⠀ ❤︎ ' jake, your boyfriend didn't care enough for you. but his best friend heeseung did.
𝗖𝗛𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗦 ─── ✿ written . heavily inspired by otl ! 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 ' angst kissing crying jake being a ho heeyearner ' ( 𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 ) ♱ like and reblog ! 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽 . 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗓𝗂𝗇𝖾
you had read his text about seven times now. and each time you read it, a different emotion evoked from you.
your thumb hovered over the keyboard many times, yet the words never flew out. you didn't know what to say or what to do.
so you threw your phone into your pocket and ran. ran for fresh air and an escape.
and you found yourself in a familiar place, one that you would always come with jake after school to play around while he called you the 'only one' for him.
you almost laugh at how ironic it was, finding yourself in the same playground now alone and in pain from the same boy who promised you would stay in his life forever two years ago.
sitting down at the end of the slide with your knees to your chest, you begin to breathe. the cold air being the only source of comfort for you. you needed to think, to figure out what you wanted to do and what you needed to do.
your thoughts contained everything and nothing all at once. it was simply chaos in your mind and you were trying to find some sort of solace.
“i thought i almost lost you,” you froze, your thoughts being ripped away from you as you heard a familiar voice emerge from the back of the playground.
“baby,” another voice you knew very well rose. “you have me now. you’re not going to lose me, ri.”
kaori and jake were on the other side of the playground, oblivious to the fact that you could hear every single word that pierced your heart with ease.
“i haven’t kissed y/n in two months.” kaori looks over at jake with wide eyes as he admits his feelings truthfully. “i still don’t know what i feel for her, but i just can’t seem to be attracted to her.”
your skin had already gone numb despite the cold biting you. you sat there frozen at the end of the slide, the tears already pouring out of your eyes before you knew it.
“but you’re still with her,” kaori says softly, but worry seeps through her voice.
“i know. i’m going to sound like a fucking jerk for this, but she’s always been there,” jake sighs. “she’s just… always been there. it’s easier than breaking up. she’s always been easy.”
easy.
you were easy.
that felt like a slap to the face.
that’s all you were to him. while you adored him with your whole heart, he didn’t even let you into his. you were easy for him, easy to settle and lean back on, easy to ignore, easy to hurt.
“she really loved you, you know?”
“i know.” jake looks away and to the back of the slide. “that’s the problem.”
and then you realised.
that was the problem.
your love was the problem, your love was what made your heart shatter into pieces.
you just stayed there, replaying each and every one of his words like they were the ultimate truth. the tone in his voice echoed endlessly in your mind. and you stayed there, rewinding the moment that hurt you the most on that slide long after kaori and jake left, probably hand in hand, unaware of the complete heartbreak they caused.
minutes had passed. ten or twenty. you weren’t sure, losing track of time.
your eyes were puffy enough for anyone to notice you had been crying for a while. still having your knees to your chest, you haven’t moved a bit; your limbs now numb to the pain and everything.
that’s when you heard footsteps.
it was gentle enough for you to slowly look up, “y/n?”
your heart stopped.
it wasn’t jake.
nor was it kaori.
it was heeseung.
there he was, worry splashed all over his face. you realise he probably found your location when you shared it with him once and never bothered to turn it off. he crouches down to meet your level as he lets out a sigh of relief.
“why weren’t you picking up your phone?” he asked softly, tilting his head.
his hands quickly took off the scarf wrapped around his neck as it found its new place around you. the fabric was still warm from his body heat as it faintly smelled of his cologne, the one you'd grown used to.
“i’m sorry,” you apologise, looking down. “it was too much.”
heeseung didn’t wonder why. he never pushed. with him, he never would. instead he reached out, his hands cupping your face softly. “you’ve been crying, pretty.”
“he said something?” and he swears he hears his heart crack when you nod slowly.
“he said… he said i was easy. and that he wasn’t attracted to me.” you shakily let out. “he hasn’t kissed me in months, hee. gosh, i’m so—so fucking stupid.”
your words only tumbled out like broken shards that had been stuck inside your throat and you tried your hardest not to cry in front of him again.
heeseung’s jaw tightened; he wondered how jake could let such a pretty girl like this slip away from his fingers.
“y/n…”
“he doesn’t want me anymore. he never will.” you sniff, your eyes red and teary again. “i was just convenient for him. i’m just convenient to anyone.”
you pulled your knees further into your chest, your chin hiding under his scarf. he let you speak every word without interrupting even though he wished he could pull you into his arms and tell you again and again that nothing you said was true. not to him, at least.
heeseung only tucked in a loose strand behind your ear and admired the beauty he had in front of him. his heart was only pushing him to kiss away your tears and tell you that he would never crush your heart like jake did.
“i’m… i’m hard to love, aren’t i?” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes, and heeseung wanted to immediately shake his head. “that’s the truth. i don’t deserve the effort.”
he was quiet.
before he finally spoke his mind.
“what on earth are you saying?”
you bit your lip, your tears sliding down your cheeks anyway. “i’m not lying, hee. it’s true.”
“then why am i here?”
your eyes slightly widened as you finally read his eyes. he was so close to you, you could feel his cold breath on you.
“i’ve been here the whole time.” his voice cracked too. “i’ve seen you cry over him countless times. the first time i saw you, you were sad because of him. and every time i see that look in your eyes… i just want to shake you and hold you at the same time.”
“heeseung—”
“i’m not him, y/n. i’ll never be him. it’s terrible timing. i know. but i can’t keep pretending that my heart doesn’t stop every time you smile at me.”
your lips parted yet no sound came out.
and he did what he always wanted to do.
he did what you were hoping for him to do.
heeseung kissed you. he held you like you were precious to him, he held a broken, fragile piece that he wouldn’t dare dream of breaking. you held him close, your lips moulding into his perfectly as your hands fisted into his jacket.
your tears stained his cheeks but he didn’t care. all he wanted to do was to hold you close to him.
it was soft, impossibly soft.
it felt slow, gentle, and patient.
nothing like how impatiently jake used to kiss you. if you could even remember how he did.
you didn’t know what you were doing, if you were being honest. the pain subsided into the kiss and your heart was at a crossroads, not knowing where to go.
but you let yourself feel wanted.
and when he finally pulled back, you both breathed into each other.
his eyes were still closed, embracing the moment, and without thinking twice he pulled you into his arms, keeping you closer than jake ever would.
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⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works
The cemetery is brutally quiet. It’s the kind of silence that doesn't feel peaceful—it just feels empty.
Y/N stands at the edge of the grass, the hem of Sunghoon’s oversized grey hoodie blowing slightly in the air. She’s wearing it. She wears it everywhere now. The fabric has lost almost all of its expensive lavender fabric softener scent.
The headstone is neat. It has his name carved into it in a clean, minimalist font that she knows he would have approved of.
PARK SUNGHOON
"You really picked a scenic spot," Y/N whispers, her voice cracking. She drops to her knees on the grass, completely uncaring of the mud staining her jeans. "You always liked a good view. Smug bastard."
She tries to laugh, but it turns into a jagged, suffocating sob that catches in her throat. She presses her palms against the cold stone, wishing with every fiber of her being that the granite would warm up, that it would turn into a broad shoulder, a sharp jawline, a hand reaching out to flick her forehead and tell her she’s being dramatic.
"Y/N?"
A soft, fragile voice breaks through the quiet. Y/N flinches, wiping her face hastily with the oversized sleeves of the hoodie as she turns around.
Sunghoon’s mother is standing a few paces back. She looks like she’s aged ten years in a fortnight. Her eyes are hollow, her shoulders smaller than Y/N remembers. In her hands, she’s clutching a small, black velvet jewelry pouch—the exact one Y/N remembers seeing on Sunghoon’s desk a lifetime ago.
"Oh, Mrs. Park," Y/N breathes, scrambling to her feet. "I'm sorry, I can leave if you wanted some time alone with—"
"No, no, stay. Please," his mother says, her voice trembling as she steps forward. She forces a small, heartbreaking smile, her eyes dropping to the grey hoodie swallowing Y/N’s frame. "He... he wanted you to have this. He made me promise to give it to you after the funeral, but I... I needed a few days to find the strength to givr it to you."
She presses the small velvet pouch into Y/N’s hands. Inside, something small and heavy shifts against the fabric.
"There’s a note inside," his mother whispers, her hand lingering on Y/N’s cheek for a second, cold and shaking. "He spent three hours writing it, Y/N. His hands were shaking so badly toward the end, he could barely hold the pen. But he wouldn't let me help him. He said it had to be his own handwriting."
Before Y/N can say anything, his mother gently pats her arm and walks away, leaving her alone with the quiet, the headstone, and the pouch.
Y/N’s fingers are trembling so hard she can barely loosen the drawstring. When she pulls the contents out, the first thing that falls into her palm is the silver ring. The Roman numerals engraved on the inside catch the faint afternoon sunlight.
And then, folded into a tight, neat square at the bottom of the pouch, is a piece of lined notebook paper. Y/N unfolds it slowly.
To the girl in the camo crocs,
if my mom actually did what she was told, you’re holding this ring right now. don’t put it away. put it on. it belongs on your left hand. it always did.
i know you hate me right now. or at least, i hope you do. if you’re reading this and you’re still crying over me, then i failed. i spent the last three months trying to be the villain in your story because i couldn’t bear the thought of being the tragedy.
i remember everything, y/n. i remember the exact coffee shop where we met. i remember the way you look when you’re trying not to laugh at a bad joke. i remember how your hand felt in mine during the winter—you always complained that my hands were like ice, but you never let go anyway.
the night i broke up with you, i sat in my car outside your apartment for four hours. i watched your bedroom light go off. i had the phone in my hand, ready to call you, ready to tell you that i was scared, that i was dying, that i needed you to hold me. but then i thought about your future. i thought about you sitting in a hospital waiting room, watching a heart monitor dictate whether you could breathe that day.
i couldn't do that to you. i loved you too much to destroy your twenties with my ghost.
remember the night at jay’s apartment? when you fell asleep on the armchair? i didn’t leave the grey hoodie on the couch by accident, y/n. i put it over you myself. i stood there for ten minutes just watching you breathe, terrified that it would be the last time i’d ever see you look so peaceful.
i whispered 'i love you' into your hair. you muttered something back. you were half-asleep, and you said: "i know, hoon. i love you more." my heart broke right then. the physical pain of it failing was nothing compared to how much it hurt to know i had to leave you.
i’m writing this from a bed i’m probably not getting out of. my lungs burn. my chest feels like it’s being crushed. but my mind is completely full of you. it’s always been you. three years wasn't enough. thirty years wouldn't have been enough.
be brave for me. let me go, but keep the ring. it’s pure sterling. it won't fade. just like me.
yours, until my heart stopped.
sunghoon.
The wind kicks up, rustling the leaves overhead.
Y/N stands alone in the grass, the note crumpled tightly against her chest as a horrific, guttural sound tears out of her throat. It’s a scream of pure grief, the kind that physically fractures something inside your ribs.
She slides the silver ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly. It’s cold against her skin, a permanent reminder of the boy who spent his final breaths forcing her to hate him, just so she wouldn't have to feel the exact agony that is currently tearing her apart.
Y/N sinks lower into the mud, burying her face into the collar of his grey hoodie, inhaling the faint, disappearing scent of lavender, and realizes that Sunghoon won. He got exactly what he wanted. He saved her from the hospital bed.
But as she stares at his name carved into the stone, her finger gripping the ring, she realizes the ultimate, devastating truth.
He didn't save her from the trauma. He just made her carry it alone.
isa: and with this… this smau comes to an end >w< hope you all enjoyed it or at least enjoyed suffering through it LOL ^^ finally my first real angst and knowing it actually made you feel emotional and even cry a little… that was worth it. >< thank you for sticking with me through the fever delays, the writers block, and all the emotional damage *sobs* i love you guys. don't forget to hydrate and maybe read something fluffy to recover ^^ 🥹
isa: sorry if this doesn't make much sense i wrote this while still running a fever so it's kind of a mess :p my brain is basically soup right now but i promise it'll come together soon or at least i hope it will >< thanks for being patient with me i love you guys ^^
.𖥔 ݁ SYNOPSIS . after getting publicly broken up with because of a misspread rumor, you move away to "heal" and "start over". when you come back after months and see your ex and said person—who spread those rumors about you—getting closer each day, you realize maybe you shouldn't have ever come back. and it definitely doesn't help when your ex starts giving you mixed signals about everything.
TAGS smau (+written) ; crack ; university au ; lots of miscommunication ; dumbass jake ; cringey moments ; cliche 𝓦 none that I can think of other than suggestive comments?
mars yap thirty image limit sucks ass btw I had to split this chapter, anywhooo I made a second blog where I will be doing the reblog for the second tag list for my fits if there is any confusions lol
💬 ── in which you want them but they want her? | ⚠︎ ── oblivious boys still being oblivious, slow burn, lowkey getting into angst territory, still dk about that happy ending l part 1
pairing ── hyung line (individually) x afab reader
nene’s note ── this takes place two weeks after the events of part 1. i wish i could express my anger as i post this, it’s so frustrating being on this app and i’m starting to hate it here, you guys know i’ll always be proper honest here, anyway enjoy💋
you're on a mission to torment your poor roommate jake, and despite knowing he wants you just as bad as you want him, something is keeping him from giving in. or, he's everything. and you're just horny.
pairing ⋆ f!reader x virgin! roomate! jake. + fwb!sunghoon x reader, fwb!ningning x reader. reader greedy as hell damn
this work contains ⋆ smut. mdni. multiple smut scenes. jake being a massive pervert. jealousy, alcohol consumption, exhibitionism, use of toys, masturbation, eavesdropping, loss of virginity (jake), multiple rounds, oral f! and m!receiving both, panties stealing. jake is really fucking pathetic. reader has a very high libido. more tbd
length ⋆ one shot ⸻ est. 10k words. teaser ⸻ 850 words.
taglist ⋆ open! must have age visible on profile or i won't add. no release date. i post when i want (this one is mostly just smut tho so shouldn't take long)
For Jake to catch you performing less than proper acts isn't exactly something new—or rare, to be honest. You have a stupidly high libido and really hot friends who love to take care of it, but even that doesn't cut it all the time.
Naturally, this means you're taking care of it yourself more often than not, and you're not exactly quiet and careful about it either. The thing is that apartment walls are thin, and your toys are really loud, so pairing that with you having to share the flat with Jake… there's only so much you can do about it.
That's what you tell him over lunch the first, second and third time it happens. You're not really sorry about it, but you do apologize because it's nice to have good manners, especially with the one person you share a space with. By the sixth time, Jake starts to catch up.
"Really stressful week," you offer, coming out of the bathroom with your hands still wet from washing them, and a glow seeping through your skin a simple shit couldn't be the cause of.
Jake's hands twitch on the Switch controller, looking ridiculously bigger in comparison to the red plastic piece. His jaw clenches and his teeth grind, and for a moment he might even look annoyed, but the obvious tent in his gray sweats tells you otherwise. A very eye catching tent. "Figured as much."
"Getting sassy!" You skirt around the dining table on the side of the room, picking up a green apple from the fruit basket, then throw your entire body weight on the small couch, right next to poor horny Jakey.
"And you're getting louder." He glances at you from the corner of his eye, trying his best to keep his gaze steady on your face and not let it wander down to the outline of your nipples peeking through the thin shirt you're wearing—which is his, by the way. Where did you even get that?—or even worse, the skin of your thighs, bare because of the distracting lack of fabric on your panties. "I'd say you're faking it, but you get even louder when Hoon is over, so maybe you're just easy to please like that." He says it with a hint of bitterness in his voice, and the three empty beers on the wooded parquet tell you all there is to know.
Jake gets easy to annoy a few drinks down, add that to the list.
You stop mid apple bite for a second, then resume loudly chewing. Your gaze is fixed on him with that 'everything is amusing' aura around you he dreads and envies both.
"Wash your fruits first." Jake says, a grimace on his face, and you've lost count of how many times you've heard this from him in the six months you've lived together.
"Prove it." It's muffled by your chewing, but Jake hears you loud and clear.
Still, he looks at you like you've grown horns. "Huh?"
"I'm easy to please? Prove it. Do it for me. Let's see where you fall on scale from can't-give-head-Huening Kai to Sunghoon. My toys sit comfortably at a 7."
It's tempting him, you see it in the sparkle of his eyes and the nervous bobble of his throat. He's a starving lion and you're dangling fresh meat right in his face, but then he shakes his head and goes back to his senses, so maybe he's more like a dumb fish that can't see the bait in the first place.
"I'm good," Jake manages, and it comes out so strained, it sounds like it hurts.
Too bad, but life goes on.
You give a shoulder shake then get up from the couch, and as if Jake's life is not hard enough, his shirt just so happens to perfectly rest on your lower back, half of your ass hanging out for him to ogle at as you sway your hips on your way back to your room. "Hoon's on his way, wear headphones or something."
Of course.
You round the corner and disappear into the hallway, leaving Jake and his raging boner alone. He groans, deep and guttural, head thrown back onto the couch and a headache building between his eyebrows, one of his hands carelessly falling to squeeze his cock through the sweatpants. It's been six months of uninterrupted torture, with nothing to do about it without embarassing himself. He doesn't even know where he'd start with finally putting his hands on you. Honestly, he'd probably cum in his pants the second you flashed him a titty.
Then you peek your head again, knowing smirk and teasing tone, and Jake knows he's done for. "Or you can join us, and fight it out with him. He hates when I wear your clothes when he's over. I'm not gonna be on my period until next week, so do something about it because I know you want to."
God only knows how right you are about that last part.
pairings : ex boyfriend's hb!sim Jake x fem!reader
⠀In which — you suspect your bf cheating on you with your best friend , so you team up with his hb to investigate. ( except he wants you 👀 )
- mae notes : Jake writing a WHOLEE paragraph saying he doesn't like yn after love bombing her , everyone see yn doesn't care so they immediately start thinking that jake got played on and they LAUGH at him , as you can see we went from June 24 to sep 10
In which: you’re chilling at the studio with heeseung but suddenly you both want more so you decide to drink him…
contents & tw : smut (MDNI), sexual references, suggestive content, oral (m receiving), tits play, nipple play, pet names? (baby), strong desires, kissing, neck kissing, biting, tell me what’s more…
anlovn ❀ : okay i was so inspired by his live😆, first smut kinda scared but whatever tell me what do you think about it…!
You were in the studio with heeseung. He asked you to come by after your work day, you obviously accepted.
So here you are listening to a new playlist. You are sitting on his thighs, your back against his torso. You are comfortable. His arms are on each side of you, he encircles you a little to be able to access the PC keyboard.
It's quite hot in the room, you wear a light strap top and shorts. Heeseung put his chin on your bare shoulder.
From time to time he places kisses and then whispers things in your ear or he hums the tunes of music, which has always made you easy.
Some sensations come to your lower belly, and you know these sensations very well. You tense up a little, heeseung feels it. So he smiles, he knows very well what to do in those moments.
He brings his arms against your waist and hugs you. He slides his head into your neck and smiles as he kisses you. You can't stop smiling. You close your eyes to enjoy the moment. Your hands cling to his arms.
From time to time he raises his head to slip things in your ear. "I missed you soooo much.", "I couldn't wait to see you again".
You let out a heavy breath. You also feel under you that he is enjoying and succumbing to the moment.
His kisses accelerate, your neck is filled with his saliva. So between your moans you whisper "heeseung...I want you..."
You don't lose a second and turn around to face him. His hands rest on your hips. Yours on his chest. You look at yourself for a long time. The tension rises very quickly.
He looks at you carefully from top to bottom, he smiles "you are so beautiful yn". You smile back and kiss him.
Your hands go up along his torso to reach his neck. This allows you to kiss him more deeply.
You lower your lips to his neck, your hands now sliding under his t-shirt. You feel him under your fingers, his body is hot, he wants it as much as you do.
You hear his little moans, his breath sometimes accelerating when you bite his Adam's apple.
You come back to his mouth. Everything is speeding up.
One of his hands goes up from your hips to your chest, the other remaining in the lower back of your back. His hand caresses over your top. He feels your nipples harden at his touch (fortunately for him you had decided not to wear a bra today).
Then, he gently lowers the top with his hand, revealing your breasts.
He stops kissing you to look at you. You, facing him on his thighs, your tits in front of his gaze, your nipples already hard.
You both blow. "I love you yn" he tells you before taking one of your tits in his mouth. His other hand going up to the unstimulated breasts, he massages it, kneads it, plays with your nipple between his fingers pressing it, pinching it, rolling it.
While, on the other side, he kisses and licks all along your tits. His mouth lingers on your nipple, he sucks it, kisses it, bites it from time to time to hear you scream.
You succumb to his touch, as always. He knows perfectly how to please and excite you.
Between your screams and moans, he lets go of your breasts, breathless. He looks you in the eyes and smiles when he sees you satisfied. The air is very hot in the room not only because of the weather, but also because of your tension.
"Wait two seconds yn, I'm thirsty"
He takes out his banana drink that had remained on his desk. He leans forward to retrieve it.
Your breasts always open in front of his sight so he instinctively puts his head on it when he bends over, your fingers resting in his hair.
He finally straightens up after catching it. He opens the package and starts drinking.
Until today, you didn't think that a man drinking could be so hot and attractive. He knows exactly how to excite you and sincerely you admire that.
He starts drinking and keeps the eyes contact with you. His eyes are completely riveted on yours. You observe him. The room is silent, only the sounds of him swallowing resound.
Your gaze goes down very slowly on his throat. You notice his Adam's apple that rises and falls with each descent. You're like amazed, it really affects you.
So, your eyes slowly rise to his when he stops drinking. You calmly ask him "can i drink you? ”
He smiles at your question letting the suspense last. He bends down to rest the now empty drink. He settles back in the seat, his gaze slowly going up along your body to end up on your eyes.
He smiles "you know how to please me... of course you can"
You don't hesitate for a second, your hands go down his belly. Your hands resting on his pants. You feel that he is impatient, he watches you do it carefully.
You unbutton his jeans, undo his fly. You get off his thighs and get up, your chest still in his sight.
He lifts his thighs to help you remove his pants and boxer. He finally sits down, now uncovered, his cock already hard.
You squat in front of him. You settle down half under the desk. Heeseung begs you, "take me please"
You smile when you see the effect you have on him.
You finally take him, your hand comes to catch his hard cock. You're still trying to get him excited by kneading him. "Please ynnnn" he says in a weak voice.
So, you finally take it in your mouth. You feel every vein of him. You start sucking it with back and forth. One of your hands is placed on his thigh the other caressing the places of his cock that you can't reach.
You take it completely, lick it, kiss it. He moans at your touch.
You bite him slightly sometimes harder, he reacts. "I'm close..." he said with his head stuck in the chair, his back arched.
You step back a little "cum for me baby" and you take it back completely, your movements accelerate, you take it in your cheeks.
His breath quickens, his hand clings to your hair, he pulls a little then, he finally cums in your mouth.
He opens his eyes a little and he sees you, holding what you said rather: you drink him.
He sees your mouth fill up, he wipes the corners of your mouth a little now bleached, it overflows.
He smiles, you swallow.
It excites him even more to see you squatting in front of him sipping him, your tits looks...
But suddenly...
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"Heeseung are you there? We need you"
You let him go all at once. You put your top back up quickly. Heeseung promise you to continue this later...
Miniskirt is just so good? The tension, the slowburn and even the characters! So well written and so funny. Loved every bit of it. Have read all your works so far and all are excellent but yeah miniskirt has me in a chokehold. T___T so curious cause of how it ended though. Really want to know if that was a one time thing, or they'd date because y/n told won she won the bet. 🥺 can we please get a part 2 only if you're okay with it?
miniskirt
synopsis: the four times you failed trying to flirt with your boss, and the one time he actually reciprocated.
pairing: boss!lee heeseung xf!reader
genre: modern au, office au, co-workers to lovers/boss x employee
cw: fluff, crack, smut, oral (m receiving), use of petnames (minimal), reader is shorter than heeseung, she is also less embarrassing this time (i think)
word count: 6.1k
this is part 2 for this part
a/n: i wasn't going to make a part two but people kept asking so i tried my best to deliver 💔💔 im sorry if this wasnt up to taste i tried my best. i didn't realise the ending for the last one was that ambiguous so i hope this fulfilled all curiosities abt the ending hehe
and thank u for reading, the message was super sweet 🫶🫶
MDNI
heeseung's fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you toward him, making you take his dick further down your throat. you gag, eyes watering as the tip basically hits your uvula.
you watch him throw his head back as he whimpers softly, biting down on his bottom lip to keep his voice down. the two of you were in still in the workplace after all. there was barely anybody here because it was the end of the day, but you never know if someone stayed back or not.
your knees and throat both stung at this point. if this was going to be an recurring event, then you were going to ask heeseung for a soft rug under his desk because the carpet burns were not fun at all.
heeseung looks at you with half-lidded eyes, admiring the sight of you kneeling before him, lips wrapped around his sensitive shaft. his thumb starts stroking your hair, contrasting the rough grip he has on your hair with the same hand. "you look so pretty like this," he murmurs appreciatively.
heeseung starts moving his hips up, sliding in and out of your mouth with measured thrusts. he goes easy on you, mindful of your sore jaw and throat from previous activities. well, the thought leaves his mind as he feels your tongue around the head of his cock, making him pick up the pace. his thrusts becoming longer and deeper as he loses himself in the wet heat of your mouth.
you try keeping up with that, increasing your own efforts as you hollow your cheeks. pleasure coils tighter in heeseung's lower abdomen with each bob of your head and each flick of your tongue.
"s-shit." heeseung stutters, his voice strained. you take that as a sign that he's close, making you lean further forward, nose pressed against his pelvis now. you can practically feel his cock throb in your throat.
"i'm gonna-" he warns, cutting himself off with a soft whine as he cums down your throat. you cough, immediately pulling off of his length.
"..that was a terrible warning, heeseung." you sputter, wiping your slick face with the back of your sleeve.
heeseung grins down at you, snickering breathlessly as he looks at your flushed face and slightly dazed expression. he tucks himself back in his slacks, zipping them up. "sorry, baby. i got carried away."
the pet name makes your heart skip a beat. you weren't used to the bedroom treatment yet, clearly. or should you say office.
you brush it off, before resting back onto your knees to crawl out from underneath his desk. you sit up slightly, and immediately, thunk-
your head bumps the underside of his desk. "ow-", you hiss, freezing for a split second. it's silent apart from a quiet exhale from heeseung that sounds suspiciously like a laugh he's trying to hold back.
"are you okay?" heeseung asks, pushing his chair back as he helps you to your feet, pulling you into a loose embrace on top of his lap. his hands roam your back soothingly, one of them trailing up your spine to flatten and fix your messy hair from all his tugging.
"yes," you say flatly, "i'm fine. i just didn't realise it was that low." you admit, in which heeseung hums, leaning in to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your forehead.
it makes you freeze for a second, before you relax further into his lap, just sitting in peaceful silence.
the next day at work, you come in with a sore throat. you didn't realise you sounded that terrible till sunoo came around to fulfill his daily desk visit.
"good morning."
you open your mouth to reply, "mor-" you pause, flinching at the sound of your own voice. it comes out rough and scratchy, completely unlike your normal voice. "..morning." you try again, still sounding awful. you had no idea you sounded like this because you didn't speak to anyone before coming to work.
sunoo flinches too, jumping slightly. "..are you dying?" he asks, tone entirely serious, which earns him a deadpan look in return.
you cough, trying to clear your throat. "no." your voice cracks at that too, unfortunately.
sunoo's eyes widen, "oh my god. do you need a lozenge or something? i have some in my desk i think."
"i'm fine," you insist, "it's just a sore throat." you say, clearing your throat again. "i'm not sick-"
you hear a snort from behind you, "damn, why do you sound like that?" whipping your head back, you see ni-ki, walking by with a few folders stacked on top of each other.
"like what?"
"like you've been screaming for fourteen hours straight, or something." he comes closer, standing next to sunoo. "did you play too many horror games last night?"
"what? no - who the hell screams for fourteen hours, weirdo?" you clap back, immediately glaring at him.
"then what have you been doing?" ni-ki asks, eyebrows raising suspiciously.
you're about to answer, but sunoo cuts in, a concerned expression on his face. "..should you be speaking at all? wait here, i'll get my cough candies." he glances at ni-ki, "and stop provoking her, ni-ki." he turns before you can even respond, walking off. bless him <3
ni-ki holds in his laugh, before waving and walking off. he really needed to start respecting his seniors.
your throat gets better throughout the day, and especially from the lozenges that sunoo gives you.
also, you actually did end up getting the $50 from jungwon all thos weeks ago. later that monday afternoon, you got a notification telling you that jungwon transferred it over. you're more surprised that he didn't call you a liar or ask for any proof.
not that you had anything to lie about, anyway.
but you didn't owe jungwon the confidential details, and he didn't care enough to ask, so.
someone who did actually care way too much about asking was jake. two weeks since the initial incident had passed now.
you didn't even blink when he wandered over during your lunch break carrying absolutely nothing, which meant he clearly didn't need help with work like he claimed in his email.
he drops into the seat across from you.
"hey." he greets casually, making you narrow your eyes at him suspiciously.
"what do you want?"
"nothing." jake nods to himself, leaning back into the chair. there's a smug grin on his face, so you already know he's about to say something stupid. guess he wasn't going to ask you to finish his spreadsheets for him.
"did you and heeseung actually bone?" jake asks, with zero warning.
you nearly choke on your lunch. did he hear the two of you yesterday? you should've known to make heeseung double check the premises.
"so it's true? damn." jake looks sort of proud, you can't really figure it out at first glance. "good job - i didn't know if you'd have it in you or not."
"okay first off," you start, placing your fork down. "what the hell is that meant to mean? are you saying i have the inability to pull-"
"you're focusing on the wrong thing." jake points out, tilting his head condescendingly, which honestly just pisses you off more.
"no, i'm not." you shake your head, correcting him, "we'll get to the part of 'how did you know' later. are you saying i really look like i'm incapable of pulling someone?"
jake snorts softly like that's the dumbest question he's ever heard. "obviously not," he says.
you tilt your face in a way that kind of shows that you're asking what he means by 'obviously'.
"you're pretty. people here have eyes." jake says simply, "sunghoon was interested in you at some point, and that guy is hella good looking."
"sunghoon was interested in me?" you blink, eyes widening in surprise. that cold guy from your department? you had barely spoken to that guy in the time that you had worked here. okay that was a lie, but he wasn't someone you conversed with often.
"yeah?" he says slowly, "you didn't notice?" he picks up a spare fork, taking a bite of your food, which you just ignore because you were used to it at this point.
you sit up straighter now, completely caught off guard. "when was this even a thing?"
jake looks offended on sunghoon’s behalf, "for like.." he pauses, thinking. "..a while. i can't remember exactly how long."
"when was this?"
jake points vaguely with his fork. "back when you first started working here. before you became obsessed with heeseung."
you ignore that last part immediately. "we spoke like once though?"
jake nods once more, "he thought you were funny."
"well," you smile, thinking to yourself. if sunghoon of all people thought you were funny, you were definitely funny - no glaze intended. "..is that it?" you stare at him for another second before looking away, trying to mentally replay every interaction you've ever had with sunghoon.
"and pretty," jake adds. "obviously."
"i'm starting to think you want me with all this complimenting, jake." you say teasingly, wiggling your eyebrows in which he physically recoils.
"what," he says, immediately offended. "i can't appreciate somebody's beauty without being accused of being romantically interested?"
you stare at him for a second.
"that was a very eloquent sentence for someone who claims he doesn't want me."
"we're getting off topic." jake says, redirecting your attention back to why he originally even sat with you. he leans in, lowering his voice down to a whisper. "so, did you fuck heeseung?"
"how did you even come to this conclusion?" you ask, genuinely perplexed. did someone hear you and heeseung going at it last friday? if so, that would be terrible - and you'd probably lose your job. you immediately sit up, trying not to think of the worst case scenario. "this isn't an appropriate question for the workplace."
jake notices your expression immediately, "so, i guess jungwon wasn't lying."
"shut up." you hiss, narrowing your eyes. "and what the hell did jungwon tell you? i didn't tell him a single thing, and i don't think heeseung would either."
"hey don't shoot the messenger." jake says, lifting his hands up in surrender. "i'm just asking what we all wanted to know. also, jungwon didn't like, tell us exactly what happened. he just told us about your bet with him."
you facepalm mentally. maybe you should've known that if you agreed to something like that it would result in the news being circulated like your department was a high school group chat. it didn't help that jungwon was on good terms with everyone in the office, too.
"okay, so what did he even say then..?" you ask hesitantly, but curiosity gets the better of you, anyway. "and who the hell is 'us'?" you don't even want to think about that, but you deserve to know.
"he just said that you guys made a bet stating that you wouldn't be able to get heeseung to fold. word for word." jake says, with an emphasis on the 'you'. you ignore it, trying to ignore whatever offense he could've meany by it. "and then that you asked him for $50 a few days after, which implied that you did indeed get heeseung."
you sigh, leaning back in your chair. "fine." you nod, "but it stays between the two of us."
jake on the contrary, sits up like an excited puppy. "oh my god. so it's true?"
"yeah." you whisper, cheeks feeling hot all of a sudden. "i'm surprised he didn't tell you anything about it."
"why would he?" jake whispers back, "he's so confidential about everything. i'm surprised you even pulled it off."
you shrug slightly, trying to act casual despite the heat creeping up your neck. "it wasn't even planned. it just happened. he's not that scary, if you think about it."
"well i never thought that." jake corrects you, which makes sense. they were close friends, after all. "but we're like the only people in the building who think that."
"sunoo doesn't think that." you argue back.
"sunoo is just biased because he likes the drama."
"jungwon..?"
"jungwon literally bet against you."
"fair." you nod, accepting defeat.
"exactly. nobody thought you'd actually succeed." jake says, pointing at you triumphiantly. the doubt they have in you is sickening.
"..there was a group opinion?" your jaw drops slightly, "are we serious?" jake's expression shifts slightly into one of guilt. you roll your eyes, "i better not hear anything about this." you warn him. "if i find out either sunghoon or jay-"
"you called?" a familiar voice rings from your right, and you see jay walking over, coffee in hand. he looks way too relaxed for someone who looks like they're ready to ruin your day.
"i think you misheard." you force a fake smile, trying to hint for him to leave but jay slides into the seat next to you anyway.
"no," jay tilts his head, "i very much heard 'park jeongseong' from over there."
"..that's not even what i said."
"it's what I heard," jay replies, taking another sip of his coffee.
"okay, whatever." you sigh. schizophrenic as usual.
jay leans back in his chair, glancing between the two of you as if he already knows what's up even without any sort of context. "so," he starts off lightly, "what's this about a bet?"
your stomach drops, meanwhile jake is trying to hold back his laugh.
you straighten your back. "okay, no. first of all-"
jay lifts a hand slightly. "relax. i already know."
you freeze in place. "you already know what..?"
jay takes another sip of his coffee, before shrugging nonchalantly. "jungwon and you. fifty dollars. heeseung."
yeah okay. you were quitting. you might as well before you actually get fired by HR or heeseung and have that on your permanent record.
"did jungwon tell you?" you ask, slumping in your seat.
jay looks at you, raising an eyebrow. "no? ni-ki told me."
what the hell? ni-ki of all people? why was the junior being kept in the loop?
"i'm done." you say, standing up. jay and jake watch as you do, looking confused. well, jake does. jay's face is unreadable.
jake tilts his head. "you're leaving because ni-ki knows?"
you turn your head, glaring at him. "no." you say flatly. "i'm leaving because everybody knows."
jay's trying to hold in his laugh as jake leans back in his chair. "okay," jake blinks innocently, before pointing toward your container of food. "can i have the rest?"
you slowly look down to where he's pointing. "what? you want my-" you pause, sighing. "yeah, go ahead. return the container to me later."
"wait," jay speaks up before you can leave, making you turn back.
"what do you want, jay?" you sigh, already exhausted by the both of them.
jay looks around the break room, making sure nobody else is in there at the current moment, which there was one guy but he was tucked away in the far back corner, with earbuds in. jay clears his throat, "so, are you and heeseung actually dating now?"
"what kind of question is that?" you're not even surprised though. "both of you are way too nosy, maybe you need to start having love lives too."
"hey, why the hell am i catching a stray?" jake whines, mouth half full of food.
"you still didn't answer the question." jay says, catching your attention again.
