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Sports Car - Jung Wooyoung x Reader

Inspired by the song "Sports Car" by Tate McRae

"I think you know what this is"

Summary: You run from your life for the summer. No plans, no promises, just the hunger for something reckless. And then you see him. Jung Wooyoung. He’s everything you're chasing: fast cars, faster nights, and a smile that dares you to misbehave. He races like he’s got nothing to lose and looks at you like you’re the next line he’s ready to cross. But the more you get tangled in each other’s lives, the more you realize, rules don’t mean shit when you’re both the type to break them. And now? You’re not sure what’s more dangerous: the races… or the way he looks at you.

Word count: 26.6K

Genre: Street racer!Wooyoung x reader, oneshot, angsty, drama, smut

warnings: Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), blood mentioned, angst about disappearing, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, unprotected sex, Wooyoung is dominant, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: I have not read this through so I hope it's good! someone requested a wooyoung-fic where he isn't this "usually bubbly" character, and I had so much fun writing him as a tease but with an edge to it! literally I think he's so hot lmao, I love him. Enjoy pookies!!!

The rooftop is already humming when you step out of the elevator, heat clings to your skin, music spills into the open sky, and a blur of voices laughs like nothing in the world could touch them. You haven’t planned on coming tonight. You didn’t even come here to have fun. You came here to forget. To get out. To breathe without everything collapsing on top of you.

Back home, everything had started unraveling. Bills stacked on the counter, messages piling in that you didn’t want to read, expectations pressed into your skin so tightly they’d left bruises. People needed things from you. Constantly. Quietly. And if you slowed down for even a second, the whole system started to fail.

So you ran.

You packed a bag, booked a one-way plane ticket, and told everyone it was a “short break.” A getaway for the entire summer. You didn’t tell them that the idea of staying one more day in that life made your stomach twist into knots.

Now you’re here.

A few days into your stay in this town, visiting your cousin, living in a random Airbnb you just managed to afford. Here, no one knows what you’re running from. And for the summer, that’s exactly the point.

“Holy shit, you actually came.” your cousin’s voice snaps you back. She weaves through a group of people and pulls you into a loose, alcohol-warm hug. “I was starting to think you chickened out.”

You offer a weak smile. “You said there’d be tequila.”

“There’s also gin, cheap beer, and a guy puking off the fire escape. We have everything.” She shoves a cup into your hand and links your arms, dragging you into the heat.

You force a laugh and let her drag you toward her friends. The usual suspects. Half of them you met last weekend. The other half look like they belong in a music video, glossed lips, messed-up curls, tattoos they’d lie about the meaning of. Music thuds through the speakers. A girl danced barefoot on a bench with glitter in her hair and zero fear in her eyes.

You want to be her. You want to be anything but yourself for a while.

You’re halfway through your first drink when something, someone, catches your eye.

Not from the center of the party. From the edge. Leaning against the low wall like he belonged to another world. Half-lit by the string lights overhead. One boot hooked over the other. A cigarette hanging from his lips, the orange tip flaring each time he breathes.

His jacket is black, leather, worn in like a second skin. He wears it open over a faded black shirt that clings to his chest in the heat. His hands, veins, rings, knuckles, looked like they knew how to break things. Dark hair curled around his ears like he hadn’t bothered to style it. And his face? Unbothered.

He isn’t looking at anyone. Not watching. Not performing. Just existing.

Your cousin follows your gaze, and when her eyes land on him, then roll her eyes before her expression shifts into something like caution. “Yeah,” she says, low. “That’s Wooyoung.”

You blink. “Who?”

She gives you a look. “You haven’t heard about him?”

You shake your head, eyes drifting back to the guy in question.

Another friend chimes in, voice already tipsy: “He’s bad news.”

“He’s been here forever,” your cousin says. “Born reckless. Drives like a lunatic. Hooked up with half the people on this roof and ghosted the rest.”

“Wrecked his car last year racing out by the docks,” someone else adds, cracking open a beer. “Didn’t even flinch. Climbed out with blood on his hands and laughed.”

You glance at him again. He just tips the bottle to his lips, throat working, cigarette still balanced between his fingers like a forgotten afterthought. His jaw is sharp, and the curve of his mouth looks like it only knows how to smirk or sneer. And when his eyes scan the room, they land on you.

It’s not subtle.

He watches like he’s already bored of the outcome, like he knows exactly what happens when he looks at someone long enough. Like he’s already counted to three and you’re about to fall.

But you hold his stare. You don’t smile. Don’t flinch. Let him look.

And then you look away.

Your cousin touches your arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so thinking about it.”

You turn away, take another drink, and try to pretend you don't feel that pull. That spark. That quiet ache for something reckless.

But you do. And you’re not here to be safe.

A little later you drift away from the group. You feel him before you see him. You glance sideways and he’s already there, leaning a little too casually against the cooler, cigarette behind one ear, that reckless grin barely tugging at his mouth like he’s doing you a favor by showing up.

Wooyoung.

Even if you didn’t already hear whispers about him, the kind that circle like smoke, you’d know. You’d know by the way he moves like he owns the room without touching it. The kind of man who thinks he doesn’t need to ask.

“You look like you could use another,” he says, chin-tilting toward your near-empty cup. “Let me grab you one.”

You don’t answer at first. You just look at him. Not up or down, not obvious, but right in the eyes. He’s used to curiosity, flirtation, maybe even awe. You give him something else.

Nothing.

And then, a soft, almost polite: “No.”

His smile quirks. “You sure?”

“Very.”

He laughs under his breath, gaze dipping once, quick. “Tough crowd.”

You don’t smile. You don’t frown either. Just turn slightly toward the bar, like you’ve already dismissed him. “I’m not thirsty,” you add. Cool. Flat.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, just enough to be felt. “What about a ride, then? Later. I could show you around. You new here, right?”

You blink up at him, head tilting like you’re thinking. For half a second, you let him think you might say yes. And then…

“No again.” You take a sip from your cup, slow. Letting the silence linger between you as you let him try to read you. You smile then, just the corners of your lips, like a secret he doesn’t get to know. “Thanks, though,” you murmur, already turning away. You walk back into the crowd, eyes ahead, leaving behind the heat of him, the weight of his stare burning a hole into your back.

It’s late now. The rooftop has thinned, half the crowd gone, music lower, conversations quieter, messier. You’re near the edge again, drink long gone, and the sky bleeding into deep navy when you feel him behind you.

You don’t turn. You wait.

“You always say no that easy?” he says, and the way his voice grazes the shell of your ear makes your spine straighten just slightly.

You turn then, slow, like it costs you nothing. And there he is. His mouth is quirked like he’s in on some joke, but his eyes are sharp, focused entirely on you. He’s even prettier up close. Prettier in the way knives are, sharp and gleaming and made to draw blood.

“I’m heading out,” he adds, casual. Like this is nothing. Like you’re just another option. “Want a ride?”

You want to get in his car. Want to see how fast he drives when there’s no one telling him to slow down. You want to feel the engine roar under your feet, his voice slick in your ear, want to taste what danger actually feels like when it’s not a metaphor.

But you also want to see what he’ll do when he doesn’t get what he wants the first time. So you take a beat. Let the silence stretch. Your gaze drags down his body and back up again, slow enough to make sure he feels it. Then you look him dead in the eye.

“Maybe.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You just turn, hips swaying, and make your way back to your friends. And you feel his eyes on your back the entire walk across the roof.

It’s late. The party’s over. The rooftop has emptied, music cut off mid-song, and everyone’s filtered into rides or rideshares or stumbled off into the night together.

“Text me when you get home, alright?” your cousin says, pulling you in for a quick hug before she disappears into the uber with the last of the stragglers.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, waving her off as the door shuts behind her and they drive off.

And just like that, the noise is gone. The music. The bodies. Now it’s just you. Quiet. Cool night air on your bare legs. Streetlights blinking over cracked sidewalks. You check your phone, four minutes until your Uber. You lean back against the brick wall.

And then you hear it.

That engine.

It purrs low, like a warning or a promise, and you look up just as the black sports car pulls up to the curb. Same matte finish. Same cocky presence. He’s behind the wheel, of course he is, one arm slung lazily over the door, dark hair ruffled, eyes hidden under his lashes like he’s still half-bored, half-waiting.

Your stomach twists. In a good way. You were hoping he’d try again.

But you don’t show it. You keep your expression smooth, brows lifted just slightly in mock surprise.

“Y’know,” he says, voice deep and seemingly unbothered. “for someone who says no so much, you sure know how to look like someone who would say yes.”

You smirk. “For someone who hears no so much, you sure keep trying.”

That gets a glint of something behind his eyes, not offense. Amusement. Maybe even respect.

You check your phone again. Two minutes.

He nods at it. “Uber?”

“Mhm.”

“Cancel it,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’ll drive you.” He studies you, slowly.

“You’ve had alcohol.” you say.

“I’ve had one beer, correct. I can still drive,” He leans back in his seat, one finger tapping on the steering wheel like he’s deciding how long to wait. “One of these times, you’re gonna say yes.”

You glance at the street. Then back at him. “Maybe.” You keep your voice light. But the way your heart skips when he licks his bottom lip like he’s already imagining what maybe might mean?

“So now what? You’re just gonna go home safe and sound to your own bed?”

You shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. “Safe’s not exactly what I’m after.”

He laughs softly, the sound like gravel sliding over glass. “Good. Because I’m not about safe.” He gestures to the passenger seat. “Get in. I’m taking you somewhere that doesn’t care about safe.”

You hesitate a moment, “You don’t even know my name.”

His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with something dangerous. “We’ll talk about that in the car.”

You glance back at your phone, then to the dark leather interior of the car where he waits, the door cracked open like an invitation. The night hums around you, the promise of escape, the thrill of the unknown.

And for the first time since you got here, you do the first reckless thing. You push yourself off the brick wall, reach out, fingertips grazing the door handle, and slide inside.

The door shuts behind you with a soft, final thud, and in that instant, everything feels different. The engine comes alive under his hand, a low purr that vibrates up through the floorboards and settles in your spine. He shifts into drive with a lazy flick of his wrist and pulls into the street like he owns it. The silence stretches, thick and full, like the pause between lightning and thunder.

One minute, it’s neon signs and sirens and people yelling from balconies. The next, it’s just open road, the dark curling around you like smoke. He didn’t say where you’re going, and you didn’t ask. Maybe that’s part of it. You came here to stop asking questions.

He drives like he was born with a steering wheel in his hands, fast, aggressive, but never reckless. You glance at him. One hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the gearshift. Long fingers, silver rings.

You stare longer than you mean to.

He notices. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel it, some part of him clocking your gaze. He smirks, like he likes being watched. “You’re quiet,” he says, finally.

You glance at him. “I don’t really know where we’re going.”

“That’s the point.”

The lights of the city are long gone now, swallowed behind the bend of a hill. When he pulls off the road, your stomach dips.

The tires crunch against gravel as he eases the car up a narrow path that looks like it was never meant to be driven. Your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap, but you don’t ask him to stop. You want to see where this leads.

Then the road opens up.

It’s not a lookout point. There’s no fence, no benches, no other cars. Just a slab of cracked asphalt at the edge of a cliff, a wide, feral view of the city lights flickering far below. Wind rushes against the windshield. The drop is sharp. Dangerous.

Exactly what you wanted. He kills the engine and the silence rushes in. You don’t move. Neither does he. Finally, he says, “Scared of heights?”

“No,” you breathe.

“Perfect” He’s already looking at you. That cocky, knowing tilt to his mouth again. Like he’s testing what scares you. Like he wants to find the exact line you’ll make him cross.

“So,” he says. “What do I call you when I make you regret getting in my car?”

You don’t flinch. You meet his stare, steady. “Y/N.”

He lets it settle, your name on his tongue. Rolls it once, like he’s tasting it. “Y/N,” he repeats. “Fitting.”

You tilt your head. “And you? I don’t like calling strangers ‘guy who doesn’t know when to quit.’”

That grin flashes, quick and crooked. “Wooyoung.”

You hum. “Mm. That one’s fitting too.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Saturated. His eyes don’t leave you, dark, focused, hungry. You should look away, but your pulse is a drumbeat behind your ribs, and you want him to see it. You want him to know it’s because of him.

“You always stare at people like that?” you ask.

His voice is lower now, more deliberate. “Only when I want something from them.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what is it you want from me?”

His tongue traces the edge of his bottom lip. “The obvious answer?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I want you in my lap, messing up my hair, moaning my name like it’s the only thing you know.”

The words slam into you, blunt, confident, filthy. Your throat tightens around your breath, your legs press together without thinking.

He sees that too.

But you don’t back down. You raise your chin, hold his gaze like it’s a challenge. “You say that to all the girls you drive out here?”

Wooyoung leans in, just slightly, enough that his voice hits deeper, lower. “Nah. Most of them don’t make me work for it.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it, unapologetic, shameless. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t care if you do too. He doesn’t play pretend. He doesn’t flirt to charm. He flirts to ruin.

You don’t move. Don’t look away. The cliff below disappears into a blur, the city glows like it doesn’t even know you left. It’s just you and him, and the space between you that’s shrinking by the second. “I want to stop thinking,” you say, voice low, steady. “That’s why I got in your car.”

Wooyoung’s eyes darken slightly. The smirk fades, replaced with something quieter. Sharper.

You keep going. “I want to stop caring. Stop worrying about the next thing, the smart thing, the right thing. I just want to shut everything off for a while.”

He’s still, like he knows not to interrupt.

“And you…” you look at him then, all dark eyes and bad decisions, his hand loose on the steering wheel like he’s not even pretending to care about control. “You seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t ask for consequences. Or commitment.”

His tongue swipes the inside of his cheek, and he exhales a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

You shrug, but there’s a glint in your eye. “Kind of your whole thing, isn’t it?”

He leans in a little more, elbow on the door, body turned toward you now. “So you want to do something reckless?”

“I got in your car, didn’t I?”

That gets a reaction, a slow grin, one side of his mouth curling with pure, unfiltered interest. “I don’t make promises,” he says. “I don’t do rules, or tomorrow. But if you want tonight, no strings, no pretending, just the rush-”

“I do.”

Two words. Honest. Simple. And you don’t look away when you say them.

He leans closer, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Then come here.”

You don’t hesitate this time. You crawl across the seat without a word, knees brushing the leather, breath catching when your thigh grazes his. When you settle in his lap, his hands find your hips instantly, grounding you, greedy.

“You sure?” he murmurs, and it’s not hesitation, it’s courtesy, like giving you a final out he already knows you won’t take.

You slide your hands into his hair, fingers threading through the dark mess of it. “Don’t ask again.”

That’s all he needs.

He surges forward, and your mouths crash together like the tension had teeth. There’s nothing soft about it. His tongue finds yours without asking, and you meet him head-on, like you’ve wanted this since the second you saw him flick ash from his cigarette.

He tastes like trouble, smoke and whiskey and a little bit of adrenaline, and you can’t get enough. His hand slides up your back, under your shirt, dragging warm fingertips along your spine. You arch into it.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, like he didn’t expect you to kiss like this, to move like this. He bites your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp, and then kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s chasing something down in your throat.

“God, you feel good,” he groans, hips rolling up into yours, and you grind down in answer. The car creaks slightly under the weight of you both, the windows fogging, your breaths too loud in the silence of the hill.

This isn’t careful. It isn’t pretty. It’s fast and messy and hot.

