest, mind still spinning. Three years of marriage, built on agency approvals. Lies on lies. And now, exposed.
Neither of you speak for a while. You watch out the window at the clouds, the grey Atlantic stretching below. Your stomach is in knots, the truth between you doing nothing to seal the gap. It only pushes you further apart.
Finally, Junhui breaks the silence. "I don't want to kill you."
"I don't want to kill you either."
"The agencies won't stop. We're loose ends now."
You nod, the reality settling like lead. They'll hunt. Aggressively. No mercy for traitors.
"I fear we're at a deadlock."
He nods. "We have to escape their reach."
"How?"
The urge to reach for him is strong. You don't, though. Not now that you know it's not the same, that this isn't the same for him as it is for you.
"Collect what we need. Cash, papers. Then go our separate ways. Safer that way and harder to track."
The words slice through you. Separate ways. It breaks your heart, a sharp, quiet pain that steals your breath. You'd imagined - stupidly, perhaps - a life together, even now. Running away as one. But he's right. And perhaps it's better for him to be fond and not in love so it makes this easier, to be at a deadlock in which no progress can be made.
"Agreed," you nod.
He looks at you, something unreadable in his eyes, but you turn to the window, watching the clouds. You reserve the part of you that wants to beg him to stay, knowing you don't deserve it and he doesn't want to.
The flight drags, hours of tension and unspoken words. You land in New York under cover of night, sleet slashing the tarmac. When you step out of the plane and he hails a cab, you know nothing will ever be the same.
-
The plane touches down with a jolt. Junhui looks at you but you're staring out of the window, face turned away. The cabin feels too small, air thick with the tension of unspoken words and the faint scent of fuel seeping in from outside.
Junhui stands first, offering a hand to help you up. You stand up on your own, movements reserved, eyes not quite meeting his. It makes his heart squeeze, knowing now that everything was a lie.
He'd fallen in love with you slowly and unintentionally. He'd thought maybe it was mutual - always felt guilty for it - but now? Doubt poisons everything. You're Clockwork - were Clockwork. The marriage was a cover. He was convenient. Safe. Normal.
The sadness twists in him like a blade, even though he was supposed to be doing the same thing to you. But for him it had turned real. Foolish, really. But he's glad there's enough fondness in you to let him live, to part ways.
He'd suggested separate ways not because he wanted it, but to save what little pride he had left. If you didn't love him, better to let you go without begging. Without admitting how much that it hurt.
The pilot nods as you exit, no questions, just like Junhui had paid for. Outside, the sleet stings Junhui's face, wind whipping through his coat as you both rush through customs and back out into the wind to hail a cab. The driver is an older man that complains about the weather, but he takes the cash as you both slide into the back.
Despite the small space in the back of the car, there's a chasm between you. He wants to bridge it - wish he could. He wants to reach for your hand and pull you close, to tell you that it was real for him. That he had been lying, but not really. Not all the time. But he doesn't. You're reserved now, words sparse, gazed fixed outside of the window.
The silence stretches, broken only by the slosh of tires on wet roads and the driver's occasional cough. Junhui's mind races, replaying every moment over the last five years with you - the gala where you'd approached him, your smile bright and charming. The proposal he'd made because he couldn't imagine life without you. He night's he'd held back from you, guilt over his lies making him afraid to take more than you offered.
He'd thought you were content, that what you'd had was enough. But it was all a facade for you. Cover. The word echoes, bitter. He loves you - fiercely, achingly - but it was never real for you. And he doesn't blame you one bit. He cannot hold you to trial for a crime he was also committing.
Sadness swells, a silent grief that makes his chest tight. He will miss you more than you know. It's the right call, despite the fact it makes him want to fall to his knees.
The brownstone appears like a ghost in the sleet. He helps you out of the cab and you let him this time, though you step away from him the moment you're outside. The stoop creaks under you both as you hurry inside, the key turning into the lock with a familiar click.
You head upstairs without a word, movements quick. Junhui follows, heart heavy, watching you rush into the bedroom to start packing. He stands in the doorway for a moment, the reality hitting him. This was his home, a perfect life that he'd clung to, even if it was built on lies. Now it's ending and you're eager to go.
He moves to his side of the closet, packing his own things - cash from a hidden safe, false papers tucked into a book spine, weapons from certain shoes. His fingers linger on the tie you'd given him for Christmas, silk smooth, a reminder of you. He keeps it, wanting to hold on even when you're gone.
In the middle of folding one of his shirts, something prickles at the back of his neck. It's the same instinct he's had before ducking before being shot at. The house is too quiet, the sleet outside rhythmic. He glances up, drawn to the window where your back is turned as you pack, the curtain half-drawn. A red dot appears on your bag, small and steady.
His blood turns cold.
"Get down!" He yells, lunging across the room.
You startle, but he tackles you to the floor just as the window shatters, glass exploding inward. Bullets spray through the bedroom, thudding into the walls, splintering wood. Junhui's body covers yours, shards of glass raining down on you both. Pain blooms in his shoulder - glass or a bullet graze, he doesn't know - but adrenaline surges.
"They know," he gasps, rolling off of you. He pulls a pistol from the nightstand.
You nod, gun drawn as you both turn. Another spray of bullets rips through, punching holes in the wallpaper, the chandelier downstairs crashing. The house shakes with the assault, sleet cutting in through the broken windows, cold and stinging.
Junhui crawls to the edge of the bed and looks over to see shadows moving outside. There are three figures in black downstairs advancing on the stoop, rifles up. He fires twice through the window, the suppressed pops lost in the chaos.
"Back stairs," You tell him, already moving.
A bullet whines past your head, embedding in the walnut paneling. Junhui's heart lurches but you don't flinch as you return fire, turning into a woman he doesn't know at all. He follows, shoulder burning still, pistol steady as he shoots at a figure bursting through the front door below. The man jerks and falls, but more come in, footsteps thundering.
The back stairs are narrow and dark, the air thick with fust. You descend first, sweeping the landing as you clear it while Junhui covers you, exchanging fire. A shadow appears at the bottom but you fire once, the man crumpling. Junhui is suddenly thankful that you're trained and lethal.
The kitchen explodes into view. Bullets shatter the window over the sink as Junhui grabs a knife from the block, hurling it at an assailant charging through the door. The blade hits the man in the throat, blood spraying in a crimson fan as he falls. You snatch a revolver from a hidden drawer - Junhui realizes it's his - and fire at another in the hall.
"How did you know that was there?" He asked, stupefied.
"I thought you were just trying to protect the house," you admit. "I assumed you didn't know how to use it. It was sweet."
He doesn't have time to be offended as the kitchen erupts into chaos, men pouring in through the door from the garage. They're dressed in tactical gear like the rest, faces masked, rifles swinging to take aim.
You're too close for guns. Junhui shoves you around the island cojunter top as the first gunman shoots at you, the bullet pinging off the fridge. You squeeze the trigger of the revolver as you duck, feeling the click of the rotating chamber as you unload the full round into the first man, his vest catching them before you catch him in the throat, red spraying.
Chamber empty, you grab the cast iron skillet off the stove as another man charges Junhui. Your husband doesn't hesitate, ducking under the barrel of the rifle as twisting as he drives his elbow up into the assailant's ribs. You hear bones crack but Junhui doesn't stop, slipping behind the man and kicking out with a foot directly in his back, sending him forward.
The third man comes for you, dropping his rifle in the closed space to grab your arm. You swing the skillet hard, catching him across the temple. He goes stumbling, blood trickling from a gash. He recovers quickly, tackling you against the cabinets.
Pain flares in your back as things shatter, the drawers rattling behind you. You knee him in the groin, buying a second to scramble for a knife from the butchers block. His hand snaps out, iron clad on your wrist as he tries to keep you from the weapon. You snarl and throw your head forward, pain exploding behind your eyes as you use your head to crunch his nose.
Across the room, Junhui has turned into a weapon. His strikes are blindly fast, driving his palm up into his opponents nose before bring the knife down across the chest, the arms, the neck. He drops down and spins, sweeping the man's feet from under him as he goes down in a wet gurgle, vanishing on the other side of the island.
The man grappling you pins you to the counter and you scream, reaching for the knife, fingers slipping as his grip locks around your throat, squeezing tighter than anything you've ever felt. Panic flickers in your chest, air cutting off, vision spotting. You stomp on his instep and elbow him hard in the gut but he ignores it, dragging you across the counter and toward the garage door.
Then he's gone, thrown to the side as Junhui yanks him, chest heaving with rage. The violence in his face is raw as you choke down gasps of air, mouth wet with spit as you suck in breaths.
"Do not," Junhui growls, slinking forward. "Touch my fucking wife."
He collides with your attacker, sending them both into the wall. Plaster cracks under their weight as Junhui lands a series of strikes to the mans face, middle, ribs. The man gasps and Junhui grabs his head in both hands and twists violently, a loud crack echoing before the man goes limp to the floor.
Panting, Junhui turns to you, his shoulder wound seeping through his shirt, glass shards glittering in his hair. His eyes scan you frantically, rage morphing into panic. He storms over to you, cupping your face gently, turning your head side to side. "Are you hurt?"
"No," you rasp, voice hoarse from the choking. "Thank you."
He lingers a moment longer, something flaring in his face before he nods, hands dropping reluctantly. "Let's go."
You both plunge into the garage and you bolt for the motorcycle that Junhui never uses. It's a sleek, black Indian Scout. You'd never asked to ride it and he never really bothered with it, only using it on the summer nights when you were out of town. He assumed you didn't like motorcycles, but now you don't hesitate.
"Come on."
"Are you serious?"
"Get on," you demand, moving toward it.
You reach the bike first, swinging a leg over the seat without pause. The engine is cold, but the key is in the ignition. You twist it, thumb the starter, and the bike roars to life.
"You can ride?" He asks, as you kick the stand up and rev the throttle. "Since when?"
"Since I was twenty, get on."
Junhui swings on behind you, arms coming around your waist automatically. His grip is tight and he feels your hammering heart as he presses his chest to your back. You drop the clutch and twist the throttle, the scout lunging forward.
The acceleration is brutal, the front wheel lifting a bit before you muscle it down. He lets out a startled breath against your neck as you peel out onto the street, the bike fishtailing. You learn into it and the bike straightens, rocketing down the block as gunfire pops behind you.
Sleet and wind sting his eyes. Neither of you are dressed for this but he clings to you as you flick the bike through the street, taking the first corner harder, nearly laying it down. He lets out a shriek and a curse as you straighten out, gunning it.
"Where the hell did you learn to drive like this?"
"Clockwork," you yell. "Some of us learned more than guns!"
He laughs, the sound vibrating through him. He doesn't know what to think as the wind screams in his ears, biking roaring under him.
You weave through the late night traffic on Fifth, dodging Model T's and taxes, the bike's headlight cutting a white blade through the sleet. He turns to see a sedan following you and he curses. You steal the breath from his lungs again when you cut left onto a side street, narrow and barely wide enough. You downshift and fishtail as you come out of the side street and onto the road, swerving around a car.
Junui's arms flex around you, one hand sliding up to brace against your shoulder. "You're insane!"
You don't respond, but the admiration sings in his veins, nearly warm enough to fight off the bitter cold as you drive through back roads. He gives you directions as you drive, the two of you shivering as you lose your pursuers, cutting through the city.
His hands stay firm on you. He feels you shiver and he pulls you tighter, trying to keep you warm. At least, that's what he tells himself. He knows he's doing it to keep you a little longer, anchoring himself to you like he can keep you. He wonders if you feel the same fracture he does.