"because there is no answer."
with that, you walk toward the exit - with plans of writing your resignation letter that you would have to hand to heeseung after.
speaking of heeseung, you had no idea where the two of you stood as of right now. because yeah, you did manage to hook up with him but at the same time he was your boss. you had no idea if he even harboured any attraction toward you that wasn't purely physical.
since the first time, you and heeseung had been secretly fucking during overtime in the office. not often, it had only happened around three times in the span of those weeks, one time being literally yesterday. the two of you didn't want to make it blatantly obvious to the others. it was just a friends with benefits type of situation, minus the friends, you suppose.
after he dropped you home on that friday, there was no text or call during the weekend. heeseung simply drove you home, helped you into your apartment, then kissed you on the forehead before leaving. it was like it meant something to him, or like it meant nothing at all and he just didn't know how else to end the night. it happened last friday too, with heeseung making these actions like a routine. he'd fuck you, take you home, kiss you goodbye then just ghost you over the weekend.
that was the part that stuck with you. why did this guy have to be so unreadable? it was frustrating. or maybe it was actually as clear as day that he didn't want to commit to you, and you were just letting him use you.
the thought of his kiss nearly hits so hard again that you barely register where you're going, stepping forward without looking - making you collide straight into someone's shoulder.
"-oh!"
you stumble back slightly, looking up at whoever it is about to apologise.
yang jungwon.
of course.
he blinks at you, before smiling softly. "are you okay?" screw jungwon and his ability to drop any anger you had toward him with his cute face.
"yeah." you nod, straightening your posture. "are you alright..?"
jungwon lets an amused breath out, "i'm fine." he says, "you're the one who just tried to tackle me in the hallway."
"i did not try to tackle you. i just wasn't looking." you shoot back. you immediately take back what you said because you forgot how annoying he can be at the same time, with said same cute smile.
"mhm." he says, "sure."
you narrow your eyes, "i have no reason to want to do that to you, jungwon, but you're going to give me one."
jungwon's smile widens, clearly entertained by his ragebait somehow working. "so," he says casually, "where were you going in such a hurry?"
you hesitate, "..nowhere."
jungwon raises an eyebrow, which activates some sort of irritation in you.
"jungwon," you hiss, whispering now. "why does the entire office now about the heeseung thing? it's barely been three weeks."
he doesn't even look surprised at your words, like he was expecting you to come and confront him. "what, specifically, are you referring to?"
you stare at him. "don't play dumb with me."
"i'm not," he raises his hands in surrender like he's offering some sort of peace treaty. "i just need clarification."
"the bet, jungwon."
"ah." jungwon nods slowly, a guilty smile creeping back onto his face. "that.."
"yes, that."
he tilts his head, a small pout making it's way onto his face now. he steps to the side as another co-worker walks past the two of you. "it was an accident, i swear!" jungwon insists, clasping his hands together in forgiveness.
"jungwon, how many people know?" you ask, folding your arms together.
he looks at you, hands dropping to his side. "i only told like.." he pauses, bringing up his hands as he counts on his fingers, "jay, jake, ni-ki.." you expect him to stop there as he goes silent for a second, but no - he continues. "..sunoo, oh! and sunghoon."
"that's not a 'few' people."
jungwon tilts his head in confusion, "it's only five people."
"yeah, five people too many." you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "and why the hell is ni-ki in your distribution list?"
oh, and the fact that jake basically already knew the answer and still decided to harass you about it. at least sunoo had the decency not to question anything.
he shrugs, "we sit together at lunch. why not?" then he adds on, "also, they all figured it out anyway."
"because you won't shut your big mouth. and that's not even the point here." you say, snapping your head up.
"what is the point, then?" he asks.
"that it was meant to be private, jungwon." you say slowly.
jungwon's expression softens, but you can still tell he's confused.
"it was private," he says, "for a bit."
"so," you slowly ask, "how long did it take for you to start blabbing to everybody?"
"i did not blab." jungwon scoffs, correcting you. "but realistically, like the same monday i gave you the fifty."
your jaw drops at his answer, but you're honestly surprised it took jake this long to come and ask you about it. "it didn't even last a day. you just started broadcasting it like it was some company newsletter? seriously?"
he gives you a sheepish look, then starts adding more as if adding clarification will save him. "i didn't broadcast it. it just came up."
"in five separate conversations? i haven't even seen all five of them today. did you actively look for each of them or..?"
"..yes, in five separate conversations." he admits quietly.
"jungwon, what if they tell everybody?" you say seriously, lowering your voice. "i'm gonna get fired."
he pauses, his eyebrows lift like he hasn't even considered that possibility. "..fired?" he repeats.
you nod immediately, "yes, fired. like, HR coming down with security escorts."
you're half joking but jungwon doesn't seem to tell, jaw dropping. the colour drains from his face, "oh." then his shoulders drop, and the guilty realization hits him in full. "i didn't realise.." his hands lift a little, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. "i didn't think it would go that far.."
you blink, not even an ounce of guilt filling your body. "..jungwon."
he shakes his head quickly. "no, no. this is on me."
"i shouldn't have told anyone," he says, voice lower than before. "i thought it was harmless. you know, office gossip harmless. not something that would put you in trouble."
you stay quiet for a second, watching him spiral. it was a little amusing, especially after all he put you through.
"if this causes issues for you," he adds quickly, "i'll fix it. i'll tell them to stop. i'll, i don't know - undo it."
you're about to cut him off, but he keeps going. "i won't let you get fired-"
"who's getting fired?"
a voice cuts in from behind you, making you freeze. you already know who it belongs to before you even turn around. you turn slightly at first, your stomach immediately dropping when you see heeseung's eyes scanning over you and jungwon.
why was it always heeseung who happened to be the one eavesdropping on you and jungwon's conversations at the worst time?
"no one." you say, awkwardly shifting. this was the first time you had even run into him today. heeseung didn't call for you in the morning today like he usually did. no random excuse about reports, no unnecessary task delegation, no "come here for a second" that somehow always turned into longer conversations than they needed to be.
it annoyed you that you noticed these things.
jungwon clears his throat awkwardly, "it's nothing serious. we were just talking."
heeseung nods, humming. "about someone getting fired?" he glances over to you, then jungwon, then back to you. his gaze lingers for longer than neccessary.
silence settles awkwardly for a second, making you clear your throat, as an attempt to ease up the tension. "why are you even down here?" the second the question leaves your mouth, you regret saying it because of how accusatory it sounds, but heeseung doesn't react much. jungwon gives you look as if saying 'why the hell would you say that?'
"i was looking for jungwon." he states plainly, not even sparing jungwon a look.
jungwon's eyes widen, like he's in trouble or something. "me?"
"mhm. heeseung finally shifts his attention away from you., thank god. "i need the revised budget sheets before three."
there's another silence, making you look out the window as you avoid saying anything. outside, people move normally, cars pass by, the world continues, so interesting.
you would just leave, but the position you're in makes it kind of impossible because jungwon is standing to your left, and heeseung is directly in front of you, which blocks both potential exits.
"so," heeseung starts, "since the conversation wasn't anything important, i'm assuming the two of you can head back to work, right?"
jungwon nods his head, "yes, i'll go back now." and without another word or a single glance, he's gone, practically speed-walking down the hallway as if he actually has places to be.
traitor.
you stare after him for half a second in disbelief before slowly turning back toward heeseung, where you a force a small smile on your face.
you thought a relationship like this with him would bring the two of you closer, but you'd be lying if you said it didn't make it awkward between the two of you now.
"..so," you say, words coming out weakly. heeseung raises an eyebrow at you, and you regret even speaking because you had nothing else to say after 'so'. heeseung's gaze doesn't leave you once throughout all this, despite you shifting around so awkwardly that if you were him you definitely would've gotten the ick.
"..you seem stressed." he says flatly, but there's a feign of concern hidden there somewhere.
you didn't expect him to say something like that, catching you off guard. "..i'm not?" you say hesitantly, sounding completely unsure.
heeseung hums softly, unconvinced from the sound of it.
your eyes drift away from him, unable to hold proper eye contact, before returning back to his form. "were you actually looking for jungwon?" the question leaves your lips before you can properly think it through.
his lips curl into a faint smirk but he quickly wipes it off, realising what he's doing. "..partially, yes." his answer makes your stomach drop a little because that implies there was another reason. and judging by the way he's staring at you right now, you can assume what that reason probably was.
heeseung tilts his head, eyes still trained on you. he even looks you up and down with no shame, which would've made you go crazy literally only weeks ago, but you can't help but feel flustered.
"since you're already out here," he says smoothly, "you might as well walk with me."
your throat dries up instantly. "..to where?"
"my office," he answers simply, turning before you can even properly react. did he seriously want to do something with you in the middle of the work day, with everyone still present? that's crazy.
you only assume so because if heeseung actually had something he wanted you to do work-wise, he'd just tell you right here and now.
"..i can't." you reply quickly, making him turn his head back with a plain glance which feels scarier compared to if he actually just reacted.
"..you can't?"
you blink, straightening your posture. "i mean-" you stop talking, your brain blanking. because technically, yes, you can definitely go to his office. he's your boss.
you just don't trust yourself to be alone with him right now.
"yeah." you swallow, "i can go to your office." you fiddle with the ends of your skirt behind your back, "...am i in trouble?"
"that depends." heeseung says.
you raise an eyebrow, "on what?"
heeseung watches your expression, his own face blank. "on what you think you did, maybe." he replies calmly.
your eyebrows furrow in confusion, "..that's not an answer?"
heeseung steps back just, like the end of the conversation has already been decided. "then come and find out," he says, over his shoulder, before turning back and walking like he expects you to follow him.
and you do exactly that, unfortunately for your pride. your feet move on their own.
down the hallway, into the elevator, and past all of the cubicles in the office. when you reach his door, he opens it with one hand, stepping aside to let you walk past him into it first.
the door clicks shut behind him, and you stand awkwardly.
"why are you so shy today?" heeseung asks, looking at you. he's way closer than before.
"I'm not." you reply quietly.
"you've been avoiding me since the morning."
"i have not." you shake your head, eyes flicking up to him. "..you just didn't call for me."
"call for you?" heeseung scoffs, taking a step closer to you, which makes you instinctively step backwards - your back hitting the wall. he stops right in front of you, to the point that you have to tilt your head up slightly to look at him.
"so that's what this is." heeseung says, exhaling through his nose.
"what is?"
"do you think i only call for you when i need something?" heeseung asks, leaning in closer. you tense.
"..what?" you say, voice cracking. "no but-" you pause, turning your head. "you didn't even talk to me all weekend."
"i dropped you home." he says.
"yeah, i know-"
"and i kissed you goodbye."
he did that too. you didn't have short term memory loss, so why was he even bringing that up? your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you assume heeseung notices.
"did you think that meant nothing to me?" heeseung's hand reaches up, cupping your face gently, his thumb resting near your cheekbone.
you don't respond, so he calls out your name, making you look up at him. "what was that conversation about someone getting fired?"
"it was just a joke." you reassure.
heeseung hums but his eyes narrow.
"you're acting like i announced my resignation." you joke playfully, but he doesn't seem to find it funny. in fact, the look in his eyes almost makes your chest feel tighter than before.
"..were you planning to?" he asks calmly.
you falter, hesitating before answering. "..i don't want to get fired." your fingers twitch slightly at your sides at your admission.
his hand is still on your face, his thumb moving in small, slow circles. "why would you get fired?"
is he serious? you'd think that lee heeseung of all people would know exactly why you'd assume you'd be fired.
"because," you say carefully. "this isn't exactly a normal workplace situation."
"what situation?" he says, leaning way closer than before if that's even possible. "this one?"
and before you can even think, his lips are on yours, his hand making its way onto the back of your head, tangling into your hair. you kiss him back as he kisses you desperately. you swear you can hear a whine leave his lips as he does so.
he finally pulls away after a bit, giving the two of you a chance to breathe.
"..yeah, this one." you say, turning your head, panting. you avoid his stare, "i don't even what we are."
"do we need a label?" the expression on his face frustrates you, because he doesn't even seem to see what's wrong with this.
"..maybe?" you reply weakly, "most people usually know what they are. i don't want to be something on the low." you didn't want to admit it, but it was clawing at your chest, to be honest.
"..you know relationships between employees aren't against the company policy, right?" he asks calmly.
you look back up, caught off guard by the sudden change in attitude. "what?"
"as long as it's disclosed properly and doesn't interfere with work, HR doesn’t care." heeseung says, taking a step back as he walks back to round his desk. you watch in confusion as he opens one of his drawers.
"why do you think i called you here?" he asks, pulling out a thin folder before shutting the drawer again. he walks back to you, handing the folder over.
never in your life would you think that your boss, lee heeseung, would be handing you a folder that wasn't just assigning you more work to do. you look down at it, the folder reading 'employee relationship disclosure agreement.' did he seriously print this entire thing out for this?
"you have this on lock? really?" you ask, taking the folder from his hands.
"i'm in management," he replies, "i have access to the HR files."
you open the file, scanning the words. most of it is just formal gibberish regarding things about professionalism and acknowledging that neither party will allow the relationship to interfere with the workplace.
your eyes stop at one line. 'both employees acknowledge the relationship is consensual.'
he calls your name, making you focus your attention back to him. he avoids your gaze at first, but then exhales through his nose softly, locking eye contact with you.
"i want to be your boyfriend." heeseung admits, face heating up. "you're someone i can't stop thinking about and to be honest," he hesitates for a second, but continues, "it's been a problem even before that friday we first had sex."
somehow, hearing him say that feels way more intimate than anything the two of you have done together so far. your features shift, lips curling into a grin. "really?" you stare at him for longer, really trying to engrave this persona of heeseung. it's kind of funny that your boss that's always composed 24/7 looks genuinely uncomfortable admitting this out loud.
he nods, adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he gulps. "really."
there's a deep urge in you that wants you to take advantage of this and tease him, but he looks so nervous, you almost feel bad. "..where's the pen?" you ask, which makes his eyebrows furrow.
"..the pen?" he
"yeah," you say, tilting your head coyly. "to sign the thing."
"..oh." he nods, clearing his throat. heeseung suddenly looks less composed than before. "right." he pulls a pen out of the pocket in his slacks. he just carries that around? well, you suppose it's because he constantly has to sign things so they can get approved.
heeseung holds out the pen toward you, and you take it. turning toward the wall, you lean up, pressing the back of the file against it to use for support, laying it flat as you sign easily with no hesitance.
"you aren't even going to read it?" you hand him back the file, pressing it against his chest, which he takes quickly.
"i already did." you say, unable to hold back the smile forming onto your face. heeseung looks at you, then down at the file in his hands, a small smile on his face now too.
he comes closer, "i didn't ask you properly before, so let me do it right." your smile falters in confusion, but you keep listening to him as he talks. "i like you, and not as my employee - though you are great at that too."
he swallows, like he can't believe that he's even admitting this out loud. "i don't want this to be confusing anymore, so i'm just going to ask properly. will you be my girlfriend?"
there's literally no hesitation in you. "yeah." you say simply, then clear your throat, slightly embarrassed at your own boldness and how fast your words came out. "of course i will."
heeseung smiles at your words. he pulls you into an embrace, one hand settling at the back of your head as he gently combs his fingers through your hair. he exhales softly next to your ear, as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. "thank god, because i don't think i would've survived you saying no."
all your hard work finally paid off. you had been waiting for a moment like this since you first walked through the doors in this building. your hands slowly come up to rest against his dress shirt, gripping it lightly to pull him closer.
"you really thought i would've said no even after all the time i've worked under you?" you mumble.
heeseung pulls back a little, hesitating before answering. "well, no-"
"yeah, that's what i thought." you say quickly, coming across as a little smug. heeseung lets out an amused laugh.
"also," you continue, "can we lowkey keep this private? i don't want to give jake and the others the satisfaction of knowing."
"so what, i'm just a secret now?" heeseung teases, tone light.
you shake your head immediately, "no, not like that. they're just way too nosy, and it pisses me off."
heeseung raises an eyebrow, completely confused with what you're even referring to but you just assume it's because they're all harrassing you because they would never ask him about it. but he nods once, "okay." he agrees simply, tone uncaring.
your eyebrows lift, "really? sweet, okay."
"really." heeseung repeats, making you smile. "can i ask why though?"
"..it's a long story."
im sorry if there was any inconsistencies bc i didnt proofread the whole thing..
masterlist key :: (s) smut; (a) angst; (f) fluff; (i) imagines; (smau) social media au; (h/c) hurt comfort. all stories are one-shots or drabbles unless otherwise noted.
any post marked with (s) is strictly MDNI.
l.hs
⟶ the love exchange (s, a, f, long au)
⟶ studio sessions (s)
⟶ some guy named evan (smau series)
⟶ beyond the lights (a & h/c)
⟶ what we should have said (a)
⟶ some assembly required (f)
⟶ professional misconduct (s)
⟶ tenderly yours (s & f)
y.jw
⟶ on the edge (s)
p.js
⟶ 3:15 a.m. (i & f)
s.jy
⟶ the fifth floor theory part 1 (s, a, f, long au)
❝ I once believed love would be black and white But it's golden ❞
°❀࿔ PAIRINGS. (이희승) x 𝒻 !reader
°❀࿔ SUMMARY. You came to Castillo Creek, Texas with a suitcase and a job offer you took because it was the furthest thing away from everything you knew. You didn’t come for the man who owns Sunrise Ranch and has the gorgeous smile. You didn’t come for his gap-toothed, too-perceptive young boy. But Castillo Creek has a way of giving you what you need before you know you need it. And some people, it turns out, are worth staying for.
°❀࿔ WARNINGS. angst with resolution, mild angst, brief mention of a broken engagement, past relationship, brief emotional manipulation from an ex, themes of running from your past, slow burn tension, explicit sexual content (+18 minors dni), penetrative sex, kissing, soft domestic content, found family themes, mentions of abandonment, fluff to the max
°❀࿔ WORD COUNT. 29.6k
°❀࿔ LACEYS NOTE. this has been brewing in my drafts for at least a week and i finally bothered to finish it. took me so long bc of the news about heesueng but i wish him well on his solo journey and will still support him! ENHAOT7! anyway, i hope this fic heals something within you all and the domestic bliss of it makes me so happy and giddy. comments, feedback, reblogs and likes keep me writing, feel free to send ask too! enjoy honies!
The bus drops you at the edge of nowhere.
That’s not entirely fair — the sign reads Castillo Creek, Pop. 412 in sun-bleached letters, and there is, technically, a street. One of them. It runs maybe four blocks before it gives up and dissolves into dust and open sky, flanked on either side by a hardware store, a diner with a hand-painted sign, a church with a crooked steeple, and a general store with a rocking chair out front that currently holds an old man who has not looked up from his newspaper since the bus wheezed to a stop.
You step down onto the road and the heat hits you like a physical thing.
Chicago in September is crisp. Leaves turning, wind off the lake, the smell of the city sharpening into something almost bearable. You have lived your whole life in that particular kind of autumn and you are standing here now in what should by all rights be the tail end of summer and the ground is baking. The sky is enormous. There are no buildings tall enough to interrupt it, nothing to cut the blue into manageable pieces, and for a moment you just stand there with your suitcase at your feet and your hat in your hand and feel very, very small.
“You the new schoolteacher?” You turn. A young man — can’t be more than nineteen — is leaning against the side of the bus stop with his arms crossed and his dark hair falling into his eyes. He’s got a look on his face that isn’t quite a smile but is clearly thinking about becoming one.
“That obvious?” you say.
“You’ve got a suitcase and a look on your face like you’re trying to figure out if you made a terrible mistake.” He pushes off the wall and picks up your larger bag before you can protest. “Riki. I work out at Sunrise Ranch but I’m in town most days. Mr. Lee sent me to check if you’d arrived.”
You blink. “Someone was expecting me?”
“Mrs. Calloway at the boarding house would’ve had your room ready since Tuesday,” he says, already walking. “Small town. News travels.”
You pick up your smaller case and follow him. Mrs. Calloway. The name lands somewhere behind your sternum and sits there, inert. Just a name. A common enough name. You are done flinching at common names. “I’m Y/N,” you say.
“I know,” Riki says, not unkindly. “Everyone does.”
—
Main Street — the only street, really, though two dirt roads branch off it like afterthoughts — is quiet in the way that feels inhabited rather than empty. A woman sweeps her front step and nods at you. Two men outside the hardware store pause their conversation to watch you pass with open, unapologetic curiosity. A little girl with two braids chases a dog around the side of the church and neither of them pays you any attention at all, which you find oddly comforting.
The diner is called Park’s and it has a specials board in the window that reads Tuesday: Peach Pie in chalk letters, and through the glass you can see red vinyl booths and a long counter with spinning stools and a man behind it who catches your eye through the window and raises a coffee pot in greeting like he’s been expecting you too. “That’s Jay,” Riki says, following your gaze. “He’ll want to talk your ear off. I’d give yourself a day before you go in or you’ll never get unpacked.”
“Is everyone here this—” you search for the word.
“Friendly?” Riki offers.
“I was going to say informed.”
He considers this. “Yeah,” he says. “Both.”
The boarding house sits at the end of the main street where the road widens slightly, a two-storey white clapboard building with a porch and a wind chime and flower boxes in the windows. It is, you think, the most aggressively quaint thing you have ever seen in your life. You grew up in an apartment on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like other people’s cooking and city rain and you are trying very hard not to let your face say anything impolite about wind chimes.
Mrs. Della, the landlady — not a Calloway, you exhale quietly — is a broad warm woman in her sixties with silver hair and flour on her apron who opens the door before you knock and says “There she is” like you’re something she ordered and is pleased to find arrived undamaged. “Come in, come in, you must be half dead from that bus.” She takes your smaller case clean out of your hand. “Riki, you staying for supper?”
“Can’t,” he says, setting your larger bag inside the door. He looks at you briefly, something almost like reassurance in it. “You’ll be alright here,” he says, which is a strange thing to say and which you believe immediately, and then he’s back down the porch steps and heading up the road with his hands in his pockets.
“Good boy,” Mrs. Della says, watching him go. “Lee Heeseung took him in two years back, gives him work and a roof. That man would give you the shirt off his back.” She says it the way people say things that are simply true, established fact, no elaboration required, and ushers you inside before you can ask who Lee Heeseung is.
Your room is small and clean and has a window that looks out over the back garden and a field beyond it and then nothing but flat land and sky all the way to the horizon. The bed has a quilt on it in yellow and white. There is a writing desk and a lamp and a hook on the back of the door.
You sit on the edge of the bed and let the quiet settle around you. In Chicago there is always noise — traffic and neighbours and the radiator banging in winter and the el train every twelve minutes rattling the windows. You have slept to that noise your whole life. This quiet is a different texture entirely. Crickets, somewhere. Wind moving through something dry. The distant low sound of what might be cattle.
You think about the apartment you gave up. The life you gave up — or that was given up on — and the way the story circulated, the whispers at the school where you’d taught for three years, the way your mother had said maybe if you’d been less difficult, Y/N, as though your own broken engagement was a character flaw you’d displayed in public. You’d applied for twenty-seven jobs in towns you’d never heard of. Castillo Creek, Texas was the one that wrote back.
You lie back on the yellow quilt and look at the ceiling and think: New soil. See what grows.
In the morning Mrs. Della makes you eggs and biscuits and coffee so strong it makes your eyes water and tells you that the schoolhouse is two blocks north, that school starts Monday which gives you four days to settle, that the previous teacher Miss Hargrove retired to be closer to her sister in San Antonio and left her lesson plans in the desk drawer, and that if you need anything at all you are to ask and not to be proud about it. “We don’t stand on ceremony here,” she says, refilling your cup. “You’ll find people are plain. They say what they mean.”
“That’s refreshing,” you say, and mean it more than she knows.
“You’ll fit in fine,” she says, in the same tone Riki used last night, that same easy certainty, and you don’t know yet whether Castillo Creek is simply a town full of optimists or whether they can see something in you that you can’t currently see in yourself.
After breakfast you walk the street. Slowly, no destination, just learning the shape of the place. The hardware store is run by a man named Gus who shakes your hand and calls you ma’am and means it respectfully. The general store has everything from canned peaches to horse liniment arranged with cheerful illogic on its shelves. The church noticeboard has a harvest dance announced for the first week of October, hand-lettered on card. A tabby cat sleeps on the post office step and does not move when you step over it.
You end up at Park’s because you are not made of stone and the peach pie in the window has been watching you since yesterday. The bell above the door chimes when you push it open. The diner smells like coffee and something frying and woodsmoke and the particular warm smell of a place that has been feeding people for a long time. Three of the booths are occupied — two older men playing cards over the remains of breakfast, a young woman nursing a baby and reading a magazine, a teenager staring out the window like he’s being paid for it.
The man behind the counter looks up and grins like you’ve just won something. “There she is,” he says, which is apparently how everyone in this town greets you. He’s handsome in an easy, untroubled way — dark eyes, an apron over his shirt, the kind of smile that has probably never caused him a day’s trouble because it is entirely, disarmingly genuine. “Jay Park. Welcome to Castillo Creek, and more importantly, welcome to my diner. Sit anywhere. Coffee?”
“Please,” you say, sliding onto a counter stool. “Y/N.”
“I know.” He’s already pouring. “The whole town knows. Don’t let that spook you — it’s not menacing, we’re just starved for news.” He sets the cup in front of you. “You surviving Mrs. Della’s biscuits?”
“They’re extraordinary.”
“Don’t tell her I said this but mine are better.” He leans on the counter. “How are you finding it so far?”
“I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours.”
“First impressions.”
You wrap your hands around the coffee cup. Outside the window the main street sits quiet in the morning sun, dust turning gold where the light hits it, a man on horseback moving slow at the far end of the road, hat low against the glare. “It’s very quiet,” you say.
“City girl.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“The accent gives you away a little,” he says, not unkindly. “Chicago?”
“Born and raised.”
He nods like this explains something. “You’ll either love it here or you’ll be back on the bus in a month. There’s not usually an in-between.” He tilts his head, studying you with the frank, comfortable curiosity of a man who talks to everyone and has learned to read them quickly. “My money’s on love it.”
“Why?”
“You ordered coffee before you ordered pie,” he says. “Practical. And you’re still here instead of back at the boarding house wondering what you’ve done. Means you’re the kind of person who walks toward things.”
You look at him for a moment. “You do this with everyone?”
“Do what?”
“Make them feel like you’ve known them for years.”
Jay grins, unabashed. “Only the interesting ones.” He reaches under the counter and produces a plate with a slice of peach pie on it, sets it in front of you without asking. “On the house. Welcome to town.”
You eat the pie. It is, genuinely, one of the best things you’ve ever tasted, which you tell him, and he looks so pleased about it that you find yourself smiling for what feels like the first time in a long time — the real kind, not the composed kind you’ve been wearing since spring.
You are still there an hour later when the bell above the door chimes and a man walks in. You notice the hat first. Worn tan leather, shaped by years and weather, pushed back just enough to see his face.
Then the face — and it is, unfairly, a lot of face: dark eyes, jaw that belongs in a painting, and a smile that appears when he spots Jay like the sun deciding to come out from behind something. He is tall and lean in the way of men who work with their bodies, wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled and boots with actual dust on them, and he moves through the diner like a man who is completely comfortable taking up space, not arrogantly, just — naturally. Like the room fits him.
Half the diner looks up when he walks in. You notice this and then notice that he doesn’t seem to notice it. “Heeseung,” Jay says. “You’re late.”
“Riki let one of the mares out this morning,” the man says, dropping onto the stool two down from you. “Had to get her back in before she ate the garden.” His voice has the particular warm drawl of a man who has lived in Texas his whole life, the vowels long and unhurried. He glances over — and for just a moment, before the smile arrives, you see him register you. A quick, frank, unguarded look. Then the smile.
It is, you think distantly, a remarkably good smile. “You must be the new schoolteacher,” he says.
“So I’ve been told,” you say.
He huffs a quiet laugh and extends a hand across the empty stool between you. “Lee Heeseung. I run Sunrise Ranch, out east of town.” A pause, then, easy as breathing: “Welcome to Castillo Creek, darlin’.”
The darlin’ lands warmly, casually, the way he probably says it to everyone. You shake his hand. His grip is firm and his palm is calloused and he lets go at exactly the right moment. “Y/N,” you say.
“Pretty name,” he says, and turns back to Jay to ask about the lunch special, and that is that.
You finish your pie. You say goodbye to Jay, who tells you to come back tomorrow, and nod to Heeseung, who tips his hat slightly without looking up from his coffee, and you push out into the dry Texas morning with the bell chiming behind you and the sky enormous overhead. You think: new soil.
You walk back toward the boarding house and do not think about the smile. (You try.)
—
The schoolhouse is a single rectangular building painted white, sitting back from the road behind a low wooden fence with a gate that sticks. There is a bell above the door on a rope, a covered porch with two steps, and six windows along each side that let in long rectangles of morning light. Inside: four rows of desks, a blackboard, a bookshelf with a sadly depleted top shelf, a globe with a crack running through the Pacific, a teacher’s desk at the front with a chair that wobbles on its left leg, and the lesson plans Miss Hargrove left in the drawer, written in such small precise handwriting that you have to hold them close to the lamp to read them.
You spend the weekend getting acquainted with it. You rearrange the desks slightly — four rows feels regimented for fourteen children ranging from five to eleven — into a looser configuration that won’t make the little ones feel like they’re waiting to be sentenced. You find chalk in the wrong drawer and a box of coloured pencils in the right one. You fix the gate with a piece of wire you find coiled on the porch. You read Miss Hargrove’s lesson plans and her notes on each child, written in the margins in that same small hand: Clara D. — very bright, reads above her level. Tommy H. — struggles with numbers but never says so. Eli L. — clever, restless, tests limits. Handle firmly but don’t let him know you’re doing it.
You read that last one twice. Eli L.
You’d heard the name once already, briefly, the way you hear a lot of names in a town like this — someone mentioning someone else in passing, the social web of a small place where everyone is connected to everyone by approximately two degrees. Riki worked at Sunrise Ranch. Sunrise Ranch belonged to Lee Heeseung. Lee Heeseung had a son. Clever, restless, tests limits.
You put the lesson plans back in the drawer, look at the rearranged desks.
Monday morning arrives with the particular clarity of a sky that has not clouded in weeks. You are at the schoolhouse by seven-thirty. You write your name on the board — Miss Y/N — and you stand at the front and look at the empty desks and do something you haven’t let yourself do since you stepped off that bus: you feel, briefly and privately, afraid. Not of the children, not of the job — you have been a teacher for three years and you are good at it, this you know — but of the starting over. Of the standing in a room and introducing yourself to people who don’t know you yet and hoping that this time, in this place, what they learn about you is something you’ve chosen.
You take a breath. You put your composed face on. You go stand on the porch to watch them arrive.
They come in ones and twos, mostly walked by mothers who linger at the gate with polite curiosity to get a look at you, a few by fathers, one or two on their own who are clearly old enough to have decided they don’t need walking. The little ones are solemn and wide-eyed. The older ones are watchful. They file onto the porch and past you with varying degrees of shyness, and you smile at each of them and say good morning, and most of them say it back.
The boy who doesn’t say it back arrives at eight on the dot, alone. He is small for seven — wiry and dark-haired with his father’s eyes and a gap where one of his front teeth used to be — and he walks through the gate with his lunch pail swinging and his chin up with the specific energy of a child who has decided in advance that he is not going to be impressed. He stops at the foot of the porch steps and looks up at you.
You look down at him. “Good morning,” you say.
He considers you. His gaze is frank and assessing in a way that reminds you immediately, disconcertingly, of his father. “You talk funny,” he says.
Behind him, two of the other children go very still in that particular way children do when someone has said the thing everyone was thinking. “I do,” you agree pleasantly. “Good morning.”
He blinks — he was expecting something else, you can tell — and then, almost against his will: “Morning.” He goes inside. You allow yourself precisely one second of satisfaction and then follow him in.
Their names, as you learn them through the morning: Clara, Tommy, Ruth, Beau, Ida, Jesse, Mae, Henry, Grace, Daniel, Lottie, Patrick, Susie, and Eli. Fourteen children, five to eleven, in one room with one teacher, which is simply the way of it in a town this size and which you knew going in and which presents itself as exactly the specific beautiful chaos you anticipated.
The little ones need different work from the older ones, the older ones need to be trusted enough not to resent the time you spend with the younger, and the whole arrangement requires a kind of orchestrated independence that takes most new teachers a month to establish.
You have it running by lunch. This is not arrogance. It is three years of practice and the lesson plans of Miss Hargrove, who clearly knew what she was doing, and the children themselves, who are — beneath the shyness and the staring — genuinely good. Clara reads to the two youngest while you work arithmetic with the middle group. Tommy, who struggles with numbers and has clearly been told by someone who loves him to hide it, relaxes visibly when you kneel beside his desk and show him the same problem three different ways without making it a thing. Grace, who is eleven and takes her seniority seriously, helps you hand out the coloured pencils for the afternoon drawing exercise with the gravity of someone performing a civic duty.
Eli sits in the second row and does exactly enough work to be technically compliant and spends the rest of the time studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s deciding whether to bother solving. He is not disruptive. He does not cause trouble, exactly. He just — watches. And occasionally says something, not quite under his breath, that makes the children near him stifle laughter, and when you look at him he is already looking at the ceiling or his pencil or the middle distance, expression perfectly innocent.
At half past two he raises his hand for the first time. You are, cautiously, relieved. “Yes, Eli?”
“How come you don’t say cahn’t like us?” he says. “You say can’t like it’s short.” The room goes quiet with interest.
“Because I grew up in Chicago,” you say. “People talk differently there.”
“Why?”
“That’s a good question. Different places develop different ways of speaking over time depending on who settled there and where they came from originally. It’s called a dialect.”
He turns this over. “So you’re not talking wrong, you’re just talking different.”
“That’s exactly right.”
He seems to file this away somewhere. He looks at his desk, then back up at you. “My dad says Chicago’s real big.”
“It is.”
“Did you like it?”
There is nothing loaded in the question — he is seven, he is simply curious — but the room is listening and you have a composed face for exactly this and you use it. “I did,” you say. “But I like it here too. Different things to like.” You hold his gaze for just a moment. “Good question, Eli.” He ducks his head in a way that might, if you’re reading it right, be pleased.
You let them out at three o’clock. They pour off the porch like water and scatter in every direction — some toward the main street, some down the side road, a few collected by waiting parents at the gate. You stand on the porch and watch them go with the pleasant exhausted satisfaction of a good first day, the kind where you know the shape of things now even if the details are still forming.
The last child through the gate is Eli, lunch pail swinging again, cap pushed back on his head. He pauses at the gate and turns back. “Miss?” he calls.
“Yes?”
He looks at you for a moment, that assessing look. Then: “You fixed the gate.”
“It was sticking,” you say. He nods, apparently satisfied with this. And then he’s gone, off down the road at a trot, and you lean against the porch post and look at the empty yard and the long afternoon light making everything gold and think that clever, restless, tests limits is right but that the note should have also said watching everything, deciding what to do with it.
Jay brings you pie. Not in the diner — he appears at the boarding house at half past five with a covered plate and the energy of a man who has been wanting to ask you about your day since approximately eight that morning. Mrs. Della lets him in with the equanimity of someone accustomed to Jay Park appearing with baked goods and sets an extra cup on the table. “Well?” he says, sitting down across from you with the plate between you, which you note he has not uncovered, clearly operating on the pie as leverage.
“Well,” you say.
“First day.” He tilts his head. “Good? Bad? You still here, which is promising.”
“Good,” you say honestly. “They’re good kids.”
“They are.” He uncovers the plate — cherry, this time. “Any trouble?”
You think of dark eyes and a gap-toothed grin and you talk funny. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Jay smiles, something knowing in it. “Eli Lee give you a hard time?”
“He was perfectly behaved.”
“That’s almost worse, honestly.” He leans back in his chair. “He’s a good kid. He just — tests people. Wants to know if you’re going to stay.” He says it lightly but you hear something underneath it, something careful. “His last teacher, Miss Hargrove, he adored her by the end. Took him a month.”
“I’ve got time,” you say.
Jay looks at you the way he did that first morning at the counter, that frank easy assessment. “You know Heeseung came into the diner after you left Friday,” he says, with the absolute casualness of a man deploying information he has been sitting on for days.
You cut into the pie. “Did he.”
“Asked how you seemed. Whether you looked settled.” Jay’s expression is the picture of innocence. “Just being neighbourly.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Mm.” Jay drinks his coffee. “He doesn’t usually ask.”
You eat your cherry pie and look at Jay Park over your fork and decide that you like him enormously and that he is also going to be an absolute menace and that these two things are entirely compatible. “Thank you for the pie,” you say.
Jay grins. “Anytime, darlin’.”
The word lands differently in his mouth — friendly, careless, the way you’d expect. The way it probably sounds from everyone. You eat your pie and don’t think about the way it sounded Friday morning on a counter stool two seats down from you, unhurried and warm, like the man saying it had all the time in the world.
Wednesday afternoon you are erasing the board after the children have gone when you hear the gate. You turn, chalk dust on your hands, and Heeseung Lee is coming through it.