You kiss him like you’re starving, because in a way, you are. Not for romance or sweet nothings. For chaos. For heat. For the perfect, destructive distraction that he is. Wooyoung’s hands roam like he has every right. Under your shirt, up your thighs, gripping like he’s trying to leave fingerprints. The center console digs into your thigh, but you don’t care.

“Take this off,” he mutters, tugging at your top.

You obey, quick and clumsy, flinging it to the passenger seat. His eyes rake over you, your bra, your breathless expression, your flushed skin. He drags his hands up your stomach slowly, deliberately.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Then he leans in, pressing a trail of kisses from your collarbone to the swell of your breast, tongue flicking out just enough to make your breath hitch. “You like being bad, don’t you?”

You laugh, barely. “I like not thinking.”

He grins, dark and cocky. “Good. ‘Cause thinking’s the first thing I’ll take from you.”

One hand unhooks your bra. The other grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. He dips his head, mouth latching onto your breast, sucking until you arch into him, fingers tangled in his hair. Your moan breaks out sharp, raw.

“Fuck,” you whisper, because this is already more than you expected, hotter, filthier, better. You reach down between you, fingers touching him over his jeans. He’s hard. Big. Thick. You wrap your hand around the shape of him, and he groans, deep in his chest.

“What do you want me to do to you?” he asks, placing wet kisses on your skin.

“I don’t care, just make me come.” you breathe against his jaw, licking just beneath his ear.

Wooyoung adjusts the seat back slightly, giving you space but not distance. The second time you roll your hips against him, it’s not slow. It’s shameless. You moan, not even trying to hide it.

One of his hands leaves your waist. It trails down your stomach, smooth and slow. He slips it under your skirt like he’s done it a thousand times, no hesitation, no asking, just confident fingers dragging over your heat until you gasp and grab tighter at his hair.

“God, look at you,” Wooyoung murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Already falling apart.” He rolls the windows down halfway, lazy, casual. The breeze slips in, cool against your skin. You realize what he’s doing, letting the night hear you. Letting the whole city know who you’re moaning for.

Cocky bastard.

“You want to be loud for me?” he whispers against your jaw, fingers teasing your folds, slipping between them with perfect pressure. “Want to let them hear how good I make you feel?”

Your body tenses, eyes fluttering shut, breath caught on a moan as his fingers slip inside you, deep, slow, fucking up into you with confidence.

You grind down against his hand, head falling back. “Wooyoung…”

He growls. Literally growls.

“That’s it. Just like that.”

You’re sitting on his lap, backlit by the city, your skin bathed in moonlight and sin. Your shirt and bra are long gone, tossed somewhere into the passenger seat, your skirt barely hiding anything. You’re undone, flushed and panting, his fingers buried deep inside you, and he can’t look away.

He exhales sharply, like he just got hit. “Jesus,” he mutters, but it’s not a prayer, it’s a celebration.

You grind against his hand shamelessly, your head tipping back as you let the sounds escape your throat. You don’t care if the city hears. You hope it does.

And neither does he. His free hand cradles your jaw, forces you to look at him, and you do. Eyes glassy, lips parted, your breath catching as his fingers curl just right again. You cry out, and he grins, proud, possessive. “That’s it.”

He leans forward to press his mouth against your chest, sucking a bruise into the soft curve beneath your breast, biting down just enough to make you twitch. “Louder,” he murmurs, tongue trailing hot and slow along your skin. “Let them hear how good I make you feel.”

The windows are down, the night air hitting your flushed skin, but you’re burning up. On fire from the inside out. And just when you think you’re going to tip over the edge…

“Come for me, pretty girl,” he whispers, eyes wild. “C’mon, I want to feel it.”

That’s all it takes.

You fall apart with a cry, nails dragging down his chest, hips grinding helplessly into his palm as he works you through it, as if he could drag it out longer just because he can. You ride his hand until you’re limp and breathless, your head falling forward onto his shoulder. Wooyoung keeps his hand there, holding you open, feeling you twitch around nothing as you come down.

You’re still panting, slumped against his chest, the city lights flickering behind you like a dream. You’ve never felt so raw. So wrecked.

So alive.

He finally slides his fingers out of you, slow, wet, deliberate, and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a smirk.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Knew you’d taste like trouble.”

He leans back slightly to look at you, the glow of the city behind your head like a halo.

And fuck if you aren’t the most dangerous thing he’s ever seen.

***

You don’t even remember how you got home after that night. One minute you’re burning against him, the next you’re in your bed, shirt crumpled in your hands, the city’s glow bleeding through your curtains. He drove you back, fast, silent, like the night didn’t want to hear you talking. No promises. No phone numbers. Exactly what you wanted.

No strings. No ties.

Just that raw escape from everything that’s expected of you.

A few days later your cousin’s car sputters its last breath three blocks from the apartment, and now you’re both standing in the office of a mechanic’s garage, listening to the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low rumble of hip-hop from the back.

“You guys take walk-ins?” your cousin asks the man at the front desk.

“Depends who’s free,” the guy says, barely glancing up before he clicks a button and mutters into the intercom. “Yo, someone’s gotta check this Corolla in bay two.”

You almost don’t register the sound of footsteps behind the garage door. Almost. It swings open, and he walks in like it’s any other day. Black t-shirt, grease-stained hands, that same smug posture, lazy, lethal confidence in every step.

Wooyoung.

Your stomach flips. Your pulse forgets what it’s doing.

He doesn’t freeze. He clocks you in a second, eyes dragging from your shoes to your lips, and smirks like he knew this would happen eventually.

The garage smells like oil and gasoline, thick and sharp. Your cousin pops the hood of her beaten-up car and starts explaining the issues to Wooyoung. He listens quietly, nodding, hands tucked in the pockets, eyes flickering toward you more than once. His dark hair is tousled, shadows playing across his face. He’s calm, collected, but there’s something electric beneath that cool exterior.

“Gotta head to their office, handle some paperwork,” your cousin says without looking back. “Be back as soon as I can!” She walks off, leaving you alone with Wooyoung.

The silence is thick. Wooyoung’s there, crouched by the open hood, cigarette resting behind his ear, muscles flexing as he works. He doesn’t look up immediately, but the moment he does, his eyes catch yours with a slow, knowing smirk.

A smirk curls at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. Thought you’d be too smart for that.”

You cross your arms, eyes locked on his. “I’m full of surprises.”

He smirks, that cocky tilt of his head making your stomach flip. “Is that supposed to be a warning or an invitation?”

You laugh, sharp and unbothered. “Maybe both. Depends if you can handle it.”

Wooyoung’s gaze sharpens, amused and intrigued. He steps closer, the air tightening between you. “I race. Late nights, no rules, just speed and risk. You ever been to one?”

You cock your head, curious but guarded. “Can’t say I have.”

“Race’s tonight,” he says flatly. “Old pier, Maple Street. Ten o’clock. Show up.”

You meet his gaze evenly, lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t give anything away. “Maybe.” Without another word, you turn and walk toward the office, the sound of your footsteps sharp in the quiet garage. Behind you, you feel his eyes burning, like a spark waiting to ignite.

***

You didn’t plan on coming. You told yourself that more than once, heels clicking too confidently across the cracked asphalt now.

The lot is packed tonight, headlights cutting through smoke, the low thrum of engines and bass mixing with the scent of exhaust and beer. There’s laughter somewhere behind you. A fire pit burning on the outskirts.

You’re not here for him. You’re here for the thrill. The mess. The chaos.

That’s what you tell yourself… right until you spot him.

He’s got the hood of his car up, hands deep in the engine under the yellow haze of the parking lot lights. Sweat glints at his temple. Leather jacket stretching as he moves. There’s something brutal and beautiful about him like this, focused, filthy, in his element.

You don’t stare long. Just a second. You tell yourself it’s curiosity, nothing more. Long enough to feel that old pull in your gut. Then you turn your head, pretend he’s nothing. Sip from your cup like you didn’t come here hoping he’d show.

The crowd buzzes around you, bass from someone’s speaker, the smell of gasoline and cheap weed and summer sweat. Your heels click softly when you shift your weight. The hem of your black skirt creeps higher when you cross your legs.

“You actually came.”

You glance over, deliberately slow. Wooyoung is standing next to you now, casual as ever, hands in his pockets, smirk lazy across his face.

“Didn’t realize you were the welcoming committee.” you tease.

He smiles, teeth sharp under the buzzing parking lot lights. He’s close now, not touching, but he never needs to be. His eyes drop, track the tiny black skirt hugging your hips, the heels that make your legs look miles long. You feel the way he looks at you, possessive, greedy, intrigued.

“You came here alone?” he asks, voice low, like a secret passed too close to your ear.

You raise a brow, sip from the red cup in your hand. “Why? You worried?”

His gaze cuts to the guy who had been trying to talk to you before, then back to your mouth. His stare is slow, deliberate. Territorial in the kind of way he won’t admit out loud. “I should be.” Then, softer, almost too quiet beneath the bass and city noise, but it hits you square in the chest. “You shouldn’t come here looking like this.”

You smirk, weight shifting onto one hip as you tilt your head at him. “Scared you might get some competition?”

His eyes drag down your legs. Slowly. Taking their time. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You blink up at him, lashes thick. Innocent, like you don’t know exactly what he means. “Doing what?”

He steps closer, just a breath between you now. His voice drops. “You wanna be looked at?” His eyes flick to the crowd, jaw tightening. “You want every guy here thinking they’ve got a chance?”

You hum, almost amused. “I’m just having fun.”

His tongue drags across his bottom lip as he fights the twitch in his smirk, that look of barely restrained hunger already flooding back in. “You’re trouble.” he says simply, shaking his head. “Fucking trouble.”

Then, without asking, he slides his jacket off and drapes it around your shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Smelling like oil and smoke and him.

“I’m not cold,” you murmur, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs. “Didn’t say it was for that.” He leaves without another word. Just a look, something unreadable, sharp-edged, and hot enough to sink into your spine.

The buzz of the crowd floods back in as soon as he’s gone. Music from someone’s speaker thumping through the pavement, tires squealing nearby. Laughter. Catcalls. You move, slipping through clusters of people, past hoods popped open and boys hyping up their cars. You find a low ledge near the corner of a building and climbs up, tugging his jacket tighter around your body as you settle. It still smells like him. Smoke, grease and something reckless.

Then you see him.

He’s stepping toward his car, the same one he made you come in last week. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his neck, messy strands of hair falling over his forehead. His jaw’s tight, focused. The cocky confidence is still there, but cut with something else, something darker. Dangerous.

You let your eyes trail over him slowly, drinking it all in: the way his eyes scan the street, calculating. Alive. You feel it from here, the pull, the high. He was made for this.

And then, just before he gets in, he looks up. Straight at you.

It’s not casual. It’s not an accident. His eyes find you like a match to gasoline. You don’t look away. You let him see you. Legs longs, his jacket barely covering the sin of your skirt, lips parted from the liquor and heat of it all. You tilt your head, just a fraction, enough to let him know you like what you see.

He grins. Barely there, but it cuts through the dark. Then he’s gone, slipping into the driver’s seat, engine revving like a war cry.

The flag drops and the cars launch forward like bullets, engines roar like wild beasts unleashed, tires screeching against the cracked asphalt. You’re breathless, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd.

The car beside him tries to keep pace, but it’s like watching a child chase a shadow. He’s too good. Too confident. Too alive. He takes the first turn tight and fast, almost too fast, but he grips it, tires screaming in protest.

You bite your lip and smile, pulse ticking high. You weren’t looking for meaning.

But this? The danger, the speed, the burn in your veins?

This might be exactly what you needed.

Back on the straightaway, his car roars ahead, slicing through the night like a knife. The other driver strains, but Wooyoung’s already miles ahead. The city lights blur past, but he’s a sharp contrast, focused, untouchable. The finish line rushes toward him, and he crosses it first with a triumphant roar from the crowd.

The roar of engines dies down, and the crowd begins to thin after a while, their chatter fading into the night as anticipation for the next race lingers in the air. You step away from the edge of the track, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, heart still pounding from the rush. You find a spot behind a half-gutted van and lean back, letting the chaos fade. You breathe in the night and feel your pulse begin to settle.

Then a voice behind you cuts right through.

“Running off already?” he drawls.

You don’t jump. You don’t turn around too quickly. Just lift your gaze toward the sky for one long second, then shift to glance over your shoulder.

He’s there. Lit up in the dim glow of a busted streetlamp, black t-shirt, eyes hot. His hair’s a little messy from the wind, jaw sharp with leftover adrenaline. Smug, as always.

“I figured you’d be busy,” you say, neutral.

“I am,” he shrugs. “But I saw you walk away.”

You face him fully now. “Congratulations, by the way.”

He steps closer, just a little. “You came to see me win?”

You tilt your head. “I came for the thrill.”

He laughs under his breath like he knows better. “And did you get it?”

You don't answer. Just let your gaze sweep over him, slow and deliberate. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, veins prominent from gripping the wheel.

“I always knew you were trouble,” he murmurs, mouth twitching. “But that skirt? That walk? You just confirmed you’re doing it on purpose.”

You smirk. “You’re not the only one who likes a little attention.”

That makes his tongue press into his cheek, makes his eyes darken just a shade. Then he jerks his head toward the lot. “Come on.”

You raise a brow. “Where?”

“Away,” he says simply. “You’ve seen enough here, haven’t you?” He doesn’t wait for your answer, just starts walking toward his car like he knows you’ll come. And maybe that’s what makes you move, the confidence, the danger, the not-knowing.

Because you want to. The engine rumbles to life like it’s impatient, just like him. He doesn’t say a word when you glance at him, just flicks the headlights on, rolls down his window, and pulls out without looking back.

You don’t ask where he’s going. He doesn’t tell you. His hand is steady on the wheel. One arm draped over the top, wrist loose, like he’s done this a thousand times, like he owns every road. That’s when you see it. The rose inked on his forearm, just above the wrist. You never noticed it before. Sharp lines, bold petals, thorns curled close to the stem. Beautiful. Quietly dangerous.

Just like him.

After a while, you catch the scent of salt. The car slows, headlights cutting across uneven sand and gravel before dipping low, settling in front of a wide, open stretch of black water. The ocean looks infinite like this, still, deep, unbothered by the world they came from.

Wooyoung kills the engine.

The beach isn’t much, not the kind you'd take photos at, but it's empty. Silent. The kind of place people come to forget. Or to be alone, together.

“You always bring people out here?” you ask finally, your voice low, not because you're shy, but because anything louder might snap the moment in two.

His mouth twitches. “No.”

That’s all he gives you.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly and open the door. The air outside is colder than expected, and the wind off the ocean hits your bare legs like a slap, but you don’t flinch. You walk barefoot into the sand, heels dangling from one hand. His jacket hangs off your frame like a secret you shouldn’t be keeping.

You don’t look back. You don’t need to.

You hear him follow a few seconds later. The door shuts with a heavy thud, and his footsteps crunch behind you in the sand. And you feel it: his stare. Heavy. Hot. Carving into the back of your thighs like he’s still sitting behind the wheel, still imagining your legs slung over his seat.

“You gonna keep staring?” you ask, not turning around.

“I’m trying not to.”

You smile, slow. “You’re bad at that.”

He lets out a short laugh, the low kind that hums in your stomach. Then he steps closer, sand giving way under his boots.

“That skirt’s gonna be the death of me,” he mutters.

You finally turn your head, raise an eyebrow. “What does it do to you?”