He wonders if it matters.
Dawn is grey and cold when you finally slow, the Scout's engine ticking as it cools. You're both shivering as you kill the engine and pull up in front of a farmhouse with a sagging porch and oaks surrounding it.
Junhui slides off first, offering a hand. You take it, shivering and shaking. You look up at the house, tears frozen on your face, lips swollen with cold. "What is this place?"
"Friend of mine. Not Protocol. From college. He's in Milan."
Minghao's place is cold as you step in. Junhui bolts for the fireplace, knowing it's dire to get it going. You stand in the threshold of the living room, trembling and freezing as he manages to get the dry wood lit. He turns and gestures you over. You come wordlessly, nearly collapsing as the orange flames lick over the logs.
Both of you hold your hands to the fire, trembling. It almost hurts to feel heat again, both of you shivering in silence as the fire roars to life. Slowly, you both sit, unwilling to move from the flames.
"We're safe," Junhui murmurs, tired, switching languages on instinct. "We rest first. Then plan."
You nod, slowly getting up to move to a chair, the distance between you vast.
-
You step out of the shower, steam curling around you. You dry off quickly and change into pajamas Junhui has given you - they're not exactly your size, but they work. Everything in this house belongs to Minghao who hadn't been preparing for you to stay, but Junhui swears he won't mind anyway.
Reentering the bedroom, you stop short. Junhui is standing in front of the small dresser mirror, shirtless. He's turned around, trying to look at the injury on his shoulder, the lamplight carving shadows across the muscles of his back, the narrow taper of his waist. He prods at the graze, wincing as he looks at it.
He sees you reflected and straightens, hand dropping. "Sorry, it's the only mirror in the house."
"Let me help," you say, setting your things down and rushing to him.
He nods as you riffle through the bathroom for medical supplies. Minghao thankfully has a simple one and you make Junhui sit on the edge of the bed as you wet cotton with antiseptic. He smells clean like the shower he took immediately before you, his skin warm as you near him, heart hammering.
Suddenly, it feels too intimate. You shake off the feeling - he's your husband. So you kneel on the bed, mattress dipping under your weight. Up close, the graze looks a little worse thank you though, jagged and angry. You feel a pang in your chest. He didn't complain once during the ride, didn't mention the pain. Just held on to you on the bike, arms tight around your waist.
Carefully, you start to dab at the wound. He doesn't hiss or make a sound, but his muscles twitch under your fingers. He turns his head to watch you, dark eyes intense. You swallow, feeling the tension crackle to life as you watch. You're close enough that you can feel his breath on your face, your fingers nimble and careful as you clean the cut.
"When did you get this?" You ask, voice quiet.
"The glass."
You realize what he means. A piece of jagged must have caught him while he was shielding you - protecting you - from the spray of glass and bullets that moment he saw the sniper before you did. It makes you feel guilty immediately. How stupid of you to turn your back to the window, even for a moment. You're lucky he was there - lucky he still cares.
The heat of him radiates toward you and you fight a shiver as he watches, eyes half-lidded. You could count every single one of his lashes this close, but instead you put down the pink-tinged cotton and exchange it for a needle and thread.
"It's not deep," you murmur. "But I think it needs stitches."
Carefully, you pierce the skin and pull the thread through. He doesn't react. Instead, he says, "You're pretty good at this. How many times have you done it?"
"Oh? Are we exchanging work stories?"
His mouth curves. "Indulge me."
It makes your stomach flip when he says it. You pause as you think about all of the times you've stitched someone or yourself. It feels weird to think of a story to tell him, the barriers between you suddenly gone.
"I've done it a lot," you admit. "Sometimes on myself, but mostly on other people. One time in Vienna a partner I was working with was shot in the leg during an extraction. I had to stitch him up in an awful basement with almost no light. He lived but Joshua literally never forgave me for the scar."
"Well Joshua should mind his tongue when speaking to you."
Your mouth twitches as you pull another stitch through. "What about you?"
"Botched hit in Berlin. The one on my chest."
You pause, narrowing your eyes. "You told me you got that in surgery."
"I'm a bit of a liar, love."
Your heart races from the nearness of him, his knee brushing your arm as you shift to tie off another stitch. You've been this close before, but never like this, vulnerable and exposed, everything tripped away.
"I had to patch myself for the first time in Shanghai," you continue. "It was in an opium den. Could barely figure out where the hell I was from the contact high."
"I've been there." You give him a look. "Protocol sends me to a lot of places, angel."
The nickname makes your heart trip over itself. He's called you that since the early days of your relationship when you were pretending not to speak Mandarin and letting him teach you, the warmth and fondness for him just as strong as it is now, despite the lies.
"I'm sure you had lots of pretty girls to stitch you up." You don't know why you say it, but it's out before you can stop it.
"None as pretty as you."
You don't know how to respond, your fingers shaking. You tie the last stitch, snipping the thread, your hand lingering for a second too long, craving the warmth. He's quiet, watching you with an expression that you can't read.
"There," you whisper. "Done."
He flexes the shoulder, looking away from you to the injury. You use the break in tension to shift away from him, sucking in air, wishing you felt cooler than you did.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
You stand, suddenly too aware of the charged tension. "I'm going to start dinner."
Junhui nods, but his eyes follow you as you head out the door, clicking the bedroom shut behind you.
In the hall, you lean against the door, heart pounding. The closeness - the heat of his skin, the shared stories - it's too much. You love him, but you know that your marriage wasn't built on love. It was built on deceit and versions of yourself you never really let the other have, and now you don't know what to do with it.
The kitchen is sparse, but the cupboards are filled with canned goods and a variety of spices. You light the stove, flames flickering to life as you rummage for potatoes, onions, and spices. Stew is the only answer for dinner tonight, and you're thankful there's at least chicken stock in the pantry.
Your hands move automatically, chopping, stirring, but your mind is on him. The graze, his quiet admission of jobs, the way he let you help without protest. Footsteps creak and you flinch, turning with the knife raised. It's Junhui, shirt on and hands up.
"Sorry," he notes and you drop the knife, sighing. He watches you for a moment before walking toward you. "Let me help."
You nod, handing him the knife for the onions. He stands too close, his arm brushing yours as he chops. The space is small, the stove's heat warming the room as you work together. It feels normal, almost, the two of you working in perfect tandem that you've built over the years. You stir the pot, making room for him as he leans for salt, arm brushing yours.
Junhui is different now - quieter, more intense - but he's still him. His mouth curves when his eyes flicker to you, something fond and understanding. It makes you nervous, the desire and sadness gnawing at you. You itch to touch him but you're unsure you can.
When the food is done, you eat at the small table, stew steaming in bowls. The fire crackling from the living room is the only sound as you both eat quickly, avoiding his gaze that keeps finding your face from across the table.
After, you clear the plates, doing anything to put space between you, thoughts spinning and full of him. You don't know what happens now - where to go or how to leave him. You watch him as he grabs blankets from the hall closet, intending to sleep on the couch - away from you, away from everything you've built.
You feel the fracture in your heart widen, the separation between you looming and wider than ever. The question falls from your lips before you can think twice, unable to stop yourself from asking any longer.
"Did you ever love me?" The words hang there, Junhui freezing. "Or was it just a cover all the time? I assume the latter, since we were fond but never very intimate, I guess. But I just - did you ever?"
Junhui freezes, the folded blanket clutched in his hands. The firelight paints him in flickering orange and gold, catching the way his composure cracks. He sets the blanket down slowly, moving toward you as he shakes his head."
"I loved you from the start," he murmurs. "Before I even married you. Marrying you was convenient, but I fell in love with you at that stupid gala. You asked me about that painting and I panicked and recited an entire catalogue of notes memorized the night before and you laughed - not at me, in delight. Like you found something unexpected and wonderful. And I remember thinking that I was the worst thing that could happen to you."
He laughs once, a small, broken sound as your heart hammers in your chest, breaths coming fast.
"You made it worse by being you," he admits, softening as he takes another step toward you. "You did small things for me, made my life perfect in ways that mattered. You never asked anything of me, you just… were there for me. I thought if I stayed gentle, if I stayed careful, if I never asked too many questions, maybe you’d never realize what kind of monster was sleeping beside you. I thought the guilt would be less if I never took more than you offered. So I kissed your forehead and pretended that was enough.”
Junui's palm is warm when he cups your face and turns you to look up at him. His thumb swipes across your cheek and you realize you're crying. His face is pained as he looks down at you, freehand snaking around your waist to pull you chest to chest with him, warm. His heart beats in time with yours as he looks down at you, gaze searching.
"It was never enough," he admits. "I love you so much it makes me sick with it. Every time you came home late I wanted to pull you into my arms and ask where you’d been. Every time you smiled at me across a crowded room at one of those awful parties I wanted to drag you into a coat closet and kiss you until neither of us could breathe. I didn’t. Because I thought it would make me evil to take what I wanted and lie to you at the same time."
You hiccup a sob. "I thought you didn't want me. You said you wanted to go our separate ways on the plane."
"I suggested it because I thought it was what you wanted. Because I thought letting you go was the kindest thing I could do for the woman I love."
"You absolute idiot!" Junhui blinks as you hug him, pressing your face to his chest. He laughs, a little confused as you squeeze him. "I took the forehead kisses and the gentle hands and the soft words and tried to convince myself it was enough, because I thought that was all you wanted from me and all I thought I deserved!”
"Really?"
"Yes, you oaf! I was so guilty for lying to you that I accepted what love you offered and felt grateful for it. Asked no questions. Thought I was awful."
He laughs squeezing you tighter, arms warm and secure and home. The arms of your husband, the Junhui you've always known.
You pull away from him a little, looking up at him. "When you said separate ways on that plane, I thought my heart was going to cave in. I agreed because I thought that’s what you needed. Because I thought you didn’t love me the way I loved you. And I was going to let you go. I was going to let you walk away because I thought it was the kindest thing I could do for the man I love.”
He cradles your face again, eyes dark as he looks down at you. Tears cling to your lashes and you sniff unceremoniously. He smiles, fond - in love - fingers pressed to your cheeks.
"What do you want, tiānshǐ?"
You reach up slowly, fingers trembling as you brush the hair from his face, his eyes shining.
"I want my husband," you tell him, heart racing. "All of him. The man who tutors neighborhood kids on weekends. The man who remembers birthdays and tips too generously. And the man who comes home with blood on his hands. The man who shielded me from bullets tonight. The man who’s been carrying the same guilt I have for years.”
For a single heartbeat, the world narrows to just the space between you. Then he moves, pulling you in - not gently or careful like you're used to - but desperate, with half a decade of starvation. He kisses you like he's starved, his mouth warm and wet and tasting of the salt from your tears.
You kiss him back, fisting his shirt in your hands, the years of things you've held back crashing through you - guilt, longing, terror, the stupid, vicious love you have for him. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and pulls you in closer, desperate for you.
When you finally break apart, his mouth doesn't go far, his lips ghosting across yours as he murmurs, "Wǒ de Tiānshǐ."
"Lǎo xiàng hǎo."
He stares down at you, snorting, unbelieving. "We really need to talk about how you pretended not to speak Mandarin."
"Yeah?"
"Yes, but right now I have other things on my mind."
You raise your brows, heart skipping a beat. "Like what?"
His lips curve into a slow, predatory smile, one you rarely see. It's possessive and hungry, your stomach knotting as he knocks his nose against yours. "Making love to my wife."