He has his hat in his hand this time — held at his side, the gesture you will come to learn is his version of courtesy, the small deliberate thing he does when he’s on someone else’s ground. He is in his work clothes, boots dusty, shirt with the sleeves rolled like the first time you saw him, and he is looking at the schoolhouse with a particular quiet expression that you can’t read yet. “Mr. Lee,” you say from the porch.
He looks up. “Miss Y/N.” The smile comes easy and unhurried, the same one from the diner, and you are annoyed to find that it works just as well the second time. “Hope I’m not disturbing.”
“Not at all.” You dust the chalk from your hands on your apron. “Is something wrong?”
“No, ma’am.” He reaches the foot of the steps and stops there, which you note — he doesn’t come up onto the porch uninvited, just stands at the bottom with his hat in his hand. “Eli mentioned you fixed the gate.”
You blink. “It was sticking.”
“I know. I kept meaning to get to it.” He looks at the gate briefly and back at you. “Just wanted to thank you. And to say — he told me about the dialect conversation.”
“Oh?”
“He came home and used the word dialect four times at supper.” Something warm moves through his expression. “He hasn’t stopped asking questions about Chicago.”
You lean against the porch post. “He’s very bright.”
“I know,” Heeseung says, quietly, the way parents say things about their children when they’re proud and trying not to make a production of it. “He can be a handful.”
“He’s been fine,” you say, and mean it. “He’s testing me. I don’t mind being tested.”
Heeseung looks at you for a moment — that same brief, unguarded register you caught in the diner, there and then gone. “Miss Hargrove said the same thing about him.” A pause. “She was right, and so are you.” He puts his hat back on, settling it with the ease of long habit. “I won’t keep you. Just — thank you. For the gate and for the patience.”
“It’s my job,” you say.
“The gate wasn’t,” he says simply, and tips his hat, and walks back through it — and you notice, as he goes, that he lifts the handle the right way so it doesn’t stick on him. He knew how it worked. He just hadn’t gotten to it.
You stand on the porch for a moment after he’s gone, chalk dust still on your apron, the afternoon light going gold and long across the schoolyard. Alright, you think. But it’s a different alright than the one on the bus.
—
You learn the rhythms of Castillo Creek the way you learn anything new — by paying attention. Monday through Friday the main street wakes slowly, the diner first, Jay’s lights on before six and the smell of coffee reaching the boarding house if the wind is right. The general store opens at seven, the hardware store at eight. The church bell rings at nine for no reason anyone can explain except that it always has.
Afternoons are quiet in the way that heat makes things quiet, everyone retreating into shade, and then around four the street comes back to life — horses at the post, trucks pulling in, the sound of voices carrying in the dry air. Evenings on the boarding house porch: crickets, the occasional distant sound of music from the diner where Jay sometimes puts a record on after hours, the sky going colours you don’t have names for yet.
Weekends the ranch hands come into town. This is when you first understand that Sunrise Ranch is not a small operation. Saturday morning and there are three trucks parked outside the general store and Jay’s counter is full and the voices are different — louder, easier, the particular looseness of men at the end of a working week. You are becoming a recognisable figure on the main street now, two weeks in, and people nod or wave or say morning, Miss Y/N with the comfortable familiarity of a town that has decided you belong, or is at least willing to extend the provisional assumption.
Riki finds you at the general store on the second Saturday, reaching for a tin on a high shelf. “Here,” he says, getting it down for you without ceremony.
“Thank you.” You put it in your basket. “How’s the mare?”
He blinks, then remembers. “Back in her paddock. She does it once a month like clockwork.” He falls into step beside you toward the counter, hands in his pockets. “How’s Eli?”
“Getting there,” you say.
Riki’s mouth twitches. “He told me you knew what a dialect was.”
“He told his father the same thing four times at supper, apparently.”
“Five times,” Riki says. “I was there. Mr. Lee made him use it in a sentence correctly before he could have dessert.” Something soft moves through his expression — fond and private, the look of someone describing a home. “He does that. Makes it a game so Eli doesn’t know he’s being taught.”
You look at him. “You live at the ranch?”
“Have done for two years.” He picks up a paper bag of something from the counter and adds it to your basket without asking, then pays for it along with his own things before you can protest. “Mr. Lee offered me the room off the stable when I first got here. Said I could work it off.” A pause. “I haven’t worked it off yet. I don’t think he’s keeping count.”
You think of the gate. Of a man standing at the foot of porch steps with his hat in his hand, not coming up unless invited. “He seems like a good man,” you say, carefully.
Riki looks at you with the frank, uncomplicated assessment of a nineteen-year-old who has not yet learned to be oblique. “He’s the best man I know,” he says simply. And then the door opens and two of the other ranch hands come in and Riki’s face shifts back into something easier and the conversation moves on, but you carry that best man I know out of the store with you and into the bright Saturday morning and find that you believe it without quite knowing why.
The invitation comes through Eli. It is a Thursday, three weeks into term, and Eli has — incrementally, perceptibly, in the way of a child who makes decisions slowly and then commits to them entirely — decided that you are acceptable. This has manifested in: asking you approximately forty questions about Chicago over the course of various lunchtimes, showing you a drawing he did of his horse with the air of someone bestowing an honour, correcting Tommy’s arithmetic before you can get there and then looking at you to see if you’ll mind, and most recently appointing himself the unofficial distributor of coloured pencils, a role Grace has had to be diplomatically persuaded to share.
On Thursday he stays behind after the others have gone.
You are at your desk reviewing the week’s work when you become aware that he is still in his seat, lunch pail on the desk in front of him, regarding you with his father’s eyes and an expression of elaborate casualness. “Yes, Eli?” you say, without looking up.
A pause. “My dad says you should come see the ranch.”
You look up. He is studying his lunch pail. “He said if you wanted. He said don’t make it a thing.” He glances up at you briefly. “I’m supposed to say it like it’s my idea.”
You press your lips together very firmly. “Whose idea was it?”
Eli considers the ethics of this for a moment. “Both,” he decides. “I said you’d like the horses and he said he’d been meaning to ask.” He picks up his lunch pail. “Saturday morning. Riki said he’d make sure the good horses are out.”
You look at this seven-year-old boy with his gap-toothed earnestness and his father’s dark eyes and the absolute transparency of a child who is not yet old enough to be a convincing liar and feel something in your chest do something inconvenient. “Saturday morning,” you say.
Eli nods, satisfied, and slides off his chair. At the door he pauses. “Miss?”
“Yes?”
“Dad said wear boots if you have them.” A beat. “Do you have boots?”
“I’ll manage,” you say. He looks doubtful but lets it go.
You do not have boots.
Mrs. Della solves this problem on Friday evening by producing a pair from somewhere in the back of a wardrobe that fit you well enough and have clearly belonged to several people before you, worn in and comfortable in the way of things that have been used properly. She does not make a fuss about it. She sets them by your door and says “for your visit to the ranch” with the serenity of a woman who knew this was coming before you did, which you are beginning to understand is simply Mrs. Della’s relationship with information.
Saturday morning is cooler than usual, a thin cloud cover cutting the worst of the heat, and you walk the road east of town with Mrs. Della’s boots on your feet and the particular feeling of a person going somewhere they haven’t decided how to feel about yet.
Sunrise Ranch announces itself before you reach it. The land opens up, the scrub giving way to fenced pasture, horses moving slow in the morning light — four, five, you count seven in the near paddock — and then the gate with Sunrise in iron letters across the top, and beyond it a long low ranch house in weathered timber, a stable block, a water tower, a barn with its doors open, and the general cheerful disorder of a working property.
Eli appears from nowhere, running. “You came,” he says, like this was uncertain, and then immediately: “You have boots.” He looks at them. “They’re okay.”
“Thank you,” you say gravely.
“Come see Maple.” He is already walking, assuming you’ll follow, which you do. “Maple’s mine. Dad got her for me last year. She’s brown.” He says this last detail with enormous authority, as though colour is the primary criterion for horse quality.
“Is she,” you say.
“She’s the best one.” He pushes open the stable door. “Don’t tell Riki’s horse.”
The stable smells of hay and horses and something warm and animal that is not unpleasant, and the light comes through the high windows in long dusty bars, and Maple is indeed brown and does indeed regard you with the large patient eyes of a creature who has learned that humans are mostly harmless if you wait them out. Eli shows her off with the proprietorial pride of a small boy who has been trusted with something real, and you let him lead you through every detail — her feeding schedule, her preferred brushing side, the way she does something with her ears when she’s happy — and listen properly, because he is telling you something important about himself by telling you about the horse. “She’s beautiful,” you say, and mean it.
Eli glows. “Yeah,” he agrees. He strokes her nose. “Dad taught me to ride on her. Well — on her and Scout. Scout’s too big for me yet but I can get on him if someone helps.”
“Who’s Scout?”
“Mine,” says a voice behind you. You turn. Heeseung is in the stable doorway, hat on, a coffee cup in one hand, backlit by the morning in a way that is doing no one any favours. He looks at you with that easy unhurried expression and then at Eli. “You showing her around properly?”
“I was getting to the rest,” Eli says, with dignity.
“Sure you were.” Heeseung’s gaze moves back to you. “Morning. Glad you came.” He says it simply, no particular weight on it, and holds out the second coffee cup that you hadn’t noticed he was holding. “Mrs. Della said you take it black.”
You take the cup. “She told you that?”
“Jay told me. Mrs. Della told Jay.” He lifts a shoulder. “Small town.”
You drink the coffee. It is good — strong and dark and made by someone who takes it seriously. “Thank you.”
“Thank Eli,” he says. “It was mostly his idea.”
“He told me,” you say.
Heeseung looks at his son with an expression of fond resignation. “Did he.” Eli, sensing this conversation is edging toward accountability, has become very interested in Maple’s left ear.
He shows you the ranch himself, Eli orbiting ahead and behind like a satellite, Riki appearing occasionally from whatever task he’s been given and nodding at you with the quiet approval of someone whose opinion you hadn’t realised you were seeking.
Heeseung walks beside you with his coffee and talks about the land with the ease of a man who has known it his whole life — the pasture his father planted, the fence line he extended six years ago, the water table, the horses by name and temperament, the rhythm of the seasons out here where seasons are more about rain than temperature. He is not performing. That is the thing you notice, watching him from the corner of your eye as he points out the far ridge where the light hits different at sunset. He is simply telling you, the way people talk about things they love when they’re comfortable enough to let it show. “How long has your family been here?” you ask.
“Three generations,” he says. “My grandfather broke the land. My father ran it until—” a brief pause, easy enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention “—until I was ready to.” He looks out at the pasture. “I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
“I used to think that about Chicago,” you say, before you mean to.
He glances at you. “What changed?”
The morning light is warm on the fence rail where you’ve stopped. The horses move slow in the paddock. Eli is attempting to convince Riki to let him ride something he’s probably not supposed to, and Riki is maintaining a very patient no. “Things do,” you say. “Change.”
It is not an answer and you both know it. But Heeseung doesn’t push — just nods once, slow, and looks back out at the pasture, and the silence that follows is the comfortable kind. The kind you don’t feel obligated to fill.
“Scout,” he says, after a moment. You follow his gaze. A large grey horse has appeared at the paddock fence — appeared is the right word, horses move quietly for their size, you’re learning — and is regarding you with the same patient assessment as Maple, though with more authority behind it.
“He’s enormous,” you say.
“He’s a gentleman,” Heeseung says. “Come here.” You follow him to the fence. Scout watches you approach with ears forward. Heeseung holds out his hand and the horse drops his nose into it with the ease of long familiarity, a small exhale of breath like a greeting. “Give him your hand,” Heeseung says. “Palm up.”
You do. Scout sniffs your palm, his breath warm and grass-scented, and then shifts his nose slightly to nudge at your wrist, which makes you laugh — actually laugh, surprised out of it, the unguarded kind. Heeseung is watching you when you look up. He looks away just a moment too late, back to Scout, and settles his hand on the horse’s neck. “He likes you,” he says.
“Or he wants something.”
“Same thing, with horses.” The corner of his mouth lifts. He rubs Scout’s neck once and steps back from the fence. “You ride?”
“No.”
“You want to?”
You look at Scout. Scout looks at you. He is very large and very calm and the morning is soft and there is coffee going warm in your hand and no one in this field knows anything about you except that you fixed a gate and knew the word dialect and took your coffee black. “Yes,” you say.
He doesn’t put you on Scout — that comes later, he says, and something in the later is easy and assuming in a way that you notice and don’t examine — but on a smaller bay mare named Honey who is, in Eli’s expert opinion, basically a chair, she’s so calm, which Heeseung overrules diplomatically.
He helps you up with one hand steadying the stirrup and one hand briefly at your waist — functional, impersonal, the practiced efficiency of someone who has helped people onto horses many times — and then steps back and talks you through it. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip with your knees. Breathe.
You walk Honey around the paddock twice with Heeseung at her head and Eli on the fence calling encouragement that is mostly suggestions about how you’re holding the reins wrong. By the third pass Heeseung drops back and lets you go alone, and there is a specific feeling in that — in him deciding you’re ready, stepping back, watching from the fence with his arms resting on the top rail and his hat low — that you don’t have a name for but that sits somewhere behind your sternum and stays there. “You’re a natural,” he calls.
“She’s a chair,” you call back, and hear him laugh from across the paddock, a real one, the kind that alters the whole shape of his face.
Eli says “I said that” with great indignation.
You stay until noon. It isn’t planned. It is the accumulation of small things: Eli deciding you needed to see the barn cat’s new kittens, the kittens being an objectively compelling argument for staying, Riki appearing with a plate of something Mrs. Lee — Heeseung’s housekeeper, an iron-haired woman named Bea who has been with the ranch for twenty years — had left covered on the kitchen table. You all eat on the porch in the late morning sun, Eli wedged between you and Heeseung with a kitten in his lap that he has named Chicago with the satisfied look of someone cementing an inside joke.
It is — easy. Unreasonably easy for a woman who has spent two months being careful about everything.
Heeseung sits with his ankle crossed over his knee and doesn’t push any conversations and doesn’t fill silences that don’t need filling and listens when you talk in the particular way that makes you feel actually heard rather than waited out. Once, when Eli says something that makes you laugh, he catches it — the laugh — in that peripheral way, not staring, just noticing, and then looks deliberately at something else. You notice him noticing. You look at something else too.
He walks you back to the gate at noon. Eli has been redirected to afternoon chores with the selective enthusiasm of a child who has negotiated the terms. Riki raises a hand from the stable door. The horses stand easy in the afternoon quiet.
At the gate Heeseung stops and holds it open — it swings cleanly, well-oiled, this one — and tips his hat. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “Eli’s been talking about this since Thursday.”
“Only since Thursday?” you say.
He smiles. God, that smile. “Since Tuesday,” he admits. “I told him to wait.”
You step through the gate and turn. He’s on the other side of it, hat tipped forward, the morning light going warm gold over the ranch behind him. Scout visible in the paddock beyond, Maple beside him. “Thank you for the coffee,” you say. “And the riding lesson.”
“Anytime,” he says. And then, easy as breathing, the way he always does it, like it costs him nothing: “You’re welcome here, darlin’. Any time you want.”
You walk the road back to town with the borrowed boots and the feeling of a morning that opened up something you hadn’t known was closed. Behind you the gate swings shut, clean on its hinge. New soil, you think. See what grows.
—
October arrives like an exhale. The heat doesn’t break exactly — you’re learning it doesn’t really break here, not the way it does in Chicago where summer ends with a week of storms and then suddenly you need a coat — but it softens. The mornings are cooler now, the light coming in at a different angle, and the scrub on the edge of town goes colours you weren’t expecting: amber and rust and a dry pale gold that isn’t quite like anything you’ve seen before. Mrs. Della puts a second quilt on your bed. The church noticeboard updates the harvest dance announcement with a date: Saturday, October 12th. All welcome. Bring a dish.
You have been in Castillo Creek six weeks. You know, now, which floorboard in the schoolhouse creaks and how to avoid it during silent reading so you don’t startle the little ones. You know that Tommy is left-handed and was made to switch and that this is why his numbers come out backwards sometimes, and you have quietly, without making it a thing, begun letting him work with his left hand and watching his shoulders drop two inches with relief. You know that Clara will read anything you put in front of her and that the shelf of books in the schoolhouse is genuinely inadequate and that you have written to the county school board about this and received in response a letter of such elaborate non-commitment that you have started a separate fund from your own salary, small but growing. You know that Eli Lee will behave perfectly for four days and then on the fifth do something just left of the line — not malicious, never malicious, just testing — and that the correct response is to look at him steadily and say his name once, and he will subside, and on day six he will be angelic in a way that is clearly an apology.
You know that Jay’s cherry pie is better than his peach, that Riki takes his coffee with enough sugar to make your teeth hurt, that Bea at the ranch makes the best biscuits in Texas and would probably agree with you about this if you said so, that the tabby cat on the post office step is named Gerald and will accept exactly one ear scratch before moving to bite you. You know that Heeseung Lee tips his hat to every woman on the main street and that it means something different when he does it to you, and you have not examined this too closely because you are being careful and new soil takes time and you are not here to start anything. You are just noticing. That’s all.
Eli asks you about your family on a Tuesday. It is lunchtime, the other children spread across the yard in the October sun, and Eli has taken to eating his lunch on the porch steps near where you stand with your coffee. This started without announcement — one day he was in the yard, the next he was on the steps — and you have not remarked on it because remarking on it would make him self-conscious about having done something soft. “Do you miss Chicago?” he asks, through a mouthful of whatever Bea has packed him.
“Sometimes,” you say. It’s true. You miss the lake. The particular smell of the city in November. The diner near your old apartment that made pierogi on Thursdays.
“What do you miss?”
“The lake,” you say. “Lake Michigan. It’s enormous — like an inland sea. You can stand at the edge and not see the other side.”
Eli processes this. “We have the creek,” he offers.
“I know. I like the creek.”
He nods, satisfied that the comparison comes out even. Then: “Do you have family there?”
“My parents,” you say. “A brother.”
“Do they visit?”
You think of your mother’s voice on the telephone — the one call you’ve made since arriving, standing in the general store with the receiver pressed to your ear, your mother saying when are you coming home in the tone that meant you’ve made your point now. “Not yet,” you say.
Eli swings his feet against the step. “My grandma visits sometimes. Dad’s mom. She lives in Austin.” He picks at his lunch. “I don’t have a mom,” he says, with the casual directness of a child who has been saying this long enough that it no longer feels like a wound, just a fact. “She went away.”
Your chest does something careful and quiet. “I know,” you say, gently. “I’m sorry.”
“Dad says she got sick,” Eli says. “But I think—” he stops. Looks at the yard. Starts again: “I think that’s not the whole story. But he doesn’t want me to be sad so he says it that way.” He looks up at you with those dark perceptive eyes. “Do you think that’s bad? To say a not-whole story?”
You look at this seven-year-old boy who is so much older than seven in the specific ways that loss makes children old, and you think about not-whole stories and composed faces and she wanted a simpler life and how many versions of the truth are actually just the parts you can bear to carry in public.
“I think,” you say carefully, “that sometimes people tell not-whole stories because they’re trying to protect someone they love. And I think when you’re older you’ll understand the rest, and your dad will tell it to you when you’re ready.” You meet his eyes. “Does that make sense?”
Eli thinks about it seriously, which is the only way he thinks about things. “Yeah,” he says. Then: “You’re smart.”
“Thank you.”
“Dad thinks so too.” He says it with absolute offhand innocence and takes a large bite of his sandwich and looks at the yard, and you look at the middle distance and drink your coffee and say nothing at all.
The thing about a small town is that the architecture of people’s lives is visible in a way it never is in a city. In Chicago you could live next door to someone for three years and know nothing about them. Here the walls are thin by design — not maliciously, just the natural result of everyone’s business being conducted in the same four blocks, the same diner, the same church on Sundays, the same post office queue. You learn things about people without trying. You learn them through Jay, who is a font of town history delivered in the register of casual conversation, and through Mrs. Della, whose knowledge of Castillo Creek extends back forty years and who shares it in the same tone she uses to describe the weather — matter of fact, no particular drama.
This is how you learn that Heeseung Lee has been running the ranch alone since he was twenty-six. That his father died the year before Eli was born, and his mother moved to Austin to be near her sister, and Heeseung stayed because someone had to and because the land was in him the way some things get into people.
That Clara — his wife, Eli’s mother — left when Eli was two. Jay tells you this on a Wednesday evening when you’ve stayed past closing, helping him wipe down the counter because you were in the middle of a conversation and neither of you wanted to stop it, and he says it quietly, without the gossipy relish he sometimes deploys for lesser information. He says it like he’s trusting you with something.
“She wasn’t unhappy,” Jay says, wiping the same spot twice. “Or — she was, but not because of him. She was a person who needed more than this place could give her and she stayed too long trying to want what she had and then she left.” He sets down the cloth. “Eli was two. Heeseung — he didn’t fall apart. That’s the thing about him. He just. Kept going.” He looks at the counter. “He hasn’t let anyone close since. Not like that.”
You are quiet for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”
Jay looks at you with his frank dark eyes and the expression of a man who has thought carefully about what he’s going to say. “Because you’re going to be around for a while,” he says. “And I think you should know who he is. The real shape of him.” A pause. “And because he asked about you again today.”
“Jay—”
“He asked if you seemed settled,” Jay says. “Same question as before. He asks it like it’s nothing.” He picks the cloth back up. “Heeseung doesn’t ask about people, is the thing. He notices them. He listens. But he doesn’t ask.” He looks at you. “He’s asking about you.”
You go home to the boarding house and sit at your writing desk for a long time without writing anything.
—
The week before the harvest dance, Eli presents you with a drawing.
This is not unprecedented — he has given you two previous drawings, one of Maple and one of what you eventually identified as the schoolhouse, rendered in the bold confident lines of a child who draws from feeling rather than observation. This one he places on your desk at the end of Friday with the elaborate casualness he deploys for things that matter to him.
You wait until the room is empty before you look at it. It is two figures. One small, one tall. The small one has a gap in its teeth rendered in careful pencil. The tall one has long hair and is wearing — you look closer — a dress with a collar, which is clearly you. They are standing in front of something you take a moment to identify as the paddock fence, and between them, taking up most of the page, is a horse. Brown. Maple, you think, though the horse has been given an expression of benevolent authority that transcends species.
At the bottom, in the large uneven letters of a child still mastering the relationship between thought and handwriting: MISS YN AND ELI. FRIENDS.
You sit with that for a long moment. Then you take a piece of tape and put it on the wall beside the blackboard, where you can see it from your desk, and you go home for the weekend with something warm sitting in your chest that you don’t try to name.
Saturday, the day before the harvest dance, you are in Jay’s diner mid-morning when Heeseung comes in. This is not unusual. He comes in most Saturday mornings, sometimes with Riki, sometimes alone, and you have in six weeks arrived at a kind of comfortable parallel presence with him — you are often there, he is often there, you talk easily when you talk and don’t force it when you don’t, and Jay watches the whole thing with the serene satisfaction of a man who has predicted an outcome and is waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Today he comes in alone and sits at the counter and orders coffee and then turns to you with his hat on the stool beside him and says: “You going to the dance tomorrow?”
“Mrs. Della seems to think I’m obligated,” you say.
The corner of his mouth. “She’s not wrong. First harvest dance as a Castillo Creek resident is non-negotiable.” He turns his coffee cup in his hands. “It’s good. They do it right.”
“Do you go every year?”
“Every year.” He pauses. “I usually take Eli for the first part. He passes out around nine and I bring him home and come back.”
“Who looks after him?”
“Bea stays late.” He glances at you sidelong. “She has opinions about the dance. Mostly that someone should be dancing and it might as well be me.”
You smile. “Sound advice.”
“Mm.” He is quiet for a moment in the comfortable way he does quiet. Then: “Would you want to — go over together? You and me and Eli. He’d like that.”
The way he says it: simple, direct, no particular performance of casualness but no weight on it either. Just an offer, made plainly. You look at him. He is looking at his coffee cup with the expression of a man who has said the thing and is now waiting without making it a big deal either way. “Yes,” you say. “I’d like that.”
He nods, once, and drinks his coffee, and Jay behind the counter turns to do something at the back shelf that absolutely does not require his attention, and the diner is warm and smells of coffee and something frying and outside the Texas October is going gold in the morning light.
That afternoon you go back to the boarding house and sit on the edge of the bed and look at the window.
Outside: the field, the flat land, the sky. You think about Richard. You do this less than you used to — the thinking about Richard — which is itself a kind of measurement of how much has shifted in six weeks. He is still there, the way a bruise is there: faded but present when you press on it, the particular combination of shame and anger that comes from having your own story told about you rather than by you. The thing he did was not dramatic. That is almost the worst of it. He simply — ended the engagement, and then explained it in a way that made people look at you, and you could not stay in a city where everyone was deciding what version of you to believe.
You think about what Jay said: He asks about you. You think about Eli’s drawing on the wall beside the blackboard. You think about a gate that swings clean on its hinge, and a man who knew how it worked all along.
You are being careful. You are allowed to be careful. A woman who has had her story taken from her is allowed to be careful about who she gives it back to. But you are also — and this is newer, tentative, growing in the way things grow in new soil when they finally get enough light — you are also here. Present, in this room, in this town, in this life that is beginning to feel less like a retreat and more like an arrival.
You look at the field and the sky until the light goes gold and then rose and then the soft dark blue of a Texas evening. Tomorrow there is a dance. Heeseung Lee is going to take you and his son and bring you home after, and this is a simple thing, a neighbourly thing, a Castillo Creek thing where everything means less than it would mean somewhere else.
Or it means exactly as much as it means, and you’re just going to have to find out.
Eli arrives at the boarding house at six o’clock exactly.
You hear him before you see him — the gate, then footsteps on the porch, then a knock that has clearly been practiced for being the right amount of grown-up. You come downstairs to find Mrs. Della already at the door with the expression of a woman who has been waiting for this moment since approximately Tuesday.
Eli is in a white shirt with the collar buttoned and his hair combed flat in a way that will not survive the evening. He is holding his hat in both hands the way his father holds his, you notice — at his side, turned slightly. He looks up at you and his face does something he can’t quite control, a brightness that he immediately tamps down into dignity. “Dad’s outside,” he says.
“You look very smart,” you tell him.
He stands slightly taller. “Bea made me tuck in,” he says, in the tone of a man who has suffered and endured. Behind you Mrs. Della makes a sound that is definitely not a laugh.
You have worn the blue dress. You own three dresses suitable for an evening out and the blue one has a collar and buttons down the front and a skirt that moves when you walk and it is the one that makes you feel most like yourself, which is the only criterion that matters tonight. You have your hair down, which you don’t do at school, and Mrs. Della’s good earrings which she pressed on you with the firmness of a woman who will not be argued with about earrings.
You step out onto the porch. Heeseung is at the foot of the steps. He is in a dark shirt, clean boots, his hat. He looks up when you come out and there is a moment — brief, unguarded — where his expression does something he doesn’t quite catch before the easy steadiness comes back. His eyes move over you once, quickly, and then he looks at Eli.
“Hat,” he says. Eli puts his hat on. “Good.” Heeseung looks back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Miss Y/N,” he says. “You look real nice.”
“Thank you,” you say. “So do you.”
He makes a small sound, not quite dismissive, like a man who doesn’t know what to do with a compliment offered plainly and has decided not to examine it. He offers his arm — an old-fashioned gesture, natural on him — and you take it, and Eli immediately takes your other hand with the confidence of someone who has decided this is simply how the arrangement works, and the three of you walk down the road toward the lights and the music already drifting from the community hall at the end of the street.
The harvest dance is, as advertised, done right. The community hall is a low timber building you’ve walked past without knowing what it was, and tonight it is strung with lanterns and smells of sawdust and food and the particular excitement of a town that doesn’t get many occasions. Tables along the walls hold enough food to feed Castillo Creek twice over — Mrs. Della has contributed a peach cobbler, which you carried over earlier, and it is already half gone. A four-piece band is set up at the far end: fiddle, guitar, upright bass, a woman on piano who plays with her whole body. The dancing has already started, couples moving on the cleared floor, children weaving between adult legs at the edges.
The town turns to look when you walk in. Not unpleasantly — it is the small-town version of a head-turn, curious and warm, the collective noting of Heeseung Lee with the new schoolteacher that you can feel passing through the room like a current. Several women note it with expressions ranging from warmly approving to something more carefully neutral, which tells you what Jay has already told you about the general feeling toward the man beside you.
Heeseung appears to notice none of it. He steers you toward Jay, who is leaning against the far wall with a plate of food and the expression of a man who has been looking forward to tonight for reasons that are entirely about watching other people. “Well,” Jay says, looking between you with magnificent restraint, “don’t you both clean up nice.”
“Food’s good,” Heeseung says, ignoring this.
“I made the cornbread.”
“I know. I already had some.” He looks at Eli, who has been scanning the room with the efficient tactical assessment of a child locating friends. “Stay where I can see you.”
Eli is already gone. Heeseung watches him go with the particular expression of a parent who knows better than to fight it and has positioned himself where he can see the whole room.
The evening unfolds the way good evenings do: without agenda, in the accumulation of small moments. You eat. Jay introduces you to people you haven’t met, which turns out to be fewer than you expected — you know more of Castillo Creek than you realised, the six weeks of main street mornings and school gate conversations having done their quiet work. Mr. and Mrs. Holt from the farm to the north, who have a daughter in your class — Ruth, the one who does everything left-handed and ambidextrously, a fact you have been admiring for weeks. Old Pete from the hardware store, who shakes your hand and says “you fixed the school gate” with the respect of a man who rates practical competence above most other virtues. The minister’s wife, who is warm and enormous and has clearly decided you are good people and broadcasts this to the room through sheer force of conviction.
Heeseung stays near you without being beside you constantly — he moves through the room the way you’ve noticed he does, at ease everywhere, known to everyone, the smile given genuinely and the name remembered for everyone he talks to. Women approach him with the practised ease of long familiarity and he is warm and kind to all of them and doesn’t linger with any of them and drifts back in your direction after each one with the reliability of water finding level. Jay watches this and eats his cornbread and says nothing, which from Jay is extremely loud.
Eli reappears at intervals to report on things of importance: that Tommy has had four pieces of pie, that someone’s dog has got in and is under the far table, that the fiddle player has a hole in his boot which Eli finds compelling for reasons he can’t fully articulate. Each time he appears he is slightly more dishevelled — the collar loosened by degree, the hair no longer remotely flat, a smear of something on his cuff that you choose not to investigate.
The ninth time he appears he is pulling someone by the hand. “Miss Y/N,” he says, with great ceremony, “this is my friend Cody. Cody, this is my teacher. She’s from Chicago and she knows what a dialect is.”
Cody, who is approximately Eli’s age and has the look of a child who has eaten too much pie, nods with solemnity. “What’s a dialect?” he asks you. You explain it, briefly, and both boys listen with their heads slightly tilted, and Heeseung beside you makes a sound very low in his chest that is a laugh he has decided not to have.
The boys disappear again. You look up at Heeseung. He is already looking somewhere else, but his mouth is still doing the almost-laugh. “He’s been telling people that for weeks,” he says. “The dialect thing.”
“I know,” you say. “Grace told me he explained it to the minister’s wife.” The laugh escapes this time, quiet and genuine, and the shape it makes of his face is something you file away without meaning to.
The band shifts tempo around eight. The faster songs have been running for most of the evening — the kind of music that makes your feet move without asking — and now the fiddle drops into something slower, longer, the bass underneath it steady and low. Couples move differently on the floor. The children at the edges drift toward the food tables.
You are by the lantern at the far wall when Heeseung appears beside you. “Dance with me,” he says.
Not would you like to or may I have this — just dance with me, quiet and direct, the way he says most things, like an offer that trusts you to say no if you want to. You look at him. The lantern light is warm on his face, the hat casting a slight shadow, and he is watching you with the patient steadiness that is simply how he is — unhurried, undemanding, there. “Alright,” you say.
He takes your hand and leads you to the floor and puts his other hand at your waist, and you are aware of the warm weight of it through the blue dress, and you put your hand on his shoulder and you dance.
He is good at it. Not showy — he doesn’t have the look of a man who thinks about whether he’s good at things — but easy and sure, the same way he moves through everything. He leads without being heavy about it, and after the first few measures you stop thinking and just follow, and the music goes slow and the lanterns are warm and the whole room is soft at the edges. “You’re surprised I can dance,” he says.
“A little,” you admit.
“My mother’s doing.” Something fond in it. “She said a man who can’t dance is a man who doesn’t know how to listen.” He tilts his head slightly. “She’s right about most things.”
“She sounds formidable.”
“She’d like you.” He says it simply, without apparent awareness of what it implies, and you think: he means it exactly as plainly as he said it, which is somehow more significant than if he’d been trying.
You dance without talking for a while. The fiddle goes somewhere low and sweet. Around you other couples turn slowly, and across the room you can see Jay watching with the expression of a man witnessing the inevitable and finding it satisfying. “Can I ask you something?” Heeseung says.
“Yes.”
“Why Castillo Creek?” He looks at you — not the look he uses on everyone, the warm social look, but something quieter and more direct, the look you’ve caught a few times when he doesn’t know you’re watching. “Of all the places.”
“It was the furthest,” you say. You’ve given this answer before, half-answer that it is, and you feel him register the incompleteness of it.
He doesn’t push. He nods once, slow. “Were you running from something?” he asks. Gently. No judgment in it, just the question, open-handed.
The music turns. You consider him — the steadiness of him, the patience, the careful way he holds you on the dance floor like something he doesn’t want to break but also doesn’t want to handle too gingerly. “Yes,” you say. First time you’ve said it plainly.
He absorbs this. “You don’t have to tell me what,” he says.
“I know.”
“But if you ever want to—” he stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not going anywhere. Said so simply, with no particular weight on it, just a fact, and yet it lands in you somewhere deep and quiet and stays there like something settling.
“Thank you,” you say. He nods. You dance.
Eli falls asleep in a chair at half past eight. Not gracefully — he is mid-sentence, apparently, Cody reports, about something to do with the dog, and then he simply isn’t anymore. He is curled in the chair with his hat over his face in a pose of complete unconscious dignity, and Heeseung looks at him for a moment with an expression that is purely and simply love, uncomplicated by anything else. “I’ll take him home,” he says.
“Of course.” You help him get the boy upright — Eli stirs briefly, says something about the dog, and goes back under — and Heeseung lifts him with the ease of long practice, the boy’s head dropping onto his shoulder.
“Come back,” Jay says, appearing from nowhere.
“Give me twenty minutes,” Heeseung says. He looks at you over Eli’s sleeping head. “Will you—” a pause, something careful in it. “Will you still be here?”
“Yes,” you say. He holds your gaze for a moment. Then he nods, and carries his son home through the warm October night, and you go back to Jay and the music and the lanterns and the feeling of a hand at your waist that you can still feel even though it’s gone.
“Well,” says Jay.
“Don’t,” you say. He puts his hands up, peaceable, and hands you a glass of lemonade. But he is smiling.
Heeseung is back in eighteen minutes. You are talking to Mrs. Holt when you see him come through the door, hat resettled, and he finds you in the room immediately — doesn’t scan for you, just finds you, the way you find a light when you walk into a dark room. He comes over and Mrs. Holt makes a gracious excuse and leaves, and he stands beside you and accepts the glass of lemonade you’ve been holding for him without either of you remarking on why you knew to have it.
The band starts something slow again. Heeseung looks at you. You look at him. “Again?” he says.
“Again,” you say.
This time when he puts his hand at your waist you don’t catalogue it, don’t file it, don’t hold it at a careful distance to examine later. You just — let it be what it is, warm and steady and real, his hand and your shoulder and the fiddle going slow and the lanterns burning low, and if the space between you is slightly less than it was the first time then neither of you mentions it.
You dance until the band stops for a break and then you get food and eat it on the hall steps in the cool October night and talk — easily, unhurriedly — about nothing much and everything, the ranch and the classroom and things you’ve read and things you’ve seen, the way a conversation goes when two people discover they have more to say to each other than they anticipated.
At some point you become aware that the music has started again inside and neither of you has moved to go back in. At some point after that you become aware that your shoulders are nearly touching on the step and neither of you has moved apart.
The night is clear, stars enormous in that Texas sky that has too much room in it, the music muffled through the wall, and Heeseung is talking about the ranch in winter and you are listening and also listening to the warm unhurried sound of his voice and the night is soft and something is very quietly happening, the way things happen in new soil: without announcement, without drama, just the steady irresistible work of growing.
He walks you home at eleven. The street is quiet, the dance still going distantly, the air cool and smelling of dust and something dry and sweet. He walks beside you with his hands in his pockets and you walk with your arms crossed against the chill and at the boarding house gate you stop. He is looking at you.
The porch light is on — Mrs. Della — and in it his face is all warm shadow and that particular steadiness, and you are aware that this is a moment, the kind that has a before and after, and that you are both standing in it. “I had a good night,” you say.
