blocking serial likers is interesting like... sorry for enjoying your work i guess i'll do it more quietly
I'll try to put this as kindly as I can.
I feel really uncomfortable having to repeat this over and over again, but let's please accept this as a hard fact once and for all: creators depend on feedback to keep creating, otherwise they cannot know if someone is enjoying their work and whether they should keep going.
Case in point: If it weren't for this passive aggressive ask, I would have no idea you were enjoying my work. I wish you had instead sent one to tell me that, or dropped a comment that said, "Hey, I enjoyed this!"
In case you may not be familiar with how Tumblr works, I'll try to explain:
Here, 💓 does not mean "I like this" like it does on Instagram or TikTok. Tumblr works on reblogs (even if it's blank), which means sharing. In the context of fics, leaving likes may translate into, "This isn't worth sharing, but have a like I guess". People may interpret it as they aren't good enough.
(No one can discern if you read the work or just bookmarked it, which is why it's not advised to like stuff to make a tbr shelf. If you don't wanna reblog with a #tbr tag, here's an idea: hit the reblog button but don't post, save it in your drafts instead. You can find everything you want to read in one place now.)
But when you like everything back to back, you are confusing them because... if it's good enough to binge, can't you spare a reblog to tell them "Kudos! I had a great time"?
There used to be an established feedback culture in the Tumblr fanfiction community. It was the norm to engage with authors about their work (through reblogs, comments, asks...) because everybody knew fandom is cyclical. It's give-and-take. If you give one, the author will very enthusiastically give back two. They knew engagement didn't mean "Part 2?", it meant a genuine conversation and reaction to the stories. There are works that come out of 3-year hiatuses just because someone sent a comment to the author, it's that powerful.
Isn't this why we created blogs here in the first place? To be social?
Then an influx of new users from other social platforms arrived, and that was when the relentless passive consumption started. Because these users thought (some still think, like yourself) Tumblr works just like other social platforms. It doesn't. At the expense of annoying my long-time readers, I frequently shared reminders on what not to do. I genuinely assumed, "I think these people are new and simply don't know. Surely it can't be the same people willingly ignoring what authors are vocally begging for."
So many amazing writers left because of this passive consumption, and they still do. I tried being nice about it; it didn't work. I tried being aggressive about it; it didn't work. I flat-out begged; it didn't work. I got so frustrated with not being heard that I put it on my bio, pinned post, library post, taglist form, member-specific masterlists in large header font, and I still get ignored every day. Every day.
I've run out of ways to deal with it, and I'm exasperated. What will it take for you to please hear me?
So yes, I block serial likers because it is a form of silent reading. Yes, I selfishly want my work to exist for readers who are willing to engage with me. Yes, I criminally want to write for readers who don't treat me like a content machine and remember that I am a human being with feelings.
I can't put out 15k every other day like some do because I write my work myself.
All that is to say, if you were truly enjoying my work, I just wish you'd let me know. If you think it's too much hassle to at least press one (1) button to show appreciation for something you enjoy, I invite you to please reconsider for other authors you may like. This is a rampant issue that is extremely demotivating, and by keeping quiet, you are slowly driving organic writers away from something they love.
And I would prefer it if my flowerbeds didn't turn into a wasteland of ai slop.
Synopsis: You spend your days writing romance, wondering when it will find you. Unaware that it’s right next-door. (20,8k words)
Author's note: Happy new year and as Hyunjin said, let's continue to live life romantically ❣️
You’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as you can remember.
Not the vague kind of wanting, either—the kind that shifts shape every few years. You knew. Even when you were younger, scribbling stories in the margins of notebooks and filling entire pages with feelings you didn’t yet have words for, you knew this was what you wanted to do. You were always drawn to love stories. To the way emotions could be stretched, heightened, made beautiful on the page. You liked the idea of writing something that made people feel… things.
So you grew up and did it. You became a writer. A romance writer, of all things.
You sit in your chair now, feet tucked beneath you, laptop warm against your thighs, and watch the cursor blink at the top of a blank page. This part should be easy. It always is. You know how to write longing. You know how to pace desire, how to make a single look feel like a promise. You know how to build a love story that burns slow and ends soft.
What you don’t know—what you never quite figured out—is how to live one.
You scoff quietly and lean back, the chair creaking in the silence of your apartment. Another night, another deadline, another fictional couple about to fall into each other’s arms right on schedule. Meanwhile, the room around you is still, unromantic in a way that feels almost deliberate. You’re still in your pajama pants. The coffee on your desk has gone cold. The crumpled papers spilling out of your trash can. Dirty dishes piling on your sink.
You write bestselling romance novels under a pseudonym. Spicy ones. The kind that get passed around group chats and dog-eared on bedside tables. Readers tell you your stories feel real. They assume you must know exactly what you’re talking about—love, intimacy, being the one true love and all.
They don’t know your name. Not the real one, at least. They don’t know that the person behind the words is sitting alone in an apartment that smells faintly of stale coffee, wondering when exactly her life veered so far from the stories she’s so good at telling.
You stare at the paragraph you wrote earlier and feel something twist in your chest. You highlight it and press delete.
Your life has never looked like this. No grand gestures, no cinematic confessions. Just routines and deadlines and the dull, persistent awareness that you are very good at writing romance and very bad at finding it.
The cursor blinks, wating. You exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keys, and try to convince yourself that this is enough. That wanting something since you were young doesn’t mean you’re entitled to all of it. That writing about love still counts, even if it doesn’t happen to you.
Still, the thought lingers, quietly and uncomfortably.
You always believed in romance. You just didn’t expect it to feel so far away.
-
Once you’ve done the dishes, you feel a lot better and ready to get back to work.
You open a new document beneath the abandoned chapter and type a name you’ll probably change later. Male Lead. Placeholder. Temporary. You crack your knuckles and try again.
He needs to exist first, you tell yourself. The rest will follow.
You close your eyes for a second, letting the image form the way it usually does. You imagines a man leaning against a doorway. Rings on his fingers. Ink curling up his forearms like secrets he doesn’t bother hiding. There’s an ease to him, a confidence that isn’t loud but feels inevitable. Someone who looks like trouble in the way that makes people lean closer instead of stepping back.
Your fingers move as you picture him. You give him a crooked smile, a voice that carries a laugh even when he’s serious. You imagine the way he’d look at the his love interest like he already knows how the story ends.
There’s a faint thrill in your chest, the familiar hum of creation, of possibility. This is the part you’re good at—building someone from nothing, shaping desire until it feels real enough to touch.
Then, your phone rings. You flinch, eyes snapping open, the image dissolving instantly. The name on the screen pulls you fully back into your apartment, your chair, your life.
Hyunjin.
You answer without thinking. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, sounding a little breathless, like he’s juggling things. You can picture him with the phone tucked between shoulder and ear, one hand on the espresso machine, the other probably reaching for a cup. “I hate to ask you last minute, but—are you busy?”
You glance at your laptop, at the half-formed man on the screen who will still be there later. “Not really.”
“Could you maybe pick up Archie from daycare?” he asks. “I got held up at the shop. Delivery issue. I’ll owe you. Again.”
You smile before you can stop yourself. “You already owe me, like, ten times.”
“I’ll make it eleven.”
You laugh softly, pushing your chair back as you stand. “Yeah, I can do that. I was going to take a break anyway.”
“That’d be amazing,” he says, relief clear in his voice. “Thank you. He’s probably been asking when you’ll show up.”
“He always does,” you say, fondness slipping in uninvited. Archie has a habit of spotting you before anyone else, face lighting up like you’re part of his routine—which, somehow, you are. “I’ll head out now.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Hyunjin says. “Seriously.”
“I know,” you teasingly reply with a sly smile.
You hang up and grab your keys, casting one last look at the screen before closing your laptop. The male lead stares back at you, unfinished, waiting.
-
The walk to the daycare is short, just a few blocks away, but you take your time anyway. The air outside feels cleaner than the stale quiet of your apartment, the city moving at a gentle, late-afternoon pace around you. You pass familiar storefronts, cracked sidewalks you’ve memorized without meaning to, and you feel your shoulders loosen with every step.
Picking up Archie is always like this—an excuse to step out of your head.
By the time you reach the daycare, you’re already smiling, and it only grows when you spot him inside. He sees you before you even open the door, face lighting up so brightly it almost feels unfair to everything you were brooding over an hour ago.
“You came!” he says again, like it’s a surprise every single time.
“Hi, Archie,” you softly greet, crouching down as he barrels into you, all elbows and enthusiasm. His laugh is loud and unfiltered, the kind that doesn’t worry about being too much.
Archie is a mini version of Hyunjin — dark shiny hair, small eyes, small face and even the whisker dimples that appears when he deeply smiles. In other words, he’s just as beautiful as his dad and you doubt that the mother had any part in it except for brought Archie to the world.
Walking home with Archie is your favorite part. He slips his small hand into yours, swinging it slightly as you head down the sidewalk together. The sun is lower now, bathing everything in a soft, forgiving light and he starts talking almost immediately.
“And today we had painting time,” he says, words tumbling over each other, “and Miss Laura said mine was very good but I got paint on my shirt but that’s okay because it was blue and blue is Daddy’s favorite color and then—oh!—and then we played dinosaurs and I was the big one and Leo was scared but not really scared—”
You hum and nod, letting him ramble, asking small questions at the right moments.
There’s something precious about the way he talks, like every detail matters because it does to him. His excitement is infectious, pure and uncomplicated, untouched by expectations or disappointment. You listen intently, smiling when he laughs at his own story, when he stops mid-sentence because he’s remembered something even more important.
Archie’s world is simple in the best way. Today was good. He painted. He played. He laughed.
That’s enough.
As he talks, something inside you quiets and all of your worries fade into the background. This easy companionship, this small joy — feels like a kind of rest you didn’t realize you needed.
A mental snooze, you think, smiling to yourself.
By the time the apartment building comes into view, Archie is still talking, still animated, still very much five years old and wholly himself. You squeeze his hand gently, grateful for the break, for the moment, for the way something so simple can make the world feel softer.
You don’t think about romance once on the walk home and maybe that’s exactly why it feels so good.
-
You let yourselves into Hyunjin’s apartment with the spare key he gave you months ago. Archie kicks off his shoes by the door without being told, backpack abandoned in the exact spot it always ends up. You follow suit, slipping out of yours and setting your bag down, already moving through the space like it’s your own apartment.
You know his routine by heart at this point. Snack first—apple slices today, because that’s what he asked for on the walk home. Wash hands. Cartoon on low volume while he settles. By the time you pull the coloring book from the drawer in the coffee table, he’s already climbing onto the rug beside you, crayons scattered between you like confetti. You stay with him like this while the afternoon drifts into evening, coloring shapes that don’t stay inside the lines and praising every choice like it’s the right one. Archie narrates as he goes, explaining why the dinosaur is purple today and why the sun has a face.
The front door opens just as you’re deciding whether the sky should be green or blue.
“Daddy’s home,” Archie announces casually, not bothering to look up.
Hyunjin steps inside, the door closing behind him with a tired sigh. His long dark hair is pulled into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, loose strands escaping around his small face. His shirt is wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms dusted with coffee grounds and the evidence of a long day. He looks exhausted in that specific way that only comes from being on your feet since dawn.
The fatigue softens instantly when he sees you and Archie, a warm smile spreading across his face as his eyes move from you to his son sprawled happily at your side. “Hey,” he says gently. “Daddy’s home.”
“Hi, Daddy,” Archie replies, still coloring, still firmly seated next to you.
Hyunjin pouts from the lack of enthusiasm. “That’s it? No running hug? No ‘Daddy!’?”
You bite back a smile while picking the color of the crayons.
Hyunjin drops his keys onto the counter and makes a show of sighing. “Wow. I see how it is.”
You keep coloring, glancing up at him briefly. “Tough crowd.”
He crosses his arms, pretending to think. “Well, I guess if you’re too busy to say hi, maybe you’re also too busy to have your favorite food for dinner.”
Archie gasps, drops the crayon, and scrambles to his feet, sprinting across the room. He crashes straight into Hyunjin’s legs, arms wrapping around him without hesitation.
“No! I want it! I want it!” he insists.
Hyunjin laughs, the sound easy and unguarded, and squats down to gather his son into a proper hug, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Who wants chicken noodles for dinner?”
“Me! Me! Me!” Archie enthusiastically shouts, raising his hand in the air.
Hyunjin presses a quick kiss to his temple and then brushes the hair stuck to his forehead. “Then tell me about your day.”
Archie launches right back into his stories, just as animated as before, hands gesturing wildly as Hyunjin listens, nodding, murmuring encouragement, entirely focused.
You watch them for a moment, something warm blooming quietly in your chest but decide to interrupt.
“Hey, do I get chicken noodles for dinner too?”
Hyunjin looks up at you, still crouched, still smiling. “Of course.”
“Yay!” you and Archie cheer at the same time, voices overlapping.
-
Dinner is easy in the way only familiar things are.
Hyunjin sits across from you, shoulders slumping a little now that the day is over. He looks softer like this, hair still in its messy bun, exhaustion worn openly instead of tucked away behind customer smiles and polite conversation. He thanks Archie for waiting before taking his first bite, listens patiently as his son talks with his mouth half-full, gently reminds him to chew.
Hyunjin wasn’t always this version of himself. You know that. Two years ago, before you moved into this building, his life cracked open. A divorce that didn’t explode but still left wreckage. A toddler who suddenly became his whole world. He doesn’t talk about it often, only in small, honest pieces when it comes up naturally. You know enough to understand that it wasn’t bitter—just sad. That sometimes things don’t survive, even when people try. You fall in love and that means, you can fall out of love too.
Now he’s a single dad, doing his best, owning a coffee shop three blocks away. The place is an extension of him—warm, welcoming, unpretentious. The kind of café where people linger without being rushed, where names are remembered and regulars are greeted like friends.
That’s how you met him, actually.
Your first day in the apartment building, arms full of boxes and memories, the knock came before you’d even figured out where the mugs went. Hyunjin stood outside your door with a basket of pastries balanced on one arm and two cups of coffee in the other, Archie tucked against his leg like a shadow.
“Hi, we’re your next-door neighbors,” he’d said, smiling a little shyly.
“I’m Hyunjin and this…” he placed a hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Archie.”
You remembered offering a warm smile at them as you introduced yourself back to them. Then, you crouched down to his Archie’s level to greet him. “Hi, Archie. I hope we can be friends.”
Archie had taken one look at you and decided, immediately, that you were safe. He’d clung to your leg like you’d known each other forever, peeking up at you with wide eyes while Hyunjin apologized profusely. You hadn’t minded. Not even a little.
Somehow, that moment became the foundation for everything that followed. You’ve been living next to each other in quiet harmony ever since—borrowing things, sharing food, watching Archie when shifts run late. It was never something you sat down and defined. It just… happened. Slowly. Naturally.
After dinner, Archie sits patiently while you dab at the sauce smeared around his mouth with a napkin. He squirms, protesting more out of habit than anything else, and you laugh quietly as you catch the last stubborn streak on his chin.
“All clean now,” you announce.
Hyunjin is already moving around the kitchen, stacking plates, rinsing them before setting them in the sink. The space feels smaller when he’s in it—occupied in a comforting way. You stand halfway, instinctively ready to help.
“I’ve got it,” he assures you.
You hesitate, then settle back into your chair, watching as he works.
There’s something unhurried about the way he does things, even when he’s tired. He doesn’t rush through motions; he finishes them properly.
“Archie,” he says gently, glancing over his shoulder. “Wash up and change into your pajamas, yeah?”
“Okay, Daddy,” Archie replies, sliding off the chair and padding down the hallway.
The apartment goes quieter once he’s gone, the absence noticeable in the best way. Hyunjin turns back to you. “Coffee?”
You tilt your head, considering. “Actually… do you have something harder?”
He snorts, entirely unimpressed. “Decaf it is.”
You chuckle softly. “I didn’t say yes to that.”
“You didn’t say no either,” he counters, already reaching for the coffee canister.
You watch him as he scoops the beans into the grinder, measuring by instinct rather than sight. His sleeves are still rolled up, forearms relaxed as he grinds the coffee patiently, listening to the sound like it tells him when it’s ready. He pours the grounds into the filter, taps it just once to level it, then slowly starts pouring hot water over it. The coffee blooms, dark and rich, dripping steadily into the pot.
Hyunjin is handsome in a way that sneaks up on you. Not flashy. Just… solid. Familiar. His profile softened by concentration, his movements careful and practiced. You’ve watched him do this countless times, but it still feels oddly hypnotic—like witnessing a ritual.
You lean your chin into your hand. “You know,” you say lightly, “you could just give me instant coffee and save yourself the trouble.”
He looks at you like you’ve personally offended him. “Where’s the romance in that?”
You scoff and lean back on your chair. “Pfft… Romance? But that’s my job. I’m the one who writes romance books, and look at me.”
That earns his attention as if he’s just remembered something. “How’s the writing going? Did you start the new one yet?” he asks, tone casual but curious.
“Barely. I keep trying, but everything feels off. Ideas slip away before I can grab them.” You hesitate, then sigh. “I think it’s because my life lacks romance.”
Hyunjin hums, noncommittal, as he pours the coffee into two mugs.
“I’ve been single for years,” you continue, words spilling easier now. “I barely go out. I sit at home and write about love all day, and the only thing I share my bed with is my laptop. There’s nothing romantic about that.”
“What you do is romantic,” he says calmly, handing you a mug.
You roll your eyes. “My readers would think I’m a fraud if they knew who I really am. How I live.”
He smiles at that, unfazed. “So what do you expect to happen, then?”
You take a sip, thinking. “I don’t know. I just think that it’d be a good time for my dream man to walk into my life.”
He chuckles, almost teasing. “What, a knight in shining armor? A prince on a white horse?”
You glare at him. “Dead wrong.”
“Oh?” He leans against the counter, amused. His eyes are on you, giving all of his attention.
You straighten slightly, warming to the idea. “Someone different. Someone confident. I don’t mind a tattoo or two. Piercings, maybe. Creative. A little reckless. Someone who feels like he stepped out of a story.”
Hyunjin laughs. “I’ve got at least three regulars like that at the shop.”
“I am not shopping for men at your coffee shop,” you say, scandalized.
Before he can reply, small footsteps thunder down the hallway.
Archie reappears in a dinosaur onesie, arms raised proudly. “Look!”
You coo immediately, setting your mug down and kneeling. “Oh my god. You’re too cute.”
You lean back just enough to take a good look at Archie, noticing the way he’s almost outgrown the onesie — proof of how much he’s grown. “Please, stop growing up! You have to stay like this forever,” you murmur as you pull him for tight hug.
“No!” Archie protests. “I wanna be big. Bigger than Daddy.”
You grin, then stand as you realize it’s time for you to leave so the boys can settle gently into the night. “I should head back. You’ve got bedtime duty.”
You hug Archie tightly, wishing him goodnight, then turn to Hyunjin. “Goodnight.”
You walk up to the counter, picking up the mug to take it home with you.
“Thank you,” Hyunjin says quietly. “For today.”
“No worries,” you reply while raising the mug of coffee. “I live right there.”
It really is just across the hall.
Your apartment greets you with its familiar clutter—notes, books, your open laptop waiting where you left it. You sigh, sinking back into your chair, fingers finding the keyboard again.
This time, you don’t scoff. You take a sip of your coffee and start to write.
-
Morning arrives with a dull knock cutting through the haze of sleep.
You groan, lifting your head with effort, neck stiff from the angle you fell asleep in. Your chair creaks as you shift, and the screen in front of you flickers awake when your knee nudges the desk. The cursor blinks insistently in the middle of a paragraph, proof that you were writing right up until sleep claimed you without permission.
Figures.
The knocking comes again, firmer this time. You glance at the clock on your screen and wince. Too early. Definitely too early. You scrub a hand over your face and push yourself up, legs protesting as you stand. Your reflection in the darkened laptop screen is… rough. Bed hair pointing in every direction, yesterday’s clothes wrinkled and clinging, glasses still abandoned somewhere on the desk.
“Coming,” you call out, voice hoarse with sleep.
You gather your hair into a messy bun with one hand, shove your glasses onto your nose with the other, and shuffle toward the door, bare feet dragging softly across the wooden floor. In your foggy head, the picture is already formed—Hyunjin on the other side, coffee in hand, apologetic smile ready, probably here because he needs your help to take Archie to kindergarten.
The knock comes again.
“I said—coming,” you mumble, fingers fumbling with the lock.
You twist the knob and pull the door open. You freeze because it is not… Hyunjin.
It’s someone else entirely. Someone with a gummy smile, leaning casually against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere else to be. Someone with overgrown dark, permed hair falling into his eyes, silver glinting faintly at his ears. Tattoos peek out from the sleeveless top he’s wearing, ink curling along skin like it belongs there. He looks awake in a way you decidedly are not—alert, amused, taking you in with a slow, curious glance.
For one disorienting second, you wonder if you’re still asleep at your desk.
“Uh,” he says, lips quirking. “Hi, I’m your new neighbor.”
Your brain lags behind the moment, scrambling to catch up. Glasses slightly crooked. Hair a mess. Heart doing something inconvenient.
This—this is impossible.
Because standing in front of you, framed by the hallway light, is someone who looks alarmingly like the man you were imagining just hours ago.
The dream man.
-
For a second, you just stare at him.
Your brain refuses to cooperate, still caught somewhere between sleep and the impossible coincidence unfolding in front of you. He shifts his weight slightly, waiting, the hallway light catching on the silver at his ears.
“I’m Han,” he says, like this is normal. Like he didn’t just step straight out of your half-written chapter.
“I moved in just now. Next door.” He gestures vaguely toward the apartment beside yours. “I was wondering—do you happen to have a hammer I could borrow?”
A hammer. The word floats around uselessly in your head.
“Oh—uh—yeah,” you say finally, far too late. “I think so. I mean. I think I do. Somewhere.”
Without giving him time to respond or yourself time to think, you turn and retreat back into your apartment.
The door closes behind you, and you stop in the kitchen, gripping the counter. You glance at your reflection in the microwave door and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. Messy bun threatening to collapse. Glasses slightly crooked. Old, faded T-shirt. Bare feet. Absolutely not the first impression you imagined giving your dream man. You groan softly, then remember—he’s still waiting.
Right. Hammer.
You drop to your knees and rummage through the bottom cabinet, dragging out a dusty toolbox you don’t even remember buying or having. You flip it open, hopeful for half a second. No hammer.
You sigh, push yourself up, and head back to the door. Han is still there, patient waiting with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, flustered all over again. “I don’t actually have one. But—I know someone who does.”
He smiles easily. “Lead the way.”
You cross the hall before you can overthink it, unlocking Hyunjin’s door and letting yourself in like you always do.
Hyunjin is at the counter, packing Archie’s lunch into his backpack with practiced efficiency. “Hey,” he says without looking up. “Coffee’s—”
You clear your throat. “Uh—Hyunjin?”
Hyunjin turns and pauses when he sees someone else with you.
Han steps forward slightly. “Hey. I’m Han. The new neighbor.”
Hyunjin blinks once, then smiles politely. “I’m Hyunjin. And this is Archie.”
Archie looks up from the sofa where he’s wrestling with his socks. “Hi,” he says cheerfully.
Han waves. “Hey, man.”
“I just needed to borrow a hammer,” Han adds.
“Sure, just give me a second,” Hyunjin says immediately, already heading down the hallway.
While he’s gone, you suddenly find the ceiling very interesting. The floor, too. Anywhere but Han. You drift over to Archie instead, crouching down to help him tug his sock over his heel.
“Your sock’s inside out, buddy,” you murmur.
“It’s fine,” Archie says seriously.
Hyunjin returns with the hammer, handing it over. “Bring it back whenever.”
“Thanks,” Han says. “Appreciate it.”
Then he’s gone, door closing softly behind him.
The second it clicks shut, you straighten and practically vibrate.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” you freak out, flailing your hands and pacing the room.
“Did you see him?” you whisper fiercely. “Hyunjin, that’s him. That’s exactly him. I literally described someone like that last night. Tattoos, piercings—this could be it. This could actually be it. Romance might finally be—”
Hyunjin doesn’t say much, moving around the apartment, grabbing Archie’s jacket, checking his bag. You keep talking anyway, words tumbling out unchecked.
“And the timing? He just shows up? Like that?”
He finally stops, crouching to help Archie into his shoes. “You can tell me the rest later,” he says gently. “We’re going to be late.”
“Oh. Right.”
He gestures toward the counter where the coffee pot rests. “Coffee’s fresh.”
Archie hops off the sofa and walks over to you. “Bye.”
You kneel and hug him tight. “Have the best day, okay?”
“Okay!”
Hyunjin grabs his hat and jacket, ushering Archie toward the door. “Don’t forget to lock up,” he says to you.
“I won’t. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
The door closes behind them, leaving the apartment quiet again. You stand there for a moment, coffee steaming on the counter, heart still racing.
Next door, somewhere beyond the wall, Han exists.
And suddenly, romance doesn’t feel so far away after all.
-
The next few days pass in a strange, quiet blur.
You don’t mean to observe him at first. It just… happens.
You start noticing patterns the way you always do when you’re building a character—small details that stack up without you realizing you’re collecting them. The sound of a door opening down the hall. Footsteps on the stairs. A low hum of music bleeding faintly through the walls at odd hours.