He laughs under his breath, low and sharp. “You want the full list?”

You face him now. The hem of the jacket skims just above your thighs, the wind teasing it up every so often, just enough. And he's looking. His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, like he’s thinking too much.

You blink up at him, heart in your throat but your expression smooth. “I’m starting to think you’ve got no self-control.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he says easily, taking another step forward. You don’t back away. “Not with you standing there like that. Jacket slipping off your shoulder. Those pretty little heels in your hand like you just got tired of playing nice.”

The air between you is thick now, too hot, too still, too quiet. Just the wind, the dark waves behind you, and the way he’s looking at you like every second without touching you is driving him fucking insane.

“You’re not making it easy,” he says low.

“I’m not trying to.”

He exhales a sharp laugh, then grabs your jaw and kisses you. There’s no warning. No slow lead-in. His mouth crashes onto yours like he’s been starving, like he’s trying to taste everything he missed. You kiss him back just as hard, breath catching in your chest as your free hand fists in his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips, palms skimming down the sides of your thighs, up under the hem of your jacket.

Then he pulls back, just enough to speak, voice rough and low, eyes dark. “Get in the backseat.”

You blink, chest heaving. “What?”

His hand is still gripping your thigh, thumb stroking slow against the inside. “You heard me. Backseat. Now.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command that lights something wicked inside you. Without a word you walk around to the passenger side, pulling the door open with your heart pounding. He’s already climbing into the back, shoving the front seat forward to make space. The dome light overhead flickers on and then dims as you slide in beside him.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you again.

The car fills with the sound of breathless gasps and the shuffle of clothes, the scent of him closing in as his hands roam with renewed urgency. He tugs you into his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, your skirt riding high as you grind down against the bulge already straining in his jeans.

“Fuck,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. “This-, this is what I should’ve done last time.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time, biting his lip just hard enough to make him curse again. His hands slide up your back, underneath the jacket, skin against skin now, and it’s not enough. Nothing is.

“Keep the jacket on,” he mutters between kisses. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You laugh softly, a sound that breaks into a moan as he grinds up into you, the friction delicious and overwhelming. You know this is going to get messy. Exactly the way you want it.

Because this time, he’s not stopping.

He curses under his breath, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping, pulling you down harder onto him as he bucks up. “You’re gonna drive me insane,” he murmurs, biting down on the edge of your jaw, hard enough to make you gasp. “Making those little noises, grinding like that-, fuck-”

Your hands are already at his belt, unfastening it with practiced ease, the clink of metal loud in the quiet car. His breath catches the moment your fingers brush over the hard line of him, still straining against his jeans.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes dropping to where your hand moves. He leans back slightly, hands gripping your thighs as you shift just enough to pull him free, hot and heavy in your palm, thick and already leaking. He hisses when your thumb swipes over the tip.

“I’ve thought about this,” he says low, watching you from beneath heavy lashes. “You. In my car. Wearing my jacket. Getting me this fuckin’ hard without even trying.”

“You’re the one who didn’t fuck me last time,” you whisper, breathless, teasing.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. And I’ve regretted it every damn day since.” Then he reaches down between you both, pulls your underwear to the side with one hand, rough, impatient, and notches the head of his cock against your entrance. You rise to your knees to angle yourself better, nails digging into his bare shoulders. He meets your gaze, voice low and hoarse. “You ready?”

You nod. “Don’t you dare hold back.”

And he doesn’t.

He pushes in slow but deep as you sit down, eyes locked on yours the entire time like he’s watching your reaction. You clutch at him as your body stretches around him, breath hitching when he’s finally buried all the way inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “Tight as hell. Fucking perfect.”

You roll your hips experimentally and both of you moan at the friction.

His hands grip your waist, guiding you, dragging you along his cock in slow, dirty motions. The car creaks beneath you, the windows fogging with condensation, but neither of you notice. You’re too wrapped up in the heat between your bodies, the wet sound of you sliding over him again and again, your soft gasps clashing with his filthy praise.

“Just like that,” he pants, teeth gritted. “Ride me, baby. Take what you need.”

Your hands slide into his hair as you start to move faster, bouncing slightly in his lap. The jacket slides open, but you leave it on, feeling his hands grab your ass, tugging you down harder each time you rise.

“You look so good like this,” he rasps. “So fucking filthy. You like fucking me in my backseat, huh?”

You moan, nodding against his neck.

He thrusts up harder suddenly, making you cry out, nails raking down his chest. He grabs your jaw again, kissing you hard, tongue dragging over yours as his hips slam up into you with rough, desperate rhythm.

Suddenly he grips your hips tight and flips you without warning, your back hitting the seat, knees bent over the edge. He’s between your legs in seconds, shirt rucked up around his waist, jeans barely pushed down his thighs. The jacket is still on you, wide open now, framing your body like he meant for it. His body cages yours completely.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, voice thick. “I want you to see.”

You do. God, you do.

Because the sight of him like this, cock wet and thick, already pushing back into you, is obscene. His jaw clenched, chest rising and falling hard, lips parted with the filthiest groan when he sinks into you again. Your mouth falls open at the stretch, at the slick sound of it. You’re soaked for him, and he knows it.

“Look at that,” he grits out, glancing down between you as he drags out and slams back in, harder now. “You see how fucking good you take me?” He’s got a hand around your throat now, thumb dragging under your jaw as he stares down at you like he owns the moment. Sweat at his temples, veins in his neck, and that look in his eyes. Feral.

“You like seeing me fuck you? Like how deep I go? How filthy I get when I lose it over you?” he growls, watching every flicker of your expression.

You try to hold eye contact, but your eyes flick down, greedy, hungry, obsessed. The way his cock slides in and out of you, the wet slap of it, the muscles in his stomach tightening with every thrust, it’s too much. Too perfect.

You nod fast, moaning, your nails digging into his arm. He’s relentless now, pace brutal, and all you can do is take it, back arching, toes curling, your voice high and breathless.

“Come for me,” he says low, rough. “Right now. Wanna feel it.”

And fuck, when he leans down and bites your neck, when his hand moves back to your thigh, spreading you wider so he can go even deeper, you fall. Hard. You break apart with a strangled moan, legs trembling around his waist, nails scraping down his back. He watches you fall apart, eyes locked on yours, hips never slowing.

“Goddamn,” he growls, voice tight. “You feel that? How you’re gripping me? Gonna make me-, fuck, gonna fill you up, baby. Just like this.”

You hold onto him as he groans, deep and raw, stuttering into you with one final thrust, spilling inside with a curse. You feel all of it. Every pulse. Every inch.

His palm slides up your thigh, and you feel every inch of him still inside you, thick, pulsing, stretching you open just right.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even move.

His head drops back, breath harsh, chest rising fast under that clingy black t-shirt. You watch the muscles shift beneath it, the way a single vein trails down his forearm, twitching slightly. He glances down between you, lips parting.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Still so fucking tight around me.” His hand slips under the jacket again, palm dragging up your skin. “You kept this on,” he says, almost to himself. “Fuck, you really wanted to kill me tonight, huh?”

You try to speak, but he shifts his hips, slow and deep, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan instead.

He grins. “That’s what I thought.”

He pulls out slow, deliberate, watching the mess he’s made of you. You try to close your legs, but he doesn’t let you. He taps your inner thigh, and you let him spread you open again, even if your body protests.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs. “Wanna look at what I did to you.”

And you do. You let him look. You let him take it all in, cocky eyes dropping to where you drip down onto the backseat, your thighs trembling, lips swollen from the way he kissed you.

You stay wrapped around each other in that charged silence, the world outside fading away until all that exists is the heat, the touch, and the undeniable pull between you. The night is yours, messy and unfiltered, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

You’re wrapped in a towel, hair damp, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower. The night outside your Airbnb window is soft and still, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, hot day. You’re not thinking about him, not actively, anyway. But your mind’s been drifting all week, every time your fingers brushed the edge of your mouth like they could still feel his kiss, like your thighs remembered how he fit between them.

You definitely weren’t expecting a knock at the door.

You freeze, blink toward the entrance. No one knows you here. Another knock, this one lazier, a little amused. You pad barefoot to the door, frowning, water still sliding down the back of your neck.

You open it, and there he is.

Wooyoung.

He leans against the doorframe like he was born to fill that space, in his black jacket, a black tee that hugs his chest, his hair messy like he’s been driving with the windows down. His eyes sweep over you, lazy and unhurried, from the damp strands stuck to your cheek to the towel knotted just above your breasts. His mouth curves, that signature smirk tugging at the corner. He lifts his eyes back to yours, full of something dark and warm and very sure of itself.

“Hey, trouble.”

Your heart stutters. “What-, How did you-”

He nods toward the hallway behind him. “Was driving around. Was in the area. Figured I’d stop by.”

“You remembered the address,” you say slowly, more to yourself than him. You hadn’t thought much of it when he drove you home, twice. Definitely didn’t expect him to turn up on your doorstep because of it.

He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t that hard.”

You tighten the towel slightly. “What made you think showing up unannounced was a good idea?”

Wooyoung shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye. “Didn’t think. Just came.” His gaze skims over you again, slower this time. “Good timing, huh?”

Your chin tips up just slightly, a smirk tugging at your lips now, small, smug, impossible to hide. You’re tempted, and you hate how much you like the power shift. How good it feels to make him wait on your word. He steps forward, just enough for the toe of his boot to cross the threshold.

You glance down at it, then back up at him. “You gonna stand there or come in?”

He raises a brow like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud, but the smirk that follows says he was hoping. “Didn’t wanna be rude,” he says, stepping closer like it’s nothing.

You just step back, towel still clutched to your chest, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with modesty. The door clicks shut behind him and you turn away, heading back toward the bedroom without waiting.

He follows. Of course he does.

You don’t say anything as you walk, still towel-wrapped and dripping faintly onto the hardwood. He’s behind you, quiet, but not subtle. You feel his eyes on your back, your legs, the curve of your spine. You don’t rush. Let him look. Let him want.

"Didn’t think you were the kind of girl to answer the door dressed like that,” he murmurs.

“Didn’t think you were the kind of guy to show up uninvited,” you toss back, stepping into the bedroom.

“No phone number. Kind of had to improvise,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway now, arms crossed, that cocky gleam in his eyes like he knows he’s already gotten under your skin. “You make a habit of showing up at girls’ doors hoping they’re half-naked?”

He smiles. “No. Just yours.”

You don’t answer, just turn your back to him and let the towel fall. It slips off your skin in one clean motion, landing at your feet with a soft rustle. You don’t look back. You don’t have to. You know what this does to him. The silence that falls between you says more than any words could.

Without looking back, you slip on a pair of black thongs slowly, then grab a white tank top. You don’t rush. You feel his eyes burning into you the entire time. The top clings to your still-damp skin, nipples pressing clearly through the fabric. You could’ve dressed. You chose not to. You like watching him struggle to keep his cool. “So,” you say, voice dry, turning around. “What do you want, Wooyoung?”

He shrugs, smile slow and lazy. “Thought maybe you’d let me stick around.”

You toss the towel onto a chair and brush past him on your way to the kitchen. “And if I don’t?”

He follows you again, of course. Closer this time. “I’ll change your mind.”

You open the fridge, bend down just enough to give him a view, and pull out a bottle of water. When you stand again, he’s closer.

“No plans tonight?” he asks.

You twist the cap off. “Was thinking about heading out.”

“Date?”

You look at him over your shoulder, sipping slow, the cool water sliding down your throat. “Why? You jealous?”

He smirks, but there’s something tighter in his jaw now. “I’d be stupid not to be.”

You laugh under your breath and turn, leaning against the counter, letting the cold bottle rest against your bare hip. “Would it stop you from showing up uninvited?”

“Not even a little.”

You study him for a beat. He’s not pretending not to look, his eyes flick to your chest again, linger. You know he wants to touch you. He’s barely keeping it together.

And you love it.

“So where were you thinking of going?” he asks, resting his hands on the counter across from you.

“Some bar a few blocks from here. Thought I’d look around.”

“You gonna make me watch you flirt with someone else tonight?”

You smile lazily. “You gonna stop me?”

He doesn’t answer, just steps closer again, hands braced on either side of the counter behind you now, caging you in. His voice drops a little. “Don’t really like the idea of anyone else looking at you.”

You arch a brow. “Mm. So here you are.”

His gaze drags down your body, slowly, all the way to your thighs, down to the swell of your breasts under the thin white cotton, and then back up. He doesn’t answer right away. You expect a flirt, a tease, a deflection, but when he speaks, his voice is steadier. Honest.

“I thought about you.”

Your chest tightens, just for a moment. You recover quickly, he doesn’t need to know what that does to you. So you lift your bottle again, let it cool your lips.

“I don’t make a habit of showing up for people,” he adds. “Not unless I want to.”

You lower the water, studying him now. “And what is it you want, exactly?”

His gaze moves across your face. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. “But I’m not done finding out.”

You stay quiet. The silence stretches between you, long and warm. You could break it, make it light again, but you don’t. Instead, you smile. Slow, knowing, and utterly unreadable. Not yes. Not no. Just… this. He catches it, the challenge in that smile. And it’s enough.

You step away, leaving your water on the counter, turning toward the bedroom without another word. Your fingers slide over the fabric of your skirt as you pull it on, eyes catching your reflection in the mirror, dark, a little wild, definitely dangerous.

From the doorway, you hear him speak, voice low, almost reluctant. “You always this hard to read?”

You turn slowly, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. “I’m not looking for easy,” you say quietly. “Not tonight.”

He nods, eyes sharp and steady. “Good. Me neither.”

You pull out a delicate black crop top, barely there, high neck, open back. You pull the old white tank top over your head and slide on the new one. The cotton clings to your curves, your nipples visibly peeking through the fabric from where he stands. You don’t fix it. You don’t care. In fact, you tilt your head and catch his reflection in the mirror. He’s staring, jaw tight again, mouth parted just slightly like he’s fighting the urge to say something or maybe do something.

You lift your hair, twisting it up casually to check how the top sits. “Still planning to stay?”

He steps behind you, slow, then reaches up without a word, catching a strand that slipped and tucking it gently behind your ear. His knuckles graze your cheek. His eyes hold yours in the mirror, and they’re darker now. Serious. Like you’ve peeled something open in him he hadn’t planned on showing.

That does something to you. And you hate that it does. Because this wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just tension. Just heat. Just one night in the back of his car and nothing else. But now he’s in your room. Talking like he means it. Looking at you like he wants to memorize what you look like under this light.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

You smirk at your reflection. “Somewhere you can watch me walk away all night.” And when you glance at him again, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip like he’s trying to behave. But you know better.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you think I’ll be able to keep my hands off you that long?”

You slide on your boots with a smirk. "Come on, then."

He’s still standing there when you straighten, grab your purse, and cross to the door. He follows like a shadow. And as you step out into the hallway, his fingers brush the small of your back, low and fleeting.

You say nothing. But you don’t stop him either.

The bar isn’t loud, but it hums, low light, red leather booths, the sharp clink of glass, the bass of something dark curling through the air. He holds the door open for you and lets you walk in first, doesn’t say anything, just watches the sway of your hips as you pass. He hasn’t stopped watching you.

You slide onto a stool without waiting for him, legs crossed, skirt riding high. He stands beside you for a second, watching, just watching, then pulls his stool in too close and sits.

You glance at him sideways. “No room anywhere else?”