“Me too,” he says. Quiet. Sincere. A pause. The street is empty. The stars are doing what they do.
He reaches out — slowly, deliberately, giving you every opportunity — and tucks a strand of hair back from your face, his fingers barely grazing your cheek, and it is such a small thing, so careful, and it takes your breath in a way that no grand gesture ever has. He drops his hand. “Goodnight, darlin’,” he says. Soft. Just yours.
“Goodnight,” you say. He tips his hat and walks back down the street and you watch him go and then you go inside and you sit on the edge of your bed in the dark and you press your fingers to your cheek where his hand was.
Outside the stars are enormous. New soil, you think. Something’s growing.
—
Nothing is said. This is the thing about Heeseung Lee — he does not press. He does not arrive at the schoolhouse the next morning with declarations or at Jay’s diner with meaningful looks or at the boarding house gate with anything that requires you to respond to it formally. He simply — continues. Being present in the way he is always present, warm and steady and unhurried, and the only difference after the harvest dance is a slight calibration in the frequency with which he finds reasons to be near you, and the way the darlin’ sounds when it’s only the two of you, lower and more deliberate, like a word that has been renegotiated.
You continue also. Teaching, reading, eating Jay’s pie, watching the season turn. But you are aware of him now in a way that has moved past noticing into something more like — waiting. Not anxiously. Just the particular heightened attention of a person who has begun to understand that something is being built, slowly, with care, and who has decided to trust the pace of it.
Eli notices. Of course Eli notices. He is seven and perceptive and he has his father’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything directly — he is too clever for direct — but the quality of his watching changes. He begins positioning himself as a reason for the two of you to be in the same place. Dad, can Miss Y/N come see the new foal. Miss, Dad says you should have Bea’s recipe for the cornbread. The transparent architecture of a child conducting an operation he believes to be covert, and which you and Heeseung have both silently agreed to treat as such because he is seven and it is working and no one is going to be the one to make him stop.
The new foal is three weeks old when Eli invites you to see it, and it has not yet decided what its legs are for. Eli brings you to the ranch on the second Saturday of October — I asked Dad and he said yes and also that it was fine if you were busy but you’re not busy, right? — and the foal is in the small paddock nearest the stable, bewilderingly long-limbed, a dark bay that will probably lighten as she grows. She looks at you when you approach the fence with the expression of a creature that has been in the world twenty-one days and has not yet accumulated the patience to find humans interesting. “She doesn’t have a name yet,” Eli says. “Dad said I could name her.”
“What are you thinking?”
He has clearly been thinking about it for days and has not decided, which is unusual for him — he is not generally a boy who holds back opinions. He leans on the fence rail and watches the foal with unusual gravity. “It has to be right,” he says.
“It does,” you agree. Heeseung is on the other side of Eli, his arms resting on the fence, watching the foal with the particular quiet warmth he reserves for the ranch and for his son. He glances over Eli’s head at you and something passes between you — amusement, tenderness, the shared appreciation of a child being serious about something — and it is so easy, so natural, that for a moment you don’t know what to do with how easy it is.
“What about Chicago?” Eli says. Casually. You look at him. He is studying the foal. “The horse you name,” Heeseung adds. “The barn cat?”
“The barn cat’s name is Chicago,” you tell Heeseung.
“I know,” he says. He is looking at the foal. His mouth is doing the thing. “He named it the day you came to the ranch.”
Eli has achieved maximum innocence, his face a study in disinterest.
“I think Chicago is a good name,” you say. The foal, as if in response, takes three uncertain steps and sits down abruptly.
Eli looks at his father. His father looks at you. You look at the foal, sitting in the dirt with its legs at improbable angles and its ears pricked forward as if this was entirely the plan. You all three start laughing at the same moment.
Riki makes coffee. This has become a thing — the coffee on the porch, the late morning sun, the ranch quiet around you. You have been to Sunrise Ranch four times now and each time it has arranged itself into the same comfortable shape: Eli showing you something, Heeseung nearby, Riki appearing and disappearing like a benevolent ghost, Bea’s food involved at some point, the afternoon light eventually demanding that you walk back to town.
Today Riki sits on the porch steps with his cup and looks out at the paddock where Chicago the foal is attempting, again, to organise her legs. “She’s going to be good,” he says, about the foal. “Look at the shoulder on her.”
“You know horses?” you ask.
“Mr. Lee taught me.” He says it simply, the way he says most things about Heeseung, with that uncomplicated weight of someone describing a fact that is also a debt he’s decided he’s glad to owe. “When I first came here I didn’t know anything about any of this. I just needed work.” He drinks his coffee. “He didn’t ask a lot of questions. He said: here’s the work, here’s the room, the rest we’ll figure out. And then he just — showed me things. Every day. How to work the land, how to read a horse, how to fix what breaks.” A pause. “He does that. Shows rather than tells.”
You think of the riding lesson. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip. Breathe. And then stepping back and watching from the fence to see what you’d do on your own. “Yes,” you say. “He does.”
Riki glances at you with his dark eyes and the particular directness of someone who is not quite nineteen yet and hasn’t learned to be oblique about what he observes. “He’s happy,” he says. “More than usual. I thought you should know.”
You look at your coffee cup. The morning is warm and still.
“Thank you, Riki,” you say. He nods and goes back to watching the foal, and the matter is settled, and you sit on the porch of Sunrise Ranch in the October sun and feel the particular quiet terror of something you want very much beginning to feel possible.
—
The almost-kiss happens on a Wednesday. It is not planned. It is not even exactly an almost-kiss, which is perhaps the most honest thing about it — it is more a moment in which a kiss becomes a possibility that both of you become aware of simultaneously, and the awareness itself is so charged that it amounts to nearly the same thing.
You have stayed late at the schoolhouse marking reading assessments, the kind of work that requires the particular quiet of an empty room, and you are still there at five when you hear the gate and look up to see Heeseung coming through it with something in his hand. He stops at the foot of the steps. “Bea sent this.” He holds up a cloth-wrapped parcel. “She made too much.”
Bea, you have come to understand, always makes too much. This is not accidental. “Tell her thank you,” you say.
“You tell her. She likes you more than she likes me.” He comes up the steps — this is newer, the coming up the steps, the crossing of the porch — and you open the door and he follows you inside because the light is going and neither of you suggests he leave.
He sets the parcel on your desk and looks at the wall beside the blackboard. Eli’s drawing. He looks at it for a long moment without saying anything. “He gave it to me on a Friday,” you say. “I put it up that evening.”
Heeseung is quiet. In the low afternoon light his profile is — you don’t look directly. You tidy the papers on your desk. But you are aware of him in the specific physical way you have been aware of him since the harvest dance, a warmth that doesn’t require proximity to function, that exists simply because he is in the room. “He doesn’t give drawings to people,” Heeseung says, finally.
“I know.”
“He gave one to Jay once.” A pause. “Jay cried.”
“Did he?” You let out an amused breath.
“He’ll tell you he didn’t.” He turns from the wall and the small distance of the schoolroom is between you, both of you standing in the last of the afternoon light through the windows, the assessment papers on the desk and Bea’s parcel beside them and the drawing on the wall. “You’ve been good for him,” he says. “For Eli.”
“He’s been good for me,” you say. Heeseung looks at you. The directness of it, steady and warm and something beneath it that is no longer entirely hidden from you — something careful and wanting and very, very controlled.
He takes a step. Just one. The room is small and one step is a significant renegotiation of the space between you, and you are aware of your own stillness, the way you are not moving away, the way you are — you realise — leaning, fractionally, toward him.
His hand comes up. The same gesture as the gate night — slow, deliberate, no ambiguity about the intention — and his fingers brush your jaw, not your cheek this time but your jaw, tilting your face up very slightly. He looks at you. You look at him. The moment is right there, the exact shape of it, and you can feel his breath and the warmth of his hand and the whole quiet room holding itself still— the gate.
You both hear it. A second later: footsteps on the porch, and Eli’s voice, Dad? Riki said you came here, and the door opens.
Heeseung’s hand drops. He steps back — not hastily, not guilty, just back — and turns toward the door as Eli comes through it with his schoolbag still on his shoulder from wherever he’s been, looking between the two of you with eyes that miss nothing.
“Bea sent food,” Heeseung says.
Eli looks at the parcel. Looks at you. Looks at his father. He is seven years old and he has the perceptive assessment of someone three times that age and you watch him put something together behind his eyes and decide, with great and deliberate charity, not to say it. “Okay,” he says. He drops his bag. “Can I have some?”
—
November comes in quietly. The cold arrives properly now, the mornings sharp, the light later. You have a proper coat from the general store — Castillo Creek wool, practically indestructible, Mrs. Della’s recommendation — and your own boots now, bought from the hardware store with the heel worn to fit your foot. You are, you realise one morning walking to the schoolhouse in the frost, no longer performing belonging. You just — belong. In the small ordinary way of someone who knows which floorboards creak and which gate sticks and which order to say good morning to the main street in. This is a thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.
The children change too — they are yours now, fully, in the way a class becomes yours when they’ve stopped watching you to see if you’ll stay and started simply assuming you will. Tommy does his arithmetic left-handed and his numbers come out clean. Clara has read everything on the bookshelf and you’ve started lending her your own. The new books arrived last week from the county — three boxes, more than you expected, apparently the board received two letters — and the morning you unpacked them Eli said did you write two letters? and you said the second one was more strongly worded and he looked at you with pure satisfaction and said good.
Grace organises the shelf. Eli helps whether or not he’s asked. The little ones treat the new books with the reverence of sacred objects, which is the correct response.
The second time it almost happens is on your porch. Heeseung walks you home from the diner on a Friday — you’ve fallen into this, the Friday evenings at Jay’s that end with him walking you the two blocks home — and at the gate he stops, as he always does, and you turn, as you always do.
But tonight is different. Maybe it’s the cold, the way it makes the air sharp and close. Maybe it’s the week that’s been — Eli had a difficult day on Tuesday, something about a boy from another farm saying something about his mother, and he’d been quiet for three days until this evening when he’d appeared at Jay’s with Heeseung and been loud enough to make up for it, and you’d watched Heeseung watch his son come back to himself and felt something in your chest pull tight with feeling.
Maybe it’s just that you’re tired of the careful distance and your body is making decisions your head hasn’t approved.
You are at the gate and he is looking at you and the cold is making your breath visible between you and you say, before you’ve decided to: “You could come in.” He goes still. “For coffee,” you say. “Mrs. Della makes it before bed. She won’t mind.”
He looks at you for a long moment. The street is empty and dark and cold and the porch light is on and he is — you watch him weigh something, watch the careful consideration of a man who has learned the cost of moving without thinking, and you wait, and you don’t take it back.
“Not tonight,” he says. Quietly. Not as a rejection — the quality of it is entirely different from rejection, warm and regretful and something else, something that sounds almost like not yet. His eyes hold yours. “But—” he stops.
“But?” you say.
His hand finds yours, briefly, in the cold — not holding, just his fingers over yours for a moment, warm against the chill, a contact so small it might be nothing and is absolutely not nothing. “Soon,” he says.
You look at your hands. His fingers over yours. “Okay,” you say.
He squeezes once and lets go and steps back. Tips his hat. “Goodnight, darlin’.”
“Goodnight.” You go inside. You stand in the hallway for a moment with your hand held against your chest. Soon, you think.
Outside, his footsteps on the road, going home.
Tuesday in the third week of November, after school, after everyone has gone, the room is empty and the light low and you are at your desk and Heeseung has come — ostensibly to fix the wobbling chair leg, he appeared with a tool and a particular determined expression — and has fixed it and straightened up and you are still at the desk and the room is quiet and the space between you is approximately nothing.
He looks at you. You look at him. You say: “Heeseung.” Just his name. No question in it, no instruction, just the sound of it in the empty room, and something in him — the careful controlled something — gives way.
He crosses the room and his hands find your face and he kisses you.
Gently. Almost unbearably gently for a man who has been waiting this long — his mouth soft on yours, one hand curved around your jaw and one in your hair, the kiss slow and thorough and so tender that you feel it behind your eyes. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it, like he’s been thinking about exactly this and is in no hurry now that he’s here.
You make a sound, quiet and involuntary, and his hands tighten slightly in your hair — controlled, so controlled — and then he pulls back just enough to look at you, your face between his hands, his forehead almost touching yours. “Been wanting to do that,” he says, low, “since the diner.”
“The first morning?” you say. Your voice is not entirely steady.
“The first morning,” he confirms.
You pull him back down. This kiss is different — less tender, more certain, the both of you having established the territory now and moving through it with more confidence. His hands stay in your hair and at your jaw and you have one hand in his shirt and one on his arm and the chair leg is fixed and the school room is empty and the afternoon is going dark outside the windows.
Eventually — reluctantly — you separate. He rests his forehead against yours. His breathing is not entirely steady either, which you find deeply satisfying. His thumb moves along your jaw, once. “Eli’s at the ranch,” he says.
“I know.”
“Riki’s with him.”
“I know.” He pulls back enough to look at you properly. The expression on his face is something you haven’t seen before — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but with something warmer beneath it, something that has stopped being controlled.
You look at him. This man who fixes things slowly and holds gates open and walks beside you without filling every silence and has been waiting, you realise, as carefully as you have — the both of you circling something real at a respectful distance because you both know the cost of getting it wrong. “Not here,” you say. “Not yet.”
He nods immediately, no argument, no pressure. “No.” He straightens. His hand drops from your jaw to your shoulder, rests there for a moment. “Soon.”
“Soon,” you agree.
He kisses you once more — brief, deliberate, a punctuation — and steps back and picks up his tool from the floor. At the door he pauses with his hand on the frame. “Fixed the chair,” he says.
“Thank you,” you say.
The corner of his mouth. He puts his hat on. He goes. You sit in the fixed chair in the empty schoolroom with your fingers at your lips and the particular feeling of someone standing at the very edge of something they’ve been walking toward for a long time.
You don’t see him come in — you’re at the schoolhouse, mid-morning, working fractions with the older children while the little ones do their letters — but the town sees him, which amounts to the same thing. A black car, which is the first thing, because nobody in Castillo Creek drives a black car, everyone drives trucks with dust on them, and a black car with city plates sitting outside the boarding house is the kind of thing that travels the length of the main street in approximately four minutes.
Jay tells you at lunch. He appears at the schoolhouse gate during the midday break with his hands in his apron pockets and the expression of a man who has information he doesn’t want to deliver but will, because not delivering it would be worse. “Someone checked into Mrs. Della’s this morning,” he says.
You are eating a sandwich on the porch steps. “Who?”
“Man from Chicago.” He watches your face. “Name of Calloway.”
The sandwich stops being something you’re interested in. Jay sees it — the thing that happens to your face, the quick controlled shutting-down of it, the composed face coming up like a shutter. He sees it and his expression does something careful and angry on your behalf. “Richard,” you say. Not a question.
“Mrs. Della said he asked for you by name.” Jay’s voice is even, but only just. “Said he was an old friend.”
You set the sandwich down on the step beside you. In the yard the children are playing — Eli is attempting to teach Cody something that involves a great deal of running, unclear objective, self-invented rules — and the sound of them is bright and ordinary and very far away from the thing that is happening in your chest. “How long is he staying?” you say.
“Didn’t say.” Jay pauses. “You don’t have to see him. I mean it. You don’t have to do a single thing.”
“I know, Jay.” You look at the yard. Eli has apparently won whatever the game was and is explaining this to Cody with both hands. “Thank you for telling me.”
Jay looks at you for a long moment with the expression of a man who wants to say more and knows you well enough to know not to. “I’ll be at the diner,” he says. “All night if you need.” He goes. You sit on the steps and watch the children play and breathe.
You see Richard in town at four o’clock. You don’t plan it — or rather you plan to not plan it, to go home the back way and avoid the main street, but you have never been a person who runs from things indefinitely, which is different from a person who retreats to regroup, which is what Castillo Creek was supposed to be, and the distinction matters to you.
So you walk the main street at four. He is outside the general store. Six months since you’ve seen him and he looks exactly the same, which is the particular cruelty of certain kinds of men — Richard Calloway at thirty has the same easy handsomeness he had at twenty-five, the good jaw and the good clothes and the way of standing that broadcasts money without appearing to try. He is talking to Mr. Gus from the hardware store with the particular charm he deploys on strangers, warm and attentive, and Mr. Gus, who is a perfectly reasonable man, appears to be finding him perfectly reasonable.
Richard sees you at the same moment you see him. “Y/N,” he says. He says it the way he’s always said your name — with a kind of ownership, like the name is his to use, like he coined it. Six months ago that sound did something to you. Now it does something different: a cold clarity, like being fully awake.
“Richard,” you say. Mr. Gus, sensing something, makes a gracious excuse and goes inside.
Richard crosses the distance between you with that easy unhurried gait. He is looking at you the way he always looked at you — the assessing look, cataloguing, deciding what he’s working with. He looks at your coat, your boots, the dust on them. “You look well,” he says.
“What are you doing here?”
No preamble. His expression flickers — he expected something else, you can tell, some version of the composed uncertainty he knew how to work with — and then recalibrates. “I wanted to see you.” He tilts his head. “I’ve been worried. Your mother has been worried.”
“My mother knows where I am.”
“She knows where you are.” He glances around — the main street, the hardware store, the distant sound of the diner — with an expression that is almost too carefully neutral. “She’s less certain about why.”
“I am,” you say. “Certain about why.”
Something moves through his expression. Not hurt — Richard doesn’t do hurt, exactly, he does the performance of it — but something more like recalculation. He has come here with a script and you are not following it and he is deciding which page to go to next. “Can we talk?” he says. “Properly. Not — here.”
“Not today,” you say.
“Y/N—”
“I need to get home,” you say. “I have work to do.” You walk past him. You feel his gaze on your back the whole length of the street and you keep your spine straight and your pace even and you do not look back, and you turn the corner to the boarding house and you stand in the hallway for thirty seconds with your hand flat against the wall.
Then you go upstairs and sit at your desk and write lesson plans for the following week with the particular furious focus of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly why.
He stays.
This is what you didn’t account for — or what you knew, somewhere, and didn’t want to know: that Richard Calloway does not come somewhere and leave without getting what he came for, because Richard Calloway has not, in thirty years of life, not gotten a thing he came for. He is patient in the manner of a man who has never had to be truly patient, which is a different thing from Heeseung’s patience — Heeseung’s patience is the patience of someone who understands that good things take the time they take. Richard’s patience is the patience of someone who is simply waiting for the situation to arrange itself correctly.
He is in the diner on Friday morning when you come in. He has clearly been there a while — Jay’s expression when you walk in tells you everything, the tight professional smile of a man maintaining composure in his own establishment — and Richard stands when he sees you with the automatic courtesy of old money and gestures at the booth across from him like you’ve just arrived somewhere he owns.
You sit at the counter instead. Jay puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes to the back. Richard slides onto the stool beside you. “Your friend doesn’t like me,” he says pleasantly.
“Jay doesn’t know you,” you say. “He’s good at people.”
A flicker. “I see you haven’t lost your—” he pauses, finds the word “—sharpness.”
“I’ve been busy,” you say. “Teaching.”
“Yes.” He turns his cup in his hands. This is a gesture you know — he does it when he’s choosing his approach, the hand movement while he thinks. “You’re a good teacher, Y/N. You were always good at it. You could be doing it in Chicago. Somewhere with—” he doesn’t finish it but you hear it: resources, standing, people like us.
“I like it here,” you say.
“You’ve been here two months.”
“Ten weeks.”
“Ten weeks,” he says. “In a town with four hundred people.” He looks at you sidelong. “Is this really what you want? Or is it just — the furthest you could get?”
The question lands because he knows you well enough to know it might. You drink your coffee.
“Both,” you say. “And then it became what I wanted.”
He is quiet for a moment. Then, lower, the charm dialed back, something more direct underneath: “I made a mistake.” You look at him. “The way I handled things,” he says. “The way I — let people talk.” He meets your eyes. “I should have been clearer. About what happened.”
“What did happen, Richard?” you say. “Tell me your version.”
Something careful moves through his face. “We weren’t right for each other. I should have said that, instead of—”
“Instead of implying that I was unstable,” you say pleasantly. “Instead of telling your mother that I had become erratic, which she told her friends, which—” you stop. The composed face. “You know what was said. You know what it cost me.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “I want to make it right.”
“By coming here,” you say. “To this town with four hundred people where I have managed, without your help, to make a life.”
He looks at you. His jaw is set slightly. “Come home,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking. Come home and we can—”
“No,” you say. Quietly. No drama. Just no, the way you should have been saying it for the two years you spent trying to become something that would satisfy him.
You finish your coffee. You put the money on the counter. You stand. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit,” you say. “The peach pie is very good.” You walk out. Behind you the bell chimes.
You don’t tell Heeseung. This is the thing you’ll come back to later — not telling him. It’s not deception, exactly, or you tell yourself it isn’t. It is the particular guarded instinct of a woman who has had her story taken from her once and is not ready yet to hand it to someone else to hold, even someone she trusts, even someone whose hands are the careful kind.
But Castillo Creek is four hundred people and a black city car parked on the main street and Richard Calloway has his father’s charm and the town is talking.
Jay doesn’t tell him either — you don’t have to ask, Jay simply knows — but Jay also cannot control what a town talks about, and towns talk.
You are outside the schoolhouse at half past four, gate latched behind you, walking toward the main street, and Richard is there.
He has been doing this — appearing at the edges of your day, not enough to be a confrontation, enough to be a reminder. Outside the general store, at the end of the street when you’re walking from the diner, once at the boarding house gate, though he didn’t approach that time, just stood at the end of the road as you went in.
Today he is at the corner near the schoolhouse and when you come through the gate he falls into step beside you. “I need you to stop,” you say.
“I just want to talk.”
“We’ve talked.”
“Y/N.” He takes your arm. Not hard — he’s never hard, that’s not how he operates, Richard operates through persistence and charm and the slow rewriting of reality until you can’t find the original — his hand on your arm, a familiar gesture from a thousand ordinary moments, the gesture of someone who knows where your arm is.
“Let go,” you say.
He does. Immediately, palms up, the gesture of a reasonable man. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“Richard.” Quietly. Firmly. “Go home.”
You step around him and walk. You don’t see Heeseung at the end of the street. But he sees you.
He doesn’t come to the diner on Friday. This is the first Friday in all the weeks you’ve been here that he doesn’t come. Jay notices — of course Jay notices, Jay notices everything — and he watches the door and watches you and keeps your cup full and doesn’t say anything, which from Jay means he is thinking very carefully about what not to say. You notice the absence like a change in weather. A front coming in.
He doesn’t come on Saturday either. Eli is in town — you see him outside the general store with Riki, who gives you a look you can’t fully interpret, something complicated — and Eli waves but doesn’t run over, which is so unlike him that something cold and certain settles in your stomach. You go to Jay. “What does he think he saw?” you say.
Jay is wiping the counter. He wipes it for a while. “Man from the city with his hand on your arm,” he says finally. “Outside the schoolhouse.”
“Richard grabbed my arm. I told him to let go. He did.”
“I know that.”
“Heeseung doesn’t.”
Jay sets down the cloth. He looks at you with the expression of a man who cares about two people who are being stupid at each other and has to navigate this carefully. “He didn’t ask me,” he says. “Which tells you something. If he thought it was nothing he would’ve asked.” You look at the counter. “He’s not angry,” Jay says. “He’s just — he’s gone back inside himself. The way he does.” He pauses. “You know about Clara.”
“I know she left.”
“He watched her talk to someone for a week before she told him she was going. He came home one day and she was packed.” Jay says it plainly, not for drama, just because you need to know the shape of what’s happening. “He doesn’t — he doesn’t do this consciously. It’s just where he goes. When it looks like someone’s about to leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” you say.
“I know.”
“He doesn’t know why Richard is here.”
“No.”
You are quiet for a moment. The diner is warm around you, the smell of coffee and the distant sound of the radio, and outside the window the main street is grey and cold under the November sky. “I should have told him,” you say.
“Yes,” Jay says, not unkindly. “You should have.”
—
Riki appears at the boarding house in the early morning of Sunday with his hands in his pockets and the look of someone who has decided to do something and is committed to seeing it through. You sit on the porch together in the cold and he looks at the street. “He’s not eating properly,” Riki says.
“Riki—”
“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. I’m saying it because you should know what’s happening over there.” He looks at his hands. “He got up at four this morning and went out to the fence line and I don’t know when he came back.” He pauses. “Eli asked him why you hadn’t visited and he said you were probably busy. Eli didn’t believe him. He’s seven and he didn’t believe him.” You close your eyes briefly. “The man from the city,” Riki says. “Who is he?”
“My ex-fiancé,” you say. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What Heeseung saw—” you stop. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
Riki is quiet for a moment. “He won’t ask,” he says. “He’ll just—” he does a gesture, a closing-in, both hands coming together. “He’ll just decide it’s already over and start making peace with it. He does it fast. He had a lot of practice.”
The cold is sharp on the porch and the street is empty and you think about a man up at four in the morning walking a fence line alone. “I’m going to the ranch,” you say.
Riki stands. “Good,” he says. Simply. And goes back down the porch steps and up the road, and you watch him go and then you go inside and put your coat on.
The ranch is quiet in the Sunday morning. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you come through the gate — you know his shape at this distance now, the particular way he stands, the hat — and he turns when he hears you and goes very still. You walk toward him. The cold air is clean and the horses move slow in the paddock and the sky is white and enormous.
You stop at the fence beside him. He looks at you — that careful, closed look, the inside-self look that Jay described, and underneath it something that is trying very hard to be nothing and isn’t.
“His name is Richard Calloway,” you say. “He was my fiancé. He ended our engagement and made sure the story that circulated made me look like the problem. I came here because I needed to be somewhere no one knew that story.” You look at the paddock. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What you saw — he took my arm. I told him to let go. He did. And then I walked away.” Heeseung is very quiet beside you.
“I should have told you he was here,” you say. “I know that. I was—” you stop. Find the honest word. “I was holding it. My own story. I’ve had it taken from me before and I wasn’t ready to hand it to someone else yet, even someone I—” you stop again.
The paddock. The white sky. Chicago the foal, visible at the far end, picking her way through the grass. “Even someone I trust,” you finish.
A long silence. “He’s gone?” Heeseung says. His voice is careful. Controlled.
“He left yesterday morning,” you say. “Mrs. Della told me.”
Another silence. You can hear him breathing beside you, and the sound of it — the slight unevenness of it — tells you more than anything he’s said. “I thought—” he starts. Stops. Jaw tight. Starts again: “When I saw him with his hand on your arm I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” you say, gently. “I know why you thought it.”
He looks at you then. The inside face, still there, but cracking slightly at the edges. “I don’t do this well,” he says. “The—” he stops. “I’m not good at trusting that people—” another stop. He takes his hat off and turns it in his hands, looking at the brim. “I had six years of practice at being fine on my own and I got good at it.”
“I know,” you say.
“And then you came here,” he says. Quietly. “And Eli drew you on his wall.” Your chest does the thing it does. “And I started—” he stops again. The hat in his hands. “Getting bad at being fine on my own.”
You reach out and put your hand over his on the fence rail. Just your hand over his, the way he did at the boarding house gate in the cold, that same small warm contact. He looks at your hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “I fixed the gate. I’m staying.”
Something in him — the closed, careful, six-years-practiced something — gives. Not all at once, not dramatically. Just a breath, long and slow, and his hand turning under yours so his fingers can close around it. “Okay,” he says.
You stand at the fence in the cold white morning with his hand around yours and the horses moving slow in the paddock and the whole quiet ranch around you.
“I have to tell you something else,” you say.
“Alright.”
“I’ve been in love with you since approximately the harvest dance,” you say. “Possibly since the coffee in the stable. I’m not sure of the exact date.”
Heeseung is quiet for one moment. Then he makes a sound — low and startled and something that becomes a laugh, helpless, the kind that alters his whole face — and he pulls you toward him, one hand at the back of your head, and presses his mouth to your hair, your temple, and holds you there against the paddock fence in the November cold. “The coffee in the stable,” he says, into your hair.
“You’d already made two cups,” you say. “You knew I was coming.”
He laughs again, quieter. His arm is around you and his chin is on your head and across the paddock Chicago the foal is watching you both with enormous disinterested eyes. “Since the diner,” he says. “The first morning.”
“I know,” you say.
“You know?”
“You looked at me before you smiled,” you say. “Just for a second. Before the smile came. That’s when I knew.”
He pulls back enough to look at you. His expression — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but warm all the way through now, nothing held back. “Lord,” he says softly. “You see everything.”
“I’m a teacher,” you say. “It’s the job.”
He kisses you. Right there at the paddock fence in the cold, his hand in your hair and yours in his coat, and it is nothing like the gentle kiss in the schoolroom — it is certain and warm and long and he kisses you like a man who has been holding something carefully for a very long time and has finally been told he can put it down.
When you separate, eventually, you are both slightly breathless. “Darlin’,” he says, low, the word doing what it does when it’s just yours.
“Yes?” you say.
“Come inside,” he says. “Bea made enough breakfast for six people and Eli is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you.”
You laugh. You take his hand. You go inside and Eli does, in fact, lose his mind. Not loudly — he is not a loud child, not in the way of tantrums or theatrics — but in the specific Eli way, which is a brightness that takes over his whole face before he can manage it, and then the immediate, instinctive suppression of it into dignity, and then the dignity failing completely because he is seven and some things are too good to be dignified about.
He is at the kitchen table with Bea when you come through the door behind Heeseung, still holding his hand, which Eli clocks immediately with the particular alertness of a child who has been waiting for exactly this data point. His eyes go to your joined hands. Then to your face. Then to his father’s face. Then back to your hands.
Bea, who misses nothing and reacts to nothing, sets a plate on the table. “Sit down,” she says. “Food’s hot.” Eli sits down. He is vibrating slightly.
You sit across from him. Heeseung sits beside you, easy, his knee against yours under the table. Bea puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes back to the stove. Eli looks at you. “Hi,” you say.
“Hi,” he says. Carefully. Then, unable to help it: “Are you staying for breakfast?”
“If that’s alright.”
“It’s alright,” he says, very quickly. He picks up his fork. He puts it down. He looks at his father with the expression of a child requiring confirmation of something he doesn’t want to ask directly. Heeseung looks at him steadily. “Yes,” he says.
Eli picks up his fork again. He eats a bite of egg with enormous composure. Then: “I told Cody you’d probably end up friends.”
“Did you,” Heeseung says.
“I said probably.” He cuts a piece of biscuit with careful precision. “Cody said maybe.” He looks at you. “I was right.”
“You usually are,” you say.
This pleases him so deeply that he has to look at his plate to manage it. Bea, at the stove, makes a sound that is not quite a laugh but contains one.
Breakfast at Sunrise Ranch on a Sunday morning. This is what it is: the kitchen warm from the stove, the windows fogged slightly at the corners, Bea moving with the unhurried authority of someone who has run this kitchen for twenty years and will run it twenty more. Eli eating and talking and eating and talking, a stream of school information directed primarily at you — Tommy can do multiplication now and Clara finished the new books already, both of them and Grace thinks she should be in charge of the globe but the globe has a crack in it so it seems unfair — and Heeseung beside you, knee against yours, drinking his coffee and listening to his son with that expression, the open unguarded one, the love-without-complication one.
Once, while Eli is telling you about the globe, Heeseung’s hand finds yours under the table. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. He is looking at Eli. His thumb moves once across your knuckles and stays. You look at Eli and listen about the globe.
After breakfast Eli disappears outside — Riki materialises to take him to the stable, the easy choreography of a household that has its rhythms — and Bea goes to do something elsewhere in the house with pointed discretion, and you are alone in the kitchen with Heeseung and the remains of breakfast and the Sunday morning quiet.
He refills your coffee. He sits back down, closer this time, turned toward you slightly, his arm along the back of your chair. “Tell me about him,” he says. “If you want. Richard.”
You look at your cup. “I don’t want to spend the morning on Richard.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I want to understand what he did. What you were carrying when you came here.” His voice is even. “Not for any reason except I want to know what it cost you. Because I think it cost you a lot and I don’t think many people asked.”
You look at him. The steadiness of him, and underneath it now, openly, the warmth. You tell him. Not everything — there is no everything yet, some things need more time and more trust before they become speakable — but the shape of it: the engagement, the ending of it, the way the story moved through their social world with Richard’s fingerprints invisible on it, the school where you’d taught finding reasons to see you differently, your mother’s voice on the phone saying maybe if you’d been less. The twenty-seven job applications. Castillo Creek writing back.
Heeseung listens the way he always listens — completely, without filling the pauses, without deciding what your story means before you’ve finished telling it.
When you’re done he is quiet for a moment. “He came here thinking you’d go back,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you—”
“I was never going back.” You look at him. “I think I knew that before he arrived. I think Castillo Creek stopped being a retreat and started being — this — weeks ago. I just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”
Heeseung nods, slow. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with the same careful deliberateness he always uses — the gesture that gives you time to move away, that assumes nothing — and leaves his hand curved at your jaw. “He doesn’t get to have this,” he says. Quietly. “What happened to you back there. He doesn’t get to have the last word on it.”
“He doesn’t,” you agree.
“You fixed a gate,” Heeseung says. “You wrote two letters to the school board. You put a drawing on your wall.” His thumb at your jaw, the lightest movement. “You’re not someone who needed rescuing.”
“No,” you say. “I’m not.”
“Good,” he says. And kisses you, soft and brief, like a conclusion.
—
The weeks that follow are the best of your life.
You will think this later and it will surprise you — not the fact of it but the simplicity of it, that best can be made of such ordinary material. Morning coffee. The schoolhouse. Eli’s questions at lunch. Jay’s diner on Friday evenings. The ranch on Saturdays, your boots by the stable door, your coffee cup with the small chip in the handle that has become yours without anyone saying so.
Heeseung walks you home from the diner on Fridays and comes in now — Mrs. Della receives him with the satisfaction of someone whose predictions are being validated in real time — and they drink coffee at the kitchen table, all three of them, and talk until late, and then he walks back to the ranch and you watch him from the porch.
He kisses you in ordinary places: at the boarding house gate, in Jay’s diner when Jay has turned to the back shelf, at the paddock fence with one arm over the rail and one around you. He kisses you like someone who is very aware of what he has and intends to be careful with it. Tender, deliberate, thorough. You are, you think, going to have to do something about the thorough.
It happens on a Saturday in early December. Eli is in town with Riki — a deliberate arrangement, you’ll think later, with the particular transparency of a child who is also operating a long game — and Bea has gone to her sister’s for the weekend, and the ranch is quiet and cold and yours.
You come over in the morning with the box of marking you’d told yourself you’d do at the kitchen table, which is true, and which you do, for approximately forty minutes while Heeseung works at the desk in the adjoining room doing ranch accounts. The domestic ordinariness of it — the scratch of his pen, the occasional sound of a horse outside, the winter light — is the kind of thing you want to press into memory and keep.
Then the pen stops. You hear his chair. His footsteps. He appears in the kitchen doorway and leans against the frame and looks at you. “You’re not working,” you say, without looking up.
“I finished,” he says.
“I haven’t.”
“How much is left?”
You look at the stack. “Some.”
“Y/N.” You look up. He is in the doorway with his arms crossed and that expression — the warm one, the open one, the one that has nothing controlled about it — and the morning light behind him and the whole quiet ranch around you.
“Come here,” he says. You put your pen down. You go.
He kisses you in the hallway, backed against the wall with one hand braced beside your head and one at your waist, and it is immediately different from all the careful public kisses — there is nothing held back in it, nothing managing itself, just his mouth on yours and the warmth of him and the knowledge that there is no gate, no Eli, no diner bell, nowhere either of you needs to be.
You pull him closer by the front of his shirt. He makes a sound low in his chest — something between a groan and an exhale, the sound of a man whose patience has run its full course — and his hand moves from your waist to your hip and presses there, firm and deliberate. “Heeseung,” you say, against his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says. Like he knows.
“Bedroom,” you say. He pulls back enough to look at you — checking, the way he always checks, that you mean what you say — and you look back at him clearly, no ambiguity, and he makes that sound again and takes your hand and takes you there.
His bedroom is the ranch made interior: worn timber, a quilt in faded colours, the window looking out over the paddock. Clean and spare and entirely his. It smells like him — something warm and outdoor and specific, the smell you’ve catalogued without meaning to over months of being near him.
You sit on the edge of the bed and he stands in front of you and you reach up and take his hat off and set it on the nightstand. He looks down at you with that open expression, the warmth all the way through. “You’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he says.
“Since the diner,” you say. “The first morning.”
He laughs, surprised out of it, and cups your face in both hands and tilts it up and kisses you — but then he slows, and the kiss goes gentle again, the unbearable gentleness, and you feel it in your throat. “I want to take my time,” he says, against your mouth. Low. Deliberate. “That alright?”