Han leaves his apartment late in the mornings, usually when you’re already awake but pretending not to be. You learn this by accident the first time, standing in your kitchen with a mug of coffee cooling in your hands when you hear his door open. You peek through the peephole without thinking, and catch a glimpse of him slipping his jacket on, keys already in hand.
After that, you notice it more.
Some days he leaves closer to noon, hair still damp like he showered in a rush. Other days, it’s earlier, sunglasses perched on his head even when the sun isn’t particularly bright. There’s a guitar case slung over his shoulder more often than not, stickers peeling at the edges like it’s been everywhere with him. Not sure if he plays guitar as a hobby or it’s his job or… he’s in a band. Either way, you like the fact that he plays guitar.
Then, you start recognizing the sound of his return, too. The way he unlocks his door without fumbling. Sometimes it’s early evening. Sometimes it’s well past midnight, the hallway quiet and dim when he finally comes home. On those nights, music filters faintly through the wall—something fast and chaotic, not loud enough to be intrusive, just present enough to let you know he’s there.
You pass him in the hallway once, hands full of groceries. He flashes you an easy smile. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you reply, a little too quickly.
Another time, you’re both waiting for the elevator. He smells faintly of smoke and soap, a combination that shouldn’t work but does. He asks how your day’s been. You say “good” even though you’ve spent most of it staring at a blinking cursor.
Sometimes you hear him humming under his breath when he locks up. Sometimes he nods at you with a tired grin, like you’re already familiar.
Nothing progresses. Nothing happens. But you notice everything anyway.
The days settle into a rhythm that now includes him, threaded quietly through your routine. You find yourself timing your coffee refills, your trips out, your walks to the mailbox, hoping that you might run into him. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you don’t.
At night, when you sit back down at your desk to write, the male lead in your book starts to look a little different. His habits more specific. His movements more familiar. You tell yourself it’s coincidence.
Still, when you hear Han’s door click shut down the hall, you pause mid-sentence every time.
Just for a second. Just long enough to wonder.
-
By the third day, you stop pretending it’s accidental. You know his timing now—give or take five minutes. So you wait by your door, already dressed, laptop bag slung over your shoulder like an alibi. You ditch your glasses in favor of contacts, smooth your hair, take one last look at yourself in the mirror. Different. Awake. Presentable. The kind of person who looks like they might casually exist in the same world as someone like Han.
You intently listen through the door and right on cue, you hear the soft click of a lock down the hall.
You give it two seconds, just enough to make it believable and then step out into the hallway, locking your door behind you with practiced ease. You keep your face calm as you press the elevator button.
Against the pulse drumming in your ear, you can hear his footsteps approaching.
“Hey,” Han says first, voice easy.
You turn, heart jumping anyway. “Hey.”
The elevator arrives with a soft ding. He steps aside, holding the door for you. “After you.”
“Thanks,” you mutter as you step in, standing a little too straight as he follows.
The doors slide shut, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, enclosed in a space that feels far too small for how aware you are of him. Silence settles and you can only hope he can’t hear the way your heart beating out of your chest.
You inhale quietly, then force yourself to speak. “That’s a guitar, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the case on his back.
He glances over his shoulder, lips twitching. “Yeah. I’m in a band. Kinda lame, though.”
You chuckle despite yourself. “I don’t believe you.”
He grins. “Yeah, me neither.”
The elevator hums as it descends. He looks at you. “You heading somewhere?”
“Yeah,” you say, grateful for the question. “Going to do some writing at the coffee shop.”
“Oh.” He raises his brows. “You’re a writer?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“What kind of stuff?”
To say that you write romance kind of… uncool. You hesitate for half a beat—just long enough to decide. “Just some lame books.”
He laughs, the sound warm and unguarded. “Welcome to the club then.”
The elevator chimes, doors sliding open onto the lobby. He steps out first this time, glancing back at you. “Have a good day.”
“You too.”
Outside, you part ways—him heading down the street in the opposite direction, guitar case bouncing lightly against his back. You turn toward Hyunjin’s coffee shop, heart still racing, a smile you don’t bother hiding tugging at your lips.
Nothing monumental happened. No sparks. No declarations. But it feels like a win anyway.
You know something new about him now and somehow, impossibly, he feels even cooler than before.
-
Madeleine has been a staple of the friendship between you and Hyunjin. He brought a basket full of them when he first introduced himself to you and you gushed to him about how delicious they were the next day.
Since then, Hyunjin always has madeleines waiting for you in the coffee shop, baked specially for you. He slides a tray onto your table with a soft clatter—still warm and dusted lightly with sugar, a cup of freshly brewed coffee steaming beside them. He’s in his apron, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied into a messy bun that’s halfway given up after the morning rush.
“So,” you start immediately, leaning forward like you’ve been holding this in your lungs the entire walk here, “I talked to him.”
“Mhm,” Hyunjin hums, already turning to grab a stack of abandoned mugs from the table next to yours.
“In the elevator,” you add. “Casual. Natural. Effortless. Very rom-com coded.”
“That’s great,” he says, distracted, balancing cups in his hands.
“And he’s in a band,” you continue, lowering your voice like it’s a secret meant only for the two of you. “A band, Hyunjin.”
He pauses just long enough to glance at you. “Is he?”
“Yes. Guitar. Very cool about it too. Like, oh, this old thing energy.”
Hyunjin exhales through his nose, amused despite himself, and resumes gathering dishes. “And you’re already sure he’s your great romance?”
You nod emphatically. “I know.”
“How?” he asks, genuinely curious now.
You blink at him. “Duh. I’m a romance writer.”
He snorts. “Right.”
“I can feel these things,” you insist. “The timing. The vibe. The guitar case. It’s all very—meet-cute adjacent.”
Hyunjin sets the cups down behind the counter and looks at you. “So are you actually planning to write today, or did you just come here to gush about Han?”
“I am writing,” you defend quickly. “I just need inspiration first.”
He arches a brow. “Does that mean you came here just because you wanted to run into him again?”
You grin, unrepentant. “I came for multiple reasons.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And one of them,” you add, reaching for a madeleine and taking a bite, “is your coffee. And these. Which are amazing, by the way.”
That finally gets him—a small smile tugging at his mouth despite the skepticism. “Flattery won’t save you.”
A customer steps up to the counter, and Hyunjin straightens, slipping smoothly back into barista mode. “Be right with you,” he says before glancing back at you. “Write something. Don’t just stare at your screen.”
“I’m trying,” you shoot back.
He shakes his head fondly and turns away. You open your laptop, the familiar glow lighting up the table, coffee warm under your hands, crumbs dusting the page of your notebook.
You let Hyunjin fade into the background again—the soft hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the low murmur of the shop settling into its late-morning rhythm. Your fingers finally move, words spilling onto the screen in uneven but earnest lines. It’s not perfect, but it’s something, and something is better than the blinking cursor that haunted you all night.
You’re mid-sentence when a ripple of giggles drifts in from the table beside yours.
“…I’m telling you, he’s so handsome.”
“And a single dad,” another voice adds, breathless. “That’s, like, illegal.”
You quietly glance over the next table, two girls leaning close, whispering like they’re sharing state secrets, eyes flicking not-so-subtly toward the counter where Hyunjin stands as he warmly chats with a customer. He laughs at something, head tipping back just slightly, and the girls nearly lose it.
You press your lips together, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Of course. Of course Hyunjin draws this kind of attention. He exists in soft mornings and warm smiles and freshly brewed coffee. He lives romance without trying, while you—ironically, tragically—sit here writing about it like it’s a distant myth.
A flicker of jealousy settles in your chest, gentle but undeniable. Funny, isn’t it? You think. The one who writes love stories hasn’t lived one in years, while the man steaming milk three feet away inspires them just by existing.
-
Archie’s hand is warm and a little sticky in yours as you walk him to kindergarten, his backpack bouncing with every step. He’s talking about a game they played yesterday, about how today he might get to be the line leader—and you hum and respond at all the right places, smiling because this is easy. This part always is.
You stop just outside the gate where his teacher is already waiting, clipboard tucked under her arm, cheerful as ever. She greets Archie by name, and he lights up like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment.
You crouch down, smoothing his hair with your palm before pulling him into a hug. “Have fun, okay?” you say softly.
“I will!” he promises, already half-turned toward his friends. He waves at you with all the enthusiasm a five-year-old can muster before being gently ushered inside, and you wave back until he disappears through the door.
Only then do you straighten, exhaling. As you start the walk home, you pull out your phone and text Hyunjin.
Archie’s in school. Safe and happy.
You don’t expect an instant reply, knowing that Hyunjin will be too busy to even check his phone. You slip the phone back into your pocket and continue down the sidewalk. Enjoying the way the city quiets down as most people have already settled into their routine — work, school, business to do.
You slow when you see a hair salon sits on the corner, the owner flipping the sign on the front door to ‘Open’. You glance at your reflection in the glass without meaning to—messy bun, familiar length, the same look you’ve had for… how long, exactly?
The thought lands quietly, then blooms. Maybe it’s time for a fresh cut.
Not because of certain someone. Not because of a guitarist next door or the way your heart keeps doing stupid things lately. You scoff under you breath, shaking your head.
Before you can overthink it, or talk yourself out of it, you reach for the handle and step inside.
Almost an hour later, you walk out of the salon feeling… lighter and also strangely exposed.
The cut sits differently against your neck, unfamiliar when the breeze slips past it. You keep catching your reflection in car windows as you walk—tilting your head, squinting, deciding you don’t hate it, deciding you’re not sure yet.
Maybe it’s just the shock of seeing yourself altered. Maybe it’s the quiet fear that you’ve changed something you can’t quite take back.
You check your phone and find a reply from Hyunjin.
Your treats are ready, ma’am.
-
The café is calmer than the morning rush—no frantic office workers lined up three-deep, just a handful of people lingering at tables. Someone reads a newspaper by the window. Someone else scrolls on their phone, coffee cooling between their palms.
You step inside and wait at the counter while Hyunjin finishes filling an order. He moves with practiced ease, apron tied snug around his waist, hair pulled into that familiar messy bun that always looks like it took zero effort and somehow still works.
When he finally looks up, he pauses just a second too long. But you catch it immediately.
Your hand flies to your hair. “Why? Is it bad?” you blurt out before he can say anything.
Hyunjin tilts his head, still can’t decide.
Your insecurity creeps in. “That bad?” You ask, anxiously touching your hair.
Hyunjin blinks, then shakes his head. “No. It looks good on you. You look beautiful.”
The knot in your chest loosens almost instantly. You smile, small and a little shy, fingers still brushing the ends of your hair. “Thanks.”
He reaches under the counter and pulls out a tray, the smell of freshly baked madeleines drifting up between you. “What do you feel today? Milk or no milk?” he asks, knowing that your coffee’s preference is based on your mood.
An idea comes to mind at the sight of the warm, sweet-smelling madeleine. You hesitate but before you can second-guess yourself, you shake your head.
“Actually, can you pack those to go? And… make two coffees?”
Hyunjin arches a brow, curious but amused. “Two?”
You nod, feeling something spark under your skin. Determination, maybe. Or nerves. Or both.
“I’m done waiting for romance to happen,” you say, half-joking, half-serious. “I think I want to try making it happen instead.”
Hyunjin studies you for a moment—really looks at you, at the new haircut, the way you’re standing a little taller than usual.
Then he smiles as he repeats your order. “Romance to go, coming right up!”
-
Your palms are a little sweaty around the paper bag and the two coffee cups as you stand outside Han’s unit, heart thudding like it’s trying to break free of your ribs.
You rehearse a few openings in your head. Something cool, something effortless, something that says it’s all casual instead of the fact that you’ve been overthinking it for ten minutes straight.
After a moment, you settle simple. Hey, I came here to drop these.
You mentally rehearsed the sentence in your head. You inhale, then knock.
You can hear music bleeding through the door, it’s loud and chaotic, it’s impossible for him to hear you knocking. You knock again, louder this time. Still nothing. By the third knock, you’re practically pounding.
Finally, the door swings open. Han smiles the moment he recognizes you.
“Hey, I—”
But then he turns and walks back inside, door left open behind him. No explanation, no pause.
You stand there for half a second, wondering if you’re supposed to follow or… You settle on the former, stepping into his apartment on hesitant feet.
It’s… exactly what you expect. Bare in places, cluttered in others. A guitar leaning against the wall. Jackets tossed over a chair. A very single-man kind of space.
He crosses the room and turns the volume down on the record player, the music softening into something you can finally hear without it rattling your bones.
“Sorry,” he says over his shoulder. “Didn’t hear you knocking.”
“It’s fine,” you reply quickly, trying to sound like you didn’t nearly talk yourself out of this. Your eyes drift to the record player. “What’re you listening to?”
“It’s one of my favorite bands.” He lifts the sleeve so you can see it.
Sex Jerkers. The band name makes your eyebrow raises for a second, definitely never heard of them. You lean in anyway, nodding like this is extremely familiar territory.
When he straightens, he looks at you expectantly. “So… can I help you with something?”
Right. This. The reason you’re here.
“I came here to drop these,” you say it casually like you didn’t rehearse it in your head for the last ten minutes. “Coffee and some warm madeleines.”
“Oh—thanks. That’s really nice of you.” His expression softens, gesturing toward the counter. “You can put them there.”
You do, carefully setting everything down. And then… nothing. Your mission is complete. You hover, suddenly aware that you hadn’t planned beyond deliver baked goods. Well, you kind of imagined that he’d tell you to have a set and enjoy the goods together.
But Han is pacing now, grabbing his keys, checking his phone. Definitely getting ready to leave.
“Are you heading out?” you ask, aiming for casual again.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m late for band practice.”
“Oh,” you reply, nodding. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
You turn toward the door, ready to make a graceful exit—only to stop short.
Han pulls his T-shirt over his head like you’re not even there. Not even the slightest bit of hesitance. Then, it’s just skin, warm and honey skin—toned, solid, tattoos spilling over his right shoulder and down his side. Too bad you can’t read the rest of the tattoo as it’s disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans that is… slung low… on his hips. Your eyes pivot to the way his pelvic bones narrowing down to—
You gulp and look away immediately. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
He chuckles, soft and easy. He grabs a clean T-shirt and seamlessly puts it on. “I should be the one apologizing. Didn’t exactly treat you like a proper guest. I’m in a bit of a rush.”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly, mortified and flustered and very aware of your pulse. You step toward the door to get out of his way.
He grabs the coffee cup, lifting it slightly. “I’ll eat the cookies later. Thanks again.”
You nod, mumble something that might be no problem, and the two of you step out into the hallway together. You move toward your door, suddenly very invested in unlocking it slowly and calmly like a normal person.
Before you can, Han steps closer and gently catches your arm. The contact is brief—but it sends a jolt straight through you.
“Next time,” he says, raising the coffee cup with a grin, “it’s my treat.”
Then he’s gone, striding toward the elevator. The doors slide shut, and he flashes you one last smile before disappearing.
You wait until you’re safely inside your apartment to let out a squeal.
God. That was a rush.
You press your hand to your arm where he touched you, where the warmth lingers, skin buzzing like it’s been struck by lightning.
And a tad bit romantic.
-
Your desk feels familiar again, the half-finished sentence blinking patiently at you like it knows you’ll come back eventually.
Out of curiosity, purely out of curiosity—you open a browser tab and type in the band name Han mentioned. You click the first result and—
Chaos.
Loud, unfiltered, crashing straight into your apartment like it owns the place. It’s messy and raw. You let it play, tapping your fingers against the desk, imagining Han in the middle of it all—guitar slung low, lost in the noise.
You didn’t hear it until you see the door swings open.
“What god-awful sound is that?!”
Hyunjin stands in your doorway, jacket still on, keys dangling from his fingers, face twisted in genuine offense.
You shrug as you stand from your chair, entirely unbothered. “Why? It’s cool.”
His forehead wrinkles like you’ve just spoken another language. He opens his mouth and closes it, then sighs. “Can you turn it down? I need to tell you something.”
You grin and comply, pausing the music. The sudden quiet feels loud in comparison. You turn to face him properly.
“Thanks,” he says, then clears his throat. “So uh…”
“Yeah?” you ask, letting him know he has your full attention.
“Archie has a school play this weekend.”
“Oh,” you say, immediately brightening.
“It’s this Saturday. He asked if you’d come.”
“Yes,” you answer without even thinking.
Hyunjin blinks. “You don’t have to if you’re busy.”
You wave him off. “Romance can wait for a day.”
That earns you a soft, fond chuckle from Hyunjin. He holds his hand out at you, showing you a foil-wrapped packet he’s been holding in his hand.
“What’s this?”
“Egg sandwich,” he says. “Archie asked me to make it. I figured I’d make one for you too.”
The second you feel the warmth and catch a whiff at it, you tear the foil open and take a bite, humming immediately, eyes fluttering a little at how good it is.
“This is so good,” you say, mouth full, completely unashamed.
Hyunjin shakes his head, amused. “Enjoy it.”
He heads back toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Saturday. Ten a.m.”
“Saturday, ten,” you repeat, still chewing.
You hear his laugh—warm, real—just before the door clicks shut behind him.
You swallow, smile to yourself, and sit back down at your desk, crumbs on your fingers and music still paused on your screen.
Everything feels… full. In a way you hadn’t realized you were missing.
-
You don’t usually dress like this.
Most days, you live in comfort and practicality—things you can sit in for hours, things that don’t demand to be seen. But tonight, you have to put a little effort as you have a meeting with your agent which guarantee an adult conversation that doesn’t involve coffee orders or five-year-old bedtime routines.
You settle on a simple dress, just enough to feel intentional. A little color on your cheeks, concealer to cover the sleep you didn’t get, a swipe of lipstick to brighten the whole look. You study yourself in the mirror for a second longer than usual, then decide it’s good enough.
When you step out into the hallway, the elevator arrives like it’s been summoned on cue.
The doors open to reveal Hyunjin and Archie—hands linked, a grocery bag hooked over Hyunjin’s arm.
“Hold it!” you call, hurrying forward.
Hyunjin reaches out and keeps the doors open without a second thought.
Archie looks up at you, eyes going wide. “You look beautiful. Like a princess,” he says, completely earnest, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
You stop short, flustered. “Thank you so much, Archie,” you reply softly, smiling at him.
Hyunjin glances at you but his eyes seem to betray him as they sweep over you, head to toe and back to your face. Something flickers across his face before he masks it with a small smile. “Where are you heading?”
“Meeting my agent,” you say, already stepping into the elevator. “And I’m running a little late.”
As the elevator descends, you press your back lightly against the wall, heart still fluttering—not from nerves about the meeting, but from the way Archie’s voice had sounded so sure.
Beautiful. Like a princess.
You breathe out slowly and straighten your shoulders.
Tonight, at least, you believe it.
-
The bar is dim in that intentional way. You sit across from your agent, legs crossed, fingers wrapped around a glass of water you ordered on purpose, laptop bag tucked neatly by your feet.
She flips through her notes while you talk. You tell her about the new book. The premise, the tone, the themes you’re circling. You don’t give away too much, just enough to prove that the story exists, that it has potential, that you’re not stalled even if it sometimes feels like you are.
She listens, nodding, humming thoughtfully. “Okay,” she says eventually, satisfied. “It’s taking shape. I can hear it.”
Relief loosens your shoulders and the meeting winds down quickly after that.
She checks her phone, grimaces. “I’ve got another thing I need to run to.”
“That’s fine,” you say, already gathering your bag.
“But,” she adds, standing, “you’re having a drink before you go.”
“Oh—no, I wasn’t planning to—”
Too late as she steers you toward the bar with a firm hand on your elbow like she’s done this a hundred times before. “Sit,” she says, pointing to a stool.
You sigh but comply, sliding onto the seat. You don’t plan on drinking as you have Archie’s play to attend tomorrow and you can’t show up with a hangover.
She flags down the bartender with a sharp lift of her fingers. “Make her your finest cocktail. And don’t let her leave until she finishes it.”
“I really don’t need—” you start.
Then you hear the bartender’s voice. “Got it.”
You turn on your stool and Han stands behind the bar. Your brain short-circuits so hard you almost laugh.
Your agent doesn’t notice as she’s already slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Enjoy,” she says cheerfully, before disappearing into the crowd.
Han lifts an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling at his lips as recognition settles in. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, eyes locking onto yours.
“Clearly,” you manage.
He reaches for a shaker, smoothly pouring the concoction into it. “Guess I’ve been instructed not to let you escape.”
His gaze flicks back up to you, amused. “I’ll make sure of it.”
You realize, somewhere between the ice clinking in the shaker and the easy way Han moves behind the bar, that you’re barely paying attention to the drink in front of you.
You watch him instead. The way he takes orders, leaning in just enough to hear people over the music. The way his hands work automatically, confident, practiced. He looks like he belongs here in a way that’s different from the next-door neighbor Han, and the contrast makes your chest feel tight in a way you’re still learning to name.
When he finally comes back to you, he glances at your glass. “You haven’t finished it,” he says, mock-serious. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”
Your cheeks warm but you quickly say, “No, the drink is fine.”
You convince him by taking a small sip of it, wincing at the sourness biting at your tongue.
He smirks and tilts his head. He drops his voice just a notch as he adds, “or are you just trying to linger?”
That does it. You straighten on the stool, flustered. “I—no. I mean—yes, it’s good. The drink. It’s good.”
He grins like he’s won something.
“So,” you say, eager to redirect, “do you work here?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he replies. “Lame band by day, lame job by night.”
You laugh. “You really love that word.”
He shrugs. “How about you?”
“I was meeting my agent,” you say. “Talking about my lame book.”
That earns you a soft chuckle. “Seems like we’re both very successful people.”
Somehow, your glass is empty before you realize it. Han notices immediately.
“Another?” he asks.
You hesitate—then decide you’re already here, already buzzed, already smiling more than usual. You’re sure one more drink won’t be a problem. “Okay. Just one more.”
He makes it while looking at you this time, not rushing, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be. When he’s done, he grabs another glass and pours something for himself.
“Wait,” he says.
You pause with your hand wrapped around the glass.
“I’ll be drinking with you this time,” he says, taking a glass and pouring liquor into it.
He raises his glass toward you. “Cheers.”
You clink glasses, take a sip, feel warmth bloom low in your chest.
“So,” he says, leaning forward on the counter, close enough that you can see the little mole on his cheek, “you gonna tell me about this book?”
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the dim lights. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like he actually wants to know.
You smile, slow and teasing. “If I tell you,” you say as you lean forward, “I’d have to kill you.”
He laughs and it’s loud and unguarded. “Didn’t know you were like this.”
You bite your lip, surprised at yourself too. “Neither did I.”
And for the first time, you realize you’re not pretending.
This version of you—the one flirting back, the one lingering on a barstool, the one letting romance exist without trying to write it into shape—she’s real and she’s having fun.
The flirting settles into something easy from there. Small smiles, lingering looks, the kind of banter that hums quietly beneath the noise of the bar. Han leans in when he talks to you. You laugh a little more than usual. Time slips by without either of you really noticing.
When he gestures toward your glass again, eyebrow lifting, you already know what he’s going to ask. “Third round?”
You hesitate—then shake your head, regretful but firm. “I can’t. I’m a lightweight. If I have another, I’ll be drunk.”
“Then I’ll take you home,” he easily says with a smirk and crinkle in his eyes. “Perks of being neighbors.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip. You smile and honestly, tempted because you want to say yes. You want to stay. To keep talking, keep hovering in this warm, buzzing space between possibility and intention.
But you remember Archie’s play and you promised Hyunjin that you’ll come.
“I really can’t,” you say gently. “I promised someone I’d be up early.”
Han nods, understanding settling in without complaint. “Fair.”
“I should close my tab,” you add.
“I’ve got it,” he says, already reaching for the register.
You insist anyway, sliding your card across the counter. He gives in with a soft laugh, hands it back once everything’s done.
“Get home safe,” he tells you.
You smile. “I will. Thank you.”
As you step away from the bar, you glance back just in time to see him disappear into the crowd—slipping between bodies, back into the rhythm of the place like he was never yours to begin with.
Your heart is still racing as you head for the door.
And somehow, you’re okay with that.
-
The kindergarten hallway is chaos in its purest form.
Parents crowd every available inch, teachers herding small bodies in mismatched costumes with the patience of saints. You weave your way through it all, scanning faces until you spot Hyunjin exactly where he said he’d be—standing just outside Archie’s classroom, hands in his pockets, looking only mildly overwhelmed.
You reach him and grab his arm. “I’m here, I’m here.”
He turns, breaks into a smile, and immediately hands you a tumbler. “For you.”
You scoff, grateful. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Figured you’d need it.”
Soon enough, the teacher starts ushering everyone toward the small auditorium. You and Hyunjin end up in the middle rows, close enough to the stage that Archie will be able to spot you, close enough that Hyunjin keeps glancing around like he’s trying to mentally map every possible angle.
A couple seated nearby turns toward him. “You’re Archie’s dad, right?” the man says.
Hyunjin stands to greet them, and you rise automatically with him, offering a polite smile. The woman looks between the two of you, eyes warm with curiosity. “I’ve seen you picking Archie up a few times,” she says to you. “Are you his mom?”
“It’s okay,” Hyunjin assures her easily, and after a few more pleasantries, they return to their seats.