The words hang in the air, sending a shiver down your spine. Before you can respond, he scoops you in one fluid motion, his arms strong and sure beneath you. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your hands clutching his shoulders as he carries you toward the bedroom.
He moves effortlessly, body honed from years of training, muscles shifting under your touch. He kicks the door open with his foot, the wood creaking in protest, as he enters and throws you on the bed. You laugh, the breath escaping your lungs as he smiles at you while pressing you backward into the mattress, leaning over you.
Junhui shrugs his shirt off in a swift pull, revealing the scars you now know the stories to - the stitches on his shoulder fresh and delicate. There's no pain on his face now, just unrestrained hunger as he presses his waist to yours, leaning to kiss you again.
"You have no idea how often I've wanted this," he murmurs. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you arch toward him. "To claim you all the time. Often."
You reach for him, sliding your fingers through his hair as he kisses you again, teeth clashing. His weight on you is comforting, the mattress dipping under you both. He braces one knee between your thighs, breaking the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawn and down your throat. He nips the skin there, soothing the sting with his tongue. It makes you whimper and he groans in response, the flat of his tongue sweeping up your neck.
"Jun," you whisper, shivering.
He pulls away just enough to strip away your top, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you bare. "So beautiful," he growls. "My wife. Mine."
Junhui's hands roam, calloused palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arch into the touch, heat pooling low in your belly as he lowers his head to catch a nipple in his mouth. The sensation makes you writhe, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through you. You gasp, hips bucking instinctively, making him chuckle.
"Patience, my love," he teases.
His free hand slides down your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your pajama bottoms and panties, tugging them off in one rough motion. The cool air hits your exposed skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire inside of you. He tosses them aside, gaze fixed between your legs where you're wet and aching for him.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Have you been waiting for this too? Waiting for me to take you apart like you deserve?"
"Yes." His fingers trace the inside of your thigh, teasing higher but not quite touching where you need him most. "God, yes."
He hums in approval, shifting down the bed until he's kneeling between your legs, his broad shoulders forcing your knees apart. You feel exposed, breaths coming in quicker as he looks up at you, pupils blown and fucked out when he hasn't even touched you.
"I want to taste you first," he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to your knee. He kisses your inner thigh, your muscles twitching. "Want to make you come on my tongue. Can, I love? Will you let your husband devour you?"
"Please," you laugh, breathless and desperate. "Please, Jun."
He doesn't need more than that. His hands grip your thighs, holding them open as he leans in, his tongue flattening against you in one long, slow lick from entrance to clit. The sensation scrambles your brain, his tongue hot and wet. Your back arches off the bed as you suck in a harsh breath, his mouth closing against you as he groans. The vibration goes through you, making you squirm. He holds you harder, tongue diving in deeper before circling your clit lazily.
"Shit," you gasp, the curse leaving your lips before you can stop it.
Junhui laughs as you twist your fingers in the sheet, his mouth lethal against you. He switches between broad strokes and pointed pressure, sucking your clit into his mouth gently before releasing it with a pop that makes your toes curl. You feel the way you melt in his mouth, arousal and spit dripping from your cunt to the curve of your ass. He chases it, tongue hungry and greedy and you let out a broken sound.
He's relentless, possessive in a way he has never been with you all this time, tongue fucking you in shallow thrusts that have you grinding against him. One of his hands leaves your thighs, drifting to slide two fingers into your heat, curling upward to press against your front wall. Stars burst behind your eyes, one of your hands going to his head, fingers twisting in his hair.
"So tight," he murmurs, words muffled against you. "So perfect."
He suctions his mouth on your clit, sucking in time with the thrust of his fingers. Pleasure curls in your stomach and you feel yourself teetering on the edge, squirming in his hold.
"I'm - shit I'm gonna-"
"Come for me," he pants. "Let me taste you."
His fingers thrust harder, tongue circling your clit until you shatter. Your orgasm crashes over you, body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as you ride it out. He doesn't stop, licking you through it, drawing out over sound until you're shaking and oversensitive. Only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening with your release, grinning.
"You taste like heaven," he rasps, leaning up to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself in his mouth. You moan into it, nails dragging down his back.
Junhui's fingers drift back between your legs, pressing in again. You whine and he hushes you with a kiss, stretching your cunt around three of his fingers, thrusts gentle.
"You can take it," he whispers. "Want you ready for me, yeah? You can do it, my love."
You nod as he pumps them slowly at first, scissoring to open you up. It feels so good, the edges of your vision blurring while his thumb circles your swollen clit in lazy strokes. The overstimulation borders on pain, but it melts into pleasure, your body singing.
"You've been holding back too, hm?" He asks. "All those nights I could have had you like this writhing for me."
"Yes," you pant. "Wanted you so badly but didn't know how."
Cur curls his fingers again, hitting that sweet spot over and over again. Sweat beads on your skin and it feels like your heart is going to pound out of your chest, slamming in your ribcage as you arch, head pressing backward into the mattress.
Junhui attaches his mouth to your throat, sucking the tender spot underneath your ear as he works you toward another orgasm. The slide of his chest against yours, the way he groans - it all makes you come again, squeezes his fingers hard as you flood his hand, making him curse.
"That's it," he praises. "Just like that, love."
He withdraws his fingers with a wet slide, bringing them up to this mouth, sucking them clean with a hum of satisfaction. You look at him, dazed as he grins and kisses your forehead. You press your hands to his shoulders, anchoring your knees to his hips and he only has a second of warning with your grin as you roll, flipping him under you.
Junhui looks up at you with stars in his eyes as you lean up on your knees, panting. His hands automatically go to your hips, squeezing as you catch your breath, looking down at him. His mouth is swollen and covered in spit and slick but you don't care - he's the most beautiful creature you've ever seen.
With shaking hands, you help him out of his pants, only making room so he can kick them down before you have him pinned under you again, letting you grind against his leaking cock. He groans and you grin, watching as his eyes squeeze shut as you tease him, the heat of your cunt nearly unbearable.
You reach between you, grabbing his hard cock, pumping a little before you line him up at your entrance, the thick head pressed tight against you. He hisses, watching as you sink down slowly, taking him inch by thick inch. It's a lot and you feel the air punch from your lungs until you're ass it flush to his thighs, stretched so tight you can barely breath.
"Fuck," he bites out. "You are fucking perfect. I love you."
You grin. "I love you, even though you were going to leave me."
"I'm an idiot."
"Yes," you agree, gasping as you start to move. "You are."
It's slow at first, your hips rolling in languid circles. The friction feels so good, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep. His hands roam, squeezing your ass, thumbs digging into your hipbones to urge you a little faster.
"That's it," he rasps. "Use me."
Emboldened, you pick up the pace, bouncing now. Every thrust feels like it knocks the sense out of you, sweat slicking down your body as you try to catch your breath, thighs trembling. His hips thrust up to meet you, driving deeper, and you lean forward, nails raking down his chest.
"Mine," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your back to hold you to him. "No more holding back." You whimper and he thrusts up harder, gasping. "You're going to come on my cock, aren't you?"
You nod, unable to find the words, the angle letting him hit that spot inside of you that renders you useless. He takes over, banding you to his chest as he thrusts up hard and fast. It's too much, making you clench around him as you come with a scream, body sliding against his.
In one smooth motion, he rolls you, pressing you into the mattress. He's buried deep till, the weight of him pressing into you makes you delirious. He uses a hand to pin yours above your head, his hips grinding into yours, public bone pressing your clit as you whimper his name.
"One more," he begs, his thrusts turning deeper and slower. You nod as his free hand slides between you, gently circling your clit. "One more for me, love. My perfect fucking wife."
The overstimulation is torture, your body on fire, every nerve singing as he pulls you toward another high. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, hands squirming in his grasp as he pins you.
"That's it," he whispers, pace faltering as he starts to fall apart.
You come together, vision whiting out as you squeeze around him. He lets out a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside of you as he twitches. You can barely breathe, both of you tangled together, hearts pounding in sync.
He presses gentle kisses to your shoulder, murmuring in Mandarin, all the things he's always wanted to say - everything you needed to hear. You hold him close, never wanting to let go, uncaring that you were never the perfect wife and he was never the perfect husband. You're perfect for each other, two congruent pieces of a puzzle.
"I love you," he says again, voice rough. "From the moment I meant you."
"I love you," you whisper. "Before I even approached you."
-
The sun hangs low over the Aegean, painting the whitewashed walls of the stone house in gold. Naxos is beautiful this time of year, the sun painting the small kitchen with cracked blue tiles in the perfect light.
It's a simple thing - two bedrooms with a terrace overlooking olive groves that slope down to the sea. Junhui stands on the terrace now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, nursing a cup of coffee from the beans you'd found in Chora. You watch him from the doorway, arms crossed loosely, still wearing the faded linen dress you'd thrown on after your morning swim.
He glances over his shoulder and catches you staring. A smile curves his mouth, the same one he used to give you at flashy New York City parties.
"What are you staring at?" He asks.
"My very beautiful husband." You step closer, slipping your arms around his waist from behind, cheek pressed to the warm plane between his shoulder blades. "You know the ladies in Chora love you?"
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. "Do the ladies in Chora know I am desperately in love with my wife? And also that she could kill them without a second thought if she got jealous?"
Junhui turns in your arms, careful not to spill the coffee on you as he sets it down on the railing. He cups your face with both of his hands, warm from the mug. The callouses on his hands are the same calllouses you've always known, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.
"I'm retired," you tell him, squeezing him tighter. "No more killing for me." You pause. "Unless they keep staring at you, then perhaps."
Warnings: mdni 18+, sub!dk, dk down bad, pussy drunk, shooting blanks, messy creamy pies, praise, name calling (baby, slut, etc.), begging, dk gets off on you getting off, using dk for your pleasure, overstimulation, milking dry, etc. pwp, maybe I guess breeding kink but eh-
Synopsis: You ride loser!Dk to tears
WC: 1.3K
A/N: I am still hung up on loser!Hoshi, and just had to do a loser!dk when I got requested for a sub!dk
It's messy.
The wet squelches of your pussy echo in the dorm room as you slide down Seokmin's painfully hard cock. Your pussy welcomes the intrusion, slurping your gummy walls to his wide circumference, making the pretty boy underneath you whimper. His brain is melting, thighs shaking, as you sit all the way down to the thick base of his cock. He's never felt something so good. Your pussy renders him into a stuttering mess. "Oh my god, oh my god- s'too much-"
If you had told anyone you planned to ride Dokyeom's cock until he was a shaking mess. They wouldn't believe you. You're so popular around the college campus, in a highly acclaimed sorority, and Seokmin was the president of the drama club. In the hierarchy society seemed adamant to abide by, you were out of Dokyeom's league. And it was one of the many reasons why you liked him so much. He was the sweetest boy you came across one day while looking for a book in the library for your latest assignment.
And you knew, the moment he flashed you a smile that warmed you like the sun, that it would always end up like this.
Your walls squeeze around his shaft, sinfully. And he moans, wrecked and high-pitched, his cock jerking inside you for the nth time. Your gummy walls throb around his large girth, slurping his cock deep inside until Dokyeom’s jaw slacks open in awe. He doesn’t know how many times he’s cum now, filthy globs of his creamy seed stuffing farther into your wet channel, adding to the obscene squelches your pussy makes as you bounce in his lap.