He leans in without hesitation, breath brushing your jaw. “Didn’t come here to sit far away from you.”

You order and the bartender slides the drinks over and disappears. You take a sip without waiting. He doesn’t touch his glass yet. “You came dressed like this,” he murmurs, “and then invited me out?”

Your eyes flick to his. “I didn’t invite you.”

“You said come with you.”

“And you showed up uninvited to my apartment before that.”

He grins, teeth sharp, voice low. “And you let me in.”

You glance over, tongue touching the rim of your glass just because you feel like being a little cruel. “You like watching, huh?”

His jaw twitches. “I like knowing I’m the only one who gets to.”

You smile, slow and sharp. “That’s cute.”

He exhales a laugh, finally taking a sip of his drink. “It’s not cute. It’s dangerous.”

You hum. “That supposed to scare me?”

“No. It’s supposed to turn you on.”

There’s a pause. You don’t look at him, not right away. You set your glass down. Shift slightly so your bare thigh brushes his jeans. You feel the way he tenses. And then you glance up, slow. Your voice is silk when it comes out. “It does.”

He drags his gaze across your face like he’s memorizing every flicker of expression, then drops it again, to your chest, to your lips, to your thighs. His fingers flex around his glass. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I’m trying to be good.”

Your smile is wicked now. “Why?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, something real flickers there. But then he leans in, close enough that your knees brush. “Because if I weren’t, I’d already have you in the back of the bar. Up against a wall. Hands on your hips. My mouth on your neck.”

You laugh softly, but your heart’s racing. “And you think I’d let you?”

“No,” he says, eyes flicking down again. “I think you’d beg for it.”

The air between you crackles. But then you shift back, take another sip, re-cross your legs just to fuck with him. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.”

He watches you with that burning, tethered hunger like he’s seconds from snapping it. But his voice stays calm when he says, “You’re not like anyone I’ve met.”

You rest your elbow on the bar, chin tilted. “You don’t know me.”

“Not yet,” he says. “But I’m gonna.”

There’s silence again. Not awkward, something heavier. Hungrier. He’s watching you like he could devour you whole. And you let him. You want him to. A couple people pass behind you, loud laughter and perfume in the air, but it doesn’t break the line between you.

“Drink,” you murmur, nudging his glass with your fingers.

He obeys. A beat. Then: “Let me take you home after this.”

You tilt your head. “You don’t want to watch me flirt with strangers first?”

His jaw ticks. “I’ll break his nose.”

You smile. And that’s the moment you know you’ve got him exactly where you want him.

He leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear, voice low and raw. “I don’t want you anywhere but with me.” His fingers curl tighter around your hand, a silent promise and a warning all at once. You catch the fire in his eyes, fierce and unblinking.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you trace your thumb over the back of his hand, letting the electricity spark between you both. “Then take me. I’m all yours.”

Without another word, he signals for the check, hands never leaving you. Outside, the night air is cool against your skin, sharp and fresh. He opens the car door for you like he owns you already, then slides behind the wheel with a confidence that makes your heart race.

You drove for hours without direction, his hand resting heavy on your thigh, thumb tracing idle, possessive circles on bare skin. He made it clear between sharp glances and sharper words that he didn’t do the whole dating thing, didn’t play house, didn’t promise anything past the next time he could get his hands on you. And though it seemed dangerous to play like that, you couldn't stop chasing him. The hunger in it. The freedom.

You let him pull off into some dark, empty lot halfway across the city and fuck you in the backseat again, his mouth everywhere, hands rougher this time, more desperate, like he'd been holding back all night. Afterwards, the windows fogged and your pulse still high, he drove again, nowhere in particular, just fast, just far, before ending up at your place. And when he had you again, finally, inside your own bed, it was slower, but not softer. He still didn't ask to stay. He didn't need to.

***

It wasn’t supposed to be a regular thing.

You didn’t plan on seeing him again the night after the bar. Or the night after that. But then he kept showing up and you did the same. One ride becomes two. Then four. Then too many to count. Now, it’s routine, a rhythm carved out of adrenaline, midnight, and want.

At first, it was easy. Just fast rides and faster hands. Parking lots with the windows fogged, whispered laughs and skin flushed from the cold. But then came the in-betweens. Gas station pit stops at 2 a.m. where he’d buy you snacks you didn’t ask for. Lazy mornings when he didn’t leave right away. He takes you to races, slips an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

You never called it anything. You never talked about it like it mattered. But he was always there. And you kept letting him in.

Your cousin still thinks you’ve been keeping to yourself. Staying quiet. Healing. If she asked, you wouldn’t lie, but you wouldn’t tell her everything either. Because whatever this is with him, it’s not simple. It’s not safe. It isn’t supposed to last.

You promised yourself when you came to this city for the summer that you wouldn’t overthink. Wouldn’t chase anyone’s expectations. Wouldn’t waste time second-guessing every move you made. You were here to feel, not fix. To want, not explain.

And Wooyoung made that easy.

He had a way of clearing your mind like smoke filling a room, thick, dizzying, inescapable. Dangerous in a way that didn’t scare you, but hooked you. Like he was your own walking addiction, all sharp smiles and reckless charm, and you were already too far gone to pretend you didn’t like the way he burned.

You visit him when he works at the garage, sweat on his neck, grease on his fingers, and you leaned against the wall until he pulls you in. Mouths hungry. Hands rough. You’ve fucked against that garage door more times than you can remember, the metal always cold against your spine.

It happens everywhere. Every time.

The front seat. Backseat. Hood of his car when the engine’s still warm. In the car in a random alley in town. Once, behind the mechanic shop, half-hidden, half-exposed, and he didn’t even care.

You’ve been to more than a few races by now. Long enough to know the scent of smoke and rubber. But nothing compares to watching him out there.

You live for that split second before the race starts, the way his jaw tightens, eyes dark and locked in, fire flickering behind them. Every time he wins, and he always wins, you catch yourself biting your lip, adrenaline tangled with pride. Like it’s your victory too. Because in a way, it is.

You’re already wearing his jacket when you step out of the car, the oversized black thing swallowing your frame, sleeves pushed up, and unmistakably his. Everyone knows it. They’ve seen you in it more than they’ve seen him wear it lately, and that says something.

Everyone knows not to look too long. They’ve learned. The hard way.

The race lot is alive, headlights burning through dusk, bass thumping from open trunks, engines snarling like wolves waiting to be let loose. You settle on the trunk of Wooyoung’s car, skirt riding up your thighs, legs crossed slow.

And you know the eyes are coming.

You feel them before you see them. Some from the usuals. Most from the new ones. Men who don’t know better yet. Or maybe they do, and they’re just stupid.

Wooyoung’s bent under the open hood, checking something in the engine with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. You’ve been at this long enough to recognize faces. Wooyoung’s team. The regulars. And the ones from the rival crew, all bravado and cheap insults, waiting to be flattened.

One of them’s eyeing you too hard.

Some rival team idiot, leaning on a car that doesn’t belong to him. He lingers a few feet away, lean build and smug expression, drinking out of a red solo cup like he owns the place. He doesn’t. And you don’t bother acknowledging him. Not until he walks past you and whistles. Loud. Sharp.

“Damn,” he says, looking you up and down, eyes shameless. “She’s got a better rear than your car.”

Your head turns slowly. You don’t flinch, don’t frown, just arch a brow, roll your eyes, and look away like he’s not even worth your breath. He’s grinning like he hasn’t just stepped into a minefield. His eyes drag over you like he’s entitled to it.

But you also know better than to think Wooyoung didn’t hear it. You know what’s coming. You know Wooyoung hears these comments, and you know exactly how he’ll respond.

You feel it first. That shift in the air. That tension that hits just before lightning strikes.

Then you hear it.

His laugh.

It’s low. Dangerous. It cuts through the bass like a blade through silk. Everyone around you stiffens because it’s not the kind of laugh that invites company. It’s the kind that warns. A sound that simmers with violence, a fuse already lit.

Wooyoung tosses the rag he was using onto the ground without a word and walks, each step deliberate, calculated. He doesn’t look at you as he passes. His eyes are locked on the idiot who’s about to learn a very painful lesson.

“Say that again,” Wooyoung says calmly, still with a disturbing smile on his face.

The guy chuckles nervously, looking around for backup that isn’t there. “Relax, man. It was a joke.”

You see the guy start to crack, the tension in his shoulders, the way he suddenly can’t look Wooyoung in the eye.

“You look at her like that again, or say some shit like that again,” Wooyoung murmurs, low enough that only the two of them, “and I’ll break your fucking legs. You understand? I’ll drag you behind my car and leave you in pieces by the end of the lot.”

His hand claps down hard on the guy’s shoulder, making him flinch. “Say something. Please. Give me a reason.”

The guy doesn’t say shit. Just stumbles backward, muttering apologies, practically tripping over himself as he bolts into the shadows.

Wooyoung doesn’t move for a long second.

You’re still perched on the hood, legs swinging lazily, pretending your whole body isn’t thrumming from the spectacle Wooyoung just made. When he turns, his smirk’s already in place. That cocky tilt to his mouth, the slow prowl in his walk. Like he knows you’re watching him just as closely as everyone else is.

And he knows exactly what he just did to you.

“Jesus,” you say as he stops in front of you, “You gonna mark your territory next?”

He chuckles low, eyes raking over you, from the collar of his jacket hanging loose on your shoulders, to the bare stretch of skin above your knees. His fingers hook into your waistband like it’s instinct. You bite your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, letting your gaze drop to his mouth, then drag lazily back up to meet his eyes. You know exactly what you’re doing.

“Don’t tempt me.” His mouth crashes against yours before you can say another word.

It’s not gentle. It’s all heat and teeth, a kiss that claims. He kisses you like he’s mad you made him feel anything at all. Like he’s trying to erase the sight of someone else’s eyes on your skin with every rough slide of his tongue. He drags your hips toward the edge of the car, like he wants you spread out and helpless for him right there.

When he pulls back, his lips are red, swollen. His voice is a whisper against your jaw.

“You keep teasing me like that, baby, and I’ll fuck the attitude out of you, right here, right now.”

***

It’s been over a month now.

You didn’t mean for it to turn into anything. It just... happened.

Most mornings start in your kitchen, you in his shirt, him barefoot and sleepy-eyed, making something that smells better than it has any right to. He’s a good cook, like, suspiciously good, and you tease him for it constantly. Ask if he’s hiding a wife and three kids somewhere. He just tosses you a berry or flicks water at your leg and tells you to shut up and eat.

Sometimes you don’t leave the Airbnb all day. He puts something on the TV you’re not really watching, and you end up sprawled across his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare thigh, not even trying to be sneaky about it. Other days, you follow him to the garage, sit on a crate while he works on his car. He gets grease on his cheek, his neck, the curve of his collarbone, and you wipe it off for him with a teasing smile while he watches you like he’d rather pull you onto the hood and forget whatever else he was doing.

But you haven’t told him. That you’re only here for the summer. That this, whatever it is, has a timer on it.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s smart. But you’ve heard him talk. Heard his friends joke. Heard the girls he used to fuck and toss to the side mention that he doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t do feelings, doesn’t stay. You’ve heard it in his own voice too, casual, offhand comments when someone asks if you’re his girl and he shrugs it off or changes the subject, suddenly preoccupied with something else. It stings a little every time. Not dramatic, not devastating, but quiet, like a bruise you don’t want to press on. Like maybe he wants you, but not really wants you. Not all the way.

So you keep it to yourself.

And in the meantime, you ride with him everywhere. Sit in his seat, steal his fries, kiss him in the glow of red lights. You let him cook for you. You brush his hair back when he lets it grow too long. You laugh at his dumb jokes. He never says what this is. And neither do you.

But he always shows up. And you always open the door.

Tonight, you’re at yet another of his races.

Engines rumble like thunder, headlights cutting through the night. You’re standing at your usual spot, perched on the edge of the crowd, his jacket zipped halfway up your chest, hair pulled back just enough to see everything. Your eyes never leave the sleek black car rolling up to the start line, Wooyoung’s.

He pulls in like he owns the asphalt, engine growling beneath him like it wants to be let loose. His gaze sweeps over you, slow, loaded, then he smirks, that cocky little thing he does right before he tears the world apart.

And still, all you can think about is the way he kissed you ten minutes ago. Hot, full, tongue first, like he couldn’t hold back. You still feel it, the heat of it, the taste of him, the way he murmured “Stay where I can see you” against your lips like a warning, or a promise.

The flag girl steps forward. He revs his engine once, twice, your heartbeat syncs with the rhythm. The light turns green, and he’s gone.

You don’t cheer. Just watch, transfixed. The way he takes turns, precise and wild, engine howling as he cuts through the competition like it’s nothing. It’s art. It’s war. It’s him. The matte black machine moves like it’s part of him, sleek, brutal, untouchable. Every time he shifts gears, it feels like the ground itself vibrates beneath your feet.

And then–

“COPS!”

The scream rips through the air, high and raw and terrifying. Then the first siren wails.

All hell breaks loose.

Blue and red lights explode across the lot like fireworks. More sirens. Shouts. People start running in every direction, drinks spilling, tires screeching, screams rising. A girl next to you shoves past you so hard you stumble back, heels slipping on the uneven concrete.

The panic is total. A stampede.

Someone crashes into your side. You spin, disoriented, trying to find an exit through the chaos, but bodies are slamming against each other, climbing over cars, scrambling for cover. You can’t see anything, not the streets, not where the cops are coming from, not even Wooyoung.

You try to run. Make it three steps before your foot catches on something, a curb, a bottle, someone’s leg, and you crash to the ground hard, knees scraping raw against pavement. Pain blooms sharp and hot as your palms catch you, barely.

Panic grabs you by the throat. You’re alone. You don’t know where he is. The cops are coming fast.

And then-

A hand wraps around your arm.

Strong. Unshakable. Familiar.

You look up and he’s there, Wooyoung, eyes wild with adrenaline, jaw tight, his voice low and cutting through the noise like a blade. “Come on.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just yanks you up with one swift pull and hauls you against his side. He’s already planned his route. His car is parked in the shadows between a dumpster and a dead-end wall. He doesn’t slow down. Throws open the passenger door and shoves you inside. You barely register the click of your seatbelt before he’s in the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Hold on.”

The tires scream as he throws it into gear and peels out of the lot, weaving through fleeing cars and panicked people like the devil himself is on your heels, and maybe he is. You see flashes of uniforms in the rearview mirror.

And then he’s driving. Not just fast, fucking insane.

He weaves through the mess like it’s nothing, dodging people, cars, even a barricade. You clutch the edge of the seat with both hands, heart slamming into your ribs. “Wooyoung-,” you start, breathless, but he cuts you off with a sharp, “Hold on.”

A sharp turn. Another. He ducks down a narrow alley and surges back onto the road. Blue lights flash behind you, distant, then farther, then gone.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow.

You have no idea where you are, what neighborhood, what street, but he drives like he owns it. Like he knows every shortcut, every shadow, every alley that leads nowhere. He turns down a quieter street, dim, still, lined with apartment buildings. Finally, finally, he slows, pulls into a nearly empty lot, and kills the engine.

The air between you feels tight. You stare ahead, still locked in the adrenaline-fueled fog of escape, limbs buzzing, throat dry. Every part of you feels too tense to move. You’ve never been here before, in this area, and you don’t ask. Not yet.

Beside you, Wooyoung sits with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward for a long moment like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or let the silence win. Finally, he turns his head toward you, his jaw tight but his voice softer than you expect.

