mark discovers you never learned how to ride a bike, so he spends an entire afternoon teaching you while trying very hard not to laugh every time you yell at him for letting go.
warnings ! - fluffy fluff, drabble (900 words)
The first thing Mark did was stare.
"You've... never ridden a bike?"
You shrugged from where you stood beside the row of rental bicycles, hands shoved into your hoodie pocket. "No?"
Mark blinked once.
Twice.
Then he burst into laughter.
Not the mean kind—not even close. It was the kind that doubled him over, one hand clutching his stomach while the other pointed dramatically at you.
"I'm sorry," he wheezed. "I'm sorry! I just—how?"
"What do you mean how?" you huffed. "Nobody taught me!"
He wiped at the corner of his eye, still giggling.
"So you just... skipped that life milestone?"
"I learned other things."
"Like what?"
"I can bake."
"...Okay, that's actually useful."
"Exactly."
Mark snorted before nudging your shoulder.
"Today's the day."
"The day for what?"
"The day you stop being bike illiterate."
"I'm not bike illiterate."
"You don't know how to ride one."
"...That's rude."
"It's accurate."
—
Ten minutes later, you already regretted agreeing.
"Mark."
"Yeah?"
"I hate this."
"You've been on the bike for twelve seconds."
"I've hated it for thirteen."
He laughed again.
You glared.
"This isn't funny."
"It kind of is."
You shot him another look.
"If I die—"
"You won't."
"—you have to delete my embarrassing search history."
"I'm not deleting anything."
"Mark!"
"I'm preserving history."
"You are the worst boyfriend alive."
"And yet," he said with the brightest grin imaginable, "you still like me."
"...Unfortunately."
He gasped dramatically.
"You wound me."
"You deserve it."
He adjusted the handlebars before crouching slightly so you were eye level.
"Okay."
His voice softened.
"Look at me."
You did.
"I've got you."
His hands settled securely on the back of the seat.
"I'm not letting you fall."
"...Promise?"
"I promise."
You nodded.
"...Okay."
"Start pedaling."
Slowly, awkwardly, you pushed the pedals.
The bike lurched.
You squeaked.
Mark immediately steadied it.
"There you go."
"I'm dying."
"You're literally moving three miles an hour."
"I'm dying slowly."
"You've gone six feet."
"I've lived a good life."
He laughed so hard he nearly forgot to keep running beside you.
"Eyes forward."
"I can't!"
"You can."
"I can't breathe!"
"Breathing is generally recommended."
"Stop joking!"
"I'm trying!"
"You are absolutely not trying!"
—
Half an hour later...
"I hate bikes."
"You don't."
"I do."
"You hate balance."
"I hate physics."
Mark wiped sweat from his forehead.
"You know... teaching you might actually qualify me for sainthood."
"You laughed every time I almost crashed."
"I laughed because every time you panic, you yell my full government name."
You frowned.
"I do not."
Five minutes earlier...
"MARK LEE!"
"There it is."
"...Okay."
"...Maybe I do."
—
"Again."
"No."
"Again."
"No."
"You've got this."
"I've got trauma."
"You've got dramatic."
"I've got a boyfriend who's enjoying this way too much."
He couldn't even deny it.
The smile on his face gave him away immediately.
"You look adorable when you're angry."
"I hope your pillow is warm tonight."
"Ouch."
"And both sides."
"You fight dirty."
—
Eventually, something clicked.
Your legs found a rhythm.
Your hands stopped gripping the handlebars like they were trying to escape.
Your shoulders relaxed.
"There you go," Mark encouraged from behind you.
"Just keep pedaling."
"I'm doing it."
"You are."
"I'm actually doing it."
"You are."
A grin slowly spread across your face.
"I'm doing it!"
"You—"
His sentence cut off.
Because he'd quietly let go.
You didn't notice.
Not at first.
You kept riding.
Five feet.
Ten.
Fifteen.
The wind brushed against your face.
Your laughter echoed through the nearly empty park.
"Mark!"
"I'm watching!"
"I'm doing it!"
"You are!"
"I'M RIDING A BIKE!"
He couldn't stop smiling.
His chest felt oddly warm.
You looked so ridiculously proud of yourself.
Like you'd just climbed a mountain instead of traveling twenty feet on two wheels.
Then—
You glanced behind you.
"...Mark?"
Your eyes widened.
"...Why are you so far away?"
"...Uh."
"...MARK LEE."
"...Hi?"
"YOU LET GO?!"
"...Technically..."
"MARK!"
Instant panic.
The handlebars wobbled violently.
"I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!"
"KEEP PEDALING!"
"I CAN'T!"
"YES, YOU CAN!"
"I'M GOING TO HIT THAT TREE!"
"YOU'RE NOWHERE NEAR THE TREE!"
"I SEE THE TREE!"
"The tree is twenty feet away!"
"IT'S LOOKING AT ME!"
"The tree is not looking at you!"
"I'M GOING TO SUE THE TREE!"
"You can't sue nature!"
Somehow—
Miraculously—
You managed to stop without crashing.
Mostly because your feet slammed into the ground hard enough to halt the bike entirely.
Silence.
You stared at Mark.
Mark stared back.
"..."
"..."
"You."
"...Me?"
"You LET GO."
"You were doing great!"
"You LIED."
"I didn't lie!"
"You PROMISED."
"I promised I wouldn't let you fall."
"..."
"..."
"You didn't fall."
"..."
"...Technically."
You climbed off the bike.
Very slowly.
Mark took one cautious step backward.
"You wouldn't hit your injured, exhausted, incredibly supportive boyfriend..."
You continued walking toward him.
"...Would you?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"You look like you're thinking about it."
"I am."
"You know violence is frowned upon."
"You know betrayal is frowned upon."
He laughed nervously.
"...Fair."
When you finally reached him, you poked him hard in the chest.
"I trusted you."
"I know."
"You let go."
"I know."
"I thought we had something."
"We do."
"You abandoned me."
"I encouraged your independence."
"I abandoned you in my heart."
He burst into another fit of laughter.
"You are unbelievable."
"I was terrified!"
"I know."
"You should've warned me."
"If I'd warned you, you would've stopped."
"..."
"..."
"...Yeah."
"So?"
"..."
"...I still don't forgive you."
"I figured."
"But..."
You looked back toward the path where you'd ridden.
"...I did it."
"You did."
"By myself."
"You did."
A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it.
"I actually did."
Mark's expression softened.
"Proud of you."
The words were simple.
Quiet.
But somehow they meant everything.
Your heart melted.
"You really are?"
"So much."
He reached over to brush a loose strand of hair away from your face.
"You were scared."
"I was."
"You kept trying anyway."
"...Mostly because you wouldn't let me quit."
"I would've carried you back to the car before I let you quit."
You laughed.
"I know."
"So..."
He gestured toward the bike.
"One more lap?"
You narrowed your eyes.
"...You're holding on the whole time."
"I'll hold on."
"No secret letting go."
"..."
"Mark."
"I'll tell you first."
"MARK."
He laughed so hard he had to lean against the handlebars.
"Okay, okay."
"I promise."
This time, when he ran beside you with one hand on the seat, you smiled instead of panicking.
At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing.
Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leaves—quietly, without telling anyone—chasing a feeling he doesn’t know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations… just distance. In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesn’t ask who he is—only who he chooses to be.
What begins as an unlikely arrangement—five days under the same roof—slowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind. Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have. But time doesn’t stop—and the life he left behind is still waiting for him. When he returns, nothing feels the same.
Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you can’t go back to.
MAIN MASTERLIST | PART II
CUTS | TORONTO | PRESS RUN | BTS
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Slice of Life , Emotional Drama , Soft Comedy , Slow Burn , Hurt/Comfort , JUST ONE SMUT SCENE
WARNINGS.
Emotional Angst , Themes of Identity & Burnout , Mild Language , Slow Emotional Build , Protected Sex , Makeouts , Lots of kissing , Open-ended emotional tension (no heavy breakup, but strong longing)
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
Morning doesn’t arrive all at once. It seeps in. Through the thin space between the curtains , stretching slowly across the floor through the quiet stillness of a house that's testing whether the house is ready to wake up or not.
It isn't.
The air is cool, faintly carrying the scent of polished wood and something older—something familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful, suspended. Like something has been left unfinished. Mark stands in the middle of it barefoot, unmoving, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other without him realizing it. The wooden floor is cool beneath him, grounding in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Like he walked into a memory that isn’t his anymore. This house—his house, his family’s house in Toronto—should feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something he’s stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocating—just… present. It fills every corner, stretches between the furniture, settles into his chest in a way that feels heavier than noise ever did. His phone vibrates in his hand. He doesn’t look at it.
He already knows.
Another call. Another message. Another voice waiting for him to pick up and explain what he meant with the message he sent hours ago into a new day to his managers and colleagues that have become part of his family over the years. Questions waiting to be asked. Answers expected. He exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen before the vibration stops on its own. The quiet comes back. And with it— you.
Not as a thought, not even as a memory crashing in, but like something that has already settled into the space before he even noticed it was there, as something that lingers. In the way the morning light touches the floor—soft, warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to this house. In the way the quiet feels…incomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesn’t know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.
It doesn’t help.
The doorbell rings. It’s sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.
Real.
He blinks, like he’s being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this time—impatient, urgent, like whoever is on the other side needs him to open it fast. His fingers tighten slightly around his phone before he sets it down without thinking. Then he moves. Each step feels heavier than it should. The hallway feels even longer than it normally is. His hand pauses on the door handle, just for a second, just long enough for something in his chest to hesitate— then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.
Not calm.
You’re moving before he even processes it—stepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like you’re searching for something wrong.
“Mark—”
Your voice breaks slightly, and before he can respond, before he can even register the way your face looks, your luggage. The one that's barely upright behind you, shoulder bag long thrown on the floor—eyes wide, breath uneven, something frantic sitting just beneath your skin. Your hands are already on him. On his face first, warm, quick. Careful and almost trembling. Your fingers brush along his jaw, up to his temples, pushing his hair back like you’re trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find something—an injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesn’t feel like enough proof that he’s okay. “Are you okay?” you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesn’t sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something you’re trying to confirm with your own hands. You don’t wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like you’re searching for something broken, something he hasn’t told you.
He freezes.
Not because he’s uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide down—his shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like you’re grounding yourself in the fact that he’s here. That he’s real. That he’s not… broken. That he’s here, that he didn’t disappear along with the screenshot he sent you regarding the decision you knew he had been hesitant to make about his career after ten years of the same routine. Your breathing is uneven. He notices that.
He notices everything.
The way your lips part slightly like you want to say more but don’t know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesn’t respond. Mark doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way you’re touching him like he matters outside of everything else.
Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Just— him.
Your hands slow, your movements pause, and then you look up at him properly, really look at him. Your expression softens, but the worry doesn’t leave. “Mr. Idol…” you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. “Talk to me.” Something in his chest tightens because he wants to. He really does. He should. A hundred things are sitting in his chest, pressing against his ribs, waiting for space.
But the words don’t come.
Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way you’re looking at him like he’s something you might lose if you don’t hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything else—the noise, the expectations, the endless movement—feel far away.
His throat tightens.
No words come out because if he starts— he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tilts…
It’s never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when it’s quiet.
“Mark, just a few more minutes—”
The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesn’t think too hard about it. The lights are too bright. They always are. Too bright. They sit above him, angled just enough to catch every expression, every shift, every blink—no shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.
Controlled.
“How would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?” He hears the question, registers it but there’s a slight delay before he answers. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, just long enough for something inside him to hesitate.
He smiles, because of course he does.
“It means a lot,” he says, voice smooth, steady. “I think… it’s a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.” The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, “And where is that?”
There it is.
The follow-up, the part where the answer is supposed to go deeper. His gaze flickers slightly, just for a second.
Because the truth?
The truth isn’t something he can package neatly into a sentence,the truth is unfinished. Messy and still forming. So he does what he always does. He adjusts.
“It’s… a process,” he says instead, softer now. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”
It sounds honest.
It is honest.
Just not complete. The camera keeps rolling. She smiles across from him, tablet resting against her knee, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that never really turns off. “What was the most personal track for you on the album?” The camera lens is fixed, unrelenting, watching for something real it can capture and package. Mark leans back slightly, fingers loosely intertwined, his smile already in place before he speaks.
“That’s a hard one,” he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I think… all of them had something personal in them.”
It’s a safe answer. A good one.
The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. “Is there one that felt… closer to you than the others?”
There’s a pause.
Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocused—like he’s somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would mean—feeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watching—He can't afford that.
So he smiles again, soft and polished.
“I think it changes,” he says instead. “Depending on where I am.” She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.
It never does.
—
Backstage, it’s louder. Not with questions—but with movement. Staff walking quickly, voices overlapping, schedules being called out, things being adjusted at the last minute. Mark sits on a couch, shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his phone without really seeing it. Someone drops down beside him. Close enough that their shoulder bumps him with a little force.
“Hyung.”
He looks up and finds Jisung—familiar, grounding—drops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.
“You good?”
The question is casual but the look isn’t. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. “Yeah,” he says.
It’s automatic.
He doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been… quiet,” he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. “Have I?"
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then, “You okay?”
The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This one—waits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.
“I’m just tired,” he says finally.
It’s not a lie but it’s not everything either. Jisung studies him for a second longer, like he knows better than to believe him but also knows him well enough to know he really won't be getting the truth out of him regardless, still, he can't help being concerned. They both stay silent looking ahead at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Then, Jisung nudges his shoulder again, lighter this time.
“If you need a break, you should take one.”
Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. Just like that.”
It’s said simply, like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t come with consequences. Mark doesn’t respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, “You should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.” Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesn’t get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. There’s no pressure in the statement.
Just—understanding.
And somehow, that makes it harder because he has thought about it. More than once. The idea sits at the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.
A question.
Not fully formed. He exhales slowly, nodding once. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”And in the back of his mind— something shifts. Something small. Persistent.
What if I did?
—
A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe it’s just the way the air sits—still, heavy with things unsaid. The tension. Mark sits across from two managers. One leans forward slightly, hands clasped, expression open. Listening. The other sits back, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating, already tense, already anticipating resistance. “I just need some time,” Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“How much time?” the second manager asks immediately. There’s no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, “A few weeks,” Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like he’s already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, “We’re in the middle of promotions,” he says. “You know that.”
“I know.”
“Then you also know this isn’t exactly—” “I said I know,” Mark cuts in, sharper this time.
The room stills.
Mark’s jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. “I’m not trying to mess anything up,” he continues, more controlled now. “I just… I need a break.” There’s a pause, a shift in the room.
Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. “You’ve been pushing a lot,” he says gently. “We’ve seen it.” Mark doesn’t respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t.
Pushing.
That’s one way to put it. Pushing doesn’t even begin to cover it.
The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. “Can you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?” There it is again. The question lingers, that expectation. That timing that never quite lines up with how he feels. Mark looks between them, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer because that question, that small, persistent one…is still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Mark’s fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mind— shifts. Just a little.
He finally exhales.
“…No.”
Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesn’t take it back.
The airport doesn’t rush him. It should. People move around him in currents—rolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragments—but none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like he’s watching everything through glass. It’s not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that — feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesn’t feel like an expectation. A black backpack hangs off one shoulder, the strap worn slightly where his fingers have been gripping it too tightly. In his other hand, he drags a medium-sized suitcase behind him—the wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.
There’s another one.
Larger and heavier. Left momentarily beside one of the seating areas he passed earlier, because what was inside was heavier physically, mentally, and most of all emotionally. A compact MIDI keyboard. A pair of headphones. A small interface, wires tangled together in a way that suggests he packed quickly rather than carefully. Like he told himself, this was just a break, but still couldn’t leave that part of himself behind.
You’re not really running, he thinks distantly. You just… changed locations.
The thought sits uncomfortably because it’s true and maybe that’s why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadn’t meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than they’ve been in weeks, but there’s something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasn’t exactly found it yet and that’s when he sees you.
He sees you even before he realizes he’s looking. You’re slightly off to the side of the main flow of people, near one of the quieter pillars. Your setup is small but intentional. A camera angled down. A container is wide open in front of you. Your hands moving with focus—adjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. There’s something about the way you exist in that space that feels… untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. You’re sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, contained—camera angled carefully, container open in front of you.
Your hands move with precision. Adjusting and plating. Fixing something small that no one else would notice. He slows. The suitcase behind him rolls once more before stopping. His fingers loosen slightly around the handle. He continues watching. You’re talking—softly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesn’t quite catch the words, but the tone reaches him. Calm and steady. Unbothered. It feels simple and something in his chest tightens because nothing about his life has felt like that in weeks.
Months, maybe longer.
He doesn’t fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing there until you look up. Your eyes meet his, and something pauses.
A small one but it stretches.
Your eyes narrow just a little, not unfriendly—just… trying to place him. Trying to understand why there's a stranger standing there watching you like he forgot where he was going. You tilt your head slightly.
He blinks—
Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. There’s a beat. Your gaze sharpens. Curious now. You blink back at him.
Then tilt your head the other way.
He mirrors you again.
And for a second, it’s ridiculous. Everything else fades. No noise, no movement. Almost like neither of you wants to be the first to break whatever this strange, wordless moment is. Just this strange, silent exchange between two people who don’t know each other. Then you straighten.
“…Can I help you?” you ask.
Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like he’s just remembered how to exist in his own body. “Yeah,” he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. “I—uh…” He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that he’s here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.
What are you doing? You don’t even know her.
Just walk away. Say something normal. Ask for directions?!?!?
LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE!!!
His jaw tightens slightly. He could still leave. He should, but then you cross your arms loosely, weight shifting to one leg, and there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—not impatient, not dismissive, just… waiting—that makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himself—
“Can I stay with you Angel?” he asks.
The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they don’t just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesn’t just change—it stills.
“…Excuse you?”
There’s disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick again—this time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.
“You’re serious?”
Suddenly, Mark becomes very aware of how this looks. A stranger, with luggage, asking to stay with you, a stranger no less.
You actually sound insane!!!
He almost backtracks, almost laughs it off, because he seriously takes time to listen to himself talk since meeting you and hears himself the way you must be hearing him.
Dude, you actually are insane!!!
Immediately then, he wants to take it back, but something in his chest—tight, stubborn—doesn’t let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. “…You know there are hotels, right?” Your tone isn’t harsh; it’s logical. Grounded because now this isn’t just weird, it's concerning, and in his mind, he does know. He knows exactly how many, knows the best ones, knows he could walk into any of them and disappear into a room that costs more than most people’s monthly rent.
He knows all that.
But the thought of it, the silence, the emptiness, the same four walls, the same distance makes something in his chest feel hollow. His gaze drops briefly to his suitcase, to the life he packed into it, clothes, work, and half-decisions waiting to be made on the only oath he's ever truly known for almost a decade. “I know,” he says quietly.
I don’t want to be alone.
The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesn’t say all of it. Your brows knit together. “Then why—”
“I just don’t want to be alone.”
It comes out softer than everything else he’s said so far. Less guarded and for a moment— he hates that he said it because it’s too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldn’t even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasn’t the answer you expected. There’s a shift, and it makes you loosen your arms slightly from where they were crossed in front of you. Still cautious, still unsure, but a lot more open than before. Your expression shifts, not soft but not dismissive either. A flicker of something that tries to understand instead of just rejecting. Your eyes linger on him a second longer this time. Still, you tilt your head slightly. “…That doesn’t make this any less weird, you know.” Fair.
Completely fair.
Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he admits. “I figured.” Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze moves—his face, his posture, the way he’s standing like he’s unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.
Real.
He didn’t just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, “What if I’m a serial killer?” you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Then I guess that’s how I was meant to die.” You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if he’s serious. If he’s joking, if he’s just reckless. “…You’re serious,” you say slowly in realisation, trying to grasp at the idea that this was in fact a conversation happening with a stranger you were trying to push away.
“I am.”
Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. “You’re either really smart… or just really, really stupid.” A faint smile pulls at his mouth, “Yeah,” he says. “I get that a lot.” There’s another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isn’t his anymore.
It’s yours.
And you feel it. The weight of it is sitting right in front of you. A stranger. A very strange stranger. Who could very easily just walk away. Who probably should walk away. Your mind runs faster than your expression shows.
He has luggage. He didn’t just say it—he meant it. This is not normal.
You don’t do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!
You don’t bring strangers home??!?!
And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasn’t moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way he’s standing—not imposing, not pushy, just… waiting. On the way, there’s something tired in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the rest of him, the way he didn’t argue when you questioned him. Didn’t try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel… real.
You’re insane.
The thought hits you clearly.
There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?
“…Five days,” you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. “Five days,” you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. “That’s it.” There’s a beat, then his shoulders drop—just slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.
“Okay,” he says quietly. His grip on the suitcase loosens slightly, and as you turn to start packing up your things, he reaches for his suitcase again. Then pauses and looks back briefly towards where he left the second one. “…I should probably get my other bag,” he mutters. You blink. “You have another one?”
“…Yeah.”
There’s a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. “Of course you do.” You can’t help the thought that lingers, quiet but persistent in the back of your mind, and under your breath, you whisper quietly as you watch him go.
You’ve actually lost your mind or you just might be the craziest person alive. This is how you die with him.
And just like that, you don’t just take him with you. You take everything he brought with him, too. The half-packed life, the unfinished thoughts and the version of him that hasn’t decided anything yet but is already changing.
_
The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. It’s not unpleasant.
Just… lived-in.
Mark sits in the back seat beside you, his knee angled slightly away to give you space that neither of you explicitly asked for. The window beside him is cracked open just enough to let in a steady stream of cool air, carrying with it the distant hum of the city slowly fading behind you. Your smaller suitcase rests between your legs. His are in the trunk. All of them. He had watched the driver load them in—first the large one, then the medium, then your carry-on, placed more carefully on top like it mattered differently. It had felt strange, seeing everything he brought with him disappear into a space he couldn’t see anymore.
Like letting go but not fully. Now, the road stretches ahead. The city gives way slowly, buildings thinning, noise softening, until it becomes something quieter. Trees begin to line the streets, their shadows flickering across the car windows in slow, shifting patterns as the sun dips lower. Mark watches it all. Not because he’s trying to, but because there’s finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. There’s a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesn’t interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesn’t. Not yet. The driver hums softly under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in rhythm with a song playing too low to fully make out. It feels normal, and that alone makes something in Mark’s chest tighten because normal hasn’t felt like this in a long time.
By the time the taxi turns into the estate, the light has softened into something warmer. Gold spills across the road, catching on rooftops, on windows, on the edges of passing fences. The air looks different here—quieter, slower, like everything has agreed to move at its own pace. Mark leans slightly, looking out. Children run across a small open field in the distance, laughter visible in the way they move, even if it doesn’t fully reach the car. A bicycle lies abandoned near a curb. Someone waters plants near a gate, glancing up briefly as the taxi passes. It feels lived in.
Real.
You don’t say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. “Wait,” he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.
“I’ve got it.”
You pause. Not arguing. Just watching. Mark steps out, the air cooler now against his skin as he closes the door behind him. He walks around to the driver’s side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. “How much was it?” The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properly—two hands, respectful, like it’s something that matters.
“Thank you,” he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightly—then smiles. “Welcome,” he says warmly. “Have a good evening.” Mark nods again. “You too.” There’s a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you briefly—
“You and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.”
Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you haven’t quite sorted out yet. He thinks it's ridiculous considering you only learnt each other's names when you demanded to stay with his passport and documents for 'my safety reasons' until the five days came to pass while waiting on the said taxi to arrive
He doesn’t respond to that, though, just gives a small, polite nod. The trunk opens with a soft click. Mark moves to it immediately, lifting it up before the driver can step out to help. He pulls his larger suitcase out first, setting it down carefully, then the medium one, then finally your smaller carry-on—placing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. “Thanks,” you say quietly. He glances at you, “Yeah.”
Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you don’t move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. He’s strange, that part hasn’t changed. Not even a little but, your gaze flicks briefly to the road where the taxi disappears. Then back to him.
At least he seems...decent??
The thought settles quietly. Not loud, not decisive, but enough to soften something that had been sitting rigid in your chest since the airport. You pick up your suitcase. “Come on,” you say. And this time, it sounds more certain. The walk to your door is short, but Mark feels it every step. The weight of his luggage in one hand, the quiet shift in the air, the way the house sits ahead of him like something he hasn’t earned but is being let into anyway.
You’re really doing this.
You don’t reach for keys. You don’t hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesn’t understand yet. Inside, the air wraps around him differently. Warmer. Softer. And before he can take it in, an older woman steps into view, her face lighting up instantly when she sees you. “Oh, you’re back.” Your posture shifts and softens.
You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. “Let me see you, baby,” she murmurs, turning your face slightly. “You’ve gotten thinner.” “I haven’t,” you say, but there’s a small laugh in your voice. “You have,” she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. “Working too much again?” Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you don’t pull away. “The trip was fine,” you say. “Work was good.” “Mm,” she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. It’s quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him in—the luggage, the way he’s standing, the space between you—and something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.
A look passes.
Quiet.
Knowing, you straighten slightly. “This is Mark.” He nods. “Hello.” She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. “Take care of her,” she says lightly. Mark blinks, “…I’ll try.” You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. “Rest,” she adds. “Both of you.”
And then she’s gone.