You and Hyunjin sit back down. You lean in, whispering, “Did she thinks I look old enough to have a child?”
He snorts softly. “And you’ve only realized it now?”
You elbow him without thinking.
He yelps—loud.
“Shh,” he stage-whispers immediately, rubbing his side. “It’s about to start.”
The lights dim, chatter quiets, and the curtain begins to lift.
Archie stands there in a tiny bunny costume—floppy ears slightly crooked, face paint smudged just enough to make it even cuter. You bring a hand to your mouth without realizing it, eyes wide.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “He’s so cute.”
Beside you, Hyunjin is already in full dad mode. Camera up. Finger clicking nonstop. Leaning forward in his seat like he can somehow get closer through sheer will alone. You stifle a laugh as you watch him, completely unapologetic, documenting every second.
Then Archie’s eyes scan the audience and the moment he spots you and his dad, his whole face lights up. He sings louder. Dances harder. Arms swinging with enthusiasm that has nothing to do with choreography and everything to do with being seen.
This is what people meant when they say showing up matters. You feel something warm bloom in your chest as you wave subtly, smiling so hard your cheeks ache.
Hyunjin lowers the camera just long enough to catch it too, eyes shining.
The performance is chaos in the best way—off-key singing, uneven dancing, pure joy radiating from the stage and when it ends, the room erupts into cheers.
Everything feels full. Loud. Soft. And dare you say… kind of romantic.
-
Lunch turns into a small celebration without anyone needing to say it out loud.
The three of you sit around the dining table, plates of spaghetti in front of you. You keep gushing about the play because how could you not? You’re telling Archie how amazing he was on stage, how brave, how cute, how the bunny ears were the best part. You reach over with a napkin, gently wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth.
Hyunjin watches the whole thing with a quiet smile, elbow propped on the table, eyes soft.
Archie, meanwhile, tries very hard to act cool about the praise. He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just steal the entire show.
“Do you know how cute you were with your bunny ears and painted nose?” you ask, dabbing the spaghetti sauce on his chin.
“I know,” Archie answers without a beat.
You and Hyunjin exchange a look, both surprised and amused before letting out chuckles.
Then, Archie looks at his dad. “Daddy, can I have ice cream after this?”
Hyunjin doesn’t even blink. “I think you have enough for today, don’t you think?”
Archie frowns.
You lean forward on the table, leaning close to Hyunjin. “But he worked really hard. Plays are exhausting.”
Archie’s eyes light up. He turns fully toward Hyunjin and puts on his best puppy eyes, voice dropping into a soft, pleading whine. “Pleaaase?”
You join him, tilting your head, widening your eyes in exaggerated innocence. “Please…”
Hyunjin looks between the two of you. His resolve lasts exactly two seconds.
“…Fine,” he sighs. “Ice cream.”
“Yay!” you and Archie cheer in unison.
Hyunjin shakes his head, defeated but smiling as he’s walking to the fridge to get the hard-earned ice cream for the three of you.
The afternoon stretches gently after lunch and nap time always wins. Hyunjin gently lays Archie into his bed, adjusting the blanket, brushing hair from his forehead with a tenderness that makes your chest ache just a little.
In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water, suddenly aware of how tired you are—how keeping up with a five-year-old is a full-body workout.
Hyunjin joins you, voice low. “Can I have a glass?”
You nod, pour another glass, and the two of you settle back at the dining table, shoulders relaxed, the day finally catching up.
“So,” he says casually, “how’s the romance going?”
You snort softly. “Straight to it, huh?”
He shrugs.
You tell him about last night. About meeting your agent. About Han. About the drinks, the flirting, the way it felt different from anything you’d expected. How the whole thing felt serendipitous.
Hyunjin listens, then smirks. “Didn’t think you even knew how to flirt.”
You smack his arm lightly.
He yelps quietly this time and immediately clamps a hand over his mouth, glancing toward Archie’s room.
“Worth it,” you whisper.
He grins. “So what happens next?”
You shrug, staring into your glass. “I don’t know. Potentially, a date? I just… don’t know if he’ll ask.”
“What do you even like about him?” Hyunjin asks, genuinely curious.
“He’s cool but also… hot,” you pause to let out a shy giggle. “He’s confident. I like how he carries himself, the intensity.” You start listing things you like about Han but it all sounds familiar even as you say it.
Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “You know a lot for someone you’re not close with.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m getting there.”
He smiles, satisfied. “Good luck then.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward, but soft. The kind that settles after a good day. But then reality nudges you — writing to do, book to finish.
“I should go,” you say, pushing yourself up your chair.
“Wait a second,” Hyunjin says, getting up from his chair and reaching for his bag.
A while later, he returns with a paper in his hand and hands it to you. From the glasses and the way he colored the hair the same as yours, you believe it’s Archie’s drawing of you.
“His teacher shared the drawings Archie made at school,” Hyunjin shares.
When you look up from admiring the drawing, you find Hyunjin’s eyes on you, soft and earnest.
“Thank you for coming today,” he says quietly. “Archie was sad his mom couldn’t make it. It meant a lot to him that you came. To me.”
Your throat tightens, not expecting that your presence meant a great deal to someone. “You know I’d do anything for Archie,” you say honestly. Then, playfully, “Not for you.”
He chuckles. “Sure.”
You fold the drawing and hold it close to your chest. “I’m going, okay?”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin nods but there’s this look on him that seems reluctant to let you leave.
You linger by the doorway to flash him a smile and say bye. “Don’t miss me too much, yeah?”
Hyunjin grins. “I’ll try.”
You walk out of his apartment, cross the hall and step back into your own. Before sitting down to write, you stick Archie’s drawing on the wall next to your desk. Every time you stop and see it, you can’t help but smile.
-
It’s Wednesday’s afternoon and you’re tucked into your usual corner at Hyunjin’s coffee shop, laptop open, fingers moving steadily. Words blur into paragraphs, paragraphs into pages. You don’t realize how long you’ve been there until you lift your cup and find it empty. You frown at it like it personally betrayed you because you really need the caffeine.
Before you can stand, a shadow falls over the table. Hyunjin appears, already setting down a fresh cup of coffee and a small tray of madeleines, warm and dusted lightly with sugar.
“Oh—thank you,” you say, looking up.
He just smiles, then takes your empty cup and disappears behind the counter.
You take your first sip, humming softly in approval, when you hear the giggling. As expected, a group of girls by the counter accept their drinks from Hyunjin, whispering to each other, cheeks flushed, eyes following him a little too obviously. You shake your head with a fond kind of disbelief.
Hyunjin is completely oblivious to the effect he has on people — girls, specifically.
The door opens and your brain stalls when you see the person who’s just stepped into the coffee shop. Han with sunlight briefly framing him before the door shuts behind him. You don’t know why your first instinct is to duck, but you try anyway—lowering your head, hiding behind your laptop like that’s going to save you. Too late though as his eyes land on you instantly and flashes you a smile.
Shit.
He heads to the counter and you watch as he and Hyunjin exchange pleasantries before taking his coffee order — Ice Americano, less ice with extra shot. While waiting, Han walks straight over and drops into the chair across from you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You smile but it comes out a little stiff. “Hey,” you weakly greet.
He flashes you his gummy smile. “Hey, what’re you doing?”
“Writing,” you say casually, like your heart didn’t just kick into a faster rhythm.
“Can I see?”
You scoff. “I’d still have to kill you.”
He chuckles softly, then goes quiet. He looks at you, noticing something on you. “You cut your hair.”
Well, you cut it like days ago but it feels nice that he finally noticed it. You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of it. Of how it sits today. Of how you styled it without thinking much about why.
“It looks good,” he says.
Before you can respond, Hyunjin’s voice cuts through the shop. “Han!”
Hearing his name on Hyunjin’s lips makes something odd twist in your chest.
The chair scrapes as Han stands. “That’s me.”
He excuses himself to grab his coffee, and the second his back is turned, you glance at your laptop screen—using the dark reflection to fix your hair, smooth it behind your ear, adjust yourself just enough.
When Han comes back, you pretend to fiddle with your laptop.
He stops by your table again with a coffee in his hand. “Hey, uh—my lame band is playing at this bar on Friday. I’d love for you to come.”
He tilts his head and playfully adds, “If you’re up for seeing a lame band.”
You chuckle, pretending to think about it. “Yeah, I’d love to see your lame band.”
“It’s Friday night,” he adds.
“Friday night,” you repeat, nodding.
“I’ll see you then,” he says with a smile, satisfied, then heads for the door.
You wish him a good day, and just like that, he’s gone. You wait exactly three seconds before abandoning your table and marching to the counter.
“Oh, my God. Did you hear that?” you whisper-rant at Hyunjin, who’s cleaning the espresso machine.
“What? I only heard him ask you to see his lame band,” he says.
“He asked me out.”
Hyunjin pauses. “That’s… not what I heard.”
“It’s indirect,” you insist. “But it… is.”
He hums, unconvinced. You decide to ignore that part entirely and focus on the important thing—you were right. You’re getting closer to Han.
“That’s good then,” Hyunjin says with a small smile before moving away to hand off another order.
You don’t let yourself think too hard about his reaction but walk back to your chair. You stare at your laptop, trying to continue writing but your mind is already elsewhere.
Friday night. What to prepare. What to wear. What to expect.
-
Friday night arrives faster than you expect.
You stand in front of your mirror longer than usual, tugging at fabric, tilting your head, changing your mind twice before settling on something that feels right. Something special but not loud about it. Effortless, you tell yourself. Like you didn’t think about this all week.
You smooth the material down, check your reflection again. Good. You look like yourself. Maybe a slightly braver version.
Your phone buzzes on the counter, face-down, and your heart does a stupid little jump even though you haven’t checked it yet.
You’re buzzing, restless, excited. For the past two days, your imagination hasn’t given you a moment of peace.
You imagine walking beside Han down a dim street, shoulders brushing. You imagine him on stage, guitar slung low, eyes finding you in the crowd and staying there. You imagine him stepping offstage, a little flushed, walking straight toward you like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. You imagine drinks. Laughter. The easy kind that comes from being a little buzzed and a little brave. You imagine him leaning in close at the end of the night, voice low, mouth warm against yours. You imagine him coming back to your place. You imagine—
You stop yourself with a sharp inhale, heat rushing to your cheeks.
Okay. Enough.
You shake your head, laugh under your breath, and turn back to the mirror. You adjust your hair, add one last touch. Just enough to feel confident. Just enough to feel like tonight matters.
You don’t need to imagine anymore. You grab your bag, take one last look at yourself, and smile.
Tonight, romance is going to happen.
-
The bar is louder than you expected.
Not bad—just… a lot. The music vibrates through the floor, bass-heavy and messy, and Han’s band takes the stage with confidence that makes the crowd cheer before they even start. You watch him from where you stand near the back, guitar slung low, hair falling into his eyes. He looks good up there like this is exactly where he belongs.
You smile. You really try to.
But as the set goes on, you realize you’re not listening for the music anymore—you’re listening for how it makes you feel. And the feeling never quite arrives. The songs blur together, loud and chaotic, and while the crowd is jumping and shouting lyrics back at him, you’re nursing your drink and wondering how long you’re supposed to stay before it’s polite to leave.
When Han finally comes offstage, he’s flushed and glowing, adrenaline still buzzing through him.
“Did you like it?” he asks, hopeful.
You nod. “Yeah. You were great.”
And he was. That’s the frustrating part.
He introduces you to his friends and they’re loud and affectionate but already halfway drunk and suddenly you’re bar-hopping, squeezing into cramped spaces, shouting conversations over music you don’t know.
Han keeps a hand at your lower back, guiding you through the crowd, ordering drinks without asking what you want.
It’s not unkind. It’s just… unfamiliar.
At one point, you’re sitting on a sticky barstool, watching him laugh with his bandmates, and it hits you—this isn’t a date. You’re not being chosen. You’re being folded into his night.
You thought you knew him. Or maybe you thought you wrote him.
The version of Han in your head is quieter, more attentive, someone who’d lean in to hear you speak instead of leaning away to greet someone new. You realize, with a strange calm, that none of that is fair—to him or to you.
When he finally looks back at you and asks, “You good?”
you smile and say, “Yeah. Just tired.”
It’s the truth. Just not the whole one.
Later, when he walks you home and kisses your cheek instead of your lips, you feel relief instead of disappointment.
When you close your door behind you, the silence feels kinder than the noise ever did. You sit on your bed and laugh softly to yourself. Not because it went badly. But because it didn’t go wrong—it just didn’t go right.
You don’t cry. You just stare at the wall and think about how you’re going to need time to understand what that means.
-
The days after Friday blur together quietly.
You’re back at your desk, laptop open, fingers moving more out of habit than inspiration. The room is dim except for the warm pool of light from your desk lamp, the kind of night where the world feels paused just enough for thoughts to get loud.
You’re mid-sentence when a knock sounds at your door. Your heart jumps—annoyingly hopeful, annoyingly wary.
You move to the door, peeking through the peephole first because you’re not ready. Not ready to see Han. Not ready to smile politely and pretend you didn’t dismantle an entire version of him in your head.
Thankfully, it’s Hyunjin.
Relief washes through you so quickly you almost laugh. You open the door and step aside to let him in. “Hey, come in.”
He softly smiles when he sees you, but there’s something else there too—a quiet concern that sits just beneath the surface.
“So Archie is at his mom’s,” he says instead, lifting the plastic bag in his hand. “And I can’t finish all these dumplings myself.”
You smile and usher him toward the kitchen. “That sounds like a you problem.”
“Thought I’d share the burden,” he replies easily.
You eat in comfortable silence, the clink of chopsticks against plates filling the gaps. It feels grounding, the simplicity of it.
After a while, Hyunjin glances at you and asks, “How’s the book going?”
“I’ve been writing a lot lately,” you simply answer.
“Is that why I haven’t seen you much?”
You nod.
He hums, accepting it, and the quiet settles again—this time heavier, waiting. Then, gently, “How was the date?”
You sigh before you even realize you’re doing it. Your shoulders slump, and you stare at your plate for a moment longer than necessary before finally speaking.
“I think I’m stupid,” you say, letting out a soft, sarcastic laugh. “For believing there’s such a thing as a dream man.”
Hyunjin’s expression sharpens, not with judgment, but concern. “Did Han do something?”
You shake your head. “No. That’s the thing. It’s not him.”
“Then who?”
“My expectations,” you say quietly. “I projected this whole character onto him. Built this romance in my head and expected it to just… happen.”
You laugh again, but it’s hollow. “So I guess that’s on me. Maybe I don’t deserve romance after all.”
Hyunjin’s chair scrapes softly as he shifts closer. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, warm and steady, rubbing small, comforting circles into your back.
“What makes you think that?” he asks gently.
You don’t answer right away.
“You’re so busy looking for romance,” he continues, “that you don’t realize how romantic the things you do already are.”
You turn your head to look at him, comforted but unconvinced, and he notices. He always does.
“I watch you work and know how hard you worked on your writing.”
You scoff lightly. “You’re biased.”
“And your book,” he adds. “It feels warm. Like… it cares about people.”
You shake your head. “How would you even know?”
He hesitates for half a second and admits, “I read it.”
You snort. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he insists, smiling sheepishly. “Archie always wants to know what I’m reading, so I keep it in my bedside drawer and only read it before bed.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, shaking your head but warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself.
Then Hyunjin’s hand moves from your shoulder to your jaw. He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.
“You’re amazing,” he says, looking straight into your eyes. “You write beautifully. What you create entertains people. It warms them. What could be more romantic than that?”
Something in you cracks open—not painfully, but softly. Your heart trembles at how genuine he is, how steady, how sure. How he knows the words you needed to hear.
You place your hand over his and lean into his touch. “Thank you,” you whisper.
For a moment, the two of you staying like that, sitting in a comfort that doesn’t need imagining to exist.
Another moment later, you rinse the last plate and set it carefully on the rack while Hyunjin dries his hands on a dish towel, leaning against the counter like he belongs there—like he always has.
“Oh,” he says casually, as if it just crossed his mind. “I’m taking Archie to the aquarium this weekend.”
He adds quickly, a teasing lilt in his voice, “I know there’s absolutely nothing romantic about going to the aquarium with a divorced dad and his kid. But… I thought it might help take your mind off things a little.”
It is a good idea since you’ve been cooped up in the apartment for the last few days but still, you pretend to consider it for a moment just to tease him. Then you break into a smile and nod, “…Yeah, I’d like that.”
Hyunjin nods, clearly pleased but pretending not to be. “Cool. I’ll pack lunch,” he says, already planning. “You can treat us to ice cream.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, was it?”
“Nope.”
You sigh dramatically. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
When everything’s done, he pauses and leans over the dining table, hands propped against it. “Are you going to continue writing tonight?”
“It seems like it, yeah,” you answer.
“Just… make sure you rest too,” he says.
You promise with a nod, even if you’re not sure you’ll keep it.
At the door, you thank him again and reach for the handle, but before you can open it, Hyunjin gently pulls you into a hug. It’s long and tight, like he’s trying to pass something to you through sheer closeness. Warmth. Comfort. His real, solid presence.
You don’t resist. You melt into it, arms wrapping around him, breathing him in, catching the faint smell of coffee clinging to his clothes. It feels nice. Too nice.
When you pull back, he doesn’t let you go right away. His hands stay on you, just enough to keep you close. Your eyes meet and for a split second, something sparks right in your chest.
Hyunjin swallows, then murmurs, “Goodnight.”
Only then does he let go.
“Goodnight,” you breathe back, still a little breathless as he steps out and the door clicks shut behind him.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, heart thudding, unsure of what just happened—
Only that it stole your breath anyway.
-
The aquarium entrance looms ahead, glass doors glinting under the sun, and Archie is already bouncing on the balls of his feet. His hands are warm in yours, small fingers threaded tightly as he wedges himself between you and Hyunjin.
“Ready?” Hyunjin asks, glancing down at him.
Before either of you can answer, Archie jumps.
You and Hyunjin instinctively lift your arms, hoisting him up for a few seconds, his laugh bursting out loud and uncontained before you set him back down.
“Again!” Archie demands immediately.
You exchange a look with Hyunjin, his mouth already twitching with a smile and do it again. And again. Until Archie’s laughter turns into breathless giggles and the line starts moving.
The moment you step into the aquarium, Archie goes quiet. His eyes widen, reflecting the blue glow of the tanks as fish glide past the glass like living brushstrokes. He lets go of your hand without warning, darting forward with a gasp.
“Wait—Archie!” you call, hurrying after him.
He presses his face close to the glass, pointing excitedly, words tumbling out too fast for you to catch. You slow him down, gently steering him from tank to tank, trying and failing to keep pace with his excitement.
Behind you, Hyunjin lingers, unbothered. He lifts his camera, capturing the way Archie’s mouth drops open in awe, the way you crouch beside him, explaining fish names you half-remember.
“Are you even helping?” you call over your shoulder.
Hyunjin chuckles, snapping another photo. “You’re doing great.”
You shake your head, breathless and smiling, while Archie tugs at your sleeve, already dragging you forward. In the next exhibit, you take the camera from Hyunjin without asking, fingers already curling around the familiar weight of it.
“Hey—” he protests.
“It’s your turn!” You say as you aim the camera at him.
Then Archie gasps, pointing at the massive tank ahead, and Hyunjin lifts him up without another word. Archie settles easily in his arms, one small hand braced on Hyunjin’s shoulder as he leans closer to the glass.
Schools of fish glide past them, slow and hypnotic, and something bigger passes in the shadows, making Archie suck in a sharp breath.
“Dad,” he whispers, reverent.
You raise the camera and Hyunjin doesn’t even realize you’re taking pictures at first. His head is tilted slightly toward Archie, his arm secure around him, thumb rubbing absentminded circles against Archie’s back.
There’s a softness in his face you don’t see often—unguarded, fond, full in a quiet way. You press the shutter again and again, capturing the warmth of it, the way love looks when it’s lived in.
When Hyunjin finally glances over and notices you, he raises an eyebrow. “You done?”
“Not even close,” you say, snapping one last photo as Archie laughs at something swimming past.
You move on to the touching pool after that, Archie skipping ahead while sucking on a juice box, already announcing to anyone who’ll listen that there are baby sharks inside.
You peer into the shallow tank, watching the small, sleek shapes glide through the water. “I don’t know about this.”
Hyunjin grins. “They’re harmless.”
You shake your head, folding your arms. “Easy for you to say.”
Without hesitation, Hyunjin rolls up his sleeve and dips his hand into the water. One of the baby sharks swims close, brushing past his fingers. He doesn’t flinch.
“See? Totally fine.”
Purely out of curiosity, you slowly lower your hand into the pool. The water is cool, your pulse loud in your ears as a small shark swims toward you. You watch it intently, holding your breath—
Hyunjin suddenly yelps and at the same time, his hand shoots out and grabs yours under the water.
You scream, jerking your hand back so fast you nearly stumble. “Hyunjin!”
He bursts out laughing, loud and unapologetic, doubling over as you stand there mortified, heart racing.
“Oh my god,” you hiss, slapping his arm again and again. “What is wrong with you?!”
“I couldn’t help it,” he laughs, failing to dodge your hits.
Archie giggles uncontrollably from the side, juice carton forgotten in his hand. “You scared her!”
“You’re both terrible,” you mutter, cheeks burning as a few nearby visitors glance over with amused smiles.
Hyunjin finally lifts his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Worth it.”
You glare at him, but it doesn’t stick. Not with Archie laughing like that. Not with the warmth still lingering from the moment before. Still, you give Hyunjin one last slap for good measure.
“Absolutely not forgiven,” you say but you can see Hyunjin’s smile only goes wider.
By the time the three of you arrived home, Archie is completely out—head tucked under Hyunjin’s chin, mouth slightly open, limbs loose from a day filled with too much excitement and too much food.
You unlock the door into Hyunjin’s apartment with the spare keys you have and hold it open while Hyunjin steps inside. He heads straight for Archie’s room, disappearing down the hallway, and you move to set the backpack down, lining up the jacket, placing the little sneakers neatly by the door.
The sight of Hyunjin’s camera catches your attention so you pick it up and allow yourself to sit on the sofa.
There are so many pictures of Archie—him pressing his nose to the glass, arms spread wide like he’s trying to become a fish; him crouching near a tank, mimicking the posture of a stingray; him baring his teeth proudly like the statue of the sharks next to him. You smile without realizing it.
Then there are photos of you and Archie together. One where you’re pointing excitedly at something in a tank while Archie looks up at you like you’ve just told him a secret. Another where you’re laughing, head thrown back, completely unaware.
You pause on one photo in particular of you standing slightly to the side, Archie right next to you, both of you staring at a tank full of glowing jellyfish. The light bathes everything in blue and violet, soft and dreamy.
It’s… aesthetic. Hyunjin takes beautiful pictures. Which also annoys you because he’s just so good at everything.
You scroll again and realize the next few are unmistakably the ones you took. You can tell because they’re not as composed. Slightly crooked. Too close. Taken with a kind of rushed affection.
You continue scrolling and then stop when you find a picture of you. Your face turned toward the glass, expression relaxed, almost thoughtful. The glow from the tank kisses your cheekbones, your eyes soft, unguarded. There are more like it—small moments, stolen from angles you didn’t know he was watching from.
They’re different. Taken with such great care. Tender. Almost… romantic.
“You know,” Hyunjin’s voice cuts in, amused, “I should’ve taken a picture of you freaking out at the touching pool.”
You yelp softly and turn, immediately slapping his arm. “Don’t you dare.”
He laughs as he sits beside you on the sofa, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. You hand him the camera back, then lean into the cushions with a long sigh. “You know,” you say, staring at the ceiling, “your life is way more romantic than mine.”
Hyunjin tilts his head. “How is that so?”
You count them off without even looking at him. “You have a beautiful, loving son. You own a coffee shop. You brew your own coffee. You bake. You have… secret admirers. You take beautiful photos like this.” You gesture vaguely. “And that’s not even all of it.”
Hyunjin hums thoughtfully and then, narrows his eyes at you. “Secret admirers?”
You grin and bump your shoulder lightly against his. “The girls at the coffee shop. The giggling. The whispering. The very obvious swooning.”
He scoffs, trying to look indifferent. “I don’t notice that.”
“Oh, come on,” you tease. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, but you catch the faintest hint of pink at the tips of his ears.
You shift closer without really thinking about it—your legs tucked under you now, Hyunjin’s shoulder warm against yours.
Hyunjin clears his throat, then says, almost too casually, “You know… there are a few romantic things about you too.”
“A few, huh?” you scoff, turning toward him.
He smiles, that soft one he only ever wears around you, and leans back into the sofa. “A few. Yeah.”
You cross your arms together, unimpressed yet curious. “Let’s hear it then.”
“I think it’s romantic when you’re writing at the coffee shop,” he starts with a soft smile. “You don’t notice anything around you—your coffee going cold, people coming and going. The sunlight hits you just right and it’s like you’re… glowing. Like you’re somewhere else.”
Your breath catches, just a little. Not expecting that.
“I think it’s romantic the way you use words,” he continues. “You make people feel things. You make me feel things, even when you don’t realize it.”
You swallow because your chest suddenly feels tight.
“I think it’s romantic when you enjoy my coffee and my madeleines like they’re something special,” he adds, quieter now. “When you come over and I find you and Archie on the floor, coloring or laughing like you belong there.”
His eyes meet yours.