“You okay?”

You almost say yes. You almost lie. But then your gaze drops, and you notice the sting in your palms, the throb you’d tuned out in the panic. You glance down to find both your hands scraped raw, speckled with gravel and blood. Your knees too, now that you notice it, dark streaks running down your shins. You hadn’t felt it when you fell, too busy chasing your breath through a stampede of strangers and spinning lights. Now the pain is catching up.

Wooyoung sees it before you can say anything. His hand reaches out, catches yours before you can tuck them away. He turns your palms over in his, his thumbs brush carefully along the edges of your cuts, not pressing, just grounding. He doesn’t flinch at the blood.

“Come on,” he says quietly, rising to his feet. He opens his door and steps out, coming around to yours, opening it before you can reach for the handle. You follow him, still half in a daze, leading you up two flights of concrete stairs and through a door you’ve never seen before.

The apartment is dim when he pushes it open, warm light spilling from a single lamp near the couch. It’s cleaner than you expected, simple, utilitarian, not dressed up, but lived-in. You barely have time to look before he disappears down the hallway and comes back with a first aid kit and a damp towel. He doesn’t say a word. Just gestures to the couch, and when you sit, he kneels in front of you without hesitation.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just works in silence, jaw tight, eyes locked on your hand like it’s something breakable. The towel is warm and damp, his fingers careful as they blot the blood away from your palm. It stings, but you don’t flinch. Not from the pain, not from him. His touch is gentler than it has any right to be, considering how fast he’d just driven you through the night.

You want to say something, maybe make a joke to ease the weight in the room, but your throat is too tight.

“You should be more careful,” he finally says, voice low, rough-edged. It’s not scolding, not teasing. It’s something softer than either, quiet concern trying not to sound like it matters.

You glance at him, a bitter smile pulling at the edge of your mouth. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

That makes him pause. He looks up, eyes catching yours like he heard everything you didn’t say. “Didn’t say I was,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering across his face. “But that doesn’t mean I want to watch you fall apart.”

Your mouth goes dry. The way he says it, it’s not romantic. Not sweet. It’s honest. Raw. And it disarms you more than anything else tonight.

He moves on to your knees next. His fingers graze bare skin and your breath catches, but he doesn’t look up. He just keeps working. Focused. Steady. Like you’re both pretending this is normal. And you don’t realize until he’s done, until the last bandage is pressed into place, that the silence between you has grown heavier.

He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to think straight, and then suddenly stands, stepping away from you like he needs distance just to breathe. His fingers twitch at his sides. And then his voice cuts through the room, low but cracked with something he can’t keep down. “I don’t fucking do shit like this,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t come back for people. I don’t panic. I don’t care like that.”

You get to your feet slowly. Barefoot. Still a little dazed. The pain in your knees is sharp but distant, dulled by the weight of everything he’s saying.

He scoffs, but it sounds too raw to be cynical. “You-, fuck. You fell. You were bleeding. You were on the ground and I couldn’t find you. I didn’t even-” He swallows, shaking his head like the memory itself stings. “I swear to god I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I didn’t know if you were-”

He swallows hard. Shakes his head. “I didn’t know if I’d get to you in time.”

Your heart aches in your chest, a dull, spreading thing. He’s still talking, more to the air than to you, and it’s clear he hasn’t unpacked what any of this means.

“I didn’t even think. I just ran. Like some idiot in a movie. Like you mattered more than getting caught. More than the car. More than myself.”

You walk to him slowly. Not interrupting. Just moving until you’re close enough that he has to feel you there. “I’m okay,” you say gently.

He turns, finally meeting your eyes, and what you see in his face makes your breath catch. There’s fear there. Not the kind from flashing lights and sirens, something deeper. Something quieter. Like he’s afraid of what he just felt. Afraid of what you mean.

“I don’t know what this is,” he murmurs. “But seeing you fall like that? Seeing blood on your hands? I-, I didn’t even know it could fucking hurt like that.”

He’s not touching you. Doesn’t reach for you. Like he’s afraid even that might be too much.

So you reach instead. You lift your hand, still bandaged, and place it softly on his chest. Right over his heart. “It’s okay,” you say. “We’re both okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, and the silence stretches, not awkward, just full. Full of what neither of you is brave enough to name. Then he leans in slowly, carefully. Like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His lips brush yours, the barest touch, and then he pauses, giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t. So he kisses you. Soft. Scared. Reverent.

A kiss so soft you aren’t sure if you ever felt him so careful before. He cups your face, doesn’t push or tries to make the kiss escalate into anything. Just a kiss full of words neither of you can say out loud.

You both start getting ready to bed shortly after. He digs through a drawer and pulls out a worn t-shirt, faded black, soft from too many washes, and holds it out to you. You peel off what’s left of your clothes without a word, not bothering to leave the room. You’ve done far more with him than change in front of each other. Modesty was gone the second you got in his car the night you met him.

The shirt falls low on your thighs. His eyes flicker over you for a second, but he doesn’t say anything. You watch as he reaches for his own shirt, pulls it over his head.

That’s when you see it.

Not the faint bruises or the surface scrapes he usually calls battle wounds, this is different. A scar, brutal and deliberate, slices across his back. It’s old, but deep. Twisted. Ugly in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

He catches your reflection in the mirror. Sees the way your eyes lock onto it. And he doesn’t flinch this time. "You gonna ask?" he says, voice low.

You don’t. You just walk closer, slow. Let your fingers ghost along the raised skin. He flinches, not because of the touch, but because of what it means.

“I’ve never seen that one before,” you say softly. You glance up. "You’ve told me every scar you’ve got came from racing.”

“That one didn’t.”

You wait. Let him decide if he wants to keep running.

“My mom had this boyfriend when I was younger. Real piece of shit. Loud. Drank too much. Always mad about something. One of those types that got mean when no one was looking.” He pauses. Breathes. “He didn’t like that I was in his house. Didn’t like that I was… me.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t say anything yet.

“One night, I told him to go fuck himself. Didn’t even yell it. Just said it. He didn’t like that either.” He runs a hand down his face. “He threw a bottle at me. Then pushed me through a glass door. Said it was an accident when he told my mom.”

You stare at him, horror rising slow and bitter in your throat.

“She believed him. Or she pretended to.” He lets out a breath, tired and rough around the edges. “The rest of the shit? Yeah. That came from racing. From working on cars. From fights I chose. But that one…” He finally drops his eyes from the mirror. “That one stayed.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

You don’t ask what happened after. You don’t need to.

He laughs once, dry and humorless. “Told people I got it from flipping my first bike. Sounds cooler than getting shredded by some drunk asshole trying to prove he was bigger than a kid.”

Your hand moves gently, fingertips brushing the scar that runs ragged and long over his back.

“I figured I’d lie about it forever,” he murmurs.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because you saw it. And I…” He swallows hard. “I feel like I can tell you.”

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you press a kiss to his back, right above the scar, right where it starts. Then another, lower. Then your arms wrap slowly around his waist, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades. You feel him exhale when you hold him. Deep, shaky, like the air was trapped somewhere in him all this time and he’s only now letting it out.

Your fingers curl around his stomach. His hands come up, covering yours. Eventually, the silence shifts. “C’mon,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Let’s sleep.”

You follow him without question, crawling onto the bed as he switches off the light. Darkness swallows the room, and you hear him move around the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight when he gets in.

There’s a beat of silence. Another.

Then his arm reaches out in the dark. It lands on your hip, hesitant at first, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you like this, without hunger. Without heat. You roll onto your side and press your back against his chest.

That’s all it takes.

His arm curls tighter around you, and he tucks his face into your neck like he needs to hide there. Like your skin might silence all the chaos still crashing inside him. He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the car.

Tentatively, he shifts closer, arm slipping around your waist. It’s unsure, gentle, like he's still figuring out how to hold someone when it’s not about claiming, when it’s about comfort. When it means something.

This is the first night you fall asleep together without bruises between your thighs or adrenaline in your blood. Just warmth. Just the weight of his body behind yours, heavy and grounding.

It feels like you finally stopped running.

***

You don’t talk about what this is. Not once.

Not in bed, not on long drives, not when he kisses you like he’s terrified to stop. Not even when you’re curled up in his passenger seat at 2AM and his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist like a secret.

There’s too much at risk. Too much truth that would ruin the thrill of not knowing.

Because he doesn’t do relationships. Doesn’t do promises. He’s said it before, with words, with the way he’s lived. And you? You came to this city to escape all of that. Rules, opinions, weight. You’re still only here for the summer, something he doesn’t know, and you haven’t figured out how to say.

So you don’t say it.

Instead, you live in your Airbnb like it’s permanent. Like you belong in his car, like his jacket is just something that naturally belongs on your back. You leave your lip balm in his glove box. Your extra phone charger in the center console. A bag of snacks in his trunk because you’re always hungry after races.

And he lets you. Doesn’t ask questions.

But Wooyoung? He’s changed.

People know now. At every race, every meet-up, every underground garage, it’s known: you’re his. Not in any official way. No one dares call you his girlfriend, not after the way he handled it last time someone tried.

It was offhand, just a throwaway comment from a guy near the starting line, half-laughing when he said, “Didn’t know you were bringing your girlfriend tonight.”

Wooyoung didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look your way. He just reached for his drink, shrugged once, and changed the subject like the thought didn’t even deserve space in his head. Like the idea of you being something more than what you already are was ridiculous.

You smiled, pretended you didn’t notice, but something in your chest went tight and stayed that way the rest of the night. It’s not like you expected him to correct the guy. Not like you expected him to say yeah, she’s mine in front of everyone. But still. The way he ducked the question entirely, like it was easier to pretend nothing existed at all, left you feeling just a little less wanted.

Even still, he makes it known. The jacket he tosses you without asking. The way he watches from across the crowd, eyes locked on you like a storm waiting to break. The way he always drives you home himself, even if it means leaving early.

He doesn’t call you his. But he acts like you are. And somehow, that contradiction is the part that’s starting to hurt.

Because Wooyoung would rather die than have someone else think they have a chance with you.

Like the night at the food truck. You’re standing behind him, trying to decide if you want fries or a burger, when a guy from another team slides too close beside you. Tries to flirt. Tries to joke. Light, easy, harmless. But Wooyoung hears your polite laugh. The subtle shift of your body. He turns around and the look on his face silences everything around you. He doesn’t touch the guy. Doesn’t raise his voice.

Just says, “You always this brave, or is it a head injury thing?”

It’s calm. Dead calm. That terrifying kind of stillness that means danger’s already here. The guy stutters, laughs nervously, backs off fast. You’re quiet as Wooyoung orders for you both without asking what you want. He already knows.

Another time, you're out in public together, grabbing coffee, of all things. You're standing beside him in line, scrolling your phone, not paying attention when someone brushes too close behind you in the cramped café.

Wooyoung notices. And it's not subtle.

He shifts, steps between you and whoever the guy was, planting a hand flat on your lower back like a warning. His fingers are warm, rings cold, tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. His eyes cut across the room, jaw clenched tight. The guy moves. Fast. Like he can feel it too, that Wooyoung isn’t fucking playing anymore. He doesn’t talk much when it happens. Doesn’t shout, doesn’t cause scenes.

Just steps in, makes it very clear without saying much at all: touch her and die.

Even in quieter moments, it’s there.

When you reach across the console to grab his hand, he laces your fingers together, tight, like he’s holding on for both of you. He walks you to your door every single time now. Doesn't leave until you’re inside, lights on. Waits for you to text him. If you forget, he calls. If you don’t answer, he shows up.

You once cut your finger in the kitchen, barely a scratch, but when you flinch and suck in a breath, he’s already there. Ripping a paper towel, pressing it gently to your skin.

“It’s fine,” you say.

He doesn’t answer. Just wraps it for you, checking it twice like you might bleed out. You see it in his eyes, it’s not about the cut. It’s the idea that you could be hurt when he wasn’t there. That he can’t protect you from everything.

Later, you find a box of bandages in his car. You didn’t put them there.

Even in bed, it’s different. Still intense. Still raw. Still him taking control, pushing you exactly where he wants you, but now there’s a tightness to it, like he needs to make sure you’re still here. He checks in more, holds you longer.

He kisses you when it’s over. Not just because it’s hot. But because he needs to. Needs to remind himself that you’re real and still wrapped up in his sheets and not leaving. Not yet. And he never says it, neither of you do, but it’s all there.

The way he glares at people who so much as look your way. The way he drives faster when you fall asleep in his car, like getting you somewhere safe is the most important thing in the world. The way his hand always finds your thigh when you’re beside him, not to tease, but to anchor himself.

Neither of you say it. Because if you say what it is, you might have to admit what it’s becoming.

And then you’d have to face the truth: That you were supposed to stay untethered. And he was never supposed to care this much.

***

You’ve been coming by the mechanic more often than you meant to.

It started casual, dropping off food, sitting on the hood of his car while he worked. Now it’s just… habit. Comfortable. Like muscle memory. No one bats an eye anymore when you stroll through the side door with a drink in hand and his name on your lips.

Today’s no different, at least, it shouldn’t be. You push open the rusted side gate, the sun hitting the back of your neck, and move past the usual row of busted-up cars. His car is here. You spot it immediately. You already know the license plate by heart.

It’s almost your last week in the city.

You haven’t told him yet.

You’ve meant to. You meant to today. You even practiced what to say on the way here, something light, something like a joke, even though there’s nothing funny about it. You just wanted to see how he’d react. Maybe you were hoping it’d tell you something.

Instead, you hear voices from the other side of the office wall. And suddenly, none of your plans matter.

You’re about to head toward the office when you hear voices, low and muffled through the cracked window. You pause without meaning to. It’s his coworker, the chatty one with a loud voice. You’ve seen him around. He’s always giving Wooyoung shit. He’s doing it now. He’s saying, “I don’t know, man. Feels risky. Letting someone get close like that.”

Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away.

The colleague keeps going, tone easy but serious. “I mean, it’s cool she hangs around, I like her. She’s not dramatic or clingy or anything. But you always said you don’t do the whole relationship thing.”

Another pause. A longer one.

Wooyoung’s voice finally comes, quiet, like he’s not really sure how much he wants to say. “Yeah. You’re right”

The colleague responds right away, voice teasing. “Come on. Don’t act like it’s not true. You’re not built for that shit, dude. You’d die if someone asked you to label anything.” He laughs again, louder this time. You hear a clink of a socket wrench hitting the metal table.

Wooyoung says something else too soft to catch.

The colleague snorts a little. “No, I remember what you said. You were all ‘yeah, she was cool, nice hookup, chill vibes, that’s it.’”

Wooyoung doesn’t laugh at that. Doesn’t argue either. He stays quiet.

And it’s that silence, that silence, that makes something tighten in your chest.

Because you know what this is. You knew walking into it. You knew from the first night when he didn’t ask your number and you didn’t offer. You both agreed, wordlessly, on what this wasn’t.

But lately… it’s felt like something more. Or maybe that was just you, reading too much into the way his hand would rest on your thigh even after everything was over. Or the way he always made sure you got home. Or how he never let anyone else so much as look at you sideways.

And still, when it mattered, when someone asked, he didn’t say anything. Not she’s not just a hookup. Not I like having her around. Not even yeah, it’s not like that.

Just silence.

You step back from the window before you can hear more. The drink in your hand is still cold. You bring it with you again and leave before anyone sees you. You don’t slam the gate. You don’t text him. You don’t say a word. You just vanish, like maybe you were never supposed to be there in the first place.