The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time it’s not empty. It’s full. Mark steps in properly now, and that’s when it hits him, not all at once, in pieces. Light spills in through wide windows, stretching across the floors in soft, golden lines. The walls are tall—higher than he expected—and filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, there’s you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someone’s shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parents—your father’s arm around you, your mother’s smile softer but just as warm. Another frame—two older guys, one with his arm slung around your neck, the other mid-laugh like the picture was taken in the middle of a joke.
Your brothers, maybe?
There’s another—an older woman. The same one who just left. You’re holding her face the same way she held yours. Mark’s chest tightens slightly, he doesn’t realize it. Not until his gaze shifts again to another frame.
You.
Standing next to a guy. Close. Too close.
He stills.
Boyfriend?
The thought comes quick. Uninvited. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle.
Of course she could have a boyfriend. Why wouldn’t she?
Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t understand why it’s there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that don’t exist.
What if you’re not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?
His jaw tightens slightly.
Then— “You can leave your bags there for now.” Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. You’ve already stepped further in, your suitcase set aside casually as you move toward the kitchen. Like this is second nature. Like this space is an extension of you. He leaves his suitcase by the entrance, the handle still extended, like it’s waiting for instructions he hasn’t decided on yet. The house feels… still, but not empty. There’s a softness to the quiet here, something that doesn’t press on him, doesn’t demand anything.
It just… exists, and for a moment, he does too. You disappear into the kitchen without ceremony, like the transition from outside to inside didn’t require adjustment. Like you’ve done this a hundred times—come home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like he’s trying to understand something he hasn’t had access to in a long time. The light stretches further now, deeper into the house, brushing over the edges of furniture, catching on the glass of framed photos. The air smells faintly of something clean, something lived-in—like citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he can’t quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,
Don’t get comfortable.
The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesn’t stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feel…unnecessary. “You can sit,” you call from the kitchen, not looking at him, your voice carrying just enough to reach him without forcing itself into the room. He exhales quietly.
“Yeah,” he answers, even though you didn’t ask a question.
He doesn’t sit.
Not yet. Instead, he finally lets go of the suitcase handle, the soft click of it retracting louder than it should be in the quiet. His fingers flex slightly after, like they’re remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he’s aware that he’s stepping into something that isn’t his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, it’s something else entirely. Books line the walls—not perfectly arranged, not color-coded or curated for display, but stacked, layered, used. Cookbooks with worn edges. Novels with folded pages. Papers tucked between them like bookmarks that were never meant to be permanent. There’s a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to you—equipment, cables, a microphone, papers with scribbled ideas. And it looks like you left it mid-thought. It feels alive, like something is always being created here. A microphone angled slightly to the side. A laptop, half-closed, is sitting next to your desktop computer. Sticky notes scattered—some with full sentences, some with single words that don’t make sense on their own.
He steps closer.
Doesn’t touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.
Shoot before sunset — plating!!
There’s a small underline under the last word.
Urgent.
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. It’s… endearing, without trying to be.
You’re busy.
The thought comes easily,
You have a life.
It shouldn’t matter but for some reason, it does.
“Water?”
Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, you’re standing in the doorway now, holding out a glass without stepping fully into the room. Your posture is relaxed, but your eyes, your eyes are still watching him. Not suspicious in the same way as before but not careless either.
Aware.
He takes the glass. “Thanks.” Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but it’s enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. “Kitchen’s this way,” you say, like he didn’t just watch you walk in and out of it twice already. He nods anyway and follows. The kitchen feels warmer as it opens up; it feels more lived in than the rest of the house somehow. Wide and bright. An island sits at the center, stools tucked neatly beneath it. The breakfast nook by the window catches the light perfectly, soft and inviting in a way that makes it feel like mornings linger there longer. The dining space sits just beyond. Prepared, intentional, and everything, everything feels warm. Lived in. You move easily, filling another glass. Opening a cabinet and closing it again. Mark leans slightly against the edge of the island, the glass still in his hand. He watches you, not in a way that feels heavy. Just curious, and you feel it. You don’t look at him immediately but you’re aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. It’s strange. You don’t bring people home, not like this, and certainly not strangers.
What are you doing?
The thought comes again. Louder this time, but then, you glance at him and he’s just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like he’s trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now you’re curious too. “…So,” you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.
“Yeah?”
There’s a pause.
Not awkward. Just measured. “You always do this?” you ask. “Ask random people to let you stay with them?” A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “First time.” You narrow your eyes a little, “Convenient.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah.”
There’s something about the way he doesn’t defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just… agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. “…You’re really not going to explain yourself, are you?” He looks at you for a second, then he looks away. His grip tightens just slightly around the glass.
You could, you could tell her everything.
The thought surfaces. Tempting, dangerous, but he doesn’t, not fully. “I just needed to leave for a bit,” he says instead. It’s not a lie… but it’s not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, “From what?” The question lands softer than expected, not accusatory. Just curious. Mark exhales slowly and looks down at the water in his glass like it might give him an answer for everything, but that sounds dramatic. So he shrugs slightly,“…Work.” You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell that’s as far as he’s willing to go. For now, and strangely, you respect that.
A soft thud interrupts the moment. Then another. He looks down, and something small brushes against his ankle. He startles slightly, stepping back just enough to look down properly, only he finds himself staring at a cat. Fluffy. Almost ridiculously so. Cream-colored with darker markings, its tail flicking lazily as it looks up at him like he’s the one intruding.“…Oh,” Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.
Unimpressed.
Then walks past him like he doesn’t exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. “What’s his name?” he asks. You glance over your shoulder, “Biscuit.”
“…Biscuit?”
You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. “He answers to it.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.
His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadn’t noticed before. “…He does that,” you say, like it explains everything. “He wasn’t there a second ago.”
“He was. You just didn’t notice.”
Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like it’s already bored. A tall, carefully built tree, not just functional but aesthetic. Wood and soft fabric blending into the space like it belongs there, levels stacked in a way that feels intentional. Biscuit hops onto one of the platforms with practiced ease, curling up like he’s claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.
“…That’s a strong name.”
You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. “Strong?" He shrugs, deadpan, “He looks like he runs things.” You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, “He does.” “He’s judging you, by the way.” Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.
“…I can tell.”
And for a moment, the tension breaks. Just slightly. It settles again after, not heavy. Just present. Mark sets the glass down slowly on the counter, his fingers lingering against the surface for a second longer than necessary. His gaze drifts back to you. You’re closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you weren’t before, and he notices it.
She said yes.
The thought comes back.Clearer now.
She let you in.
And something about that, about you pulls at him. Not sharply, not overwhelmingly. Just enough to make him aware of it.
The thought settles quietly.
But it stays, and on your end, you feel it too. Not the same thought, but something like it, because he’s still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldn’t have brought into your home, and yet—he doesn’t feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.
“…You hungry?” you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. “Yeah.”
Then, quieter—
“…I can try cooking.”
You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, “…Try?” He hesitates, “…I mean—” You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. “Sit down.” There’s a hint of a smile in your voice, and he catches it. He moves toward the breakfast nook, sliding into the bench by the large window slowly, like he’s still adjusting to being allowed to do anything with your space. To just be here and as you start moving around the kitchen, pulling things out and setting them down, he watches. Not obviously, no, constantly but enough, because something about this— about you in your space, feels like something he didn’t know he was looking for, and somewhere, quietly, without either of you saying it out loud, the question begins to form.
For him,
What happens if I don’t want to leave?
For you,
What happens if I end up wanting him to stay longer?
And neither of you answers it, not yet. Then he looks back at you, and something in his chest shifts again. Quiet and uncertain, but real because this place— your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesn’t feel like a stop; it feels like something rooted, something steady, slow, and quiet. Something that might, without him realizing it yet, change everything, and standing in the middle of it, he realizes something he hasn’t let himself think about yet. He didn’t just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesn’t know it yet, but this might be the first place in a long time that feels like it could hold him without asking for anything in return.
The rain starts sometime in the night and it settles into the morning like it had every intention of staying—soft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like it’s moving differently.
It's not what wakes you, not at first.
What wakes you is not the rain. It’s the sound. Irritating and repetitive, then a shift in your body. The sharp, aggressive beeping that slices through the quiet like it has something personal against you. For a second, your mind doesn’t catch up. It’s just noise and movement—You don’t even realize you’re awake until your eyes snap open, your heart racing, your body already pushing upright, the sheets slipping off your legs as instinct takes over.
The smoke alarm.
You’re out of bed almost immediately, your feet barely registering the cold of the floor as you move, faster than you mean to, down the hallway, past the stairs, the sound gets louder. Insistent. Almost accusatory. You reach the kitchen and stop because it’s not what you expected. There’s no fire. No panic. No urgency.Just… smoke. Not thick. Not dangerous. But enough, enough to make the alarm scream like the house is falling apart. Light, stubborn curls of it rising from the pan on the stove and Mark, he’s standing there, wooden spatula in hand, staring at the pan like it personally betrayed him.
Very still and very focused.
Like if he stares at it long enough, it might fix itself out of sheer intimidation. You stop, and you don’t say anything. You just take him in because the sight is so absurd that it takes a second to process. His hair is messy in a way that feels unintentional, like he woke up and immediately got into this. He’s wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like it’s the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like he’s accepted his fate. There’s a slight panic in his posture, but he’s trying—very visibly—to stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like it’s about to file a complaint, “don’t move,” you say instinctively, already moving past him. You reach up to switch off the alarm, grab a towel, and wave it lightly near the sensor until the beeping finally stops. Silence crashes back in. Only the rain remains. You exhale. Slowly.
Then you turn.
He’s still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking… guilty. “…Hi Angel,” he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. “…What happened?”
There’s a pause. A very real, very visible pause where he debates how honest to be, where he considers lying but decides against it when he blinks back at your sharp features. You can see it. The way his lips part slightly, close again. The way his gaze flickers to the pan like it might answer for him. “I was trying to make eggs.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, “…Those are eggs?” “They were,” he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you try—you really try—not to laugh because he's already panicking, “I just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.” You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. “…You declared war on breakfast.” A breath escapes him—half a laugh, half defeat. “I thought—” he continues, gesturing vaguely, “—how hard can it be? It’s eggs. People make eggs all the time.” “And yet,” you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, “you’ve managed to reinvent them.”
He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. “They stuck,” he says, “And then I tried to unstick them. And then they… got worse. I didn’t think it would go like this,” he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly now—burnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are… unrecognizable. They’ve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.
Something… experimental.
“…Did you use oil?” There’s another pause. Smaller this time, “…I thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?” That’s it. That’s the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it—sharp and sudden at first, catching you off guard as much as it catches him. It spills out before you can stop it, warm and unrestrained in a way that feels unfamiliar in your own chest. Then softer, fuller, spilling out in a way you don't recognise because it’s been a while since something this small felt this funny, since you've laughed this hard.
He watches you, and something in his expression softens. Not embarrassed, not defensive. Just watching you like this is the outcome he didn’t know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. “Okay,” you say, voice lighter now, easier. “Step aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.”
He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesn’t leave. He lingers, stays there. Of course he lingers. You can feel it.
You start over. With enough oil this time, you crack the eggs properly a second time, the soft sound grounding, familiar. The smell changes—warm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just… there. “…I was trying to say thank you,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. “You did,” you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, “This is very memorable.”
He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, he’s smiling. Not the polite kind, not the careful kind he always has ready for the cameras. Something softer. Something… real.
Silence settles over you both again but this time, it’s not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each other’s space you are okay with what quietly settles instead. You end up eating at the breakfast nook. The earlier rain is painting soft patterns against the glass now as the world outside blurs into greys and greens, inside, everything feels warmer than it should for two people who barely know each other. Biscuit appears like he’s been summoned by the promise that was breakfast, jumping up onto the table with quiet authority, tail flicking once as he eyes both of you like he’s judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.
Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. “…Does he always look like that?” You follow his gaze, “That’s his face.” “…He looks like he has opinions.” “He does. They’re just not for you.” Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like he’s trying to understand the rules.
Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, “…I’ve been dismissed.” You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. “So,” you say, glancing at him, “you cook often?” He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, “God, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.” You hum, “Good call.”
Then you blink up at him, confused, “members?” Mark swallows hard. His throat dries up despite having the option of juice and coffee in front of him. He hadn't thought of his guys up until now, hadn't really checked his phone either, “ colleagues.” You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because there’s nothing to say but because… there’s no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesn’t feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like he’s deciding something, “…You laugh like that often?”
You pause mid-bite, “…Like what?” “Like that, Angel,” he says simply. “Earlier.” You don’t answer immediately because the honest answer is—No. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, “Depends.”
“On what?”
You glance at him, “…On who I’m with.” There’s a beat, something passes between you then. Small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t. Instead, “…I almost set your house on fire.” You snort, “And yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.” “Temporarily banned,” he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggs—something settles.
Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to say— this could be something.
Time moves differently after that morning. Not fast or slow .Just… present. Days pass, and Mark stays, not like a guest anymore. Like something between a stranger and something worse—someone becoming familiar. Some mornings, he leaves early and returns with a small bag of items he bought from exploring the city, and other nights, he'll bring you flowers, thrifted recipe books, and worn-out vintage notebooks he thought you might like. Other days, he sits near the living room window, experimenting quietly with sound, fingers hesitant over keys like he’s afraid the music might reject him, but most of the time, he just watches you work. Not interrupting. Just existing in the same space as you focus while he flips aimlessly through your endless collection of books. Biscuit also slowly decides Mark belongs here more than anyone has officially said.
Five days arrive without announcement.
The house feels different that day. Not louder, not quieter. Just… aware. Too aware. Like something is about to shift, and everything in it knows before either of you says it out loud. You don’t notice it at first. You’re moving through your space the way you always do—barefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.
It’s the sound that stops you. Soft and measured. Zippers. You frown slightly and follow it down the hallway past the open coffee space you have upstairs, where light spills in gently through the windows, catching dust in the air like suspended time next to the hallway that spills into your room, guest room, the open balcony, and the door that opens up to the Terrance on your rooftop.
You find him packing. The guest room is half-folded silence. Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.
No, no, he wouldn’t—
You don’t knock, you don’t think, you don't even breathe, you just push the door open, and there he is. Kneeling on the floor. His suitcase was open in front of him, and everything inside you… stills. For a moment, you don’t say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirts—neatly, carefully, like he’s done it a hundred times before. The clothes are arranged carefully in a suitcase that looks too empty for someone who has not been here long enough to fully unpack. Another sits beside it— notebooks, things he treats more carefully than clothing. It all seems like a routine to him. Like leaving is something he knows how to do but staying isn’t.
Your voice comes out before you can stop it, “…What are you doing?” Mark freezes. Not dramatically, not suddenly. Just enough. His hands still on the fabric and his shoulders go slightly rigid. Then he looks up and for a second—just a second—he looks… confused.
Like you’re the one who’s out of place here.
“I’m packing,” he says, slowly. Carefully, like he’s choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.
Of course.
“Why?” you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesn’t make sense. “You said five days, Angel.” The words land heavier than they should, heavier than you expected.
Five days.
You feel something in your chest pull tight because you remember saying it. At the airport. When he was still a stranger. When this was supposed to be temporary. Controlled. Safe.
Five days.
But that was before, before the burnt eggs, before the not-so-quiet nights, the grocery runs, before the badly cut-up fruit, before him draping your favorite throw blanket over you as he settles onto the couch next to you to watch trashy reality shows as Biscuits finds the perfect spot to settle in on his chest. Before he put the trash outside without you having to ask, before he started leaving his shoes by the door like he belonged there.
Your grip tightens around the mug. “…So you’re just leaving?” you ask. Mark frowns slightly, “I mean… yeah?” But it doesn’t sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesn’t sound like you, “Wow.” He straightens a little, confusion deepening. “What?”
“You couldn’t wait, huh?”
Now he’s really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, “Wait for what?” You don’t answer immediately because suddenly everything feels… too close to the surface. Too raw. “For the five days to be over,” you say instead, quieter now. “Or did you just hate being here that much?”
The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Mark’s expression changes, not to anger but something else...“What?” You laugh again—but this time it breaks halfway through. “I mean, it makes sense,” you continue, words coming faster now, messier. “ You basically forced me into this, and now you want to leave me hanging. You were just waiting it out, right? Counting down the days until you could leave without being rude—”
“That’s not—”
“But you don’t have to pretend anymore,” you cut in, your voice tight. “Five days are up. You can go.” Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. “No Angel, that’s not what this is,” he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.
You shake your head, already stepping back, “It’s fine, Mark. Really. You don’t have to explain—” He moves before you can finish. It’s instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wrist—not tight, not rough—but firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.
You freeze.
And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, “Stop.”
The word is quiet but it holds. You look up at him really look this time and what you see makes your chest tighten in a completely different way. He’s not annoyed, he’s not distant. He’s not relieved to be leaving. He’s… frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.
His hands still slightly.
“I didn’t want to overstay,” he says quietly. “Or make you uncomfortable.” Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, “so you were just… planning to disappear?”
That word makes him flinch slightly.
“No.”
A beat passes. Then more honestly, “I just didn’t know how long I was allowed to exist here.”
Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, “I didn’t mean it like a countdown.” That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. “I wasn’t counting down the days,” he says, softer now. “I was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.”
You blink.
“…What?”
You stare at him again. There’s a beat. Then another. “You took my documents,” he adds, almost awkwardly now. “Remember? As a condition?”
Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Then—despite everything—a small, disbelieving sound escapes you, “you were packing… because you didn’t know how to ask for your passport back?”
Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.” “It is stupid,” you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.
He huffs a quiet laugh, “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to overstep.” Something in your chest shifts again.
“You could’ve just asked,” you say.
“I know,” he replies. “But you gave me a timeline. I thought… pushing past that would be.” You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had to— because he was trying to respect you—It does something to you.
Something you don’t have a name for yet. “So you were just going to leave?” you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, “I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”
That—
That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,
synopsis: you loved jaemin for eight long years. long enough to learn how to keep him in your life in the name of love. loving him meant accepting the faults even when it isn’t yours, changing every part of yourself to be a part of his narrative, wondering when will you ever become someone easier to love. every fight circled the same ache—him telling you who you should be, you apologising and promising that you’ll change. at jaemin’s first photography exhibition, muse, you realised that in a room filled with photos full of faces he chose to remember and hold onto, you were not part of it. and for the first time, you ask the question you’ve been avoiding all along, how much of yourself can you give before there’s nothing left to be seen?
a/n: hii~ think i teared up slightly in chapter 05😮💨😮💨 truly, i wish to thank everyone for all your patience :") i'm not sure if anyone's loving the series anymore but i figured i should finish up the story soon! stay tuned for the next chapter~ see you guys there!!
the after hours following your exit from the home you and jaemin had built over the last eight years felt like a never ending nightmare. jaemin spent the first hour sprawled on the sofa, waiting for the front door to swing open. he was confident you’d return after "going around" to cool off like you always did.
but as the second hour bled into the third, his confidence deflated into a restless, jagged frustration. you weren’t supposed to leave. not right now, not when he had finally begun to acknowledge the cracks in the foundation of your relationship. agitated and unable to sit with his own thoughts, jaemin called saeron—the only person who seemed to make any sense to him these days.
relaxing jazz music filled the bar as the crowd mindlessly swayed to it unbeknownst to jaemin's own sinking thoughts. all he could ever see was the ghost of your beautiful face, the way your expression had shattered before you walked out, causing him to wince in pain.
"y/n left," jaemin muttered, his fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty whiskey glass. saeron draped an arm around him, offering a comforting pat on the back. "i don’t even know if she’s coming back anymore," he added with a bitter, breathless chuckle before downing the rest of his drink.
"what happened jaems?" saeron asked softly, her hand finding his on the scarred wood of the bar. but jaemin didn't pull away, finding some comfort in her touch. "only just five hours ago you were talking about turning things around. now she’s just… walked out?"
jaemin wasn't blind; he knew exactly how his words had destroyed you. he knew there was something fundamentally broken in the way he had treated you over the years, and that he was lucky you had stayed as long as you did. the truth was simple: he had grown comfortable. in the pursuit of his own passions, he had let the "fun" of his career take over, neglecting to love you the way you deserved. he knew that "chasing a dream" was a pathetic excuse for casting you aside and keeping secrets, but facing that reality was harder than to just let the attitude keep going.
"she asked if I saw a future with her," jaemin sighed, the words trailing off. saeron held her breath, her gaze fixed to his side profile. when she had first met him, he was a man who seemed to move with an unshakeable sense of purpose but now, he looked like someone who had watched his entire world slip through his fingers. perhaps jaemin really thought of you as a precious gem in his world?
"i just couldn't answer her." jaemin shook his head, a bitter, breathless laugh bubbling up in his throat. "i don’t even know why."
the lie of it tasted like the whiskey on his tongue. it isn't like he’d never thought about marrying you in this lifetime. in fact, it was the only thing he’d wanted at the beginning of your relationship. you were the only one he was certain he wanted a future with among all his past relationships. you and you only, was the only one he could see walking down the aisle towards him.
but somewhere along the way, the guilt had started to act like a wall. every time he’d snapped at you, every time he’d stayed out late or hidden a part of his life, that future got a little harder to look at. it was easier to just treat you like a soft place to land—someone who would always be there regardless of how much he messed up. he’d stopped trying to earn your future and started just using up your present, until finally, he’d forgotten how to imagine a ‘tomorrow’ that he actually deserved to be in.
"was it because of the kiss?" saeron finally asked.. jaemin winced at the thought of it.
rome
it was the orange garden where jaemin first saw her through his lens. rome was glowing, bathed in that fleeting, golden-hour light where the sky bruised into shades of deep orange and soft pink. jaemin wandered the paths with his eye pressed to the viewfinder, framing the world through his most prized possession, his beloved camera. he scanned the grass where lovers chatted over wine glasses and watched children race their bikes along the pavement, sparrows hovering above the fountain.
until, it landed on her.
she was dressed in a simple black slip dress, her golden-brown hair caught in the roman breeze. jaemin’s breath hitched. it wasn't just her beauty, though that was enough to make his finger hover over the shutter—it was the way she held herself. then slowly, his gaze drifted down to the camera gripped in her hands, and he was sold. she was standing by a bed of roses, looking through her own lens with small smile plastered on her lips.
click!
he captured her before he could talk himself out of it. it was a photographer’s excuse—an easy "in." he’d walk over, show her the shot, and offer to send it to her. but when he finally approached, the words died in his throat.
"nice framing," she said first, a playful tilt to her lips as she looked up from her own screen. she turned her camera around to show him the display and jaemin felt his heart dropped in his stomach. there he was, captured in high definition against the sunset in his own element. "i think i caught the better view," she teased, her eyes locking onto his.
turns out the two of them were looking at each other after all.
oh how romantic?
they spent the rest of the night walking through the cobblestone streets of rome, talking about everything and anything like two old friends who hasn't seen each other in a long time. he told her things he’d stopped telling you, mostly because with her, there was no fear of disappointment. for jaemin, it was intoxicating.
for the first time in awhile, jaemin felt seen, not as the partner who was failing at a long term relationship but rather, as just na jaemin the artist. saeron didn't know about you, who's waiting for him back home. she didn't know about the girl who was currently sitting in her own room, wondering if today would be the day he felt like sending a single update, a sign that he hadn't completely forgotten you existed.
"so jaemin," saeron smiled, leaning back against the stone railing, her eyes searching his. "what’s a guy like you doing in rome all by himself? you don't exactly look like the solo-backpacker type."
jaemin hesitated. he traced the condensation on his wine glass, your name hovering at the back of his throat like a bruise. for a second, he thought about lying. he thought about saying he was just on a work trip. but there was something about the way saeron looked at him—without expectations that made the truth feel easier to spill.
"i'm on a break," he admitted, his voice a little rougher than before. "from my relationship. we’ve been together a long time, and i just... i needed to breathe. i came here to get some air."
saeron nodded understandingly, moving a step closer as her shoulder brushes against his in the cool night air. "sometimes air is the only thing that helps you realise what you’re actually missing," she whispered.
the honesty felt like a match struck in a dark room. jaemin looked at her, and he saw a way out. "and what are you missing jaemin?" she asked, her voice dropping to a low, velvet hum.
he should have walked away then. he should have thought about the times your hands still searched for his even when you were deep asleep, the way you'd travel an hour and a half after a long exhausting day at the lab just to be by his side, the way you picked up cooking because he missed his mom's home cook food. but under the moon, with the scent of saeron’s perfume mixing with the sharp tang of wine, those memories felt like they belonged to a different man.
and so, jaemin didn't answer with words. instead, he leaned in, his hand finding the small of her back as he closed the distance, lips finally meeting hers.
he had spent the whole night pretending he was a free man, and he finally decided to act like one.
mark stayed true to his words, acting as your personal tour guide free of charge and taking you along on a journey that seemed impossible to pass on.
it was the fifth day since you had left your beloved relationship, and today, mark was taking you to the pantheon. you were actually excited—genuinely, for the first time in god knows how long as you tucked your sketchbook into your bag, hoping to catch some of the ancient architecture in graphite.
"morning sunshine," mark chimed the moment you stepped out of your hotel room. he was leaning against the wall, a coffee in hand and a bright smile on his face.
"morning mark," you chuckled, the sound feeling a bit rusty in your throat. he gestured for you to lead the way, following right by your side as the two of you made your way out of the hotel.