You think about six months of composure and careful distances and soon and not yet. “Yes,” you say. “But you should know I’m not going to be patient about it.”
The corner of his mouth, close to yours. “That a fact.”
“Fair warning.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft place below your ear, taking his time as advertised and apparently fully at peace with the consequences of this, and you grip his shirt and close your eyes and let him.
He undresses you slowly.Each button on the front of your dress — his fingers finding each one, unhurried, like he has nowhere to be in the world except here — and watching his face while he does it: the focus, the deliberateness, the slight tension in his jaw that tells you the patience is real but not effortless. “You’re staring,” you say.
“Yes,” he agrees, without apology. When the dress is off he looks at you in the winter light from the window and the expression on his face — unhidden, unmanaged — does something to you more immediately than any touch. “Lord,” he says, soft. Same word as the paddock. Different weight.
“Your turn,” you say, and reach for his shirt buttons. He lets you. He watches you work through them with the stillness of a man exercising enormous self-control, and when you push the shirt off his shoulders you let your hands sit on his chest for a moment — warm skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms — and look up at him.
“Hi,” you say. Something breaks open in his face. He pulls you up and against him and holds you there, skin to skin, his arms around you and his face in your hair, and you feel him breathe.
“Hi,” he says. Into your hair. Low and wrecked and yours.
He keeps his word about taking his time. He lays you back and moves over you and learns you slowly — his mouth at your throat, your collarbone, lower, taking inventory with the thoroughness of a man who intends to know exactly what he’s doing and is not embarrassed about the methodology. He finds the places that make you make sounds and stays there, patient, deliberate, until you are gripping the quilt. “Heeseung—”
“Mm,” he says. Not a response. A sound of someone occupied.
“I said I wouldn’t be patient—”
“I heard you.” He looks up at you from where he is, and the look on his face — dark-eyed, certain, that half-smile with intent behind it — dismantles you completely. “I’m getting there, darlin’.”
The darlin’. In that voice, in this room, low and deliberate. Just yours. “You are going to be the death of me,” you say.
“Not the plan,” he says, and goes back to what he was doing.
When his fingers find you you are already slick and wanting, six months of tension and patience and soon and careful distances arriving at this, and the sound you make is entirely involuntary. He stills. “Okay?” he says.
“Yes,” you say. “Please.”
He watches your face while he works — that focused look, reading you the way he reads everything, paying attention — and his fingers are skilled and patient and exactly right, and you are aware of him watching you come apart under his hands and aware that you don’t mind, that the composed face is nowhere and you don’t miss it. “That’s it,” he says, low, when your hips lift toward him. “There you go.” The voice. The drawl. The absolute certainty of him.
You come with his name in your mouth and his hand at your hip steadying you and his eyes on your face the whole time, and he works you through it with the same thoroughness he brought to everything else, and when you’re done he presses his mouth to your temple and stays there. “Good?” he says.
“Don’t be smug,” you say.
He laughs. “Not smug.”
“You’re a little smug.”
“Maybe a little.” He pulls back to look at you, and the smugness is there, yes, but underneath it something so warm and open that it cancels the smugness out entirely. “You’re beautiful,” he says. Simply. The way he says things that are just true. You reach up and pull him down. You have him on his back.
This is where you reclaim the pace — you swing your leg over and sit up and look down at him and watch his face do something entirely new, an expression you haven’t seen before: surprise, quickly followed by want, and underneath both of them something that is trying to be collected and isn’t. “Hi,” you say.
“Hi,” he says. His hands find your hips. He is, you note with satisfaction, not as composed as he was.
You move — slowly, deliberately — and watch his jaw set and his hands tighten on your hips and his head press back into the pillow. There is a specific pleasure in this that has nothing to do with the physical, or not only — the pleasure of watching Lee Heeseung, who is patient and steady and controlled, lose every one of those things because of you. “Lord,” he says, choked.
“Mm,” you say. His own syllable, returned.
“Y/N—”
“I heard you,” you say. “I’m getting there.”
He makes a sound that is half a groan and half a laugh and his grip on your hips tightens and his hips roll up to meet you and the laugh is gone, replaced by something lower and more urgent. “You’re—” he starts.
“I know,” you say.
“No, I mean you’re—” he stops again, jaw tight, eyes dark, looking up at you with the expression of a man whose vocabulary has been significantly reduced. “God, darlin’—”
His hand leaves your hip and finds your hair and pulls you down and kisses you deep and then his arms wrap around you and he rolls you over and you go, laughing, and then the laughing stops because he is looking at you with that expression still, wrecked and warm, and moves and you stop thinking about anything at all.
Afterward the ranch is quiet around you. You are in the faded quilt and his arm is around you and your head is on his chest and you can hear his heartbeat, slower now, and outside the paddock the horses move in the winter afternoon. His hand is in your hair, a slow absent movement. “That wasn’t what I expected,” he says.
“What did you expect?”
A pause. “Not that,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.
You prop yourself up to look at him. He is looking at the ceiling with an expression of serene disbelief. “You look like a man who’s had a revelation,” you say.
“Something like that.” He looks at you, and the expression shifts into the warm open one, the real one. “You’re something else,” he says.
“Is that a complaint?”
“No,” he says. Definitively. “Not even close.”
You lie back down. His arm comes back around you. “Eli’s back at four,” you say.
“I know.”
“I should probably be at the kitchen table with my marking.”
“Probably,” he agrees, and makes no move to change the current arrangement. You lie in the quiet ranch afternoon and listen to his heartbeat and the horses and the winter silence and feel — you take inventory carefully, the way you do when something feels too good to trust yet — feel, genuinely and completely, right. In this room, in this town, in this life that was built from the furthest-job-offer and a broken gate and a man who made two cups of coffee because he knew you were coming.
“Heeseung,” you say. “I’m staying,” you say. “I know I said it at the fence. I’m saying it again.”
His arm tightens. Just once. “I know,” he says.
“I want you to know it,” you say. “Really know it. Not — hope it. Know it.”
A silence. His heartbeat steady under your ear. “I know it,” he says. Quietly. And then: “I’m not going anywhere either.”
I’m not going anywhere. First time he said it, at the harvest dance, it was an offer. Now it is something else — an answer, a matching of weight, the both of you putting the same thing down on the same table and deciding to trust it.
Outside: the paddock, the winter sky, Chicago the foal grown enough now to move with some authority, her dark coat catching the low December light.
Inside: the quilt, the heartbeat, the quiet. New soil, you think, for the last time that way. Because it isn’t new anymore. It’s just — yours. The roots are in. The thing has grown.
You stay exactly where you are until three forty-five, and then you get up and go back to your marking, and when Eli comes home at four and finds you at the kitchen table with your papers and his father making coffee at the stove he looks between you both with the assessment of a child who has gotten what he wanted and finds the result satisfactory.
He sits down across from you and opens his schoolbag. “I have reading,” he announces.
“Do it, then,” his father says.
Eli opens his book. You mark your papers. Heeseung brings coffee and goes back to the stove. The kitchen is warm and smells like dinner starting and outside the winter light is going gold over Sunrise Ranch. Eli reads three pages and then looks up. “Miss?” he says.
“Mm?”
“Are you staying for dinner?”
You look at Heeseung. He is at the stove and not looking at you but the back of his neck says everything. “If that’s alright,” you say.
Eli looks back at his book with an expression of profound satisfaction. “It’s alright,” he says.
—
December in Castillo Creek is cold and clear and strung with the particular quiet of a place that doesn’t make much noise about the holidays but means them deeply. The church puts candles in its windows. The general store gets a pine wreath on the door. Jay hangs lights along the diner’s front awning — coloured glass, old, the kind that have been on the same string for fifteen years and still work because Jay is meticulous about the things that matter to him. Mrs. Della bakes for a week straight and distributes the results to the whole street, appearing at doors with tins and brooking no argument.
The schoolhouse gets a paper chain. This is Eli’s doing — he arrives one Monday in the first week of December with a paper bag of coloured strips and announces to the class that they are making a paper chain, his tone suggesting this is non-negotiable, which it is. Grace organises the distribution of strips by colour. Tommy figures out the interlinking system and explains it to the little ones with unexpected patience. Eli and Clara argue about whether it should go across the windows or along the beams and settle on both, and by Friday afternoon the schoolhouse has been transformed by fourteen pairs of hands into something festive and faintly chaotic and entirely theirs.
You stand at the back of the room on Friday and look at it. Two months, you think. Ten weeks. The number Eli’s father said and you corrected, that first confrontation with Richard outside the general store that feels like it happened to someone in a different chapter of a different book.
You have been here three months now. You look at the paper chain and the drawings on the wall — Eli’s has been joined by two others, unsolicited offerings left on your desk on separate Mondays, one from Lottie of what appears to be you and a horse, one from Tommy of the schoolhouse with everyone standing outside it, their names printed carefully above their heads — and something in your chest is so full it has nowhere to go. You put your coat on and lock up and walk home in the cold.
Heeseung takes you riding properly for the first time on a Saturday in the second week of December. Scout this time — not Honey, not the chair — and you get on him in the yard with Heeseung holding the bridle and talking you through it, that same teaching voice, patient and specific and trusting you to get there. Scout is large and entirely calm and turns out to have a gait so smooth it borders on considerate.
“Told you he was a gentleman,” Heeseung says, walking beside you for the first few minutes.
“You can let go,” you say.
“I know.” He does. Steps back. Watches. You ride Scout to the end of the paddock and back, and then around the perimeter, and somewhere in the second circuit you stop thinking about what your hands are doing and just ride, and the feeling of it — the size of the animal beneath you, the cold air, the ranch open around you in the winter morning — is the kind of feeling you didn’t know you were missing until it arrived.
Heeseung is at the fence when you come back, arms resting on the rail, watching you with that expression he gets when he’s pleased about something and not performing it. “Well?” he says.
“He’s better than Honey,” you say.
“Don’t let Honey hear that.”
You dismount — not elegantly, but functionally, which is an improvement — and Scout drops his nose to Heeseung’s shoulder in greeting and Heeseung rubs his neck without looking away from you. “There’s a place I want to show you,” he says. “If you’re up for a longer ride.”
“How long?”
“Hour out. Hour back.” He tilts his head. “Worth it.”
You look at Scout. Scout looks at you with patient equine agreement. “Alright,” you say.
He takes you east, past the fence line, up into the low hills where the land changes from flat scrub to something rougher and more interesting, the winter grass pale gold, the sky enormous and white-edged. They ride side by side where the terrain allows and single file where it doesn’t, Heeseung ahead on the narrow parts, and he doesn’t talk much on the way, just rides, and you learn something about him in the riding — the ease of it, how completely at home he is moving through this land, how he and Scout communicate in small adjustments with no visible negotiation.
The place he wants to show you is at the top of the second hill. It is, simply, a view: the whole of the valley below, Castillo Creek visible as a cluster of shapes in the distance, the ranch a paler geometry of buildings and fence lines to the west, and beyond everything the flat enormous Texas horizon going all the way to where the sky meets the earth. You sit on Scout at the top of the hill and look at it. “Oh,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says.
The winter light is doing something particular to the valley — low and golden and very clear, the kind of light that makes everything look more itself than usual. You can see the creek, barely, a dark thread through the scrub. You can see, or imagine you can see, the white corner of the schoolhouse.
“My father used to bring me here,” Heeseung says. Beside you now, Scout and his horse standing easy. “When I was Eli’s age. Said if you ever got confused about what mattered you could come up here and look at it.”
“Does it work?”
“Every time.” He looks at the valley. “I came here a lot after Clara left. Trying to—” a pause “—get the proportion of things right.”
You look at him. He is looking at the valley with that quiet expression, the one that belongs to this land and this ranch and the private life he’s lived in them. “Did it help?” you say.
“Eventually.” He glances at you. “Took a while.”
You look back at the valley. Castillo Creek in the winter light. The white edge of the sky. “I want to bring Eli here,” you say. “When he’s old enough to—” you stop, aware suddenly of what you’ve just said — the assumption in it, the future in it, the easy taking-for-granted of a thing that is still, technically, new.
But Heeseung isn’t looking at the valley anymore. He is looking at you. “He’d like that,” he says. Simply. No performance of casualness, no careful management. Just the statement, meaning everything it means.
You look at him. He looks at you. The horses stand easy in the winter wind. “I love you,” you say. First time, on a hilltop in December with the whole valley below you, because it is true and it has been true for long enough that not saying it has become its own kind of dishonesty.
Heeseung is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches across the space between the horses and finds your hand and holds it, his thumb moving across your knuckles in the way it does. “I love you,” he says. “Been a while since I said that to anyone.” He looks at your joined hands. “Feels different this time.”
“Different how?”
He considers this with the seriousness he brings to things that matter. “Steadier,” he says. “Like saying something I already knew instead of something I was hoping would be true.”
You look at the valley and his hand around yours and the winter sky and the whole quiet particular life you have landed in, with its paper chains and borrowed boots and gap-toothed boy and a man who makes two cups of coffee because he knows you’re coming. “Steadier,” you agree.
Christmas at the ranch. This is not planned either — or it is planned by everyone except you, you discover, Mrs. Della and Bea and Jay all operating in quiet coordination, the whole thing arriving complete and inevitable on Christmas morning when Heeseung appears at the boarding house at ten with Eli and Riki and the truck and says “come to the ranch” in the same simple offering voice he uses for everything. Mrs. Della has already sent the cobbler ahead.
The day is the kitchen and the table extended to fit everyone — Jay materialises at noon with cornbread and the particular satisfaction of a man in his preferred social configuration — and Eli opening things with the focused efficiency of a child who has been patient about this for weeks, and Riki eating more than anyone else and not being asked about it, and Bea’s food, and the fire in the front room where you end up in the afternoon, the cold coming down outside and the ranch warm and close around you all.
Eli falls asleep in the armchair at four, his new book open on his chest. Jay catches your eye across the room and very deliberately does not look at Heeseung beside you on the sofa, which is Jay at his most ostentatious.
Riki carries Eli to bed with the long-practiced ease of someone who has done it before. Bea goes home to her sister. Jay stays for dinner and then takes himself off with the timing of a man who knows exactly when he’s no longer needed, and then it is just you and Heeseung in the front room with the fire going low.
He has his arm around you. Your feet are tucked up on the sofa. Outside the ranch is quiet and cold and dark. “Good day,” he says.
“Very good day,” you say.
He presses his mouth to your hair. “Stay,” he says. “Tonight. Eli’s asleep. You can take the—”
“Yes,” you say.
A pause. “I was going to say the spare—”
“I know what you were going to say,” you say. “Yes.” His arm tightens. He laughs, low and warm, into your hair. You don’t take the spare room.
—
January comes cold and clear. The new year settles over Castillo Creek with the quiet confidence of a place that has seen many of them and expects to see many more. The schoolhouse reopens the second week of January and the children arrive back with the particular energy of people who have been inside for two weeks and have run out of patience with it. Eli is approximately three inches taller, which you mention, and he tells you seriously that Bea measured him on the door frame and he grew one inch and you are not to exaggerate.
Tommy’s numbers are clean and confident now, left-handed from the start, and you watch him work through a column of addition with the ease of someone who has finally been given the right tool for the job, and feel the specific satisfaction of a teacher who has solved the right problem.
Clara has started writing stories. She brings you the first one on a Thursday in a folded piece of paper, her best handwriting, three pages, a story about a girl who goes on a journey and comes back changed. She stands by your desk while you read it and doesn’t pretend not to care about your response, which you respect enormously. It is good — genuinely good, the instinct for story already there, the voice already hers. “This is wonderful,” you tell her.
“Really?” she says, in the voice of a child who already knows but needs to hear it.
“Really.” You set it on the desk. “Have you shown your parents?”
“Not yet.” She folds the paper back up carefully. “I wanted to know if it was good first.”
“It’s good,” you say. “Show them. And write me another one.” Clara goes back to her seat with her story in her hand and the particular glow of a person who has been given something real to carry.
On the last Friday in January, Jay closes the diner early. He does this without explanation, just turns the sign and pours three glasses of something that is not coffee and sets them on the counter, and looks at you and Heeseung on opposite stools and says: “I want to make a toast.”
“Jay,” Heeseung says.
“I’m serious. I’ve been waiting for the right moment and I’ve decided this is it.” He picks up his glass. “To the new schoolteacher. Who fixed the gate,” Jay says, overriding you. “And stayed when she didn’t have to. And who—” he stops, and something moves through his expression that is not the easy social warmth but something deeper and more real “—who is good for this town. And for the specific people in it who needed good things to happen to them.”
He looks at Heeseung when he says the last part. Heeseung is looking at the counter. The back of his neck does the thing. “To Castillo Creek,” Jay says. “And to people who stay.”
You pick up your glass. Heeseung picks up his. “To Castillo Creek,” you say.
Jay grins. You all three drink. “Right,” Jay says, setting his glass down with a decisive click. “Now. Heeseung. Are you going to ask her or are you going to make me wait another six months.”
The diner goes very quiet. Heeseung looks at Jay with the expression of a man who is going to have a word with his best friend at a later date. Jay looks back with the expression of a man who has no regrets. “Ask me what?” you say.
Heeseung turns to you. He is — you watch the careful management dissolve, replaced by something undefended, the real face he’s been showing you more and more since December, since the hilltop, since steadier. He looks at you for a moment and then he does something you haven’t seen him do: he reaches into his shirt pocket. “I was going to do this differently,” he says.
“Jay ruined it?”
“Jay ruined it,” he agrees, without looking at Jay, who has the good grace to say nothing.
What’s in his pocket is not a ring box — not the velvet-and-presentation kind. It is a ring wrapped in a piece of cloth, unwrapped in his palm: gold, simple, a small band with a detail you can’t quite see yet. His mother’s, you’ll learn later. The one his grandmother brought from her own mother and passed down and which his mother pressed into his hand the Christmas before last and said when it’s right, you’ll know. He holds it in his palm and looks at you. “I know this is fast,” he says.
“It’s not,” you say. “It’s been since the diner.”
The corner of his mouth. “Since the diner,” he says. “I’ve been—” he stops. Tries again. “I don’t have a speech. I thought I’d have one by now but I don’t.” He looks at the ring in his hand. “I know what kind of person you are. I’ve watched you for four months and I know.” He looks up at you. “You fixed things that weren’t yours to fix. You stayed when it would have been easier to go. You put a drawing on your wall.” He closes his hand briefly around the ring, then opens it again. “My son thinks the sun rises and sets with you, which is—” his voice does something “—which is not a small thing. Coming from him.”
You are doing everything in your power to hold your face together and succeeding imperfectly. “I love you,” he says. “And I would very much like you to stay. Not just in the town. Here. At the ranch.” He holds the ring out toward you, steadily, his hand not moving. “With us.”
The diner. The coloured lights along the awning. Jay, very carefully, looking at the ceiling. You look at Heeseung Lee with his mother’s ring in his palm and his whole face open and waiting and none of the patience effortless anymore, all of it visible, the hope and the care and the barely-controlled terror of a man asking for the thing he wants most. “Yes,” you say.
Jay makes a sound. Heeseung lets out a breath that has been held since approximately November.
He puts the ring on your finger — it fits, which is either luck or fate or Bea, who you will later determine took one of your gloves to a jeweller in the next town, bless her — and then he holds your hand and looks at it and then at you, and the expression on his face is something you will carry for the rest of your life: unguarded and certain and entirely, quietly, happy. “Finally,” says Jay, with enormous feeling.
“I’m going to fire you,” Heeseung says.
“You don’t employ me.”
“I’m going to stop eating here.”
“You were here yesterday and you’re here now.” You are laughing, you realise. Both of you are laughing, your hand in both of his, and Jay is pouring more of the not-coffee and the diner lights are warm and outside Castillo Creek is cold and dark and going about its business.
Eli knows before you tell him. You don’t know how — this is simply a thing about Eli, that he knows things — but when you and Heeseung sit down with him on Saturday morning at the kitchen table with the specific parental gravity of people who have something to say, he looks at you both and then at your hand and then back at you and says: “Are you going to live here now?”
“If you’re alright with it,” you say.
He looks at his cereal. He stirs it. He does this for long enough that something uncertain stirs in you, the awareness that this is a seven-year-old boy whose mother left and whose life is about to change and who is allowed to have feelings about that. “Eli,” Heeseung says, gently. “You can say whatever you’re thinking.”
Eli looks up. His face is doing several things. “I just,” he starts. Stops. “I named the foal Chicago,” he says. “Before. I named it before because—” he stops again. Stirs his cereal. “I wanted you to stay from the beginning,” he says, quickly, like getting a thing out before he can change his mind. “I knew you were good before Dad did. I told Riki.”
“What did Riki say?” you ask.
“He said he knew too.” Eli looks at you. “Are you going to be my—” he stops at the word, turns it over, decides something. “Are you going to be my mom?”
The kitchen is very quiet. You look at this boy — gap-toothed, dark-eyed, too perceptive for his own good, who named a foal after a city to make you feel at home, who put FRIENDS at the bottom of a drawing in careful uneven letters — and your composed face is absolutely nowhere to be found. “I would very much like to,” you say. “If you want that.”
Eli looks at his cereal for a moment. Then he gets down from his chair and comes around the table and climbs into your lap, which he has never done before, and sits there with the specific decision of a child who has made up his mind. “Okay,” he says. You put your arms around him.
Across the table Heeseung has his hand over his mouth and is looking at the ceiling, which is the composed face losing, and you have never loved him more than right now. Eli, from your lap: “Can I still call you Miss at school?”
“You have to call me Miss at school,” you say.
“Good,” he says. “’Cause Cody would be weird about it.”
Riki takes the news with characteristic economy. He looks at your hand. He looks at Heeseung. He looks at you. He nods once, slowly, like a man confirming a long-held suspicion. “I told Eli in October,” he says. “That you were going to stay.”
“You told me in October,” you say. “That he was happy. More than usual.”
Riki looks between you both. “Yeah,” he says. He picks up his coffee and goes back toward the stable. Then, over his shoulder, not quite casually enough: “About time.”
February. The foal is four months old and has decided what her legs are for and uses them constantly, her dark coat catching the winter light where it falls across the paddock. Eli visits her every day before and after school and maintains a detailed running report on her progress that he delivers at the dinner table with the authority of someone who considers herself the foremost expert on Chicago specifically.
Your things have migrated slowly from the boarding house to the ranch over the course of January, the natural movement of a life toward where it belongs — books first, then the rest, Mrs. Della receiving each removal with the particular warm satisfaction of a woman who considers herself personally responsible for the outcome and is not incorrect.
Your coat is on the hook by the ranch door. Your coffee cup — chipped handle, yours — is in the cupboard. Your books are on the shelf in the front room, mixed in with Heeseung’s without ceremony, which is the most domestically intimate thing you’ve ever done and which undoes you slightly every time you look at it.
The drawing is still on the schoolhouse wall. It will stay there. You’ve decided this. Miss Y/N and Eli. Friends. Let every child who comes through that room see it — the evidence that teachers are people who belong somewhere, that belonging is a thing that can be built, that a drawing on a wall can be the most important document in a room full of books.
The last Friday in February, you and Heeseung are at Jay’s after closing. This is the usual arrangement — Jay with his counter, you on the stools, the diner warm and the street dark outside. But tonight Jay has put a record on, something slow, and the coloured lights along the awning are on outside, and it is, you think, the same scene as nearly five months ago except that nothing is the same at all. “Dance with me,” Heeseung says. The same words as the harvest dance. The same quiet directness. You get off the stool.
He takes your hand and you dance in Jay’s empty diner to the slow record, your hand on his shoulder and his at your waist and the ring on your finger catching the light when you turn. Jay watches from behind the counter with the expression of a man who has everything he wanted from this situation and finds it entirely satisfactory. “First dance,” you say. “You said your mother taught you.”
“She did.”
“I want to meet her.”
His hand at your waist, warm and firm. “She’s coming in March,” he says. “She’s been asking since October.”
“October,” you say.
“Eli told her about the dialect conversation.” His mouth at your temple. “She said anyone who could get Eli to use the word dialect correctly in a sentence was worth meeting.”
“High bar,” you say.
“For her, yes.” He pulls back slightly to look at you. The expression — open, warm, steady all the way down. “She’s going to love you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says. Simply. “She knows people. Runs in the family.”
You think of a seven-year-old boy naming a foal Chicago in October. Knowing before anyone else. “Apparently it does,” you say. He smiles — the real one, the full one, the one that you catalogued on a diner stool on your first morning in Castillo Creek and have been cataloguing ever since, the one that is different when it’s just yours — and turns you slowly on the diner floor.
Outside: Castillo Creek, cold and clear, the stars doing their enormous Texas thing. The main street quiet, the church dark, the boarding house where you no longer live, the schoolhouse with its paper chain long since taken down and its drawing still on the wall. Inside: the music, the lights, the man, the ring, the dancing. New soil, you think, for the very last time and immediately think: no. Not new anymore. Just home.
—
Spring comes to Castillo Creek the way it comes to places that have earned it. Not dramatically — no single morning where you wake and everything is different — but incrementally, the way the best things happen: a degree warmer each week, the scrub going from pale gold to something greener at the edges, the creek running higher with the snowmelt from somewhere distant and northern. The horses grow restless in the way of animals that can smell a season changing. Chicago the foal gallops the length of the paddock every morning for no reason except that the air tastes different and her legs are finally, fully hers.
The schoolhouse gets its windows opened for the first time since October. This is a significant event. The children treat it as such, orienting their desks subtly toward the new rectangles of warm air, their attention drifting pleasurably to the sounds coming in — birdsong, wind, the distant sound of someone on the main street calling to someone else. You allow this. Spring arriving through classroom windows is an education of its own kind.
Eli sits at his desk on the first warm Friday and tilts his face toward the window with his eyes closed and the expression of a person receiving something they’ve been waiting for. “Eli,” you say.
“I’m thinking,” he says, without opening his eyes. You carry on.
Margaret Lee arrives on a Tuesday in the second week of March. She is not what you expected, which means you had built an expectation without realising it — some composite of your own mother and the idea of a woman who raised Heeseung, formidable and warm. Margaret Lee is both of these things and also neither of them, which is the way of people who exceed the categories you’ve prepared.
She is small. This is the first surprise — Heeseung is tall and she is small, barely to his shoulder, which he accommodates with the automatic ease of someone who has been bending toward her his whole life. She has grey-streaked hair and her son’s dark eyes and the particular posture of a woman who has decided exactly who she is and arranged herself accordingly. She steps down from the bus and looks at the main street of Castillo Creek and then at you, standing beside her son at the bus stop, and her face does something quick and assessing and then opens entirely. “There she is,” she says.
Heeseung looks at you. You look at Heeseung. “I feel like people keep saying that to me,” you say.
Margaret Lee laughs — genuine and sudden, the same quality of laugh as her son’s, the kind that alters the whole face — and takes both your hands in hers. “Lee Heeseung has been talking about you since October,” she says, without preamble. “He didn’t know he was doing it. He thought he was just giving me news from the town.” She pats your hands and releases them and looks at her son. “He mentioned you in every single letter.”
“Mama,” Heeseung says.
“The schoolteacher fixed the gate,” she says, in a perfect impression of neutrality. “‘The schoolteacher came to see the ranch. The schoolteacher can ride.’” She picks up her bag. “Every letter, Lee. Every one.”
“I’m aware,” he says.
“He thought I didn’t notice,” she tells you.
“I’m standing right here,” he says.
“I know, baby.” She pats his arm and walks toward the truck. You fall into step beside her and catch, from the corner of your eye, Heeseung’s expression — the exasperated tender helpless expression of a man who loves his mother and is entirely at her mercy and has made his peace with both of these facts. You like her immediately and completely.
She stays two weeks and in those two weeks she does the following: reorganises the kitchen at the ranch in a way that Bea approves of and Heeseung adapts to without complaint, teaches Eli three card games of increasing moral dubiousness, tells you four stories about Heeseung’s childhood that he would prefer you not to have, sits with you on the porch every morning with coffee and talks to you the way women talk when they’ve decided to trust each other — plainly, without ornament.
On the fourth morning she says: “Tell me about before.” You look at the paddock. Chicago the foal. The pale spring sky. “Before Castillo Creek,” she says. “If you want. You don’t have to.”
You think about before. The specific weight of it, which has changed — not lighter exactly, but different, the weight distributed differently now, held up by more points of contact so no single place takes all of it. You tell her.
She listens the way her son listens — completely, without deciding what it means before you’re done. When you finish she is quiet for a moment. “My husband left me once,” she says. “Heeseung’s father. We were young, we had a fight about something I can’t even remember now, and he left and I thought — that was that.” She looks at the paddock. “He came back in three days. But those three days I understood something I didn’t know before. That some people leave to see if you’ll chase them. And some people leave because they’re gone.” She looks at you. “The man you described sounds like the second kind.”
“He is,” you say.
“Good,” she says. “Those ones you let go.” She drinks her coffee. “My son is the staying kind. In case you didn’t know.”
“I know,” you say.
She looks at your ring. “My mother wore that for fifty-three years,” she says. “She said the secret was that you had to choose each other every day. Not just at the beginning.” She looks up at you. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” you say. Without hesitation.
She nods. She looks at the paddock. “Good,” she says again. And that is that, and you drink your coffee together in the spring morning, and when Heeseung appears in the doorway looking for his mother she looks at him with the expression of a woman who has conducted her own assessment and is satisfied with the results, and he looks between you both with the wariness of a man who knows he has been discussed and decides not to ask.
The last week of March brings something you didn’t anticipate: a letter from the county school board. You open it at your desk on a Thursday afternoon while the children are doing their reading, and it takes you two passes through it to understand what it says, and then you put it down flat on the desk and look at the middle distance.
“Miss?” Eli, from the second row. The class has the particular sharpening of attention that occurs when a teacher does something unexpected.
“Keep reading,” you say. You pick up the letter and read it a third time.
A school is being built. A larger one, two rooms, in the next town along — not Castillo Creek, but a town of similar size twenty miles east. The county board is expanding provision across the region. They need a head teacher for the new school. They have, they write, been impressed by the correspondence and the results from Castillo Creek. They are writing to offer the position to you. You fold the letter.
You teach the afternoon out. You fix a disagreement between Patrick and Beau about a coloured pencil. You listen to the little ones read and hear in Grace’s oral assessment that her comprehension has jumped significantly since January and make a note to tell her parents. You let them out at three and stand on the porch and watch them go.
Then you go home to the ranch. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you arrive. He turns when he hears the gate and reads something in your face immediately — not worry, just attention, the way he attends to you when something is different. “What happened?”
You hand him the letter. He reads it. His face is careful while he reads, the deliberate neutrality of a man withholding response until he understands what he’s responding to. He folds it when he’s done and holds it and looks at the paddock. “Twenty miles,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Head teacher.”
“Yes.”
He turns the folded letter in his hands. He looks at the horizon, the flat Texas line, and then at you. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know yet,” you say honestly. “I only just read it.”
He nods. He unfolds the letter and folds it again the other way, a thinking gesture. “It’s a good offer,” he says.
“I know.”
“The children here—” he starts.
“Would have a new teacher,” you say. “Someone good. Someone who needs a start.”
Like you needed a start. Neither of you says it but it’s there. “Twenty miles is a commute,” he says. “Not impossible.”
“No.”
He looks at you steadily. “Whatever you want to do,” he says. “I mean that.”
“I know you do.” You take the letter back, fold it into your pocket. “I need to think.”
He nods. He turns back to the paddock and after a moment his arm comes around you, easy and present, and you stand at the fence together while Chicago runs the length of the paddock for the joy of running and the spring evening comes down gold over Sunrise Ranch.
You think for three days. You think about the schoolhouse and the paper chain and Tommy’s clean left-handed numbers and Clara’s stories and Eli’s drawing on the wall. You think about fourteen children who have become yours in the particular way children become yours when you’ve solved them, when you know which problems are the real ones underneath the presenting ones, when you know who reads above their level and who is covering for a difficulty and who is going to do something surprising one day.
You think about what it would mean to build something from the beginning. Two rooms. New intake. The particular freedom and weight of being the person who sets the tone before there is a tone. You think about twenty miles and a commute and a husband with a ranch and a son who is eight in May. You think about what you came here to do and whether you’ve done it and what comes next.
On the third evening you tell Heeseung. “I’m going to turn it down,” you say.
He is at the kitchen table. He looks up. “Because of us?” he says, carefully.
“No,” you say. “Because of me.” You sit down across from him. “I came here to start over. And I have. And this—” you gesture, vaguely, at the kitchen, the ranch, the everything “—this is what I was starting over toward, even when I didn’t know it. I’m not done here. Castillo Creek isn’t done.” You look at him. “Clara is going to be a writer. I’m not done with Clara.”
Heeseung looks at you for a long moment. “You’re sure?” he says.
“I’m sure.”
He nods. Something in him settles — not the relief of a man who was afraid you’d go, because he’s past that, but the quieter thing, the satisfaction of a man watching someone he loves make a choice that is fully hers. “Write them a good letter,” he says.
“I will,” you say. “Strongly worded.” The corner of his mouth.
You write the letter on Saturday morning at the kitchen table, Eli doing his homework across from you with the focused efficiency of a child who has been told that homework-before-fun is a rule and has decided to take it seriously, Heeseung somewhere on the ranch, the spring morning coming through the window.
You thank them. You decline clearly. You recommend, in the final paragraph, that they consider expanding the library provision at existing schools before building new ones, and include three specific data points about reading outcomes, because some habits are simply who you are now. You seal the envelope. Eli looks up. “Done?”
“Done,” you say.
“What was it?”
“A job offer,” you say. “A bigger school.”
He looks at you. “Are you going?”
“No.”
He looks back at his homework. He does another line of arithmetic. Then, without looking up: “Good,” he says, in the tone of a person confirming the correct outcome. You put the letter in your pocket and drink your coffee and watch the spring morning come through the window, and outside Chicago the foal runs the paddock in the new warm air, her legs entirely hers, her name written on the sky.
May brings Eli’s birthday. He is eight. This is a serious number, he has informed you, because eight is when you can help with the real work on the ranch, not just the small stuff, and Heeseung has responded to this with the expression of a man who knows his son and has been quietly preparing for this specific negotiation for some time.
Riki gets up at dawn to decorate the stable on the day — this is Riki’s doing entirely, streamers in the ranch colours, a sign that says 8 in letters that are clearly Riki’s work and not a calligrapher’s but are heartfelt — and Eli discovers it at six-thirty when he goes to check on Chicago and comes back into the kitchen with the expression of a person who has been given something real.
Jay brings cake. Margaret, who has come back for the occasion — this is not a small thing, the coming back, and you watch Heeseung receive his mother at the bus stop with the quiet particular gratitude of an adult child who is still his mother’s, will always be — Margaret brings a present wrapped in brown paper and a ribbon, which Eli opens with the concentrated focus of someone who intends to remember the opening.
Inside: a pocket watch, old and gold, with an inscription on the back. Eli reads it. His lips move. He looks at his grandmother. “What does it say?” you ask him, gently.
He holds it out to you. You take it and read the back: Go steady. Go kind. Go far.
“It was your grandfather’s,” Margaret says. “And his father’s before that.”
Eli takes it back. He holds it in both palms and looks at it for a long moment with that Eli expression, the one where he is processing something bigger than seven-going-on-eight years of life have quite prepared him for. Then he closes his hands around it and looks at his grandmother and says: “Thank you.” No gap-toothed performance. No dignity management. Just the real thing, plain and clear.
Margaret cups his face in one hand. “You’re welcome, baby,” she says. Heeseung, beside you, takes your hand.
After the cake and the streamers and the stable and Riki being beaten at three card games by an eight-year-old, after Margaret and Jay have gone and Riki has taken himself off to give the evening its shape, you are at the paddock fence with Heeseung in the last of the May light.
Eli is with Chicago. He has had his horse for a year now and the relationship has settled into its permanent form: mutual trust, complete understanding, the particular bond between a child and an animal that is its own language. He is telling her something, pressed to her neck, and she is standing completely still with her ears forward in the way that means she is listening. “He’s going to be extraordinary,” you say.
Heeseung looks at his son. “He already is,” he says. He says it simply, no performance of it, just the fact. You lean into him. His arm comes around you.
The May evening is warm and going golden, the long Texas light doing what it does to the land, making everything more itself, more vivid, more worth looking at. The ranch in the evening — the fence lines, the water tower, the barn with its doors open, the horses in the paddock, Chicago standing still for an eight-year-old boy who is telling her his secrets. “Thank you,” you say.
“For what?”
“For the coffee,” you say. “That first morning. For making two cups.”
He looks at you. The smile — the full one, the real one, the one that is different when it’s just yours, that has been yours since a diner stool in September. “You noticed that,” he says.
“First morning,” you say. “I noticed everything first morning.”
He shakes his head slightly, the almost-laugh. His arm tightens around you. “Jay cried when I told him,” he says. “About the coffee.”