“And I think it’s romantic that you’re always there,” he says. “When I need help. When Archie needs someone. When I’m too tired to ask.”
The air between you thickens, crackles.
Then, softer, almost vulnerable, he says, “And I think… there’s something romantic between you and me.”
You smile shyly, heart stuttering. “You and me?”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin doesn’t even try to hide it.
You decide to be playful about it. “Okay, I guess we’re… kind of romantic.”
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he leans in just a fraction, gaze deepening, voice dropping low and warm.
“Should we make it more romantic?”
Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But there’s no panic. No urge to pull away. Just this steady, grounding warmth like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
“I guess we can make it romantic,” you answer, breathless and a little trembling.
Hyunjin’s hand comes up gently, like he’s afraid of startling you, and then, the next thing you know, his lips are on yours, soft and plush. The kiss is tender, almost innocent, like a promise instead of a question.
You melt into it, eyes fluttering shut. Because this—
This feels romantic.
-
You pull away first, breath shaky, your hand flying up to cover your lips like you need to physically hold yourself together.
Hyunjin’s lips are a little swollen, a little red, still glossy from the kiss, and the sight of him looking worried like that almost makes you laugh. “What? Did that feel weird?” he asks quietly.
You’re still processing the way your heart is racing, the way your body feels warm and light and grounded all at once. Then you nod.
“It feels weird because…” you say honestly. “It doesn’t feel weird at all.”
He exhales a laugh, soft and relieved, shaking his head like he should’ve known better. He doesn’t rush you, rush this moment. Then, carefully, like he’s asking permission with every movement, he reaches up and brushes your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers linger there, warm against your skin.
You don’t expect to feel this with Hyunjin, whom you’ve known for years and you’ve comfortably shared part of your life with. You hesitate for a second and then glance up at him through your lashes. “Can we uh… can we try again?”
His smile this time is slow, sure. “Yeah.”
You scoot closer, close your eyes, and lean in first. And you expect to feel his lips on you soon, but no. Instead, you feel his hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks. He presses a kiss to your eyelid. Then the other. A soft one to your cheekbone. A lingering kiss along your jaw that makes your breath hitch.
When your lips part and a breathless gasp escaped your lips, only then does he kiss you again.
This time, you don’t hold back. The kiss deepens naturally, carrying you both somewhere heavier, warmer. Hyunjin leans in until you’re sinking into the cushions, the sofa dipping beneath you, his body braced carefully above yours—close, but never careless.
When he pulls away, it’s only to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, lower—each one slow enough to make your head spin.
You try to stay quiet. You really do. But the soft, breathless sounds slip out anyway.
He catches the last one with a kiss that steals what little air you have left. When he finally pulls back, he stays hovering above you, eyes dark, amused and tender all at once.
“You okay?” he asks.
You give him a shaky thumbs-up.
He laughs quietly, brushing your hair away from your face again. “Good.”
Then, his eyes look deeply into yours and says, “I know the part of me that says ‘divorced, single dad’ doesn’t sound very romantic.”
He punctuates it with a quick kiss to your lips. “But,” he adds, lingering close, his mouth grazing yours, “it does mean I’m pretty confident about the… spicy parts.”
He pauses, searching your face, the teasing replaced with care. “We can stop. Or we can move forward. It’s up to you.”
Still breathless, cheeks burning, you try to sound casual. “Yeah. I think we can… move on to the spicy part.”
He chuckles, clearly delighted, and you immediately cover your face with your hands, mortified.
“Don’t look at me.”
Instead of teasing you, Hyunjin scoops you up without warning.
You squeal, clapping a hand over your mouth as reality kicks in that Archie is sleeping. “Hyunjin—"
Your hands clutch at his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as he carries you down the hallway. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, heart pounding, warmth blooming everywhere.
“I’m just,” he adds softly, “trying to make it more romantic.”
Somehow, it already is with the way he carries you like you’re something delicate, something precious, and the care in it makes your chest ache.
Hyunjin lowers you onto the bed slowly, one hand braced beside your head, the other still steady at your waist like he’s afraid of letting go too soon. He hovers above you again, eyes searching your face, and then his lips find yours—soft at first, then deeper, dizzying.
It goes on like that. Kissing. Shifting closer. Bodies pressing together until the room feels smaller, warmer, filled with nothing but breath and heat and the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.
It all starts to feel like too much in the best, overwhelming way. You pull back gently, resting your hand against his chest. “Hyunjin… give me a second.”
He immediately stills. “Yeah. Of course.”
He stays close but doesn’t touch, giving you space without leaving. You use the moment to really look at him. His eyes are softer up close. You trace the little mole under his left eye with your fingertip, your touch feather-light, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you press too hard. Your thumb brushes over his lips, plush and slightly swollen from kissing you.
You’ve known him for years, seen him almost every day, but never like this. Never this close. Never with this quiet, electric romance humming between you.
Hyunjin is so beautiful it steals the air from your lungs.
“God,” you murmur without thinking. “You’re… really beautiful.”
His mouth curves into a smile, shy and amused all at once. “But you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Hyunjin shifts, sitting up. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one.
Your eyes widen, heart pounding, you’re helpless under him and absolutely not complaining. You bring a hand to your mouth, biting back any sound as he shrugs the shirt off, exposing his toned arms, his chest, the quiet strength in the lines of his body. Heat rushes through you, settling everywhere all at once.
Hyunjin glances down at you, clearly enjoying the reaction, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So,” he asks softly, “what do you think?”
You swallow. “I’m thinking… a lot of girls would be really jealous of me right now.”
Something curious pulls at you then. Your hand reaches for him, hesitant, half-convinced he’s just a figment of your imagination. He notices immediately and takes your hand, pressing it flat against his chest.
“I’m very much real, yeah,” he jokingly says with a soft chuckle.
You touch him gently, reverently, like it’s something sacred. “I didn’t expect this under the dad sweaters and barista apron.”
He scoffs lightly. “Hey. I look good in those.”
You meet his eyes. “Well, honestly, you look good in everything.”
That makes him smiles, soft and pleased. He leans down again, bracing himself carefully above you, and captures your lips in a long, deep kiss that pulls you right back under him.
And whatever line there was between romantic and something more… it fades quietly, willingly, as you let yourself follow him there.
You kiss him back just as eagerly, your hands roaming over his bare upper body. He feels warm and solid beneath your palms, soft skin over strength that makes your head feel light. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, slow and consuming, until you’re dizzy from it, until the room feels like it’s tilting.
When his hand drifts toward the opening of your blouse, a shaky breath slips out of you before you can stop it.
Hyunjin immediately stills, lifting his head to look at you. “You know you can stop me anytime, right?”
You shake your head quickly, flustered. “I—no. I’m just… shy.”
He scoffs playfully. “What, you think I’m hiding abs under here and you’re not?”
You laugh, the sound easing something tight in your chest, and that little moment of humor makes everything feel safer, easier. You lift yourself just enough to undo your blouse, and he helps you ease it off, careful and unhurried. Jeans follow, his first and then yours, movements clumsy but sweet as clothes are kicked aside and forgotten on the floor.
When there’s nothing left between you, reality hits all at once. You sit back against the pillows, arms crossed over yourself, legs tucked in shyly.
Hyunjin tilts his head, smiling. “What are you trying to hide from me?”
“The most un-romantic part of me,” you meekly answer.
He laughs softly before crawling closer anyway. “Guess I’ll have to see for myself.”
He gently moves your hands away, not rushing or forcing, just guiding until you’re lying bare beneath him. Your heart pounds, worry creeping in, all those quiet insecurities whispering at once.
But the way he looks at you… it’s nothing like you feared. His eyes trace you with awe, like he can’t comprehend it, like he can’t believe you’re real. His hands follow, touching you with reverence, slow and indulgent, making you shiver at the tenderness of it. He drags his hand from the base of your throat down the valley of your breasts, he rests his hand for a brief moment there on the ribcage, feeling the rise and fall of it with every breathe you take.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and the words sink deep, settling somewhere warm inside you.
His lips replace his hands, kisses pressed to your collarbone, under your breast, your navel, your hip. Each kiss is unhurried, lingering and each one making you more breathless than the last. You gasp softly as he moves lower, taking his time, clearly enjoying every reaction he pulls from you.
Hyunjin knows where you want him the most, but he doesn't give it to you. Not yet. With a smirk, he pulls away, knees propped against the bed. A hand reaches for your leg and lifts it, there isn’t slightest of hesitation as he presses a kiss to your ankle.
From there, he continues to make a trail of kisses down your leg until he's there, head hanging between your leg. He looks at you, making you wait in anticipation for what he’s going to do next.
You feel faint from how much you’ve been holding your breath and when his mouth finally makes contact with your cunt, a breathless gasp spilled out of your parted mouth.
Hyunjin begins by landing kitten licks between your folds, making you wetter than you already are. His tongue darting out, the hot and slick of it pressing on your clit before it moves in slow, circular motions.
You’re squirming under him, your hips lifted off the bed, seeking pleasure of his hot mouth on you, but the hand resting on your stomach, firmly holding you down, not letting you go.
When he finally looks up at you, lips flushed, eyes dark and playful, the heat of his attention alone is enough to make you squirm. He doesn’t waste another second but to dive back in, giving you more of those delicious curls of his tongue on your clit, between your folds, around the entrance. He plants his mouth on your clit, sucking at it in such gentleness and intention and it feels overwhelming, dizzying.
Your moans slip out before you can stop them and hurriedly press your lips together, aware that Archie is sleeping in the next room. You clamp a hand over your mouth, body tensing even though every nerve is screaming otherwise.
Saying Hyunjin’s name feels like dragging it out of your lungs, broken and whispered, and you tug at his hair in a desperate attempt to get his attention.
“Hyunjin…”
He doesn’t hear it at first. Or maybe he does, but he’s far too focused, far too intent on pleasing you with his mouth like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists. You’re helpless beneath him, caught between wanting him to stop and wanting him never to.
Your pleas dissolve into soft, ruined sounds, and you can’t even tell anymore what you’re asking for. Then everything inside you coiling, winding, overwhelming and when it finally breaks, you bite down hard on your lip, eyes squeezing shut as you fall apart in silence, every sensation crashing over you at once.
Hyunjin slows and then pulls back. He watches you with a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as you ride out the last of your orgasm, breath shaking, chest rising and falling.
Before you can even gather yourself, he’s above you again, one hand braced beside your head as he leans down and captures your mouth in a deep kiss, letting you have a taste of you lingering on his tongue and lips.
The two of you stay like that for a moment longer, just kissing with your body still humming as you drift down from the edge you’d just tipped over. Hyunjin’s mouth stays soft on yours, but there’s an unmistakable pull beneath it, a promise you both feel building again with every breath you share. There’s no denying that you’re both ready for what’s next.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. “Give me a second, yeah?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as he shifts to the side. You watch him open the bedside drawer and there, next to his box of condoms is your book.
You laugh softly when you see it and reach for it before he can stop you, holding it up with a grin. “So you didn’t lie, huh?”
He doesn’t even deny it, just shrugs, a little sheepish, a little smug. You flip it open and spot the bookmarked part of the story. “Oh, you’re in the juicy part.”
“And I think,” he says, holding a condom in his hand now, voice teasing but steady, “we should catch up to it.”
You tuck the book away, suddenly shy all over again, and watch him with a kind of breathless awe as he takes his time, tearing through the foil packet and then carefully rolls the rubber down his stiff member.
When he looks up and catches you staring at his hard length, you don’t even bother pretending.
“I don’t think—” you start, then stop yourself, laughing softly. “It’s… big.”
His smile is easy, reassuring. “We’ll make it fit.”
The way he says it sends a shiver straight through you—half terrifying, half thrilling. You barely have time to react before he’s back with you, laughter and warmth knocking the air from your lungs as you both sink into the mattress again.
When he looks at you, his expression turns serious, tender. “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable, okay?”
You nod, and he takes his time—kissing you, touching you, grounding you—until your body softens, relaxes, opens to him without fear.
When Hyunjin finally settles between your legs, everything slows even more. He’s using his long, slender fingers to tease until you’re wet, drenched and only then, he begins using the tip of his cock to smear your essence all over your entrance. When he deems you're ready to take him, he aligns his cock and begins pushing into you.
The stretch, the sheer size of him, the sudden fullness — it’s overwhelming, not painful, just surprising. You cling to his shoulders, breathing through it, and he pauses immediately.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Just—wow.”
“Should I continue?”
“Definitely, yes,” you eagerly answer.
Hyunjin slowly pushing the remaining length with utter cautiousness and care. A breath caught in your throat the moment he’s fully buried inside you and your hands clawing at his shoulders, needing time to adjust to him and so does he.
Hyunjin presses his forehead with yours, just existing, processing that you're both connected to one another now and when he opens his eyes, they found yours instantly. He smiles a soft smile and says, "Let's take it slow, mmh?"
You nod, agreeing to it with a long kiss on his lips. For a moment, the two of you stay like that, adjusting to each other, just existing in the moment.
When he finally moves, it’s slow, agonizingly slow as if he wants you to feel everything.
And you do. The closeness. The heat. The way his lips keep finding yours, as if he can’t help it. It feels so deeply intimate that you're shivering all over.
A sound slips out of you before you can stop it, and his eyes darken with amusement. “I like hearing your beautiful moans,” he murmurs against your lips. “But if you get too loud, Archie’s going to hear.”
You barely have the presence of mind to be embarrassed. “But it— it feels too good,” you admit breathlessly.
His smile is pure trouble. One hand cups your jaw. “Then I’ll just have to keep kissing you.”
He does exactly that, mouth never leaving yours as his movements grow surer, deeper, more confident. But the moans keep slipping out of your mouth in between kisses anyway as Hyunjin is rocking his hips in this fluid motions, his cock nudging you right in the spot.
You lose yourself in it—cling to him, wrap yourself around him, let the sensations take over until everything else fades.
“Hyunjin, I’m close,” your voice breaking against his lips
He smiles against your lips. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Then his hand reaches yours, slipping his fingers in the gaps and interlaced it together. He pins your interlocked hands next to your head as he adds more intensity and speed to his thrusts.
Soon, your moans turn into whimpers and cries against his lips but that seems to drive him further as he continues moving and taking you closer to your high. You cling to him, your legs wrapped tightly around him, not letting him go.
When the high finally crashes, you fall together. It’s messy, breathless, overwhelming. You shatter first, and he follows right after, holding you so tightly it feels like he’s afraid to let go.
When it’s over, you’re still tangled together, fingers laced, foreheads touching, hearts racing in the same uneven rhythm.
You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. For now, it’s enough to stay exactly like this.
-
The room quiet except for the soft rhythm of his breathing as Hyunjin lies close to you.
Hyunjin is already half-gone, sleep pulling him under with that unfair ease of his. His arm is draped around you like it belongs there, heavy and warm across your waist, his fingers curled loosely at your side. Every so often, he shifts closer in his sleep, instinctive, like he’s making sure you haven’t disappeared.
You’re too aware of everything—of the way his chest rises beneath your cheek, of how his face softens completely when he sleeps, lashes resting against skin that still holds a trace of warmth. He looks different like this. Younger. Gentler. Less guarded. Real.
You trace nothing, touch nothing, just watch and quietly imprinting it in the back of your head.
Your body is tired in the best way, pleasantly sore, deeply comfortable, but your mind won’t slow down. It keeps replaying moments—the way he looked at you, the way he asked instead of assumed, the way he held you afterward like this was exactly where you were meant to be.
Romance.
The word doesn’t feel stupid right now.
Hyunjin exhales, long and slow, and tightens his arm just a little, pulling you closer in his sleep. Your forehead ends up tucked beneath his chin, your legs tangled together without either of you meaning to. Your chest tightens—not with fear this time, but with something fragile and hopeful. You rest your palm lightly against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your hand, and for the first time in a long while, the thought doesn’t scare you.
For so long, you thought romance was something loud. Grand. Scripted. Something you had to chase or imagine into existence. Maybe you’ve found it.
And maybe, this time, it’s not something you made up.
-
You wake up slow, heavy-limbed, wrapped in warmth that doesn’t quite register at first.
The ceiling isn’t yours. That’s the first thing that feels off. The light is different too—softer, slipping in through unfamiliar curtains, painting the room in pale gold. You blink, disoriented, heart giving a small, confused jump before reality comes rushing back all at once.
Hyunjin. Last night. Everything.
A smile blooms on your lips before you can stop it, small and private and a little stunned. It lingers until you shift and feel cool sheets beside you. His side of the bed is empty.
Your chest tightens just a little as you turn, half-expecting the room to be empty, half-dreading the ridiculous thoughts that try to creep in, but then you see him.
Hyunjin stands by the wardrobe with his back to you, rummaging through hangers like this is the most normal morning in the world. He’s wearing only his jeans, hair still messy from sleep, sunlight spilling over his bare upper body like it’s intentional—like the universe is showing off.
You stay quiet as you don’t want to break this moment, eyes admiring the muscles on his back as he grabs a T-shirt, biceps flexing as he slips it on.
Then he turns and catches you watching. He doesn’t tease you. He just smiles. He crosses the room and climbs back onto the bed, moving carefully, like he’s aware you’re still half-dreaming.
You instinctively pull the duvet up to cover half your face, suddenly shy in that dazed, just-woke-up way, but he doesn’t seem to care at all.
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good morning.”
You don’t answer. You just stare at him, eyes wide, still trying to reconcile this version of reality with the one you had yesterday.
He chuckles quietly. “Still weird?”
You nod.
He tilts his head. “Weird because it doesn’t feel weird?”
Another nod.
His fingers brush your hair back gently, but instead of stopping there, his lips trail to your bare shoulder. A kiss. Then your neck. Your jaw. Slow. Warm. When he finally kisses your lips, it’s brief and sweet, like punctuation instead of a question.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. “I’ll give you time to process,” he says softly. “When you’re ready, come out. I’ll make breakfast.”
You nod again, the words still stuck somewhere in your chest.
Hyunjin presses one last quick peck to your lips, flashes you a smile that feels dangerously domestic, and slips out of the room.
The second the door clicks shut, you fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling, hands flying to your face as a muffled squeal escapes you. This is your life now and it’s real.
After a while, you decide you can’t stay buried in the bed forever, no matter how tempting it is. Reality has caught up to you whether you’re ready or not—so you sit up, rub at your face, and shuffle straight into the bathroom to fix whatever crime sleep has committed on your appearance.
You splash water on your face. Tie your hair. Stare at your reflection a little too long.
And then a very silly, very romantic thought slips in.
You step back into Hyunjin’s bedroom and drift toward his wardrobe. It’s annoyingly neat, everything folded and hung with care. You tug on a pair of his pajama pants that are much too long on you, the fabric pooling at your ankles, then a soft sweater that smells faintly like coffee and him.
You pad out of the bedroom slowly, still half-processing everything, when a door creaks open to your left.
Archie with his hair is sticking up in every direction, eyes half-lidded as he rubs at them with tiny fists. He looks at you and you look at him. There’s a beat of silence where your heart politely panics.
Recognition dawns and his face breaks into a sleepy smile. “Oh. It’s you.”
He doesn’t question why you’re there, doesn’t question the clothes. In his mind, you’re just… you. A friend. Someone safe. Someone who belongs.
He reaches out and grabs your hand with surprising determination. “Come on,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “Let’s have daddy cook waffles.”
Before you can even respond, he’s already tugging you down the hallway, calling out, “Daddyyy!” like it’s the most important announcement of the morning.
The kitchen smells like coffee when you arrive. Hyunjin is by the counter, grinding coffee beans, sleeves pushed up, hair still soft and messy. He looks up at the sound of Archie’s feet stomping against the wooden floor and when he sees Archie dragging you along by the hand, something in his expression melts instantly.
“Morning, beautiful boy,” he says, warm and gentle.
Archie lets go of you only to climb straight into Hyunjin’s arms. Hyunjin lifts him without effort, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Did you sleep well?”
Archie mumbles something about sharks or jellyfish or some hybrid creature only his dreams can invent, probably mixing it up with the memories from yesterday’s aquarium trip and you smile to yourself, watching the way Hyunjin listens like it all makes perfect sense. Then his gaze shifts to you.
“How about you?” he asks, playful. “Did you sleep well?”
You lean against the counter, sweater sleeves hiding your hands, and smile back at him. “The best sleep I’ve ever had.”
Hyunjin’s lips twitch, like he’s trying very hard not to react too much.
Archie, meanwhile, has already moved on to his next priority. “Waffles,” he announces firmly.
“Yes, waffles,” you echo, immediately siding with him.
Archie grins and turns his full puppy eyes on his dad. You do the same, dramatically clasping your hands together like this is a life-or-death negotiation. “Please…”
Hyunjin looks between the two of you, utterly outnumbered. “…I was going to make toast,” he starts.
“Nooo,” Archie whines.
“Please,” you add, not even pretending to be subtle.
He sighs, defeated, but smiling. “Fine. Waffles.”
“Yay!” You and Archie cheer in unison.
As Hyunjin moves around the kitchen, pulling ingredients, brewing coffee, slipping seamlessly into this routine, you realize something quietly, deeply terrifying—
This doesn’t feel new. It feels like something you’ve been doing for a long time already and God, it feels romantic.
-
The morning is warm with the promise of spring that will arrive soon. Archie’s small hand fits in yours as you walk him to kindergarten. He’s chatty as usual, talking about his funny classmate and the pet fish in his class and how his dad promised his favorite food for dinner later, and you listen, smiling, nodding, feeling strangely at home beside him.
Arrived at the gate of his kindergarten, you kneel to straighten his jacket and he hugs you without hesitation.
“Have the best day ever, okay?” you say when you pull away, patting his cheek gently.
He eagerly nods and raises his hand for a wave. “Buh-bye,” he says with his whisker-dimpled smile before disappearing inside with his teacher following closely behind him.
You walk back alone, heart light. You pull your phone out and compose a text: Mini Hyunjin is safely at school.
When you step into your apartment, your phone buzzes with his reply: Big Hyunjin is baking your treats.
You smile at the screen, something fond settling in your chest: Big??!!!
Hyunjin’s reply comes in an instant: You said it yourself. Remember?
Your mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. Just a quiet shock. You used to be scared of this, of this change, afraid that everything else will change as well. But nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels different in a way that’s scary. He’s still the next-door neighbor who own a coffee shop. You’re still the writer with deadlines and empty coffee cups. Archie still needs to be walked to school. Coffee still tastes the same. Yet everything feels new and more… romantic.
You grab your laptop and just as you’re about to start typing, a knock echoes through the space. You freeze for half a second and then walk to the door. When you open it, you’re genuinely caught off guard.
Han stands there, coffee tray balanced in one hand, a paper bag of pastries in the other. He smiles when he sees you, easy and familiar, like he’s always belonged in your doorway.
“Hey,” he says. “I brought coffee.”
You blink once. Twice. Then you step aside, opening the door wider.
“Oh—yeah. Come in.”
A moment later, the two of you are in the living room, coffee cups warming your hands, pastries spread out on the table. There’s a little bit of everything in the bag.
“I couldn’t remember what you got me that day,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “So I just… panicked and bought all of them.”
You laugh. “That explains a lot.”
After a while, you add, “but I appreciate it.”
It goes quiet for a moment until Han clears his throat. “Haven’t seen you much lately,” he says. “Figured you were either busy writing or… avoiding me.”
You shake your head quickly. “Just busy. Writing.”
He nods, accepting that easily. Silence settles again and then he exhales. “Can I ask you something?”
You look at him and nod.
“That night,” he says carefully. “Did I do something? Or say something that annoyed you?”
This only proves that you always know that Han is a decent person and you didn’t made up that part of him. You hesitate, then shake your head. “No. It’s not about that. You’re fine—everything’s fine.”
You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your cup. “If anything, it’s me. Not you.”
Han nods like he understands, like he really does. Then he grins.
“Or you can be honest and say that it’s my lame band.”
You laugh despite yourself. “No.”
He narrows his eyes at you as he says, “I can tell that you hated the band.”
“I didn’t hate it,” you correct honestly. “It’s just… not really my cup of tea. But it’s not lame.”
He hums, considering. “That’s good to hear.”
The conversation flows easier after that, lighter. He asks about your book, and you tell him you’re still working on it.
“Do I get a copy when it’s done?” he asks.
You smile. “Do you even read romance books?”
He shrugs. “What, you think a guy in a band can’t enjoy romance?”
You shrug back. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
The two of you laugh, and for the first time in days, the tension in your chest loosens. When Han eventually leaves, coffee cups empty and pastries half-gone, you realize you’re smiling, not because of what could’ve been, but because things ended exactly the way they should’ve.
-
You’re writing at Hyunjin’s coffee shop again like always and time slipping through your fingers without asking permission. Words come easily today, sentences stacking gently on top of each other.
You only realize how long it’s been when you lift your cup and find it empty. Before you can even sigh about it, a fresh one appears in front of you. You look up and find Hyunjin standing next to you, already smiling.
“Thanks,” you murmur, fingers curling around the warm ceramic.
He doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans in just enough that his voice drops, conspiratorial and soft. “Someone wants me to say this to you.”
You glance up at him through your lashes, already amused. “Yeah?”
“He says you’re beautiful,” Hyunjin continues, eyes bright, “and he wants to know if you’d like to have dinner with him and his very charming five-year-old son.”