"did you sleep well?" he asked.
did you sleep well?
you wished you had. you wished you could have drifted off the moment your head hit the pillow, but the king-sized bed felt massive too massive for a single person. and then there were the texts. jaemin’s messages had lit up your nightstand like a neon sign of guilt, keeping you awake long into the early hours.
jaems♡: i miss you.
jaems♡: are you eating well?
jaems♡ :did you pack enough layers? it’s supposed to be cold today.
each message pulled you further into the void of darkness. it was if jaemin had destroyed a part of you that you had simply given up on and now you're unsure of who you ever are anymore with everything that you had given to to him.
"it was alright," you lied, forcing a small smile. you didn't want to be the person who dampened the mood, not when the sky looked so beautiful and mark was trying so hard. "the bed was just a little too big i think. took awhile to get comfortable."
mark gave a knowing sort of hum and you felt a wave of gratitude for his presence for he didn't ask for the truth, even if he could probably see the faint shadows under your eyes.
"well i think you're gonna love the pantheon." he chirped. "it’s the only one of its kind," mark whispered, his voice echoing slightly as you stepped through the massive bronze doors. "no matter how much the world outside changes, this place stays exactly the same."
you looked up and your breath was caught. high above, the great oculus, the eye of the dome, offered a perfect circle of brilliant roman sky. it was breathtaking to say the least.
the pantheon was a masterpiece of balance, but it was also vulnerable. because of that opening in the roof, whenever it rained, it rained inside the temple. the floor was designed with nearly invisible holes to drain the water away, a silent system built to handle the weather it couldn't keep out.
it reminded you too much of the last eight years with jaemin. you had spent so much time trying to be like this floor corny enough—quietly draining away the tears, the neglect, and the loneliness so that the "temple" of your relationship could look perfect to anyone standing on the outside. you had let the rain in for years, thinking that as long as the structure stayed standing, the damage didn't matter.
you wandered the perimeter of the rotunda with your digital camera in your hand and snapping photos of the intricate marble patterns along the way—details you wanted to preserve on your sketchbook.
mark followed by your side, his hands shoved into his pockets, watching you with a soft smile. while you were busy reading a plaque near the altar, lost in the history of the stone, a sharp, digital click echoed behind you.
you whirled around immediately, catching mark with his phone still angled towards you. "hey!" you pouted. "why are you even taking photos of me?"
"i couldn't help it," mark defended himself, flashing his screen so you could see the shot. the light from the oculus had caught the side of your face perfectly, making you look glowing and ethereal against the dark, ancient backdrop. "you actually look happy here! i had to document it."
"well at least join me in the frame," you chuckled, waving him over. "standing back there and snapping candids makes you look like a total creep."
"should we?" he asked, his grin widening as he stepped into your personal space. he switched his phone to selfie mode, the two of you appearing on the small screen. "we definitely need the oculus in it!" you said excitedly, pointing upward.
mark adjusted his grip, crouching down slightly so he could get the right angle. you leaned in close as he tilted the phone toward the ceiling. from the lower angle, the massive dome seemed to curve around the two of you like a crown of stone, with the circle of blue sky positioned right between your heads.
you made a series of ridiculous faces, sticking your tongue out and flashing peace signs, while mark threw up a "rock on" gesture, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed at your energy.
"see?" you said, looking at the final shot of the two of you grinning like idiots under the eye of the dome. "much better than a candid."
"yeah indeed," mark chuckled, shaking his head in defeat as the two of you continued your exploration of the temple.
you settled on the edge of a weathered stone fountain, tucked away from the main surge of the crowd as mark handed you a coned pistachio gelato, the one that you had been eyeing for since the very first night.
"thanks," you beamed, the cold sweetness hitting you in a pleasant way. "you're welcome," he said, sitting just close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed.
"i realised i never actually asked," you said, watching the world go by. a couple walked past, fingers entwined, and for a split second, your chest winced. you looked away, focusing on a group of locals drinking espresso at a nearby cafe. "what is it that you actually do mark?"
"i’m a ceramic artist," mark said.
your eyes widened, a genuine spark of interest cutting through your lingering thoughts of home. "no way, really?"
mark nodded, a slightly bashful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "yeah, really."
"are you good at it?" you asked impulsively. the second the words left your mouth, you felt the heat climb up your neck. "i mean—wait, i didn't mean it like that! i mean, obviously you're good, i just meant... do you love it? Is it your passion?" you stumbled over the words, flustered, your cheeks turning a dusty pink.
mark lets out a hearty laugh, waving off your apology with a hand. "i think i'm okay at it," he teased, his eyes crinkling. "i was actually in florence for an expo and everything sold out."
"that’s amazing! so you're a big deal then," you nudged him with your shoulder. "you should totally make me something someday."
"maybe i will," mark said, his voice softening as he looked at you. "but what about you? what do you do?"
"well, i am a chemist," you started, but stopped when you suddenly remembered the scathing email from your supervisor, suho, that had been sitting in your inbox since yesterday a very angry demand for an explanation regarding your sudden leave of absence. "or... i was a chemist." you scratched the back of your head, a sheepish, embarrassed smile tugging at your lips. "to be honest, i’m pretty sure i got fired yesterday."
"aww no" mark said, his face falling into an expression of genuine concern. "i'm sorry, that’s—"
"it’s fine, really," you interrupted, taking a defiant bite of your gelato. you shrugged, and to your surprise, the weight that usually sat on your shoulders didn't return. "i've been meaning to quit for a long time. i was just too scared to actually do it."
saying it out loud made it feel even more real. since graduation, you had been working hard in the lab to earn a future where you and jaemin could live comfortable lives, trading any rest days for extra incentives. you had tried so hard to keep the chemistry right, to make sure nothing exploded, only to realise you were the one being consumed. losing the job felt like losing a set of golden handcuffs.
"so," Mark said, watching the relief wash over your face. "what do you wish to do from here onwards?"
"i don't know," you admitted, looking down at your laps. "i’ve always wanted to be a comic artist. i used to spend hours sketching out original characters and comic strips, i just don't think if i'm good enough."
"you should have more confidence in yourself y/n." Mark said firmly. He leaned in, catching your gaze. "if you don't even trust yourself, who will?"he stood up, brushing the stray crumbs from his jeans, and held out a hand to help you up.
"tell you what. since you’re officially a 'free agent' now, let’s put that dream into work. i know a place—it’s a little cafe tucked away in trastevere. a friend of mine runs it. people go there to craft, paint, or just mess around with whatever project they’re working on. there’s usually some live music, too. it’s the perfect place to start your first chapter."
"really?" you took his hand, feeling the steady strength in his grip as he pulled you to your feet.
"really," he grinned, his eyes bright with encouragement. "i’ll even draw with you, if that helps you feel a little more comfortable."
"i like the sound of that," you said, a genuine laugh bubbling up as you gave him a firm thumbs up, feeling a sudden, electric spark of motivation. "let's go!"
mark hadn't been exaggerating about the cafe. it was a sanctuary of vibrant creativity. the air was a thick, comforting blend of espresso and oil paint, humming with the sound of live guitar and the rhythmic scratch of pens on paper. everywhere you looked, people were lost in their own worlds—some hunched over intricate junk journals, others splattering watercolors onto canvases.
"mark, my boy! you're finally here!" a tall man in a light blue sweater, an apron tied haphazardly over his waist, strode toward you. he caught mark in a handshake so complex and energetic it looked more like a choreographed dance.
"johnny! good to see you man," mark beamed, matching his energy.
johnny’s eyes shifted, landing on you as you stood just behind mark’s shoulder. his face lit up with immediate, unfiltered excitement. "is this your girlfriend?" he blurted out, practically pushing mark aside to offer you a hand.
you stared at the hand in front of you for a split second, surprised by the sudden burst of energy, before slowly taking it. mark made a sound somewhere between a cough and a choke, his face flushing a bright, sudden red.
"she’s a friend!" mark managed to get out, desperately trying to gather himself while you let out a genuine laugh. "i’m so sorry—please don't mind him. he’s always spouting nonsense."
"yeah, just a friend," johnny echoed, though he gave mark a deliberate, slow wink that said he didn't believe a word of it. he turned back to you, his grin wide and welcoming. "and you are...?"
"y/n" you chuckled, finding his energy infectious.
"well, it’s very nice to meet you, y/n. i’m Johnny, mark's best friend," he introduced himself. "mark has been blowing me off all week, but seeing as you’re around, i think i can find it in my heart to forgive him."
mark groaned, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, but you just smiled. johnny gave mark one last pat on the back before gesturing to a sun-drenched table in the corner.
"go on, sit. i’ll bring over some drinks—on the house, since mark finally brought someone cool by."
you opened your sketchbook to a fresh page, the tooth of the paper feeling inviting under your fingertips. instead of the stiff, anatomical sketches you usually forced yourself to do, you found your pen dancing across the page, creating small, bubbly versions of yourself and mark. you drew a tiny mark holding an oversized gelato cone, a little "sunshine" doodle over his head, and a panel of the two of you making peace signs under the giant, circular oculus. it was simple and whimsical—but you wanted to simply remember the little trip that mark had took you on.
beside you, mark was uncharacteristically quiet.
he had propped his phone up against a sugar jar, the screen glowing with that photo he’d taken of you at the pantheon. His pencil movements slow and deliberate with brows furrowed in concentration as he used a stick of charcoal to map out the shadows on the paper.
"what are you working on?" you murmured, not looking up from a panel where 'mini-mark' was pointing at a map upside down.
"just practicing my lines," mark replied, his voice low and distracted. "hands are harder than clay honestly."
curiosity got the better of you. you leaned over slightly, your shoulder brushing his, and caught a glimpse of his page. your breath hitched.
he hadn't just sketched a person; he had captured the exact moment you felt the weight lift. in his drawing, the lines of your face were soft, caught in the ethereal downpour of light from the dome. he had focused on the way your eyes looked that seemed wide and full of a blooming wonder.
"mark," you whispered in disbelief, "is that... me?"
mark paused, his charcoal hovering just above the paper. he turned to look at you, and for a second, the bustling café seemed to go silent. "i told you, you looked happy in that photo," he said gently, his voice devoid of his usual playful teasing. "i just wanted to see if i could catch that feeling on paper."
"well you definitely did," you gawked, "do you draw often?" you asked.
"from time to time, yeah," he nodded, his charcoal stick tapping rhythmically against the table. "i used to go around drawing portraits of people whenever i traveled. it’s actually how i met jaemin." he said it so absentmindedly that it took a second for the name to register. when it finally did, mark’s eyes widened, and he looked up at you with immediate regret.
your smile faltered, the light in your eyes dimming just a fraction, but you forced a small, reassuring nod to show him it was okay to mention him. "oh yeah? how did you two actually meet? i realised i never asked. jaemin never mentioned you, and i haven't seen you in any of his photos, so i was curious how you two crossed paths."
mark hesitated, looking down at the beautiful, hopeful sketch of you he’d been working on, then back at your face. he clearly didn't want to be the one to break the bubble of peace you had built today. he shifted in his seat, his voice dropping slightly.
"i mean... we met here in rome, actually," mark mumbled, his fingers nervously smudging a bit of charcoal on the edge of the paper. "i was out drawing near the gardens when jaemin mistook me for a street artist. he came up and asked if i could sketch him and..." mark coughed, his gaze flickering away. "...and saeron. together."
the air left your lungs in a quiet huff. "oh."
"i... i thought they were a couple then," mark added quickly, his voice pained. "they looked so... i don't know. i offered to do it for free since i had the time and i liked the composition."
"oh, i see," you whispered.
the "i see" felt heavy and poignant, a part of you feeling the sense of betrayal once again. that all this time, jaemin had hidden even more lies behind your back. you don't even know if you knew him anymore.
mark reached out, his hand hovering near yours on the table, but he didn't quite touch you. "y/n, i'm sorry. if i had known..."
"it's not your fault, mark," you said, your voice sounding remarkably steady despite the hollow feeling growing in your chest. "you were just drawing what you saw anyways. plus we were on a break," you laughed bitterly.
you looked back at the sketch Mark had made of you today—the one where you looked happy and free. it was a stark contrast to whatever he must have captured in that garden a few years ago.
"how did they look?" you asked quietly. it was a masochistic question, but you needed to know. "in the sketch. did they look... happy?"
mark hesitated, his eyes flicking to the beautiful, light-filled drawing of you he had just been working on. he looked like he was mourning the mood he had worked so hard to build for you today.
"they looked like they were in a bubble," mark said honestly, his voice low. "but looking back now... jaemin looked restless. like he was trying too hard to be someone he wasn't." he paused, reaching across the table, his hand hovering near yours but giving you the space you needed.
well at least now you know where you stood in jaemin's life all along.
You've never had a positive male figure in your life, so when Mark Lee shows up with his unexpected silliness, curiosity and care, you're suspicious that it's all an act and it's just a matter of time he'll finally show his true colours.
Until he shows you that he is genuinely a good guy.
➳ Characters: neighbour!Mark x female reader/you
➳ Genre: romance, comedy, opposites attract, sunshine x sunshine protector, badass female lead x loser boy energy, manhater fl x best boy ml
➳ Words: 10.3k
➳ Warning: mentions of food, drinks, misogyny, men being jerks, lack of positive male figures in reader's life including a demanding and unsupportive father
➳ A/N: Dedicated to @dat-town with all my love ❤️ Because you're the Johnny to my Mark haha #4yearagegapmeansnothingtous
Also, I recommend you listen to 'Little Miss' by GIRLSET for the vibes!
The only reason you said yes to this blind date was because your mother specifically warned you not to intimidate the guy she would want to set you up with.
Which meant that you had successfully intimated some guys before, enough that she would hear back from the indignant mothers of the other douchebags you had been set up with. Also, if being honest and being yourself meant that guys were scared of you, then so be it. You needed no one’s approval to live your life the way you wanted, much less a man’s.
It’s not that you hated all men. You knew there were nice ones out there. Like your primary school headteacher, your next door neighbour when you had been living in a flatshare during university, the elderly men selling your favourite mandu, the owner of your favourite second-hand bookshop and so on…
However, all the men in your life were just disappointments. Your grandfather had never cared about you, not even before he had become a little too reliant on alcohol (your other grandfather had passed away when you had been little, so you couldn’t fault him). One of your uncles was someone who would never admit that they were wrong even when they were and completely controlled your aunt whereas the other one wouldn’t lift a finger to help out at home and as soon as he got home, he turned on the TV and stayed there until he fell asleep on the couch, so your aunt had to bring him food and drinks.
Let’s not talk about the worst of all: your father. The sad thing is that you used to idolise him. He was smart, hard-working, and seemed to know everything you were curious about as a child. For this reason, he had seemed so perfect, and you had wanted to be just like him. So you had followed his every word, his every command, and soon enough, you had lost yourself.
You had realised that you weren’t happy doing the things that he wanted, not like they were ever enough. It was like a zero sum game: you could never win no matter how much you tried. Even if you did just what he wanted - you chose the university he wanted, the major he wanted, the career he wanted -, he wasn’t satisfied. There was always something he could nitpick, and worst of all, you had started noticing how he had always put women down. He thought of his female engineer colleagues as less than him, always complained about your mother’s hobbies because he didn’t deem them sophisticated enough, and he said that business in any way was not for women.
So you had disappointed him majorly when you had left engineering behind and moved abroad to study financial management at a university that you had chosen for yourself in a country that you had chosen for yourself. Guess what? You had graduated with a first-class honours degree.
On the other hand, the most important thing was that you had found yourself in the process. Your university had offered free counselling and you had taken advantage of it, working through your past of people-pleasing, inability to say no, inability to set boundaries and holding yourself back from being yourself. Being in a foreign country on your own was challenging enough, but it was also deliberating. Away from home, you realised even more how surface-level your father’s care was, and that was the final nail in the coffin.
When you had moved back to Korea, you had also started looking for a new place because you wanted to move out of your parents’ house to start living on your own as soon as possible. You had enough money because you had worked a couple of years as an engineer and worked throughout your second degree, so you didn’t need to ask your parents for money. Of course, your father had disapproved of it, but you couldn’t care less. You had become a different person, a stronger, bolder, more confident person, and he wanted nothing of it.
Fine, it was his loss anyway. He could go back to idolising your sister no matter how much she fucked up because her? She was perfect. Even without straight As or a flawless track record of classroom behaviour, she had always been his favourite. That you couldn’t really compete with, and you hated how much you had let it affect you growing up; chasing a mirage in the desert, an illusion that had nothing to do with reality.
As for your mother, she tried in her own way to stay in touch with you including setting up blind dates for you. You were practically a spinster in their eyes, and she thought that she was doing something good by playing the matchmaker, but in all honesty, her efforts were futile because all the guys you had met so far were complete idiots. Cheating, lying, manipulating, two-faced jerks.
This time too, the date was a disaster. The food at the restaurant was at least good and more easily digestible than the nonsense the guy was spewing. Frankly, he resembled your father so much that you felt like trampling on his ego with your high heels. Did he really think that by criticizing your choice of profession, you would fall at his feet, pleading with him to marry you, so that you could be a housewife instead of working in finance?
“Look… As they say, time is money, and I feel like I’m nearing bankruptcy listening to your nonsense, so I suggest we both go our own ways instead of wasting our time here. You won’t change my mind about my career, you won’t change my mind about a woman’s place in the household, and you definitely won’t change my mind about you being a jerk, so…”
You shrugged at the end of your monologue, your smile so mellifluous that someone without context might think that you were actually harbouring feelings for this prick who was not only shocked but also annoyed upon hearing your words.
Ding-dong. That’s when they all show their true colours…
“You listen to me, you little-”
“Blablabla, I can’t hear you, and you can’t tell me anything I haven’t heard before, so let me just remove myself from this extremely uncomfortable and unsupportive atmosphere,” you announced as you stood up from the table and pushed your chair back.
You gave him one last death stare before turning on your heel and leaving the restaurant, his not-so-pleasant words thrown at you not reaching you anymore.
Needless to say, you weren’t really in a good mood after such a disastrous date. So the last thing you wanted was to run into your neighbour when you got home, but as you were fumbling with your keys in front of your door, the door of the flat opposite of yours flew open and a chatty male voice called out:
“Hey, yo! I finally ran into you.”
Hey, yo? What on Earth?
You cautiously turned around, your keys in your hands, ready to be faced with a typical fuckboy who felt like he could talk to women like one of his dudes, but instead, a boy who literally looked like a boy-next-door kind of guy looked back at you.
He wasn’t super tall, he wasn’t super muscular either, but he had these big doe eyes and boyish features that made it difficult to guess whether he was 16 or 26. Though judging by the fact that the landlord said that one single guy lived on this floor, he should have been over 18 to live alone.
“Hi!” You greeted him back, your voice neutral at best, but the guy either didn’t catch onto it or he was this merry-go-round even when faced with a girl who wasn’t in a good mood.
“I’ve heard that someone was moving in, but I guess we didn’t manage to catch each other before,” he chatted excitedly, but you just deadpanned as you mumbled.
“Apparently.”
An awkward silence filled the air which was usually the cue for the other person to whimper away, but this boy looked way too casual and friendly for his own good. Plus, he beat you to it, so instead of you excusing yourself to actually enter your flat, he introduced himself as Mark Lee.
So you had no choice but to introduce yourself too, solely out of politeness.
“Uhm, so, what do you do for a living?” He asked as if you had all the time in the world when you just wanted this day to end.
On the other hand, this Mark Lee guy didn’t look like he meant harm, so you unlocked your jaw and dropped your shoulders (you were usually tense and cautious around new people) before you answered.
“I work in finance.”
“Wait, so you’re like a finance bro! But in a female version, of course. Is there a female version to the term? Finance lady, perhaps?” He blabbered, carefree like a puppy waggling its tail.
You had to give it to him that you had never been asked the same question when people heard what field you worked in, but men didn’t usually react like this, they merely judged your choice of profession.
“I wouldn’t know. There’s only one other female employee in the finance team.”
“What? That’s not right.”
Mark looked as if you had told him that the world would end the next day. Truth to be told, it was kind of flattering that a guy could ever react like that when it came to your job and the environment you worked in. Needless to say, the only other female employee in the finance team was your manager, the one who had hired you. She had been promoted after the previous male manager had left for a different company, so she knew exactly how hard one must work in this field to be taken seriously as a woman. You were lucky that you could confide in her though.
“What about you?” You asked about his side instead of pondering over his reaction, and he immediately switched back to chatty mode.
“Oh well, I’m not really good with numbers. I’m actually a songwriter. But don’t worry, I don’t make a lot of noise at home. I have my equipment in the studio,” he explained in detail even if you didn’t ask.
When the second momentary silence fell over you, you took it upon you to break it by announcing:
“Well, it was nice meeting you, but if you excuse me, I’ll head inside now.”
“Yeah, sure. My bad,” he replied with a semi-nervous chuckle and he literally stepped back as if you were heading that way.
Instead, you turned back to your own door and let yourself in, feeling the weariness of the day taking over you as soon as you got rid of your high heels.
Ah, what a day!
It was truly astonishing how men had the audacity to make comments on a woman’s body, choice or opinion, but when women bit back, they got offended, pleaded that they were only joking or blamed women for being too emotional or uptight or perhaps being on their period.
Like that day when you went to pick up your new blanket chest from the store. Even though the order was under your name, the man at the collection point dared to ask you where your boyfriend was to help you take it home. When you proceeded to tell him that you would be fine on your own, he laughed and said that “eventually all women are broken in”.
He even dared to smirk at you as if you were ready to fall at his feet and marry him for being so witty. Instead, you picked up the box on your own and pulled your lips into a mellifluous smile as you remarked:
“Women are not horses, but how would a man like you with the brain capacity of a bathroom rug know that?”
Now, he didn’t feel like smirking anymore, but you were already out of the store by the time his comeback would have reached you. You definitely didn’t need a man’s help because though the blanket chest wasn’t that big, it weighed quite a bit, but that’s why you were exercising. Not to look good and definitely not to appeal to men, but to be able to carry everything you wanted, let that be groceries or new furniture.
Thankfully, you had a seat on the metro, so you were saved from holding the box for half an hour, but you were panting a bit by the time you reached your flat.
Obviously, Mr-eager-neighbour just had to walk out of his flat as you reached your floor.
“Oh hey, Y/N! Need some help with that?”
“What is with you men thinking that a woman can’t do this on her own?” You muttered, rolling your eyes, as you put the box on the floor in front of your door. Then, you turned towards Mark who looked back at you with his big doe eyes, ready to defend himself. Before he could do so, you continued. “I’ve brought this back on my own all the way from the store, so I think I can manage for the last few metres.”
“Oh wow, you’re strong!” He remarked in awe, but as soon as he saw your unamused expression, he explained himself. “I mean, you’re right. You were literally just three steps away from your door. I guess it just came naturally to me to offer help. Not because you couldn’t do it on your own, but in case you were struggling but didn’t want to say so yourself.”
“Oh, I will tell you if I need help. I’m not one to hold back my opinion,” you laid down your cards in case he was wondering if you were a damsel in distress.
If you genuinely needed help, you would say so without shame, without caring what others might think. You had grown a thick skin over the years, so such things didn’t make you freeze on the spot anymore, leaving you with regrets as to how else you could have handled the situation.
If Mark was like the typical example of the male species you usually encountered, he would make a comment on how you were high on your horses or how you were so brazen. Maybe he would even give you a seductive smirk, saying that he liked girls who didn’t hold back. Or he would even remark that you should know your place and this was no way you should speak to a man.
Instead, Mark looked so apologetic (like a puppy who did something wrong) that you felt bad for him for a millisecond before the walls around your heart recomposed.
“That’s absolutely fine. Honestly. Like… just be yourself, you know?” He tried to play it cool, but his wild hand gestures didn’t exactly help his awkward self. He giggled like a school girl when he realised that he had just made a fool out of himself, but then, as if lighting struck him, he snapped his fingers and asked:
“Does it mean I can also ask you for help?”
You were about to open your mouth to say something when you realised that you weren’t quite sure how to word yourself. This was not a question you had been asked. Even when you were young, your father had only asked you to help your mother (because obviously he was too mighty to help out his wife), not him. Never him. Even when he had wanted you to take after him and be an engineer, he had literally never let you see the projects he had been working on. You had never done those experiments at home together that other kids who had nothing to do with physics had done with their parents.
“I mean… sure,” you blurted out, slightly uncertain, but even that was enough to light up his whole face.
“Cool. I might ask your opinion on some songs that I’ve been working on because I need a female’s perspective on it. I’m only working with dudes, and to be honest, I don’t want my lyrics to come across negatively to the most likely female listeners that will listen to it. If that makes sense.”
Mark’s whole monologue was said in one-go, and though he was clumsily trying to get to his point, you actually appreciated his idea. Huh, a male songwriter who cares about what female listeners would feel about his lyrics? How unlikely. How revolutionary for the male species!
“Okay,” you bobbed your head, giving in.
“Thanks. That would be awesome!” Mark hollered excitedly. At times like this, it was even harder to tell just how old he was because he looked like a kid at an amusement park. “I gotta go now though. See you soon!”
He bid his goodbye with a wave of his hands and a big smile, and all you could do was to watch him go down the stairs with the most perplexed expression ever.
Just who was this guy? And what was his deal?
Surely, he would show his flaws soon. He would make those remarks, go against your opinion, try to mansplain and make you regret that you had ever allowed him to talk to you.
Surely, it will happen soon.
Mark’s personality confused the hell out of you.
You were always ready for him to drop his act, to finally act like the douchebags you had the chance to meet previously, but it never came. Instead, he just appeared more and more… innocent, if you will.