***

The sun is starting to set when your cousin calls. “You’re going home next week. You have to come to the party.”

You’re halfway through folding a pair of jeans, your suitcase open on the floor like it’s mocking you. Your Airbnb’s quiet mess, zippers half-pulled, makeup bags tossed to the side, a pair of heels you haven’t touched in weeks abandoned by the door.

“I don’t think I can,” you tell her, voice even. “Still a lot of packing left.”

There’s a pause on her end. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t press, which you’re grateful for. You hang up after promising to text if you change your mind. Your phone buzzes again a few minutes later.

wooyoung: party’s still on?

You hesitate before answering.

you: yeah. go without me though. i’ve got a headache. go have fun, i’ll see you tomorrow maybe :)

You add the smiley like punctuation. Like proof that you’re fine. Like it’ll make him believe it. He replies quickly.

wooyoung: should I be worried?

You stare at the screen for a second too long, then type back:

you: no, go have fun. don’t worry about me

You set your phone face-down on the bed.

Across town, Wooyoung’s been sitting at the bar too long. The drink in front of him has gone warm. Condensation slicks down the sides of the glass, untouched, just like every conversation around him. People come and go, throwing smiles, bumping his shoulder, asking if he’s alright.

He shrugs them off. Nods once. Plays it cool.

But he’s checked his phone maybe six times in the last twenty minutes. Still nothing. No double text. No “changed my mind” or “come get me” or even just a stupid emoji. He keeps glancing toward the front door anyway, hoping you’ll walk through like you always do, unbothered, lowkey, dressed like you didn’t mean to wreck his whole night.

But the door doesn’t open.

He exhales, tips his head back against the wall behind the bar. The music is relentless, some overproduced club track bleeding through every surface, but his thoughts are louder. And then, from a few stools down, like fate’s cruel hand, he hears your name. Not shouted. Not screamed across the club. Just mentioned in passing, carried casually from the girl standing a few feet away, and it makes his spine straighten.

“Well, it’s almost her last week here.” a girl says casually, voice raised just enough over the beat.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes shift. Three girls. Mid-conversation. Loud over the music but not enough to draw attention. Then one of them, your cousin. He remembers her. The same girl you ditched once to meet up with him instead.

“She flies out next week,” she says with a little laugh. “She was very clear from the start, just here for the summer, nothing permanent.”

His stomach drops. Next week.

Another girl blinks. “Right. That’s wild. It went by fast.”

“She’s been here since June,” your cousin adds, shaking her head fondly. “Kind of kept to herself most of the time. Said she just needed a break from everything. A reset. She said she wanted it low-key, didn’t want a big sendoff or anything. Just… come, live a little, leave.”

Wooyoung stands up.

He doesn't hesitate, doesn’t weigh his options or think about whether it’ll blow your cover, he doesn't even fucking care. He walks straight toward them, shoving his way past a group of guys to get to her. Your cousin turns, laughing mid-sentence, and then her face twists into startled confusion when she sees him.

“Wooyoung?”

He doesn’t wait. “What did you just say?”

Her brows crease. “About what?”

“You said she’s leaving.”

She blinks. “Y/N? Yeah… she’s going back home next week. Saturday, I think.”

His voice drops. “Why?”

Now she’s really confused. Her head tilts, but there’s no edge to her, just honest confusion. “I mean… she’s going back home? She was just here for the summer.”

Wooyoung swallows hard. Temporary. Like he was temporary.

The cousin squints a little. “Why are you-,?” She doesn’t finish. Wooyoung is already turning away.

Something hot flickers behind his ribs, deeper than confusion, heavier than jealousy. A fire that starts in his chest and spreads fast, scorching through every moment you spent in his passenger seat with his hand on your thigh like you belonged to him. Every time you smiled like you had time. Like you weren’t planning to vanish.

You didn’t tell him.

And with every step, his hands curl tighter into fists. Not from rage, from betrayal. Not because you’re leaving, but because you never gave him the chance to ask you to stay.

***

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly spinning your phone between your fingers. Not texting. Not calling. Just… holding it. The silence stretches, filled only by the low hum of the fan and the distant sound of kids playing outside.

A half-finished iced coffee sweats on the nightstand. You haven’t touched it in an hour.

Your eyes drift toward the sneakers by the door, the laces knotted from the last time you ran through the city barefoot after a night out. That night ended in his car. His laugh still echoes in your ears sometimes.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You freeze. Three sharp raps against the door, no hesitation, no time to think. You walk to the door slowly, heart climbing your throat, hands slightly shaking. You open the door.

And there he is.

Wooyoung. Standing on your doorstep like a storm you forgot to prepare for. His jaw is tight. Eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, like they’ve been chewing on a fire he can’t put out. He’s still in the clothes from the club, shirt slightly rumpled. One look at him and the walls you’ve spent the last twenty-four hours building start to crack.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He doesn’t smile.

“What the hell were you gonna do?” he says, voice low, tight with something brittle. “Just leave?”

He knows.

You open your mouth, close it. The hallway feels too narrow. The room behind you too full of all the things you’re not saying. “I wanted to tell you,” you say, barely above a whisper.

His eyes narrow. “When, exactly? When you're already on a flight? After I'm wondering why you’re not picking up anymore, when I’m standing around like a fucking idiot waiting for you to show up like you always do?”

You flinch. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

His head jerks like you hit him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

You inhale sharply. And it all rushes out.

“I didn’t think it mattered because you’ve been telling me for weeks, that whatever this is, it was never going to be real to you,” you say, voice shaking. “Every time someone mentioned the word relationship, you changed the subject. Joked it off. Acted like it was a disease you’d catch if you got too close.”

He flinches.

“You don’t know what that feels like,” you go on, eyes stinging now. “To be there with you. Around your people. At the shop. At those stupid races. Knowing everyone knows what this is, but still… I’m nothing. I’m not yours. I never will be.”

“That’s not-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You wanted me,” you say. “You want me. But not really. Not in the way that matters. You wanted the thrill, the adrenaline, the sex, the way I look sitting on the hood of your car. But you didn’t want me. Not all of me. Not the kind of want that keeps someone.” You laugh, bitter and low. “Do you know how fucking awful that feels? Like the thought of being with me was the worst fucking thing in the world.”

His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

“You made me feel like I was asking for too much by just… existing. Like being wanted, really wanted, was too much to ask from you.”

He steps forward, hands balled at his sides, struggling to breathe like the weight of your words are crushing his ribs.

His laugh is bitter. “You think you’re the only one hurt here? You were gonna leave without a word like I was nothing. Like I’m just a pit stop until you find something better.”

He stops, looks at you with eyes that are almost wild. “I’m not good at this, at talking, at feelings, at... anything like that. Hell, I never thought I needed to be. I told myself I’d never need anyone. I built these walls so fucking high, so no one could get close enough to tear me apart.”

His jaw clenches. “But then you show up, and it’s like everything I thought I knew gets smashed to shit. You weren’t supposed to be the one I gave a damn about. You weren’t supposed to be the one who made me wanna drop my guard. But you did.” He swears under his breath, fists clenched. “And now? Now I find out you’re leaving, just like that. No warning, no fight, no ‘hey, I’m scared, I wanna talk.’ Nothing. Just packing up and going like I was never even here.”

His voice cracks just a little, anger tangled with something rawer. “Do you know how it feels to be the idiot? The one who let himself hope, who let himself need someone, only to get punched in the gut when they bail?”

He laughs bitterly. “I don’t know if I’m pissed at you or myself more. Maybe both.” He takes a step closer, voice low but fierce. “But I do know this, If I’m here, if I let you in, it’s because you meant something. Because it meant something to me for the first damn time ever.”

You try to speak, but he cuts you off.

“Save it. I don’t wanna hear the excuses. I get it, you didn’t think it mattered. That’s exactly the problem.”

He takes a step back, a dead laugh escaping him, low and bitter. “Well, congratulations. You just showed me what it feels like to be on the other side. To be lied to. To be played.” He stares at you, eyes cold now, voice hard. “Hope it was worth it.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turns sharply and storms away.

***

For the whole week, the tears don’t stop. They come uninvited, sometimes silent, sometimes raw and shaking, but always leaving that hollow ache buried deep inside your chest. You find yourself crying in the quiet moments: sitting on the edge of the bed, in the shower with water running over your face, staring out the window when the world moves on without you.

Each morning, you wake swollen-eyed, sun pouring through the curtains, bright and uncaring, as if nothing has changed. But everything has shattered. You miss him so deeply it twists your stomach into knots, a sickness that won’t ease. The nights are the worst.

You also couldn’t keep hiding it from your cousin anymore. Or, she figured it out on herself. “You’ve been off lately.” your cousin had said, eying you up and down.

You hesitated. “I’m just tired.”

She arched a brow. “Is this about him?”

You froze. “Who?”

“Wooyoung.” She didn’t say it mean, just like she’s trying to piece something together. “I don’t know what’s going on, but the way he looked when I mentioned you leaving… It was weird. Like he knows you more than you’ve told me.”

You couldn’t look her in the eyes. Seconds away from breaking into a full sob for the twelfth time that day.

“Anyway,” she said quickly, waving it off. “Whatever it is, whatever it was, just let it go tonight, okay? Party like it’s the last night of your life.”

And you’ve continued to try and enjoy your last days here, but it’s impossible. Your head is a mess, thoughts crashing and spinning, none of them making sense. Should you text him goodbye? Call him? Pretend none of it happened? But what if silence is worse?

You pace the apartment, heart pounding in your chest, every breath thick with uncertainty. You don’t know what you want, or maybe you do, but you’re too scared to admit it.

Eventually, you drag yourself toward the door, ready to leave the place for a minute, to get some fresh air and maybe clarity. You open the door, but something steals your attention. A folded piece of paper taped carefully to the wood.

Curious, you pull the letter free and unfold it. Your breath catches the moment your eyes land on the handwriting, unmistakably his. The paper feels heavier than it is, like every word inside carries weight you weren’t prepared for.

***

It’s now late evening.

You haven’t moved from your spot in hours. Curled into the corner of the couch, knees hugged to your chest. Still haven’t touched the tea you made earlier. It’s cold now. Forgotten. Like everything else.

The letter sits on the table in front of you, creased, slightly crumpled at the corners from your fingers folding and unfolding it again and again. You know every line by heart, but your eyes keep scanning it, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. Something less devastating.

You almost grab your keys three times. You almost text him. You almost call.

But it’s like there's a wall of glass between you and the right decision, and you just… stare through it. Paralyzed. Terrified that if you make a move, it’ll shatter wrong.

He bared his soul in that letter. And you haven’t done a damn thing. You hate yourself for how long you’ve been sitting here, frozen in uncertainty. One half of you screams to run to him. The other whispers all the reasons you shouldn’t, how complicated it is, how much you still don’t know, how you’re still leaving regardless because your life isn’t in this city. You can’t stay.

But then your phone rings.

A harsh buzz against the silence. You jolt upright, heart lurching, eyes narrowing at the unknown number lighting up your screen. You hesitate only a second before answering.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause on the other end, filled with heavy breathing and the sound of wind. “Hey-, sorry, shit, I know this is random, but you’re the only person I thought might come. It’s about Wooyoung.”

Your heart stops. You sit up straighter. “What about him?”

“Something’s wrong,” the voice says. Young, male, familiar in a distant way. One of the crew, maybe. You’d met him once. “He left not long ago for a race. Not one of ours. This one’s… rough. Real shady crowd. No rules, no spotters. Just pure fucking chaos. We tried to stop him but-, he's gone. He’s fucking gone.”

The room spins. You grip the edge of the table to stay upright. “Gone where?” you whisper, voice sharp.

The guy on the other end swears again, fast and breathless. “We don’t know exactly. We lost his signal halfway through the city. He left alone,” The guy’s voice breaks, low and anxious. “He wasn’t listening to anyone. He-, he wasn’t himself, okay? He sounded... off. Like he didn’t give a fuck.”

Your stomach drops. Ice seeps into your spine.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” he continues, breath shaky. “But I thought-, if anyone could talk him down, or stop him-, fuck, I thought maybe it was you.”

You’re already on your feet. Your coat is halfway on. You grab your bag with one hand, shove your keys in your pocket with the other. “Where is it?”

“We don’t know exactly. But I’m sending you the last pin we had on his phone before it cut out. We got a few guys out looking for him, we can come pick you up.”

You don’t even know what information you’re giving him. You just know you agreed to whatever it took to find him, end the call and bolt out the door, your blood pounding like war drums in your ears.

Somewhere unknown, Wooyoung steps out of his car. He doesn’t belong here.

He lights his second cigarette with the last flick of a dying lighter, cupping the flame with trembling hands. The smoke scratches down his throat, a pathetic distraction from the coil of chaos tightening in his chest. He leans against his car, the only clean machine in a sea of monsters, stripped down, souped-up beasts patched with rust, dents, and blood.

This isn’t his turf. This isn’t some friendly underground run on the edge of town. This is hell. The kind of place no one talks about. Where names don’t matter, and losing means more than wrecked metal. It’s the kind of place where engines scream louder than people, where egos shatter on the pavement, and no one gives a fuck who makes it home.

And he’s alone. No crew. No backup. No one knows where he is and that’s the whole point. Because if anyone saw him like this, they’d ask questions. They’d see the truth behind the glassy eyes, the clenched teeth. They’d see he’s already come apart.

But he’s here to forget his thoughts. To feel something. No matter what it is.

Someone laughs nearby, short, sharp. Like a knife sliding out of a sheath. Wooyoung doesn’t turn, not right away. But he can feel eyes on him. He’s too clean. Too obvious. A target painted in neon across his back.

Footsteps crunch on gravel. “Didn’t expect to see golden boy down here. You’re lost, sweetheart?” The voice is male, rough. The kind that’s been marinated in alcohol and old fights. “Or you finally decided you wanna die somewhere interesting?”

Wooyoung lifts his eyes slowly. A man steps into the dim wash of flickering floodlights, heavyset, sleeves torn off, scars up his arms like tally marks. A long one slices through his cheekbone and disappears into his beard. His fists are wrapped in old tape, stained with something dark.

He smirks at the sight of Wooyoung’s face. “I remember you. Pretty boy from the East Strip. You used to race clean, yeah? Thought you were better than this.”

“I’m not here to talk,” Wooyoung says flatly.

The man chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. Heard some talk. Heard your little pretty thing ain’t been around lately. That’s why you’re out here? Trying to forget her?.”

Wooyoung’s entire body goes still.

Scar-Knuckles keeps going, oblivious or cruel, maybe both. “She was a real fine thing, too. Damn shame. Wouldn't mind taking her out for a ride.”

“You say one more fucking word about her,” Wooyoung growls, stepping forward.

Scar-Knuckles doesn’t back off. His grin just stretches wider. “Or what? You’ll throw a punch? You think anyone here cares if I beat your face into the asphalt? This place doesn’t give a fuck about you or your sob story.”

Behind him, engines scream, test runs or warnings. The smell of gas and rage fills the air. “No one here’s gonna come looking if you don’t walk away from this, you know that?” the man says. “You lose out here, you lose everything. Car. Money. Life. Depends on who’s watching. Or who you piss off.”

Wooyoung steps even closer, eyes locked with his. “That supposed to scare me?”