Your smile blooms because you know exactly who that someone is, but you decide to play along. You lean in too, whispering back, “Tell him he shouldn’t flirt with his regular.”
Hyunjin’s smile turns smug. He leans even closer, close enough that only you can hear him. “Perks of being the owner.”
Before you can reply, he steals a kiss, almost sneaky. His plush lips brushing over yours and you kiss him back just as instinctively. When you pull away, you’re both smiling.
He straightens, gentle fingers squeezing your shoulder. “I’ll let you get back to it,” he says, already halfway gone, slipping back into the back of the counter.
You take a sip of coffee, warmth spreading through you, and turn back to your laptop. That’s when you hear the soft whispers from the table nearby. Girls giggling, voices hushed but not enough.
“I’m so jealous of them,” one says.
“They’re so cute,” another sighs.
You pretend not to hear it and smile to yourself. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second longer than necessary as something settles in your chest.
This. Writing romance in the afternoon light. Sitting in a café that smells like coffee and home. A man who refills your cup before you ask. A child who holds your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Stolen kisses. Laughter, routine, warmth.
Then you look out of the window and at the city bathed in sunlight, the blue sky with cotton candy-like clouds, a bicycler who pets the dog that sits inside the front basket as he waits for the traffic light to turn green, a young girl sitting on the bench with headphones on, completely immersed in the book she’s reading, an elderly couple who hold hands as they argue over the restaurant menu.
You smile to yourself as you look back at your laptop and start typing again.
Hyunjin was right.
Everything is romantic.
-
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!
I've been meaning to read this forever and I finally got caught in it today and of its perfect. Its everything I wanted and more. I can never get enough of your writing, Eff 🥹🥹💜
— summary: In which Hyunjin is a little bit of an asshole and Y/N just misses him.
— pairing: hwang hyunjin x fem!reader
— genre: punk!hyunjin, ex-childhood-friends-to-lovers au
— warnings/other: cursing, references to past situations (in italics), alcohol consumption, angst, mentions and use of recreational drug use, mentions and actions of parental abuse, sexual tension, smut consisting of: making-out, throat grabbing, fingering, squirting, lots of dirty talk… very toxic behavior from both of them
— wc: 7.7k+
— a/n: … i have no words for what i just wrote lol. enjoy!
ᝰ part five | series m.list
Hyunjin hated hot weather.
The humidity, the sweat, the smell of the humidity and sweat—it was gross, and he never understood why people enjoyed it. Maybe it was because when people thought of hot weather, they thought of summer and the beach and no school. Hyunjin could see how the majority of people would like that, but growing up, he hated not having school in the summer time because that meant being stuck in his room with nothing to do but being forced to read stacks of books while everyone else in his class went on cool family vacations.
Not to say that Hyunjin never traveled, but he never actually got to enjoy it. The only times he has gotten close to a vacation was when he was forced to travel abroad for his father’s business trips, which he had no business doing in the first place at such a young age. His father always told him he wanted him to learn early, to possess the same qualities and traits that he did, so he too would become successful and powerful. Therefore, Hyunjin never had toys—he had stacks of books that would be read to him or that he would be forced to read once he was able. And Hyunjin never had family vacations—he had trips that required him to sit quietly and properly.
When Hyunjin moved to America, he was seven years old. He never wanted to move to America—terrified of being in an English-dominated country whose culture and norms were different from what he was used to. His nanny had taught him English from a very early age, (his father was always too busy with work to teach him, and his mother only spoke Korean), so the only real practice he got was with conversing with her, reading books, and occasionally watching English television shows. Even though he could speak and understand the language for the most part, the thought of interacting with people who only spoke English made him a little nervous.
Then came the thought of food. What would he eat there? Surely they wouldn’t have his standard Korean lunch as he did in his private school. He would have to grow accustomed to not only a completely new environment, but a completely new taste for food as well.
And then, the thought of friends popped into his mind. Would people like him? Would he fit in? Would he make any friends? Hyunjin had only had one friend while living in Korea—a proper little boy named Seungmin whose father worked with Hyunjin’s. Hyunjin was only allowed to be around people of the same class as he was—the same status his own family carried—thus, Seungmin was an acceptable friend in his father’s eyes.
Except he wasn’t exactly a friend. They saw each other at school, conversed when appropriate, interacted almost daily—yet, he never seemed happy. When Hyunjin had wanted to play soccer, Seungmin would tell him it was too dangerous. When Hyunjin wanted to watch cartoons, Seungmin would suggest to read instead. He was the only human interaction he had at his age, yet he never truly felt like a friend.
Seungmin was everything Hyunjin’s father had wanted him to be. He was a smart little boy, top of his class, involved in extracurricular activities, and had every teacher and student in the palms of his hands. His clothes were always wrinkle-free, hair was always combed back so neatly, and he spoke with a certain elegance that was far from his actual age. Hyunjin often found himself comparing himself to Seungmin, sometimes wishing he could just be more like him. It would’ve been so much easier if he was.
The move to America was long and painful. Hyunjin remembered throwing the biggest fit of his life on the plane ride there, screaming and crying out protests, stomping his feet on the floor and punching the seat he was in. It was all out of complete frustration, complete desperation—as Hyunjin never wanted to move in the first place. He especially didn’t want to have to attend an American private school and get stuck in the same exact situation he was previously in, only worse because he had to speak English.
“I don’t want to go!” Hyunjin cried out, tears and snot falling down his reddened cheeks, ruining his collared shirt, “You can’t make me go! I’m not going! Please don’t make me go, father!”
Hyunjin was seven years old when his father hit him for the first time.
The slap was hard and quick. It was so forceful that Hyunjin’s head had turned to his side, a piece of his nearly combed back hair falling in front of his face. He was quiet, then.
“That is enough,” His father hissed out, quietly, sternly, maliciously. It sent a shiver down Hyunjin’s spine. “You are acting like a spoiled, rotten brat. I have given you everything you could have ever wanted. You are set for the rest of your entire, pathetic life. And this is how you are choosing to thank me? By throwing a fit and acting like a complete fool?”
The sting from the smack was more prominent, silent tears falling from his eyes and making a puddle at his little feet. He kept his eyes on the floor.
“Stop the crying, for God’s sake. If I hear another word from you, or see another tear fall from your eyes, you will regret it. And that is a threat, boy.”
Hyunjin scrambled to get back in his seat, immediately wiping away the tears from his cheeks in fear of his father seeing them. He was so scared and feeling so alone. His body was trembling slightly, his hands crossed in his lap, the soft hum of the jet in the air. It was when his father had walked to another section of the private jet that he had relaxed, a sniffle coming out.
“Hyunjin,” a voice was heard beside him, soft and welcoming, and he immediately knew who it was, “Oh, sweetie. Come here.”
He hugged his nanny tight, still shaking, still refusing to cry in fear that his father would walk in and see him. “I just want to make friends,” He whimpered out to her, relaxing slightly in her arms. “Father is so mean. I’m so scared. I just want to play with someone. I just w-want a friend.”
Hyunjin’s nanny was named Sooyong. She was young, in her early-twenties whenever she was hired as soon as Hyunjin was born. She became his second mother, in a way—she was there when he took his first steps, when he said his first word, when he had his first birthday. She took care of him, not only because that was what she was hired to do, but because she wanted to. She helped him learn to dress himself, to use the potty, to say please and thank you. Sooyong was the only type of love Hyunjin had ever felt.
Well, until he met Y/N.
Really, he owes his complete gratitude to Sooyong—as he would have never met Y/N if it wasn’t for her. She was so distraught seeing Hyunjin so upset and being ripped away from his only chance at childhood that she had managed to convince Hyunjin’s father to send him to a public school instead of a private one. It wasn’t until years later that Hyunjin found out how that had even happened.
“You’re sleeping with him?” Hyunjin shouted out, eyes wide and full of disgust. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, Sooyong standing against his doorway, nervously messing with her blouse. She quickly hushed him, stepping forward to reach out.
“Hyunjin—“
“What the fuck?” He let out, scooting over in his bed so she couldn’t reach him. “When did you… since when? Why? Knowing the piece of shit that he is, why?”
Sooyong sighed, tears forming in her eyes when seeing the look of betrayal on his face. “Hyunjin, it’s been a long time. Ever since you turned seven, I think—“
“Nine years?” He gasped out, feeling like he could physically throw up, “How… how can you sleep with him knowing how he treats me? How he treats my mother? Did I mention my mother? I know their marriage is shit and she doesn’t give a fuck what he does but he’s still a married man—“
“Hyunjin,” She sternly let out, “I know you’re upset. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I know how he treats you and you don’t deserve any of that. But you got what you wanted, what you needed. Right?”
Hyunjin hasn’t seen her since he left.
Everyday, he thinks about attempting to reach out, to thank her for everything she’s done for him. But he can never bring himself to, just as he could never bring himself to reach out to Y/N.
Y/N. Even her name has his heart clenching and his chest tightening.
When Hyunjin first met Y/N, she was dressed in a little flower dress with pigtails in her hair. Her cheeks were rosey, a little chubby, and she had a toothless smile on her face. She had spoke to him first and really, Hyunjin was just excited to talk to someone the same age as him that was, well, cool.
Hyunjin had found out fairly quickly that him and Y/N got along well—too well. It didn’t take long for him to break out of his shell, and they just fit together, as Hyunjin was the talker and Y/N was the listener. Sometimes, he would talk too much and too fast that he would mix his English with Korean. Y/N never minded that, just as she never minded the little accent he had whenever he spoke. Hyunjin could never hear it, but Y/N would bring it up constantly and go on and on about how cute it is, and Hyunjin would blush, giving her a little shove and looking away so she wouldn’t see.
As they got older, their friendship got stronger, while his hatred towards his father grew much bigger.
Hyunjin’s father was never keen on the idea of him attending a public school. In his eyes, public schools were for weak and poor and pathetic individuals that carried no meaning in life. He never wanted Hyunjin to associate with individuals that did not carry the same status as he did, and it would taint his image and ruin his reputation. Hyunjin never cared about any of that—he didn’t when he was younger and didn’t fully understand all of it, and he sure as hell didn’t when he got older. Hyunjin had tried not to throw another fit in front of his father, scared to death that he would hit him again, but sometimes, he couldn’t help it. He just really, really did not want to go to another private school with snobby people like Seungmin. So when it was brought up again, Hyunjin had lashed out in desperation, crying and begging and crawling on the floor as he followed his father down the hallway. He had received a punch that time, a harsh bruise forming on his right eye, the swelling becoming so bad he couldn’t see out of it for two weeks. Hyunjin remembered the pain, but thought it was worth it when he had spat at his feet and called him a disgrace for wanting to associate with poor people, then proceeding to give him a taste of his own medicine by letting him go.
The fits stopped for awhile after that. Hyunjin became compliant the best he could, satisfied at the fact that he had made an actual friend at school who seemed to enjoy his company just as much as he enjoyed hers. He was finally able to do the things he always wanted to—playing on the playground at recess, having innocent conversations about his favorite color and his favorite animal, holding hands and sharing hugs, coloring his favorite things during arts and crafts time. And he got to do all of these things with his best friend—his cute, and slightly weird, best friend.
The older Hyunjin got, though, the more vocal and rebellious he became.
It had really started when Hyunjin’s father had returned home from South Korea unexpectedly. He had left for business, (which he often did—he was rarely home in their house in America, which Hyunjin never understood why they moved in the first place when he was never here), and was not set on returning home for another two weeks. Y/N was at his house, like she was almost every single day, the two of them laying on his bed watching SpongeBob. It was one of their favorites.
“We’re kind of like Patrick and SpongeBob,” Y/N said, head laying against his shoulder. Her hair tickled his cheek, and she was close enough that he could smell the strawberry shampoo she washed it with the day prior.
“Yeah, and you’re Spongebob because you’re so annoying all the time.” Hyunjin replied, laughing when he felt her lightly punch the side of his arm. She let out a scoff, “That’s so mean, Jinnie. At least I’m not pink. And fat. And a star that lives under a rock.”
Hyunjin let out a dramatic gasp, “Take that back.”
Y/N giggled, curling into him a bit more, just wanting to be close. She had started replying, started rambling about how Spongebob was obviously better than Patrick, and Hyunjin found his body going stiff at the sound of the heavy footsteps making their way towards his room—heavy footsteps that sounded way too familiar.
“Y/N,” He suddenly interrupted her rant, attempting to sit up in the bed and scoot away from her. She frowned, a little confused at what he was doing.
“Would you stop wiggling so much? I’m trying to use you as my pillow.” She let out, grabbing ahold of his arm and snuggling more into his side.
Hyunjin said her name again, reaching his free arm over to grab ahold of her shoulder in attempts to push her away. But before he could, his bedroom door was opening. And his father was standing right there. Hyunjin felt his body go rigid.
Y/N jumped in slight surprise before sitting up in his bed, arm still wrapped around Hyunjin’s. She could only assume the man standing at the door was his father. Hyunjin looked just like him.
“Hi, Mr. Hwang!” She enthusiastically waved, smile not faltering, “I’m Y/N, Hyunjin’s friend. We were just watching SpongeBob. It’s nice to finally meet you! Thank you for letting me come over and stay all these years!”
Hyunjin took note of his father’s demeanor—the slight shock on his face that then turned into a cold, harsh gaze. His eyes were sharp, narrowed in on the way she was gripping his arm, and then towards her.
“I cannot say the same,” His father spoke out in English, a look of complete disgust on his face, “Hyunjin, get your friend out of my house. We are not a charity case.”
Y/N’s grin faltered. Hyunjin gulped.
“Are you suddenly deaf? Get this filth out of here. My home is not welcome to street-beggars.”
“Father—“ Hyunjin attempted to speak, but was harshly cut off.
“Get her out of here, boy, or I will do it myself,” He spat out, and Hyunjin immediately scrambled off of the bed.
“Y/N, please go,” He frantically whispered out. Y/N looked at him, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. His father took a step towards her, and Hyunjin panicked. “Y/N, get out. Are you deaf?” He asked, immediately regretting the words the came out of his mouth. He didn’t have much time to act on it though, as Y/N was standing up, mumbling out an apology before practically sprinting out of his room.
Hyunjin tried to run after her. A harsh grip on his arm stopped him. It tugged him down to the ground, where he fell on his knees. He flinched, eyes shutting so tightly as he prepared himself for another hit. However, it never came, and Hyunjin slowly opened his eyes, head tilting up to where his father was. The look on his face made his blood run cold.
“If I ever catch that slut under my roof again, I will make not only your life, but hers, a living hell. Do not test me.”
The words were sinister, controlling, firm. He was threatening him, taunting him. Like he always did.
“Now get up. I need you downstairs.” He spat out, turning around to walk away from the door.
A voice behind him made him stop in his tracks.
“Don’t… don’t call her that,” Hyunjin spoke out, words full of hatred and anger and everything in between, “It’s bad enough that you call her filth to her face, but to call her a slut? You don’t even know her. She is my best friend. And you are going to learn to respect that and respect her.”
It was a bold move—speaking to his father like that. It started when he was only fourteen years old, and only got worse as the time went on. But really, Hyunjin would take a good beating if that meant he could finally speak his mind. Especially when it came to Y/N.
Hyunjin’s father was always so full of shit. Maybe that’s where he got it from.
Hyunjin always knew he never deserved Y/N. He didn’t deserve her on the nights he would lose his temper, tearing up his bedroom and saying things he never truly meant. He didn’t deserve her when she always treated him like he was the most important person in her life. He didn’t deserve her when he selfishly took her virginity, making broken promises he knew he would never keep.
And he sure as hell didn’t deserve her right now, at this very moment, as he was standing at her front door.
He had knocked twice. It was faint, barely there, hesitant. His knuckles hit the wood so softly and so delicately that he might as well have not even knocked at all. It was dark out, nearing 2am, and Hyunjin suddenly realized that this was definitely a bad idea, which gave him even more reason to follow through.
He knocked again. This time, the knock was louder, more desperate, followed by three more. His hands were shaking ever so slightly, chest rapidly moving up and down.
“Fuck,” He groaned out, turning away from the door, hands threading through his hair in frustration. And really, what was he even doing here? And at 2 in the fucking morning? Banging on the front door like he’s a fucking sociopath?
Hyunjin’s head was spinning. He needs to sit down.
The sound of the door opening made him freeze.
He didn’t turn around, not yet. He caught a glimpse of the stars above him, and something familiar settled there. It stayed for a few seconds, lingering in the air and clouding his mind before he came back to his senses. He heard her behind him—heard the door creaking as she opened it more, heard the breath she took in. He slowly turned around, hands limply falling to his sides.
Hyunjin had always been a selfish man. And as he stood here, at her front door, looking like he had nowhere else to go, he couldn’t deny it.
She was standing behind the door, half of her body covered. Her hands were gripping the side of it so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she looked tense. The silence surrounding them was deafening. Hyunjin hated it.
“What are you doing here?” Y/N spoke out, voice small and timid. She wondered for a second how he even knew where she lived.
“I…” Hyunjin’s voice trailed off, not being able to form a single sentence, because what was he doing here?
“Can I come in?” He decided to ask instead, taking a step forward. Y/N could immediately see how blood-shot his eyes were and could smell weed radiating off of him. She gripped the door a little tighter.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” She mumbled back, despite everything in her wanting her to say yes, “You’re obviously high and god knows what else. Just… just go home, Hyunjin. Before someone sees you.”
He took another step forward, eyes wide and frantic. He looked like a mess—a completely broken mess. Her chest hurt, wanting nothing more than to be in his arms, and she took one last look at him before attempting to close the door. His voice stopped her.
“Please?” He begged, voice strained, cracking slightly at the end. His hands went back into his hair, tugging at the ends, “I don’t… I don’t want to be anywhere else. Just… please, Y/N.”
He looked like he was a second away from completely breaking down. It must be the nurse in her, as she just couldn’t let him be by himself in this state. She’d never forgive herself if something happened to him, or if the paparazzi found him. So she left the door open, turning around to walk back into her apartment, willing herself to suck it up and not cry, despite the tears that were threatening to pour out of her eyes.
She heard him walk in, heard the door closing. It was quiet again, and the tension in the room was too thick. Y/N took in a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly, before working up the courage to turn around. Her lamp was on, casting just enough light to where she could see him.
His eyes were dark, narrowed in on her bare legs. She was only in an oversized t-shirt that barely covered her ass and panties, as she was just binge watching movies on Netflix on the couch when he had showed up. She didn’t even bother to attempt to cover herself. The petty part in her wanted him to see her like this—wanted to get a reaction from him.
His eyes lingered there a little longer before he glanced back up at her, “You didn’t come.”
He must have noticed the confused expression on her face, as he kept talking, “To the festival. You didn’t come tonight.”
Her heart jumped at the fact that he noticed she wasn’t there despite the crowds of people he performed for. “Why would I?” She replied, hands fidgeting with the bottom of her shirt, “Didn’t think you’d want me there after last night.”
Hyunjin slid his combat boots off, placing them neatly by the door before shrugging off his black hoodie. Y/N found herself starring at the exposed skin on his stomach as he did so, the black t-shirt he had on underneath it rising up. Her mouth went dry at the sight of the tattoos that were peaking out underneath, confirming her suspicions of his stomach being covered in them as well.
The sound of the hoodie being thrown on the couch caught her attention as she glanced back up. She felt her face heating up at the satisfied smirk on his lips, eyes twinkling in slight amusement. “I was looking for you,” He replied, acting like he was smoothing out his shirt, hands discreetly pushing the fabric up to show more skin before he pulled it back down, “During and after. Couldn’t find you. It was only your… friends, or whatever they are.”
“Felix and Minho,” She replied, a little on edge from his slight teasing and the fact that he is just being Hyunjin, “They’re my best friends.”
She watched how his face fell lightly at her words. Even saying them didn’t feel right, and she felt a pang in her chest. Because deep down, she knew she loved them, but they could never replace the space she had in her heart for Hyunjin.
He walked over towards the couch, plopping himself down like he belonged there. He leaned back with a long sigh, arms resting against the top of the couch, legs spread. His eyes danced across the room a few times, “Nice place you got here. It feels like you.”
“Why are you really here, Hyunjin?”
The words hung in the air for a couple seconds. Y/N could feel his gaze on her, back still towards him. She felt goosebumps forming on her skin.
“I wanted to see you.”
She turned around to face him, heart jumping in her chest. “Why?”
His gaze was dark as he looked at her, daring her to look away. “Because… now that I have you within reach, I don’t want to lose you again.”
“You can’t… you can’t just say shit like that, Hyunjin,” Y/N choked out a sob, angrily wiping at her eyes in attempts to get rid of the tears that were now falling down her face. She heard him shuffling around, like he was standing up, and she took a step back, head turned away from him. She hated feeling this way—small, vulnerable, and utterly stupid.
He whispered out her name, close enough that his breath fanned the side of her face. His fingertips grazed her arm gently, and she flinched, jerking her arm back. “You don’t… you don’t get to just waltz back into my life after wanting nothing to do with me for six whole years! Six years, Hyunjin! No calls, no texts, no nothing but silence! Just cold, fucking silence,” She cried out, tears clouding her vision, “I sat there, every fucking night, crying my eyes out, just wondering why you left! I thought you… I thought you might have died, at one point, Hyunjin! You don’t know… you don’t know how that feels. You don’t know what you did to me. I just wanted my best friend. I just wanted you!”
He reached for her, and she let out a frustrated groan, jerking her arm away from him again. The words kept coming out, everything she’s wanted to say for years just pouring out—unfiltered, broken. “And the fact that when I finally see you again, you’ve turned into someone completely different! I don’t even recognize you! You are just… so selfish. While I was struggling for years you were just living your best life becoming fucking famous in a band. Acting like… acting like I never fucking existed.”
“That’s not true,” His voice quickly chimed in, slightly annoyed, “You know that’s not true. You don’t know what I went through either. You don’t know how I felt.”
“Fuck how you felt, Hyunjin,” Y/N snapped back, turning her head around to face him, thankful that Felix wasn’t home, “You’re full of shit. And you know it.”
Hyunjin didn’t say anything back. Y/N’s chest was heaving, eyes burning from the tears, and she knew she looked insane. She felt insane. But Hyunjin was always good at making her feel this way.
Y/N sniffled, wiping under her eyes with her fingers, forcing herself to look away from him. It was starting to be too much. “You can sleep on the couch tonight if you need a place to stay. But after this, I don’t want to see you again.”
“Bullshit.” Hyunjin let out a scoff. He could see right through her.
She turned around quickly at his reply, heading up the stairs and towards her bedroom. The longer she looked at him the more it hurt, and she was tired of hurting.
“Oh no you don’t,” He followed her. She had just gotten to her bedroom door, attempting to slam it shut and block him out, when his body beat her to it. He cocked it back open with his shoulder, pushing his way into her bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just walk away after doing all that big talk earlier.”
“Hyunjin…” Y/N’s voice trailed off, an exhausted sigh escaping her lips. He looked pissed off, and painfully attractive. She hated how her heart felt.
He took a step closer, daring her to move away. He was so close that Y/N could make out the little mole underneath his eye. The same mole that showed her that he was real, and he was still the same Hyunjin.
“Go on,” He urged her, pupils dilated, gaze angry, “Keep talking. Keep telling me how much of a selfish asshole I am, like I don’t already know that.”
She tried to look away, but she couldn’t. He was looking down at her like he wanted to devour her. His eyes were daring, condescending—and his scent was starting to suffocate her. No matter how much she wanted to push him away—needed to push him away—she didn’t. She couldn’t.
She took a step closer. “You’re a selfish, arrogant, vile excuse of a man,” She whispered out. His eye twitched slightly. “You only care about yourself. You didn’t care when you took my first kiss. You didn’t care when you left me. And you didn’t care when you fucked me.”
His jaw clenched. Y/N stepped closer, tip of her nose almost touching his. “You’re a lying, egotistical piece of shit. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
He moved so quickly Y/N almost didn’t believe it even happened.
One second, he was glaring at her like he wanted to kill her, and the next, his hands were gripping the back of her neck, lips pressed harshly against her own.
Hyunjin kissed her like he was angry at the past, at himself, at the years that were wasted between them. She kissed him like she was afraid he would disappear again if she didn’t hold on tight enough. It was messy and desperate, all teeth and breath and tongue—their mouths relearning each other through frustration and longing.
Y/N slid her hands into his hair, just like she used to, and he made a sound that felt torn straight from her memory. For a moment, it felt like being friends again. It felt like the sleepless nights tangled in his bed, the late night runs to McDonald’s, the nights of counting stars—safe and terrifying, all at once.
His hand tightened at the back of her neck, his free hand gripping onto her oversized tee like he wanted to just rip it in half. It was when his hand slipped underneath the back of her shirt, grazing her ass ever so slightly, that she pulled away, shoving him away from her.
Hyunjin stumbled back. His lips were parted, wet with her spit, and his eyes had darkened into something more sinister—something that didn’t look like him.
“Don’t…” Y/N breathed out, feeling like her head was about to explode. She couldn’t even finish her sentence—she didn’t know what she was even trying to say. But before she could take another second to just breathe, Hyunjin was already moving back towards her, and she clashed into him with just as much intensity as before.