As it turned out, he was the same age as you, but he was still in awe at random things like the project you were working on at work. One time, he even showed you the picture he took of the sunset, claiming that you just had to see it because it was the prettiest sunset he had ever seen. He said it with such enthusiasm, it felt like he had just won the lottery.
Then, there was his kind heart. Even though you had been suspicious at first, the boy had literally never said anything offensive to you, had never even looked at you any differently no matter what you wore or how much make-up you put on (as neighbours, he frequently bumped into you in your PJs as you were taking out the trash or in smart casual clothes when you were going to work). He was rather clumsy and silly at times, stumbling over his words and going on whole monologues about his point instead of getting straight to it, and he got shy more often than not when you challenged him with a question or gave him one of your trademark death stares.
He was… different. For the first time in your life, you had no idea how to act around a guy because you couldn’t diss him for who he was because he was a nice guy. He didn’t even bat an eye when you vented to him about men. In fact, he even took your side! So very strange…
Also, he did end up asking you for help with a couple of songs. He said that he wanted face-to-face feedback if you were up for it and suggested coming over to his flat, but the alarms went off in your head immediately. You told him ‘absolutely not’ and asked him to choose a neutral place instead - a coffee shop or a park, for instance.
So you ended up going to a coffee shop where one of his friends allegedly worked, and sat down at a table somewhere in the back. Right away, a tall guy appeared at your table and after a few ‘hey, dude, how have you been’ questions, Mark introduced you to his friend, Johnny.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N. Just so you know, you’re the first girl Mark brought here, so I have a feeling you must be special,” Johnny gave you an amused smile, but your eyes immediately averted to Mark’s who wanted to hide his face behind his hands.
“Dude, don’t embarrass me like that,” he whimpered, and truth to be told, the sight was kind of funny.
And cute.
Good god, not cute.
Not… cute.
“I was just stating facts,” Johnny shrugged (though Mark couldn’t see it because he was covering his face with his hands), and gave you a knowing look before he went behind the counter to get started on your drinks.
It took Mark a few seconds to pull himself together and be able to look you in the eyes. Not that you would take it the wrong way that you were the first girl he brought here. In fact, it showed you that he wasn’t the womanizer type, and this wasn’t the place he frequently brought girls to. Not that you were on a date or anything, but it was good to know. He could get a cookie point for it on your non-existent nice guy chart.
“Sorry about that. He’s too…”
“Honest?”
Mark let out a semi-awkward giggle before he answered.
“Well… yeah.”
It was evident from the way they interacted with each other that their friendship was very brotherly. Which made you curious about how they had met because Johnny did look older than him, and they apparently didn’t work at the same place either.
So you decided to ask the boy about it and he let you know that he actually lived across the street when he was at uni. Johnny had already worked here back then, and they had become friends almost immediately.
“Sometimes I feel like he treats me as if I was his little brother. Which is funny because neither of us have any siblings,” he shared casually before asking if you had siblings.
“I have a sister, but we don’t really talk to each other when it’s not necessary. She’s always been the favourite child and I was not.”
“Oh, shoot, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. I’ve never mentioned it, and it’s not your fault that it’s the way I was brought up,” you pointed out, your voice measured.
Others’ pity didn’t help your situation, but you had learned how to be okay with that. It took you a long time, but by disappointing people around you, you actually became the happiest, most authentic version of yourself. Turns out not everyone loved you for who you really were when you finally spoke up, stood up for yourself and chased your own dreams, but that was on them, not you.
“Still. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Mark said so apologetically that coupled with his big doe eyes, you found it difficult to contain the stoic facade you usually had on.
“It’s okay, Mark. It really is,” you reassured him, your voice more gentle than ever before.
The moment was interrupted by Johnny who showed up with the drinks, his eyebrows furrowed when he caught sight of your facial expressions.
“I’m sensing a tense atmosphere here. What happened?” Johnny asked first thing first as he started serving you the drinks.
“Nothing,” you said in unison with Mark, but that just made Johnny more suspicious. He squinted his eyes as he looked between you two before turning towards you.
“Let me know if you ever need better company than Mark’s.”
“Dude!” Mark said in that boyish, whining voice of his, and for the first time that day, you found yourself smiling at their antics. That seemed to put Johnny’s mind at ease because he walked up to another table instead, a smile hiding in the corner of his lips.
As you turned back to Mark, you prompted him to show you the songs that he had prepared.
“Oh, right. The songs. Silly me. That’s what we’re here for,” he singsonged giddily before he opened his laptop and smashed his keyboard a few times a bit too enthusiastically.
You brought your own noise-cancelling headphones, so after pairing it with his device, he started playing the songs for you one by one. You listened attentively, taking a few notes in your trusty notebook, and you discussed your feedback in between songs. Mark really did appreciate your comments, and he never seemed offended by what you said. Which was a relief because you hated men who told you how you should feel.
However, at one point, you couldn’t help but chuckle and slid your headphones off because you couldn’t continue with the song.
“What is this ‘long ass ride’ part?”
“Ah well…” He let out an awkward little giggle, his hand scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Is it bad?”
He blinked back at you with those chocolate-brown eyes of his, worried as if you were about to say that it was the worst piece of songwriting you had ever encountered in your entire life. He really did look so innocent at times.
“It was certainly… surprising,” you decided on the appropriate word before adding with a shrug. “But it’s not really a love song either way, so I guess it’s fine.”
He seemed so relieved by your comment that he gifted you with the widest, happiest smile you had seen from him, and you instinctively followed. How on Earth did this guy have this effect on you?
Either way, you weren’t here on a date, so your smiles didn’t mean anything. Even if Mark turned out to be a nice guy, it didn’t mean that you were in love with him or something. You had so many bad experiences with men around you (even without dating them) that you couldn’t just fall for a guy like him.
Interestingly so, even if you were neighbours with Mark, you didn’t usually bump into each other in the neighbourhood. Which was funny because you had a downstairs neighbour, Xiaojun, who lived together with his friend, Ten (and Ten’s three cats), and you always bumped into him when he was taking his dog for a walk. At least his dog (Bella) was pretty quiet, so her barking didn’t disturb the peace of the apartment, but you just couldn’t imagine how two guys with four pets managed to live together.
Either way, that particular Friday night, you spotted Mark sitting by himself beside the windows at the local GS25 with a steaming bowl of noodles in front of him. He seemed quite deep in thought or maybe he was in a bad mood. Either way, something in you moved at the boy’s apparent lack of spirits, and you decided to sit beside him when you were done filling up your own plastic cup with water.
“Hi Mark!” You greeted the boy as you halted beside him, but he just kept staring ahead, so you cleared your throat and repeated yourself.
He snapped his head back when he heard you, and gave you an apologetic smile.
“Oh hey, Y/N! I’m so sorry. I was totally zoning out. My bad.”
“It’s okay,” you shrugged because it was no big deal, really. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”
“Not at all,” Mark replied immediately and shook his head. He even adjusted his chair, so that you could have enough space for yourself by the table even though there was already plenty to begin with.
You were never really one to comfort people, especially not men. However, Mark had been nothing but kind and supportive towards you, and you felt like fighting anyone who might have caused his smile to turn into a frown, so you couldn’t help but inquire if everything was alright.
“Ah yeah… I just…” He started cautiously, scratching the back of his neck out of nervousness. He was usually bubbly and talkative, so seeing him not just nervous but sad as well did not sit right with you. “Well, a lot of my songs were rejected at today’s meeting, and it felt… not so good. They just said that the songs wouldn’t fit the artists they wanted them for, but no constructive feedback was given. And that wasn’t so helpful, you know? Like… how else am I going to… you know… improve?”
He was trying to hide behind a nervous chuckle, but you could tell that his features were solemn instead of soft and he was clenching his jaw as well. He was so not fine despite wanting to appear fine in front of you.
“And I know it’s silly because my songs get rejected all the time because that’s how the industry works, you know? Usually, it doesn’t affect me either. But today, it just hurt,” he admitted, his voice becoming quieter and quieter by the end of his monologue.
Then, he sucked in a deep breath, and if nothing had happened, he turned his head towards you and forced a smile onto his lips.
“How about you though? I’m sure you have bigger problems than I do,” he tried to direct the conversation elsewhere as soon as the confession was out, but you didn’t have any of it.
“Mark…” You started tentatively, trying to think about your wording, so you would get the message across and he wouldn’t feel even more disheartened. “It’s okay to talk about yourself. It’s okay if something hurts you even if you usually don’t take such things to heart. But it’s not okay to belittle your own problems because you think that someone else has bigger problems. Okay? You are a completely different person and you have a completely different life. There’s no use in comparing us to one another.”
This was something that you had to learn the hard way, and you wanted nothing more than to see everyone else adopt this mindset, too. The world would be a much better place if people didn’t bring each other down but rather celebrated each other’s success. Everyone was on such different paths, there was literally no use comparing yourself to others.
You used to compare yourself to your sister as well, wondering why she was the favourite child and why you weren’t, but as years went by and you started to become more in tune with your own emotions, you realised that you were chasing a fantasy. Sisterhood should have never been about being in a race or a competition, and even if it was, being second place didn’t mean that you were a bad person. It just meant that your parents created the rules differently for your sister.
Mark’s shoulders visibly slumped in ease and he unclenched his jaw. His lips began to form a pout and he let out a sigh before he spoke up.
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I guess it’s just hard since I’m surrounded by dudes all the time. They don’t really like to talk about emotions,” he pointed out what you had already assumed, but you were glad that he drew that conclusion himself.
“That’s why you’re better than them,” you blurted out without thinking twice about it, and Mark’s face literally reddened hearing your words.
“Oh, so you think I’m not like other boys?” He teased you playfully, the dimples around his lips deepening. The sudden change in his behaviour put your mind at ease, but being called out didn’t feel so good, so you turned back to your noodles and urged the boy to do the same before his food would get cold.
While having cheap convenience store food, you talked about everything from work to hobbies, misogyny to sustainability, childhood memories to future goals. Mark was an easy person to talk to because he had something to say about everything, but you meant it in the best way possible. He wasn’t trying to mansplain anything, he was rather conversational and curious, and someone willing to share so much about his life. He never wanted to tell you what you should think even if you didn’t agree with him on something, and he was such a down-to-earth person. A guy who was down-to-earth… now that was a big thing in your eyes.
He was also really funny and had a childlike innocence to him. He also used big hand gestures and made funny noises when reacting to things. You couldn’t really put it into words, but the way he saw the world was both mature and full of that kind of curiosity that kids possessed. You had long lost that kind of curiosity in the world, in the little things in life, in the positivity hiding behind the negativity. You were usually focused on major problems like global warming and gender inequality, but he did see the good in everyday interactions and he did see the good in people. You wished that you could see the world through his eyes a bit more, too.
After talking for what felt like hours, you ended up walking home together, but before you would have opened the door to your flat, Mark called after you and thanked you for today.
“Anytime,” you responded with a smile, and you were surprised to realise that you were actually being serious.
You didn’t help Mark with his lyrics to get something in return, but the boy kept telling you that he wanted to repay you, especially after doing a couple more sessions together when you helped him finetune his words.
Obviously, Johnny was there to witness the other sessions too, and you caught him staring at you two whenever he wasn’t serving customers. Which could have been scary and outright creepy under different circumstances, but he was a nice guy, and he really acted like a big brother to Mark, so you had a feeling that he was just watching over you two. Plus, you generated some extra income for him and the coffee shop because the sessions did stretch for a couple of hours at times, so he really couldn’t complain.
At first, the boy just kept dropping things off in front of your door - such as your favourite brand of mango juice or your favourite flavour of Pepero -, then, he kept paying for your drinks at the coffee shop. Then, he ended up asking you if he could take you somewhere, but it would be a secret, so you couldn’t know beforehand where it was. When you told him that you hated surprises, he insisted that you would enjoy it.
And oh boy, was he right… Because the guy literally took you to the very same exhibition that you had wanted to attend the day later, the one about gender inequality globally and in Korea, dissecting topics like the underfunding regarding women’s healthcare research, gender pay gaps in the workplace, the freedom (or the lack thereof) of women’s clothing choices back in the day vs modern times and such. It was an exhibition put together by sociology students from two Korean universities and their partner universities in Europe, and displayed at an art gallery where mostly men’s art pieces were shown, further encouraging conversation around these issues.
“You like it?” Mark inquired tentatively when you set foot inside the art gallery (after getting lost because he was terrible with directions), and when you looked at him, he appeared genuinely nervous, biting down on his lower lip as if he was ready for a scolding.
Which, to be fair, wasn’t unwarranted coming from you, but this time, your lips curled into a smile, and your voice was free of sarcasm when you admitted:
“I love it! This is an exhibition I’ve also wanted to attend!”
“Oh my gosh, really?” Mark’s eyes widened to twice their size before he let out a joyous giggle. “Gosh, I’m so relieved. I was scared for a second when you didn’t say anything,” he confessed truthfully, his eyes twinkling with mirth. You joined in on the laughter before sharing with him that you were actually at a loss for words because you were surprised that he knew about this event in the first place.
Mark chatted your ears off about how he had come to find out about this exhibition, and what other ideas he had in mind to repay you for your help. Some were more fitting for your personality than others, and you laughed when he mentioned that it had even crossed his mind that you should have attended one of Johnny’s barista workshops because he was sure that you wouldn’t hear the end of it from the older guy if you had ended up attending it. Though Mark was more afraid of embarrassing himself in front of you (and Johnny) than you actually being there with him.
The exhibition was fascinating, but Mark’s presence did make it even better because he was his usual curious self and oftentimes asked you if you felt the same way about the experiences that were shared or admitted that he didn’t even know about such inequalities when it came to women. Most men you knew would never admit that they were in the wrong, but he was unashamed about it, and you loved that about him.
Wait, what?
Love?
No, nope… not in that way, of course. You loved that about his personality, that was a better way to put it.
After the exhibition, you headed to a coffee shop together, and as you were waiting for your drinks to arrive, you asked the question that had been on your mind for quite some time now.
“Why don’t you ask about it?”
“About what?” He asked back, his eyebrows furrowed in question. He looked genuinely perplexed, but you were more surprised by the fact that he hadn’t yet inquired about the reason behind your hatred towards men.
“About why I hate men so much,” you stated (what seemed like) the obvious, and his features softened hearing your words.
“You don’t have to tell me anything that you aren’t comfortable sharing. Besides, I’m sure you have your own reasons, I know some men can be real jerks,” he shrugged as if it was common knowledge, but yet again, you were at a loss for words because how could you object? How could you go against his words?
You simply couldn’t because he was yet again being understanding and empathetic, and given that you had not really encountered men who had admitted such things, you weren’t sure how to react. On the other hand, you were saved by the barista who showed up with your drinks, and gave you some time to think.
You decided on telling him the reason either way. About how you had not had a positive male figure growing up; about your father’s obsession with getting you into engineering and his disapproval when you had chosen to do a degree in finance; about your grandfather never really caring about you even before he became an alcoholic; about your uncles being lazy and controlling and not helping out their wives at home, even when they had kids they could have taken care of. You had talked about high school classmates who had objectified women and watched porn during breaks besides the sports field, and men during your time abroad who had looked down on you simply because you were a woman studying finance.
Mark was big on reactions, and even though he was listening attentively, he couldn’t hold himself back from saying things like “Whaaaat, that’s crazy” or “Oh my god, are you being for real? That’s insane” when you had told him what you had been through. Of course, not every single male had been a complete jackass in your life, and you made sure to point that out, but the ones who should have been role models and who should have set good examples were exactly the ones that had made you feel small, uncared for and easy to control.
Mark apologised on behalf of all the men who had wronged you before, and said that he completely understood why you acted the way you did. Then, he added that he hoped that he could set a good example, and show you that not all men were bad.
“Don’t worry. You aren’t in that category,” you eased his nerves as you turned towards him, and he gifted you with the kind of smile that also made his dimples visible.
“I’m glad then.”
So were you.
But you were equally concerned about what your feelings might have been hinting at, and you weren’t sure that you were ready to face them head-on, so you turned back to nursing your drink instead, and let the conversation steer towards a different topic.
One would think that just because you hated most men, you also hated romcoms.
However, you were actually a big fan of romantic movies, dramas and books because fictional men were way better than real ones. Fictional men couldn’t cheat on you, disrespect you or disappoint you as real men could, so what could go wrong?
That Friday too, you were binge-watching a newly dropped Netflix series when you heard muffled sounds from the corridor. You usually didn’t pay attention to such noises because you lived with others, so it was natural that they made some noise. Mark was usually quiet, but it was odd that he would talk to someone outside of his flat for more than a few minutes close to midnight.
So after you gave it a couple more minutes, you decided to look through your peephole to see what Mark was doing, and realise that he was actually not with someone, he was talking to himself.
The boy was swaying in front of his front door, dramatically clutching his chest while singing something about not remembering the numbers (what a weird thing to sing about), and you could already tell from his miniature version through the peephole that he was drunk.
You opened your door much to the boy’s surprise who almost stumbled over his own feet when he turned around to face you.
“Oh heeey theeeeere,” he singsonged giddily and hiccuped after his words.
You rolled your eyes at his antics but to be fair, you were more afraid of him falling down the stairs than him making a bigger fool out of himself.
“What are you doing out here, Mark?”
He pouted like a little child, his eyes shining dreamily, and even his cheeks were tinted pink, so there was no way you would not call the sight cute even though he had very obviously underestimated his limit and you usually didn’t condemn such behaviour.
“I forgot the numbers to my doorlock,” he whimpered, looking back at his front door with such a sad expression that you would have thought somebody died.
Oh, so those were the numbers he was singing about…
You tried to ask him if it was his birthday or his parents’ birthday or anything like that, but he said that he had tried everything that he could think of. He faintly remembered having it changed recently, but he couldn’t recall as to what the new combination was.
“Oh my god… do you think I’m going to have to sleep on the streets? Alone? In the rain?”
His voice was so desperate (yet dramatic), you had a feeling that his tipsy self actually believed it to be true. That’s when you noticed that he was already wet, tiny raindrops sitting on his pitch-black hair, and the sleeves of his puffer jacket was darker than usual.
“Stupid, stupid me… why did I change the numbers? I mean, I had to… for security reasons or whatever the doorlock company said, but argh…”
Mark continued acting like a child, complaining about his lack of memory regarding the new combination, but when he started saying that he will just sleep on the floor in the corridor, an alarm went off in your head, and you immediately said something that you would have never thought you would say to a man:
“Are you crazy? Stay at my flat instead!”
Despite his drunken state, the guy looked as shocked as his sober self would, and his eyes widened as well. Then, he drooped his head low and mumbled something akin to:
“But I don’t want you to hate me.”
“Don’t be silly! I don’t hate you, and you better believe it because I wouldn’t offer such a thing to someone I hate,” you stated matter-of-factly.
He still seemed pretty reluctant, but when you opened the door wider to let him inside, he tentatively walked in and immediately started taking off his shoes. Gosh, he had manners even when he was drunk…
You gave him a pair of unused slippers, and beckoned him inside. He looked around as if he was Alice in Wonderland while you were busy getting him some water and some towels for his hair from the bathroom. When you went back to the living room, he was sitting on your couch, looking at a framed photo of you with your peers on your graduation day abroad.
“There were so many guys in your class just like you’ve said,” he pointed out when you put the glass of water on the table in front of him. It was pretty amusing that he remembered such a small thing that you had said to him a while aho but not his new doorlock combination.
“Groupworks were pretty gruesome. None of the guys really wanted to pull their weight.”
“Ah, such a shame…” Mark noted as he put the photo back on the table. “Your parents must have been so proud,” he added as he turned towards you, but when he saw the change in your expression, he hit his forehead with his right hand. So dramatic, even when tipsy!
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. I just remembered that your father didn’t approve of your studies. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”
“It’s alright. My mother actually said that she was proud of me when I graduated, so there’s that,” you shared with him, and that seemed to put his mind at ease.
Instead of dissecting your graduation story, you inquired why he had been drinking so much. He said that one of his songs got an award, and he was really proud of it, but because he wasn’t the artist, he wasn’t invited to the ceremony, and only got to know about it at work, so he and his colleagues went out for some drinks to celebrate.
“I swear I started with apple juice!” He tried to save some face, but you just shook your head.
“Sure…” You replied, but there was a smile in the corner of your lips. “Now, dry your hair and drink some water!” You practically ordered him, but you didn’t want him to catch a cold. Or to wake up with a throbbing headache tomorrow morning.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He saluted for you and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. Gosh, he was really something.
However, Mark was quite childish when tipsy, and though he did gulp down the glass of water you had given him, he was fussy about the towels. He said that he wasn’t even that wet and that he was actually more sleepy than cold, but you just rolled your eyes at him as you reached for the towel.
“At least don’t wet my couch,” you reprimanded him before starting to dry his hair yourself, but you realised at the same time as him how awfully domestic this scene was because he suddenly seemed all too sober, his foggy expression replaced by a surprised one.
However, instead of making a comment on your odd behaviour, he blurted out something that no one had ever told you before.
“I’m so sorry that men have been such jerks to you. You deserve better. You’re such a wonderful person,” he confessed gently, and though it was rare that you were rendered speechless by a man’s actions, you were unable to form a response. What is more, you felt a squeezing sensation around your heart.
You were staring into each others’ eyes for what felt like an eternity before his sudden hiccups ruined the mood and you decided to drop the towel on the edge of the couch. The boy picked it up himself this time and ended up drying his hair to a pretty chaotic mess but at least it wasn’t wet anymore.
“The bathroom is to the right. If you need anything, just knock on my door. I’m a pretty light sleeper,” you told him before turning away and closing yourself in your room, your heart hammering away rapidly.
Thankfully, Mark didn’t make things awkward the next day. He profoundly apologised for his behaviour and ended up gifting you a hamper box as a token of his apology two days later with all your favourite things (which, by this point, didn’t surprise you because he was perceptive like that).
On the other hand, you weren’t sure what to do with your feelings because surely, you should have been frustrated, angry and disappointed. You never liked people who drank too much (mostly because of your grandfather), and you definitely wouldn’t let just any man sleep over at your place. However, Mark was not just any man, and somehow, his tipsy antics didn’t put you off. Rather, you found it endearing. The thought itself should have disgusted you, and you were very surprised by how you were feeling, so you tried to give yourself enough time to ponder over it.
After all, Mark was the first and only guy you let close to yourself, and he went against anything you had against men in general. He had never acted like a walking red flag, had never disrespected you (or for that matter, any women), and he had seemed so genuine, you were sure that he wasn’t just acting. He was curious and empathetic, and yes, he was a bit silly and childlike, but not in a bad way.
On the other hand, you had always been alone, and your experiences with men were rather disappointing, so you had never imagined yourself beside anyone, let alone a man. You had never liked any boy either, not as a crush, not as a boyfriend. You had been perfectly fine on your own, and even though admitting to yourself that you liked Mark was nowhere near a confession, you were kind of torn about what the next step should be. After all, just because you liked Mark didn’t mean that he liked you back even though his words and actions sometimes made you think so.
Your unsaid questions were answered when you bumped into Xiaojun one day who was taking Bella on a walk while you were walking back to your flat after work.
“Hey, Y/N!” The guy greeted you cheerily, and as he halted in front of you, Bella also followed suit and started sniffing your shoes enthusiastically.
“Hi Xiaojun!” You greeted him back before crouching down to pet his dog. Sometimes you wondered if your love for dogs replaced your love for men because you sure would have liked spending more time with dogs.
You had a little chit-chat about work and Bella before Xiaojun’s question made you freeze for a moment.
“You’re coming to Hendery’s wedding, right?”
“What?” You furrowed your eyebrows in question, sending him a deadpan look.
“Hendery and Ahyun’s wedding, you know,” he looked back at you quizzically, but that didn’t help your case one bit. You still had no idea what he was talking about. The name ‘Hendery’ rang a bell (was it one of Mark’s colleagues?), but the girl’s name… not so much.
“I don’t know whom you are talking about.”
The guy let out a surprised ‘huh’ before he asked a question that yet again made you confused.
“Mark hasn’t asked you to be his plus one yet?” He quirked an eyebrow, but you just shook your head hearing his words.
You stopped petting Bella to be able to stand up and look him in the eye for further explanation. As if hit by lighting, the guy hit his forehead with his hand before he exclaimed as if he had set something on fire:
“Oh shit… I shouldn’t have told you that. Mark asked me to keep it a secret.”
He looked genuinely remorseful, but you were more intrigued by the ‘why’ behind Mark’s actions than Xiaojun’s guilt.
“Why would he want to bring me as a plus one though?” You questioned as you laced your arms in front of your chest, becoming uneasy.
You were sure that you had not met the said Hendery or the said Ahyun, but if Mark wanted to bring you as a plus one to their wedding, he must have been serious about it. He wasn’t flimsy about these things, especially because he knew how much you hated surprises and last minute plans.
“Because he likes you,” Xiaojun shrugged as if it was common sense, but when he caught sight of your flushed cheeks and your surprised expression, he hit himself on the forehead yet again.
“Damnit, I shouldn’t have told you that either. He hasn’t told you yet how he feels, has he?” He asked for confirmation, and you shook your head in return.
He let out an aghast sigh, so loudly that even Bella perched up, wondering what her owner was so dramatic about.