You've been doing this for what feels like hours to Dokyeom. Swirling your hips in such an intoxicating way. Forcing his weeping bulbous tip to smooch your cervix with filthy kisses that made you see stars. You're so warm, so wet, squeezin' him so tightly his eyes gloss over. Pretty tears form on his long eyelashes, and his fingers dig into the bedsheets underneath him.
He whines, broken, hiccuping as the wet ‘plap plap plap’ of your addictive pussy smacks down onto his tender cock visciously. He sniffles, "P-please, shit-slow down - ngh - i’m gonna cum again-” His head tilts back, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as his hips buck up into your drooling cunt. A filthy mixture of your combined cum pools from your puffy folds, coating his cock with the sweet slick until it forms a ring around his thick base.
So messy.
So wet.
And your lips curve into a smug grin, your hand moving up to cup Seokmin’s cheek softly as you swirl his cock inside you. You're grinding slowly and steadily, your thumb wiping away his tears that stream down his blushing cheeks. You pout with fake empathy. “Don’t you wanna cum inside? Paint my pussy white over and over again?” Honestly, he feels too good to stop. His fat cock is stirring your insides so deliciously that you can feel your mouth water.
And when you feel his cock twitch at your words, a whine slipping from his spit-slicked lips, you coo. He looked so pretty when he cried. Looking so fucked out, eyes squeezing shut as you ride him like your personal dildo. Your walls clamp around his length, milking the life outta him, forcing gooey hot sperm out of his weeping tip with each bounce you did on his thick cock.
And Dokyeom is fucked. Obsessed - it hurts so good that he doesn’t know if he can handle what happens if he’s pushed to the edge again. But he’ still blabbering between sniffles. “Yeah, grind on my cock..just like that…please, jus’ like that, jus’ like that!”
He cries out loudly, his arms straining, biceps flexing. His fingers clutched the pillow next to him as his other hand pushed on the headboard above him. The muscles in his thighs tensed, drool slipped past his lips, and he cums again, a raw sob shaking from his chest as you continue to rock up n’ down, up n’ down on his big cock.
He stuffs you full so well, filling you up so thoroughly, the veins that run down his length throb and rub all the sweet spots inside you. You can’t get enough, feeling his cum splurt rope after rope of his seed until it overflows from your pretty cunt. It’s filthy how the mixture of both of your previous orgasms seeps past your soaked folds, smearing on Dokyeom’s pelvis and dripping down to his heavy balls.
And Seokmin doesn’t know if he’s actually breathing; his body shakes under you as you still fuck him filthily. Your pussy slurps greedily on his cock, and more tears fall from Dk’s pretty eyes. “I-I can’t- nothin’-“ he sobs, and you cup his face with both hands as you roll your hips in stomach-clenching swivels. “Nothin’s left, given you ‘verything, no more, no more for you.”
But his body betrays him. His balls are still heavy, and they smack against your plush ass each time you slam down on his cock. He’s still rock hard, and you’re cooing at his cute sniffles. “You say you can’t? But why’re you still hard, Baby?” Your thumbs wipe his tears, your lips pressing into his for a loving but messy kiss. “Such a pretty slut crying while you fill my pussy up over and over.”
Dokyeom’s whine ends in a mewl, his head shaking back and forth, heat crawling up his neck until his ears burn red at the top. He tries to defend himself, his mind glitching with how good you're riding him, literally fucking him dumb. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his tears staining his cheeks as the familiar knot in his stomach builds back up, and he can only babble. “Yes, yes, ngh- “
Through blurry vision, Dokyeom’s watches as you lean back, moving your hands from his face to slide over your soft body, sitting still on his twitching cock. His eyes are heart-shaped, burning intensely as you move one hand to your breast, pulling your nipple between your fingers as your other hand moves between your thighs. You rub your puffy clit, deciding to give him some mercy by pausing your delirious bounces to play with yourself.
But it just brings new tears sliding down his cheeks. With his orgasm halting, you make him watch while you play with yourself. Your breathy moans increase in tempo as you rub your clit faster, and the bundle of nerves pulsates against your fingertips as you knead your breasts with your other hand. You don’t have to move to cum on his cock and Dokyeom’s watches in awe as your body tenses up, your jaw slacking as you easily work yourself into an orgasm with a pleased whine.
It ruins him. Something snaps in his mind. And while your pussy convulses around his cock, gushing your sweet, slick juices around his length, he grabs your waist forcefully. Using strength that surprises you, he moves you sloppily up n’ down on his cock. He plants his feet on the bed and pushes his hips up to meet each one of your nasty bounces with a grunt.
His head falls farther into the pillow under him, exposing his pretty throat as he feels his cock swell one more time. “M’gonna cum, m’gonna cum, oh fuck, m'gonna cum!” His balls tighten up, and the gasp he exhales sends goosebumps down your entire body.
He cums with a wrecked sob echoing in the bedroom as he shoots blanks inside you. He had meant it when he said he had given you everything. His overstimulated cock jumps and jerks against your gummy walls and helps you ride your orgasm until you're slumping over Seokmin’s wrung-out body.
“You did so- wait, what’re you doin’?” You yelped when he rolled you both around, so you’re the one now lying on your back. Dokyeom’s eyes are glossed over, his tongue lolled out, drooling as he ruts his hips mindlessly into your pulsing cunt. His cock is oversensitive but still hard, and his mind is complete mush. He can’t stop even if he wanted to; it’s too good. It feels too good. And he grinds meanly into your pretty pussy as he babbles between tears.
“Can’t stop- don’ wanna- isn’t this what you wanted, right? Right?”
You knew loser dick was better.
A/N: As always, comments, kudos, and feedback are greatly appreciated!
Side note: I would like to say nothing is wrong with being in drama club lmao it was just for the little bit of plot hahaha
synopsis: your dating history had been nothing but bad sex and even worse goodbyes. he showed you a patience and certainty that silenced every doubt, proving that you weren’t hard to love; you’d been loved by him all along.
wc: 10.5k
warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content | oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, dom!mingyu, sub!reader, soft power play, heavy praise kink, multiple orgasms | best friends to lovers, swearing, fluff, aftercare.
authors note: i’ve been wanting to post a mingyu fic for ages now, and as i was going through some of my older fics, this one gave me insane mingyu energy and i had no other choice but to rewrite it for him! this is a rewrite of my fic ‘tears’, and yes, the plot is based on the sabrina carpenter song! i hope that you all enjoy this as much as i do, and as always, please feel free to let me know what you think! ♡
you weren’t heartbroken; that would’ve implied there was something left to break.
you’d been on dates.
enough of them to know when there wouldn't be a second one before the drinks even hit the table.
enough to hear the same compliments repeated back to you like a script.
enough to recognize the tone men used when they were trying to impress you without actually learning anything real.
you’d slept with some of them, too.
sometimes because you wanted to. sometimes because you were desperate for relief. sometimes just to prove to yourself that you could still feel something, even if it didn’t last.
you weren’t bitter. you didn’t walk around openly hating men or rolling your eyes at every couple on the street.
you just didn’t have it in you anymore.
the hope. the performance. the energy it took to pretend someone’s bare minimum was enough.
so when you got home from yet another date that left you completely drained, you didn’t even bother with the lights.
you left your bag by the door, kicked your shoes aside, and sank onto the kitchen floor with a box of cookies at your side.
you weren’t heartbroken. you weren’t even sad. it was quieter than that; almost like resignation.
maybe it wasn’t that love never came; maybe it was that you were never the kind of person people stayed for.
being alone didn’t scare you.
what scared you was how much work it always seemed to take to avoid it.
every man felt like a mirror you kept wiping down, but no matter how clean you made it, the image was never your own.
it was smudged with their ego, clouded by their expectations, and warped by the way they looked at you like you were a puzzle they were entitled to solve.
you were tired of carving yourself down. of softening your edges. of apologizing for being too much or not enough.
tired of folding yourself smaller and smaller until there was nothing left of you at all, except whatever version might finally be enough to make someone stay.
your phone buzzed against the counter, a small sound that cut through the stillness and broke the spiral of your thoughts.
you kept your focus on the cookies in your lap, thumb working over the cardboard as though the solution to all of your problems might appear if you traced it long enough.
until it buzzed again. then again. and again.
you let out a weary sigh and reached for the phone, answering blindly, not bothering to see who it was before lifting it to your ear.
mostly because you already knew who was on the other end of the line.
“hi,” you said, voice low and a little scratchy from disuse.
“you sound like shit,” mingyu replied, warm and easy.
you smiled without meaning to. “thanks.”
fabric shifted on his end, a soft thud like he was throwing himself deeper into a couch.
“you didn’t text me today,” he spoke, not accusing, just noticing.
“mm,” you agreed quietly. “didn’t really feel like it.”
a quiet hum of understanding slipped out before his voice turned lighter. “hold on. didn’t you have that date tonight? with moustache guy?”
you shut your eyes. “unfortunately.”
“so…how bad was it?” he asked, already seeming to know the answer.
your head tipped back against the cupboard, the cool surface steadying you for a moment. “he called me dramatic,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“ouch.” he made the sound like a real wince. “what’d you do, insult his shirt?”
despite yourself, you let out a small laugh. “no. i just didn’t want to sleep with him.”
the quiet that followed was brief, but you felt it; he was biting back his first thought and thinking of something more appropriate to say.
“ah,” he said finally, voice dry. “god forbid you make a decision about your own body.”
you snorted, the sound sharp in your throat. “right? how dare i.”
“so you blocked him?” he asked, though it sounded more like certainty than a question.
“while he was walking me home,” you admitted, reaching into the box for another stale cookie.
his laugh rolled through the receiver, low and warm. “brutal and efficient…i respect it.”
the sound pulled a laugh out of you too, small and worn around the edges, before it faded back into quiet.
his voice softened in the pause. “you doing okay, though?”
you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to tell him, but because you couldn’t figure out how to shape the heaviness in your chest into words.
“i’m tired,” you said at last, the words too small for what you actually meant. “not just tonight, though. it’s the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.”
“mm,” his agreement was soft, a sound that told you he knew exactly what that felt like, and that he’d been there more times than he could count.
his breathing stayed steady in your ear, present in a way that made the silence feel less empty.
“how did you even know it went badly?” the question slipped out before you could stop it.
“because you picked up,” he answered simply, as if that explained everything.
you frowned at the ceiling, not satisfied. “that doesn’t even make sense.”
there was movement on his end again, the soft rustle of fabric and a dull thud in the background, though his voice never faltered.
“you never pick up during good dates,” he reasoned. a pause stretched, just long enough for the smile in his voice to be obvious. “not that you’ve ever actually had one.”
your mouth fell open, half offended, half amused. “you are such an asshole.”
“tell me i’m wrong,” the grin in his voice was obvious, even without seeing his face.
you opened your mouth, ready to argue, but nothing came out. you knew he was right.
“yeah. that’s what i thought,” he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction.
“you’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“and correct,” he shot back without missing a beat, the faint shuffle of noise still bleeding through the line.
you squinted, suspicion tugging. “seriously, what are you doing? it sounds like you’re losing a fight with your furniture.”
“i’m coming over,” he said easily, the kind of casual certainty that came from years of getting away with it.
“gyu—” you started, fully ready to argue with him.
“don’t even start,” he cut in. “you’re not winning this one.”
“you don’t have to come,” you mumbled, curling tighter on the kitchen floor. “my apartment is a disaster, and i look like i’ve been hit by a bus.”