Scar-Knuckles stares at him for a long second. Then he laughs again, colder now. “No. I think you already decided nothing matters.” Scar-Knuckles gives a soft chuckle and steps back, letting the darkness swallow him. “Go ahead then. Race your heart out. Let’s see what’s left of you when this is over.”

The man walks off with a shrug, leaving behind the echo of truth.

Wooyoung breathes hard through his nose, blinking against the sting of smoke and his own exhaustion. He gets in the car, slams the door, and rests his forehead against the steering wheel for half a second. His hands are shaking. Not from fear, at least not fear for himself. He’s past that.

He exhales and turns the key. The engine snarls to life like it’s hungry for blood.

And if the road ahead wants to kill him? He’ll fucking let it.

You’ve been driving for hours. Your phone is clutched in your hand like a lifeline, screen cracked at the corner from how hard you’d thrown it earlier, after the fifth voicemail you left him, each one angrier, shakier than the last.

The streets blur outside the windshield. You’ve checked every place he used to go when he wanted to be alone. Back lots. Rooftops. The edge of the highway where you once caught him chain-smoking, staring at nothing. A crew member is driving now, one hand clenched tight around the wheel, the other scrolling through group chats and rumor threads on his phone.

You’ve never felt this level of rage and terror at the same time. You want to scream, to hit something, to shake Wooyoung until he realizes what the hell he’s doing. But more than anything, you just want him alive. Breathing. Standing in front of you so you can yell at him properly for pulling this shit.

“He’s never done this before,” The crew member mutters, jaw tight. “Not without backup. Not without at least one of us watching his back.”

That’s what scares you the most. You’ve been in enough of those street scenes to know, some places don’t play fair. Some places, if your car flips, no one stops. If you piss off the wrong people, they don’t argue. They retaliate.

“Come on,” you whisper under your breath, staring at the dark horizon like you can summon him out of it. “Come on, you idiot. Where the fuck are you?”

The crew member rattles off a list of names. Small-time crews, illegal races still rumored to be active tonight. You recognize only half of them. The further the names go, the worse it gets. Places known for sabotage. For fights breaking out mid-race. For bets that go beyond money. For people who don’t give a fuck if you crash and burn.

You turn to him, breath catching. “Let’s go to the worst one.”

He raises a brow. “You sure?”

“No.” Your throat tightens. “But I need to find him.” Even if it drains every last piece of you. Even if you fall apart the moment you lay eyes on him. Because right now, the alternative is worse.

Right now, the alternative is never seeing him again.

You don’t say much as the car swerves through another dark stretch of road. Every second feels like it’s scraping your nerves raw. Your knee bounces restlessly, your arms crossed so tightly over your chest they hurt. “Fuck,” you whisper, voice barely holding together. “I don’t know where else to look.”

But then he slams his foot on the brakes. “Wait-, what the fuck is that?”

You lurch forward as the car skids to a halt on the side of the road, dust clouding around you like smoke. Your eyes snap forward.

And you see it.

Off the edge of the road, maybe thirty feet down a barely-visible side trail eaten up by weeds and mud and fog, there’s a car. The shape of the car is unmistakable. Low, black, dented on the passenger side door from a scrape weeks ago. You’ve spent too many nights leaning against that car, riding in it, practically living in it. You know it like you know him. And it’s just sitting there, quiet. Still.

“That’s him,” you breathe. “That’s his car.”

He curses. “That road’s not even on the map.”

He reverses hard and jerks the wheel to take the turn, tires grinding against the gravel, kicking up dirt as you veer off the main path. The closer you get, the harder your pulse hammers, because the lights are still on but no one is moving. No music. No engine running. Just the car. Waiting. Alone.

The moment he slams the brakes, you’re out the door and running, feet crunching through weeds and dirt.

And then you see him.

Leaning back against the hood, one foot on the ground, cigarette half-burned between his fingers. His head is tilted back, eyes closed like he’s been there for hours, maybe longer. He looks like the ghost of himself, silhouetted in the mist and high beams. Still. Dangerous. Untouchable.

He looks down as you approach. Sees you. And doesn’t move. Like you’re a hallucination. Like he’s not sure you’re real.

The closer you get, the more your fury uncoils.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, slamming both hands into his chest with all your weight. “You came out here alone? You shut off your phone? You didn’t tell anyone where you were going?!”

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just stares at you like you’re something he dreamed up in a fever. Like you couldn’t possibly be real.

You don’t give him the chance to speak.

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” you yell, hitting him again. “We all have! You could’ve gotten hurt-, or worse-, and no one would’ve even known where to start! You think you’re invincible, is that it?! You think nothing can fucking touch you?!”

Wooyoung just stands there, staring at you like you're a ghost. His cigarette is long forgotten, half-burned, dropped to the dirt near his boot.

“You’re not!” you snap. “You’re not invincible, Wooyoung. You’re just a fucking idiot with a death wish!” you bite out, trembling all over. “You could’ve died, Wooyoung. You could’ve left me-,” You choke on the word, a sob rising in your throat before you can swallow it down. “-left me here, alone.”

He flinches. That word punches the air from his lungs. But you’re not done.

“I came here thinking maybe you were in a ditch somewhere. I came here thinking I might have to pull your body out of a wreck. I hate you so fucking much right now-” You press your hands to his chest again, less forcefully now. Your fingers tremble, curling into the fabric of his jacket like you’re holding yourself together.

“I love you, you idiot.”

The words come out before you can stop them. Raw. Unfiltered. Not a confession, not a whisper in the dark. A curse. A scream. A truth ripped from your chest.

“I fucking love you, and you didn’t even think-” You shake your head, voice cracking. “You didn’t think about what that would do to me.”

Wooyoung stares at you like the earth just shifted under his feet. And that’s when he finally moves. His hand lifts, hesitant, like he thinks he might scare you off if he touches you wrong, and rests against your wrist, where your fingers are curled into his jacket. His grip is gentle. So fucking gentle.

“You’re here,” he says, voice low, rough. Like he doesn’t believe it.

You’re both shaking now, but for very different reasons. Your hands rise, cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth where he’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to fall apart.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “You absolute fucking idiot. Don’t you ever pull something like this again.”

His breath shudders out.

And then he moves. Grabs your waist. And then he kisses you, fast, hard, desperate. Like he’s never going to get the chance again. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging in like he's grounding himself.

“I love you,” he whispers back into your mouth. “Fuck, I love you.” His mouth is on yours again before the last word leaves his lips, devouring the space between you. Your back hits the hood of his car with a thud. You don’t flinch. You arch into him.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, burying his face in your neck. “Tell me you’re not gonna disappear when I wake up.”

You cup his face and make him look at you. “I’m right here,” you say.

The way he kisses you after that feels like the end of the world. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s fire meeting fire. Chaos kissing recklessness. All your rage and fear and need slamming into him like a fist. You taste the danger on him. The gasoline. The smoke. The guilt. But underneath it, he's warm. He's alive.

And you’re still here.

He's breathing against your mouth now, kissing you back like he just realized he still has something to lose.

The door slams shut behind you, and he doesn’t waste a second.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat, hot, frantic, desperate. Like he needs you to forgive him through the kiss, like he’s trying to make you forget what he just put you through. You clutch at his jacket, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the solid heat of him.

“I thought I lost you,” you breathe against his mouth, voice trembling with the aftershock. “You fucking idiot, I thought-,”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “I know, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your back hits the door with a soft thud, but he doesn’t press hard. Not now. He cages you in with his body, but it’s not about possession, it’s surrender. He kisses you slower now, deeper, like he’s tasting the words you screamed at him earlier. I love you.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he groans into your skin, the only thing he says, and even that sounds like a confession. His jacket’s half-off already, pushed down by your greedy fingers, and he shrugs it off without pulling away, never breaking contact. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, your thighs. Like he can’t decide what to touch first, what to memorize.

When his lips dip lower again, dragging down your throat like he’s starved, you tilt your head back to give him more. He takes it like an offering.

“You’re gonna let me make this up to you,” he mutters between kisses, dropping to his knees with a thud that echoes in your spine. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips branding you through the fabric of your pants. “Right here. Right fucking now.”

And you let him, because you don’t want apologies.

You want him. Every reckless inch. Every frantic breath. Every desperate kiss he can’t stop giving you.

His mouth drops to your hipbone first. Not to tease, he’s past that. You feel the way he exhales against your thigh, shaky, reverent. Then his hands hook under the waistband of your pants. His fingertips press into your skin as he drags them down.

He presses his cheek against your thigh for a second, breathing you in. “God, I missed this. Missed you. I couldn’t fucking think straight.”

When your panties catch at your hips, his eyes flick up, and that look, wrecked, pleading, makes your breath catch in your throat. He doesn’t say a word. He just tugs the last layer down and off, letting it fall to the floor like it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t. He guides your thigh to rest on his shoulder, giving him better access to you.

And then he leans in.

His tongue flicks out to taste you, one deliberate stroke that sends a sharp gasp ripping through your lungs. You grab at his hair, your hips twitching forward, but he holds you firm, anchoring you against the door with those strong hands on your hips.

His tongue finally finds your clit, and it’s slow. A slow, dragging stroke that has your spine arching away from the wood behind you. His lips close around it, warm and wet, and the sudden suction makes your legs tremble.

“Fuck, you taste so good-, so sweet, baby, fuck,” he pants between licks. He licks and sucks with maddening control, every stroke perfectly placed, like he knows your body better than you do.

And he does. Fuck, he does.

He tilts his head slightly, and the next pass of his tongue has you gasping, sharp and broken. Your hands tighten in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He dips his tongue lower, tasting you fully, deeply, a slow glide up through your folds before sucking your clit back into his mouth again.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. “Shit-, fuck, right there-,” Your voice is cracked open, raw.

Your entire body is on fire, heat coiling low in your belly, thighs shaking, breath coming out in ragged moans. He lets one hand drift between your legs now, two fingers slipping between your folds with ease. He strokes you slowly, coating them, until he finally sinks one inside.

The stretch makes you gasp. His mouth doesn’t stop. “Yeah, come on,” he growls, the vibrations of his voice shooting straight through your core. “Let me feel it. Come on my face, baby. Give it to me.” He curls his finger, searching for that spot he knows so well, and the moment he finds it, you fall apart.

Your knees buckle. Your head hits the door with a soft thud. Your cry is half-sob, half-moan, your whole body trembling as the orgasm rips through you. He holds you there through it, mouth never leaving your clit, finger still stroking inside you in perfect rhythm.

You’re panting by the time he pulls back, mouth and chin soaked, his eyes black with lust and something darker, devotion, maybe. Something that looks too much like love. He rises slowly, and your gaze drops to the way his chest rises and falls, how his fingers flex at his sides like he’s still holding himself back.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts you, hands locking around the backs of your thighs, arms straining with need. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and your back slams softly against the door as he catches your weight. His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is deep.

He groans into your mouth when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard. “I should be mad at you,” you pant between kisses. “I should fucking hate you for scaring me like that.”

“I’d let you,” he whispers against your lips, dragging them open with his tongue, tasting the words. “I’d let you do anything, baby. Just don’t leave me.”

He turns, carrying you down the hallway, kissing you like it’s killing him not to be inside you already. The walk is messy, his lips never leave yours, your hands gripping the collar of his shirt, his fingers pressing bruises into your thighs from how tightly he holds you.

“Jesus, I missed this,” he groans. “Missed the way you feel. The way you sound. I’ve been going fucking insane without you.”

He nearly kicks the door open.

The second your back hits the bed, he follows, never letting go. His hands are everywhere, sliding up your ribs, pushing your shirt up, cupping your breasts through the fabric with a groan.

“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs, burying his face between them, sucking the curve of one, then the other. He strips himself, rips the shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him, then goes for yours, his mouth glued to your skin the moment it’s off.

Your fingers are shaking as they move to his jeans, tugging the button open, sliding the zipper down. You push the denim off his hips and he kicks it away, breath ragged. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy and leaking at the tip. You bite your lip at the sight, thighs squeezing together.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps, crawling up your body like he owns it. “Need to feel you.”

You nearly cry from how empty you are, grabbing at him, wrapping your legs around his hips. “Then do it,” you whisper against his lips. “Don’t you fucking dare tease me right now.”

That earns a growl low in his throat. He fists his cock, lines it up, and presses in slow. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. It’s deep, too deep after going so long without it, and your head hits the pillow with a strangled moan. “Oh my God, you feel-, fuck-”

“Say it,” he pants, burying himself all the way. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you gasp, hands clawing at his back. “You, always-”

He starts to move and it’s chaos after that. The rhythm is rough, relentless, desperate. His hips snap into yours like he’s chasing every second he lost, every moment you spent not tangled up in him. His hands are on your jaw, your throat, your waist, gripping like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

“Turn around for me,” he whispers suddenly. “Wanna see you ride me.”

You barely register the words before he pulls out, already reaching for you. He tugs you up by the hips and you straddle him without thinking, bracing your hands on his chest as he guides his cock back to your entrance.

“Take it slow,” he says, voice low, hands gripping your thighs. “Let me watch you.”

You do. You sink down onto him slowly, gasping at the stretch from this angle. His head falls back, lips parting, chest rising in heavy breaths as you take every inch of him. He doesn’t move, just lets you settle, eyes flicking down to where you’re joined.

“Shit,” he groans, hands sliding up your waist. “You-, fuck, you look so good like this.”

You start to roll your hips, finding that rhythm again, slow and grinding. His hands drift everywhere, your thighs, your waist, your back, your ass, pulling you down harder when you move just right. His voice is wrecked now, quiet curses and praises tumbling out between groans.

“Just like that, baby. Fuck, ride me-, ride me just like that.”

You grind down harder, hands splayed on his chest, riding that perfect drag of him, the way he hits so deep like this, the way his cock twitches inside you every time you moan his name.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You feel so fucking good-”

He sits up suddenly, mouth hot against your collarbone, arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. One hand slips down to your ass, gripping hard, and he moves with you, deeper, harder, like he needs to carve himself into you.

Your breath shatters as you clutch his shoulders, shaking under the weight of it all. “I should’ve told you,” you choke out against his skin, voice breaking apart. “I should’ve said something, I didn’t know how-, fuck, I was so confused-”

He mouths at your throat, your jaw, your cheek, but you can’t stop now. You’re unravelling.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you cry, hands shaking as you hold onto him. “It wasn’t supposed to be this. I was only supposed to be here for the summer-, I thought I could leave-, I thought I could fuck you and feel nothing, but you-, God, you-”

His mouth finds yours before you can say anything more. Kisses you like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he already knows. His hand slips into your hair, keeping you close, and when he finally pulls back, his voice is rough but steady.

“I don’t care where you go,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll love you anyway. No matter where you are. I’ll fucking love you from anywhere.” Then he thrusts up harder, making you cry out, and everything gets sharper. Faster. Wetter. Needier.

That’s when it breaks.

“I’m sorry,” you cry out, your voice cracking open around the words. “I’m so sorry-, I didn’t mean to-, I didn’t mean to fall like this, fuck-” You’re shaking in his arms, tears hot on your cheeks, your fingers digging into his back like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. “Didn’t think you’d want me like this. I didn’t think-”

“Too late,” he growls, voice almost breaking, and he holds you tighter, thrusts deeper, grounding you in him. Sweat beads on his forehead, his jaw clenched, neck straining, but his eyes are locked on yours like he’s memorizing this, memorizing you. “You’re mine,” he groans, voice wrecked as his hands grip your hips, keeping you moving, guiding you harder. “You always fucking were.”