“Oh no… I just ruined everything for him. He said he wants to wait until he feels like you’re ready to hear his confession because he wants to respect your feelings, and he doesn’t want to force you to reciprocate his feelings. Oh gosh! Act like you haven’t heard anything,” he frantically shook his hands in front of his chest and immediately made an excuse about having to take Bella closer to a green area because she had that pooping face on her.
Poor dog looked so confused at the mention of her name, and though you knew Xiaojun was chaotic like this, you would have never thought that you would one day get to know that Mark liked you back thanks to his loose mouth.
The remaining question was how to let Mark know about it, too.
The thought of confronting Mark about what you had heard didn’t entirely scare you. It was rather unsettling because you had no idea how to bring up the topic and also admit that you liked him back without him thinking that you were joking.
You knew that you could come off rather standoffish and stiff, and you wanted nothing else than the boy to think that you weren’t serious or worse, that you wanted to make fun of his feelings. Of course, you didn’t care about men’s feelings on the daily because if they said something rude or misogynistic, women weren’t allowed to feel hurt, but if a woman said something slightly offensive about men, they were ready to start a revolution.
However, Mark was different. You had to realise that you did care about his feelings because he deserved it. That wasn’t an easy feat when it came to you, but you genuinely cared whether your words hurt him or not, because he was so gentle and kind and honestly too good for this world. You weren’t even sure how he had ended up liking you, but if he did, who were you to question his feelings? You felt the same way, so you should have been happy.
On the other hand, you had never done anything like this before, and being sentimental wasn’t your forte either. So you decided on sleeping on it, but it seemed like someone had other plans because Mark ended up knocking on your door about an hour after your encounter with Xiaojun.
You had just finished putting in a load of laundry and were about to have some dinner when you heard the frantic knocking on the door, and instead of a busybody neighbour fussing about the upcoming residents’ meeting or an elderly lady asking you to help her cat get off a shelf (both had happened before), it was the boy with the big doe eyes who turned up on the other side of your door.
“Hey! Do you have a minute?” Mark asked, panting as if he had run up the stairs. You furrowed your eyebrows in question, but he seemed rather indignant, so it was either about something unexpected or Xiaojun had confessed everything to him and he wanted to come clean.
Either way, you weren’t one to be suspicious of his intentions. Not anymore.
“Sure,” you bobbed your head and invited him inside.
You had not done so since the day he had drunkenly sung to himself in front of his own flat after forgetting the password to his doorlock, but you deemed this matter quite urgent and personal if he came up to your door without asking about it via text beforehand.
“Thanks,” Mark let out a long sigh before he walked inside.
You closed the door behind him and turned to him, totally expecting him to already make himself comfortable on the couch or maybe by the kitchen table, but instead, he just stood there, frozen, as if his mind had drawn a blank.
“Are you okay?” You quirked an eyebrow, slightly concerned. The boy, as if woken from a stupor, started talking so fast that you could barely follow.
“Look, I know that Xiaojun has told you about Hendery and Ahyun’s wedding. I know he has spilled the beans that I wanted to ask you to be my plus one. Hendery is one of my colleagues, by the way, he is a songwriter and producer on the team, and Ahyun, you probably know her by the name ‘Little Miss’. The solo singer, you know. Hendery has contributed to a lot of her songs as did I, as you know because you helped me with some of her lyrics…”
“Mark, breathe!” You reminded him with a slightly amused smile, and though the boy let his lips curl upwards for a few seconds, his features returned to solemn afterwards.
“So anyways, he’s also told me that he’s told you that I like you, and that’s why I wanted you to come with me to the wedding. But I was hesitant, and I am still hesitant whether you like me back, and you know that I would never, ever force you to do something that you don’t want to. Let that be accompanying me to the wedding or liking me back. And I also know how much you hate men and even though I like you that doesn’t mean that you have to like me, too. But since he’s already-”
“Mark, I like you, too,” you broke his monologue, but he was so lost in his own monologue that the words just seemed to fly over his head.
“Told me about what happened, I was like, might as well let her know that it’s cool if she doesn’t like me-” This was the point Mark’s whole demeanour changed, and the first flicker of hope glinted in his chocolate-brown eyes. “Wait, did you just say you like me?” His eyes grew to twice their size, completely appalled.
It was funny how much you had agonised over you finally coming clean with your feelings towards him, and yet, all it took was a simple sentence to actually make it real.
“Yes, I did. I like you too, Mark Lee.”
Mark was frozen for a moment, then he started giggling, and then, he finished off his performance with a long sigh. He shared with you that he had been running all the way from the first floor where he had talked to Xiaojun in-person after his friend had frantically texted him regarding your encounter with him.
“I could guess that much,” you blurted out with a smile, and that was enough to ease the tension in the air. The boy let out a chuckle before his lips finally pulled into a boyish grin.
“So are we good then?”
“We’re good,” you hummed. “And if the date is okay with me, I’ll be happy to be your plus one for the wedding,” you added on a second note, and he seemed like he had just won the lottery.
“Oh gosh, I can’t believe it! I’m so happy. I thought Xiaojun had blown up everything for me,” he admitted candidly, and you couldn’t stop the laughter from bubbling up in your throat.
“I mean, if he hadn’t told me that you like me, I might not have been sure enough to bring it up myself, so I think we should thank him one day,” you pointed out and even though you knew that Mark felt the same way, he went on a whole monologue about how long he had known that he liked you (since you had comforted him in the GS25 after his lyrics had been rejected without constructive feedback), and how he had even changed his doorlock’s password to the day that you two had met, but completely forgot about it when drunk, but was too ashamed to say anything about it afterwards, so he was glad that you didn’t ask about it.
“That’s so corny… but it’s also very much something that you would do,” you admitted before you asked the boy if he wanted to have some dinner with you.
Needless to say, he was more than happy to join you, and he even said that it was the best day of his life.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed this story of mine. Let me know what you think. I'm always happy to hear your feedback. 😊
Header taken from this Mark vlog.
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➳ NCT masterlist
I started writing this story before Mark's announcement to leave NCT, so I will put the story into the NCT masterlist for the time being. However, I might move it to the 'Other' masterlist that contains soloists' stories and Kdrama fics in the future, so just a heads-up!
pairing: porn director!haechan x newbie porn star!fem reader
genre: smut (pwp) 18+ mdni!
warnings / tags: explicit sexual content, workplace power dynamics, horny pining, eye contact kink / eye fucking, voyeurism-ish, soft dom haechan, oral (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (whoops), overstimulation, squirting
wc: ~7.5k of pure filth
a/n: i am so so so sorry for keeping you guys waiting 🥲 sorry in advance if it's shitty af so please lower your expectations 😭 but still! please please please let me know what you think 🙏
Part 1
The next morning hits like a hangover he didn’t earn.
Haechan shows up twenty minutes early — unheard of — coffee in one hand, cap pulled low, hoodie zipped to the chin. He's already snapping at the lighting guy before the man even opens his mouth.
“Move the key light three inches left. It’s going to wash her out. Again.”
The crew exchanges glances. He’s always been sharp, but today he’s mean.
Snapping at the sound guy for a mic that’s “too hot,” telling makeup to “Don’t overdo her lips today. I don’t want them looking bitten on camera” when they’re literally just glossed.
Everyone chalks it up to a bad night.
Only Haechan knows the truth: he spent the entire night replaying your orgasm on loop, coming twice more in the shower just trying to get you out of his system.
It didn’t work.
He’s halfway through giving notes to a PA when—
You laugh.
Soft. Bright. Somewhere behind him.
He goes still.
His eyes snap to you before he can stop them.
You’re standing near the monitors, robe loose, hair still a little messy from sleep with that same soft, nervous-excited smile you had yesterday. You wave at the crew, thank them again for the compliments.
For a second, he just watches.
Then your eyes flick up.
You catch him staring.
You hold it—just long enough to feel intentional.
His grip tightens around the coffee cup.
He looks away first. Too fast. Clears his throat. “Places in ten.”
–
The scene today is POV. Simple setup: male talent (thank fuck it’s not Chad this time) on his back, you riding him, camera mounted to mimic his view. Intimate. Close. Lots of eye contact, body rolls, hands on hips/thighs/waist for leverage. The kind of shot that sells “connection”.
Haechan hates it already.
He calls action. You climb onto the bed, robe slipping off your shoulders, skin glowing under the soft ring lights. The actor’s hands find your waist immediately—professional, practiced.
You sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch until you’re fully seated on his cock, a soft, involuntary moan slipping out as the stretch hits just right.
You start slow, grinding down in lazy circles, head tipping back on a breathy moan that’s half-scripted, half-real.
Haechan’s staring at the monitor like it personally offended him.
Except he doesn’t look away.
His jaw tightens as the feed fills with you—every shift of your hips, every soft expression.
It’s wrong. It’s his job to watch, to adjust, to make it look good.
But there’s a split second, buried under all of that, where it hits him differently—heat curling low in his stomach, sharp and unwanted.
It should be him.
The thought arrives before he can stop it.
Followed immediately by something uglier—the actor's hands on your waist, thumbs pressing into skin that Haechan can almost feel in his own palms.
He doesn't say anything. Obviously. He just grips his coffee harder than it needs to and watches you move, hating every second of how much he can’t look away.
“Camera’s too high,” he mutters. Then louder: “Cut. Reset.”
The crew groans internally. Second take, not even thirty seconds in.
You sit back on your heels, confused but obedient. Your co-actor slides out carefully.
Haechan stands and walks over. The set goes quiet.
“I need to adjust you,” he says, voice coming out rough. “The angle’s off. You’re blocking the shot.”
He’s lying.
The angle’s fine.
He just… needs to touch you. Once. Just once. To see if it’s as bad as he remembers from yesterday’s guiding scene.
You nod. “Okay.”
He steps between your parted thighs—still kneeling on the bed, robe open just enough that he can see the curve of your stomach, the dip of your waist. He doesn’t look down. Not yet.
His hands hover for half a second, then settle.
Left palm on your hip bone. Right on the soft dip above your waist.
The second his fingertips meet your skin, something in his brain short-circuits.
Soft.
Warm.
Giving under his grip like you were made to be held. Your skin is velvet-smooth, still carrying that faint post-shower heat, and when you shift slightly to give him better access, the flesh yields just enough to make his thumbs dig in involuntarily.
Fuck, she feels like this?
He’s touched hundreds of bodies on set. Guided hands, adjusted poses, repositioned limbs like they were props. Never once did it feel like this—like electricity arcing straight to his cock. Never once did his pulse hammer in his ears just from palms on hips.
He slides his hands lower—slow, “professional”—fingers splaying over the tops of your thighs. soft, thick, trembling just a little under his touch. He presses gently, spreading them wider for the camera (bullshit excuse), and your breath hitches. Tiny. Barely audible.
But he hears it.
His thumbs stroke once—once—along the inner curve of your thigh. Not high enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to feel the heat radiating from your core, close enough that he can smell your skin, your faint vanilla lotion, the ghost of arousal that’s already there.
You’re looking up at him. Eyes wide, lips parted. Not acting.
He’s losing it.
Mentally he’s already flipped you onto your back, spread you wide, buried his face between those thighs until you’re crying his name.
Physically, he’s still just…
Adjusting.
Hands shaking now. He can feel the tremor in his own fingers and prays you don’t notice.
“Like this,” he rasps, voice so low it’s almost a growl. He rolls your hips forward a fraction—guiding the motion you’ll use later—making your body arch just so. The movement drags your skin against his palms again, plush and perfect, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning.
Your thighs flex under his grip. A soft exhale escapes you.
He freezes.
For one heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Then he forces his hands away. Steps back like he’s been burned.
“Better,” he mutters. “That’s… better.”
He turns to the crew before anyone can see how blown his pupils are. “Roll it again.”
He drops back into his chair, legs crossed to hide the obvious bulge straining against his jeans. One hand scrubs over his face. The other fists on his thigh so hard it’ll bruise.
On the monitor, you start moving again—hips rolling exactly the way he just positioned you. Slow. Sensual. Eyes flicking to him every few seconds like you’re checking if he approves.
He approves.
He approves so much he might come in his pants if you keep looking at him like that.
And the shoot’s only just started.
The cameras are rolling again. Reset complete. The POV rig is mounted—sleek, invasive, positioned right where your co-actor’s eyes would be if this were real. It captures everything from below: the slow roll of your hips, the bounce of your breasts, the way your thighs flex around his waist as you sink down inch by inch.
Haechan is back in his chair but his posture is rigid now, his fingers digging into the armrests. He’s trying—God, he’s trying—to be the detached professional. Voice steady. Directions clipped. But every word comes out rougher than the last.
“Action.”
You start moving. Slow grinds at first, building rhythm. Your co-actor’s hands rest on your hips—light, guiding. You lean back just enough for the camera to catch the arch of your back, the sway of your body.
Haechan’s eyes are glued to the monitor feed. The POV angle fills the screen: your face hovering close, lips parted, eyes locked straight down the lens. Straight at him.
He swallows hard.
“Eyes on the camera,” he directs, voice low but carrying. “Hold it. Make it feel like you’re looking right at them. Right at me—at the viewer.”
He means the viewer. He swears he means the viewer.
But the way you obey—immediately, intensely—your gaze piercing the lens like it’s his face instead. The way your lashes flutter when you sink down — just once, involuntary, like even you can't help it.
It wrecks him. Through the screen. Through every layer of professionalism he's clinging to.
You ride harder now. Hips circling, rolling, taking your co-actor deeper. Soft moans spill out, breathier than yesterday, less controlled. Your hands brace against his chest for leverage as your back arches, head tipping just enough for your hair to fall over one shoulder.
Haechan shifts in his seat, but the friction against his aching cock makes his vision blur at the edges.
“Hands up,” he says, sharper than he means to. “Grip her—firm. Support her rhythm. Make it look possessive—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Just keep her steady.”
Your co-actor obeys instantly. His palms slide up your sides, cupping your breasts—thumbs brushing the undersides before he squeezes gently, holding you steady as you bounce.
The monitor shows it all in perfect, filthy detail: the way your tits fill his hands, the subtle give of soft flesh under his fingers, the way your nipples visibly tighten at the contact.
Your mouth falls open on a gasp—real and unscripted, your eyes locked on the camera.
Never leaving him.
Haechan’s breath stutters. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring so hard the rest of the room fades out. Onscreen, you move like you’re chasing something just out of reach—hips rolling, body tightening, every motion sharper than the last.
And those eyes.
Fixed. Wanting. Burning straight through the lens.
A groan almost slips out. He catches it at the last second—turns it into a cough, hand flying to his mouth. The crew doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they don’t say shit.
Inside, though—
He’s coming apart.
Fuck.
Look at her.
Taking it so well. Moving like that…
For the camera.
For me.
He can’t stop the thoughts.
They come fast and hot, one bleeding into the next— imagining those are his hands instead—kneading, pinching, rolling your nipples until you’re whining his name. Imagining it’s his cock you’re riding, your walls tightening around him, your eyes locked on his like it’s always been him.
“Keep the pace,” he rasps, voice catching on the last word. “Don’t speed up yet. Build it. Let her feel every inch.”
You listen.
Slow, deliberate rolls that make your thighs tremble. The actor's grip tightens, thumbs circling your nipples, and you arch into it with a soft, helpless whine that hits Haechan straight square in the chest.
His free hand drops to his thigh. Fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
He's rock hard. Has been for the last ten minutes. The denim isn't hiding anything anymore and he knows it and he can't bring himself to care because every roll of your hips on that monitor feels like it's happening to him. Every moan sounds like it's for him.
Then your eyes flick — subtle, barely a second — right to where he's sitting behind the monitor.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.
“Perfect,” he mutters, barely audible. “Just… fucking perfect.”
The take keeps going.
You keep looking at the camera like it’s him. He keeps watching like he’s the one buried inside you.
And he knows—deep in his aching, throbbing core—that he’s not making it through this shoot without losing it.
Not when you’re like this.
Not when it feels like you’re fucking him through the lens.
And then—
“I’m gonna cum.”
Soft. Broken. Barely above a whisper but the mics catch every syllable.
Cameras still rolling. Your hips still grinding down slow and filthy. Eyes still locked on the lens.
On him.
Wait—
Was that line in the script?
He can't remember. The script is a blur he barely glanced at because all he could think about was you — your skin under his palms earlier, your thighs trembling when he spread them, the way your breath hitched when his thumbs drifted just a little too close to where he really wanted to touch.
He doesn’t know if you’re acting.
He doesn’t know if you’re telling the crew.
He only knows you're looking straight through the camera — straight through the POV rig — straight into his eyes like the lens doesn't exist. Like there’s no crew, no fucking monitors. Just the two of you in this dimly-lit room.
Just him buried inside you.
Just him feeling every clench as you chase that edge.
“Keep going.”
His voice comes out wrecked—rougher than he’s ever let it sound on set.
It’s supposed to be a direction.
It doesn’t sound like it.
“Keep going,” he repeats, quieter this time, leaning so far forward the chair creaks. “Don’t stop. Ride it out. Let it build… let it happen.”
The crew thinks he’s talking to both of you.
He’s not.
He’s talking to you.
Telling you to keep moving like this—slow, deep, greedy—until you break.
On the monitor, the POV feed is unforgiving.
Your face fills half the frame— eyes glassy and pleading, lips parted. Your thighs shaking harder now, rhythm faltering as you get close.
You whimper — higher, needier.
“Haechan—”
His name.
Not scripted. Not “director.”
Just him.
Gasped out like a secret. Like a prayer.
His grip white-knuckles the armrest.
On screen you arch back, spine pulling into that perfect, filthy curve. Your hips stutter, grind down once—twice—and then—
You come.
For real.
Again.
Your body locks up, walls clenching tight, thighs snapping shut around your co-actor’s waist as a broken sound tears out of you. Your whole body trembles through it, shaking and helpless.
And still—
You don’t look away.
Your eyes stay locked on the lens. On him.
Tears gather at the corners, your expression wrecked from how intense it is, but you don’t blink. Don’t break.
Like you’re coming for him.
In his head, it’s his cock.
Has been since the second you said his name.
He can almost feel it — the way you'd flutter around him, chasing every last pulse while he holds your hips down and makes you take it. His mouth against your ear, voice barely above a whisper: "There you go. Just like that." — while your nails rake down his back and your mouth falls open on his name again and again.
On the monitor, you’re still riding it out—small, helpless rolls of your hips, soft whimpers fading into shaky breaths. The actor's still moving, chasing his scripted finish, but Haechan stopped seeing him a long time ago.
Only you.
The way your lips tremble like you want to say something else. Something that isn't in the script.
He's shaking.
Actually shaking in his chair.
"Cut," he rasps.
The set comes back to life. Crew members move in, lights shifting, someone calling out for water.
Haechan doesn’t move.
He stares at the frozen frame on the monitor — your face, blissed out, eyes still half-lidded and aimed exactly where he's sitting. Like even after the word "cut" you're still looking at him.
Still waiting.
He drags a hand down his face.
He has never come this close to breaking on set. Never once.
Never been this close to saying fuck the cameras, fuck the crew, fuck the rules—and just taking what’s felt like his since the moment you walked onto his set.
But he stays seated.
For now.
Because if he stands up right now everyone in this room will know exactly what you did to him.
And because he knows—deep in that aching, throbbing part of him—that the second this shoot wraps…
He’s not making it through another conversation with you without snapping.
—
The crew wraps fast—lights clicking off one by one, someone shouting about the boom mic, laughter echoing down the hall as people start heading out. You linger near the set, robe tied tight, skin still flushed and buzzing from the last take. Your thighs ache in the best-worst way.
But all you can think about is Haechan.
He's already moving — hoodie up, head down, fast and purposeful like he's trying to disappear. No goodbye. No "great work." Just gone, same as yesterday.
Something twists in your chest.
You follow before you can talk yourself out of it. Bare feet quiet against the cold floor, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he’ll hear it before you even reach him.
He slips into one of the side rooms—the green room no one uses because the AC’s broken and it always smells faintly like old coffee. Door half-open. You hesitate, then knock softly.
“Come in,” he mutters, voice tight. Distracted.
You push the door open.
He’s pacing. Three steps forward, three back. Hand dragging over his face, hoodie shoved low, hair a mess underneath. His breathing’s uneven, his shoulders are rigid, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump. Like he's one wrong word away from snapping.
You swallow. “Um… Haechan?”
He freezes mid-step. Doesn't turn around.
You take a small step inside. "I just wanted to ask about my performance. Was it… okay? The last take — I know I went off-script a little. The moaning and… saying your name. I thought it worked for the scene but if it was bad I can—"
“Stop.”
Sharp.
Too sharp.
You flinch.
He exhales hard through his nose, hand dragging through his hair. "I need to be alone right now. Just… go."
The words hit cold.
Your throat tightens. You nod, quick and small. "Oh. Okay. Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
You turn to leave, shoulders curling in, feeling suddenly small and stupid. Of course he didn’t want to talk. Of course—
Behind you, he makes a strangled sound—half groan, half curse.
“Wait.”
You freeze. Hand still on the door.
He’s right behind you now.
You didn’t even hear him move.
He's just — there, close enough that you can smell sweat and cologne and something underneath both that makes your brain go quiet.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, quieter now. Rough. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
You don’t turn right away. Can’t.
Your voice comes out small. “You sounded like you hate me.”
A beat of silence so thick it hurts.
“I don’t hate you,” he says, voice low, strained. “Not even a little.”
You finally look at him.
His jaw is tight, eyes cutting away then back, like he keeps making a decision and unmaking it. Like whatever's happening behind his face is costing him something.
"Then why…?"
He lets out a short, humorless laugh, dragging both hands down his face again.
“Because I’m trying not to lose my fucking mind right now. And every time you’re in the same room as me, I—” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “You did good. You did too good. That’s the problem.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Too good?”
He steps closer.
Not touching. Never touching.
But close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that you can see the tension in his arms, fists clenched at his sides.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Too good. Too real. Too fucking perfect. You came on camera—twice now—like that, looking right at me, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and I’m supposed to just… direct?” He exhales sharply. “Pretend it doesn't affect me? Pretend I'm not sitting there so hard it hurts, trying not to come in my jeans while the whole crew thinks it's just another day?"
Your breath catches.
He keeps going, voice dropping. "You have no idea what you do to me. How many times I've had to walk away so I don't drag you off that set and finish what you started. And then you come in here asking if you did a bad job?"
He exhales, sharp. "Fuck, baby. You almost killed me out there."
The pet name slips out before he can stop it.
His eyes widen a fraction — like he heard it too — but he doesn't take it back.
You’re shaking now. Not from the cold.
“I thought…” Your voice wavers. “I thought I ruined it. Or that you were mad.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. For wanting this. For wanting you.”
His throat bobs once.
“For not being able to look away when you fall apart like that.”
Silence stretches between you.
He's so close now his hoodie brushes your robe. You can feel the heat of him everywhere — chest, thighs, everywhere.
"I should go," you whisper, even though your feet won't move.
"You should," he agrees, voice rough. But he doesn't step back. Doesn't open the door wider.
Instead, his hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and hovers near your cheek. Not touching. Just… there. Fingers trembling like he’s holding himself back by a thread.
“But I don’t want you to.”
Your eyes close for a second.
When you open them, he’s still there. Still looking at you like that.
"Tell me to stop," he says quietly. "Tell me to fuck off, and I will. If you don't want this I'll back off. I swear I will." His voice dips. "But if you don't…"
He lets it trail off.
Let it sit there between you—promise and warning all at once.
The air feels too thick to breathe.
You don’t tell him to leave.
You don't move at all.
And that's all the answer he needs.
The room feels smaller now. Air thick with everything unsaid.
Haechan's still standing too close, hoodie brushing your robe, hand hovering near your cheek like he's afraid one wrong move will break whatever this is.
Your eyes drop.
Land on the small damp spot already darkening the denim.
Your breath catches audibly.
He follows your line of sight—and freezes.
Color rushes up his neck, his ears, his cheeks — he looks caught, exposed, like you just found something he's been hiding for hours.
Which you have.
You swallow. Your voice comes out small, shy, almost disbelieving.
"Is that… because of me?"
A small pause. Eyes flicking back up to his.
"I did that?"
Haechan exhales sharply. His Adam's apple bobs. He doesn't look away — can't — and his voice cracks when he answers.
"Yeah."
Just that.
No excuses. No deflection.
“Yeah, baby. You did that.”
The pet name slips again, softer this time. Careful. Like he’s testing it. His eyes search yours like he's waiting for you to bolt.
You don’t.
Instead your knees hit the floor.
A soft thud against the carpet.
You're eye level with his hips now, close enough to see the way his thighs flex when he shifts slightly. Hands hovering uncertainly just above his thighs. Not quite touching.
Haechan jolts. Hands fly up like he’s going to stop you—then stall midair.
“What—what are you doing?” His voice is strangled, panicked. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. His legs stay planted, breath coming faster, cock twitching visibly under the fabric like it’s begging for attention.
You look up at him.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, and it almost sounds real. "I didn't mean to make you this hard. It must've been so difficult. Trying to direct like that. All day."
A strangled sound leaves him—half laugh, half something rougher.
"Difficult doesn't even—" He cuts himself off the second your fingers brush the button of his jeans.
You don't ask permission. You just do it.
Button pops. Zipper rasps down slow, loud in the quiet room. You tug the waistband down with it.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
You don’t look away.
You gasp—quiet, involuntary. Eyes widening, lips parting.
He’s… bigger than you expected. Thick, flushed, the curve of him making your stomach drop as you take it in.