“cool,” he said, not missing a beat. “and?”
you blinked. “and i don’t want you to see me like this?”
his laugh slipped through, low and amused. “please. i’ve seen worse. like that night you got super wasted, missed the bathroom stall completely, and made me hold your hair while you cried into the toilet about how you were ‘too pretty to suffer like this.’”
you let out a dramatic groan, dragging your palm down your face. “you swore you’d never bring that up again.”
“i lied,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “messy hair and a graveyard of takeout boxes don’t even crack your top ten. i’ve watched you full-body sob during tangled.”
“that was emotional,” you defended.
“it was,” he agreed easily. “your eyes were swollen for hours afterwards.”
“you’re actually unbearable,” you muttered.
“maybe,” he said lightly, “but i’m still coming over. you don’t get to argue with me about it, either. i’m already out of the house.”
you shook your head, pressing the phone tighter to your ear. “this feels like harassment.”
his laugh came easy, smug enough to make your chest tighten in spite of yourself. “yeah, yeah. file a complaint when i get there. i’ll see you in ten.”
he ended the call before you could get another word in.
you stayed on the floor a little longer, the kitchen tiles cool against your legs.
your bra strap had slipped down your arm, the dress from earlier felt too tight, and the lingering scent of ramen from your date was starting to make your stomach turn.
eventually, you peeled yourself off of the floor and padded toward your bedroom, tugging at zippers and straps as you walked.
you made it to your room without bothering to flick on the light.
the soft outline of mingyu’s hoodie was easy to spot in the dark, still draped over your desk chair like it had been waiting for you.
you slipped it on and tugged a pair of cotton shorts from the drawer without bothering to check which ones they were.
you were already turning back towards the kitchen before you’d fully registered the choice; like your body had already decided for you.
the only light came from the lamp in the living room and the soft glow above the stove, casting a dim warmth over the mess you said you’d clean hours ago.
piled up boxes. dirty dishes. the garbage you should have changed yesterday.
none of it was catastrophic; just enough to be annoying.
you lingered in the doorway, taking it all in. like maybe, if you stared hard enough, the mess would clean itself.
you thought about moving. picking up a box, rinsing a dish, doing the bare minimum to prove that you weren't completely useless.
you stood there long enough to accept it wasn't going to happen.
you couldn't help but laugh at how pathetic it all felt.
it was a five minute job at best, yet you still allowed yourself to sink back down to the floor, because avoidance had always came easier than effort.
the apartment was quiet for all of thirty seconds before his voice crashed through it, loud and certain, like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.
“yo,” mingyu called out. “sorry i’m late—traffic was actual hell, and your street is like a one-way to satan. also,” he paused, mostly for dramatic effect, “i brought some noodles and that weird mango drink you like. worship me accordingly.”
you leaned off the cupboards to glance toward the entrance. “you’re not late,” you said flatly. “i told you not to come.”
“and yet,” he replied, already kicking off his shoes. “here i am.”
he crouched down to fix them; heel to toe, perfectly aligned with yours like it was second nature.
it was just shoes. nothing more.
except most men you’d gone out with would’ve kicked them halfway across the floor, expecting you to deal with it later.
the care he gave to something so small shouldn’t have meant anything, but the heat that flickered low in your stomach said otherwise.
you dismissed it just as quickly as it came, telling yourself it was just the bad date making scraps of effort look bigger than they actually were.
with a groan, you tipped onto your back, landing against the tile with a quiet thud. one arm draped across your eyes, the other one splayed out like you’d officially given up. “god, you're annoying.”
“love you too,” he muttered, easing the bags onto the counter, careful not to knock over the leaning tower of unopened mail.
he turned and pulled the fridge open with one hand, already bracing himself. “wow. shredded cheese, expired oat milk, and…ranch? you’ve really outdone yourself.”
“oh my god,” you peeked out from under your arm to glare at him. “i literally had ramen earlier.”
he glanced at the takeout container still sitting on the counter; unopened and untouched.
“that from your date?” he asked, already tugging off the lid. “what, was the guy’s moustache so gross you lost your appetite?”
“can you not,” you sighed, laughter sneaking into your voice despite your best efforts.
he barely reacted. “you didn’t even eat this. the broth has a film.”
you rolled your eyes, not even bothering to argue. “stop inspecting my trash like a raccoon.”
“stop living like a raccoon,” he shot back. “and sit up. this is getting depressing.”
“no,” you said. “maybe i like the floor.”
“my bad,” he said, stepping over you without hesitation. “i’ll leave you two alone, then.”
he picked up your container of ramen you'd abandoned on the counter, emptied the broth into the sink, and scraped the noodles into the trash.
there was no hesitation. no second thought.
only quick, deliberate movements carried out with the kind of ease that came from knowing exactly what needed to be done.
if it were up to you, the container would have gone straight into the trash, broth and all.
yet for some reason, it stayed in his hands.
he held it under the stream of hot water, and watched it spill over the sides until the cloudy film began to dissolve. he made it look so natural, as if rinsing it had always been the obvious choice.
without breaking his rhythm, he crouched down and tugged open the cabinet beneath the sink. his hand slipped inside, bypassing the clutter you usually shoved in there, until his palm landed on the caddy tucked against the wall.
he didn’t fumble or search. his fingers closed around the sponge instantly as he pulled it free in one smooth motion.
you stayed frozen on the floor, eyes locked on the way he worked it over the container.
the water slid over his veins as if it had chosen that path on purpose, dragging your gaze there and daring you to keep staring.
every drop seemed designed to make you notice the strength in his hands and each flex of his fingers, until you couldn’t stop imagining what else they could do if they turned their attention towards you instead.
before you could spiral any further, he rinsed the last of the bubbles away and placed the container neatly into the drying rack, never once glancing in your direction.
he wasn’t doing it for praise. he wasn’t trying to make a point, either.
he simply noticed what needed to be done, and instead of judging you or making you feel guilty for letting it sit, he took care of it himself without needing a single thank you.
it shouldn’t have made your stomach drop. it shouldn’t have made your mouth go dry.
yet the heat was already there, rushing low until you felt the dampness pool against the cotton of your shorts.
you pressed your thighs together, trying to convince yourself it wasn’t as obvious as it felt, but there was no denying it.
your body didn’t care about the logic. it only cared about the way his hands moved, sure and unbothered, as if caring for the mess you’d left behind came easier to him than just leaving it.
your eyes followed him as he moved towards the garbage. he gathered the bag in his hands, twisting it into a knot with an easy strength that made his forearms flex, his muscles shifting with every pull.
it was quick and efficient; the kind of movement that never asked to be noticed.
he placed it by the door, not just to move it out of the way, but with the unspoken intention of taking it out later. the kind of small, thoughtless promise no one else had ever made you.
when he stepped back into the room, you told yourself he had to be finished by now, though every part of you already knew he wasn’t.
the fabric of his sweats pulled tightly across his thighs as he crouched again, reaching for the cabinet.
a new bag rustled open in his hands, his fingers working with quiet certainty as he slipped it into the bin. each edge was pressed down carefully, tucked into place until it held exactly the way you liked it.
a task that should’ve looked mundane somehow carried weight in his hands. your pulse climbed in uneven beats, chest tight, as if the air in the room had turned heavier just because he was in it.
there was nothing seductive in what he did, yet every precise movement drew the heat higher until your body responded as though he’d touched you directly.
too many bad dates had taught you to not expect this kind of care.
you were used to men who thought effort stopped at sending a text, and who never lifted a finger unless it benefited them.
the guy from tonight hadn't even bothered to hold the door open for you, so the thought of him replacing a garbage bag was almost laughable.
most men had always treated care as an obligation; something only performed because they felt they had to.
with mingyu, it was instinct; as natural as his next breath.
something in you gave way the longer you watched him.
it became too easy to let your mind wander, to twist the steady rhythm of his hands into something else; something meant just for you.
suddenly, his hands weren’t cleaning anymore. they were gripping your hips, sliding lower until his fingers pressed between your thighs, stroking through the damp heat he’d already put there without even trying.
you could almost feel them pushing inside, filling you with the same easy certainty he carried into every small thing he did.
the realization of what you’d just imagined made your eyes snap shut, mortified at your own mind and yet powerless against the pulse it left thrumming through you.
by the time you found the courage to open them again, he was drying his palms against his sweats, shoulders rolling back as if he’d just wrapped up a shift.
“alright,” he said, stretching with a groan, joints popping as his hoodie slid higher. “time to get up, princess.”
you didn’t budge. your cheek stayed pressed to the tile, knees pulled in close, hair half-in your face.
he tipped his head at you. “hello? earth to y/n.”
you blinked. “what?”
“i said it’s time to get up,” he repeated, flat like it was obvious. “we’re not eating dinner with you laid out like a crime scene.”
“i’m fine here,” you muttered into your arm.
he gave your hip a light kick with his socked foot. “i know i look sexy doing dishes,” he smirked, already catching the eye roll you tried to hide. “but come on. pull it together.”
your head tipped just enough to glare at him. “you’re delusional.”
“and you’re dramatic,” he shot back without missing a beat, crouching just enough to extend his hand toward you. “now get up before i drag you to the couch myself.”
your lips twitched, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a smile. “i’d like to see you try,” you mumbled, even as your hand slipped into his.
he tugged you up in one smooth pull, steadying you with a hand at your back until your feet found the floor again.
the touch was brief, casual, but your skin still burned under it.
you shook him off a little too quickly, ducking your head like maybe he wouldn’t notice. his brows lifted anyway, but he let it slide.
“come on,” he said, already reaching for the takeout bags on the counter. “i didn’t bring all of this food over just so you could mope on the floor.”
you trailed him into the living room, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders shifted under his hoodie as he carried the takeout.
he collapsed onto the couch, bags spread across the table like he owned the place.
you hovered for a beat before sitting beside him, close but not too close, hoping he wouldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your body.
“so,” he started, tearing open the first container, “soonyoung threw a tantrum when i told him you weren’t coming to rehearsal today.”
your lips tugged at one corner. “define tantrum.”
“like…fully rolling on the floor,” he said, chopsticks already clicking into place. “claimed he couldn’t get through practice without his number one fan watching.”
“sounds about right.” you said, easily picturing his dramatics in your head.
“seungkwan even backed him up,” he went on. “got all serious about how you’re ‘the glue that holds us together.’” he mimed quotes in the air, rolling his eyes.
your laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
he turned his head upon hearing the sound, like he’d been waiting for it, then reached for another container. the lid snapped open, steam spilling up between you.
“they’re ridiculous.” you said, shaking your head.
“it gets worse,” he assured, “seokmin told everyone in the studio that you were cheating on him.” he said casually, as if it wasn’t the wildest thing to say.
your brows shot up. “cheating? he and i aren’t even—” you cut yourself off with a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head again. “my god, he’s actually insane.”
mingyu’s smirk tilted, like he wanted to say more, but he just went back to portioning noodles.
you watched him work. how his hands moved quick and precise without thought. the crease in his brow when the chopsticks slipped.
the way his shoulder brushed yours when he reached for another box, like he didn’t even register the contact.
even if he didn’t, it still left you warm and restless, your shorts clinging tighter as your pulse tripping over itself.
you forced yourself still, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach, hoping he couldn’t read what was written all over your body.
without any warning, he slid the plate onto your lap, already reaching for another.
you glanced down ready to thank him, only to freeze.
every bite was exactly what you liked; no stray toppings, no sides bleeding into each other. even the noodles sat neat, twisted in their own space like he’d portioned them with care.
your brows furrowed. “wait…this is for me?”