Her hands immediately tangled themselves back in his hair, his hands gripping her shirt, pushing the fabric up ever so slightly as he backed them up towards the edge of the bed. She felt it hit the back of her knees before falling backwards, bringing him down with her. They broke apart just long enough to breathe, Y/N immediately scooting up towards the head of the bed, the bottom of her shirt rising up over her hips. Hyunjin glanced down once before crawling over towards her, her legs opening so he could lay perfectly between them.
His lips found hers again, desperate, needy. “Fuck,” He moaned out, hands trailing up her thighs, pushing her shirt further up. Y/N’s mind felt fuzzy, a strong feeling of imminent desire flooding through her, and she found herself grabbing ahold of his hand, pushing it down towards her panties.
Hyunjin’s lips parted, pulling back slightly. “Fuck, petal,” He groaned out, immediately feeling how wet she was through the soft fabric. Her hand stayed on top of his, slowly guiding it underneath her panties, and they both moaned out once she finally got him where she wanted him most.
“You’re so fucking wet,” He breathed out, fingers lightly brushing against her pussy before moving up to start circling her clit, “So wet. Your pussy is drenching my fingers, petal. Didn’t realize that you reminding me how much of an asshole I am would get you this worked up.”
Y/N’s hips jerked at the feeling, a low moan escaping her lips, her hand gripping his wrist so tight, like she was afraid he would move his hand if she let go. Hyunjin noticed, clicking his tongue once before leaning down towards her neck to plant soft kisses on the skin.
“You look so desperate, petal. So fucking desperate. Bet it’s got nothing to do with me, though. You just wanna cum, right?” His voice breathed in her ear, and she let out a loud whine once his fingers sped up, gripping his wrist even tighter, “Hm? Is that right? My baby just wants to cum? Don’t even care that I’m here, right? I’m just a fucking asshole, who wants you so bad that I’d do anything just to see you cum for me again.”
Y/N felt like she might just explode. The feeling of Hyunjin’s lips on her skin, Hyunjin’s fingers in her pussy, and just Hyunjin has her head spinning in the absolute best way. She knew this was a bad idea—letting him have her like this again—but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Because this is all she’s ever wanted—Hyunjin is all she’s ever wanted.
A quick slap to her pussy brought her out of her thoughts, and she let out a loud gasp, eyes opening to see that he was starring down at her, blood-shot eyes so intense that she felt her skin crawl. “Answer me,” He commanded, hand laying flat against her pussy, “I know you can run that mouth a little more.”
“N-no,” She managed to choke out, hips moving desperately, hand curling around his in attempts to get him to move.
“No?” He cocked his head to the side, fingers dancing across her core so slowly, so torturously, “No, you don’t want to cum?”
Y/N let out a choked sob, face heating up in slight embarrassment, head rapidly shaking back and forth, because how was she supposed to tell him how much she needs him? “N-no, I want to cum—I need to cum,” She whined out, his fingers speeding up, but only just a little, “N-need you to make me cum, Jinnie. Only you. You’re all I want… please, Jinnie.”
She heard him curse loudly before he jerked his hand out of her grip and out of her panties. She whined loudly from the loss of contact, attempting to sit up a little, immediately falling back into the pillows behind her when he shoved her back down.
“Lift your fucking hips,” He roughly let out, and Y/N wasted no time in doing what she was told, her soaked panties sliding down her legs. He let out a strangled groan at the sight of her bare pussy before him, so wet and so puffy, just like he always remembered, and he licked his lips once before attempting to lay his body down flat so he could finally taste her, but her voice stopped him.
“Jinnie,” She breathed out, eyes wide and pleading, “C-can you… can you kiss me? Please?”
Hyunjin looked up at her and felt his heart drop, the once dark expression replaced with something a little softer, a little gentler. He didn’t reply, choosing instead to crawl back up towards her. Her hands immediately gripped the back of his head, pulling his lips back against hers.
His hand went back in-between her legs, and she opened them wider, a soft gasp escaping her lips once she felt his fingers back on her. This time, he dipped two of his fingers into her pussy, and he groaned against her lips at the feeling of her sucking him in.
“You’re so fucking wet,” He groaned out in-between sloppy kisses, spit falling from the corners of his mouth, “So wet and so fucking tight. You ever fuck yourself like this? Ever get to feel how fucking tight you are?”
Y/N kissed him harder, moaning at the feeling of his lip ring against her lips, clenching around his fingers. “Wish you were clenching around my cock right now,” He admitted lowly, pulling back to take a good look at her face, all fucked out and perfect for him, “Bet you’d milk me dry so fucking fast. You know I’m a fucking simp for you. I’d do anything you’d ask me to. I’d make you cum like this every single day… you just have to let me.”
Hyunjin looked down, eyes trained on the way her pussy was sucking his fingers in. The sounds were obscene, and he bit his lip as he put in a third finger, watching the way her hips lifted off the bed, so desperate for a release. “Yeah, baby,” He grinned, feeling her clench around him even more, curling his fingers up and brushing that sweet spot inside her, “Yeah, that’s it. Gonna cum all over my hand and show me how much you missed me? Gonna remind me what I’ve been missing? Gonna wanna make me never leave you again. My baby… my petal.”
He kept going, kept scissoring her open, pace never faltering, and Y/N felt a warm sensation travel down from her head towards her toes, vision blurring as she arched off the bed, crying out his name.
“Fuck yes,” He groaned out, the squelching sounds from her pussy getting even louder, his fingers continuing to pound into her at a fast pace, “Yeah, baby. That’s right. Squirt all over my hands. Yeah… just like that.” A scream ripped through her before she felt a gush of wetness in-between her thighs, toes curling and back still arching off the mattress.
Y/N’s ears were ringing. She felt like she was floating, felt so warm and so fuzzy inside. Hyunjin had made her cum many times before, but this? This was a completely different feeling.
She felt like she was on cloud-nine. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw him leaning above her, eyes glossed over, lips swollen and red. Without thinking, she gripped the back of his neck, pulling her back towards him, tongue immediately slipping into his mouth. She bit his lip ring softly, hands trailing down to the front of his sweatpants before dipping into the waistband.
He pulled back, and she chased his lips. He kissed her back for a second before softly pushing her backwards, hands coming down to rest on her own.
“You don’t… don’t want me to return the favor?” She asked, confused and slightly embarrassed.
“Fuck, I would,” He laughed out, bringing her hands up towards the back of his head, “I came already.”
Y/N felt her cheeks heating up at now nonchalant he said it, like he wasn’t even embarrassed about it at all. “Oh,” She mumbled back, a sense of pride swelling in her chest at the fact that she made him cum completely untouched.
“Yeah,” He grinned in response, moving his lips down to kiss alongside her neck, hands coming up to softly massage her hips. He kissed behind her ear before softly biting it, and she shivered.
“You did so well,” He mumbled out before licking a stripe up and down her ear, “Such a good little petal. My best girl. Thank you for letting me see you like this.”
Y/N’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of her chest. She found herself relaxing into him, immersing herself in his kisses and his touch, pussy still fluttering from his fingers only minutes prior.
It was almost as if he knew what he was doing, verses when they were just messing around exploring each other’s bodies. It’s almost as if he’s had practice—had experience—because how was he able to make her orgasm like that?
The thought of the woman who was always around Hyunjin entered her mind. Suddenly, that blissful feeling was replaced with something unsettling—and she felt sick to her stomach.
She shoved him away from her before sitting up, pushing her shirt down in attempts to cover herself. The smirk that was once on Hyunjin’s face faltered ever so slightly as he distanced himself from her a little bit, trying to give her some space.
Hyunjin’s eyebrows furrowed, a confused and slightly nervous expression on his face. “Are you okay?” He asked carefully.
Y/N took in a breath, glancing everywhere but at him. She didn’t think he would ever sloop this low… didn’t think she would ever stoop this low.
When she didn’t answer, he asked the question again, shifting slightly on the bed, attempting to get closer to her. She let out a breath, “I just… I can’t do this. I refuse to do this.”
Hyunjin was silent for a moment, the confused expression only deepening, “Do… what?”
Y/N scoffed, “Really? You’re going to sit here and play oblivious?”
“Oblivious to what?” He asked, a slight edge to his tone, “How am I supposed to know what you’re suddenly getting pissed about when you won’t just come out and say it?”
She sat up even more at this, his gaze following her. “I’m talking about the fact that you just cheated on your girlfriend… that we just cheated.”
“What?” He laughed out in disbelief, “I don’t have a fucking girlfriend. Where the fuck did that come from?”
“That girl… the one that’s always following you around like a lost puppy? Ring any bells?”
Hyunjin narrowed his eyes, “That’s not… she’s not my girlfriend. Why would I have a fucking girlfriend?”
“Well, then who is she?” Y/N asked, slightly annoyed, crossing her arms across her chest.
“I don’t think you’d like that answer.”
Y/N could feel the anger flowing through her veins. Of fucking course.
“Right,” She laughed out, moving her body so she could get off of her bed, walking around the other side in attempts to find her panties. When she didn’t find them she let out a frustrated groan before stomping over to her bedside drawer, finding a new pair and sliding them up her legs. She could feel his stare boring holes into the side of her face. He didn’t say anything, which just pissed her off even more.
“You know, I’m not even surprised,” She let out, trying to act like she wasn’t about to start sobbing in front of him for the second time tonight.
He let out a sigh, moving his body to stand up, adjusting himself through his sweats. He let out her name, tired, and she interrupted him.
“Bet you fucked her right before you came here too, didn’t you?” She spat out, tears clouding her vision, “Bet you fucked her so nice, whispered the same shit you told her to me. What, you got bored of her or something? She didn’t feel like me? Is that why you came here?”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Hyunjin snapped, looking very much pissed off, and Y/N was fuming.
“Why, you wanna put something in it so I’ll finally shut up? That’s all I’m good for, right? Just another hole for you to use when you’re bored?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you tonight?” He snapped back, moving his body so he was standing right in front of her. Y/N’s nostrils flared slightly. “You really grew a mouthful over the past couple years, didn’t you? You wanna know who she is? I’ll tell you.”
Y/N glanced away from him, attempting to take a step back, but he gripped her neck, turning her back to face him. “Her name is Claire. She’s from LA, one of Changbin’s friends. We met when I joined the band, and started fucking a few years later. We’ve been fucking off and on. She only comes around when we’re in LA, and that’s when we fuck. That’s all it is.”
“Hyunjin…” Y/N attempted to shove him away from her, really not wanting to hear this. It made her feel sick.
“No, you asked, and I’m telling you,” He bent down to catch her eye, “I haven’t fucked her since I saw you. I have no desire to fuck her, or anyone else. You are all I think about. You’re all I thought about, even when I was balls deep in someone else.”
The tears poured out then, and she closed her eyes, hand coming up to grip at his wrist, “Hyunjin… stop. I don’t want to hear that.”
“No, I need you to look at me,” He let out, voice sharp, and Y/N opened her eyes hesitantly, “I need you to understand me when I say this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you, I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole, and I’m sorry for barging back into your life unexpectedly. But you and I both know that I’m a selfish man, and I can’t help but want you. And that selfishness in me is just really hoping that you still want me, too.”
He let go of her neck, and she stood there. She didn’t bother to wipe the tears off her face, didn’t bother to wipe her nose that she knew was pouring out with snot. It was like every ounce of frustration, of desperation, of longing, was finally making its way towards the surface. She knows she shouldn’t, but Hyunjin was here, and he was real, and he was standing in front of her, looking just as broken as she is.
For a second, she caught a glimpse of the little boy he once was—the little boy who blabbed about why the sky was blue, the little boy who giggled when she pinched his cheeks, the little boy who played Barbies with her, despite his utter disgust. And she wanted nothing more than to bring that same little boy back out, to know who he was now.
She took a step towards him, and her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close. His arms wrapped around her securely, and she dug her face into him—the faint hint of weed and cologne hitting her, but it was still Hyunjin.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” She mumbled into his shirt.
“Yeah, baby,” He replied with no hesitation, kissing the top of her head.
SHE HATH RISEEEEEEENNNNN!! I did a double take at the title and then again and again and again to check if this was an old chapter reblog or if my eyes and brain truly had been blessed with a new chapter 😍😍
So happy you had energy for this story again!! I see we're one chapter away from the end, and I'm excited to see what you come up with. I think I need to do a full re read of it soon, as this is a long time fave of mine :D
⚠ — (Non-exhaustive, full cw policy here): Down horrendous Hyunjin agenda™, sex with other people present in the room, objectification, getting tattooed during questionable activities (m), yandere undertones, recreational drug use, strong language, explicit sexual content.
➥ You never take it seriously when your die-hard fan crassly hits on you after every show, but when you decide to indulge his relentless catcalling for once, things take a wild turn.
*a/n: Back on my Derangedjin bullshit because an-dom. Enjoy~
The energy in the palm-sized venue was fucking nuclear.
The very last song of the setlist. Changbin was having a physical altercation with his drum set, his fast-paced double kicks morphing the front of the stage into a miniature mosh pit. Jisung was belting notes so high that all the bottles at the bar were threatening to explode. You and Chris were about to merge into a single entity, borderline straddling each other’s legs as you murdered that outro solo to the violent strums of his Gibson.
And it seemed to excite someone in the audience almost to the point of an orgasm.
“FUCKING STEP ON ME!!!”
The scream was so loud that you heard it even through the deafening noise, and it cracked you the fuck up in the middle of the song.
It was the guy who came to every single one of your shows without fail. Always clad in blacks, always right by your feet no matter which side of the stage you were on, entirely swept up in the frenzy of your anarchy anthems, running so hot and drenched in sweat as if he came out of a steamy shower five minutes ago. You didn’t understand why he kept wearing that massive leather jacket with chains everywhere; he was going to rip it off himself ten seconds into the first song anyway.
It wouldn’t be right to call him just a fan at this point; he was more like a hypeman working for free. With every song, he would galvanize the crowd into such an uproar that everyone passing by the club would be consumed by their curiosity, dying to know just what the hell was happening inside. Those were the nights Seungmin’s capitalist ass would triple the drink prices and proudly bounce people with an excessively smug “We’re at capacity.”
“Thank you for coming out tonight. You guys are fucking amazing!”
Once Jisung concluded the show, you threw your pick at the audience to cause small-scale mayhem, then headed backstage for some much-needed unwinding, though something else had arrived in the green room before you did. Two bottles of obscenely expensive champagne and a little note were waiting for you among half-finished glasses, a few white lines, and tiny dunes of weed.
I just know this is what you taste like.
You were wonderful tonight, beautiful.
H.
“Your fanboy is at it again,” Changbin slapped a shit-eating grin on his face while lighting up the massive joint between his lips. “Just let the poor guy hit that one time so he doesn’t choke on his own drool.”
“Do I look like I hand out pussy for those in need?” you stared daggers at him.
“My hardest orgasms were with die-hard fans. They let you do pretty much anything. I say go for it,” Jisung declared, successfully making a compelling case. “Bro ripped his tank while surfing the crowd, and half the room came just by looking at his body. Even I got a semi, like, holy fuck.”
“Nah, I know this kind. They just collect stage pussy,” you poured four flutes’ worth of champagne into a comically large coffee mug. “You know that insane thing where fans expect the artists they like to stay single? I expect the same thing, too. If you stan me, you stan me, motherfucker. None of that multifandom shit.”
“Congratulations, you just unlocked a brand-new level of possessiveness, and that’s coming from me,” Chris deadpanned, grabbing the champagne from you to directly chug it from the bottle.
“We go on stage to feel like gods, and you’re surprised I want worshippers?” you arched a brow. “Fuck, we’re out of rolling paper. I’ll be right back.”
You went back out into the crowd and scanned the area to spot Seungmin. He was making a complete show of mixing drinks for the two girls before him, coincidentally the hottest ones in the club, most likely trying to chat his way up to a threesome under the guise of customer service. As soon as you made it to the bar, however, an all-too-familiar voice reached your ears before you could catch your plug’s attention.
“Just tell me what I gotta do to eat your pussy. I’m dying over here!”
Right on schedule.
Your resident fanboy and his entourage were high as kites, the space before them stacked with hard liquor and all kinds of questionable substances. He did this after every concert like clockwork, so much so that you knew the choreography of your little dance by heart by now. He would say some unhinged shit, you would snort in amusement, maybe even spare a chuckle if the catcall of the day was deranged enough, but that was it. Your semi-parasocial interactions never went past a loud whistle and thirst comments as you walked by.
You decided to choose violence tonight.
“Blow him,” you pointed at Seungmin.
Lips parted in surprise, he turned to his sidekicks to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating, in utter disbelief that you actually answered him for once. Nevertheless, he was quick to bounce back, gesturing Seungmin to come closer like he was about to gladly add one more zero to his tab.
“How do you wanna do this, Min?” he leaned into the bar. “Do you want me to get back there, or…?”
You burst out laughing, and despite having zero cracks on his sultry poker face, you could still see something in his eyes. A bit dangerous, like the fire you knew you shouldn’t be playing with. Your feet moved on their own, carrying you towards him, and each step you took fanned those flames a bit more.
“Fucking scram,” he ordered the small crowd around him in what he thought was an inaudible volume.
“Hey there, crazy dude,” you rested your elbow on the bar counter.
“You finally noticed me,” he flashed the most satisfied smirk.
“Noticed you?” you contorted your face. “Do we have a senpai situation going on here?”
“No, but if you didn’t pay attention to me any longer, I was about to enter yandere simulator territory.”
Due to the untimely demise of his tank, he was currently covered with the infamous leather jacket from the waist up. Well, covered would be an overstatement since the zipper was pulled all the way down, perfectly framing his bare torso. He reached inside his jacket to fish for something, and you suspected he might have been carrying that around for a questionably long period of time.
You know, just in case.
“Can I get an autograph?” he handed you a Sharpie.
“Do you have any merch on you?”
“Yes.”
He sat upright on the stool and flashed his ri–di–cu–lous–ly stunning physique so you could properly gawk at it.
“Sign my abs.”
“WHAT?” you wheezed your lungs out.
“Can you think of any merchandise better than this?” he made his point, entirely serious. “Sign my abs. I’m gonna get it tattooed.”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“What was your first clue?”
You took the marker from him and checked him out from head to toe. Whenever you saw him in the audience, he was just a face in a sea of darkness, though a noticeably handsome one, but if you knew it was attached to this, you would have paid attention to him a lot sooner.
“You know,” you placed a finger on his chest, dragging it down to his abdomen excruciatingly slowly. “I think I’d rather lick stuff off of these than sign it.”
Shoot him with a fucking horse tranquilizer, why don’t you?
He thickly swallowed, his throat drying up at record speed. Maybe he had gotten a bit too high, and the excess adrenaline was making him hallucinate things.
And if that was really the case, he would deplete his entire stash right now just so he would never ever come down.
“Do whatever you want to me,” he spoke in a single breath, staring at your lips like he was hypnotized, “but I’m still gonna need that autograph.”
“What for?”
“How else am I gonna forge our marriage certificate?”
“You know it’s not my actual signature, right?”
“Who cares? I’ll argue you changed it after you took my last name.”
He was allegedly joking, but it was one of those “HAHA, just kidding. Unless…?” ones. He really looked like he would come with you if you asked him to go to a 24/7 chapel right now.
You indulged his request, but instead of his abs, you signed the left side of his chest. As you moved the pen on his firm skin, you could feel how rabid his heart was under your touch, even though it was supposed to be five beats per second for how mellowed out he was.
“There,” you put the cap back on, moving even closer with the excuse to put the pen back into his pocket. “Now you can get it properly tattooed.”
“Couldn’t ask for a better location,” he heaved a deep sigh.
You were so close to each other. From such proximity, the heat exuding from his body felt like a desert storm, and despite the grassy scent of weed pervading the entire room, he smelled so good that your mind was getting infested with the urge to run your tongue on his neck just to taste it.
“Mind if I shotgun you?” he reached for his joint.
You slowly nodded.
He emptied his lungs and took the longest drag you saw anyone take, almost smoking the whole thing in a single breath, then gently pulled you in from your chin. You wondered if heart palpitations were somehow contagious because the closer he leaned in, the faster your pulse was climbing. You couldn’t help your eyes fluttering close as he breathed your high into your lungs, so damn slowly to complete the seconds of being this close to you into a full minute.
An itch was begging to be scratched inside your head.
There was nothing stopping you from moving just one inch further. Nothing keeping you from frying this guy’s brain completely. He had earned a bit of fanservice credit for his relentless dedication to you, no?
You suddenly pressed your lips against his, and that full-body shiver he was possessed by was everything.
He slipped his tongue in your mouth almost instantly, swirling it around yours in such a familiar choreography as if you’d been kissing each other for years. You threw your arms around his neck while he wrapped his around your waist, pondering whether you should make him beg you or have him finger you right here for everyone to watch. Or maybe there was a secret third option.
When you finally pulled away, you were stupidly smiling at each other, high as hell on the kiss more than the weed.
“Bet I taste better than the champagne, huh?” you smirked contently.
“By a landslide,” he acknowledged.
“What are you doing at a trashy club like this every damn week?” you asked, your brows knit together.
“I don’t have a choice,” he shrugged. “You only play at the trashy club.”
“You drink Macallan. This jacket is fucking Versace. Where you belong is one of those cigar lounges downtown,” you observed. “What do you even do for a living?”
“Why? Gonna look into my credit score?”
“If we’re getting fake-married, I wanna know what I’m getting myself into.”
He laughed but didn’t answer, and unfortunately for you, you might be getting more and more intrigued by the mystery man.
“This is gonna sound a bit too forward, but,” he segued into an offer, barely stopping himself from melting into a puddle while moving the stray locks away from your face, “care to join me in the back room?”
“You know about the back room?” you asked with a smile.
“Considering the hefty tabs I regularly pick up, I technically co-own the damn place,” he derisively chuckled. “Figured we should… consummate our marriage.”
You laughed but didn’t answer. Your hands on his collar, you slowly peeled him off the stool he was perched on, then led the way to the back.
After going through a bunch of claustrophobic corridors hand-in-hand, you finally reached the heavy iron door. You slid it open with a jarring rattle, the dim red lights illuminating the place beckoning you to come in. There was a free-for-all already in progress inside, thick smoke floating in the air, naked bodies tangled into each other on what looked like opium den beds. You spotted your bandmates scattered around the room, too engrossed in their own post-show rituals to notice your arrival. Chris getting his dick sucked. Changbin with a bombshell bouncing on his cock. Jisung dining on some girl’s cunt. And a whole new set of strangers you had never seen before as the backdrop of this cave of sin. Touching. Kissing. Fucking.
And everything in between.
You found yourselves a corner and sat down. Your guest was being needlessly polite, lighting up your joint for you and doing a terrific job hiding how much he was drooling over you. His courteous antics when there was an active orgy going on right before you were amusing, to say the least.
But then you noticed something strange.
“Your usual, Hyunjin,” Seungmin put down a glass of scotch, a small bowl of fruit, and a glass of wine on the miniature table before you. “And yours, beautiful.”
Half the room was staring in your direction, but they weren’t looking at you. They were looking at the man next to you the way starving hyenas would look at their prey.
Your instincts suddenly went into overdrive.
You climbed on his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck as if to slap a label on him that said ‘This one’s bespoke to me.’
“Hyunjin,” you ran your fingers through his soft locks. “So that’s your name, crazy dude.”
“And now you can moan it,” he lovingly brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers, his other arm hugging your waist.
He examined every single detail on your face, sighing longingly. He didn’t kiss you, but he seemed to be doing a lot more than kissing in his mind, sinking his teeth into his lips as his fingers slid down to your neck. Then your collarbones. Then your chest. He didn’t know shit about you, but he looked so enamored with you. He didn’t give a fuck about the porn playing before his eyes and instead had complete tunnel vision on you.
What the hell was wrong with this man?
You turned to your left to check the room’s pulse, and you could see the envy blaring out of people’s eyes. They all wanted him and were trying to choke you to death through Jedi mind tricks for blocking the tantalizing view.
“Shh, look at me,” he gently held your chin and turned you to himself. “Only me.”
What the hell was wrong with you for enjoying it this fucking much?
“I’ve seen a few hardcore fans to date, but no one as persistent as you,” you plucked a grape from the bowl and fed it to him like a concubine entertaining her king. “Just why are you this obsessed with me?”
“You just don’t give a fuck, and I find that very attractive,” he answered, stealing a subtle lick from your fingers as he bit on the fruit. “What’s wrong with that?”
“So my fishnets got nothing to do with it?”
He looked down at the stockings wrapping your thighs like the perfect Christmas gift for him. His breathing turned heavier while softly caressing your legs, his jaw slightly clenched like he was trying to suppress something.
“Watching you play is straight up porn to me. I can’t stay soft when you do your solos,” he replied. “I mean, I can’t deny that there is a certain image that pops into my head when I jerk off, no disrespect.”
“Which one?”
“The Fender photoshoot. If I ever see you lick a fretboard like that for real, I’ll fucking cum on the spot,” he responded a bit too candidly. “It’s two of my biggest turn ons in one.”
“Which would be?”
“You and a custom-built Strat.”
“No shit. You play?” you smiled at him, pleasantly surprised.
“Your toes would curl if you saw what I can do with a guitar.”
“I’d rather have you do other things to make my toes curl.”
You hit a long drag from your joint and leaned into his lips, shotgunning him this time. He was melting under you, body going limp with each inhale, but something on your hips was rock hard.