Haechan makes a broken noise in the back of his throat. One hand shoots to the doorframe, knuckles going white. The other hovers near your head—like he wants to thread his fingers through your hair but doesn’t trust himself not to pull.
“Fuck—wait—”
Too late.
You lean forward and take him into your mouth.
No teasing. Just warm, wet heat enveloping the head, tongue flat against the underside as you sink down on the first go.
Haechan actually stumbles a little at the feeling of it.
"Shit — oh my god —" His voice cracks, hips jerking forward before he catches himself. Hand finally lands in your hair — not pulling, just holding, trembling. "Baby — fuck — you don't have to —"
But you do.
You hum around him — and the vibration makes his whole body shudder. You pull back slow, lips dragging, tongue swirling around the head before sinking down again. Deeper this time. Cheeks hollowing. Hand wrapping around what your mouth can't reach, stroking in time.
He’s already losing it. Head tipped back against the door, eyes squeezed shut like the sight of you on your knees might actually kill him.
"You — fuck — You’re gonna fucking ruin me," he rasps. "Been hard for you since yesterday… and now this—fuck—”"
You pull off just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip.
"I'm sorry it was hard for you." A soft kiss. "Let me make it better."
Then you take him again — deeper, faster, throat relaxing as you work him with everything you've got.
“Fuck—good girl—such a good girl—”
His grip tightens. Hips start to rock — shallow, helpless thrusts he can't stop. Low, broken moans spill out of him.
He’s close. You can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his thighs shake, the way his breath stutters like he’s trying to warn you and can’t get it out in time.
“Baby—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”
You don't pull off.
You take him deeper.
Suck harder.
Look up at him with those same wide eyes you gave the camera all day.
And that's what breaks him.
Haechan comes with a strangled groan—hips snapping forward, cock pulsing hot and thick down your throat as he spills. You swallow around him, throat working, not spilling a drop.
He's trembling when it's over. Hand still fisted gently in your hair, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s trying to calm himself down.
You pull off slowly. Lips swollen and eyes glassy.
And he just… stares.
Like he doesn’t know what to do with what just happened.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're unreal."
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, suddenly shy again. "Did that… help?"
He lets out a weak, disbelieving laugh and drops to his knees so you're face to face. Cups your jaw in both hands, thumbs brushing your swollen lips.
Then he kisses you — hard, desperate, tasting himself on your tongue like he's claiming every second of what just happened.
The door's still unlocked.
The crew's still somewhere in the building.
But right now?
None of that exists.
Only this.
The kiss starts desperate — hands cupping your face like you're something about to vanish if he lets go.
He pulls you up from your knees in one smooth motion, body flush against his, and walks you backward until the small table catches the backs of your thighs. Lifts you onto it without breaking the kiss.
Your legs part around him instinctively. Robe falling completely open, skin cold against the surface while he presses in close.
He groans into your mouth the second he feels how wet you are — how slick your thighs still are from earlier.
“Fuck.”
The sound gets swallowed by your mouth as he kisses you harder, tongue against yours, messy and desperate. One hand tangles in your hair while the other slides down your side—finally, finally touching without cameras, without excuses, without pretending any of this is professional anymore.
"Been wanting this since the second you walked on set. Wanted to touch you. Taste you. Make you come for me instead." A pause, voice dropping to almost nothing. "Not some lens. Not some script. Me."
He drops to his knees so fast it almost hurts — kneecaps hitting the floor, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider.
He goes still for a second.
Just — looks.
Like he's been starving for this exact view and now that he has it, he doesn't know where to start.
Then he dives in.
No buildup. No teasing.
Just his mouth on you like he's been thinking about nothing else all day.
The first drag of his tongue against your clit makes your whole body jolt, your hips jerk off the table before you can stop them.
You gasp sharply, fingers flying into his hair. He moans into you. Loud. Unashamed. Like he's the one being taken apart, the vibration making your thighs shake harder around his head.
His tongue flicked against your clit relentlessly while his nose stayed pressed against your mound, buried so deep between your thighs it was like he never wanted to come up for air.
"Fuck." He groans, hot and muffled against your folds. "You taste so good."
He pulls back just enough to bite down on the inside of your thigh — not hard, just enough to feel it. Just to hear the sound you make. Then licks over the sting before burying himself back in.
His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the table, lifting, tilting your hips so he can get deeper — and then his tongue is inside you, curling, and you cry out sharp enough that you slap a hand over your own mouth.
His nose nudges against your clit while his tongue pushes deeper, dragging another broken sound from your throat before he comes back up to suck your clit between his lips slow enough to make your whole body shake.
And every time you react—every twitch of your hips, every pull at his hair, every helpless little sound—he moans against you again, hands tightening on your thighs like it’s getting him off too.
“Look at you,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are wet, chin shining under the light, eyes completely blown. “Moaning like that for me. Fuck, baby—come on my tongue. Let me feel it.”
He dives back in.
Two fingers slide inside you, curling deep enough to make your back arch off the table while his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking in a messy rhythm with every thrust of his hand.
You stop trying to stay quiet. You’re loud now—completely unable to stop it. Gasps turning into broken cries of his name.
“Haechan—oh god—”
He whines against you. Actually whines.
His hips jerk uselessly against nothing, cock hard again already, but he doesn’t touch himself once. Doesn’t seem to care. All he cares about is the way your thighs lock around his head like you never want him to stop.
Every reaction you give him only makes him groan louder against your skin, hands tightening around your thighs like he’s getting drunk off this.
"That's it," he growls, voice vibrating against your clit. "Come for me. Come on my face."
And you do.
Harder than on set. Harder than anything.
Your whole body locks up with it, thighs tightening around his head as a sob rips out of your throat, back arching while you pulse around his fingers.
He doesn’t stop—keeps going, moaning against you like he’s the one coming, still licking through every aftershock like he can't make himself stop.
When you finally slump back, trembling, chest heaving, he pulls away slow.
Lips swollen. Face a mess. Eyes glassy and dark and so blissed out it almost hurts to look at.
He rests his forehead against your inner thigh.
Breathing hard. Pressing soft, reverent kisses to your skin like he's grateful.
"Jesus," he whispers, voice hoarse. "I could do this forever."
He looks up at you with this dazed little smile that somehow feels filthier than anything he’s said so far.
"But we're not done."
His hands slide up your sides.
"Not even close."
He rises slowly from his knees, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, lifting you just enough to keep your legs around his waist.
Then he’s kissing you again.
Harder this time. Messier. Tongue pushing into your mouth so you can taste yourself on him, and the second you do, your stomach twists. You make this pathetic little sound into the kiss, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he groans back like the sound alone could finish him off.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice rough. “You taste so good.”
You can barely think straight after that.
One hand braces against the table beside you while the other reaches down between your bodies, guiding himself against you. He’s still hard—still twitching from your mouth earlier, from watching you come apart on his tongue.
He wraps a hand around himself and slowly drags the tip between your folds, collecting the slick already dripping out of you. The accidental brush against your clit made you whimper.
The head of his cock catches at your entrance.
He presses forward just enough to part your folds, the blunt head stretching your entrance slightly before he stops.
You look at him and his eyes are already on yours, dark and intense enough to make heat crawl up your neck all over again.
No words. Just that heavy, burning stare — like he's memorizing you. Every flicker across your face. Every breath.
Then he pushes in.
Slow.
So fucking slow.
Inch by thick inch, stretching you open, filling you until your breath hitches and your nails bite into his hoodie.
And he keeps looking at you.
Doesn’t look away once.
He watches the way your brows pinch when he bottoms out — the way your mouth falls open, the soft sound you make when he settles deep inside you.
One hand pinning your thigh wider, exposing you fully as he watches his cock disappear into your dripping cunt. The sight alone — his cock splitting your swollen lips, veins dragging against your inner walls — makes his grip tighten against your skin.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
His voice actually shakes a little.
“Look at you.”
Heat floods straight to your face.
“Taking me so well.”
He stays buried inside you for a long moment, like he’s letting himself feel it. Letting you feel it too.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first. Pulling back just enough before thrusting deep again, hips rolling instead of snapping, grinding against every sensitive spot until your legs start trembling around him.
His forehead presses against yours, breaths mixing together, and when you look up at him, he’s already staring.
“You feel that?” he whispers.
Another slow thrust.
“That’s me.”
Your stomach twists hard.
“Inside you. Finally.”
You can’t even answer properly. Just nod helplessly and cling to him while your hips keep chasing him without meaning to.
He kisses you again, messy and deep, before pulling back just enough to look at you.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.
The same words he gave you on set. But this time there's no camera. No crew. No pretending.
“Don’t look away. I want to see every second of you cumming on my cock.”
He pulls back an inch, the drag of his cock along your walls making your breath catch, before pushing deeper again. The stretch hits harder this time, enough to make your legs tense around him, your pussy fluttering helplessly as he sinks halfway back in.
Every thrust knocks another broken sound out of you. The wet squelch of your soaked folds taking him echoes through the room while his hips keep rocking into yours, deep enough to leave you trembling around his waist.
And every time he bottoms out, the grind against your clit pulls another helpless sound from your throat.
Sweat slips down his skin, warm against your chest, and you lock your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him even closer.
One of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit in slow, firm circles, pleasure cutting through the fullness hard enough to make your whole body jerk. The other stays at the back of your neck, keeping you close.
Your body responds instantly, hips lifting to meet every thrust as the rhythm builds into something hotter, steadier. The fullness turns almost dizzying, every slow plunge hitting that sweet spot and making your walls flutter around him.
You’re already shaking.
Still sensitive from his mouth. Still completely full of him.
“Haechan—”
His name comes out embarrassingly wrecked.
“Yeah?” he groans immediately, hips stuttering for the first time. “Say it again.”
Your whole world narrows to the sounds between you — the sharp smack of skin, the wet slide every time he thrusts back into you, your broken moans mixing with his rough breathing.
The pressure inside you snaps so suddenly it almost scares you.
Your whole body tightens around him as you come with his name on your lips, vision blurring at the edges from how intense it is. Your thighs lock around his waist, and he lets out this wrecked sound like he can feel every pulse of you.
And he watches every second.
Like he can’t look away even if he wants to.
The way your body arches toward him like he’s gravity itself.
That’s what pushes him over.
He buries himself deep one last time and comes with a low, broken moan, hips twitching against yours while he rides through it. Even after, he stays close, staring at you like he’s still trying to process what just happened.
He doesn’t pull out.
The small room still smells faintly of coffee and sex, the air thick and warm from everything you’ve already done.
Haechan catches his breath against your neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses along your collarbone like he’s still savoring the taste of your skin. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His eyes are dark. Still hungry.
One hand slides under your thigh while the other braces at your waist before he lifts you off the table in one smooth motion. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, ankles locking behind his back as he carries you across the room.
The movement makes you feel every inch of him still buried inside you, deep enough to pull a shaky breath from your lungs, and Haechan groans quietly at the way you tighten around him.
He steps out of his jeans halfway across the room, kicking them aside without a second thought before dropping onto the old leather couch against the wall.
The couch leather is cool and slightly sticky against Haechan’s bare back, creaking softly beneath him as he sinks deeper into it, thighs spread wide, eyes fixed on you the entire time.
Your robe is long gone now, discarded somewhere on the floor with his hoodie. Nothing between you but skin, heat, and the lingering throb of wanting more.
His hands are already on you.
Warm palms slide up the backs of your thighs, fingers spreading possessively over your skin as he guides you into his lap. Your knees sink into the worn cushions on either side of his hips, chest pressed flush against his.
Every tiny movement drags your nipples against his, sends another pulse of heat straight through you. You can feel his heartbeat hammering beneath your hands — fast, uneven, matching the ache building low in your stomach.
And the way he looks up at you —
Like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to touch.
His hands slide to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to guide, not force. He doesn’t rush. Just keeps you there for a second, letting you feel the slow pulse of him still inside you.
“Ride me,” he says, voice low and rough, eyes never leaving yours.
“Slow,” he murmurs. “Like you did on set… but this time it’s just for me.”
You lift yourself slightly, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other guides him back inside you. He feels hot and heavy against your slick folds, the head of him catching at your entrance before slowly sliding deeper.
The stretch hits harder like this — facing him, every inch sliding in with a slow, burning glide that makes your breath hitch audibly. You sink down inch by inch, feeling the way he throbs inside you like a second heartbeat while his eyes stay locked on your face the entire time.
When your ass finally meets his thighs—fully seated, stuffed full— Haechan’s head falls back against the couch with a low groan. His hands flex hard against your hips like he’s trying to hold himself together, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before snapping open again.
And then he’s looking at you.
Like he can’t stand missing a single second of this.
“Fuck—baby,” he breathes.
His hands wander up your back before settling on your hips, helping guide you into the same slow roll that already has both of you breathing harder.
“You feel so good,” he groans softly. “Still so fucking tight…”
You start moving properly then — slow lifts until only the head remains inside followed by deep, dragging drops, grinding down every time your hips meet his.
The angle is perfect. Every roll presses against that spot inside you while the friction between your bodies sends heat shooting straight up your spine.
Wet sounds fill the quiet room — slick, rhythmic, embarrassingly loud — mixing with your uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the old couch beneath you.
Haechan’s hands roam everywhere.
Thighs. Waist. Up your sides.
Thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he cups them fully, palms hot against your skin as his fingers toy with your nipples until they ache. Then he leans in and takes one into his mouth with a groan, sucking hard before switching to the other while you whimper and grind down harder against him.
But somehow he always comes back to your face.
A hand cups your jaw, thumb dragging lightly across your bottom lip as he keeps your gaze fixed on him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me.”
The words sound dangerously close to his on-set directions, except softer now. Rougher around the edges. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach twist.
Every time you sink back down, your clit catches against the coarse hair at the base of him, sending a sharp pulse through you. The pressure building inside you feels different this time — deeper, heavier, like something tightening low in your stomach every time he thrusts up into you.
“I wanna see every time you feel good,” he says quietly. “Every time I make you feel good.”
His mouth finds your neck, sucking lightly while his teeth graze your pulse.
His hips start rolling up to meet you now, deep controlled thrusts that make you gasp every time he bottoms out.
You whimper softly, hips faltering for a second when he thrusts into you again.
“That’s it,” he groans, voice cracking this time. “Just like that—fuck.”
His grip tightens at your hips.
“Your face when you take me…” He breaks off with another breathless sound, eyes dragging over your expression. “God.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and firm in time with your hips. The pressure builds so intensely your thighs start shaking around him, pleasure twisting almost painfully low in your stomach—too much fullness, too much heat, too much him.
He angles his hips just slightly on the next thrust, hitting that spot perfectly while his thumb presses harder against your clit.
“Haechan—”
His name comes out broken and pleading. Your thighs are trembling, burning, but you can’t stop.
The release crashes over you so suddenly it steals the breath from your lungs.
Something inside you snaps.
You cry out, back arching hard your breasts press into his face as your walls tighten around him in sharp pulsing waves. Wet heat floods between your thighs, soaking him, the couch, both of you, and the sound of it makes Haechan groan low in his throat like he can’t believe what he’s feeling.
“Fuck—yeah, that’s it—”
He’s moaning with you now, hips stuttering while he watches your face like he’s completely gone from it.
“So pretty,” he breathes brokenly. “Fuck… you’re so pretty when you come.”
He doesn’t stop moving. Keeps thrusting through it slowly, dragging out every tremor until you’re whimpering from the overstimulation, thighs shaking so badly you can barely stay upright.
Only then does he finally let himself go.
One last deep thrust, burying himself inside you as he comes with a wrecked groan of your name, arms tightening around you while both of you shake through it.
You collapse against his chest afterward, breathing hard, skin damp with sweat and everything else. His arms wrap around you immediately, holding you close like he doesn’t want an inch of space between you.
Open-mouthed kisses press against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus,” he whispers, voice completely ruined. “You just… fuck.”
You hide your face in his neck, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him.
He laughs softly under his breath, still sounding wrecked, fingers sliding gently through your hair.
“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Another kiss presses against your hairline before he shifts you carefully in his lap, still inside you and softening slowly, until you’re curled against his chest.
For a long moment afterward, neither of you moves.
Just breathing.
Skin sticking together.
The faint drip of your combined release somewhere beneath you.
His heartbeat slowing beneath your cheek.
His lips brush your ear, smile warm against your skin.
“…I genuinely don’t know how I’m supposed to direct tomorrow without losing my mind.”
synopsis: after the messy end to your relations with jaemin, it seemed like you were the only one unable to move on from your past. but with a few slip ups in between the planning of his wedding, you realised that maybe he too stayed right where you’d left him
warnings: swearing, jokes about death, mentions of alcohol/clubbing
note: i've been drinking too much recently,, y/n and i are one ig...
Mark is hot. Mark is your roommate. Why must you realize both things during ovulation week...
wc: 5.3k
warnings: explicit sexual content, roommates to lovers, friends to lovers, unprotected p in v (don't do that), oral (f), spit kink i think, mark takes care of you, marks cums inside, mark knows, mark is mark, mark.
“…fuck, fuck, fuck…”
What in the hell did you walk in on?
Closing the door to your apartment behind you, quietly, twisting the knob to not make a single sound, you tip toed toward the kitchen table and set your purse down. Then your keys. Then, you jumped again.
“Fu-huck!”
His whine echoed from his room, out into the tiny hallway, into the kitchen, and up your skirt. Twisting your knees, squeezing your thighs together, you bit down on your bottom lip and cursed the fact you hadn’t gotten laid in months.
Having Mark for a roommate didn’t help.
Not when he sounded like that.
Pressing your hands into the wood, you sucked down a deep breath and shook it off. He was a male within a few feets radius of you, you didn’t want him, especially not right now, at the start of this week when you wanted anything and everything that walked. Just earlier on your walk home a street vendor complimented your legs, a catcall really, but you very well could’ve spun around and shown them to him up close.
You didn’t want Mark. You were ovulating and overstimulated and sensitive. And he’s an attractive guy, you’ve told him that before, he knows it, everyone thinks he's sexy.
His bedroom door swung open and your stomach dropped past your knees. He wore grey sweats only, and his headphones lived around his neck, his hair a mess from where they once sat on his head.
Games. Gaming. Gamer. He was playing games.
Not fucking someone into his mattress. Though it was hard to tell the difference, he sucked air harshly through his teeth just the same, no matter the activity.
Not that you listened. Or paid attention. Or touched yourself when you knew he had his hand wrapped around his cock thinking his sounds were muffled by the low beat of his nighttime playlist full of underground this guy eats, trust me rappers.
“Hey,” he smiled at you, a flash of perfect teeth with a boyish curl of his lips, “Thought I heard you come in.”
“Hi,” you sighed, standing up straight, composing yourself. Your eyes dropped to his toned middle, his perfectly sculpted chest, the silver chain hanging around his neck…
He swaggered for the fridge, coming closer to you, bodies separated by the table in the middle of the kitchen. The expanse of his back, just as honey, just as broad, just as built as his front, as his everything else. Mark wasn’t a big guy, but jesus god almighty did everything on him fit together in perfect harmony.
“How was work?” he asked, pulling a water bottle from a shelf, knobby fingers wrapping around the plastic. Arm flexing as he twisted off the cap and brought the spout to his lips, he turned to you and watched you while he drank.
A slight furrow of his brows beneath his undone hair, a pout in his lips, especially after he pulled the bottle away, the wide innocence in his eyes he wears as a facade, a trick, a ploy, because beneath that purity…
“Did you hear me?”
His smile settled into a smirk.
“Hm?” you hummed, and you watched him drag his eyes up and down your body. Glancing down at yourself you felt your cheeks flush of all color.
Bent over the table like you were, your knees had turned in. Thighs squeezing together, you practically trembled. Embarrassing. Humiliating really. Emitting a horniness reading absolutely off the charts, he could tell.
“Uh, yeah,” your voice almost squeaked. Pushing off the table you brushed your hands together and scooped up your things. “Work was… good.”
Mark leaned against a counter, his abs flexing ever so slightly. He crossed an arm over his chest and sipped his water, eyes narrowing.
“You’re lying,” he said, tongue darting between his lips, pointing at you with the bottle. Eyes glancing to his glistening lips, you withheld a whimper and shook your head.
You’ve got to get out of here.
“Not lying,” you said with the smallest of giggles, forcing some sort of smile onto your face. “I gotta shower.”
Starting for your bedroom that lived at the end of the hall, adjacent to Marks, his laugh paralyzed you. Sarcastic, knowing, sadistic. It bled into your ears, melted over your skin, and you despised what it did to your heart.
“You had your proposal today,” he started, pushing off the counter with his backside, padding over to the hall where you stood begging the bathroom to come closer to you so you wouldn’t have to withstand his presence any longer. “The big one. Your boss would be there, all the guys who think they have big dicks that own the company… Right?”
Turning slowly, very, very slowly, meeting his slightly confused expression, you nodded
“Riiiight,” he sang, voice going low and gravelly. A chill ran down your spine, one you’re hoping he didn’t notice. “I’ve listened to you all month. You’ve been dreading today, ‘cause you knew they weren’t gonna go for your team. They chose that asshole with the money, didn’t they?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, and he tipped his chin up, looking down at you. The ache between your thighs, the heat beneath your skin, grew tenfold under his stare.
You could reach out, grab him, fall onto the floor, yank down his sweatpants, slip your panties aside and sink onto him. It wasn’t even about him, you think, maybe. He’s a guy. A man who chronically oozed sex appeal, who caught the eye of everyone walking down the city streets. He’d be something hot, and hard, to fill yourself with, to relieve yourself upon, getting you through this week so you didn’t have to succumb to your vibrator or your own fingers…
He licked his lips again, the tip of his tongue sliding along his bottom lip dangerously slow.
Back and forth… back and forth… back and-
“You still with me?” he asked within a breath, almost a whisper, pulling you out of a trance.
You needed to leave.
Gulping, you squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. Shook him out of your head. Him and his hot, shirtless self with his grey sweatpants hanging so low on his hips you knew he wasn’t wearing anything beneath them because the definition between his hips, down his pelvis winked at you.
“I’m fine.” Snapping your eyes open, you glared at him. “You’re right. Bad day. Thanks so much for reminding me.” You spun on your heels and stormed down the hall, stepping into your bedroom. He attempted to follow, arms shooting out at his side, eyes going wide, all signs of playing wiped from his cheeks.
“Hey, wait, I didn’t mean to do that, I was only trying to-“
You slammed your door shut.
In his face.
Mark Lee was not allowed in your bedroom, not right now. And probably not anytime in the near future. And then some.
This week sucked. A goddamned reminder that you had the worlds sexiest roommate and couldn’t do a thing about it. That the crush you’ve tried to swallow away for a year now was very much still real, very much still hanging over your head, something you can’t seem to escape. Not when your body quite literally begged you to reproduce with him.
Sighing, eyes falling shut, you threw your head back against the door.
Why Mark Lee???
Why your roommate you’ve grown tumultuously close to, closer than anyone else to you at this point in your life???
The Mark Lee who brings home girls some weekends, who goes out to party with friends he met in college, who works remotely, rarely has to leave the apartment, so he’s always here, always saying hi to you, always quick to greet you and bid you a good day when you leave in the morning…
Criminal really, how domestic it all seemed. How some days he’ll hint toward it, completely destroying weeks of suppression you worked oh so hard to build, only to now have to do it all over again.
You promised yourself you wouldn't get to this point.
That living with someone as attractive as Mark would work.
Guys and girls can be friends, you and Mark, you'd beat the stereotype.
Maybe it was time to move out.
Pushing off of your door to peel your top layers off, leaving a shirt and your skirt on to move to the bathroom with, you pulled pins from your hair and slumped onto your bed to pull your socks off.
Glancing about the space, your cozy bedroom you put together yourself, with Mark's help, he really etched himself into every part of your life.
A hoodie of his laid over the back of a chair, a pair of his sunglasses sat on top of your dresser, some of the earrings in your jewelry box were his... For gods sake, you shared the same shampoo and soap.
Digging your hands through your hair, splaying yourself backwards on your bed, you reached for your laptop and pulled it over your stomach. Opening it, you punched Apartments.com in to the search bar and let available places in your area, nearby work, pop up.
Scrolling for about a minute, eyeing the monthly rent in comparison to location and appearance, you squeezed your eyes shut and groaned.
Now was not the time.
Tossing your laptop to your mattress, not bothering to log out or shut it, you snatched your towel and disappeared into the bathroom, allowing the hot water to wash away work stress, ovulating thoughts, and feelings.
Wrapping yourself in your towel, tucking it in so it stayed put, you smoothed lotion over your exposed skin, up your neck, down your chest, around your arms. Making note of where your necklace and earrings were on the counter that you'd have to come back for, you picked up your clothes, flipped off the light, and peeked out into the hallway for any sign of Mark.
Years you've lived here, and yet the act of running from the shower to your bedroom performed like some sort of humiliation ritual.
Not for Mark, of course. He'd wander around in his towel for hours.
The apartment was quiet. No games, no whines, no Mark.
Maybe he left.
Stepping out of the bathroom, leaving the door cracked, you took two giant strides toward your door and spun inside swiftly, turning the knob as you closed your door, just in case he was still here somewhere.
"What are you looking at these for?"
Jumping a mile, grabbing onto the top of your towel, you whirled around with a gasp.
He was sitting on your bed with your laptop on his legs that were folded under him.
"Mark!"
He glanced up at you, his brows furrowed and focused, paying no mind to how your cheeks flushed and your body still dripped. "When were you planning on moving?"