“yeah?” his tone was flat, chopsticks already busy over his own plate.
“no, but—you separated everything.” you gestured vaguely at the plate, thrown. “none of the food’s even touching.”
he shrugged like it wasn’t worth noticing. “yeah. you hate it when it does.”
your mouth opened, stalled. “since when do you—”
“since always.” his smirk tugged faint, eyes still on the food. “i just pay attention. relax, it’s not that deep.”
you sat there, pulse loud in your ears, trying to pretend it wasn’t.
your shorts clung even tighter when you shifted, and the heat crawling up your neck made the plate almost too warm to balance on your lap.
by the time he leaned back with his own food, your eyes still hadn’t left him once.
his brows drew together, catching it instantly. “what?”
you blinked, caught off guard. “what?”
“you’re staring,” he said, chopsticks frozen midair like he’d caught you red-handed.
“am not,” you muttered, keeping your eyes locked on the plate in your lap.
“are too,” he shot back, smirk tugging as his chopsticks hovered. “seriously, what’s your deal?”
you shifted slightly, tugging your knees in closer as the words spilled out before you could catch them. “you’re just…way too thoughtful.”
he blinked, deadpan. “that’s a crime now?”
“no, it’s—” you waved a hand at the table, trying to find the words. “you cleaned, you set everything up, you made my plate exactly right without even asking—”
he glanced up mid-bite, chopsticks pausing. “uh-huh.”
“and you didn’t even hesitate, you just—” your voice pitched higher, flustered. “you just did it, like it was nothing—”
he reached for his bottle of water, lifting it toward his mouth, eyes narrowing with a half-smile. “because it is nothing.”
“it’s not nothing, gyu!” you shot back, heat crawling up your neck. “it’s—it’s hot, okay?”
he choked mid-sip, coughing and laughing all at once, nearly spraying water across the table as his shoulders shook.
at the same time, you slapped your hand over your mouth, instantly mortified. “oh my god.”
he was still coughing through a laugh, sleeve dragging across his mouth as his grin broke wide. “hot?” his voice cracked, half-raspy. “you think me scrubbing your dishes is hot?”
“nope,” you blurted through your hand. “you’re hearing things.”
his eyes lit like he’d just been handed blackmail material for life. “unbelievable. years of friendship, and this is how i find out your kink is…choreplay?”
“shut up,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face.
“no fucking way,” his hand patted at his sweats like he was checking his pockets. “where’s my phone? the boys have to hear this—”
your stomach dropped, panic snapping through you. “don’t you dare.”
his grin only widened, his hands now patting down the front pocket of his hoodie like he was already halfway to victory. “oh, i definitely dare.”
you scrambled to shove your plate onto the coffee table, causing the chopsticks to clatter against porcelain in your rush. “nope. no. absolutely not—”
he’d barely gotten his fingers inside of his pocket before you launched yourself across the couch, tackling him sideways into the cushions.
he landed flat on his back with a thud, and you climbed over him, straddling his hips while reaching desperately for his hoodie pocket.
“this is an invasion of privacy!” he gasped, twisting under you, but his laugh broke through every word.
“you don’t need privacy!” you shot back, breathless, hair falling in your face. “you need to shut up!”
his free hand darted to your side, fingers digging right into the spot he knew would make you squeal.
you squirmed against him, shrieking through your laughter. “stop, you asshole!”
he was laughing so hard his voice cracked, words tumbling out between breaths. “you picked the fight—i’m just defending myself!”
you finally slipped your hand into his pocket and yanked his phone free.
“mine!” you yelled triumphantly as you tossed it gently onto the carpet, way out of reach.
he burst out laughing, head sinking back into the cushion, chest shaking under you. “unreal,” he wheezed, grin splitting wide. “you just committed straight-up theft.”
“it was self-defense,” you corrected, still straddling his hips as you tried to hold him down. “you were about to ruin my life.”
his hands came up half-heartedly, bracing against your thighs as his laugh cracked again.
“you literally said i was hot when all i did was rinse a bowl—” he bucked his hips just enough to throw you off balance, making you squeal. “imagine if i started mopping the floors.”
“stop talking.” you slapped your hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the teasing.
he looked at you with mock innocence, then dragged his tongue across your palm.
you yanked it back with a yelp. “gross!”
he laughed so hard it broke into hiccups, chest still shaking.
your forehead pressed into his hoodie, both of you still caught in the aftershock of laughter.
the sound trailed off in little bursts, until it faded completely. silence settled around you, thicker than it had any right to be.
you lifted your head without meaning to, hair falling forward, your fists still bunched in the fabric of his hoodie.
he was right there; flat on his back, smile softening into something slower that tugged at your ribs.
the awareness of it all seeped in slowly, until every place your body touched his became impossible to ignore.
your thighs hugged his sides. your hips were pressed flush against his. his palms rested warm and steady on your bare legs, fingers splayed like he didn’t trust himself to move.
your faces hovered only inches apart from one another, the remnants of his grin fading as the air thickened between you.
the echo of laughter still hummed in your chest, but it was drowned beneath the heavy thud of your heartbeat.
the ache you’d been pushing down all night came rushing back, hot and relentless, flooding every nerve until there was no disguising it.
every slight shift of your hips made it worse. your slick heat pressed directly against him; betraying just how badly you wanted more.
his eyes held yours, steady and certain, as if he could read every thought you were trying to bury.
a quick flicker down to your lips slipped past his control; small enough to deny, but impossible for you to miss.
the second his gaze lifted to yours again, the tension snapped.
you closed the gap in a rush, kissing him with all the want you’d been choking down.
he answered immediately, almost as if he’d been holding back just as much. the kiss was deep from the start, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of certainty that stole your breath.
his palm skimmed up your bare thigh until it fit at your waist, while his other hand curled behind your neck, coaxing you closer, unable to bear an inch of distance.
the pressure of his hands anchored you as he shifted beneath you, pushing up from the cushions until he was sitting.
the movement never broke the kiss; it only dragged you closer, chest to chest, your legs tightening instinctively around his hips.
his mouth worked over yours hungrily, lips parting like he couldn’t get enough. you clutched at his hoodie, fingers knotted tightly in the fabric, pulling harder to erase whatever little space remained.
every brush of his mouth made your pulse spike harder. every drag of his lips left your lungs aching, but neither of you were willing to stop long enough to breathe.
his lips moved against yours like he already knew every secret you’d been hiding. each shift was deliberate, practiced without practice, pulling raw sounds out of you before you even realized you were making them.
his hand left the back of your neck first, dragging slowly over your skin before slipping down to join the other at your waist.
his hands slipped lower in a slow drag, following the natural curve of your body until both palms curved around your ass, pressing you down against the growing buldge in his sweatpants.
the press of him right against your center dragged a moan from your throat before you could stop it, hips rolling down on instinct, desperate to feel more of the friction you’d been aching for all night.
“breathe,” he murmured against your mouth, voice steady even through his own ragged breath. “i’ve got you.”
your hips rolled again before you could stop them, chasing more of the thick heat beneath his sweats. the noise he made vibrated through your chest, deep and broken, sending sparks racing down your spine.
you clenched around nothing, thighs tightening at his sides, every nerve screaming for more.
“gyu,” you whispered, voice trembling. “please.”
his thumb brushed slowly over your side through your hoodie, grounding you even as his mouth swallowed your plea.
“i hear you,” he said, rough and certain. “but we’re not doing this here. not on a couch.”
the protest tangled with want on your tongue, but you gave a shaky nod. “okay,” you breathed.
his grip tightened, both hands already firm at your ass, and in one motion, you were lifted off the couch.
your legs wrapped around his waist before you even thought about it, a startled laugh breaking from your chest as his mouth chased yours again.
he carried you like he’d done it a thousand times, steady even with your legs locked tight around him.
your back met the mattress before you even realized you had made it to your bedroom, the mattress dipping under your shared weight as he laid you down without once breaking the kiss.
he hovered above you, his weight balanced on one arm, while his other hand found your jaw. his thumb traced lightly along your skin as his eyes searched yours. “still with me?”
“still with you,” you whispered.
he brushed a strand of hair away from your lips, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary before adjusting the pillow under your head.
he caught the details no one else ever did; every small adjustment only served as proof that he knew exactly what you needed before you said a word.
his hand drifted lower again, pausing at the hem of your hoodie. “can i?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.
“please,” you breathed, the word spilling out before you could catch it.
he pulled the hoodie over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you in nothing but your bra and shorts.
the air hit cool against your skin, though it was nothing compared to his stare, heavy with years of memorizing every detail; knowing you in ways no one else ever had.
“fuck,” he murmured as his hand lifted to your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. “you’re so beautiful.”
your breath hitched, chest pressing up into his. heat rushed over your skin, your body giving you away as your hips shifted closer, chasing him without thought.
his lips moved with purpose, each kiss a quiet claim as he trailed them along your jaw, across your cheek, down the line of your throat, and back up to your lips.
his mouth traced you in reverence, each touch tugging another tremor loose, stoking the ache already clawing at you.
his hands followed the same rhythm, palms sliding over your sides, dragging heat everywhere they lingered.
he touched you like he already knew what your body was asking for; steady where you needed grounding, firmer where you were aching for pressure.
he moved with purpose, mapping you in ways that left no part of you untouched, and no ache unanswered.
your fingers slipped to the hem of his hoodie, tugging at it clumsily, more desperate than precise. you weren’t subtle about it, trying to work it up his torso without breaking the kiss.
his mouth curved against yours in a half-laugh, half-groan. “you know you can just ask, right?” he murmured, amused even through the rasp of his breath.
you rolled your eyes, breath catching anyway. “just take it off,” you whispered, impatience clear in your voice.
he rocked back onto on his heels, and tugged the hoodie off in one smooth pull. the shirt beneath stretched across his shoulders, while his sweats slouched low on his hips like an invitation.
your gaze slipped down, dragging his with it, until you were both staring at the obvious wet mark stamped across his lap.
your stomach flipped, eyes flying wide before you could stop them. his laugh cracked out, caught somewhere between disbelief and delight.
“wow,” he said, brows shooting up. “i rinse one bowl and you baptize my pants?”
you slapped a hand over your mouth, laughter already breaking through. “oh my god—no! that is not from me!”
his grin only widened, mischief written all over it. “no? so what, i pissed myself?”
you let out a choked laugh, shoulders shaking. “maybe you did!”
he leaned closer, laughter still shaking out of him, his hands warm and steady at your hips. “mm. want me to check your shorts, just to be sure?”
you shifted in his grip, laughing helplessly even as your face burned. “absolutely not!”
his grin turned smug, laughter still ghosting in his voice. “that’s what i thought.” his thumbs pressed deeper into your hips, steady and sure. “guess initiative really does go a long way, huh?”
you rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “apparently.”
he hummed, pleased, leaning in closer until his nose brushed yours. “good answer,” he mumbled.
his mouth found yours again, the trace of a smile still there, though it melted quickly into something hungrier.
his knee slid between your thighs, nudging them a little further apart, while his hands tightened at your hips, keeping you close.
you gasped into him, the sound breaking into a whimper when he angled himself lower, kissing along your jaw.
“there she is,” he murmured, voice brushing warm against your pulse before his lips dragged down your neck.
your breath caught as your hands slipped to his chest, sliding lower, reaching for the hem of his shirt. he caught your wrists easily, pressing a soft kiss into your open palm.