“Jay cried about Eli’s drawing.”
“Jay cries about a lot of things,” Heeseung says, affectionately.
“He does,” you agree. “It’s one of his best qualities.”
Eli has turned from Chicago now and is watching you both from across the paddock with the expression of a child conducting a quiet and ongoing assessment of the results of his work. He catches you looking and raises one hand in a small wave. You raise your hand back. He turns back to Chicago. Heeseung presses his mouth to your temple. Stays there. “Darlin’,” he says.
“Mm.”
“Come inside,” he says. “Bea left dinner.” You stay exactly one more minute — the warm arm around you, the evening light, the boy and the horse, the whole quiet extraordinary ordinary life of it — and then you go inside together, through the gate that swings clean on its hinge, into the ranch that smells like dinner and woodsmoke and home.
Behind you the sun goes down over Castillo Creek in all the colours you don’t have names for yet.
You’re staying. You’ll learn them.
This is home.
°❀࿔ TAGLIST. @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips @hooniluhv @afanok @engenewilstaykon @yumi-yearns @seungiesdoll @vivienne2000 (just ask to be added to perm taglist lovelies)
written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊
✷ lee heeseung is in need of his stupidly hot girlfriend, a.k.a. you. after seven agonizing days of distance, unanswered yearning, and an alarming amount of time spent staring at your photos, he's hanging onto his sanity by a thread. unfortunately for him, you finally come home looking even better than he remembered !
🗯️ 内容 explicit sexual content ♫ 18+ ⸝⸝ intended for mature audiences | minors do not interact ᯓ established relationship, clingy!heeseung, needy!heeseung, mutual pining, masturbation is implied for both parties, dacryphilia, overstimulation, degradation kink, edging, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampie !
EL’S ✷ BUBBLE : goodness gracious hi again everybody . . . again i spent like 3-4 days going back and forth with this and brah sorry i just kept laughing my ass off because from start to finish this is literally just smut so eeeerm whatever this is just 7k words of absolute bullshit ! request can be found here, thank u! ( •̀ ω •́ )
The worst part wasn't the distance. It wasn't the timezone difference or the spotty hotel Wi-Fi or the way your voice cracked over FaceTime at 2 AM his time when you thought he was already asleep but he never was.
The worst part was the photos.
You knew exactly what you were doing.
You had to.
There was no universe where you posted that bikini photo, the one where the teal fabric clung to your tits like it was painted on, water droplets rolling down your collarbone, sun making your skin glow like something divine, and didn't know what it would do to him.
Heeseung had been the first person to like it. Three seconds after it went up. He reshared it to his story with a black heart emoji and nobody understood why. His friends thought it was sweet. His followers assumed it was a casual boyfriend thing. But they didn't know that his hand was already down his sweatpants when he did it, that his cock was achingly hard and leaking against his palm, that the black heart was a coded message: I'm losing my fucking mind.
Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. He counted. He wasn't proud of it.
The first two days were manageable.
You sent him good morning texts with selfies, soft, sleepy, your hair messy and pillow creases on your cheek, and he could handle that. He'd smile at his phone like an idiot, type something disgusting like "you're so cute," and go about his day. But by day three, the photos started arriving. Not the public ones, those were a different kind of torture that he'd scroll through obsessively, zooming in on the curve of your waist, the glimpse of your thighs, the way your lips wrapped around that cocktail straw.
No, the private ones were what broke him.
The first was innocent enough. You were changing after the beach, and you sent a mirror selfie from the hotel bathroom — your damp hair, a white shirt that was slightly see-through from the moisture, clinging to the shape of your breasts, nipples pressing faintly against the fabric, and a pair of black panties underneath. That was it. Just that. You added a caption: "oops, forgot u were on read " and he stopped breathing for a full five seconds.
He screenshotted it. He hated himself for it. He screenshotted it and then he stared at it for twenty minutes, thumb hovering over the call button, cock throbbing in his jeans, and he didn't call because he knew if he heard your voice right then he'd say something pathetic. Something like “please come home” or “I need you so bad it's making me sick” or “I've been hard for three hours and I can't make it stop.”
So he jerked off instead. Right there on the couch, phone in one hand, cock in the other, scrolling through your story, pausing on every frame where your body was visible.
He came embarrassingly fast, under two minutes, with a broken sound that was half moan, half whine, hips bucking up into his fist, and when it was over he felt worse. Not better. Worse. Because his hand wasn't your hand, wasn't your mouth, wasn't your body, and his own orgasm felt like a consolation prize compared to what he actually wanted.
He cleaned up and stared at the ceiling and missed you so much it felt like a physical wound.
Day four was when you sent the photo. He'd later think of it that way, with reverential dread, the way people talk about natural disasters that ruin their lives.
It was a full body shot. You were wearing his black shorts, the ones that were baggy on you, the ones you'd stolen from his drawer before you left, the ones that had to be pinned at the back with a safety pin because they wouldn't stay up. They were slung low on your hips, and he could see the edge of your panties sticking out from underneath, pale pink, a thin strip of lace, the kind you wore when you wanted to feel pretty and not when you wanted to be practical.
Above the waistband, your bare stomach, your navel, and then just a bra, black, simple, pushing your breasts up in a way that made his mouth water. And your hand. Your hand was on your breast, fingers splayed, cupping it through the fabric, and you were looking at the camera with this expression that knowing. It was cruel. You knew what this would do to him. You were doing it on purpose.
His favorite. His absolute favorite. He saved it, he screenshotted it, he sent it to his hidden album, and then he put his phone down and pressed his palms against his eyes and breathed through the wave of arousal that hit him so hard it made his vision blur.
you're wearing my shorts 🤨
That's what he texted you. That's all he could manage.
yeahhh 😿 they smell like u & imy already 🙁 i sleep in them every night, you sent back.
He threw his phone across the couch.
Then he picked it back up, because of course he did.
Day five, you sent nudes. Not even strategically angled ones, real ones, the kind that left nothing to imagination. You were changing, you said, and you just had to show him. Your breasts, bare, your nipples peaked from the air conditioning, one arm stretched out holding the phone, the other covering just enough to be teasing but not enough to hide anything. A second photo: your back, arched, looking over your shoulder, the curve of your ass in those white panties, the dip of your spine, and he could see the strap marks from your bikini, tan lines that made him want to trace them with his tongue.
He sent a voicemail back. He couldn't type. He couldn't form words. So he hit record, and the sound that came out of him was filthy. He was jerking himself off, fast and wet, and he didn't even try to be quiet about it.
He let you hear everything: the slick sound of his fist, the desperate little "hah, hah" of his breathing, the whine that built in his throat, the way he said your name like a prayer and a curse at the same time. "Fuck, baby, I—I need you so bad, I can't—"and then he came, mid-sentence, with a broken moan that cracked at the end, and the voicemail ended with him panting, shaky, barely audible: "Please come home."
You sent back a voice note of your own. Just your voice, breathy and amused: "Aww. Poor baby." And then, softer, almost tender: "Four more days. You can last four more days, right?"
He couldn't. He really, truly couldn't.
Day six, the sexting happened. It started with a check-in, him asking if you'd eaten, if you were staying hydrated, if you were wearing sunscreen, and somehow, inevitably, it derailed. You told him you'd been thinking about him on the beach. About how the water felt, cold and slippery against your skin, and how you wished it was his hands instead. How you'd touched yourself in the shower that morning and imagined it was him, imagined him pressing you against the tile, imagined his mouth on your neck, his fingers inside you.
He was hard before you finished the second message.
"I want to eat you out so bad," he typed, not even caring how desperate he sounded. "I want to put my mouth on you and not stop until you're crying."
"You want to make me cry?"
"I want to make you feel so good you can't help it. I want to taste you. I want—I want—" He couldn't finish. He was too busy coming again, cock pulsing in his grip, spurting over his knuckles, and he hadn't even been looking at anything. Just the words on his screen. Just the thought of you. He came from reading a text message.
Heeseung, twenty-five years old, who prided himself on at least a little stamina, came from words on a screen like a fucking teenager, and he groaned through it, jaw clenched, and thought: I am so, so fucked.
Day seven, the last day, he didn't even touch himself. He just lay in bed and stared at your photos and throbbed. His cock was so hard it ached, flushed and angry and leaking, and he didn't wrap his hand around it because he knew it would be over in seconds and he'd feel even emptier afterward. He just let himself suffer. He let the want build until it was a living thing in his chest, a hollow hunger that no amount of his own touch could fill.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'd be home.
He didn't sleep.
You walked through the door at exactly 4:47 PM, and Heeseung was already standing in the hallway like he'd been waiting there for hours, which he had been, since you'd texted him your flight landed, since you'd texted him you were in the cab, since you'd texted him you were five minutes away.
He was wearing his grey sweatpants and an oversized black t-shirt and his hair was messy and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and the look on his face when he saw you—
It was hunger. Pure, unfiltered, desperate hunger.
And you looked so fucking good. That was the thing. You knew you did. You'd changed at the airport, into the tiniest denim shorts you owned, the ones that barely covered the bottom curve of your ass, the ones that rode up when you walked. A white tank top, thin enough that the outline of your bikini top was visible underneath, thin enough that if you took that off there would be nothing between your nipples and the fabric but air. Your skin was tanned and glowing and you smelled like coconut and sunlight and he was on you before you even set your suitcase down.
"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth, and then he was kissing you, hands everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding down to grip your ass through those ridiculous shorts, and he was already hard. You could feel him against your thigh, thick and hot, and he was pressing into you like he couldn't help it, like his body was moving on autopilot, chasing contact.
"I missed you too, baby," you murmured against his lips, and you felt him shiver at the endearment. Your hands came up to card through his hair, and you tugged, just a gentle pull, just enough to tilt his head back, and his breath caught audibly. A small, broken sound that went straight between your legs.
Heeseung, your boyfriend, your pathetic, beautiful, desperate boy, was already trembling.
"Let me—can I—" He couldn't finish a sentence. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist. He was looking at you with those big, dark eyes, pupils blown so wide the brown was barely visible, and there was a flush creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks pink. "Please. I need—it's been a week and I can't—"
"Can't what?" you asked, and your voice was low and teasing, a dangerous lilt that made his cock twitch. You knew exactly what he couldn't do. You wanted to hear him say it.
"I can't think about anything except you," he said, and his voice cracked on the word you, cracked like he was about to cry, and god, that did something to you. "I've been—I've been so hard, all week, and my hand isn't enough, and I keep coming but it doesn't help, and I—"
"Shh," you said, and you pressed your thumb to his lower lip, and his mouth fell open instantly, pliant and willing, and his tongue darted out to wet the pad of your thumb and you felt a pulse of heat between your thighs. "I'm here now. I'm going to take care of you, okay?"
He nodded frantically, your thumb still on his lips, and he looked so pretty like this — desperate and flushed and hanging on your every word.
You pulled his hair again, harder this time, and he moaned. Actually moaned, loud and shameless, head tipping back to expose the long line of his throat, and you took the opportunity to bite his neck, not gently, not a love bite, a real bite, teeth sinking into the muscle, and he bucked against you with a sound that was dangerously close to a whimper.
"Bedroom," you said.
Heeseung was on the bed before you finished the word, sitting on the edge, looking up at you with those wide, eager eyes, and you stood between his spread legs and looked down at him and felt powerful. You felt powerful alright. This boy, this beautiful, needy, pathetic boy, was literally shaking with want for you, and you'd barely touched him.
You reached down and took off your tank top, slow, dragging it up your body, and his eyes tracked the movement like he was hypnotized. Underneath was the bikini top, teal, the same one from the photo, the one he'd jerked off to four times. Your breasts were spilling out of it, the fabric barely containing them, and he made a sound — not a word, just a noise, like all the air had been punched out of him.
"You like this one?" you asked, running a finger along the edge of the fabric, pushing your breast up slightly. "You seemed to. You watched the story it was in about forty times."
"I—" His voice was raw. "I lost count."
"Take off your shirt."
He ripped it off so fast the seams made a sound, and his chest was heaving, skin flushed pink from his collarbones to his stomach, and you could see the tent in his sweatpants, could see the dark spot of precum soaking through the grey fabric. He was leaking. Just from this. Just from you standing in front of him in a bikini top.
"You're already making a mess," you observed, and you reached down and ran a single finger along the length of his cock through his pants, feather-light, and he jerked like he'd been electrocuted. His hips chased your hand the moment you pulled away, thrusting up into empty air, and he let out a whine that was so pitiful, so utterly desperate, that you felt your own arousal pulse, hot and slick, between your legs.
"Please touch me," he begged. "Please, I need—"
"In a minute." You unbuttoned your shorts and shimmied them down your legs, and underneath were the black panties. The ones from the mirror photo. The see-through ones. And he was staring at them like he was having a religious experience, mouth open, breath ragged, and you could see his cock twitch in his pants, could see another pulse of precum darken the fabric.
"Remember these?" You turned around slowly, letting him see the back, the sheer fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, the lace trim riding up just slightly, and you looked over your shoulder at him and bit your lip. "You came so hard to this picture. I heard the voicemail, baby. You sounded so pathetic. So needy. Were you that desperate for me?"
"Yes," he choked out. "Yes, I was—I am—please—"
You turned back around and stepped closer, close enough that if he leaned forward his face would be inches from your body, and you reached behind yourself and unclasped the bikini top. It fell away, and your breasts were bare, nipples hard from the cool air and from the way he was looking at you, like he was starving and you were the first meal he'd seen in a week.
He lunged forward, mouth open, aiming for your breast, and you grabbed his hair and pulled him back.
"Did I say you could touch?"
The sound he made was devastating. A sob, cut off halfway, and his eyes were wet, actually wet, glassy with unshed tears, and his lower lip was trembling, and he looked so wrecked, so utterly desperate, that for a moment you almost caved. Almost. But you wanted to draw this out. You wanted to make it good.
"Tell me what you want," you said.
"I want—I want to taste you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I want to put my mouth on you. I want—gosh, I want to eat you out so bad, I've been thinking about it all week, thinking about how you'd sound, how you'd feel on my tongue, and I—"
"Then do it."
He didn't need to be told twice.
His hands grabbed your hips and he pulled you forward and pressed his face between your legs, mouth against your pussy through the sheer fabric of your panties, and you felt the heat of his breath, the desperate slide of his tongue against the wet material. He was moaning into you, actual moans, vibrating against your clit, and the fabric was getting wetter, your wetness, his saliva, the barrier between his tongue and you becoming translucent with moisture.
"Take them off," you said, breathless, and he hooked his fingers in the waistband and dragged them down so fast the lace scratched against your thighs, and then his mouth was on you, bare, and—
Fuck.
He was good at this. He'd always been good at this, enthusiastic and sloppy and absolutely relentless, but today, after a week of wanting, a week of desperate late-night phone calls and photos and voicemails, he ate you out like he was dying. His tongue was everywhere, broad strokes through your folds, pointed flicks against your clit, and then he sucked your clit into his mouth and you gasped and your hand flew to his hair and pulled and he whimpered against you, the vibration making your knees buckle.
"Shit, baby—"
He looked up at you from between your thighs, lips swollen and glistening, chin wet, eyes glassy and pleading, and he didn't stop, he kept licking, kept sucking, kept making those small, desperate sounds against your body, and you could feel his hips rutting against the edge of the mattress, grinding against nothing, chasing friction because he was so turned on he couldn't help it.
You pushed him back, and he made a sound of protest, raw and bereft, but you were climbing onto the bed, straddling his face, and then you lowered yourself onto his mouth and he grabbed your thighs and held you there and devoured you.
His tongue was inside you, then on your clit, then inside again, and he was making sounds like he was the one being eaten out, little muffled whimpers and moans, and you were grinding against his face, chasing the pleasure, and you felt it building, that tight coil in your abdomen, and—
"I'm going—fuck, baby, I’m going to come on your face," you told him, and he doubled his efforts, tongue working your clit in fast, tight circles, and you came with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, body arching, and he kept going, kept licking you through it, kept moaning like your orgasm was his own, and when you finally pulled away, shaking, he was gasping for air and his chin was drenched and he was looking up at you with absolute, total devotion.
"Good boy," you murmured, and he shuddered. Actually shuddered, full-body, and you felt his cock jerk where it pressed against your thigh through his sweatpants. "You made me feel so good. You always do."
"Please," he whispered, and a tear rolled down his cheek. Just one, sliding from the corner of his eye, and he didn't seem to notice it. "Please, I need—I need to be inside you, I need—"
"Not yet." You climbed off his face and positioned yourself beside him, and you reached down and palmed his cock through his sweatpants, and he arched off the bed with a strangled cry. The fabric was soaked. Not just damp, soaked, a huge dark patch of precum, and you could feel how hard he was, how thick and hot and desperate, and you squeezed gently and his entire body seized.
"You're so wet," you said, rubbing your palm over the head through the fabric, spreading the moisture, and he was twitching uncontrollably, hips jerking up into your hand. "You've been leaking all day, haven't you? Just thinking about me coming home?"
"All week," he corrected, voice breaking. "All week, I've been—"
"Take this off."
He shoved his sweatpants down, kicked them off, and his cock sprang free, flushed dark, the head an angry red, slick with precum that was dripping down the shaft in a steady stream. He was so hard, veins prominent, twitching in the open air, and you wrapped your hand around the base and his whole body spasmed.
"Ah—fuck, fuck—"
You stroked him once, slow, from base to tip, spreading his precum, and his head fell back against the pillows and his mouth fell open and the sound that came out of him was barely human. You stroked him again, and he was already close, you could tell, his thighs trembling, stomach clenching, and you tightened your grip just slightly and twisted on the upstroke and he screamed.
Not a moan. A scream. Raw and desperate and overwhelmed, and his hips were bucking up into your fist, chasing the sensation, and you could feel him throbbing in your hand, getting close, getting—
You let go.
He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest heaving, cock bobbing in the air, flushed and leaking and so close to the edge that a single touch would have sent him over, and tears were streaming down his face now, not just one but two wet tracks down his cheeks, and he was looking at you with the most destroyed expression you'd ever seen on another human being.
"Why—" his voice cracked, shattered, "why did you stop—"
"Because I want to do something else first." You shifted, repositioned, and you wrapped your hand around him again and leaned down and took the head of his cock into your mouth.
The sound he made was not a word. It was not a moan. It was something between a gasp and a wail, and his hands flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding, fingers tangling in the strands, and his whole body was trembling like a live wire.
You swirled your tongue around the tip, tasting him, and then you sank down, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and he was falling apart above you.
"Oh god, oh god, oh—your mouth, your mouth feels so—I'm going to—I'm going to come, I can't—"
You pulled off with a slick pop and squeezed the base of his cock, hard, and he yelled, and the orgasm that had been building was throttled, stopped just short of the peak, and he was crying openly now, tears running freely, lower lip caught between his teeth, and the sounds coming out of him were sobs and whimpers and fragmented syllables that might have been your name.
"Please let me come," he begged, and his voice was so raw, so ruined, that you felt a rush of wetness between your own thighs. "Please, I can't—it hurts, I need to come so bad, please—"
"I know, baby," you murmured, and you stroked his hair back from his forehead, gentle now, tender, and he leaned into your touch like a touch-starved animal. "I know it hurts. You've been so good for me. So patient and all. Let me make you feel better."
You reached between your legs with your free hand, you were soaking, absolutely drenched, your fingers sliding through your folds with no resistance, and you touched yourself while you stroked him, and the dual sensation made you both groan. You rubbed your clit in slow circles while you jerked him off, and you were so turned on from watching him fall apart, from the power of having this beautiful, desperate boy at your mercy, that you were already close to another orgasm.
"You want to know a secret?" you asked, voice low and sultry, and he blinked up at you through tear-blurred eyes. "I touched myself thinking about you too. On the trip. In the hotel room. I'd look at the photos you sent—your voice notes, those sounds you made—and I'd fuck myself with my fingers and pretend it was you."
He twitched violently in your hand, and a fresh wave of precum spilled over your fingers.
"I'd come so hard, baby," you continued, squeezing him, stroking faster, your other hand working your own clit in matching rhythm. "But it wasn't enough. My fingers aren't your cock. My fingers aren't you. I needed you just as bad as you needed me."
"I needed you more," he gasped, and it was so pathetic, so utterly heartfelt, that you felt your orgasm crash into you without warning, your body seizing, cunt clenching around nothing, and you moaned loud and long, and the sound of your pleasure pushed him right to the edge again and this time you didn't stop.
You felt the moment he broke.
His cock pulsed once, twice, and then he was coming, thick ropes of cum spurting over your hand, over his stomach, and he was crying out, sounds, raw and broken and overwhelmed, and his whole body was arching off the bed, and the tears were flowing freely now, mixing with the sweat on his face, and you kept stroking him through it, kept your hand moving, and he kept coming, more than you'd ever seen from him, spurt after spurt, and you realized he was still hard. Still hard and still coming and his body didn't know when to stop because it had been wound so tight for so long that the release was overflowing.
"Stop, stop, it's too much—" he sobbed, and you let go, and he lay there, wrecked, chest heaving, cum splattered across his stomach and your hand, tears on his face, and his cock was still hard, still flushed and twitching, and you knew one orgasm wasn't going to be enough. Not after a week. Not after all that buildup.
"That's one," you said, and you brought your cum-covered hand to your lips and licked a stripe up your palm, tasting him, and his eyes went impossibly wide and his spent cock actually jerked back to full attention. "You've got more in you, don't you?"
He nodded, wordless, still crying, and you thought he'd never looked more beautiful.
You stripped off your panties, the last remaining piece of clothing on your body, and you straddled his waist, and you felt his cum between your bodies, slick and warm against your stomach, and you didn't care. You wanted to be messy. You wanted this to be filthy. You wanted him to remember what it felt like when you finally, finally gave him what he'd been begging for.
"I'm going to ride you now," you told him, and you saw the hope bloom in his eyes, the desperate, grateful hope, and you leaned down and kissed him, properly kissed him, tongue in his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips from when he'd gone down on you, and he kissed back frantically, hands coming up to cup your face, and he was making small sounds into your mouth, little whimpers and sighs, and you could feel his cock pressing against your ass, hot and hard and still leaking.
You reached behind you and positioned him at your entrance, and you sank down, just the tip, just the head, and you both groaned. He was big, you'd forgotten, in a week, just how big, how the stretch of him made your walls flutter and clench, and he was so sensitive from his first orgasm that the mere sensation of your heat around the head of his cock had him whimpering, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.
"More," he gasped. "Please, more—"
You sank down, slow, torturous, and you watched his face as you did, the way his eyes rolled back, the way his jaw dropped, the way his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. When you bottomed out, when he was fully inside you, you paused, and you felt him throbbing, felt every twitch and pulse, and you clenched around him deliberately and he sobbed.
"Don't—please—if you do that, fuck—I'll—"
"You'll what? Come again?" You clenched harder, and he cried out, hands scrabbling at your hips. "That's the point, baby. I want you to come inside me. I want to feel it. I've been thinking about this all week—your cock inside me, filling me up, making me yours again."
More tears fell, and you realized he wasn't crying from sadness or from pain. He was crying from feeling. From the overwhelming intensity of finally, finally having you, finally being inside you, after a week of his own inadequate hand and your cruel, beautiful photos. He was crying because it felt too good to process. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
You started to move. Slow at first, a grinding roll of your hips that pressed his cock against your front wall, against that spot that made your vision blur, and you braced your hands on his chest and rolled your hips and watched him fall apart beneath you. He was gone. Completely gone. His head was thrown back, throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed convulsively, and his hands were on your hips, holding on. Holding on like you were the only solid thing in a world that was spinning too fast.
"Faster," he begged. "Please, faster, harder—"
You obeyed. You lifted your hips and slammed back down, and the sound that rang out was so obscene that he yelled, and you did it again, and again, setting a brutal pace, riding him hard, and the angle was perfect, the pressure on your clit from the base of his dick, the stretch of him inside you, and you were already close again, already feeling that coil tightening.
"Touch me," you commanded, and his hands flew to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs rolling over your nipples, and you moaned and threw your head back and bounced on his cock harder, and he was meeting your thrusts now, hips snapping up to meet you, and the wet slap of your bodies was the filthiest, most beautiful sound in the world.
"You feel so good," he gasped, voice raw and destroyed. "You feel so fucking good, I can't—I'm not going to last—"
"Then don't." You leaned down and bit his earlobe, then whispered against the shell of his ear: "Come inside me. Fill me up. I want to feel it dripping out of me for the rest of the night."
He shattered. His back arched off the bed, his fingers dug bruises into your hips, and he came with a sound that was closer to a scream than a moan, long, drawn-out, broken in the middle by a sob, and you felt it, felt the pulse of his cock inside you, felt the heat of his cum flooding you, and it pushed you over the edge too, your orgasm ripping through you, cunt clenching and fluttering around him, milking every last drop, and you collapsed against his chest and both of you were shaking, trembling, crying — the hell, when had you started crying?
You didn't know, but your bodies were tangled together and it was too much, everything was too much, in the best possible way.
You lay there for a long moment, catching your breath, his cock softening inside you, and you felt the trickle of his cum leaking out around the seal of your bodies, and he was still sniffling, still trembling, and you pressed kisses to his jaw, his cheek, his tear-streaked face, and he turned into your touch like a flower toward the sun.
But this was the thing about Heeseung, you shifted your hips slightly, and you felt it. Still half-hard. Twitching. Recovering. And you knew, with a rush of heat between your legs, that he wasn't done.
Neither were you.
"Baby," you murmured against his ear, and you felt him shiver. "You still want more?"
"I always want more," he whispered, and his voice was wrecked, hoarse from crying and moaning, and the honesty in it made your cunt clench around his half-hard cock and he hissed. "I always want you. It’ll never be enough."
"You’re too greedy, no? How can someone be that greedy," you teased, and you bit your lip and looked down at him through your lashes, and his eyes darkened.
"Only for you."
You lifted your hips and let him slip out. You saw the mess, his cum and yours, smeared across his stomach and yours, and you reached down and ran your fingers through it, and you brought them to his lips, and he opened his mouth without hesitation, sucking your fingers clean, tongue swirling around the digits, and his cock, which had been softening, jerked back to full hardness.
"Dirty boy," you murmured, and he flushed darker, and you saw the conflict on his face, shame and arousal warring behind his eyes, and arousal won, as it always did with him. "You like being dirty for me, don't you?"
"I like being anything for you," he said, and it was the most sincere thing anyone had ever said to you.
You turned around. You positioned yourself on your hands and knees, and you looked over your shoulder at him, and you stuck your tongue out, just a little, just a tease, the way you knew drove him insane, and you wiggled your hips and said: "Then come prove it."
He was behind you in a second. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you open, and you felt his gaze on you, on your pussy, still dripping with his cum, still puffy and flushed from your orgasms, and he groaned, low and hungry, and you felt his cock press against your entrance.
"Wait," you said, and he froze instantly, ever obedient, ever desperate to please. "I want you to eat me out first. Again. I want your tongue inside me again. Then you can fuck me."
He didn't hesitate. His face was between your legs again, tongue sliding through your folds, tasting both of you and he moaned against you like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His tongue pushed inside you, fucking you with it, and you could feel his cum dripping onto his tongue, and he was swallowing it, swallowing everything, and the obscenity of it had you pushing back against his face, grinding, chasing more.
"Such a good boy," you gasped, and he whimpered into you, and you felt fresh tears, his tears this time, wetting the inside of your thighs as they fell, and the vulnerability of it, the raw submission, had you hurtling toward another orgasm. "My good boy. Only mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this, nobody else gets to have you—"
"Only you," he confirmed against your body, the words muffled by your pussy, vibrating against your clit. "Only you, only you, only—"
You came on his tongue, again, thighs shaking, and he held you up and licked you through it and when you finally pulled away you were boneless and trembling and he was looking at you with those red-rimmed, tear-stained, absolutely wrecked eyes, cock jutting out from his body, hard as steel, and you felt a rush of tenderness so fierce it almost hurt.
"Come here," you said softly, and you turned onto your back and opened your arms, and he crawled up your body and kissed you, and you tasted yourself and him on his tongue, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him into you in one fluid motion.
He sank to the hilt and you both gasped, and this time it was slower, not the frantic, desperate pace of before, but something deeper. He was moving in long, grinding strokes, hitting every sensitive spot inside you, and his forehead was pressed against yours, and you could see his eyes up close, overflowing with feeling, and you cupped his face and brushed the tears away with your thumbs and he turned his head to kiss your palm.
"I love you," he whispered, and his voice broke on love, broke open like he couldn't contain it, and you pulled his hair and he moaned and you bit your lip and he watched your mouth like it was the center of the universe.
"I love you more," you said, and then you tightened your legs around his waist and rolled your hips and he made a sound that was half sob, half moan, and you swallowed it with a kiss.
He fucked you slower but deeper, each thrust deliberate, purposeful, hitting that spot that made your breath catch, and you could feel another orgasm building, your fourth, his third, and this one felt different, bigger, like something immense was gathering at the base of your spine, and you broke the kiss and gasped against his mouth.
"I'm close," you warned, and he nodded, and his pace increased, hips snapping faster, and he was hitting so deep, so perfect, and you were clenching around him, and he was groaning with every thrust, and—
"I'm—I can't—" He was crying again, silent tears streaming, and his face was scrunched up in an expression that was almost pain, almost pleasure, something in between that was too intense to name. "I'm going to—again—"
"Do it," you commanded. "Come with me. Now."
You clenched around him and his mouth fell open in a silent scream, and you felt him pulse inside you, felt the heat of his cum, and that triggered your own orgasm, this one different, deeper, your whole body shaking, cunt clenching rhythmically around him, and you were both crying, both gasping, both clinging to each other like you were the only two people in the world, and he was still thrusting through it, shallow and twitching, and you could feel the overstimulation making him shake, making his breath come in hitches and hiccups, and he collapsed against you, full body weight pressing you into the mattress, and you held him and he sobbed against your neck.
"I'm sorry," he wept, and you could feel his tears hot against your skin. "I can't stop crying, I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize," you said, and your own voice was thick, wavering. "Don't you dare apologize. That was—you were perfect. You're always perfect."
He lifted his head and looked at you, face blotchy and wet and so, so beautiful, and you kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and he smiled, and you felt your heart crack open in your chest.
"You're mine," you told him, and it wasn't a question.
"Yours," he agreed, and he buried his face in your neck and breathed you in, and you felt his cock twitch one last time inside you, and you both laughed, the sound of it echoing off the walls of your shared apartment, your home, the place where you belonged, together, tangled up in each other and the mess you'd made.
Later, much later, after showers and water bottles and the kind of gentle, exploratory touching that was less about arousal and more about reassurance, you lay tangled in bed together, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your shoulder.
"I have a confession," he said quietly.
"More confessions? After all that?"
"I screenshot every photo you sent. Even the ones from your public story. I have a whole album."
You laughed, bright and surprised. "I know. I can see your screenshots."
He groaned, covering his face with his free hand. "Fuck, that's so embarrassing."
"That's so hot," you corrected, and you bit his chest playfully, and he squirmed. "I love that you were that desperate for me. I love that I had you on a chokehold."
"You always have me on a chokehold," he muttered, and there was no heat in it, just fact. Just the simple, unvarnished truth. "You could wear a garbage bag and I'd still be hard for you in three seconds."
"Ew, that's so… disgusting and romantic and I'm going to think about it every time I miss you."
"Don't go anywhere for a while," he said, and his voice was small, and when you looked up at him his eyes were earnest and vulnerable and still slightly red from crying. "Please."
You reached up and stroked his hair, and he melted into the touch, and you pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised. "I just got back to you."
He pulled you closer, tighter, like he could fold you into himself and keep you there permanently, and you let him. You let him cling and you clung back, because the truth, the truth that neither of you said out loud but both of you knew, was that the desperation went both ways. You'd sent those photos on purpose, sure, but not just to tease. You'd sent them because you needed him to want you. You needed to feel wanted from five hundred miles away. You needed proof that the ache was mutual.
And it was. God, it was.
"I'm already hard again," he mumbled against your hair, and you felt the evidence pressing against your thigh, and you laughed again, incredulous, fond, so deeply in love it made your chest hurt.
"What a weirdo," you accused.
"Only for you," he said, and it was the second time he'd said it tonight, and you believed it completely.
You rolled on top of him and pinned his wrists to the pillow and leaned down and whispered against his lips: "Then let's go again."
And his eyes lit up, bright, eager, desperate, yours, and he said:
✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !
You came back for summer. You got him instead. Sun, salt, and scandal, Jeju’s elite playground is back in session, and so is your favorite mistake: Lee Heeseung. Your enemy. Your almost. Your what-if. One house apart. One argument away. One drink too many from disaster.
pairing: enemy!heeseung x reader !
warnings: yearning slow burn strong language possessiveness jealousy alcohol banter secrecy angst parties rich people (yes, that's a separate warning) loads of sexual tension porn with plot enemies to lovers childhood rivals friends with benefits mutual pining unresolved tension emotional constipation family friends beach-town drama arguments miscommunication fear of commitment
warnings (smut): Multiple explicit sex scenes Enemies -> friends with benefits → Lovers Rough unprotected sex (no!) Creampie Tit/nipple play Fingering Handjob Grinding Teasing Wall sex Door sex Kitchen counter sex Manhandling Dirty talk Cum play Overstimulation Marking & biting
playlist: Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen [] Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift [] Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter [] Are You Bored Yet? by Wallows []
likes and reblogs for a cookie!
☆ WORD COUNT: 29k!
(Masterlist)
Sam: happy birthday to me, love u dada
HELL HAD A VERY SPECIFIC SMELL.
Not sulfur. Not smoke. Not whatever dramatic nonsense poets liked to compare suffering to, or any of the bullshit propaganda movies liked to spread.
No, hell, in your experience, smelled like salt in the air and expensive sunscreen. Like sun-warmed pavement and blooming jasmine climbing over white-painted fences. Like the ocean sitting just close enough to hear from your bedroom window, taunting you with the promise of peace you were never actually going to get.
Hell smelled like summer in Jeju Island. And unfortunately, you had just arrived.
You stood in the driveway of your family’s beach house with your sunglasses sliding down your nose and your patience already clinically deceased, staring at the towering white house like it had personally offended you. Which, honestly, it had. The place looked like every rich family’s Pinterest board had thrown up on it, ivy curling around stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the blinding afternoon sun, hydrangeas blooming obnoxiously blue along the front walk.
Beautiful. Expensive. Full of memories you preferred not to examine too closely. Your mother stepped out of the car behind you with the kind of energy only women with fresh manicures and vacation plans possessed.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said, already fishing her oversized sunhat from her tote bag. “Help your father with the luggage.”
You adjusted your sunglasses and gave the house one last deeply unimpressed look. “I’m considering simply walking into the ocean instead.”
From somewhere near the trunk, your father sighed. “And every year, you make the same joke.”
“Because every year, the ocean remains an option.”
Your mother clicked her tongue, the universal sound of maternal disappointment, and handed you two bags anyway. “Be dramatic later. We’re already late for dinner at the club tonight.”
Of course you were. Summer in Jeju Island wasn’t really summer. It was a social performance with a beachfront view. Three months of yacht parties, country club dinners, charity galas disguised as drinking events, and the same old-money families pretending they didn’t all know each other’s scandals already. Everyone here had grown up together, gone to the same private schools, kissed the same people, ruined each other’s lives in aesthetically pleasing ways. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.
It was home, in the most unfortunate sense of the word.
You hauled your bag up the front steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. The familiar coolness of the house greeted you immediately, air conditioning and polished wood and lemon-scented cleaning products. Somewhere upstairs, your childhood room waited exactly as you’d left it last August, probably still holding the ghosts of every bad decision you’d made between seventeen and twenty-two. A charming thought.
You dropped your bags by the staircase and wandered toward the kitchen, where your mother was already directing the opening of windows and the placement of flowers like she was staging a home magazine shoot.
She looked over her shoulder at you. “And before I forget,” she said, in the dangerously casual tone mothers used right before ruining your day, “be nice to the Lees this summer.”
You stopped mid-reach for the lemonade pitcher. Slowly, you turned. “Excuse me?”
“The Lees,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just spoken your personal curse into existence. “We’re having them over next weekend, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t start any unnecessary arguments.”
You stared at her. There was a long, silent moment in which your soul quietly left your body and floated somewhere over the Atlantic. Then, “I’d like it officially noted,” you said, setting the pitcher down with great dignity, “that I never start the arguments.”
Your mother gave you a look. You gave her one back. She won. “You absolutely do.”
“I finish them beautifully,” you corrected. “That’s different.”
She sighed, turning back to her flowers. “Just behave. Especially with Heeseung.” And there it was. The name. The final nail in the coffin. Lee Heeseung. Your lifelong enemy. Your annual migraine. The human embodiment of every smug text message left on read.
Next door. Living, unfortunately.