“Then the million-dollar question,” you put out the cigarette and started playing with his hair. “Who else are you fanboying this hard over?”
“No one.”
“You seriously expect me to believe that?”
“Would the shrine I have of you be enough evidence of my dedication?”
“Yeah, I’m sure you have one,” you scoffed, your lazy chuckle laced with pure disdain.
He pulled out his phone and showed you a picture. It was taken at nighttime in what you assumed to be his bedroom. The photo was showing his illuminated nightstand with the aforementioned Fender picture framed, you all naked with just the guitar censoring your body as the focal point, and several guitar picks placed in front of it with OCD-like neatness. You recognized each one of those as the ones you threw at the audience during various shows thanks to their distinct colors.
“I’ll have you know I pray to this every night,” he pulled something metallic from his inner pocket and flashed it. The very pick you flung from the stage tonight.
Seriously?
“What are you praying for?”
“To kiss these,” he brushed his thumb on your lips.
“Just kiss?”
He briefly averted his eyes with a smile, licking his lips at whatever he was imagining in his head.
“It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly to reveal the full scope.”
“Get that tattooed for real first,” you ran your fingers on your autograph. “Then you can treat me like your personal pornstar.”
“Is that your only condition?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “If I get it tattooed, you’ll let me…?”
“If you have the balls to actually do it, yes,” you confirmed.
He pulled out his phone again and called a number, not even searching for it in his contact list as if he had it on speed dial.
“Hey, I need you at 97 Park Boulevard within ten minutes,” he looked right into your soul while talking. “Bring your gear.”
He hung up the phone, and you just stared at him in shock. Did he just…? Call a tattoo artist here? Like he was ordering pizza?
What an insane man. What an insane you because why the fuck were you enjoying this so much?
“You are fucking crazy,” you iterated your first impression of him.
“What was your first clue?”
“What if I’m crazier?”
He kissed your hand almost gallantly, like a lover of many many years would do, the contentment of his smile endlessly titillating to witness.
“God, I fucking hope you are,” he held your chin and pulled you close.
The kiss quickly deepened, turning a bit more ferocious this time with bites on lips and too much groping. You slipped your hand inside his jacket and cascaded it off his shoulders, groaning at the sight of his nakedness. Maybe Jisung was right because just looking at him made you salivate, and you felt like you had a wish-granting genie at your disposal.
If you played your cards right, tonight could be one for the books.
When you finally managed to pull away from each other, Hyunjin spotted his person of interest by the door and raised his hand to signal his location. The tatted-up guy slammed his hand into his friend’s as if they were at a frat reunion instead of an orgy.
“Chase, this is the god I worship,” Hyunjin introduced you. “I need her in a… strategic position for this. Hope it’s not a problem.”
“Suit yourself. What are we getting today?”
“Something simple, already stenciled,” he showed his chest. “Ink this, and ink it deep.”
Nah.
You kept waiting for either of them to say sike, or ask you if you were going to stop them, but nothing was happening. Chase had his ink ready, and Hyunjin was getting comfortable with one arm tucked under his nape.
“You’re seriously going through with this?” you asked, still suspicious.
“Did you have doubts?”
“Kinda, yeah,” you confessed. “What strategic position am I supposed to be in?”
“Yeah, about that…” he grabbed your wrist and yanked you close. “You’re gonna sit on my face until this is done.”
“What?!”
“It’s a win-win,” he smiled devilishly. “I get the comfort, you get the pleasure. Maybe even cum.”
“You’re really crazy,” you broke into hysterical laughter, “and the tattoo was my first clue.”
You straddled his face, and Hyunjin’s breathing started getting labored. All he did was gawk at your underwear under your skirt, gulping at the sight of the wet trail, but when you put his hand on the fabric, he thought he was about to disintegrate into his atoms.
“Rip it off,” you ordered him firmly.
And rip it off he did.
Your pussy was staring at him, dripping wet, and he could choke on his own drool at this rate. He was repeatedly whispering “Thank you” against your cunt, and it was making your clit buzz harder than the tattoo gun.
“If I cum, just ignore it,” he addressed Chase, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pressing them down to make you sit lower.
Then he covered his mouth on your pussy, and you almost passed out.
You didn’t know what the correct feeling was. He was rabidly munching on your clit like you were oozing lidocaine, but his hands were lovingly caressing you. You found a steady rhythm riding his tongue, your body invaded by a surge of pleasure, but he kept interrupting it with kisses on your pussy, diabolically laughing every time you groaned in frustration.
“Done,” Chase spoke into your ear right before he left. “Be gentle with it.”
Hyunjin held on to your thighs for dear life when you attempted to get off him, loudly whining in protest.
“No, DON’T!” he pinned you in your place. “Don’t leave.”
“But I want to see it,” you tried to look back.
“Don’t leave,” he insisted, loudly slurping on your entrance. “Don’t leave. I’ve waited years for this!”
He started lapping at your clit much faster, stuffing his face with you out of sheer desperation. His makeout with your pussy was getting so sloppy that you could feel your thighs getting wet. It was as if the entire room suddenly went silent. All you could hear was the smack of his lips, his guttural moans, his unhinged encouragements to drown him in your cum and choke him between your legs. He reached for your tits and started fondling them, letting you ride his mouth however fast you wanted this time.
“Chain me to yourself. I fucking worship you.”
You exploded in his mouth, and everything went momentarily white, a sharp ringing echoing in your ears. You couldn’t control how deep your moans were coming from, all deep and throaty as your whole body peaked, your orgasm hitting straight to the roof of your head. You couldn’t tell how long you rode out that high, but you were exhausted when you finally managed to come down, limp legs fully giving out as you collapsed next to Hyunjin. He hovered over you and held one of your hands, pressing it over the clear film on his chest. And you finally saw it in its full glory.
Motherfucker actually got your autograph tattooed.
“Do you still have any doubts?” he asked, kissing all over your face.
You gently caressed his tattoo, breaking into a satisfied smile. You slid your hands down to the waistband of his jeans and tugged on it, silently asking him to take them off. He looked absolutely delicious, huge girth, rock hard, leaking with his arousal. You wrapped your legs around him, made him palm himself and press his cock against your oozing hole, salivating just at the thought of him stretching you.
“If I see you so much as tweet about some other bitch,” you spoke softly as if you were reciting love poems to him, sneakily tangling your fingers around the chain of his necklace, then harshly yanked him down, “I will find you, and I will kill you.”
“Fucking marry me,” he growled through his teeth, not even the least bit joking.
He sank into you with a thrust so sharp that you arched in your place, your eyes widened with the impact. The harder he fucked you, the more he was losing himself, trading his sanity for the ecstasy consuming him faster than he could have foreseen, but he…
…didn’t…
…fucking…
…care…
…anymore.
This was it. This was the moment.
All these years spent watching you from afar…
All the people he had to bribe…
All the gigs he had to sabotage…
All the kills he had to order…
For this moment.
Right here.
Right now.
Deep inside his god.
Becoming completely hers.
“You know they’re watching us,” he maniacally laughed. “They wish they were us. They wish they were me, but they will never know what it feels like to fuck you.”
“W–Why?”
“Do you really wanna know the answer?”
You smiled at him so brightly that Hyunjin thought he had finally lost it.
You trapped him in your leglock, held onto his shoulders, and just admired the way he heavily panted over you, kissing your wrists, frantically fucking you like he was being chased. He was losing his grip on reality one push at a time. He just could not control the deranged confessions he was making back to back, and when he thought he was done for, you were actually throbbing harder around him. You were moaning louder. You were breathing faster. You were looking into his eyes way too fondly, and if you didn’t cut it out right fucking now, he was going to believe that—
“I love you, Hyunjin.”
He came so hard that his moans were suddenly silenced like they were cut with a knife, crawling out of his own body as he drained himself into you. His face was all contorted, half in narcotic pleasure and half in something you couldn’t quite decipher, and if this was what joy was, Hyunjin had never felt joy before. If this was what pleasure was, he had never felt pleasure before. But he knew he felt love. He had felt it since the day he saw you at the record store buying your first guitar.
But when post-nut clarity hit him like a truck, a sense of acute dread settled in his chest.
“That was uh… er erhm…” he cleared his throat. “That was just a heat-of-the-moment thing. You know that, right?”
“Likewise. What happens inside me, stays inside me,” you brushed his damp locks with your fingers. “But I don’t think it will kill us to spoon.”
He flashed you a fatigued smile and kissed all over your shoulders as you turned your back to him, as though you were about to bask in some wholesome afterglow in the privacy of your own bedroom. His warmth enveloped you like a comfort blanket, and you felt his nose in the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling your scent and humming happily.
You wondered if Hyunjin would cry tears of happiness if you showed him the room at your place, walls filled to the brim with the photos you’d been taking of him for the past five years.
✉ Enjoyed this? Your feedback & reblogs free my chapters from the draft prison.
Synopsis: You and Han were each other’s firsts—first love, first heartbreak, first forever. Even as life pulls you apart, the two of you keep finding your way back, caught between what was and what could be.
*Based on a movie Celeste & Jesse Forever.
Preview and masterlist under cut!
...
The story doesn’t begin with the end. It begins with laughter, loud music, and the glow of cheap string lights at a college party. You remember squeezing through a crowd of strangers with a plastic cup in hand, rolling your eyes at the noise, ready to leave—until you stumbled into Han Jisung.
He wasn’t trying to be the life of the party. He was perched on the arm of a couch, sketchbook balanced on his knee, doodling instead of drinking. His hair fell into his eyes when he looked up at you, startled, as if he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.
“You draw at parties?” you asked, half amused, half curious.
“Only when they’re boring,” he replied, holding the page out like proof.
On it were a pair of cartoon characters—lopsided, messy, full of charm. A boy with wide eyes and messy hair, a girl rolling her eyes at him with affection. You laughed, because somehow, they already looked like the two of you.
“What’s their story?” you asked.
And just like that, the night stopped belonging to the party. You and Han sat in the corner, spinning backstories for his characters: the boy was a dreamer who always ran late, the girl the realist who kept him grounded. They fought about what to eat for dinner, shared umbrellas in the rain, argued over silly things, but never went to bed angry.
Han’s pen flew across the paper while you talked. By the time the night ended, he had already turned your words into panels, rough sketches capturing your laughter.
That was how it started—your story told through his ink.
...
MASTERLIST
CHAPTER ONE coming Friday, September 19th.
Or you can read it early on Patreon:
I saved this for a time when I knew I could sit and just read it all in one go, and I'm so happy I did 😭 This is another masterpiece from one of my faves, 10/10 angsty emotional damage all the way to the end. I'm so happy I found your work and I can't wait for the next time you decide to hurt us ♡
You are on a terrible blind date when you run into a boy from your past - only, he is far from a boy now. And he is determined to prove it to you.
pairing: yang jeongin/reader
content info: a lot of sexual tension (thoroughly resolved). older woman/younger man. little brother's friend (hyunjin is the brother). reader's age is ambiguous but she is explicitly older. jeongin was hyunjin's friend when they were university freshman and she hasn't seen him since. power exchanges (she calls him a good boy and he basically says oh, really, you think huh?). one use of noona, more pointedly than anything. dom!jeongin, sub!reader, pussy-eating, hand kink, spanking, creampie.
also some drinking but no one is drunk. and reader's blind date is very rude and makes unprompted remarks (bringing up a piss kink randomly, comments about her ordering dessert, sexist comments about friendships with men.)
(word count: 8700 words.)
enjoy ;)
-
“And if tonight is gonna work,” your date says, “you will need to be good with piss.”
You freeze, your water glass halfway to your lips.
“Uh, sorry,” you say. You clear your throat. “Piss?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’ll need to piss on me. That’s not a problem is it?”
You like to consider yourself a reasonable person. You are not someone who jumps to conclusions or overreacts. People at work look up to you as a guiding figure in times of crisis. You are very in control of your emotions.
It is an astounding testament to your abilities that you refrain from chucking your glass at this moron.
It has been a few years since you were last on a blind date. You have since approached the oh-so shuddering threshold of long-term adulthood singleness, but how desperate is that supposed to make you? Does a vague gym buddy of your colleague genuinely think it’s appropriate to tell you, unprompted, that he wants you to piss on him tonight? Ugh.
For the first time, you wish you were more like your ridiculous little brother. Hyunjin would have flipped the table on this guy. You need to be a melodramatic bitch like Hyunjin.
You are shocked into silence. The waiter arrives and puts your food on the table. Your date thanks him.
“You think about it,” he says, still unashamed. “I’m gonna take a leak. But you hold onto yours, huh?” He laughs like that was funny.
You are still staring at his empty seat when he leaves. You put your water glass back on the table.
This is the last time you let Changbin arrange a blind date.
You look between your table and the exit, wondering if you can bolt and text your bad date an excuse. You can tell him you had a family emergency. Or a medical emergency. Or maybe you simply realized roasting your head over an open flame would be more fun than this date.
Your gaze wanders over the bar and stops on a head of dark hair. You tip your head, struck with a sense of déjà vu. The dark haired man is looking your way and he is as familiar as he is good looking. Not only is he impeccably dressed from his smart shoes to the crisp white shirt between the lapels of a jean jacket, but he is preposterously handsome. He is all long lines, svelte but athletic and flaunting it in the clean silhouette of denim on denim. His jaw is sharp, his cheekbones high, but his eyes are friendly. Dark hair falls neatly over his forehead, a smiling face just under it. His dimples are incredibly pronounced.
Those dimples. Oh.
You recognize him at the same time he recognizes you. Surprise bursts on both your faces.
He approaches the table, hands in his pockets and those deep dimples beaming at you. Your heart skips a beat and you blame it on surprise. It must be surprise, because it would be very inappropriate if it was spontaneous attraction for one of your little brother’s university friends.
“Hi!” Jeongin says, his laughter as endearingly wheezy as you remember.
The rest of him is not quite as you remember. Jeongin is a year younger than Hyunjin but Hyunjin spent a gap year in Paris ‘chasing his artistic soul’ so they were university freshmen together. They met at some summer program and Jeongin spent most of the season hanging around your house. Hyunjin is an irredeemable little twerp but his friends are remarkably nice. Jeongin was the sweetest of the lot. He was always helpful and polite, a little gawky and awkward in that over-grinning, brace-faced, eighteen-year-old-boy way, but nice.
You had nothing in common at the time so you didn’t spare him much of a second glance.
Jeongin is… not eighteen anymore. Not gawky. Not awkward. His smile is perfect now, his build still slender but strong, his dark eyes sparkling and his hands –
He extends a hand for a shake, his long, long ringed fingers reaching for yours. You can’t help but run your gaze up that hand, his arm, over the breadth of his shoulders, until you finally look into his smiling face.
“Hi,” you say. It takes another second, but you come to your senses. You shake his hand a little firmer. “Jeongin. Hi. It’s been a while.” You do remember he had a contagious smile. That much is still the same, those dimples coaxing your own smile out of hiding. “How are you?” you ask. And because the reality of it is still computing, you also blurt, “You look good. Really good. Wow.”
He laughs again, looking a little embarrassed with how his eyes drop. He is still smiling when he meets your gaze again.
“Thank you,” he says. “You too. Wow.”
He says it in the same awkward, surprised way you did. It makes you laugh together. It is a bubbly, champagne laughter, intoxicating, perched on the edge of anticipation.
Your hands are still clasped and your eyes still locked. Those bubbles start to feel suspiciously like butterflies.
You drop his hand. You have to press your palms together to numb the leftover tingles. His own hand flexes.
“I hope you’re doing well,” you say. “You must have graduated university already?”
He puts his hands in his pockets and nods, several head bobs in a row. A nervous fidget maybe. Not unlike your thumbs pushing at each other in your lap.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m a teacher. Substitute teaching right now. Hyunjin said you moved out of town for a while…?”
“Moved back a few weeks ago,” you say. “Promotion at work moved me out, another one moved me back.”
“Are you happy to be back?”
“Yeah,” you say, a little airily. It’s not a lie but also not the truth. You had as much going on back there as here, which is pretty much nothing but work. But you’re certainly not getting into the gritty details of all that with Jeongin. Not when Mister Golden Showers could get back any minute. So you just nod and say, “It’s nice being close to my old friends and family again.”
“Hyunjin missed you,” Jeongin says. He steps a little closer, speaking in a low voice. “I know he’d never say it, so I’ll tell you for him.”
You giggle, the sound surprising you. You bite your lip to hold it.
“Thanks,” you say. “Always good to have a spy giving up my brother’s secrets.”
He salutes, then admits, “Hyunjin is pretty easy to betray.”
“I believe you,” you say with a snort. “I love the kid, but I think the hair dye fumes are getting to him.”
“I shouldn’t say it,” he says, grinning, “but I was definitely the brains to his looks.”
“You could give him a run for his money now,” you say without thinking. It sounds more matter-of-fact than flirtatious, but that honesty is almost more provocative.
The tips of his ears turn red. It makes your own skin feel warm to the touch. He lifts his arm to rub the back of his neck. His ringed fingers circle his neck and settle on his shoulder, idly pressing there while he gazes down at you.
“Thank you,” he says. “You look… you look fantastic. Are you…” He glances at the food in your date’s spot. “With someone, I’m guessing?”
“Blind date,” you answer quickly. “So, yeah, I’m a little more dressed up, haha. Thanks. But yeah, I’m single and…” You look at your water glass. “I don’t think that’s gonna change tonight.”
“Uh oh.” He laughs, his face brightening once more. “Going that well?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” you say with a much beleaguered sigh. You’re usually more discreet, but tonight has taken a toll. You think you are going to explode. Piss? Really? During the main course? Come on.
“Sorry to hear it,” he says. His dimples soften as his smile goes from goofy to soft. “His loss. I’m serious.”
There’s a moment of charged silence. You really cannot deny the reciprocated attraction.
You try to suppress it. You are not in the habit of picking up early twenty-somethings who hang out with your dumb brother, especially not while out with someone else. So you clear your throat and reach for your glass, giving you an excuse to look away from him.
“What about you?” you ask. “Are you here with someone?”
It’s a casual question. At least, it’s supposed to be. It could be misconstrued as interest. Even your own ears catch the hint of curiosity.
You take a big gulp of cold water.
“I’m meeting a blind date too actually,” he says. He rocks on his heels. “I’m single too.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“Mhm.”
“Well,” you say with a curt nod. “I hope it goes better than mine.”
As if summoned like the demon of discomfort that he is, your date returns. There is a substantial musculature difference between him and Jeongin as your date is a self-identified gym rat, but he is so conventionally good looking in contrast to Jeongin’s distinguished character that he is immediately boring to look at.
You would far rather spend the night looking at Jeongin’s funny expressions. Even now, his thick eyebrows knit together as he gives your date a quick onceover. He looks back at you with a smile like you’re sharing a secret.
“We’re not quite ready for dessert,” your date tells Jeongin. “She probably doesn’t need any, but I’ll ask about the tart after.”
Jeongin tries to hide his laugh in a cough. Your date looks at him funny.
You suck in a breath, trying not to cringe at your date or laugh at Jeongin.
“Jeongin is not a waiter,” you say. “He’s a friend. He was just saying hi.”
“You’re friends with men?” your date says apprehensively. “As a female?”
Jeongin purses his lips, looking at you with a cringe. You do your best to remain composed.
“Yes,” you say with fake sweetness. “Like the one who set us up in the first place, remember?”
“I’m, uh, gonna head back to my spot,” Jeongin interrupts, pointing over his shoulder. “Cool, uh, meeting you,” he says to your date. “And getting your dessert order.” When he looks at you, it’s with a wink. He says your name and offers his hand for another shake. “It was nice talking. Good luck.”
You are about to respond, but then he lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. It’s so cheesy and stupid that it swings right back around to being adorable, especially with his mischievous eyes twinkling at you the whole time. Those dimples stay pressed, the touch of his hand lingering when he lets go. This time, there are leftover tingles from his lips as well.
“Have a good night,” he says. He gives one last nod then leaves.
You watch him go until your date scoffs. You look at him with a quirked eyebrow.
“No offence,” he says in an indubitably offensive manner, “but that’s why a female shouldn’t be friends with men. You might not know it, but he was being inappropriate.”
“Oh. Really.” Much as you smother your bitch gene, you and your brother share a natural propensity to glare a dummy down. You are certain your date feels the ice in your stare. “I know you’re good looking and it has allowed you to behave rudely and not get called a creep, but speaking as a woman with plenty of experience, you need to learn to show some respect for your partners and their wants. And for the record, no, I will not be pissing on you tonight, or any night. In fact, I have zero intention of even kissing you. No! No. Don’t say anything. It’s fine. Eat your food. I’ll eat mine. We’ll pay. We’ll go. Sounds good? Good.”
Unfortunately, your scolding probably gets him hard. At least he already peed.
-
You finish your meal in silence. Your date pays since he’s such an oh-so grand gentleman, then he leaves on his own.
You can follow. The dinner is over, the food gone, the cheque paid. It’s just you and the drops of white wine swirling around the bottom of your glass. You look into it, the little tang still lingering on your tongue. It’s almost empty. You can leave.
You should leave.
Here’s the thing: in the time it took to finish dinner, a pretty young woman joined Jeongin at the bar. Your gaze wandered over there despite knowing better. Curiosity and a hint of jealousy conquered your good sense.
Sensible, that’s what you always are. You do not suffer fools. But here you are, acting like one. It’s ridiculous. It’s fun.
You looked over more than once. The pair of them chatted politely, Jeongin friendly and laughing as always. She’s a lucky girl, you told yourself. And he’s a good guy. You wanted them to have a nice time.
Really.
But you are a little pleased they never left the bar. They had one drink each and chatted a little. He made no moves. She touched his arm a few times, leaned in when showing him something on her phone, but he leaned away and found reasons to move her hand.
Eventually, they hugged dispassionately and said good night. The woman left.
Jeongin is still sitting at the bar, nursing a drink that is also down to its dredges. He has his chin propped on his fist, his attention on his phone as he flips through it with a dull expression. You look at his long fingers wrapped around the device, at the rings on his closed fist, the way his hair flutters when he sighs and purses his full lips.
He casts you a sideways glance.
He’s been doing it all night.
Every time, your heart skips a beat. Your usual powers of deliberation are failing you. Going over there feels like a stupid thing to do. Sitting here also feels like a stupid thing to do. You hate that the wrong man is being a gentleman, waiting for you to decide if that’s the direction you want to go.
You take the final swig of wine and draw your purse over your shoulder. You walk over to the bar. He has no reason to be here, same as you, so it is abundantly obvious you are waiting on each other. That doesn’t have to mean anything. Maybe he just wants to catch up some more. You can talk as friends.
He lifts his head and his smile is not friendly at all, softer than a smirk but suggestive all the same. Oh, it feels very wrong to submit to the heat that follows, but that makes it all the more tantalizing. This is Yang Jeongin, you tell yourself, even while he checks you out and you very much let him, accentuating your walk with a swing.
“Hi,” you say, taking the seat beside him.
“Hi,” he replies. “How was dessert?”
You laugh while waving to the bartender. One glass of wine was enough to melt those bubbles into a warm simmer, but you suspect it is not quite enough to stoke whatever comes next.
That is unusual for you, usually so self-possessed, but the novelty makes your pulse pound.
The bartender brings you another glass. You sift through your purse for your wallet but Jeongin taps his card on the machine before you find it.
He grins at you with those deep dimples. His credit card is delicately balanced between two ringed fingers. He curls them back in and it’s all a little much, like he knows you’re looking at his hands that way.
“Since you’re older than me,” Jeongin says, making your heart skip a beat, “there is something I want to ask first.”
“Oh?”
Even though he says first, implying the expectation of every moment after that, you still anticipate a certain question. Should he acknowledge that age difference in how he addresses you?
But he tilts his head, his dark eyes so focussed on you. It makes you realize how intensely you have been staring back into his eyes. You lower your gaze. His long fingers are at his neck, fidgeting with the chain of a necklace.
“I’m just wondering,” he says, with a softer smile and a little laugh, “Does my age make you uncomfortable?”
“Uncomfortable?” You stare intently at your wine glass then take a slow sip.
You can feel him looking at you. You catch the wander of his gaze, eyes tracing the shape of you. You feel so very close. His knee touches yours under the bar.
“That is not the word I would use,” you say, voice just a little lower, just a little softer, so he has to lean a little closer.
“But you’re thinking about it,” he says.
You stare at your glass, feeling a lot of heat high in your cheeks. You rub your thumb up and down the stem.
“Yes,” you admit. You look at him slowly, not sure what to expect.
His whole face brightens with delight and he laughs. He is more than a little flushed too.
“Good,” he says and looks down at his own glass like he is embarrassed. He downs the last swallow of spirits.
“Good?” you ask with a helpless laugh, so taken aback by the reaction. “Why is that good?”
He hooks his foot around your bar stool. Startled, you gasp as he pulls you closer so you are touching along the whole side-lengths of your bodies.
“Because if you weren’t thinking about it,” he says with a blush, “it would mean you are here because you are just being friendly. It would mean you aren’t thinking about me as anything but your little brother’s friend.”
You sit a little straighter when you feel his hand under the counter. Just a touch, his fingers moving softly over your knee. The fabric of your skirt wrinkles under the gentle attention. When you do not protest – when your lips part and you press a little closer to his side, knee to knee and arm to arm and shoulder to shoulder – his thumb curls in and takes a bit of your skirt with it. You feel it whispering across your skin in a teasing suggestion.