“not yet,” he whispered, steady and certain. “this is about you.”
his mouth trailed down slowly, lingering against your collarbone before sinking down the curve between your breasts.
his lips lingered like he had all the time in the world, and every deliberate pause only made your need claw harder, trembling for the next touch.
he knew exactly what you needed without you ever having to say it.
he caught it in the way your legs tightened, in the way your hips tipped towards him, in the twitch of your hands gripping the sheets.
he noticed everything, always had, and now he was using it to unravel you piece by piece.
“i’ve been dreaming about this for so long,” he breathed against the lace of your bra, voice low like he almost couldn’t believe you were real.
his hand slid beneath you, guiding your back into a soft arch. the clasp of your bra gave way under his fingers like it had been waiting for him, undone without him ever breaking from your skin.
the straps slipped down your shoulders, one after the other, and his mouth followed their path in slow devotion.
every new inch of bare skin was met with his lips, each kiss a quiet vow that nothing about you would be left unseen. he traced you with patience, as though to prove that you were worth memorizing in full.
his lips found the swell of your breast, his hands steadying you against the tremor of your own breath.
his lips lingered wherever they touched, tracing the faint lines that marked your skin as though they were meant to be cherished, never concealed.
“so beautiful,” he said, voice quiet but unshakably sure, like the words had been waiting years to fall out of him. “every inch of you.”
his tongue flicked over your nipple and the moan that tore from you was answered instantly by his own; muffled against your breast, like the taste of you undid him as much as his touch wrecked you.
your thighs shifted restlessly, helpless in their search for relief.
“you’re already trembling,” he breathed, kissing down over your ribs, following the soft curve beneath your breast. “and i’ve hardly even touched you.”
your voice broke apart on his name. “gyu—”
he didn’t look up, lips still moving like prayer, heat spilling across your skin. “no one’s ever touched you like this, have they?”
the truth of it broke you open, unraveling you from the inside out. your breath faltered, stuttered, until it was nothing but gasps and moans, your hips tilting into his hands without thought.
“i—” the attempt at words dissolved into moans, “fuck—oh my god—”
his palms slid down, fingers tracing the edge of your shorts, stopping just above where you needed him most.
“yeah,” he said, already knowing the proof had been in your body all along. “i figured.”
instead of giving in right away, he bent to your waist, his lips dragging heat over the skin just above your shorts.
“they never earned this,” he said, voice quiet but edged with conviction. “never learned you like this.”
“oh god,” the sound tore out of you, thin and desperate, your fingers curling around his wrist with no strength behind them.
he took your weak hold as encouragement, not resistance.
“they didn’t take their time,” he whispered, lips tracing slowly over the softness of your stomach. “didn’t listen.”
your fingers found his hair, tugging softly, guiding him closer without words.
“p-please,” you pleaded, the word breaking before it even left your throat.
his head lifted just enough to meet your eyes, steadying you in an instant.
“oh, baby,” his voice softened as one hand left your waist, reaching for the pillow beside you.
he slid it close, eyes never leaving yours. “lift up for me, princess,” he coaxed gently. “just a little.”
you obeyed, lifting just enough for him to slide the pillow breath you. his hands adjusted it with care, easing your hips down until he was sure you were comfortable.
“there we go,” he muttered, brushing his thumb over your skin. “that’s better.”
his thumb traced idle circles at your hip, grounding you while the other hand slid lower. when his fingers brushed the band of your shorts, he lifted his gaze, catching yours with a question he didn’t need to voice.
the quiet in his eyes made your chest ache; knowing he would wait if you asked him to. your body answered before your words could, hips tilting up in silent permission.
his lips tugged into a soft smile, eyes fixed on you as he drew the fabric down.
he shifted your shorts and underwear down slowly, guiding the fabric over your hips with deliberate care; every motion unhurried, every detail handled with care.
he gently lifted your leg, his hand steady at your calf. his lips pressed to your ankle first, soft and lingering, before traveling upward in slow succession.
each kiss trailed higher — the curve of your calf, the dip at your knee, the inside of your thigh — like he was intent on worshipping every step closer to where you ached for him most.
your nails dug into the sheets as his palms splayed over your thighs, easing them apart.
“breathe for me, sweetheart,” his voice was strained, as if he was holding himself back just to guide you. “just breathe.”
your body obeyed his words before your mind could, chest lifting with a shaky breath.
he didn’t let you finish it.
his mouth found you the next second; no hesitation, no warning. just him, warm and certain, like he’d been holding back only for as long as you could bear.
the pillow lifted you right into his mouth, every inch of you exposed to the slow drag of his tongue. his mouth worked with a patience that burned, each movement a vow to remember every detail of you.
your fingers threaded into his hair, desperate for something to hold on to.
“oh my—fuck—” the words tore out half-formed before collapsing into a moan you couldn’t contain.
he groaned in response, the sound reverberating against you as his grip tightened on your thighs, steadying you when your body tried to jolt away.
the way he moved against you was unhurried, and devastating in its precision. every swipe of his tongue felt like he already knew what would break you apart.
your chest heaved, breath shattering into pieces. you tightened your grip in his hair, dragging him closer without thinking.
he let you guide him, humming low like the taste of you was everything he’d ever wanted.
heat rushed through your stomach, twisting tighter with every pass of his mouth.
you were soaked. aching. unraveling with every second he stayed between your thighs.
“feels so good—” you choked out, hand fisting in the sheets now. “i can’t—it’s—gyu.”
he paused just long enough to glance up at you, eyes dark and blown wide with need. “you’re doing so fucking good for me, baby.” he praised, voice filled with honesty.
he found you again without pause, urgency written in every motion. his lips tightened over you, his tongue pushing deeper than before.
your head tipped back, voice spilling out like prayer. “don’t—please don’t—don’t stop—please.”
another groan broke free from his mouth, vibrating through your every nerve.
pleasure ripped through you so fast it stole the air from your lungs, leaving you clinging to him as though he was the only thing keeping you tethered.
“that’s it,” he whispered against you, voice low, almost reverent. “let it happen, baby.”
your thighs quivered around his shoulders, hips twisting helplessly.
his hold only tightened, dragging you deeper into every surge of pleasure until you had no other choice but to give in.
“gyu—fuck,” you gasped, tears stinging from the intensity of it all.
he slowed his pace, pressing soothing kisses as his thumbs circled your skin.
“that’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured. “you did so good for me.”
your chest heaved, lungs struggling to catch up with the aftershock.
when his gaze lifted, the change was immediate; eyes softening on sight, like tasting you had only deepened the reverence already written into him.
your lungs were still searching for air when he started climbing back up your body, mouth brushing every inch along the way.
your thigh. your stomach. the underside of your breast. your collarbone.
each kiss softer than the last, like he was pulling you back into yourself piece by piece.
by the time he found your mouth, you were already leaning into him, reaching before you realized it.
his lips lingered, smiling faintly against yours. “felt good, huh, beautiful girl?”
a broken laugh slipped out, shaky as you tried to catch your breath. “good?” you asked, head shaking in disbelief. “gyu, no one’s ever—” you paused, voice breaking, “not like that.”
his grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, soft but smug, like he couldn’t help himself.
“yeah?” he teased gently, eyes searching yours. “that’s because they were all idiots.”
he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours before kissing the corner of your mouth. “you deserve more than they’ll ever know how to give.”
his words sank deep, leaving you trembling all over again. you tried to laugh, but it broke halfway when his lips caught yours, sealing the truth of his words right into you.
what began tender turned restless in seconds.
his mouth moved against yours, only you couldn’t help but deepen it, chasing him like you couldn’t get close enough.
his chest pinned you down as his hips dragged slowly between your thighs. you felt him, hard and thick through his sweats, sending another wave of heat to rip through you.
it didn’t matter that you’d already fallen apart once; your body lit up for him all over again.
a whimper caught in your throat, swallowed by his kiss as your hands scrambled higher, clawing at his shirt.
you tugged like you were frantic; like the thin barrier of fabric was the only thing keeping you from breathing.
“off,” you rasped against his lips, desperate, the word breaking. “please—take it off.”
“yes, ma’am.” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips, but it vanished the second your fingers brushed his waistband like you couldn’t wait a second longer.
you shoved his sweats down with shaking hands, boxers going along, nearly knocking him off balance in your urgency.
he huffed a laugh, his eyes catching the hunger in yours. “greedy, are we?” he chuckled, sounding more undone than smug.
“shut up,” you shot back, no patience for his teasing.
your eyes had already landed on him; thick and already slick at the tip.
heat rushed hot up your chest, a grin tugging weakly at your lips despite yourself. “so that’s what i do to you?”
he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “you know what you do to me.”
“still,” you whispered, tugging him closer, “it’s nice to have the evidence.”
a rough laugh slipped from him, cut short as his mouth slammed back onto yours, heavy with need.
your legs wrapped around his waist without thought, but he held himself back; grinding his hard length through your slick folds with a patience that felt merciless, his lips still on yours like he needed to drink down every sound before giving you more.
“turn over for me, baby.” his voice was rough at the edges, but his touch stayed soft, guiding you onto your stomach like he was handling something precious.
as you shifted, the pillow resting underneath your hips slipped slightly.
before you could react, his hand was already there, sliding it back beneath your stomach with quiet care; making sure the angle favoured your comfort more than his own.
“there we go,” he muttered, like he was admiring a work of art. “just like that, angel. fuck—look at you.”
you could feel the heat of him behind you, hovering close, and the way his hands coasted up and down your sides; thumbs pressing in like he was trying to memorize every inch.
“you’re unreal,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “my fucking dream girl.”
his palms settled at your waist, urging your hips higher before gliding up your spine, pressing lightly between your shoulders until your chest sank into the mattress.
“fuck, baby,” he groaned as he lined himself up. “you’re gonna kill me.”
the blunt press of him at your entrance had you gasping, nails twisting in the sheets.
“gyu—” your voice cracked, the sound nothing but a plea.
“i know, i know.” his hand smoothed down your side, soothing you. “just breathe, beautiful. i’ve got you.”
he slid in with agonizing slowness, every inch a stretch that stole the air directly from your lungs.
a broken sound escaped you, and his groan followed fast, spilling into the space between your bodies.
“f-fuck—” your cried helplessly, “it’s—oh my—fuck—”
he bottomed out with a shudder, his hips pressed flush against you, both of you shaking with the effort it took not to fall apart right there.
his forehead dropped between your shoulders, breath hot against your skin.
“jesus christ—” he groaned, the sound rough and reverent all at once. “you feel—fuck, baby, you feel insane.”
your back arched, body clenching around him, another helpless moan tearing through you. “too much—no, it’s—god, gyu—it’s so good.” the words spilled broken, tumbling past your lips before you could catch them.
his hand slid to your stomach, pulling you up into him, grounding you through the dizzy stretch. “that’s it,” he murmured, kissing along your shoulder blade. “you’re doing—f-fuck—you’re perfect—fucking made for me.”
your thighs quivered, but the need to feel him move was stronger than the ache. you shifted back against him, desperate. “please…move—i need—”
he groaned again, like your words undid him. “fuck—yeah, baby, i know.”
he slowly eased his hips back, dragging himself out until you thought you’d break, then pushed in again, steady and deep.
the rhythm was unhurried but merciless; every stroke deliberate, every thrust angled like he knew exactly how to pull you apart.
after a few slow strokes, his pace quickened; each thrust sinking deeper, chasing every sound that spilled from you.