"I wasn't, I-I was just-"
Looking down at the screen, he squinted at something. "Looking for apartments in this building."
Stepping toward your bed, you held up a finger. "Everywhere, not just this building."
He scoffed, his lips perking into the tiniest of smirks. "So, you admit it. You're moving out." The way he looked at you...
Both hands held onto your towel, pressing to your chest for your own sanity and composure.
You were naked.
He was on your bed, half naked.
"I wasn't planning on it," you sighed, eyes wide, hoping to tide him over with your words so that he'd leave and you could continue your search, or, at least put some clothes on. "You saw me when I came in here, I was stressed, so it was the first thing I thought of to do to help my nerves, I guess, I-"
Setting the laptop aside, he rose to his feet, head cocking to the right. All of his accessories were gone, it was just him, his sweats, and that silver chain around his neck.
"How is a new apartment gonna help relieve your stress at work?" he asked, taking small steps toward you. His frame stood bigger than your own. More clothed than you, taller than you, you sunk backward, your body pressing against your door. "I did see you, you were..." His eyes flickered to your lips. "Upset."
Five inches separated you.
"Mark," you whispered, and he looked at you. "It's just a bad day."
"Is it?" he asked, closing two more inches, eyeing your parted lips as your breath hitched.
Gulping, you nodded, holding onto the cotton that covered you even tighter. "Bad day."
Narrowing his eyes, you could feel his warm breath trickling over your skin still damp from the shower. "So, you thought a new apartment would cure that bad day?" He didn't let you answer, cutting you off before you started. "Why don't you just tell me what you really need, sweetheart," he whispered, closing the gap between you, pressing himself against you, "And we can stop playing fucking games.”
His hands pressed against the wood of the door, his arms caging you in. Chest to chest, his nose nudged yours and he smirked as your eyes fluttered shut.
Intoxicating.
Every siren in your head shot off.
His warmth, his presence, his smell, his words, his lips.
"Look at me," he murmured, and you obeyed, meeting his proud smile. "Good girl," he cooed, nudging your nose with his. Your knees trembled. He let a soft laugh loose. "Yeah, you like that. I knew it."
"Knew it?" you breathed, your heart pounding between your lungs.
Mark licked his lips and popped his brows. "I hear you too, sweetheart." His lips ghosted yours, smiling as your face screwed up in disbelief. "Oh, yeah," he sang, "You're filthy. How many toys you got in that drawer over there? Wanna play?"
Writhing, pressing your legs together, your core slick already, you whined and shook your head. "Mark."
Parting his lips, softening his face, he pouted. "Oh, babe, you're not in trouble." Taking a hand to your chin, he danced his thumb over your cheek, swooning as you melted into his touch. "I'm teasing," he whispered, taking in how you stared up at him, unable to look at anything else since he said look at me.
Swallowing thickly, you took shallow breaths, your mind tuning to the sound of his voice. Mark pinched your cheek gently, his brows steadying over his deep brown eyes. The way you stared at him, like he hung the stars and held the answer to all of your problems...
"I know what you need," he said just above a whisper, his fingers drawing over your skin gently, dancing down your neck. "As soon as you walked in the door, I could tell." His finger hooked below your chin, lifting it more, your doe eyes deepening. "Fuck," he whispered. "I'll leave you alone, okay, you can get into that drawer-"
He stepped away from you, and you reached for him, hands grabbing onto his bare biceps.
"Mark-"
Your towel slipped.
He didn't look.
His entire being softened.
Waiting.
His eyes never left yours.
Sucking in a shaky breath, he pushed out, "Yeah?"
Clenching your jaw, you gave him the tiniest nod of your head, and he groaned.
"Tell me," he whispered. The feeling of your fingers digging into his skin made his lashes flutter. "Say the words," he shook his head, "Or, you get nothing."
Steadying your breath, breaking through the part of you that longed for him to just give in and swallow you whole, you said, “I need you.”
It was all he needed.
Pushing you up against the door, one hand wrapping around the back of your neck and the other slipping down your body, Mark opened his mouth and pressed his lip to your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin as your arms hooked around his neck. Rocking with him, letting his weight push you to where he wanted you to be, you followed, body lax, under his control.
His fingers slipped between your legs, dragging through your folds, pressing to your clit. Moaning against your neck, grinding himself into you at the sound of your own whimper, he lifted his head and touched his forehead to yours.
“So fucking wet,” he mumbled, leaning in to kiss your lips, heavy yet slowly, his tongue poking through to meet with yours, “You’ve been pent up all day, haven’t you?”
“Three days,” you gasped, clinging to him, the massage of his fingers making you tremble.
His tongue dragged over your lips. “Three days?” Pressing wet kisses to your cheek, he muttered, “You’ve been this horny for three days?” Pulling away from you briefly, watching you writhe with every twist of his fingers, every brush of his thumb over your clit, he started to smile. The hand around your neck tightened, pressing into the sides.
“Mark,” you moaned, and the sound he made lit a spark in your belly.
Screwing your eyes shut, you thrashed against the door, knees going weak as he slid two into you, his thumb in a steady rhythm over your bud. Grinding into his hand, throwing your hips in a circle, his smile fell into a smirk.
“You want it bad,” he muttered, dipping down to nip at your neck. “What can I do to you, baby?”
Feeling your belly tighten every time you became aware that this was Mark doing this to you, touching you, making your toes curl, you couldn’t find it within yourself to hold back. Shame was lost on you.
Clawing at his back, gasping for air, a moaning mess, you babbled, “Anything, anything, y-you can do anything, I don’t… Fuck… Mark.”
“Good fucking girl,” he cooed, tugging at your earlobe with his teeth before his lips were latched to you once more. Pumping his fingers into you, curling them towards him, you shook. Bending at the knees, he pressed hot kisses down your chest, grabbing a handful on the way down, his fingers teasing your nipples. Searing his lips down your middle, over your belly button and below, he pulled his fingers from you on his knees and looked up at you. “You’re beautiful.”
Heaving breaths, your cheeks warmed. Covering your face with your hands, you managed to finally crack some sort of giggle. “Stop,” you whispered.
“Come here,” he breathed, gripping your hips, tugging your lower half toward him. Guiding one leg over his shoulder, he smoothed that hand up the back of your thigh, giving your ass a squeeze with a moan. Dragging his thumb through your slick, he curved his lips into the perfect ‘o’ and gazed up at you as he blew cool air over your core.
Sucking air in through your teeth, jolting away from him, one hand flew down to lace through his hair, giving him the harshest tug. Proud of himself, he beamed up at you and let his tongue roll through his parted lips.
“Where do you want me?” he asked, voice an octave lower than usual. He didn’t fight against your hold, but you could feel him start to try to. Letting him go, his smile wiped away. “No, hang on to me.”
“I didn’t wanna-”
He gripped your hip, his other hand sliding up your middle to grab a handful of tit. “Hang on to me,” he said through his teeth, nudging himself into your core, his nose pushing on your clit, his tongue sliding into your hole.
Both of your hands knit into his hair, holding onto him for balance as he held you up on one foot.
Lapping at you, his tongue swirling and twisting, the pressure in your belly growing tenfold, you cried out for him and allowed yourself to fall against him, all your composure gone. Mark pressed his fingers into your curves, pinched and toyed with your nipple while he moaned into your pussy soaking his face. Bobbing his head, tongue going flat, he moved with you, your hips circling on his face, riding wherever the pleasure wanted you to go.
Vision blurry, body on fire, you tugged at his hair but it wasn’t enough. You tried to reach down for him, but he wouldn’t move. You wanted to see him, to hold him, hold onto him, kiss him–
“Mark,” you whimpered, trying to pull him off of you. “Mark, please.”
Parting from you once, sucking in a breath, chest heaving, he gazed up at you with lust stricken eyes, his lips and cheeks a mess. “Wanna make you cum,” he groaned, soothing you with a circle of his hand on your thigh, “Doing so good, baby, please?”
“No,” you cried out, pulling him to his feet.
He let you.
Gently placing you back on the ground, holding you up, he pressed himself to you and cupped your jaw. You gave him a kiss, one small, one soft, one tasting like you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, giggling as he pulled a hand up to wipe his face clean, he kissed you again, longer this time, your breaths in sync, like the beating of your hearts.
“I’m right here,” he whispered. “You okay?”
Nodding, gazing at him, you licked your lips and gave him the quietest whine.
His thumb pulled at your bottom lip, his eyes flickering to it, and with the gentlest whisper, he asked, “Your bed or mine?”
“Stay here,” you breathed, and he smiled.
Taking his hands to your waist, he pulled you up, wrapping you around his front. Stolen kisses on the way there, a few strides backward toward your bed, he tipped over as you giggled and laid you down on your mattress. Tongue escaping, nasty kisses pushed to your neck, Mark pushed his sweats to the floor and climbed over you, his knees pushing yours open.
Taking both hands to your jaw, he tipped your head backward and coerced your lips open with his thumbs, holding them there. His cheeks sucked in, as his length prodded at your entrance, he pursed his lips and let a ball of spit drip onto your tongue. Moans trapped in the back of your throat, you arched against him.
Mark, eyes dark as ever, bobbed his head and stuck his thumb in your mouth, spreading his spit on your tongue. “I knew it,” he teased, “Again.” As if you were going to be able to question him, he looked you in the eyes and whispered, “Nasty.”
Eyes rolling, you wiggled your hips, the feeling of his tip not enough. Wrapping your lips around his thumb, giving him a harsh suck, you swore the devil flashed in his eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he grumbled, “Don’t get me started. I want you gagging every which way, I’ve pictured it, gotten off to it.” You moaned and he laughed. “But, I wanna fuck your pussy more than I wanna fuck your throat,” he dipped down to press a kiss to your forehead, pushing stray hairs out of the way, whispering, “That okay?”
“Please,” you mumbled around his thumb, digging your teeth into it. “Mark, please.”
He lingered by your ear, lips brushing your lobe. “Please, what?”
“Fuck me,” you cried, writhing under him. He pulled his thumb out of your mouth and gripped your chin. Meeting his gaze, you whimpered. “Please, Mark, fuck me. I need you so bad.”
“Thought you were gonna let me bend you over the kitchen table,” he said, reaching a hand between your bodies to grip himself, “Pictured that before, too.”
“Fuck,” you gasped as he slid his tip into you.
He winced at how you squeezed him already, his brows tipped in the middle, his lips curling under. “Let me in, baby, can’t give you what you want if you don’t breathe.”
Your heart beat in your ears. You could barely get any air in as his length pushed inside of you, the pressure too great. The stretch, too much, the thought, the knowing that it was Mark, this was Mark, your roommate, inside of you, his cock, the pleasure–
A long sigh, laced with a whine, washed over him from your lips. Pushing into the hilt, your thighs touching, his hips on your hips, your clit pushing into his pelvis, he laid on top of you, your chests meshed. Parted lips met yours, the brush of a tongue on yours, the stinging of tears in your eyes as he rocked into you– you could feel him in your throat.
His thumbs pushed into your cheeks, his soft touch keeping you with him, brushing over your bottom lashes as your lips parted and you sighed, gazing up at him.
A mess, both of you. His hair, pushed around in ways he’d never let you see, his eyes, glazed over with euphoria, his lips, parted and hungry. Teeth baring as he rocked into you, your breath hitching in your chest, you drug your hands down his back, your nails leaving behind plush red love marks as they came back up to his shoulders.
“God, I just wanna stay like this,” he mumbled, burying his head in your neck, moaning into your shoulder. “Feel so good, sweetheart,” he sighed, wrapping his lips in a kiss below your jaw.
One of your hands escaped to his hair, knitting into his locks, holding onto him for clarity. “You’re so… big…” you managed to gasp between snaps of his hips.
Smirking down at you, he pushed himself up to his hands, the silver chain on his neck dangling over your nose. “Yeah?”
Managing a smile with your twisted brows, you breathed through a laugh, “Knew it.”
“Fuck, you’re so cute,” he muttered, suffocating you with a kiss, his hands eager to hold you in anyway they possibly could. “You know what it takes to hold myself back?”
Your tongue wanted to pop out of your lips. Biting down on your lip, moaning without giving yourself permission, you blinked up at him, dazed, ignited with nirvana.
Relief.
Mark pushed up off of you, guiding your legs around his waist as he held onto yours. Picking your hips up off the mattress, he pistoled into you and tipped his head back, his groans echoing off the walls, lingering in the air.
“You know what it feels like… to have you walk around here… like you don’t know how hot you are?” He took a thumb to your clit, pressing down, grinning as you cried out and writhed, your hands gripping onto your sheets. “What it feels like… to hear you moan into your pillows… knowing that I could walk in here… and fuck you dumb?”
“Yes,” you gasped, voice broken, “Mark, yes, you drive me fucking crazy.”
He snickered. “Do I?”
Every twist of his thumb made you tremble, your high barreling toward you as you watched his body move. The arch in his back, the push of his hips, where your bodies met, the sound your bodies made…
“I wanted you as soon as I got home,” you babbled, fucking yourself back onto him as he thrust into you, “Wanted you to fuck me, wanted you to make me cum… Mark.”
His body let loose for a second, his composure dropping, his head lulling back, but then he grabbed your waist and pushed you both up to your pillows. Stretching his legs behind him, putting his hands behind your knees, he folded you in half and lowered himself on top of you.
Hair stuck to his forehead, your breaths tangled in shared air, his chain kissed your chin, your nose, your neck.
“Mark,” you whispered, your belly tightening, your legs shaking around him. Pulling him closer, landing messy kisses to his cheek, to his jaw, you gasped, right on the edge. “M’fu- Mark!”
“Come on,” he whispered, lazy lips brushing your cheek, “C’mon, babe. I got you.” You squeezed him, your body twitching under him, a tumultuous build up, a crash you needed three days ago. Fueled by his hands, his hips, his tongue, you cried out for him, barely recognizing yourself. “Cum for me, sweetheart, c’mon, you can do it.”
Almost missing your lips with a kiss, he moaned into your mouth as his own belly tensed.
“Need you to cum first,” he groaned, letting his fingers toy with your clit, his speed relentless, but he knew as soon as you went silent, he had you. “Be a good girl,” he whined, nose pressing to your cheek, “C’mon… Cum on my cock, baby, isn’t that what you want? Cum and I’ll fill you up, you want that?”
Nodding, fast, barely breathing, only able to suck air in, unable to push any out, you clung to him as your vision seared white, and you convulsed into him, body ignited with a pleasure brand new. You squeezed him tight, giving him little time to warn you he was cumming, filling you up with half a thrust as he dropped to his elbows and whimpered.
You’re not sure how long you laid in silence, spent bodies pressed together on a mussed up bedspread that now needed a washing. Then, he stirred.
Picking up his head of messed up hair, he looked down at you, eyes heavy, lips swollen. Surprised to see you already looking, he smiled, a flash of his teeth poking between his lips. Pulling out of you, taking his time, watching you closely as he did, he kissed you gently.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered, shifting over your body to lay beside you, wrapping an arm around your back to tuck you into his side.
Unable to not look at him, you brushed your lips over his chest and whispered, “You’re incredible.”
Resting an arm behind his head, he looked down at you with a lazy smile. “You feel better?”
“Yes,” you answered quickly, making him laugh. “But, I think…”
He flipped his brows over, reaching his hand out to fix the mess that was your hair. “You think what, sweetheart?”
Curling up against him, you cowered and hid your face in his arm.
“Tell me,” he said softly, smoothing his hand under your chin, lifting your head. Pursing your lips, as if he could tell by the flutter of your lashes, he poked his cheek with his tongue. “Be a good girl and use your words,” he whispered, and you almost whimpered.
Your heart swelled in your chest, your cheeks heating as you whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”
Mark glanced around your room before looking at you crazy. “Am I… going somewhere?” Smiling as you giggled, he screwed his face up and tried to wiggle away from you. “Oh, wait, actually, that's you. How’s the apartment hunt going?”
“No!” Grabbing onto him, pulling him back into you, he rolled over on his side, hovering over you. Blinking up at him, you took a deep breath and shook your head. “I’m not leaving. You overwhelmed me, I thought I had no other option.”
Mark raised his brows. “Instead of just asking me to fuck, you were going to move out? To a whole new apartment? When this one is just fine?” Your smile faded, and your resolve clouded over. Mark tilted his head, curious. “Talk to me.”
Rolling your eyes, dragging your nails against his back, softer this time, you mumbled, “I… like you… Mark.” He didn’t move. “I was thinking about moving, ‘cause… I have feelings for you. And, after this… I want you. I wanted you before. I want to be yours.”
It took his six whole seconds to break into a toothy grin. “Great,” he huffed, catching your lips in a slow kiss, whispering against them, “Which room do you want to be ours?”
Eyes widening, he shocked you with another kiss.
Nudging your nose with his, he winked. “I wanna be yours.”
┆ ✰ :: “ rule number two of hot bartenders: don’t indulge them. it will only bring you pain and suffering ”
includes :: [ ten screenshots ] bartender!jeno x reader ( typically gender neutral, avoided ‘picture of reader’ for a reason ). y/n is used. nickname: pretty. jeno is still a flirt yet it’s mostly turned down ( not really )? profanity. pinning. reader is thirsty for jeno but aren’t we all. tw chenle ( is a little shit ). chenle my favorite #1 hater. i made jaemin gay. all mistakes are unintentional.
authors note, i didn’t mean for this to turn into a series actually shdf. slide six is where jeno internally freaks out bc u actually responded to the nickname instead of questioning it ( my babies already growing up 🥹 ). this could be my jeno birthday fic hm . . . . . .
summary: in which you felt fed up with chenle and walked out after a fight, but you were uncertain whether he’d make an effort to save your relationship.
pairing: chenle x fem!reader
genre: angst, fluff
word count: 2.1k
you were having an argument with chenle. you tried to tell him that you felt a little uneasy about one of his female friends, but he downplayed your emotions and it irked you.
"don't you think you're being unfair?" you asked, frustration evident in your voice. "you're allowed to be jealous of every single person you think is hitting on me, but i'm not even allowed to feel upset that you have a close friend who obviously likes you?"
chenle responded dismissively. "it doesn't matter if someone likes me. all my friends know i'm head over heels for you. besides, none of my friends have openly told me they like me. i can't say the same to you and your so-called guy friends."
"i already rejected him," you countered, your voice rising. "how many times do i have to tell you that?"
"it doesn't look like you did because he's obviously still expecting something from you." he retorted, crossing his arms.
"i don't know how else to convince you. why do you always do this? every time i try to tell you how i feel, you always find a way to somehow turn it around on me, and it ends with you feeling more upset than i am."
"look, you don't need to worry about me. i couldn't care less about anyone who might like me. but you? you're too soft with that friend of yours. you might not see it, but it's obvious to everyone else how he hangs all over you. and you're not doing enough to stop it."
"but i don't like him, i never did and i never will. you also have nothing to worry about. why can't you let it go?"
chenle sighed, his eyes narrowing. "the same reason you can't let go of your concerns about my friend. no matter what i say, you're still upset and you're still jealous. that's exactly how i feel."
"so what do you want me to do?" you asked, exasperated.
"nothing. you can't do what i want."
"you want me to stop being friends with him? is that it?" you asked, incredulous. "will you do it for me if i ask you the same thing?" you challenged him. but chenle didn't respond; he just rolled his eyes and turned his back on you.
you felt so pissed off. chenle was always so unfair to you whenever you had a fight. you almost screamed at him to get out, but then you remembered you were at his house. you grabbed your things and turned to the door. you were about to leave when you heard chenle's voice.
"you're leaving because of something so petty? seriously?" he said with a scoff.
you gave him a dirty look, your hand on the doorknob. "you were about to storm off to your room and shut me out anyway. we obviously don't want to see each other right now, so what's the point of me staying?" you didn't wait for him to respond. you immediately left, slamming the door behind you.
you knew you were being immature, but so was chenle. you weren't about to let him slam the door on you again, making you feel shitty and guilty, when he clearly didn't feel the same remorse. somehow, even when the fight was his fault, you always ended up being the first one to apologize. that made your stomach churn with resentment.
you weren't always like this. during the first few months of your relationship, you and chenle rarely fought. even when you did, they were just small arguments and you would always make up immediately. but now, almost two years into the relationship, after the honeymoon phase had worn off, things had changed dramatically. you started getting into more frequent and intense fights, and the tolerance and understanding that you had at the start had also faded.
honestly, part of the reason why you're always the first one to give in is that, no matter how angry you get at your boyfriend, you can never stay mad at him for long. you fear that if both of you remain stubborn and no one's going to swallow their pride, the fight would escalate and break the two of you apart. chenle, on the other hand, always seems to have no problem ignoring you for a long time. it only intensifies your frustration and hurt, making you feel even more upset with him than you already are.
you've decided you won't give in this time, no matter what. you're scared that he might do the same, matching your stubbornness with his own. but if he can't even swallow his pride for you, the person he claims to love most, then maybe you're better off apart.
you don't want that though — not really. your relationship, despite its flaws, means too much to you. you just hope he does things differently this time.
after leaving chenle's house, you returned to your own place. you tried to sleep, but your anger and frustration had morphed into a gnawing worry that made your stomach tied up in knots. deep down, you weren't confident that he would do right by you this time. the realization made you feel conflicted. is it really worth staying with him if this is how he consistently makes you feel?
the thought sent a wave of sadness through you. despite everything, you loved him deeply. the idea of your relationship ending made your chest tighten with fear. you didn't want this to be the final straw.
tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over onto your pillow. as you cried silently in your room, a mix of emotions washed over you; love, frustration, hope and disappointment all tangled together. eventually, exhaustion took over, and you drifted off into a fitful sleep.
your last conscious thought was a small hope that when you woke up in the morning, you'd see his name on the screen accompanied by an apology you'd been waiting for.
chenle sat by the sofa, his eyes fixed on his phone, waiting for your call. since you had walked out after your fight the night before, you still hadn't come knocking on his door. this was the first time you hadn't talked for this long after an argument. fear started creeping up because of the prolonged silence from you. his chest tightened at the thought that you might have finally decided you'd had enough of him and realized you deserved better. he couldn't bear the thought of losing you. as the day was coming to an end, the setting sun cast long shadows across his room, signaling the passage of time and deepening his anxiety.
he could no longer sit still and wait for you to come to him. what was stopping him from coming after you anyway? he didn't know. but he realized he had been selfish for always waiting for you to mend things all this time. chenle felt like he could lose you easily to other people; you were surrounded by many who liked you and wanted to be with you. because of that, he always felt threatened. letting you come to him first after a fight somehow gave him a sense of security that you loved him enough not to let others steal you away from him.
but he realized now how dumb that was. instead, he could end up losing you because of his inaction. he snapped out of his reverie and grabbed his car keys, walking hastily through the door.
you heard someone ring your doorbell, and you checked to see who it was. your heart leaped in both happiness and relief at the sight of chenle standing outside your door.
if you weren't in a fight with him, you would laugh at how ridiculous he looked wearing sunglasses. you were pretty sure the sun had already set and it was dark outside.
you were feeling different kinds of emotions as you stood there. relief that he had come, nervousness about what he might say, and a stubborn remnant of hurt from your fight. you took a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for whatever was to come as you opened the door, finally seeing him up close.
"can i come in?" chenle asked quietly. you didn't respond verbally, but opened the door wider, allowing him to enter.
you closed the door slowly before turning around to face him. chenle stood in the middle of your living room, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.
you leaned back against the door, arms crossed protectively over your chest, waiting expectantly for him to speak.
"i'm sorry," he said, his voice was soft and sounded a bit tired. "i'm sorry about everything. i was only thinking about myself and took your words lightly. i kept dismissing your feelings because i was blinded by my own jealousy. i didn't realize i was hurting you." he stepped closer, gently cradling your face in his hands. "please, forgive me. i don't want to lose you over some stupid fight. i know i haven't been the best at showing it, but i love you so much."
his words caused tears to well up in your eyes. for the past 24 hours, you had felt an uncomfortable tightness in your chest, each second away from him making you fear you were closer to losing him. you knew you both had much to discuss, and the way you communicated with each other needed improvement. but at that moment, you felt a surge of relief knowing that despite all the fights, chenle still loved you.
"thank you for coming to me, and i'm sorry too," you said, holding the hand that was caressing your face. "i have so many things to say... but first, can i take off your sunglasses? they're distracting." as you removed them, you felt your heart clenched at the sight. chenle's eyes were red and puffy, evidence of hours spent crying. the thought of him crying by himself made your sadness deepen, triggering your own tears as you immediately embraced him. "i'm so sorry for leaving you alone last night."
you didn't usually walk out during your fights, and your departure likely made chenle realize that this argument was unlike any other. he must have thought you had reached your limit. you now understood the depth of his fear of losing you, mirroring your own fear of losing him.
chenle encircled you in his arms, resting his head on your shoulder and burying his face in the crook of your neck. his embrace conveyed how much he had missed you.
"no, i am sorry. i deserved it," he murmured against your skin. "if you hadn't left, i probably would've done the same thing as before and not realized what i'd done wrong. you've been patient with me all this time. i'm sorry for all the times i ignored how you feel. i'll be better for you, i promise." he said, pressing a tender kiss on your forehead.
as you stood there in each other's arms, you both silently acknowledged the work ahead to strengthen your relationship. the warmth of your reconciliation filled the room, replacing the tension that had hung between you just moments before.
you and chenle were now cuddling on your bed. your chin rested on top of his head while gently running your fingers through his hair. the simple gesture made his heart flutter. his arm draped comfortably around your waist as he nestled against you, closing his eyes and basking in the peaceful aftermath.
as you lay there, feeling warm and loved, you felt so relieved. the tension from your fight completely melted away, and you felt even more in love.
chenle shifted slightly, tilting his head to look up at you. "i think i've figured out the secret to never fighting again."
you raised an eyebrow. "huh? what's that?"