“But if you are thinking about it,” he says, “then I think… maybe you aren’t here because you are just being friendly.”
“Mm, I see.” You tilt your head towards his. “You don’t think we can be friends?”
He laughs and says, “I can be friendly.” And he lightly squeezes you, his fingertips pressing the inside of your knee.
You are looking at each other so intently; anything could be happen in this room and you would miss it. You have eyes for each other and nothing else. The evening’s possibilities play as a shared fantasy between you.
The more pragmatic part of you says no, no way, not your thing. You’ve always been strict with men, no goofing around, no one night stands, and they always meet your approved list of expectations.
That list does not include a man this much younger than you, your little brother’s friend, with dark eyes and a far too mischievous smile.
“All right,” you say as your heart races with nerves and exhilaration. “Let’s be friends, then.”
-
A friend would walk you home after a bad blind date. A friend would ask all the nice questions that Jeongin asks, and he would make you laugh like Jeongin does. He would gasp with boyish incredulity when you tell him about your date’s inappropriate remarks. He would hum with sympathy that you were disappointed, that you were prepared for a long night, that with the right partner you might have allowed, well…
A friend would smile, his eyes sparkling, as he opened the door to your building. He would gently touch your lower back and press the elevator button for you.
Perhaps that is why the tension between you is so thick. A bubble surrounds it: the thinnest veneer of innocence to every interaction. If you both chose to say goodbye now, then nothing ever really happened, did it? You didn’t really go there, didn’t break all your rules. It wouldn’t be a lie to say you were friendly and nothing more. No explicit word has been spoken.
But if glances were words, Jeongin would have written you a novel tonight.
He leans against the opposite elevator wall, his eyes moving down your body while you pretend not to notice. He has already complimented every detail of your appearance, but much more has gone unsaid, at least verbally. Just like your preoccupation with his hands, his gaze keeps dipping to the flare of your hips, the curve of your thighs and where the skirt clings to your backside. His fingers twitch before he pockets them, like he is desperate to stroke the length of your body, to press his fingers on the softest parts of you.
You are almost embarrassed at the notion of him touching you so intimately. Usually, there is a process to getting turned on, and you and your partner get there together. But if those fingers dare to touch, he will find you have already melted into a puddle of longing.
At your apartment door, you take your time, looking in your purse for your key. He stands patiently at your side with his hands in his pockets.
“Would you like to come in for a drink?” you ask, like this invitation is at all unexpected, like you are still just being friendly.
Those dimples will be the death of you. They really do give the game away.
“Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”
You know he is already seduced, just as you are, so you really don’t have to do anything but drop your coat and say, kiss me. You can picture what would swiftly follow, are far too experienced to be naïve about the direction of tonight, yet it seems at once too near and too impossible. It remains a thrill to imagine the journey. Maybe that is why you don’t simply jump him in the doorway.
He continues to be good, obedient to your desires, though his gaze is ever more roving and he fidgets a little more. Much longer and he may break his constraints without your direction – and that should be alarming, right? But it makes your core tighten and your breath catch.
He is drawn as taut, back straight, taking a deep breath as he steps inside. That thick tension is ready to split as the veneer melts away.
“Have a seat,” you say, pointing to the couch in the main room.
You hang your coat. Shoes are left by the door. He wanders through your living space with his hands caged in the pockets of his jean jacket. He looks around, smiling. The living area opens into the kitchen so you make yourself busy with fetching some glasses.
He sits politely on the couch like you told him.
“Here we go,” you say. You return with two glasses and an open wine bottle.
You sit beside him on the couch. Your knees touch as you face each other. He thanks you as you pour a little wine into each glass.
Then you each take a sip, looking at each other in the silence. You both smile. He laughs a little, still flushed and not really from the wine. You feel very warm even though your dress is sleeveless.
You talk more about this and that, an everything and nothing conversation, just filling that silence. Yes, filling it, more and more until that tension is fit to bursting and the bubble can no longer contain it.
Your hand shakes uncharacteristically. You slosh a bit of wine while drinking and laugh at yourself.
“Sorry,” you say, wiping your chin.
You put your glasses down at the same time. He is laughing too, a still-friendly sound, eyes bright.
“Here,” he says. “You missed a…”
And he touches you.
It is just his thumb at first, there at the corner of your lips. He wipes that tiny little drop of wine, his eyes fixated so resolutely on it. Then his gaze drifts into yours.
His thumb is still there, his fingers curled loosely under your chin.
You breathe in, can see your own chest rise dramatically with the intake of breath. His eyes never leave yours.
His touch is still gentle, but coaxing. His thumb moves across your cheek, his fingers opening beneath your jaw.
You find yourself leaning into his hand, basically nuzzling it. It is an entirely thoughtless action propelled by the base and carnal need to touch, touch, touch. Your heart races at having his hand on you, even just caressing your face.
His fingers sweep along your jaw, down your throat. You don’t remember when you grabbed his wrist but you’re holding it like you’re the younger, girlish one, desperate with your wide eyes and open mouth as you cling to his hand. His fingers curl around the back of your neck and pull you close.
You lean in until your faces are almost touching. You look at his mouth and he looks at yours, then your eyes meet again. Your hand slides up his arm as your mouths move achingly closer. You can feel his breath coming quickly, your exhales colliding. His hair brushes your forehead, his nose your nose.
You make a horribly embarrassing sound, whimpering even though you haven’t even kissed. But it moves right through you, starts low and rises past your lips.
Your hand is on his collar now, tugging. Your faces are still close, breath still mingling, gazes moving to your mouths and back again. He lowers his hands to unbutton his jean jacket. You try to help but you are suddenly clumsy and you wish you could blame the wine but it’s not that.
It’s him. Oh, fuck, this is Jeongin. It’s really all him, having this effect, doing this to you.
And you are so close to each other, about to breach that space, about to break every rule and change everything together.
His hands are also clumsy until he gets that last button undone, then he is tearing his jacket off with quick force. He has just pushed it off, only just freed his hands, is sitting there in his jeans and t-shirt with his necklaces and his long ringed fingers, staring at you and breathing hard when –
You close the distance at once. His mouth is soft on yours despite the intensity with which he moves. You could sink right into him, the kiss so, so good, worth every second of anticipation.
Your mouths move together and sighs pass between you. You make a sweet noise when he cups your face with both hands. He pulls you even closer, kisses you even deeper. He licks into you, but not too much too fast, just enough to make you throb at the possessive sweep and still leave you yearning for more.
He returns a low noise of satisfaction. He breathes the word, “Yes.”
Your arch your back and press against him as his hands move down your face. For a moment, both his hands are on your neck and he tilts your chin up with a press of his thumbs. Then his thumb is on your pulse, pressing down as he slides his deft fingers down your throat.
You touch his biceps, feel the bare skin revealed by his t-shirt, squeeze the lean muscles there. Your fingers press in, climbing a little higher.
His warm kisses move from your mouth to your jaw. He leaves a few gentle presses there, then he is sucking a hot, harsh kiss on your throat.
His hands are quick in their sweeping caress down your arms. He takes the straps of your dress with him, the fabric looped neatly into his clever fingers. You shrug out of the top as swiftly as he did his jacket. He is fast then, unclipping your strapless bra and tossing it to the side.
Your eyes have been closed the whole time, so lost to sensation, but you open them when he wraps both his arms around your waist and hauls you easily into his lap. Perched on his thighs, you stare down at him, at the lushness of his mouth. His eyelids are heavy too, complexion so flushed. His necklaces are askew, his hair a little messy, his pristine t-shirt already rumpled where you fisted the material in your desperate clawing.
You feel your own desire, so evident in your expressions and movements. You have been stiff with tension all evening, but now you are so pliant and open, legs spread over his lap, dress tugged down to your waist, skin bare to him, and breathing hard.
He stares back at you, shifts his hands around your hips. You close your eyes and whimper again, though you’ll never admit you made such a sound. You certainly never thought you’d make it for Yang Jeongin, but here you are, an embarrassing bundle of nerves and desire, coming undone in his arms. That sound is whining and needy as he pulls you down into his lap, rolling his hips under yours.
“Jeongin,” his name is little more than a squeak of noise on your frantic mouth. You wrap a hand around the back of his neck, pull his face close. Your mouths are almost touching again as he grinds against you.
Your dress is hardly protecting your modesty in this state, bare breasts rubbing against his shirt, wet sex grinding against his thickening bulge. Only thin black lace is keeping you from making a mess on his jeans.
He makes a stuttering noise that might be an attempt at your name. You sink your fingers into his hair, press your open mouth to his and kiss him deeply. He moans into it while curving his hands down your thighs, then back up under your skirt. He touches your bare skin there, all those soft and tender place so close to the heart of your desire. His thumbs caress your inner thighs and his big hands squeeze their fill.
Then his hands are on your hips and he moves. You are surprised to find yourself once more sitting on the couch. He flips you in the space of a moment, sits you down, and pushes the coffee table out of his way. Then he is on his knees in front of you, your underwear already halfway down your thighs before you even fully realize it.
The panties join the bra somewhere on the floor with the jean jacket. He sits back on his heels and gazes up at you. His mouth is pink from kissing and his breathing a little laboured. But his smile – his smirk – is downright filthy. He looks at you as he plucks his rings off, one by one, and puts them on the table behind him. The necklaces follow. Then he kneels upright and runs his hands through his hair to clear his face.
You make a very undignified little squeak when he pulls you to the edge of the couch. He lifts your skirt to your waist and puts your legs over his shoulders. He wets his fingers in his open mouth and you laugh, breathless.
“Trust me,” you say. “That won’t be necessary.”
His finger leaves his tongue. It moves to the inside of your thigh, which is resting on his shoulder, the sensitive skin there a little ticklish. You squirm but are secure in his hold.
His hand continues its path, torturously slow. He is luxuriating in the feel of you while you rock your hips in need of more. He ignores that pleading, so cruelly, and continues to touch, stroke, caress, and tease until finally his knuckle moves between your thighs to find how much you want him.
“Oh,” you gasp. “Jeongin, please—”
For a moment, he is just breathing hard, slowly touching you, unfurling his fingers and sliding them inside you. He curses under his breath. When you clench involuntarily around his fingers, he seems to realize he isn’t dreaming. Then he smiles, looking very pleased with himself, but you can’t even feel embarrassed because he knows how to use his hands and he does. Competently. Thoroughly.
You throw your head back, slouching against the couch while he makes a complete mess of you. Then he dives forward and his mouth is there too, a moan in his throat as his tongue seeks out the swell of pleasure amidst all that wet heat. He is fast but steady, face happily buried there, your thighs pressing against his head. You shove your fingers into his hair and pull him even closer. You lift your hips and hiccup with gasps as he deftly and seemingly so easily draws you over that crest into a mind-shattering orgasm.
“Ah—!" is the only sound you manage, your eyes closed, your fingers pressing into his scalp.
He brings you to a slow descent, hands on the outside of your thighs as you twitch with shuddering aftershocks.
You loosen your grip and feather your fingers through his soft dark hair. You sigh, a satisfied exhale.
“Oh.” You feel fuzzy, like you are floating even though he has put your feet back on the ground. You look at him through heavy-eyelids. All those giggly, girlish bubbles are back, tingling through your whole body. “Oh, wow,” you say. He is already flushed but that makes him blush a little harder, though he stays grinning. “Oh, you are a good boy.”
That isn’t normally the type of thing you say; it just sort of comes out in your dreamy post-orgasmic haze. It doesn’t much resonate with you, but it certainly does with him. It makes him lift an eyebrow and tilt his head, his eyes narrowing just a bit, as if with determination.
“Good… boy…” he says. He kneels upright and looks at you with those dark, penetrating eyes. “Am I a boy, noona?” And he stands up between your legs so he is towering over you.
From your vantage on the couch, your eyeline directly falls to the thick, unmistakable bulge trapped in denim. Your gaze lifts when he gathers the hem of shirt and pulls it over his head. It falls somewhere but you don’t see it, because your eyes are on him, drinking in every hard plane of his naked chest.
Your eyes lower when his confident hands go to his belt and flick it open. Then he gestures to you, a come-hither command with the same two fingers that fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life.
“Come on,” he says. “Take it off. I’ll show you if I’m a boy, hm?”
You reach for him, a little shaky from the tremors of pleasure, so he grabs your hand mid-air and pulls it towards his belt as if impatient. You sit up straighter, determined now, weaving his belt through the loops and off. It clatters to the floor and he grabs your face with both hands, tilting your head all the way back, and swoops down to kiss you with a domineering, desperate hunger.
He pulls you up like that, kissing you, claiming you, probably ruining you for every other kiss in your life. Your legs are shaky under you but he holds you, first your face, then a hand on your lower back, bringing your body against his. That bulge presses against you and your skirt is rucked up between you, so it’s bare skin on denim. This time you don’t squeak but practically squeal.
You rear against him, desperate, hands on his bare shoulders and chest, feeling him up. You put a leg around him to press harder against his bulge. He catches that thigh, hiking it around his waist and holding you there. You tip your head back, his mouth finding your throat, both of you moaning as he grinds a filthy rhythm against your softest most vulnerable place.
“Bedroom,” he whispers into the skin of your throat. You point over his shoulder in the vaguest gesticulation, not entirely sure of up from down never mind the layout of your own apartment.
He scoops you into his arms. You wrap both legs around his waist, string both arms around his neck, and kiss him with frantic, impatient need. He kisses you back, carrying you to the bedroom door and kicking it. It flies open and probably hits the wall too hard, but you don’t even notice, lost in all those deep kisses.
He groans with pleasure and carefully places you down. It takes you a second to find your balance but you do. You rock on your feet, digging your fingers into his shoulders as he kisses and bites down your throat. He blazes a hot, wet trail to your breasts. His mouth is there as he fumbles with your skirt, finally tearing it off and leaving you completely bare.
He grabs the back of your neck and kisses your mouth, holding you against him while his other hand smooths down the curve of your spine. He guides you closer, encouraging you to arch into him, and eventually settles that hand in a possessive squeeze on your ass. Then it moves around your body until he finds your hand. He grabs it and puts it on his bulge, curves your palm around the hard shape of it, making you rub him until you are breathing hard into each other’s mouths.
“Am I a good boy?” he asks, mouth so close that your lips brush when he speaks.
You don’t answer because you have essentially descended into a primal state, thighs pressed together, pushing your naked chest against his, squeezing him in your hand. You have no thoughts for once, everything purely physical.
“Huh?” he asks. He squeezes the back of your neck, just enough to make you gasp into his open mouth. Just enough your eyes open, meeting his piercing, determined stare. He knows he has you. You have been talking all night. He knows your date, that man your age, was an immature disappointment. He knows you were looking at him all evening. He knows your thighs were rubbing together under that bar as you stared at his hands and his belt buckle and thought about this moment. He knows what you actually want. And he knows your answer to his question. “Am I a boy?”
“No,” you say, nearly breathless and dizzy with desire. “No, I’m sorry. You’re not. You’re—you’re—”
“I’m—?”
“Jeongin, Jeongin, please, please, please,” you cry out, trembling in his arms.
He smiles, those deep dimples far too sweet for the kind of look on his face. He kisses you deeply, his tongue in your mouth, soothing you and taking control of you all at once.
Then he laughs into the kiss, just lightly, and says into your obedient open mouth, “Good girl.”
You moan, already undone, clawing at his chest and shoulders as he lets go of you to open his jeans. You help push them down his hips then stumble towards the bed while he takes them off.
You face each other at the bedside, still standing, nearly colliding, breathing hard and faces close. There is a moment of pause, not hesitation but anticipation, like when you sat on that couch with your faces so close and the precipice before you. That moment right before the bubble burst, before you decided to throw away all your rules and change everything between you.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he says, just so the reality of it is totally inescapable. He says it right to your face, right against your lips, grinning while he runs his hands down your body like he owns it. “You want it, don’t you?”
He takes your hand and lifts it to his mouth. His eyes are fixed on yours while he kisses your fingertips then your palm, then opens his mouth and licks you, filthy wet. He leads your hand down between his legs where there is no barrier anymore. He wraps your wet hand around him, so fucking hard and hot.
His bigger hand is wrapped around yours as he guides you like he’s the older, more experienced one and you’re a trembling, helpless girl. His eyes are so intense, his energy so overwhelmingly dominant, that it is hypnotizing, and you think for a moment you must become exactly that.
“Yes,” you say. “Yes, sir.” It slips out as thoughtlessly as that good boy, but this time he rewards the correct answer.
He continues to guide your hand on his cock, stroking slowly, and touches you with his other hand. He is flushed and breathing heavy, and a little sweaty at his hairline, but he is still more composed than you. That never happens; you are the level-headed one, always. But he stares down at you, calm and collected as you touch each other. He is the one to work you into a frantic state, until you are crying out and close to coming.
Your legs are shaking. You can’t concentrate on touching him and he knows it, so he guides your hand to his hip instead. You hold onto him as he lays you down on the bed, his hand never stopping between your legs. You arch your back and close your eyes, riding the length of his fingers, shuddering under the steady roll of his thumb. You come again, shouting his name, gasping and writhing and slamming your thighs closed around his hand.
He pushes them apart again. He leaves you barely a breath before he is poised between your open thighs. He must know you are still throbbing from the rolling wave of your orgasm when he angles your hips and slides right into you. It happens so fast, so smooth and wet and easy, like that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be, like he’s been waiting far longer than a few hours to be there.
“Fuck,” he says, and finally seems to come a bit undone. If he intended to fuck you slowly, it doesn’t happen. It’s like his patience runs out all at once and he rolls his hips down into you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He goes breathless, voice disappearing, and he pants and whines instead, staring at where his cock slides wetly, messily in and out of your soft and needy pussy.
You hold onto his wrists, letting him move your body exactly how he wants, trusting he will give you what you need. And he does, stretching those soft walls and hitting all those squishy, weak places inside you, begging to surrender to him. You feel so open, so wet, and he feels so deep, even going so fast.
Then he somehow feels deeper. It makes your eyes roll closed. He pushes your thighs back and presses his body more closely to yours. Your faces are near again, whispering each other’s names before he kisses you. His tongue seems to claim you as deep as the rest of him, making you feel so wholly taken.
Both your hands are on his face, holding him there, kissing him back. You slowly slide one hand down his side, making him laugh when you touch somewhere ticklish and sensitive. You smile back, but that giggling mirth disappears when you take one of his hands and slap it to your ass – more your thigh, at this awkward angle.
He makes a noise into your mouth, rumbling and low. Then you are the noisy one, mewling as he flips you over with quick work of his hands. There is a mirror on your vanity that you can see now, cheek pressed on your sheets while he lifts your hips to get back inside you. You see the shudder that moves through his lean body as he sinks into your pussy and you squeeze around him.
You feel his thumbs rubbing circles where he spread you open, and you feel as his fingers splay across your skin. You see him lift his hand but it’s still a surprise when it comes down again.
Your eyes close instinctively and you whimper, feeling needy and pathetic and thrilled with it. You don’t feel like you have to hide anything, don’t think you even can, as you arch your back and beg for more. He brings his hand down again, again, as he fucks you, fast and dirty and mean until you are aching inside and outside.
Then he reaches around you and pulls you up, your back to his chest. He puts you in his lap and fucks you with an arm across your collarbone and another hand covering an obscenely bouncing breast. He squeezes and teases you, gets you moaning loud and carefree as him.
He notices the mirror at the last moment and looks momentarily stunned in the best way, then he smiles that mean smile at you. The arm across your collar shifts and he clasps his hand around your throat. Clutching you so possessively, he moans your name and thrusts hard. You feel as he comes, warm inside you, leaving no part of your body untouched by him.
“Oh,” you say, still shaking in the aftermath. You are both breathing hard, still clinging together.
He hums in agreement. His grip loosens and he moves, the slightest change in position making you whimper. He twitches inside of you, like that sound is almost enough to make him go again.
He lays you down on your front, the sheets cool on your hot skin as you press your cheek there. You gasp as he pulls out and you feel his cum leaking out of you. You can see him in the mirror, looking there, flushed and sweaty and surprised, like he was out of his body until this moment. You know the feeling.
Fuck, you think, your more rational self scolding you from where she is buried six feet in the back of your head. You just let one of your brother’s stupid little friends blow a load into you, idiot.
It will be fine. You had flirtatiously mentioned it earlier, having been oh-so prepared with internal protection and disappointed by your date, what a waste since you would have allowed, well…
It feels like years since you were just talking, merely perched on the edge of anticipation with all those champagne bubbles.
Now you are in the very real world after the fact. Even though you know you’re safe and fine, you still let him come inside you. You don’t even usually let a man hold your hand until the third date at least. So much for your lists and rules.
“You okay?” he asks, voice soft, a wonderful hand gliding gently up your spine. It feels so good, just that simple, comforting touch. The silly voice gets buried again.
“Hmm,” you say and nod, eyes closing, content.
You feel him lay down beside you. You are at the foot of the bed and will have to move, but you both catch your breath for now. You open your eyes to look at him, find his looking at him, his cheek squished into the bed too. You blink at each other, then smile at the same time.
“You okay too?” you ask.
“Oh yes,” he says, and you both laugh.
The laughter softens when he reaches out and touches your face, just stroking your cheek. His eyes follow the caress. You swear they are sparkling with his happiness.
Your heart does a funny summersault. You have never felt it do that and it surprises you. Is genuine affection a physical feeling? Maybe it’s just the aftermath of everything else.
Maybe, you think, it’s just him.
“Will you stay the night?” you ask, shyly. You are not usually shy. You would not care about the answer at all. But you care about his answer, you realize. You think you would be hurt if he said no. That is a little frightening, and also a little exciting, your heart racing with emotions.
He smiles at you and it races even faster.
“I’ll stay forever,” he says, and it’s probably supposed to be a joke but it comes out a little too sincere with his piercing eyes and sweet smile. It’s hard to tell if he’s blushing because he is still so flushed from exertion, but you think so.
It should make you cringe. But just like when he kissed the back of your hand, it is so goofy and ridiculous that it swings right back around to being endearing. And so you giggle instead, biting your lip to keep it in. But you don’t need to hide, because the giggling relaxes him, and he beams back at you.
He offers his hand. You take it and your clasped fingers rest between you.
“I’m afraid we’ve ruined our chance at friendship, Jeongin,” you say, looking at his fingers curled around yours.
“Hm,” he says. “That might be for the best. You don’t want to have to another date with the piss-before-dessert guy.”
You both laugh, squeezing hands.
“No,” you say. “You’re right about that.”
“Good thing I’m here,” he says.
“Yes.” You wonder if your eyes are sparkling too. It’s a little embarrassing to consider, but you find you don’t mind at all. “A very good thing.”
Your more pragmatic side does eventually surface. Tangled with this new version of you, she is a little shy, but Jeongin seems to understand her, so it’s okay. He agrees to follow your lead, that you don’t want to tell anyone just yet as you explore this thing between you. He just seems happy that there is something further to explore.
Eventually, his smug little grins and cheesy expressions are too much for you, and you laugh and swat his chest, and you both get under the covers and start kissing again.
-
Of course, your plan to not tell anyone is thwarted the next morning when Hyunjin barges into your apartment without knocking. Like the spoiled primadonna little brother he is, he waltzes right into your bedroom, complaining about something from work. Well, he promptly forgets all his problems, slack-jawed at finding you and Jeongin groggily stirring under the covers.
“Hyunjin—” you say, fully awake in a second, because you can tell what’s coming from that look on his face.
Hyunjin screams. Jeongin covers his ears, wincing, and you sigh, rolling your eyes.
“Hyunjin!” you shout, louder than him.
He runs out of the room. You and Jeongin exchange a glance, him smothering a laugh as you huff in annoyance. You throw on a house robe while Jeongin looks around for his jeans. You go to the kitchen where Hyunjin is rinsing his eyes in the sink.
“Hyunjin,” you grunt. “For goodness’s sake.”
Jeongin emerges from the bedroom, shirtless because his t-shirt was abandoned somewhere near the couch. You look at each other, helpless but to smile in the morning light, even while your melodramatic brother has a breakdown by the faucet. Keeping it a secret was your only real contingency, and now that’s done and over. It leaves you without any sort of plan at all.
You walk over to the couch and find Jeongin’s t-shirt. You hold it out to him. He approaches slowly, still smiling. When he takes it, you tug on it, pulling him close.
So it turns out you have no plan at all. And you should be panicking, should be descending into melodrama.
But he smiles at you. Those dimples really will be your undoing.
And so you smile back, unbound by any rules or expectations, completely and totally free.
-
“Oh my god, stop kissing,” Hyunjin says. “That’s my sister! What the hell! When did you two even meet again? What is going on right now?”
Synopsis: When your daughter’s wedding weekend brings you, a former it-girl and Chris, a legendary rockstar back under one roof, the two of you must navigate old memories, unexpected feelings, and the chaos of family. As laughter, love, and a hint of scandal unfold, you're both reminded that some love stories don’t end—they just change shape.
I am so fucking happy I got back into reading fanfiction on tumblr. I've only been back for 2 years? 1,5 maybe? And I've been so lucky to find writers like @seospicybin BECAUSE BIIIIITCH. This was so fucking beautiful to read and it will live rent free in my heart and brain for a longass time. I'm so excited to see what else this wonderful human comes up with because this was just perfect.
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