Your clit brushes against the taut muscle of his abdomen with every thrust, sending sparks skittering down your spine. Your whole body starts to tighten, pulse quickening, breath catching.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you gasp, voice pitched high, wrecked. Your nails rake down his back. “Harder, fuck, right there-”

He wraps one arm around your back to hold you flush against him, grinding into you so deep it makes your thighs tremble. “I got you, baby,” he growls. “I got you. Come for me.” He grabs your face with one hand, pulling you down into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and raw emotion.

You break the kiss, moaning as you ride him faster. “I love you,” you whisper, voice cracking.

“I love you,” he breathes against your mouth, like it’s a vow. “God, I love you.”

That’s what does it.

You shatter around him with a cry, clutching his body like he’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. His cock pulses deep inside you, stretching you wide, the thick drag of him enough to push you to the edge all over again.

“Shit, fuck, baby-,” he chokes, and then he’s spilling inside you with a broken sound, grinding into you as he pumps thick and hot, ropes of cum flooding your tight, soaked heat. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you there as his body jerks through every last twitch of release.

You’re both panting, still clinging to each other, your chest pressed to his, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His heart’s pounding so hard you can feel it against your own. His hands stay on your back, sliding up and down, stroking your skin.

You’re still joined, still shaking, still wrapped around each other like you can’t believe it finally happened.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was the shift.

The one where everything changed, where love stopped being a dangerous thought and started being the truth, spoken between broken kisses and whispered confessions, claimed through every thrust, every gasp, every slow grind of your bodies trying to say what words can’t hold.

***

You were supposed to leave Saturday.

But then you saw the way he looked at you, like losing you would destroy him. Like he’d just found something worth crashing for. So you changed your ticket. Just three more days.

Three more days with him. Three more days of being completely, wildly, his. And he doesn’t waste a second of them.

He keeps you in his bed and barely lets you come up for air. He fucks you like he’s starving, like he’s never going to get enough of you, because he knows he won’t. You come apart under his mouth, his hands, his voice in your ear whispering mine while he pulls you over the edge again and again.

He moans your name like it’s holy. Tells you he loves you between kisses, between thrusts, in the shower while shampoo runs down your back. You say it back every time. You mean it more every time.

You wear his jacket everywhere. Like it’s a flag. Like it’s armor. His crew barely blinks anymore.

At the races, you’re glued to his side. He spins you into his space, your back pressed to his chest, one hand resting heavy across your lower stomach. His fingers tap against your waistband like a warning. You’re his center of gravity, his magnet, his anchor.

And he’s not subtle about it. He’s got one hand on you at all times, like someone might be stupid enough to try something. His eyes track every guy that lingers too long, like he’s daring them to make a move, just so he can remind them exactly who the fuck you belong to.

He doesn’t just show you off, he marks you with every touch. Pulls you in by the belt loops, kisses you hard in front of everyone, talks to you with that low voice that turns your insides molten. He’s not sweet with it, not shy. He’s proud. Like claiming you is the boldest, smartest thing he’s ever done.

And you? You kiss him at red lights. Whisper filthy things in his ear just to watch his jaw clench. You’ve never been more yourself. Never felt more wanted.

It’s messy. Loud. Bare. Real. The sex is addictive. The love is worse.

He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear every time you fall asleep. You run your fingers through his hair and pretend you’re not counting down the days in your head. He tells you you’ll be okay when you leave.

But you both know that’s a lie.

Your last night in the city feels like a fever dream. He keeps you in bed for hours, touching you like it’s the last time, because it is. He doesn’t hold back. Neither do you. You cry a little. He kisses it away. When you finally collapse together, bodies soaked in sweat and love, he holds you tighter than ever and doesn’t let go until morning.

And then it’s time.

The morning you leave, it rains.

Not enough to drown the city, just enough to make everything feel heavier. Dimmer. Like the world knows you’re about to break your own heart. His arm is heavy across your waist, one leg thrown over yours, his nose pressed to the curve of your neck like he’s trying to memorize your scent. You feel the steady thump of his heart against your back, strong and fast, like he never really fell asleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because if you do, it’ll be real.

You let yourself have one more minute. One more heartbeat of pretending this is just another morning, just another day where you’ll stay in his bed until noon, steal his shirt, kiss him slow and lazy like you’ve got forever.

But you don’t.

He stirs when you shift. His fingers curl tighter around your waist like he already knows. “No,” he rasps, voice wrecked with sleep and something heavier. “Don’t.”

“I have to,” you whisper, swallowing hard. Your throat burns. His hand slides up your side beneath the sheets, warm and possessive, tracing every inch he already knows by heart. He presses a kiss behind your ear and then another to your bare shoulder, lips lingering. You turn in his arms and he’s already looking at you. His eyes are swollen with sleep but open, searching your face like he’s trying to carve it into his memory. You reach up to trace his jaw, soft and slow, and the second your fingers graze his skin, he leans in.

The kiss is gentle. Painfully so. There’s no hunger in it, just grief. The kind that sits low in your stomach and makes your chest feel tight. And when he pushes the sheets down and moves between your thighs, it’s not fast, not frantic.

It’s reverent.

When he pushes into you, it’s quiet but not silent. There’s breathless gasps and whispered names. Little nothings and everything at once. He whispers I’ll miss you into your skin. You breathe don’t forget me into his mouth. He makes love to you in the grey morning light, slow and devastating. There’s no performance, no rush. Just his mouth on your neck, your shoulder, your chest. His hands gripping your hips like he can anchor you here a little longer. When you come, you clutch his back like you’re scared you won’t feel him again, and he kisses your tears without even teasing you for them.

When it’s over, he stays inside you as long as he can. Breathing heavy against your neck, arms wrapped around your back. You just lie there, tangled up in sheets and sweat and each other, listening to the minutes tick away.

“I should get up.” you say softly.

“No.”

You huff a laugh into his neck. “I’m gonna miss the flight.”

“Good.” He says it like a reflex. You lift your head and meet his eyes.

“You know I have to go.”

“I know.” He cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Eventually, you pull yourself from the warmth of his bed. Pull on yesterday’s clothes. Start shoving things back into your bag. It feels mechanical. Distant. Like you’re packing someone else’s life. He watches you the whole time. Silent, jaw clenched. Then he steps out of the room, just for a second, and comes back holding the leather jacket.

His jacket.

The one that’s been through hell and back with him. The one that smells like gasoline and wind and everything he is. He holds it out. Doesn’t speak.

You freeze. “You’re giving me this?”

He shrugs. Looks away, jaw tight. “What, you thought I’d let my girlfriend fly across the country without it?”

Girlfriend.

The word sucker punches you right in the chest. Not because it’s new, you’ve both known what you are, but because hearing him say it like it’s obvious, like it’s real, undoes you completely.

Your throat burns. “Say that again.”

He meets your eyes. “You’re my girlfriend.”

Your lip trembles. He notices. Steps forward and cups your face with both hands.

“You’re mine,” he says, softer now. “I don’t care where you go. You’re still mine.”

You drive to the airport in his car. Of course you do. There’s no way he’d let you leave the city in anything else.

His hand stays on your thigh the entire ride, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin. His knuckles are white on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes locked on the road like it’s the only thing keeping him from turning around and driving the opposite way.

He doesn’t say much.

You do.

You talk, not because the words matter, but because the silence feels like a countdown. You ramble about airport food, how you’ll probably get something stupid like a soggy sandwich. You joke about your job, how it’s going to eat you alive the second you clock back in. You even try to make him laugh by telling him how weird it’ll be to sleep without the sound of engines in your dreams.

His fingers tighten on your thigh once, and you know it’s coming before he even opens his mouth. “You could stay.”

Your heart stutters. You stare ahead. The traffic light turns green. “I can’t,” you say quietly.

“Don’t say ‘can’t,’” he mutters. “You can do anything.”

You reach for his hand on your thigh. Squeeze it hard. “You know I want to.”

He exhales, almost like a laugh. It’s not a happy one. “I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the side of his face. “I have a life back there,” you say. “My job, my apartment, my family…”

“I know,” he says again. But this time his voice is softer. Distant. Like maybe he’s already watching you walk away.

The rain gets heavier. A full-on downpour now.

When he finally pulls up to the airport drop-off, everything looks washed out, the sky, the pavement, the shape of people dragging suitcases beneath umbrellas. It all feels unreal. In a few more minutes, you’ll be nothing but a silhouette walking away through security. And he’ll be just a boy behind the glass, watching everything he wants disappear.

Your hand slips from his, and even that feels like too much, like a wound tearing open. You reach for your bag in the backseat and open the door before the storm of emotion inside you can make your legs freeze.

The rain hasn’t let up, but neither has he.

Wooyoung is out of the car in an instant, rounding the front before you can even lift your suitcase. He takes it from your hand like always, like muscle memory, like second nature.

He doesn’t speak much as you both walk through the terminal, but his hand doesn’t leave the small of your back. He keeps you tucked close, his fingers spread possessively across your side like he’s still trying to convince the universe that you’re his.

Every time you glance up at him, his expression is unreadable. Stoic. But you know him now. You know what it means when his jaw locks like that, when his throat moves like he’s swallowing something back. You know what it means when he won’t look directly at you too long, because if he does, he might not be able to look away.

Check-in. Baggage drop. Security line.

The minutes disappear too fast.

He stares at you like he’s trying to etch you into memory. Like he can’t decide which part of you to commit to first, the curve of your mouth, the crease between your brows, the tears welling in your lashes that you’re trying so hard to blink away.

He exhales hard through his nose. He steps forward, crowds into your space, and cups your face with both hands like he’s trying to hold you in place, to stop time, to stop you.

“Can’t believe I’m letting my girlfriend get on a fucking plane without me.”

Your stomach turns over. You choke on a laugh that’s more sob than smile. “I’ll come back.”

“You better,” he says, voice breaking on the edge of it. “If you don’t, I’ll come find you.”

You close your eyes. Press your forehead to his. You can feel his breath. His pulse. The heat of him, even through the thunderstorm building in your chest.

“I’m serious,” he whispers. “I’ll show up in your city. At your job. At your apartment. I don’t give a shit. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Good.”

He kisses you then, hard. With teeth and tongue and something frantic behind it, like he’s trying to brand himself into your mouth. Like it might make this less unbearable. When he finally pulls back, he’s breathing like he just ran a race. He swipes your tears away with rough fingers. Lingers on your cheek like he can’t make himself let go.

You press your face to his neck and breathe him in one last time. “I’ll come back,” you promise again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, holding you tighter. “You better.”

You pick up your bag. Step into line. He stays until the very end. Right up to the point where the TSA agent tells you to move forward. Right up until the barrier he physically can’t cross. And even then he doesn’t leave.

He’s still standing there. Still watching you like you’re everything he never expected to need.

And now can’t imagine being without.

***

Weeks have passed since you left the city. Since you left him.

You’re back in your hometown now. The familiar streets, the same cracked sidewalks, the same tired coffee shops. Everything feels smaller somehow, quieter, but your heart is loud.

You wear his jacket like armor. It’s thick, heavy with his scent, leather and a hint of something uniquely Wooyoung. You wrap it tighter around you on the cold days, pretending it’s his arms instead of just fabric.

You crave the feel of his hands on you, not the polite, careful touches, but the ones that claim, that drag you into chaos and leave you raw. You hear it in his voice when he talks, rough and low, hinting at nights he’s spent thinking about you the way you think about him,

You talk constantly. Texts that never stop. Calls that stretch deep into the night until you’re both too wrecked to speak. You fall asleep with the phone on your chest, wake up to good morning messages that should not be that obscene.

He tells you about the races, the wins, the near-misses. Brags about how he fucked up some cocky kid on the asphalt, then drops his voice just enough to say, “But I was thinking about you the whole time. Thinking about your thighs around my head while I floored it. Sick, right?”

You love when he says shit like that.

He laughs, dark and low.

Most nights end the same way. FaceTime calls that start off innocent, just him in bed with the covers low, tattoos out, chain resting on his bare chest. And he’s shameless. Hair messy. Smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Because he does.

“You touching yourself already?” he’ll ask like it’s nothing.

And then his hand is on his cock and yours is between your thighs, and there’s nothing sweet about it. He tells you where to put your fingers. How deep. How fast. Groans when you whimper, begs you to be louder, to let him hear how ruined you are. Sometimes he talks you through it, filthy, detailed, claiming you with every word.

“Wish I was there to spit in your mouth,” he growls, hips jerking under the camera. “Want to fuck you open and make you beg for it. You’d take it, wouldn’t you? All of me.”

You whimper his name like it’s a prayer.

“Louder.”

And you do. Because he owns you even from hundreds of miles away.

He groans your name like it hurts. Tells you how good you look falling apart for him. How no one’s ever going to touch you like he does. And then he says the things that make your toes curl and your heart twist.

“My girl,” he mutters, low and breathless as he strokes himself. “You hear me? You’re my fucking girl.” He always smiles then, dangerous and soft all at once.

And when it’s over, when you’re both wrecked, sweaty, boneless in separate beds, he stays on the line. Tells you about the engine he’s rebuilding. The fight he almost got into at the garage. How nothing feels the same without you there.

And then, after it all, the silent goodnights come heavy with promise. The way he says, “Soon,” like it’s the only word you both need to hear. Because it is.

Today starts like any other shitty weekday.

The sun’s setting slow and syrupy, casting everything in burnt gold. Your feet ache from standing too long, your shoulders are sore from stress. Work was a mess. Your phone’s dead. You forgot to eat lunch. You just want to collapse.

You step off the bus with a sigh, your breath fogs in the air. You pull his leather jacket tighter around yourself, the weight of the worn leather and the scent still faint but unmistakably his.

Then, out of nowhere, something shoves its way into your thoughts, a flash of black, sleek and familiar, parked right across from your building. Your heart stops. You freeze mid-step. The shape, the shine, the way the fading light glints off the leather interior, there’s no mistaking it. His car. His goddamn car. Here. Outside your apartment.

Your heart stutters. You stop dead on the sidewalk, stare at it, like if you blink it might vanish.

No fucking way.

Your steps quicken, your pulse louder than your footsteps. You glance around, heart in your throat. There’s no sign of him. Your fingers twitch, itching to reach out, to touch something real. You drag your palm over the hood, still warm from the engine, the heat pulsing faint against your skin. It’s so tangible, so utterly him.

You swallow hard and turn toward your building, your steps quickening. You race up the stairs, every echo of your shoes against the concrete sounding impossibly loud in the silent hallway. Your keys shake in your hand. You don’t even remember making it to your floor, you're too frantic, breath shallow, thoughts spinning.

You reach your floor and immediately stop. There. At the end of the hallway, by your door, leaning against the wall like he owns the space. His silhouette is sharp against the dim light, casual but magnetic. One foot crossed over the other, his head tilted down just enough for the loose strands of hair to fall over his eyes.

You can’t move. You can’t even think. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze. His eyes find yours. And that smirk, that fucking smirk, spreads across his lips. It’s cocky and knowing, the kind of smirk that says he’s been here all along, waiting for you to notice, waiting for this exact second.

His voice, low and rich and dripping with everything he’s been holding back and all the fire he’s ready to unleash.

“Hey, trouble.”

And just like that, everything shifts. Time slows, your world narrows to the space between you two. The city, the distance, the ache, none of it matters anymore.

Because it was always going to be him.And you were always going to be his.

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