You leaned against the kitchen counter and closed your eyes for one brief moment, like maybe if you didn’t move, the universe would take pity on you and reverse time. It did not. Because of course he was here. He was always here.
Every summer since childhood had come with three guarantees: humidity, your mother’s obsession with hosting dinners, and Lee Heeseung existing entirely too close to your personal space. Your families had been friends forever, which meant your lives had been annoyingly, inescapably intertwined since before either of you had enough common sense to avoid each other.
There were photos somewhere, horrifying evidence, of the two of you as children on the same beach, him with scraped knees and you with a missing front tooth, already looking like you were one wrong comment away from attempted murder.
Some things, apparently, were timeless. As teenagers, it had only gotten worse. He’d grown into his face in the kind of unfair way that should’ve required government intervention, too handsome, too charming, too aware of both. The kind of boy adults loved and girls wrote bad poetry about. Golden boy energy in expensive linen. Meanwhile, you had perfected the art of making eye contact while verbally destroying someone. Naturally, you got along terribly.
Every summer had become its own tradition of verbal warfare, stolen drinks at parties, arguments on docks at midnight, insults dressed up as flirting and flirting disguised as threats. There had been one almost-kiss when you were nineteen, drunk and angry and standing far too close on his parents’ balcony.
Neither of you had ever mentioned it again. Civilization had survived. Barely. Your mother was still talking. “His mother mentioned he got back last week.”
Wonderful. Fantastic. Thrilling.“Did she also mention if he’s developed the ability to shut up?” you asked.
“She mentioned he’s doing very well.” Of course he was. Lee Heeseung was always doing very well. He probably woke up looking expensive and emotionally unavailable. You poured yourself a glass of lemonade with the gravity of someone preparing for battle.
“Great. I can’t wait to not care.”
Your mother pointed a flower stem at you. “I mean it. No fighting.”
You took a sip. “With all due respect, mother, if Lee Heeseung and I stop fighting, one of us has probably died.”
From the front yard came the low sound of a car door shutting. Then another. Your father’s voice drifted in from outside, greeting someone. Your mother brightened instantly. “Oh! Perfect timing.”
No. Absolutely not. You set the glass down very, very slowly. “No,” you said. She smiled the smile of a woman who had already decided your fate.
“Yes. Go say hello.” You looked toward the window like it might offer an emergency exit. Sunlight poured across the garden. Beyond the hydrangeas and white fencing sat the neighboring house, just as grand, just as obnoxiously perfect. And somewhere in that orbit of privilege and poor decision-making was Heeseung. Back for another summer. Meaning your peace, your dignity, and probably your better judgment had all officially expired.
You inhaled once. Exhaled. Straightened your sunglasses like armor. “Well,” you muttered, heading for the door, “welcome back to hell.”
The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor. Because the second you stepped out onto the front porch, armed with sunglasses, a bad attitude, and the vague hope that maybe your father had been greeting the mailman instead of your greatest seasonal inconvenience, you saw him.
Leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been placed there by an overly confident romance novelist. Of course. Of course Lee Heeseung would make an entrance by simply existing in expensive sunlight.
His car was obnoxious. Sleek, black, expensive enough to probably have its own trust fund. It sat in the driveway of the house next door like a personal insult, gleaming under the late afternoon sun while he leaned against it with all the irritating ease of a man who had never once struggled to be liked. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Skin already carrying the kind of summer tan people paid money to fake.
And that smirk. That stupid, smug, entirely too familiar smirk. Your father was by the front gate, already deep in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who were as lovely as ever, warm, elegant, and somehow still producing that man without demanding an apology from the universe.
Mrs. Lee spotted you first. “Oh, there she is!” There was genuine affection in her voice, which made this all worse. You pasted on your best socially acceptable smile and walked down the steps with the slow, resigned grace of someone approaching their own execution.
Mrs. Lee kissed your cheek, your mother appeared from somewhere behind you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, and within seconds both sets of parents were exchanging the usual summer pleasantries.
How was the drive?How long are you staying?You’ve gotten so grown up.We must have dinner together soon.
The rich-people mating dance. You answered where necessary, smiled where required, and tried very hard not to look to your left. Naturally, you failed. Because Heeseung was looking directly at you. Still leaning there. Still smirking. Like he’d been waiting for this. You crossed your arms instinctively. He pushed himself off the car. Slowly. Like a villain with excellent posture. Then, with the audacity of a man untouched by divine punishment, he looked you over once, head to toe, unhurried, deeply annoying, and said, “Missed me?”
You stared at him. There were many possible responses. Most of them involved violence. Your mother, standing three feet away, would probably object to murder in broad daylight, so you settled for a look sharp enough to qualify as attempted manslaughter. “I was actually having a wonderful day,” you said, “but thanks for asking.”
His mouth twitched. Your father laughed because traitors lived everywhere. Heeseung slid his hands into his pockets, infuriatingly calm. “Good. I’d hate to ruin your summer that quickly.”
“Please,” you said sweetly. “You ruin my summer just by continuing to exist.”
Mrs. Lee sighed in the fond, exhausted way of a woman who had witnessed this dance for over a decade. “See? Exactly the same.”
“Worse, actually,” you said.
“At least she admits she thinks about me,” Heeseung replied.
You inhaled. Exhaled. Decided prison orange would not flatter you. Your mother gave you a warning glance over the rim of her sunglasses, the universal signal for ‘do not embarrass me in front of the neighbors’. You smiled tightly. Heeseung smiled back like he was enjoying this far too much. He was. He always did. That was the problem.
From the outside, the two of you probably looked like some kind of old-Hollywood screwball romance, beautiful people exchanging insults in linen by the sea. From the inside, it felt more like mutual destruction with excellent lighting. Mr. Lee was discussing the yacht club renovation with your father now, and the adults had drifted slightly toward the garden, leaving just enough space for danger.
You turned toward him, lowering your voice. “If you’re planning to spend this summer being extra unbearable, I’d appreciate a warning so I can emotionally prepare.”
He leaned slightly closer, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amusement written all over his face. “Emotionally prepare?” he repeated. “You? I thought your whole thing was pretending not to have emotions.”
You scoffed. “My whole thing is surviving despite your presence.”
“Cute.”
“Don’t call me cute.”
“I didn’t. I said your delusion was cute.” There it was. The familiar rhythm. Effortless. Annoying. Dangerous in the way old habits always were.
You hated how easy it was to fall back into it, like no time had passed at all. Like last summer hadn’t ended with the two of you arguing on the marina docks at two in the morning, both too stubborn to say whatever actually needed saying. Like the almost-kiss years ago had never happened. Like your pulse didn’t do something deeply embarrassing every time he stepped too close.
You adjusted your sunglasses and took one deliberate step back. “Try not to get hit by a yacht this summer, Heeseung. It would create paperwork.”
He grinned. “There she is. I was worried college made you soft.” You smiled back, bright and false and weaponized. “And I was hoping maturity had found you. Shame we’re both disappointed.”
Mrs. Lee called his name from the garden before he could answer, and for one brief, shining moment, you experienced peace. He glanced toward his parents, then back at you. That smirk again. Like he knew something you didn’t. Which was unacceptable. “See you around, neighbor.”
You folded your arms tighter. “Threatening me already?”
“Just making promises.” God, you hated him. Truly. Deeply. Artistically. He turned then, walking back toward his parents with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once doubted the world would make room for him. Mrs. Lee adjusted his collar as he passed, and he let her, smiling in that easy, golden-boy way that made adults adore him and should have been scientifically illegal.
Spawn of the devil. Your father was still laughing at something Mr. Lee had said. Betrayal, everywhere. A few more polite goodbyes later, the Lees disappeared back into their perfectly landscaped kingdom next door, and you stood in the driveway watching Heeseung disappear behind the white fence like a storm cloud in designer sunglasses.
Your mother touched your arm. “You could at least pretend to be nicer.”
“I was radiant with charm.”
“You looked like you were planning arson.”
“That was charm.” She sighed, already turning back toward the house. Inside, the air was cool again, but your mood had fully committed to violence. You followed her to the kitchen, where she resumed unpacking with suspicious calm, the calm of someone about to ruin your evening.
You should have known. “By the way,” she said casually, arranging lemons in a bowl like a woman with no regard for her daughter’s suffering, “we’re having dinner with the Lees on Saturday.”
You stopped. “No.”
She didn’t even look up. “Yes.”
“Cancel.”
“No.”
“Fake your death.”
She placed the final lemon down and finally turned to face you. “Be serious.”
“I am serious. I’m willing to help stage it.” Your mother smiled in the dangerous way mothers did when they’d already won. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Try not to start a war before dessert.”
You stared at her. At the lemons. At the kitchen. At the universe. Somewhere next door, Lee Heeseung was probably alive and smug. And now there would be dinner. Shared wine. Forced politeness. His knee probably brushing yours under the table just to ruin your life.
Your villain origin story, apparently, came with a seafood course. You picked up your abandoned lemonade and took a long sip like it contained stronger coping mechanisms. Summer had officially begun.
Tuesday arrived the way summer days in Jeju Island always did, slowly, lazily, like the sun itself had nowhere better to be.
By ten in the morning, the entire town had already settled into its usual rhythm. Tennis whites at the country club. Mothers with iced coffees and expensive sunglasses pretending not to gossip. Men in linen shirts discussing boats like they were discussing national policy. Teenagers and college kids spilling toward the beach in swimsuits and bad intentions. Everything here moved with the polished ease of old money and old habits. You hated how easy it was to slip back into it. There was something dangerous about returning to a place that remembered every version of you.
The boardwalk still creaked in the same places. The little café near the marina still sold iced vanilla lattes overpriced enough to count as emotional damage. The beach still stretched golden and endless, all warm sand and glittering water and sun-drunk afternoons that made bad decisions feel like destiny instead of stupidity.
Summer here had a way of convincing people they were invincible. It was probably responsible for at least seventy percent of your mistakes. By afternoon, you’d decided your mother’s constant rearranging of flowers and reminders about Saturday dinner were enough to qualify as psychological warfare, so you escaped. You packed a beach tote with the seriousness of a military operation, sunscreen, sunglasses, a bottle of water, your newest hardcover, lip gloss, and the kind of bikini your mother would call unnecessary and your best friend would call revenge.
Then you walked the familiar path down to the shore. The beach behind the summer houses was quieter than the public side near the clubs and restaurants. Less crowded. More private. A stretch of pale sand bordered by dunes and sea grass, where the houses sat like silent judges overlooking the ocean. This part belonged to families like yours and the Lees, generational wealth and carefully curated summer traditions.
It also meant escape was limited. Still, the ocean was worth it. The salt-heavy breeze hit first, warm and familiar against your skin. Then the sound, the endless hush and crash of waves folding into shore, gulls overhead, distant laughter carried by the wind. You slipped your sandals off and let the sand burn briefly against your feet before finding your usual spot. Far enough from the water to keep your book safe. Close enough to hear the tide.
Perfect.
You spread your towel out, dropped your bag beside it, and stretched out on your back like a woman personally committed to becoming one with summer. Sunlight soaked into your skin almost instantly, warm and golden and heavy in that way only coastal afternoons could be. Your bikini was barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing, but that was the point. Tiny black straps against sun-kissed skin, sunglasses shielding your eyes, a paperback novel open against your stomach.
Peace. Actual peace. No dinner invitations. No passive-aggressive mothers. No Lee Heeseung. Just heat and salt and the kind of silence that felt earned. You read for a while, though read was a generous term for occasionally turning a page while mostly listening to the ocean and contemplating whether adulthood could be legally postponed forever. The book was good. The sun was better.
A few familiar faces passed along the shore, neighbors, old classmates, people you’d known your whole life in the vague, privileged way beach towns operated. There were waves, smiles, the occasional “welcome back,” but no one lingered. Exactly how you liked it. At some point, you must have drifted halfway to sleep, caught in that hazy summer state where time stopped mattering. The sun had shifted warmer against your shoulders. The edges of your book blurred. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.
Then a shadow fell across you. Immediately, your soul knew. Without even opening your eyes, you sighed. Deeply. Spiritually. Like a woman who had seen the face of God and found it disappointing. “No.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, “That’s not very neighborly.” Of course. You opened one eye. And there he was. Lee Heeseung, standing over your towel like some sort of beautifully dressed natural disaster. Shirtless, because apparently humility was not part of his summer wardrobe. Swim trunks slung low on his hips, sunglasses on, skin bronzed by the sun like he’d been handcrafted by someone with a personal vendetta against your patience.
Water still clung to his shoulders, droplets sliding slowly down his chest like the universe itself was trying to make your life harder. Annoying. Extremely annoying. You closed your eye again. “If I ignore you long enough,” you said, “will you evaporate?”
“I think that only works on your personality.” You considered throwing your book at him. It was hardcover. Tempting. Instead, you shifted onto one elbow and looked up at him over your sunglasses. “Don’t you have a yacht to crash or someone else to emotionally inconvenience?”
He grinned, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and sat down uninvited at the edge of your towel like personal boundaries were a concept he’d heard of once and rejected on principle. “I was swimming.”
“I can see that. Congratulations on your ability to enter water.”
“Thank you. I worked very hard.”
You stared at him. He stared back. There was something uniquely exhausting about Heeseung’s presence, like he moved through the world assuming everything, and everyone, would make room for him. And worse, they usually did. He looked out toward the ocean, arms resting loosely over his knees. For a second, with the sunlight catching against his skin and the sea stretching endlessly behind him, he looked less like your lifelong enemy and more like one of those postcard summers people spent the rest of their lives trying to recreate.
Which was dangerous. You hated when he looked cinematic. It made being annoyed significantly less efficient. “You’re ruining my peaceful beach solitude,” you informed him.
“I noticed. You seemed too happy.”
“I wasn’t happy. I was tolerating existence.”
“Even worse.”
You let your book fall shut against your lap. “This is exactly why people warn me about you.” He tilted his head.
“No, they warn people about you. I’m universally beloved.”
You scoffed. “By mothers and women with no standards.”
“And yet here you are, talking to me in a bikini.”
You sat up fully. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first.”
“Mm. Territorial.”
“Get off my towel.”
He laughed then, low and easy, carried by the wind and the waves, and it did something profoundly irritating to your bloodstream. That laugh had been the soundtrack to half your summers. Bonfires at sixteen. Pool parties at eighteen. Drunken arguments on docks at twenty. Memory was a cruel thing. You stood abruptly.
Enough. Absolutely enough. If you stayed any longer, you’d either drown him or make eye contact for too long, and both options felt equally dangerous. With the sharp efficiency of someone preserving her dignity by force, you started packing your things. Your book went into your tote. Sunscreen. Water bottle. Sunglasses pushed into your hair.
Heeseung leaned back on his hands, watching the whole performance with zero remorse. “Leaving already?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
A pause. Then, truthfully: “Yes.” His smile widened. You hated how much he enjoyed winning tiny wars. You shoved your sandals on and slung your bag over your shoulder, glaring down at him with all the righteous fury of a woman denied a peaceful tanning session. “You are genuinely the most irritating person I have ever met.”
He looked up at you, sunlight in his hair, smirk already waiting. “And yet you keep coming back every summer.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because unfortunately, he had a point, and you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing that aloud. Instead, you gave him one last glare sharp enough to qualify as a formal threat and turned toward home.
The walk back felt warmer somehow, the sun heavier against your skin, sand clinging to your ankles. Behind you, his laughter followed, soft at first, then clearer as the wind carried it over the shoreline. Infuriating. Familiar. Summer itself, if summer had a god complex and perfect teeth. You didn’t look back. But you could still hear him. And somehow, that felt worse.
Saturday arrived wrapped in sunlight and bad intentions. By six in the evening, the entire house smelled like citrus candles, your mother’s perfume, and the kind of expensive stress that came with hosting, or in this case, being hosted by, the Lees. The sun was beginning its slow descent over the water, pouring honey-colored light through the bedroom windows and turning everything soft and golden in a way that made even impending social torture look romantic.
Outside, Jeju Island was in full performance mode. The streets near the coast glowed with polished summer wealth, convertibles pulling into curved driveways, tennis bracelets catching the light, champagne already being chilled somewhere on a yacht that absolutely did not need to exist. The ocean breeze drifted in through the cracked windows carrying salt, jasmine, and the faint sounds of someone laughing too loudly three houses down.
Everything looked beautiful. Which was unfortunate, because beauty made suffering feel theatrical. You stood in the middle of your bedroom surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small fashion war. Dresses across the bed. Shoes abandoned like casualties. A hairbrush on the floor. Three rejected outfit options hanging from your closet door like public executions.
And in your hands, your salvation. An oversized gray hoodie. Soft. Reliable. Emotionally supportive. The kind of hoodie that said I do not wish to be perceived. Perfect. You pulled it over your head with the solemnity of a woman entering battle. It swallowed you immediately, sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs, the entire look somewhere between off-duty model and suspicious raccoon. You stared at yourself in the mirror.
Excellent. If all went according to plan, the Lees would assume you were a drifter who had wandered in from the beach and politely ask you to leave before appetizers. Peace at last. Your mother entered without knocking, because privacy was apparently a concept reserved for only the elites. She stopped in the doorway.
Looked at you. Looked at the hoodie. Looked back at you. Silence. Long enough to be considered legally threatening. “No,” she said.
You folded your arms. “Counterpoint: yes.”
“No.”
“This is fashion.”
“This is a cry for help.”
You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the hood with dramatic precision. “I’m cultivating mystery. They’ll be intrigued.”
“They’ll think I forgot to raise you.”
“Honestly, that might buy me sympathy.”
Your mother crossed the room with the terrifying calm of a woman who had already made her decision three minutes ago. From behind her back, like a magician revealing the final trick, she produced a dress. Yellow. Of course it was yellow, why? Because, summer, darling. Not soft yellow. Not subtle yellow. The kind of rich, golden, sunlight yellow that looked like it belonged in a movie where everyone had unresolved feelings and excellent cheekbones.
A sleek sundress. Fitted enough to be dangerous, effortless enough to pretend it wasn’t. You narrowed your eyes. “No.”
“Yes.”
“It looks like optimism.”
“It looks like summer.”
“It looks like a setup.”
She held it up against you with complete disregard for your emotional well-being. “It looks like you clean up beautifully.” There it was. The betrayal. Because that was exactly the problem. You knew the dress looked good. That made it worse. Wearing the dress meant effort. Effort meant possibility. Possibility meant Lee Heeseung seeing you in a dress that suggested maybe, potentially, under the right atmospheric conditions, you had once been nice to someone.
Unacceptable. You stepped back. “I would rather be hit by a jet ski.”
“Wonderful. You can wear this to the hospital afterward.”
“Mother.”
She sighed, setting the dress on the bed like a final verdict. “You are not wearing that hoodie to dinner with the Lees. Mrs. Lee adores you, your father is already pretending this evening will be civilized, and I refuse to let my daughter look like she escaped from a beach bonfire.” You looked at the hoodie. The hoodie looked back. A fallen soldier. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out over the ocean like it, too, understood your suffering.
You flopped backward onto the bed with all the grace of a dying Victorian heroine. “This is oppression.”
“This is dinner.”
“There’s seafood involved. That makes it worse.”
Your mother sat beside you, smoothing a wrinkle from the yellow dress. For a moment, the teasing slipped into something softer. “You’ve been doing this with him for years,” she said.
You stared at the ceiling. “Doing what?” She gave you a look, not sharp, not smug, just the tired wisdom of a woman who had watched two stubborn people circle each other for too long.
“This one. The fighting. The pretending.” You groaned dramatically and threw an arm over your face. “If this conversation ends with you calling him charming, I’m moving to another country.”
She laughed then, quiet and warm. “I’m just saying… maybe try not to make tonight a battlefield.” Too late. The battlefield had excellent landscaping and probably a wine pairing. Still, after she left, the room felt quieter. The golden light had shifted lower now, stretching long shadows across the floorboards. From your window, you could see the neighboring house through the trees, white walls glowing in the sunset, lights beginning to flicker on, elegant and smug and entirely too close.
Somewhere over there was Heeseung. Probably looking expensive. Probably being annoying. Probably existing with that stupid face. You hated that your first instinct was to wonder what he’d be wearing. Probably linen. Men like him were always in linen, like they were personally sponsored by summer. With a sigh heavy enough to qualify as literature, you sat up and stared at the yellow dress again. It stared back, victorious.
Fine. Fine. You changed. And, because the universe enjoyed humiliation as a hobby, your mother was right. The dress fit like it had been designed specifically to ruin your peace. Thin straps, bare shoulders, the kind of silhouette that looked effortless and absolutely was not. Against sun-kissed skin, the yellow made you look like you belonged in this town, like expensive mistakes and beautiful bad decisions.
You hated it immediately. Mostly because you looked good. You stood in front of the mirror, turning once, suspicious. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you’d find a flaw large enough to justify changing back into the hoodie. There wasn’t one. Traitorous fabric. You added gold hoops, minimal makeup, lip gloss sharp enough to count as a weapon, and tried very hard not to think about why any of this mattered.
It didn’t. Obviously. You were dressing for yourself. And if Lee Heeseung happened to see you and suffer emotionally, that was simply community service. Downstairs, your father was already waiting by the door with car keys and the resigned expression of a man who knew he was escorting two women into battle and had chosen survival over commentary. He looked up when you descended the stairs. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” he said, “you look expensive.”
You picked up your clutch. “I plan to act accordingly.” Your mother beamed like she’d personally invented beauty. You refused to acknowledge this. Outside, the evening had turned warm and velvet-soft, the sky streaked pink and gold over the ocean. The walk next door was barely two minutes, just enough time for dread to fully settle in.
The Lee house stood glowing at the end of the path, every window lit, laughter already drifting from inside. Dinner. Wine. Politeness. Heeseung. You inhaled slowly as your father reached for the front gate. Summer, apparently, had decided subtle suffering wasn’t enough. It wanted dinner and a show. The Lee house always looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled People With Better Lives Than You.
White stone, warm lights spilling from enormous windows, ivy climbing tastefully up the walls like even the plants here had trust funds. The front garden smelled like jasmine and sea air and whatever expensive candle Mrs. Lee probably had burning somewhere inside. Everything about it radiated polished wealth and the kind of family dinners where people said things like summering abroad.
You hated how nice it was. You hated even more that you’d spent half your childhood here. Birthday dinners. Pool parties. Christmases once, before everyone got too busy and too grown up for normal traditions. There were memories tucked into every corner of this place, most of them involving some version of you losing an argument to Lee Heeseung and plotting revenge by dessert.
Tonight, unfortunately, promised tradition. Mrs. Lee opened the door before you could even knock, all elegance and warmth in a silk dress the color of champagne. “There you are!” She kissed your cheek before you had time to prepare emotionally. “Look at you,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “Absolutely gorgeous.” From behind you, your mother made the smug little sound of victory.
You chose to ignore it. “You say that now,” you said, stepping inside, “but let’s revisit after I inevitably insult someone over seafood.”
Mrs. Lee laughed like she always did, like your bad attitude was somehow charming instead of hereditary. “Nonsense. We’re all family here.” That was the problem. The foyer opened into soft golden light and polished wood floors, the low hum of conversation drifting in from the dining room. Somewhere, glasses clinked. Somewhere else, your father and Mr. Lee were already discussing something expensive and unnecessary, probably boats.
You slipped off your sandals and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you. And then, of course, there he was. Lee Heeseung, leaning against the archway to the living room like he’d been strategically placed there for maximum irritation.
Black button-down this time, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone just enough to be a public health concern. Dark slacks. Watch glinting at his wrist. Hair slightly messy in that suspiciously intentional way attractive men got away with. He looked like summer trouble dressed in designer clothing. Annoying. Extremely annoying.
His gaze found you immediately. Paused. And for one dangerous second, he said nothing. Just looked. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Like the room had gone quiet around it. It started at your feet, moved upward, and landed finally on your face with something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Not smug. Worse. Appreciative. You wanted to throw yourself directly into the ocean. Instead, you smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that had ruined lesser men.
“Try not to look too shocked. I know basic hygiene is a surprise.”
His mouth twitched. “There she is,” he said, voice low and easy. “I was worried the dress had made you nice.”
Your mother, traitor that she was, immediately linked arms with Mrs. Lee. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You two can catch up while we finish setting the table.”
No. Absolutely not. You opened your mouth. “No—” Too late. The parents had already vanished with the terrifying efficiency of adults who believed proximity solved everything. Your father gave you a look on the way out, the kind that said ‘behave’, and disappeared toward the kitchen like a man abandoning a sinking ship.
And suddenly, it was just the two of you. Silence. Not awkward. Worse. Familiar. The kind of silence built over years of unfinished conversations and too much history. You crossed your arms. He mirrored nothing, which somehow made it more annoying. In your deeply correct and entirely unbiased opinion, “catching up” with Lee Heeseung translated loosely to trying to have a normal conversation without committing a felony.
A challenge, certainly. You managed three words. “Well. You’re alive.” He nodded thoughtfully.
“Still devastatingly handsome too, thanks for noticing.”
You sighed. “This is why people drink before family dinners.”
“And yet you came sober. Brave.”
You were preparing a truly excellent insult, something elegant, devastating, probably Pulitzer-worthy, when Mrs. Lee’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Dinner!” Saved by seafood. You gave him one final look. “Don’t make me regret this.”
He stepped aside, one hand gesturing toward the dining room like some smug Regency villain. “No promises.”
The dining room looked exactly like every old-money summer dinner should. Long table, linen napkins, candles despite it still being warm outside. Too many wine glasses for any morally responsible evening. French doors stood open to the back patio where the ocean breeze drifted in soft and salted, carrying the sound of waves somewhere beyond the dunes. Sunset had bled fully into evening now, the sky darkening violet over the water.
Everything felt cinematic. Which was rude, considering your mood. Seats were assigned by parental conspiracy, obviously. You discovered yours and stopped. Heeseung. Right next to you. Naturally. Mrs. Lee smiled far too innocently. “I thought it would be nice.” It would not. It absolutely would not. But protesting would only make it worse, so you sat with the grace of a woman choosing violence internally. Heeseung took the seat beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the universe.
Across the table, your mother was already discussing someone’s daughter getting engaged. Your father had wine. Mr. Lee had opinions about coastal property values. Everyone settled into conversation with the practiced ease of people who had done this for decades. And somehow, despite all of it, your entire awareness kept narrowing to the person sitting six inches to your right.
His knee brushed yours under the table. Lightly. Accidental. Probably. You froze for exactly half a second. Then refused to acknowledge it because dignity still mattered. You reached for your water. His hand reached for the bread basket. Fingers brushed. Again. This time, definitely not accidental. You turned your head. He was already looking at you. Calm. Composed. Infuriating.
Like he hadn’t just weaponized table manners. You smiled without showing teeth. “If you’re trying to start something over dinner rolls, I’d like you to know that’s a deeply embarrassing way to die.”
His expression remained perfectly neutral as he handed you the basket. “I’m just being polite.”
“Suspicious already.”
Across from you, Mrs. Lee sighed fondly. “You two are exactly the same.”
You and Heeseung answered at the same time. “Absolutely not.” Everyone laughed. You considered faking your death. Dinner continued in that dangerous, glittering way summer dinners did, wine poured generously, stories repeated beautifully, everyone glowing a little softer in candlelight. Your parents kept bringing up old memories.
That camping trip when you were thirteen. The sailing lessons disaster. The time Heeseung pushed you into the pool and you threw his phone into the ocean. Mrs. Lee was still mad about that one. You maintained it had been justified. Everyone treated the two of you like old friends. Like there had always been affection under the arguments.
Like this was charming instead of mutually assured destruction. It was infuriating. Because they weren’t wrong. That was the worse part. Every now and then, while someone else talked, you’d catch him looking at you. Not casually. Not the usual teasing glance. Longer. Quieter. Like he was trying to remember something. Or decide something. Too much. Entirely too much.
You focused on your wine. On your fork. Your plate. Literally anything else. But awareness sat there anyway, warm and sharp and impossible to ignore. The yellow dress suddenly felt like a mistake. The ocean breeze moved through the open doors. Candles flickered. Someone laughed at the far end of the table. And beside you, Lee Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking unfairly good in soft light and expensive black clothing, like every bad decision summer had ever offered.
You hated him. Probably. Mostly. Which was becoming, very inconveniently, less convincing by the second.
By the time dinner ended, the sky had softened into that strange in-between hour where everything looked prettier than it had any right to. The table was abandoned in stages, wine glasses left half-full, dessert plates forgotten, your father and Mr. Lee still arguing about boats like it was a blood sport. Mrs. Lee and your mother disappeared into the kitchen with the kind of determined energy that suggested they were about to wash dishes neither of them had touched all evening.
Which left the younger generation exactly where summer always did. Outside. Near water. With alcohol. And poor judgment. Someone, probably Jay, because it always felt like a Jay decision, had suggested a beach fire, and within twenty minutes everyone had drifted down toward the private stretch of shoreline behind the houses like it was instinct.
It kind of was. This was what summers here were made of. Bonfires and old friends. Salt in your hair. Music from someone’s phone speaker. Drinks passed around without anyone asking whose they were. The beach at night felt different than it did during the day. Softer somehow. Less polished. The tide rolled in slow and silver under the moonlight, waves folding quietly against the shore while the bonfire crackled warm against the cooling night air. Sand clung to bare ankles, the fire throwing gold over familiar faces.
It made everyone look younger. Closer to the versions of yourselves that had first started all this. Sunoo arrived first, carrying drinks and looking like downtown Cove had personally appointed him its stylish representative. Sharp grin, prettier than most women, and already prepared to be everyone’s problem. “Look who survived dinner,” he said dramatically when he spotted you. “I was taking bets.”
“You should’ve bet against me,” you said, taking the drink he offered. “I nearly drowned in polite conversation.”
“Tragic. And in that dress too. What a loss.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Jay called from where he and Sunghoon were attempting to set up folding chairs in the sand with all the competence of men raised by money.
Jay looked exactly the same as always: clean-cut, expensive taste, and permanently carrying himself like he was five minutes away from judging someone’s life choices. Which, to be fair, he usually was. Sunghoon stood beside him, all cool quiet and expensive silence, somehow managing to look elegant while losing a fight against a beach chair.
Some people were simply born unfair. From farther down the shore came the sound of laughter, bright and familiar, and then Eunchae appeared with Yunjin and Yoonchae trailing behind her, all of them carrying the kind of chaotic energy that guaranteed tonight would end with at least one regrettable decision. Eunchae saw you first and immediately pointed.
“There she is! The woman of the hour.” You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is,” Yunjin said cheerfully, pulling you into a quick hug. “We’ve heard about dinner. We’re here for details.”
“There are no details.”
“There are always details,” Yoonchae said.
And then, because the universe had apparently decided your suffering needed an audience, Lee Heeseung arrived. Late, naturally. Walking down the path from the houses with his sleeves rolled and his hands in his pockets like he was entering a film scene instead of a beach fire. The ocean breeze moved through his hair, and for one deeply annoying second, every girl within a ten-foot radius visibly remembered he was attractive.
Including you. Unfortunately. Sunoo, traitor that he was, smirked immediately. “And there’s the other half of our favorite summer divorce.”
“Please,” you said. “I’d need to marry him first, and I do have standards.” Heeseung dropped into the sand beside the fire like he belonged there, which, annoyingly, he did, and looked at you over the rim of the beer Jay handed him. “She says that now. Give it ten years.”
“In ten years, I’ll still be filing restraining orders.”
“Romantic,” Yunjin sighed. Everyone laughed. That was the problem with old friends, they remembered too much. This group had grown up together in fragments. Family dinners, yacht parties, beach bonfires at sixteen, too many summers collapsing into one long memory of sunburns and terrible choices. They’d all witnessed the evolution of whatever it was between you and Heeseung. Which meant they were insufferable about it. Sunoo stretched out dramatically in the sand.
“I still think you two should just get married and save us all time.”
Sunghoon, staring into the fire like a philosopher trapped in a luxury campaign, added, “At this point, it would actually be less dramatic.”
Jay nodded once. “Financially, it makes sense.”
You looked around the circle. “I need better friends.”
“No,” Eunchae said, grinning, “you need to admit you’ve been flirting through mutual destruction for like eight years.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is an incredibly rude accusation.”
Heeseung took a sip of his drink, far too calm. “She’s right.”
You turned toward him so fast it nearly counted as whiplash. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged. “You’re meaner when you like someone.”
Sunoo made the loudest, most disrespectful sound of delight known to man. “Oh my god, we’re finally saying it.”
“We are saying nothing,” you snapped.
Yunjin leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Should we bring up the balcony incident?”
Absolutely not. You pointed at her. “If you value our friendship, you’ll choose silence.” Too late.
Eunchae gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, the almost-kiss.” And there it was. Like a match dropped into gasoline. The balcony incident. Nineteen years old. One of Jay’s stupid summer parties. Too much champagne. Too much moonlight. Too much unresolved tension and a stupidly beautiful balcony overlooking the ocean. You and Heeseung had been alone for exactly seven minutes before an argument turned into standing too close, then silence, then that terrible suspended second where both people know exactly what’s about to happen.
You’d almost kissed. Almost. Then someone had opened the balcony door, reality had returned, and both of you had spent the next three years pretending it never happened. Civilization had survived. Barely. Around the fire, everyone looked delighted. You wanted the ocean to take you.
“It was not an almost-kiss,” you said with dignity.
“It absolutely was,” Sunoo replied.
“There was tension,” Yoonchae added.
“There was eye contact,” Eunchae said.
“There was champagne,” Yunjin said solemnly.
Jay, like a judge delivering sentence, finished: “That counts.”
You looked to Heeseung for support. A mistake. Because he’d gone strangely quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Quiet. His gaze stayed on the fire, beer loose in his hand, jaw set just enough for you to notice because unfortunately, after years of knowing someone, you learned the small things. Interesting. Very interesting. You tilted your head slightly. He wasn’t embarrassed.
If anything, he looked… annoyed. Or thoughtful. Like the memory had landed somewhere deeper than expected. That was new. Usually, Heeseung met chaos with amusement. He was good at pretending nothing mattered. But now, under the firelight, with everyone laughing around him and the ocean dark behind you, he looked still. You watched him for a second too long. Then he glanced up. Caught you.
And just like that, the moment snapped. His expression shifted back into something easier. Familiar. Dangerous. He smirked. You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve caused medical concern and took another drink. The conversation moved on, someone brought up an old yacht party disaster involving Sunghoon and a very expensive pair of loafers, Sunoo started a dramatic retelling of his brief and toxic relationship with a bartender from last summer, Eunchae laughed so hard she nearly fell backward into the sand.
The night folded around you, warm and nostalgic and too easy. This was the trap of summer. It made everything feel survivable. Even him. By the time the fire burned lower and people started drifting home, the moon sat high over the water and the beach had gone quiet again. You walked back alone, sandals in one hand, the other curled around your phone.
The sand was cool now under your feet. Waves whispered against the shore. Somewhere behind you, someone was still laughing. Your dress smelled like smoke. Your hair smelled like salt. And despite yourself, your mind kept circling back to one thing. That silence. The balcony. The firelight. The way Heeseung had gone quiet.
Interesting. You were still thinking about it when your phone buzzed in your hand. A text. You stopped walking. Looked down. Of course.
Heeseung
A single message.
Heeseung: still thinking about that balcony, or are you finally admitting i almost won?
You stared at the screen. There it was. The beginning of every bad idea. You should ignore it. You absolutely should. Instead, standing barefoot under the moonlight with the ocean at your back and your better judgment somewhere drowning offshore, you smiled. And typed back.
You: won what? you almost passed out from cheap champagne. history remembers the truth.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Danger, apparently, texted first.
The following week was suspicious. Not in any dramatic, life-altering way. No scandals. No yacht crashes. No accidental engagements announced over brunch. Just… suspicious. Because you were happy. Unreasonably, offensively happy. The kind of happy that made people around you uncomfortable, like spotting a shark in shallow water and realizing it was smiling.
It started subtly. You slept better. You stopped glaring at sunlight like it had personally betrayed you. You let your mother drag you to the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning and only complained twice, which she later described to your father in the same tone people used for religious miracles. By Thursday, you had laughed, genuinely laughed, at something Mrs. Lee said over iced coffee, and your mother had nearly dropped a peach. “Are you ill?” she asked immediately.
You looked up from your sunglasses. “Deeply, but unrelated.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No, seriously. You’ve been… cheerful.” The accusation hung between you. Cheerful. As if she’d caught you committing tax fraud. You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee with all the dignity of a woman being unfairly persecuted.
“I’m always cheerful.”
She gave you a look so flat it could’ve ironed shirts. “Last week you called a seagull a personal enemy.”
“It knew what it did.”
Your father, reading the paper at the table, lowered it just enough to contribute, “You also threatened the blender.”