“there it is—fuck, yeah. that’s it,” he breathed, forehead tipping down for a beat before he straightened again, eyes locked on the way your body yielded to him.
your moans spilled raw into the mattress, high pitched and broken, your hips rocking back into him without thought. “oh my god—don’t stop—please, gyu, don’t—”
he answered with another thrust, sharp enough to punch a cry straight out of you.
“never,” he panted, jaw tight, reverence spilling through every word. “you feel too fucking good—i could stay here forever.”
your walls clenched tight around him, the build snapping faster than you could process.
“gyu—i’m gonna—fuck—” the cry tore out of you as your whole body bowed into the mattress, release ripping straight through you.
he groaned at the feel of you breaking around him, hips stuttering once before he forced himself to steady, dragging it out for you instead of chasing his own end.
“fuck—yeah—” his voice cracked. “that’s it, angel…let go for me—just like that.”
your thighs shook uncontrollably, but his hands steadied you; one gripping your waist, the other pressing into your stomach, keeping you grounded as you unraveled.
the sob that followed buried itself in the sheets, your release hitting so hard it fractured every breath into ragged pieces.
he bent over you, lips trailing soft kisses along your spine, his hips still moving but gentler now, easing you down instead of pulling you higher.
“i’ve got you,” he whispered into your skin, kissing your shoulder like a vow. “just breathe for me, angel…that’s all you need to do.”
he eased out of you slowly, the sudden emptiness pulling a broken whimper from your throat before you could stop it. “gyu—w-why…what are you—”
“shh, i know, sweetheart,” he soothed, palms steady as they skimmed your sides, guiding you gently. “just needed to see you. fuck—look at you. you think i could stop now?”
desire threaded through his voice, yet his hands remained careful, guiding you as if you were fragile in his hold. he eased you onto your back, settling your hips back onto the pillow with a care that made it clear he wouldn’t let you feel anything but comfort.
you let him move you, pliant in his hold, your body trembling as you blinked up at him. his hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb tracing lightly like he needed to feel you breathe.
he kissed your temple first, lingering there, before trailing down to your cheek.
his mouth wandered unhurriedly across your skin; tracing over your brow, brushing the bridge of your nose, grazing the corner of your lips.
“hi, beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, words cracked but full of awe.
your smile barely surfaced, dazed and weak, but it was there. “hi,” you breathed back.
his forehead tipped to yours, lips brushing in a fleeting kiss. “you okay?” he asked, though the look in his eyes said he already knew the answer.
your breath caught, a soft laugh tumbling out with your words. “more than okay.”
the corner of his mouth curved into a soft smile before he slid his hand down to steady your hip.
he lined himself up and pushed back in with one long, steady stroke. the stretch tore a gasp from your throat, your body clenching around him so hard it forced a groan straight out of him.
“jesus—” his voice cracked, forehead pressing to yours again. “baby, you feel—fuck—you’re so tight.”
your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, mouth falling open on a sound you couldn’t swallow down.
“gyu—” his name slipped from your lips, almost a sob. “it’s—s-so deep—oh my god.”
his palm pressed firm to your stomach, making sure you felt every inch of him. “there we go,” he rasped, kissing your jaw through ragged breaths. “you’re taking me so well, beautiful. you’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”
his hips pulled back, just enough to make you feel the loss, before he drove in sharper. the force knocked the air from your chest as your nails clawed down his shoulder blades.
“eyes on me,” he mumbled, catching your gaze. “don’t look away, baby—want to see you fall apart.”
your gaze clung to his until the next thrust stole it away, lids fluttering shut as another cry tore loose from your throat.
“no, no—look at me,” he urged, groaning when you blinked back up at him, glassy-eyed and trembling. “that’s it. good girl.”
your moans came fractured, tumbling past your lips with every push. “please—gyu, please, just like that—f-fuck—feels so good, so good—”
“fuck—” his voice cracked, hips driving harder, the sound of you begging ripping the control straight out of him.
“oh my god—i’m gonna—” the words broke into a sob, your voice splintering. “mingyu, i—fuck—i can’t—”
his thrusts faltered, a groan tearing from his chest as he forced himself deeper. “yes, you can, angel. just a little more—fuck—i can feel you. you’re right there.”
you broke apart around him, crying out his name like it was the only word left in you. “gyu—”
“that’s it—oh, fuck—that’s it, baby,” he gasped, forehead dropping to yours as his own rhythm fell apart. “come with me—yeah, just like that—fuck—”
your third release tore through you, carrying his first with it. your body squeezed around him, causing him to let out a wrecked moan as he came inside of you.
he stilled for a moment, chest pressed to yours as both of you trembled through the last shreds of release.
there was no detachment. no instinct to turn away. he hadn’t looked anywhere but at you.
when his breathing finally slowed, he pressed a soft kiss to your jaw. “are you okay?” he asked.
you nodded, unable to trust your voice.
he gave you a moment longer before easing out, slow and careful, drawing a broken whimper from your throat.
his mouth followed the loss; kissing the inside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, and the hollow below your ribs; each one gentle and deliberate in their own way.
“stay here,” he said softly. “just rest, baby.”
your head fell back against the pillow in the faintest nod, eyes glassy with exhaustion.
he lingered a second longer, his thumb brushing your cheek in a touch that felt reluctant, before finally pushing himself to stand.
he bent down to grab his boxers from where they’d been tossed, sliding them on around his hips.
the quiet between you stretched thin, filled only by the sound of his breathing and the faint creak of the floor.
by the time he reached the door, your chest was already tight. you stayed where you were, staring up at the ceiling, the fan turning in lazy circles above you.
the longer you watched, the more the quiet shifted.
at first it was just silence, but eventually, that silence turned into space, which slowly turned into panic.
you weren’t naïve. you knew the script.
sex that good, that messy, that consuming, usually ended the same way.
a roll to the side. maybe a muttered ‘that was fun’. the scrape of denim. the excuse about an early morning.
sometimes the door would shut before you’d even pulled the sheets over yourself.
your heart sank.
what if this was that moment?
what if you’d just traded years of friendship for a few hours of wreckless, selfish pleasure?
what if you’d just ruined everything?
before the thoughts could spiral any further, the door creaked open again.
“hey,” he spoke softly, not wanting to startle you.
you blinked towards him, body still draped exactly where he’d left you.
his boxers hung low on his hips, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, chest still flushed from the heat of you. a towel was slung over his shoulder, two water bottles gripped in one hand, and a warm cloth in the other.
your throat went tight. “you came back,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could catch them.
his face softened immediately, something tender breaking through. “of course i did,” he said, stepping closer. “what—did you think i’d just disappear after that?”
you tried to smile, but it wavered.
“hey,” he said again, lowering onto the edge of the bed. “don’t go quiet on me now, pretty girl. not after you already woke all of the neighbors up.”
a soft, broken laugh escaped your lips.
he bent to press a soft kiss to your knee. “scoot up a little, sweetheart. let me take care of you.”
his hands moved with quiet certainty, every touch measured and unhurried. patience lingered in everything he did; a tenderness you weren’t used to.
you felt the difference in your chest before you even felt it between your thighs.
no one had ever done this for you before.
the most you’d ever been given was a half-hearted towel tossed your way, like it was your job to deal with the aftermath alone.
but here he was, treating you like you were something worth handling with delicacy.
“i kept the pillow there,” he said quietly, “’cause i figured you’d be sore. didn’t want you shifting too much.”
he finished with quiet care, dropping the cloth and towel into your hamper before reaching for your hoodie on the floor.
he eased it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves, tugging it down until you were completely covered.
as he climbed back into the bed, you reached for him without thinking twice.
he was already leaning into you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you against him like it was the only place you belonged.
“you still with me?” he asked, lips brushing your hair.
you nodded, eyes still shut until his voice pulled you back.
you blinked up at him as he dipped his head, catching your gaze. “you scared me for a second.”
your voice was small. “i just…wasn’t expecting you to come back.”
his brow furrowed, a little hurt, though his tone stayed soft. “come on. you really thought i’d leave you like that?”
you huffed out a laugh. “it wouldn’t be the first time someone did.”
his chest rose on a sigh as he shifted to really look at you. “baby…what kind of assholes are you fucking?”
the bluntness startled a laugh out of you. “you’ve heard all the stories,” you reminded him.
“unfortunately.” his hand stayed warm at your spine, steadying you. “and i hated every single one of them.”
you froze, but he continued nonetheless.
“you don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “listening to you try to laugh off how some guy left before you could even breathe again—” he paused, exhaling hard through his nose. “i swear, prison stripes nearly sounded worth it.”
“you never said anything,” you said, genuinely surprised at his words.
his lips lifted into a small smile, but the weight in his eyes gave him away. “never felt like my place.”
“gyu…” you whispered.
he shook his head gently, already seeing where your thoughts were headed.
“you really don’t get it, do you?” his voice softened, a little rough at the edges.
“get what?” you murmured as your eyes searched his face for any clues on what he could be referring to.
his hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, so tender it made your chest ache.
“how easy you are to love.”
you froze, lungs stuttering like they’d completely forgotten how to work.
“i’ve wanted to do this right for so long,” he whispered, leaning his forehead to yours. “not just the sex. all of it. making you laugh. holding you when you cry. being the one who never leaves. giving you the kind of love you should’ve had all along.”
your lips parted, but no sound followed. the weight of his words pressed down until all you could do was hold his gaze, completely undone by the gentleness in his voice.
“and if i ever have to hear about one more guy who made you feel like you were too much, or too emotional, or not worth sticking around for…” he shook his head again, softer this time. “i’ll lose my fucking mind. because you—”
he swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to continue. “you deserve someone who worships the ground you walk on. someone who thanks god every night that you chose them.”
you blinked hard, tears threatening to fall as a soft laugh escaped you. “you’re not supposed to make me cry after sex, idiot.”
“i meant what i said, you know,” he told you, his lips curving into that same boyish grin you’ve adored for years. “and i know my feelings aren’t one sided, either, ms. choreplay.”
tears slipped down your cheeks as you let out a shaky laugh, swatting weakly at his chest. “you are such an asshole, kim mingyu.”
“am i wrong?” he smirked. “because you—” he paused, tapping your thigh, “—basically had tears running down your thighs from me washing, like, two dishes.”
you groaned, burying your face in his chest. “please never phrase it like that again.”
he laughed, the sound warm against your cheek. “don’t act like you didn’t whimper when i changed the garbage bag.”
you pulled back just enough to glare at him. “my god, you’re always so full of yourself.”
his grin only widened, cocky and unbothered. “wait till you find out i sort my laundry by whites and darks.”
With the new year coming, we also have a new collab for all of you guys!!
BLOCKBUSTER brings you the opportunity to join the carat writers community and make new friends while diving into the joy of making stories.
Yes! You read that right! This collab is for our dear readers who have been wanting to start writing for seventeen and just never had the chance to. Whether it were your doubts about the plot holding you back or just creative hurdles in general, we're here to help you get out and over it and help you write a story of your own.
Well, this is your chance!
BLOCKBUSTER is a video store where you can find all kinds of shows from How I met your Mother, The Office, Suits, Grey's Anatomy, to movies like Spider-man, Parasite, 10 Things I hate about you, He's just not that into you written for no other than the boys we all love so much!
There is a variety of cassettes for you to pick from, so if you'd like to be a part of our watch party, drop a message to my or @jakedustry or @nerdycheol's inbox or DMs and let us get to know you ❤️