"we just stay like this forever." he replied with a grin. "can't argue if we're too busy cuddling."
"tempting offer, but we'll get hungry eventually." chenle pretended to consider this seriously.
"then we take turns getting snacks while the other one guards the cuddle spot."
"guard it from what exactly?" he shrugged, snuggling closer.
"i don't know. cuddle thieves? it's a very coveted position, you know." you rolled your eyes in amusement.
"you're ridiculous."
"yeah," he leaned up to place a gentle kiss on your lips. "but you love me." he whispered against your mouth. you couldn't help but smile and steal another kiss from him.
as you snuggled back together, you felt calm and happy. in that moment, holding each other close, you both silently promised to stick together. you knew your love hadn't just survived, it had grown even stronger.
pairing. cafe owner!chenle x regular customer!reader
synopsis. chenle might just have a thing for his cafe's regular customer, based on a req!
genre. cafe au, love at first sight mixed with a little puppy love, chenle’s like a goldie retriever here :(( i swear, mentions of food, reader uses she/her pronouns for this one, ft. jisung and jaemin, pls lmk if anything was missed!
wc. 1.0k words
notes. i love this one so much (i say that almost every time i have a new thing written) but it's chenle who are we kidding ofc i have favoritism… slight. likes and feedback are highly appreciated!
m.list
chenle wasn’t the type to hover.
he trusted his staff—jisung handled the customers, jaemin worked his magic in the kitchen. that left him to observe from the sidelines, content to manage from a comfortable distance. it wasn’t laziness, more like knowing where he fit in the daily rhythm of the café.
but the moment you walked in, everything shifted.
it was nothing special at first. the soft chime of the door, the way the afternoon light caught the edge of your face as you stepped inside, looking around with a quiet curiosity. chenle had been by the counter, flipping absentmindedly through the register logs. he wasn’t paying attention to much until he saw you. it was like the air in the room shifted, pulling his focus to you as if he’d been waiting for something but hadn’t realized it until that moment.
you took a few steps in, glancing at the menu board above the counter. jisung, ever efficient, moved to take your order, but chenle stepped forward without thinking, his voice coming out before he even realized it.
“i’ll take care of it,” he muttered, sliding in front of the lanky boy and ignoring the surprised look thrown in his direction.
jaemin, who was watching from the back with flour dusted on his apron, gave chenle a knowing look, but said nothing.
chenle paid neither of them any attention, turning his gaze to you whose eyes were eagerly scanning the menu above the counter. “what can i get for you?”
you smiled, polite but distant, ordering a cup of mocha latte—voice reaching him in soft but clear syllables. chenle couldn’t help but hold onto each word as you spoke, wanting the moment to stretch just a little longer.
when you took your seat by the window, chenle made your drink himself, pushing aside jisung’s attempts to do his job. it wasn’t even about making the best coffee; it was about making your coffee. a strange feeling stirred in his chest as he watched the milk swirl into the espresso, the heart-shaped foam settling on top with more care than he’d ever thought to put into a simple drink.
it became a routine after that. you came in regularly, and each time, chenle found himself moving before anyone else could. jisung and jaemin didn’t even try to get involved anymore, knowing how stubborn their boss could be. they’d just exchange quiet glances and sometimes a snort of laughter when chenle would rush to be the first to greet you.
he knew your order by heart—mocha latte, no whipped cream, always served in the same spot by the window. he’d bring it to you, trying not to hover too long, hoping each time that maybe this would be the day you’d stay a little longer, or say something more than the usual thank you.
but you never did.
you’d sip your coffee, eyes on your book, and the world outside would blur as you disappeared into your reading. he’d watch, just for a moment, trying to convince himself that the way you quietly smiled to yourself meant something, that maybe you noticed how much care he put into each cup, but weeks passed, and nothing changed.
you’d finish your drink, leave quietly, and chenle would be left with the echo of your absence. he started to wonder if it had all been in his head—if maybe he’d read too much into your polite smiles and the way you kept coming back. the doubt crept in slowly, like the steady ticking of a clock, until it was all he could think about every time you left without saying more.
today felt the same. you walked in, and he already had your mocha ready before you reached the counter, your usual spot by the window waiting for you. you gave him that same smile, soft and distant, and he tried to hide the way his heart leapt when you looked just a little surprised that he had your drink ready before you asked.
“you remembered,” you said, tone light, almost teasing.
chenle shrugged, trying to seem casual even as his pulse quickened. “it’s not hard. you come in here a lot.”
you laughed—soft, barely more than a breath, but it was enough to make his chest tighten. a small thank you made its way past your lips, and then, just like every other time, you disappeared into your little corner with a book in hand, sipping your drink as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.
chenle watched you from behind the counter, torn between the quiet hope that had kept him going for weeks and the creeping disappointment that maybe, just maybe, this was all it would ever be. the unspoken silence between you stretched on, and by the time you finished your drink, the weight of his thoughts had settled into something heavier.
you left, like always, slipping out the door with only a glance back. chenle sighed, staring at the empty cup you’d left behind. another day, another missed chance. he walked over to clear the table, mind already drifting to the usual routine, until something caught his eye.
a small piece of paper, folded neatly beneath the cup.
he picked it up, his breath catching as he unfolded it, scanning the words quickly, then again, just to be sure he wasn’t imagining it.
i’d like it better if you sat down and ate with me instead of staring from behind the counter next time. my treat, pinky promise.
your phone number was scribbled beneath the note, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
chenle froze for a second, blinking at the piece of paper in disbelief, then suddenly grinned, pumping his fist in the air with a quiet yet triumphant “yes!”
from behind the counter, jisung and jaemin watched him, snickering quietly, exchanging knowing looks.
“has he finally gone insane?” jisung said in a deadpan.
jaemin just shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “just let the boy live a little. it’s not always that we catch him like this.”
“that boy is still your boss.”
“eh, he’s still younger than me.”
“your point being…?”
and despite being more than aware of jisung and jaemin’s bickering from behind the counter, chenle didn’t care. all he could think about was the next time you walked in, and how this time, he wouldn’t just be serving you.
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort?, implied f2l, reader has had her heart broken before an: ILYT ANON 🫶🏽🫶🏽 i had sm fun with this.. i accidentally made it 100 words more than any of the other ones…
it’s rainy. you’re only in a pair of socks, and you’re sure that if you walk any faster, you’ll slip. you can’t bring yourself to care, though, when chenle and a whole truckload of feelings are following behind you. they lay heavy on your heart, pushing on your lungs just as heart as the air filling them while you speed walk down the sidewalk.
chenle calls your name, “if you’re gonna keep running, can you at least put your shoes on?!” he yells, carrying a pair for you as he chases you.
you stop, pivoting to face him. he’s still a good few feet away, hair soaked as he watches you, a mix of anger and concern set deep in his brows. he really cares, you think, seeing him all soaked in the weather he feels icky about, carrying shoes and a jacket for you. it makes you anxious, magnetizes your nails to the skin on your forearm, scratching it red.
he steps forward, slowly, almost as if he’s approaching a wounded animal. once he’s close enough, his hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your hand away from the other. he stands there, silently, watching, before kneeling down to gently help you into your shoes. once he’s back on his feet, your jacket is swung over your shoulders.
“can we stop running now? stop chasing each other?” he brushes his hair out of his face, wet and clumpy strands slicked back in the rain. if you weren’t so overwhelmed you’d laugh at the sight, him soaked and frowning like a wet cat.
“i’m scared, chenle..” a few tears spill from your eyes, vision burning as they drip and fuse with the raindrops on your cheeks. “this stuff scares me. you know that.”
he sighs, trying his hardest to be patient, yet still frustrated. “i know. but we can try, can’t we?” your body shakes, cries spilling more frequently, “i just need you to let me in. i won’t be like the others. say you want me too. if you.. if you don’t feel the same way i do, that’s okay, but.. can’t you find it in you to give me a chance?”
you pick your head up, finally locking eyes with him, and you see it. he’s so embarrassed, never spilling his heart out like this, yet he’s doing it for you. his cheeks are red, and he wants to look away so bad, but he holds your gaze, showing you how genuine he’s being.
you sigh, eyes squeezing shut as you look to the sky, praying, hoping, that he really is different. when you look back at him, his hand is outstretched towards you, and you take it. it can’t hurt to try one last time.
"She's pretty." You say, looking at his sister, going through Donghyuck's gallery. "I'm prettier, though!" You hear him, from the kitchen, crossing his arms with a frown. He supposed to look scary with that frown but the pink 'fuck you, my girlfriend is the bitch' apron just makes him cuter, "Jeez, love. She's your sister." You shake your head, feigning disappointment.
"Whoever it is, if they get complimented by you, then they are potential competitors," he says, stirring the soup with the ladle, "ㅡeven if it's my sister." He looks at your confused face, trying to take in the fact that Donghyuck is jealous of his sister.
"Sometimes, I just want to kiss you senseless in front of everyone that they know that you're mine." He continues, seeing your expression. You smile playfully, eyes challenging because that's something sane Donghyuck would never do, "Do it next time." and Donghyuck's lips tug into a smirk. Uh-oh.
synopsis: As another Dream Show Tour comes to a close, Haechan anxiously waits backstage for special guests to arrive. When they do, warm moments ensue.
warnings: haechan is donghyuck (as always), reader uses her/she, they have a toddler and a baby, Dreamies, mentions of anxiety, teasing, probably inaccurate baby/toddler behavior (i tried my best lol) -i think that’s it?
*if i missed anything pleaseeee let me know
a/n: been needing major comfort to help with my tds4 pcd and just life in general. been wanting to write dad!haechan for a while. here’s one:)) likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated!
The NCT Dream dressing room is bustling as managers, stylists, makeup artists, and members rush around to prepare for tonight’s concert.
However, a certain member is detached from the chaos. One foot in the dressing room and one out the door, Donghyuck stares down the hallway, anxiety present in his gaze.
“Haechan, ready for makeup please.” He hears a manager call in the background.
“Jisung go, please.” He calls back, not even bothering to turn around. The youngest rolls his eyes as he stands up to get his makeup done anyway. The manager frowns, but lets it go this time.
Donghyuck sighs and checks his phone. No new messages from you. The last message you sent was:
think we’re close!
To which, he replied:
ok baby, be safe and call me if you have any trouble
No update since then, and that was 10 minutes ago. He sighs again, anxiety bubbling in his chest. What if you got lost? Unlikely, since Donghyuck asked a staff member to escort you to the dressing room. He was strongly discouraged to leave since the concert starts in less than a few hours- if he could meet you himself, he would’ve. What if something happened? Donghyuck knows the cell reception isn’t great inside the venue. He bites his lip as anxiety eats at him.
However, it all dissipates when he sees two figures walking down the hallway. Relief washes over him and a smile breaks out onto his face.
You’re both coming down the hallway quite slowly. Little legs can only take you so far! Once you’ve come closer to view, he sees you’re slightly leaning over so your hand can hold your three-year-old daughter’s as she puts all her focus into walking.
Donghyuck can’t take it anymore. He officially steps out of the dressing room, much to the manager’s dismay. He jogs to meet you both halfway, scooping his daughter into his arms.
She squeals in joy when she sees her father, wrapping her small arms around his neck when they embrace. He peppers her face with kisses; the child’s laughter rings through the hallway.
“My baby! I missed you so much!” Donghyuck coos. Your daughter hides her face in the crook of his neck, feeling safe in her father’s arms. “Did you miss Appa?” He asks. His smile grows even more when he feels her nod against his skin.
With one last kiss to the top of her head, he turns to you. The sight of you makes him melt. You’re adorning a soft smile that can only be described as admiration for your husband.
“Hi pretty.” He says before leaning in to press a kiss to your lips.
“Hi baby.” You reply, equally as soft. Donghyuck moves his love-filled gaze to your chest, where your four-month-old is wrapped against your warmth. His head peeks over the top with a tuft of hair that he surely got from his father.
Donghyuck feels tears gathering in his eyes as he gazes down at his son. The arm that’s not supporting his daughter against his side raises so he can gently touch his son’s head. The baby slightly stirs at the feeling of his hand but stays asleep nonetheless.
At this, Donghyuck beams with pride. Any comment, big or small, addressing a similarity between him and his son causes a wave of pride and joy to wash over him.
Suddenly, he realizes something is missing. “Where’s the staff?” He asks, protectiveness evident in his voice. He remembers specifically asking if someone could help his family backstage since he wasn’t allowed to go to you himself.
“Oh, he’s getting the baby bag from the car. Don’t worry, he told us exactly where to go.” You reassure your husband.
He frowns but still takes your hand and leads you back to the dressing room.
The chaos from the dressing room can be heard far before you reach the door. It makes you smile- you can hear Chenle’s laugh and Jisung going over the choreography with Mark one more time.
However, it all comes to a quiet when you walk in.
Oh.
You had forgotten it would be the members’ first time meeting your son. The impeccable timing of giving birth in the middle of the tour allowed only Donghyuck to travel back home. It was only for a few weeks but, at least he could be there for a little bit.
Your grip tightens around Hyuck’s hand, letting him know you’re feeling nervous with all these eyes on you at once.
He knows, and thinks quickly. “Minseo-a, can you say hi to everyone?”
Your daughter peeks and lifts her head; she assesses the room before saying Hi in the way that only a child can have the entire room melting in awe.
That causes the chaos to swing back into action. A few members are still in hair and makeup, but the ones who are finished look at Donghyuck’s family, waiting for the green light.
Donghyuck checks in with you first. Minseo is still in his arms, now more aware as she takes in the atmosphere of the room- so many people doing so many things, she’s fascinated.
“You feel okay honey?” He asks you in a soft voice only reserved for you and your two babies. You nod.
“Do you wanna take Minhyung out?” You confirm with your husband, already reaching undo the wrap while holding your baby’s body against yours firmly. He nods. Not only does he want to show off his baby boy, he’s also eager to hold him again.
He sets down Minseo and tells her to go bother her Uncle Jaemin, who’s currently getting his hair styled. She giggles and toddles off. Then, Donghyuck helps you unwrap your baby, finally gathering him into his arms. Minhyung stretches and opens his eyes slowly.
“You have a good nap, buddy?” Hyuck talks softly to his son, not wanting to disturb him too much as he’s still waking up to the world. You watch with fond eyes, though feeling relieved to be free of Minhyung’s weight.
Another minute passes and Hyuck feels like he’s ready to share his son with the world.
The dressing room couch seats Renjun, Mark, Jisung and Chenle- four pairs of eyes that are eager to meet your new baby.
“Ok everyone.” Donghyuck approaches them, “This is Minhyung.”
Renjun stands up first, smile bright as he fully looks at your son. “Wow, he’s beautiful.” He says in awe, looking at your husband and then at you.
“Thank you.” You say softly, suddenly feeling bashful in front of friends you’ve known for years.
Soon enough, Donghyuck is surrounded by four NCT Dream members all amazed by the new addition to your family. Like before, the father beams with pride.
Their bubble is broken when a manager calls for Donghyuck.
“Haechan, we really need you for hair and makeup now. You’re the last member.”
“Okay, okay.” He relents.
“I wanna hold the baby!” Chenle volunteers. Your husband shoots the younger member a pointed look. But, Chenle doesn’t back down, still looking at Minhyung with hopeful eyes.
“Okay, sit down please.”
Chenle promptly takes a seat next to you on the couch, sitting up straight- ready for a baby to be placed in his arms.
Donghyuck walks over slowly, gaze set on Minhyung the entire time, then kneels down in front of the younger member.
“Remember to support his head.” Chenle nods. “And both hands on him at all times.” He nods again. “And please stay seated the whole time.” Nodding again. “Don’t move too much because-“
“Honey,” You interrupt, an amused smile on your face, “He’s got it.”
“Right.” Donghyuck murmurs more to himself than anyone else. He hesitantly places his son in his member’s arms.
Chenle is perfect, not a sound comes out of Minhyung as he’s held in the arms of a stranger. The younger member beams, looking at Mark who shoots him a proud smile too.
“Okay, I’ve got to go. I’ll be back soon.” Donghyuck practically warns Chenle.
“Don’t worry. I’m right here if anything happens.” You reassure him. He presses a quick kiss to your forehead before heading off to finally get ready for the show.
The four members gush over your son while you take a backseat. You’re glad to do it. After months of handling Minhyung practically by yourself, you’re happy to let another take care of him for a minute. You’d never tell Donghyuck though- you know him, and you know the guilt would be consuming, even if you reassured him time and time again. However, the time off he’ll have after these last shows makes up for every missed moment while he’s been gone.
Minhyung is passed from Chenle to Renjun and finally to Jisung, who’s practically trembling as Renjun places the baby into his arms. You’re not worried though- you know Jisung would never drop your baby.
You and Mark catch up- chatting about tour, the new baby, his next album, and everything in between. He still can’t believe you named your son after him. You shake your head at this.
“I’m like honored, for real.” He insists, hands on his heart.
“Really, it was something Hyuck and I decided together. We wanted to name him after someone crucial to our lives- it felt right to name him Minhyung.”
He looks away, staring into the floor, but you still catch the blush on his cheeks. “Thank you, truly.”
Jaemin and Jeno walk into the main room in tandem. Minseo is hanging from Jeno’s bicep in a way that looks like she weighs nothing more than a feather.
The sight makes you smile.
“Having fun Minseo-a?” You call, to which she giggles. Jaemin reaches behind her and gently places her back on the ground.
She does not hesitate, “Uncle Nana, can we play horsey?”
Knowing the member’s inability to say no to your daughter, you step in. “Minseo, your Uncles need to save their energy for the big concert tonight.” She looks at the ground and frowns. “How about we color for a bit? Then, you can play with them another time.”
She looks up at the two tall men, “Color together?”
They nod, and shoot you a grateful smile before following your daughter to your bag where her coloring book is kept.
Minhyung stirs just a little, but just enough to send Jisung into a panic. You quickly take him from his arms.
“What’s wrong, hm? Are you hungry?” Minhyung whimpers and waves his arms a little.
“Okay, okay.” You coo, and walk toward your baby bag.
The Dream members watch you in awe. Who knew Donghyuck’s life would turn out this way? Surely not the man himself.
“I’m so happy for him.” Renjun admits, sparkling eyes move from you to Minseo in the corner with Jaemin and Jeno. Other members nod in agreement.
“He’s meant to be a dad.” Jisung adds on.
Right on queue, Donghyuck comes back, walking briskly into the room. First thing he spots is you dealing with a whimpering Minhyung. He shifts his gaze to the same four members on the couch.
“Hwang Renjun did you do this?” He can’t resist teasing his members, even in dad mode.
The member in question rolls his eyes, “Ah, Lee Donghyuck, you know I did not.”
He shoots Renjun a grin before walking over to you.
“Everything okay, honey?”
“All good, just getting his bottle ready. Actually, can you hold him for a minute?”
You quickly place your son in his arms before rummaging through the baby bag to prepare the bottle.
Behind you, you can hear your husband try to comfort Minhyung, who is becoming fussier by the minute.
In no time, you’ve got the bottle ready which you hand to Hyuck and Minhyung accepts instantly.
You finally look at your husband who is all ready for the stage. Hair, makeup, outfit- he looks stunning.
“Hi handsome.” You comment, causing him to look up from Minhyung. When he meets your gaze, a shy smile graces his lips.
“Do you like it?” He asks.
“I love it. You’re so handsome baby.” You insist, causing his smile to grow.
As Donghyuck feeds your son, he goes to check on Minseo, who is still coloring peacefully with her Uncles, and chats with the other members while they wait for their call time.
“Alright,” Their stage manager enters the room, “15 minutes until showtime. Let’s get mic-ed up and then to your marks for the opening number.”
The members stand up and get ready to leave the dressing room. Jaemin and Jeno help Minseo clean up her coloring book and markers. Donghyuck saunters over to where you are, taking his time- every second counts with his family.
You take the bottle and place it in the bag, and when you turn around, you’re met with the most endearing sight. Your husband kneels on the floor, holding Minhyung in one arm while the other one wraps around Minseo as she leans into him.
“You have their headphones right?”
“I do,” You confirm.
“And you’ll come back here right after the show right?”
“We will, honey.”
You take Minhyung from his arms so you can wrap him around yourself again, your husband stepping in to help. Then, Donghyuck takes Minseo into his arms to give her a proper hug.
“See you in a little bit okay, my angel? Cheer loudly for appa okay?”
He lets go after a while and turns to you.
“Good luck honey! Have fun out there, you’re gonna do amazing.” You cup his cheek and lean in for a quick kiss, not wanting to mess up his makeup.
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Bye bye!” He waves as he hesitantly steps out of the dressing room and toward the stage.
The same staff member as before comes to help you to your seats. The venue is lit up in green light from the lightsticks; your daughter watches in awe.
Headphones on and seated- you’re ready for the show.
Your missing piece is backstage, getting ready to perform harder than ever now that his three favorite people are in the audience.
disclaimer: this is all fiction. i do not claim any of this happened in reality. it’s all for fun and fiction.
before you proceed ... angst&comfort, reader calls haechan 'hyuck', idol!haechan, reader uses she & her pronouns, mentions of mark's departure i'm sorry in advance . .
"hyuck" before she could fully process that he was standing infront of her door, he quickly wrapped his arms around her.
"i'm fine... dont worry"
she quickly took him in and returned the gesture. "hyuck... im so sorry i haven't been there for you full-"
"no..." he cut in softly, but firmly. "don't apologize. you have nothing to apologize for."
she immediately shut her mouth and pulled him even closer when heard the slight shake in his voice.
as she slowly guide him to the sofa—still not leting go—he instantly pulled her right back into his arms, as if he really needed her there.
it stayed quiet for a few minutes, just the comfort of each other's presence. that was until donghyuck decided to speak up.
"i'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I just... didn't want this to feel real. I thought that if i didn't say it loud... it would hurt less. gosh, I can only imagine how czennies must be feeling right now."
"hyuck..." she gently tried to pull back, wanting to look at him, but he immediately pulled her back in so that she wouldn't.
was he really apologizing? even earlier, when she saw his bbl message, the first words she saw were i'm sorry, along with a comforting paragraph. knowing he did not need to apologize for anything and is one of the people who needed to be worried about the most.
"i'm happy for him you know? i really am. but- it's just- i don't know." he continued, his voice quiter now.
she didn't rush to respond. she just stayed there, with one hand slowly rubbing his back. a steady and warmth gesture, as if it was something he could hold onto when things got a little bit too much. all she could do right now was to hold him close and repeat the words "it's okay."
"i'm sorry i've been a bit off lately, I really tried to-"
"hyuck." she whispered, gently. "you don't have to keep apologizing. not to me. not for this. and please stop thinking about everyone but yourself."
he fell quiet, slowly pressing his lips together. still not meeting her eyes. but this time, he didn't pull away, and that was enough sign for her to continue.
"i know you're sad and hurting." she continued, voice even softer now.
"I don't know how long you've known about this, but for however long you did, you've been so strong, hyuck. you really have. fck i can't even imagine how you must be feeling right now, and it hurts knowing you've been carrying this for so long, staying strong for everyone else. but you don't have to do that, not with me. gosh, hyuck, you're out here comforting everyone, reassuring everyone.. when really, you need to reassure yourself."
normally, he would've laughed at the way she spoke so quickly, barely pausing, as if she was rapping. but right now, all he could do was listen, letting every word sink in.
"y/n..." he murmured softly into her hair. it wasn't often that she saw this side of him. yes, he opened up sometimes, but he always tried so hard to keep things in.
everytime she asked why he does that, he would simply smile and respond with "I promised to make you happy and take care of you, so why should I burden you with my struggles?" and everytime, she'd gently press a finger to his lips to remind him that he would never be a burden to anyone, especially not to her.
and now... seeing him like this, unable to hold back the way he usually did, was enough to make her chest ache.
"i love you. i love you so much, hyuck." she whispered, holding him tighter, fighting to hold back her own tears. "you've been so strong for everyone. for him, the members, the fans. you're always the first to comfort everyone." her voice softened even more. "but you don't always have to be that person. you're allowed to feel like this. and you're not alone, you'll never be alone in this. not when me, the members, and so many other people that appreciates you are here with you."
she leaned her head gently against his before continuing again. "i'll always be here, okay? I'll go with you when you switch between schedules of the two units so you'd feel less alone. i'll even dress like mark if you want." she let out a small, shaky laugh to lighten the heaviness just a little. "i'll even pretend to be one of your manager, like that one time, just to be with you. and you know that mark will come visit whenever he can, I think we all know that."
that was all it took. the quiet reassurance, the steadiness in her voice, the way she didn't rush or expected anything, everything finally break through.
the tears he had been trying so hard to hold back (which was half out during the encore) finally fell freely. they were slow at first, then all at once, and this time, he didn't try to stop them. and for once, he let himself be the one who was comforted.
notes. hey... might take a while for me to fully process the information, but I genuinely hope the best for him. after seeing that announcement, I couldn't help but also thought of haechan so :((( thank you for all the hardwork you did mark lee, they will always be cherished by czennies!!
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