“It started first.” He nodded thoughtfully and returned to the business section. Traitor. The truth was harder to explain. There was no grand reason for it. No cinematic revelation. No dramatic confession under moonlight. Just summer. The beach. The sun. Late-night fires. Salt in your hair. And texts. That was the real problem. Because after the bonfire, Heeseung had texted again. And then again. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous enough to name. Just stupid things.
A picture of the terrible coffee from the marina café with the caption: thought of you and your bad taste
A midnight text that only said: are you still pretending you didn’t almost kiss me first
A blurry photo of Sunoo asleep on a yacht chair: proof he can be quiet
And every single time, against your better judgment and your carefully cultivated reputation for emotional self-preservation, you replied. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes after twenty strategic minutes. Because dignity mattered. Still, the effect had been catastrophic. You were smiling at your phone now. In public. Like a woman with no survival instincts.
On Friday afternoon, your mother found you standing in the garden staring at the hydrangeas like you were in a coming-of-age film. You were holding one bloom gently between your fingers, sunlight warm on your shoulders, genuinely appreciating how ridiculous and beautiful summer looked here.
She stopped on the patio, and squinted, then called into the house, “Honey, come outside. I think our daughter has been replaced.”
You rolled your eyes. “Please. If I were replaced, the imposter would be nicer.”
“Exactly my concern.” Unfortunately, your brief and scandalous flirtation with floral appreciation ended there. The hydrangea wilted two days later. Probably out of sheer terror. Even worse, people noticed. Everyone noticed. Sunoo, after seeing you smile at your phone during lunch, gasped like a Victorian widow and clutched his chest. “Oh my god. She’s in love.”
You nearly threw your drink at him. “I’m blocking you.”
“Denial. Classic.”
“It’s called boundaries.”
“It’s called a crush.” Across the table, Heeseung said absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, was worse, because lately, he’d been watching you. Not constantly, not obviously, just enough, across dinner tables, from the beach, leaning against his car while pretending not to. Curious. Like he’d noticed the shift and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet, like he was waiting.
On Sunday, you passed him outside while coming back from the beach, still warm from the sun, tote bag over your shoulder, skin glowing with the kind of happiness you were trying very hard not to examine too closely. And for reasons still unknown to science, you smiled at him. Not your usual sharp smile, not sarcastic, not weaponized. Bright, easy, and real.
It happened before you could stop it. For one glorious second, Lee Heeseung looked genuinely startled. Actually startled. He stopped mid-step, eyebrows lifting like his brain had temporarily lost signal. He didn’t smile back, just looked at you with that unreadable expression and one slightly raised brow, like he was trying to solve a puzzle and deeply suspicious of the answer.
You kept walking, because stopping would imply weakness. But halfway up your front steps, you could still feel it, that look, and somewhere behind you, you just knew he was still standing there, watching. Interesting. Very, very dangerous.
By Friday night, the entire town had collectively decided to be beautiful. You could feel it in the air. Summer in Jeju Island had a rhythm to it, and bonfire nights sat somewhere near the top of the food chain, just beneath yacht parties and just above making terrible decisions in someone else’s kitchen at two in the morning. The beach changed on nights like this.
During the day, it belonged to families and sunscreen and children building sandcastles with inherited wealth. But at night, especially on Fridays, it belonged to people your age. To music drifting over the dunes. To bottles hidden badly in tote bags. To girls in tiny dresses and boys pretending they weren’t trying too hard. Bonfire nights were for performance. And if there was one thing you respected, it was committing to a bit. You stood in your bedroom with your closet doors thrown open and the kind of focus usually reserved for military strategy.
Your bed was covered in options. Black satin. White linen. Something red Yoonchae once described as “emotionally irresponsible.” You were considering that one. Because tonight wasn’t just any bonfire. Tonight, everyone would be there. Which meant he would be there. And while you were a mature, evolved woman who absolutely did not make outfit decisions based on Lee Heeseung’s potential suffering, you were also not a liar. You pulled the red dress off its hanger. Short, silk, and worst of all, backless. The kind of dress that looked like bad decisions and expensive apologies. Perfect.
You slipped it on slowly, watching yourself in the mirror as the fabric settled against your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. It clung where it should, skimmed where it mattered, and left just enough to imagination to make imagination work overtime. Dangerous. Excellent. You added gold jewelry because subtlety was for people with less interesting lives. Glossed lips. Soft waves in your hair. Perfume that smelled like jasmine and poor choices.
Then heels. Not practical for the beach. That was beside the point. When you walked downstairs, your father was on the couch pretending to read and your mother was rearranging flowers for sport. Both looked up. Your father blinked once. Then lowered his book. “Should I be concerned?”
“Always,” you said.
Your mother smiled like she was watching an expensive revenge plot unfold in real time. “Where exactly are you going dressed like that?”
You picked up your clutch. “To remind people to mind their business.”
Your father muttered something about raising a supervillain. Your mother kissed your cheek on the way out and whispered, “Be safe.” Which, translated from mother-language, meant: Don’t get arrested. Don’t set anything on fire. Try not to ruin anyone’s son permanently. No promises.
The walk to the beach felt cinematic. Warm night air against bare skin. The sound of waves pulling at the shore. Music already carrying from farther down the sand, bass soft and distant beneath the ocean. The moon hung low and bright over the water, silver against black waves. Firelight flickered somewhere ahead. And by the time you stepped over the dunes and onto the shore, every head turned. Good. Let them. There was power in being seen and knowing exactly what they were seeing. Sunoo, standing near the cooler with a drink in one hand and judgment in the other, spotted you first.
He froze dramatically. Then placed a hand over his heart. “Oh,” he said. “She came to kill.” “Someone has to keep standards alive.”
He looked you up and down with the solemn respect of a man appreciating art. “That dress should come with legal paperwork.”
“Excellent. I’m hoping for emotional damages.” Eunchae appeared next, immediately grabbing your arm. “No, seriously, turn around. I need to hate you properly.” You did, because generosity mattered. She groaned. “I’m ending our friendship.”
“Understandable.” Yunjin, from beside the fire, raised her drink toward you. “Whatever crime you commit tonight, I support you.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.” The bonfire itself was already in full swing. Someone had dragged out chairs no one was using. Music played low from a speaker half-buried in someone’s beach bag. Jay and Sunghoon were debating something useless near the waterline with the seriousness of men discussing world peace instead of tequila brands. People moved in loose circles, laughing, drinking, pretending not to stare at each other. Summer. Beautiful and a little stupid.
And then, like a sixth sense specifically designed to inconvenience you, you felt it. That look, across the fire, Heeseung. He stood with Jay near the cooler, beer in hand, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking like he’d walked straight out of an ad for poor decisions. The firelight caught against the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of his watch, the expression on his face, which, for one deeply satisfying second, was surprise. Real surprise.
His eyes landed on you and stayed there. Paused. Moved once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying very hard not to react and failing in private. He noticed, immediately, of course he did. You smiled, not at him, but in his direction, which was somehow worse, and turned your attention elsewhere. Because if you were going to weaponize beauty tonight, subtlety would only dilute the effect.
His name was Minjae, which you remembered mostly because he’d tried to kiss Yunjin two summers ago and gotten publicly roasted for it. Harmless. Pretty enough. From one of the families near the marina. More importantly, available. He approached with exactly the kind of confidence men borrowed from expensive watches. “Well,” he said, smiling as he stepped closer, “you’re either trying to ruin someone’s life tonight or start a small war.”
You took the drink he offered. “Can’t it be both?” He laughed, leaning in just enough to suggest intention. And from the corner of your eye, there, heeseung watching, not openly, but enough. His posture had changed, slightly stiffer, beer untouched, expression neutral in the way men got when they were trying very hard not to look like they wanted to commit a felony. Interesting. Very interesting.
You smiled brighter. Poor Minjae. A perfectly nice civilian about to become collateral damage. “You clean up well,” he said. “I usually do.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Have you?” The conversation was easy, almost too easy. Light touches. Leaning closer. The practiced dance of summer flirting where no one meant too much and everyone pretended otherwise, and the entire time, you could feel it.
That awareness from across the fire. Sharp, and steady. Heeseung. You laughed a little louder than necessary. Touched Minjae’s arm. Tilted your head just enough. Purely for scientific purposes. Across the beach, Sunoo noticed first, because gossip was basically his cardio.
He looked from you to Heeseung and nearly ascended. “Oh,” he whispered to no one and everyone. “Oh, this is delicious.”
Jay followed his line of sight and physically winced. “Someone should probably stop this.”
Sunghoon, wise as ever, took a sip of his drink and said, “No.” Correct. Absolutely no one should stop this. Because now Heeseung was walking over. Slowly. Calmly. Which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d looked angry. He moved like someone with a purpose. Like the ocean itself had personally requested violence. Minjae was still talking. Something about boats. You had no idea. Because Heeseung stopped beside you, close enough for the smell of expensive cologne and sea air to ruin your peace.
And said, casually, too casually, “Didn’t know you liked boring men.” Silence. Beautiful. Terrible. Immediate. Minjae blinked. You took a slow sip of your drink. Turned your head. Looked directly at him. And smiled.
Oh. This was going to be fun. Minjae, to his credit, had enough self-preservation instincts to realize when he’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s war. He looked between you and Heeseung, your too-sweet smile, Heeseung’s dangerously calm expression, and gave the kind of laugh people used when backing away from wild animals.
“Well,” he said, lifting his drink slightly, “I’m suddenly remembering I promised Sunoo I’d help him with… something.” Sunoo, across the fire, yelled, “I did not—” Too late. Minjae was already retreating into the night, leaving you alone with the problem. Which was standing far too close and looking far too pleased with himself. You turned slowly, crossing your arms.
“Did you just scare off my entertainment?”
Heeseung took a sip of his beer like he hadn’t committed a social crime. “If your entertainment starts explaining boat engines, I’m doing you a favor.”
“I was having a lovely time.”
“No, you were being annoying on purpose.” You placed a hand dramatically over your heart. “And here I thought I was subtle.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and the amusement thinned just enough to let something sharper through. “That’s the problem.” The fire crackled behind you. Somewhere farther down the beach, someone shouted over the music. Laughter carried on the wind.
But here, in the small space between you and him, everything had gone quieter. You tilted your head. “What exactly is the problem, Lee?” His jaw shifted. That tiny thing he did when he was trying not to say too much. Dangerous.
“You always do this.” You blinked once, deliberately. “Do what?” He stepped closer. Not enough for touching. Enough for trouble. “Act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” There it was. Not a joke. Not banter. Something real enough to make your pulse trip over itself. You should’ve backed up. You didn’t. Instead, you smiled, that slow, sharp smile you used when you were either about to win or about to ruin your own life.
“And what exactly am I doing?” He let out one quiet laugh, humorless. “Seriously?”
“Very.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Mistake. Terrible, catastrophic mistake. Because suddenly the entire night rearranged itself around that single glance. The firelight. The ocean. The red dress. His voice lower now, rougher around the edges.
“You flirt with people you don’t care about,” he said. “You get that look on your face when you’re trying to prove something. And then you wait to see who notices.” Your heartbeat was officially embarrassing. You folded your arms tighter, mostly so he wouldn’t notice.
“And you noticed.” He didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. The moonlight silvered the edges of everything, the shoreline, the glass in his hand, the expression he was trying and failing to keep neutral. You swallowed. Slowly. “Sounds like a you problem.” His mouth twitched.
“Probably.” There it was again, that unbearable thing between you, stretched tight as wire. Years of almosts. Arguments that had never really been about arguments. Every summer version of yourselves layered on top of each other until neither of you knew where the joke ended and the truth began. You could still remember the balcony. Nineteen. Champagne. His hand on the railing beside yours. That second where everything had almost changed.
You wondered if he was thinking about it too. You suspected he was. Because now he was closer. And now you could smell the ocean on his skin, something expensive underneath it, and the very specific danger of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. You should absolutely leave. Instead, because self-destruction was apparently hereditary, you said softly, “You’re jealous.”
His expression sharpened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Too late.” “You think this is funny.”
“No,” you said. “I think you’re jealous, and I think you hate that I noticed.” He stepped in once more. Enough that your breath caught. Enough that the entire world narrowed. “Careful.”
“Or what?” Your voice came out quieter than intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, and when he spoke, it was barely above the sound of the waves. “Or you’ll say something you can’t take back.” Silence. The dangerous kind. You could hear your own breathing. The ocean behind him. Someone laughing far away, in another universe where people made good choices. Here, there was only this. His hand brushing your bare arm as he shifted. Your pulse in your throat. The ridiculous certainty that if either of you moved half an inch, the entire summer would split open.
You thought, this is it. Finally. At last. And then, “OH MY GOD, THERE YOU TWO ARE.” Eunchae. Of course. She appeared like divine punishment in platform sandals, carrying two drinks and absolutely no sense of timing. You jumped back so fast it should’ve counted as cardio. Heeseung looked like he might walk directly into the ocean. Eunchae stopped. Looked between you. The space. The tension. The crime scene. And grinned like the devil herself.
“Wow,” she said. “I almost feel bad interrupting whatever deeply repressed thing was happening here.” “Don’t,” you said immediately.
“Never,” Heeseung muttered at the exact same time. She handed you a drink with the smugness of a woman collecting evidence. “Cute. Anyway, Sunoo is taking bets on whether you two make out before August.”
You took the drink because murder was illegal. “Tell Sunoo I hope he loses money.”
“Oh, he definitely won’t.” She skipped away before either of you could respond, leaving behind chaos and the lingering smell of coconut perfume. Silence again. But ruined now. Worse, somehow. Because now both of you knew. Not the joke. Not the performance. The actual thing underneath it. And once you knew that, pretending got harder. You stared out at the water. He stared at the fire. Neither of you said anything. Eventually, as the night thinned and people started leaving in groups of laughter and half-finished conversations, it became painfully obvious that your usual ride home had abandoned you in favor of some post-party food run.
Which left, “Get in.” You stood beside Heeseung’s car, clutching your shoes in one hand and your pride in the other. “No.” He unlocked the passenger door without looking at you. “Yes.” “I’d rather walk.”
“It’s two miles.”
“I’m resilient.”
“You’re dramatic.”
You narrowed your eyes. He opened the door wider. “Get in.” And because the universe hated you, you did. The drive home was quiet. Not awkward. Worse. The kind of silence that knew too much. The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the car, carrying salt and smoke and the last traces of summer bonfire on your skin. Your heels sat abandoned on the floor. Your red dress still smelled like fire.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. You looked out the window because looking at him felt like volunteering for emotional damage. Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss. Neither of you mentioned anything. When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark, your parents already asleep.
For one second, neither of you moved. Then you reached for the door. At the same time, his hand shifted. Your fingers brushed. Just barely. Warm. Accidental. Or maybe not. You froze. So did he. And for one stupid, suspended second, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath again. Then you pulled your hand back. Too fast. “Goodnight,” you said. Too quiet. He nodded once.
“Night.” You got out. Walked to the front door. Did not look back. But you could feel him there, still sitting in the driveway, engine running, watching until you got inside. And later, long after the house had gone still and the ocean whispered somewhere beyond your window, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Wide awake. Heart traitorous. Mind worse. Because now you knew. And so did he. Nobody slept.
The next few days were a masterclass in mutual psychological damage. Not dramatic damage. Worse. Polite damage. The kind where nothing happened and somehow everything did. You didn’t fight. That was the first sign something had gone horribly wrong. No sarcastic remarks over morning coffee. No pointed comments when passing each other near the beach path. No weaponized flirting in front of your parents. No smug little “morning, neighbor” from across the driveway.
Nothing. Just awkward, terrible silence. You’d see him and immediately become fascinated by literally anything else. The mailbox. A cloud. The concept of sand. Anything but eye contact. Because eye contact implied remembering. And remembering implied the bonfire. The almost-kiss. The car ride. His hand brushing yours like the universe personally wanted you to suffer. No, thank you. You were suddenly the busiest woman alive. If he was at the beach, you were tragically needed elsewhere.
If he was by the marina, you had urgent business in the opposite direction. If he was leaning against his stupid car looking like a rich-boy problem in linen, you turned around. Dignity first. Unfortunately, subtlety had never survived around your families. By Wednesday morning, Mrs. Lee noticed. Of course she did. That woman could detect emotional tension like a bloodhound. You were outside watering your mother’s increasingly judgmental hydrangeas, a task you’d been assigned after the tragic and suspicious death of the previous one, when it happened.
The sun was already warm, the kind of bright coastal morning that made everything look too innocent. Birds chirping. Ocean breeze drifting through the hedges. A peaceful suburban scene. Lies. Across the white fence separating your houses, Mrs. Lee stood on her patio with a basket of laundry and the sharp, narrowed gaze of a woman putting pieces together. You should’ve run. Instead, you smiled weakly.
Mistake. Because at that exact moment, Heeseung stepped outside. Coffee in one hand. Sunglasses. Half-awake and offensively attractive. He looked toward you automatically. You looked anywhere else so fast it nearly caused whiplash. Silence. A beat. Then, Mrs. Lee gasped.
Not a small gasp. A full-body gasp. The kind that meant family history was about to be rewritten. She turned toward her son so fast the laundry basket nearly died for it. “Lee Heeseung!” He stopped mid-sip. Already tired. “Mom, what.”
Her hand flew dramatically toward your side of the fence like she was presenting evidence in court. “What did you do to Y/N?” From your yard, you froze. The watering can continued pouring directly onto your foot. Fantastic. Heeseung blinked. “Mom, what do you mean?” “She isn’t looking you in the eyes!”
Across two properties and approximately three decades of neighborhood gossip, your soul left your body. “Mrs. Lee—” you tried weakly. She was unstoppable. “Do not Mrs. Lee me. I raised you both. I know things.”
Heeseung rubbed a hand down his face. “Mom—” Her eyes widened. Her voice rose. “Did you finally have sex?” Silence. Birds stopped singing. The ocean itself paused. From somewhere inside your house, your father definitely dropped something. And then, Mrs. Lee, with the volume of a woman chosen by God for this exact purpose: “DON’T TELL ME SHE CAN’T LOOK AT YOU BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT YOUR DICK LOOKS LIKE—”
“MOM!”
“Mrs. Lee!” You. Heeseung. Probably the entire coastline. At that point, survival instincts kicked in. You dropped the watering can. Actually dropped it. Water everywhere. Dignity nowhere. And then you ran. Not walked. Not gracefully retreated. Ran. Straight through the back door, up the kitchen steps, past your mother, who was holding coffee and looked far too entertained, and directly into the sanctuary of your bedroom like a Victorian woman fleeing scandal.
Your heart was trying to leave your chest. Your cheeks were on fire. You pressed both hands to your face and groaned into the universe. This was it. This was how you died. Not dramatically. Not beautifully. Killed by secondhand embarrassment and one very loud mother. Worse, far, far worse, you were blushing. Blushing. For a man currently being publicly lectured about sex on a Wednesday morning.
Humiliating. Absolutely unforgivable. Your mother knocked once on your door and entered anyway, because privacy remained a myth. She took one look at you face-down on the bed and smiled like a woman watching reality television. “Well,” she said, setting her coffee down, “that clears some things up.”
“Please leave me here to decompose.”
“I’d love to, but dinner is in two hours.”
Cruelty. Pure cruelty. Later that afternoon, once the heat of your humiliation had cooled from catastrophic to survivable, you made the dangerous mistake of leaving the house. Just a quick walk, you told yourself. Fresh air. Emotional recovery. Absolutely no Heeseung. The universe laughed. Because halfway down the lane near the beach path, there he was. Of course. Standing beneath the shade of the jacaranda trees like some handsome curse. You stopped. He stopped.
For one horrible second, neither of you moved. Then you made the deeply strategic decision to simply walk faster. Ignore. Evade. Survive. Unfortunately, Lee Heeseung had longer legs and audacity. “Y/N.” His voice behind you made your spine straighten. You kept walking. Badly. “Y/N.” Closer now. You stopped because running twice in one day felt like poor character development. Slowly, with all the grace of someone approaching public execution, you turned.
He stood there looking… weirdly nervous. Interesting. Suspicious. Your cheeks immediately remembered this morning and attempted betrayal. No. Absolutely not. You stared at a point somewhere near his left shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you blurted. Fast. Too fast. Like the words had tripped over each other trying to escape.
“For the thing. Earlier. Your mom. I mean—not your mom, obviously she’s lovely, but the yelling and the—” you gestured vaguely at existence “—everything. Sorry.” Excellent. Elegant. A true masterclass in social recovery. You were already preparing to evaporate when he stepped forward and stopped you. Not dramatically. Just enough. A hand lightly catching your wrist. Warm. Immediate regret. “Y/N.” You looked up instinctively. And there it was. Eye contact. Actual, dangerous eye contact. For one second, all the confidence he usually wore like expensive cologne just… vanished. Gone. He blinked once. Twice. And then— “I—uh.”
You stared. Heeseung Lee. Golden boy. Professional menace. Smooth-talking devil of Jeju Island. Stuttering. You would treasure this forever. He cleared his throat. “Sunoo wanted me to give you this.” He shoved a folded paper into your hand like it had personally offended him. “An invite. For Friday. He’s doing some thing—well, not some thing, it’s a party, obviously, and he said if I forgot, he’d kill me, so—” He kept talking. Rambling, actually.
Words continuing in increasingly unnecessary detail while you stood there holding the paper, blinking. Because now he was nervous. Actually nervous. And somehow that was worse. Far worse. You grabbed the invitation. Nodded once. And, choosing self-preservation above all else, turned and walked away at a speed just barely pretending not to be fleeing. Fast. Very fast.
Behind you, his voice stopped. Silence. Then, a soft scoff. Followed by a quiet chuckle, carried lightly by the ocean breeze. You didn’t turn around. Absolutely not. But you could feel it anyway. Him standing there. Watching you speed-walk your dignity down the lane. And annoyingly, your heart was still beating too fast. Friday night arrived heavy with heat.
The kind of heat that sat low against your skin and made the entire town feel slower, softer, dangerous in ways daylight never was. By nine, the sky over Jeju Island had gone ink-dark, the moon hanging pale over the water, and the beach had transformed again into its usual summer ritual, music spilling over the dunes, bonfires burning low and golden, laughter rising and dissolving into the sound of the tide. Sunoo’s parties were never really parties. They were events. Carefully chaotic, full of beautiful people pretending they were not looking at one another too closely. Someone always brought expensive liquor. Someone always made a bad decision. Someone always kissed the wrong person under the excuse of summer.
Tonight, the air felt like it had already decided who that would be. You had tried not to think about it while getting ready. Failed, of course. Because the truth was, the last few days had left something unsettled between you and Heeseung. No more easy arguments. No more familiar rhythm to hide behind. Just glances held too long and silences that felt louder than fights ever had. And the memory of his hand on your wrist.
The way he had looked at you. The way he had lost words. It had followed you all week. So when you dressed tonight, it wasn’t for attention. It was armor. A black dress this time, simpler than the red one, but worse somehow. Thin straps, soft fabric, bare skin at your back, the kind of dress that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already knew it would be. Your hair loose, your mouth glossed, gold at your throat catching the light. You looked like someone about to make a mistake.
And maybe that was the point. By the time you arrived, the party had already spilled toward the shoreline. Music low, drinks in warm hands, familiar faces blurred by firelight and moonlight and too much history. You let yourself be folded into it. Yoonchae pressed a drink into your hand. Yunjin laughed at something dramatic Sunoo was saying near the fire. Jay stood half in the water, arguing with Sunghoon over something neither of them would remember tomorrow. Everything looked normal.
It almost felt normal. Until you saw him. Heeseung stood near the edge of the beach, farther from the fire than everyone else, a drink untouched in his hand, dark shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t talking much. Just watching. And when his eyes found yours, the rest of the beach seemed to pull backward.
There it was again. That terrible, quiet thing. You looked away first. Coward. The night stretched. Another drink. Then another. Enough to soften the edges but not enough to blur them. Enough to make your body warm and your thoughts reckless. Enough to make him impossible to ignore. You felt him before he reached you. That shift in the air.
That awareness. You turned, and there he was. Close. Too close.
“Having fun?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear. You tilted your glass against your lips. “Immensely. I’ve only considered fleeing twice.” His mouth almost smiled. “Only twice?” “I’m pacing myself.” Silence settled between you, but not the easy kind. The kind that waited. The kind that knew.
The ocean stretched black behind him, waves breaking silver under moonlight. Firelight moved over his face in pieces, catching the sharpness of him, the tension in his jaw. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. Not accusing. Worse. Certain. You looked at him then.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you’re just easier to avoid lately.”
His expression shifted. Something quieter. Sharper. “That morning embarrassed you.” Mrs. Lee’s voice echoed in your memory and heat climbed your neck instantly. You looked away toward the water. “Your mother nearly announced your sex life to the entire coastline.”
“She likes you.”
“I nearly died.”
A brief silence. Then, softer, “You ran.” You let out a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”
“No.”
“No,” you agreed. “You’d stand there and make it worse.”
“That does sound like me.” For a second, it almost eased. Almost. Then he said, quieter this time, “That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me.” The wind moved between you, carrying salt and the faint smoke of the fire. No. It wasn’t. Because the truth sat uglier than that. You had been avoiding him because once something shifted, you couldn’t shift it back. Because pretending was harder now. Because every look felt like standing too close to the edge of something.
Because if you let yourself think too hard about him, you would ruin everything. And maybe you already had. You set your drink down in the sand. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do this.” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Do what?” You laughed once, breathless and frustrated. “This. This thing where you look at me like I’m supposed to know what you’re thinking.”
He stepped closer. Moonlight and firelight and trouble. “Maybe you do.” Your pulse stumbled. “You’re impossible.” His voice dropped. “So are you.”
And there it was. Years of it. Every argument. Every summer. Every almost. The balcony. The beach. The car ride. Every second spent pretending there wasn’t something here because admitting it would mean letting it matter. You could hear your own breathing. His too. Close enough now that it blurred. You should walk away.
You should say something cruel, something sharp enough to put distance back between you. Instead, you stayed. Because the truth was simpler than pride. You wanted him. Maybe you always had. And he looked at you like he knew it. Like he had been waiting for you to stop lying. His hand brushed your bare arm, slow enough to feel like a question. You should have answered no. Instead, your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Tell me to stop.” He didn’t. For one suspended second, neither of you moved.
Then he kissed you. It felt like anger, like relief, like something starved, messy and immediate and years too late. Your hands found him without permission, his shirt, the line of his jaw, the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and rough against yours, like he’d thought about this too many times and was done pretending otherwise. There was nothing careful about it. No softness. No hesitation.
Just all the tension finally breaking open. He kissed you like he was trying to win something, and you kissed him like losing had never sounded better. The sound that left him was low, wrecked, against your mouth. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend inside. When he finally pulled back, it was barely, forehead against yours, breath uneven, your lips still brushing when he spoke.
“Fuck.” The word sounded like confession. Then his mouth found yours again, harder this time, and the world narrowed to heat and salt and the way his hands made thinking impossible. He kissed down the corner of your mouth, breath warm against your skin, voice rough and half-lost. “Mm. Fuck, inside. Now.” You should have laughed. Should have reminded him he was arrogant, impossible, and absolutely not carrying you anywhere. Instead, when he lifted you, your legs finding his instinctively, your mouth was still on his.
Still kissing him as he walked. Across the sand. Up the path. Toward his house lit quiet against the night. The world beyond it disappeared. There was only this. His hands. Your heartbeat. The sound of the ocean somewhere behind you like witness. The back door. The hallway. Darkness and breath and mouths and hands and years of wanting collapsing all at once.
He barely got his bedroom door shut before you were against it, the sound of it closing sharp in the dark. Heeseung didn’t waste a second. His mouth was back on yours before the echo faded, hotter, deeper, more desperate than on the beach. One large hand cupped the back of your head, the other already sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping the soft fabric of your black dress like he’d waited years to tear it off.
You gasped into the kiss as your back hit the door again, the wood cool against your bare shoulders. His body pressed flush against yours, hard and burning, the evidence of how much he wanted you unmistakable against your stomach. “Fuck, this dress,” he muttered against your lips, voice gravel-rough. His fingers found the thin straps first, tugging them down your shoulders with impatient hands. The fabric whispered as it slid down your body, pooling at your waist before he pushed it lower, letting it fall completely to the floor in a dark heap around your ankles.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, bare except for the delicate black bra and panties, skin flushed, chest rising fast. His eyes darkened, jaw tight. “Beautiful,” he breathed, almost angry about it. “So fucking beautiful it pisses me off.”
Then his head dipped. His lips found the swell of your breast above the bra, hot and open-mouthed, tongue dragging over the lace. You arched into him with a shaky moan as he mouthed at your nipple through the thin fabric, sucking lightly, then harder, the wet heat of his mouth making your knees weak. His teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.
Your hands trembled as you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in the dark. The metallic clink sounded loud in the quiet room. You shoved his shirt up and off his shoulders, desperate to feel skin, and he helped you, ripping it the rest of the way off and tossing it somewhere behind him.
The moment his belt came undone, your hand slipped inside, palming him over his boxers. He groaned low against your chest, hips twitching forward into your touch. But Heeseung wasn’t letting you set the pace. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pushing them aside without ceremony. Two long fingers dragged through your folds, finding you already slick and aching for him.
“Shit,” he hissed against your nipple, voice vibrating through your skin. “You’re soaked.” You couldn’t even answer properly, only a broken sound escaped as his fingers circled your clit once, twice, before sliding lower and pushing inside you without warning. The stretch was sudden, perfect, and your head fell back against the door with a soft thud.
Heeseung’s mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder now, tongue flicking over the hardened peak while his fingers curled inside you, slow and deep, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. His thumb pressed firm circles against your clit in time with every thrust of his fingers.
Your hand tightened around his cock, stroking him through the fabric as best you could while your other hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in. “Heeseung—” His name came out wrecked, half-moan, half-plea. He lifted his head from your chest, lips shiny, eyes nearly black with want. His fingers didn’t stop moving inside you, steady and relentless.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough. “My name. Like that.” You did, moaning it louder this time as he added a third finger, stretching you open, preparing you for what was coming next. His mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing every sound you made while his fingers fucked you against the door, wet sounds mixing with your ragged breathing.
Your dress was long forgotten on the floor. His pants hung low on his hips. The only thing that mattered now was the burning friction between you, the years of tension finally snapping apart in the dark of his bedroom. And neither of you was nearly done yet. Heeseung’s fingers were still buried deep inside you when he suddenly pulled them out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You barely had time to protest before his hands gripped the back of your thighs.
In one smooth motion, he lifted you, wrapping your legs high around his waist. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you away from the door. The movement pressed his body flush against yours, and the second your weight settled, his pants, already tugged low on his hips, slid further down.
His cock, hot and heavy, shoved straight against your soaked folds. Your panties had been dragged aside earlier and stayed that way. There was nothing between you now except bare, slick skin. The thick length of him slid right between your folds, the head nudging insistently against your entrance with every step he took. You gasped sharply at the sudden, intimate contact.
Heeseung groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck—feel that?” he rasped, hips twitching involuntarily as he walked you across the room. Every movement made his cock drag slowly through your wetness, the head rubbing right over your swollen clit.
The friction was maddening. Skin to skin. Hot. Wet. Overwhelming. You moaned into his neck, legs tightening around him as another wave of arousal slicked between you. Heeseung’s grip on your thighs turned bruising, his breathing ragged against your ear. By the time he reached the bed, both of you were trembling. He laid you down carefully, never fully breaking contact. The moment your back hit the mattress, he followed, settling between your spread thighs. His pants were shoved just low enough. His shirt was long gone. And his cock, thick, flushed, and glistening with your arousal, rested heavy against your pussy.
Heeseung braced himself on one forearm, the other hand guiding his length. He rubbed the head slowly up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass. His eyes found yours in the dim light filtering through the window. Dark, hungry, and strangely vulnerable. You could feel him throbbing against you. Could see the tension in his jaw as he held himself back, waiting. You nodded, barely a breath. “Yes.”
That was all he needed. Heeseung didn’t hesitate. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. The stretch was intense, perfect, overwhelming. A broken moan tore from your throat as your walls clenched tight around his cock. Heeseung let out a low, guttural sound, forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.
“Shit— so tight,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel… fuck.”
For a few heartbeats, he stayed still, letting you adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter around him. Then he started moving. Slow at first, long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust pushed a soft cry from your lips. Heeseung’s rhythm quickly grew harder, more desperate, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the dark room. His mouth found yours again in a messy kiss as he fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with increasing force. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could hit even deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.
You were lost in it, lost in him. The way he filled you. The way he moaned your name against your mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time. The way years of tension finally shattered between you with every brutal, perfect stroke. Heeseung’s pace turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make up for every summer you’d spent pretending this didn’t exist.
And you took every single thrust, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails raking down his back as the pleasure built sharp and fast inside you. Heeseung’s thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his hips slamming against yours with a desperation that bordered on violent. You were so close it hurt, every stroke pushing you right to the edge.
“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned against your mouth, voice strained and raw. “Come with me. Now.” You could only nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching violently around his cock as you came with a broken cry of his name. The intensity made your vision blur, thighs shaking around his waist.
Heeseung followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with one final, deep thrust. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came inside you, hips stuttering, pulsing hot and deep while he rode it out, filling you with every twitch of his cock. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. He collapsed on top of you, chest heaving, sweat-slick skin pressed against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your throat. You could feel his heart hammering wildly against your chest.
Silence. No soft kisses. No gentle words. No confessions whispered in the dark. Just heavy breathing and the slow realization of what you’d just done. After what felt like forever, Heeseung finally pulled out of you with a quiet hiss. He rolled off to the side, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead. You both lay there, naked and still catching your breath. Then, quietly, “This was a mistake.”
Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Yeah,” he answered, just as flat. Liars. Neither of you believed it. Not even for a second. But neither of you said anything more.
Morning came like regret. Too bright. Too warm. Too aware. Sunlight spilled through the curtains in long golden strips, cruel in the way only summer mornings could be, soft and beautiful and entirely uninterested in your emotional devastation. Somewhere outside, the ocean moved lazily against the shore. A gull screamed like it had a personal vendetta. Your head hurt. Not from alcohol. Worse. Memory.
Every second of last night returned in fragments the moment you opened your eyes, his mouth on yours, your back against his door, the way he had said your name like it meant trouble, the heat of it, the impossibility of pretending it hadn’t happened. You stared at the ceiling for a full minute. Then another. Then sat up with the slow dread of a woman remembering she had, in fact, made every bad decision available to her.
Excellent. Fantastic. Character development. Heeseung’s room looked unfairly like him, clean without trying, expensive without showing off, sunlight falling over dark wood and linen sheets and the kind of quiet luxury that made you want to rob him on principle. He was standing by the window, already dressed. Of course he was. Dark T-shirt. Messy hair. Coffee in hand. Looking like the human embodiment of consequences. He turned when he heard you move. And for a second, neither of you said anything.
No teasing. No smugness. Just that strange stillness people had after crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself for dignity. It did nothing. He leaned against the window frame, studying you with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said finally, voice rough from sleep and something else, “this feels healthy.”
You let out one dry laugh. “Absolutely thriving.” His mouth twitched. Dangerous. Because if he smiled right now, if either of you made this softer than it was, the whole thing would collapse into something harder to survive. You got out of bed, collecting your clothes from the floor like evidence. “This was a mistake.” The words landed between you. Again. Too quick. Too sharp. You regretted them immediately. Something in his expression shifted, not hurt, exactly, but enough to make your chest tighten.
He set his coffee down. “Was it?” You pulled your dress on with more focus than necessary. “That depends. Are we pretending this was a one-time lapse in judgment, or are we being honest?” He watched you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Pretending clearly hasn’t worked for us so far.”
No. It hadn’t. Not for years. You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by the weight of it. The almosts. The history. The fact that wanting him had somehow become the least surprising part of all this. Outside, the day kept moving. Waves. Sunlight. People living normal lives. Inside, it felt like standing at the edge of something. You looked at him.
“So what now?” He crossed his arms, considering. And because the universe had a sense of humor, the answer came with the terrifying logic of two people who were entirely too good at making bad ideas sound reasonable. “We don’t do relationships.”
You snorted. “Understatement of the century.” “You said it yourself. No settling down this summer. No complications.” “No emotional disasters.”
“Preferably.” Silence. Then, you said it first. “Friends with benefits.” The words hung there. Ridiculous. Obvious. Inevitable. Heeseung looked at you like he hated how much sense it made. “Very mature.”
“Extremely.”
“Probably a terrible idea.”
“The worst one we’ve had so far.”
Another silence. Then both of you, at the same time, “Okay.” You stared at each other. And somehow, that was the funniest part. Because of course this was how it happened. Not with romance. Not with confessions. With negotiations. You stood, stepping closer now, the air between you still carrying the remains of last night. “Fine,” you said. “But if we’re doing this, there are rules.”
His brow lifted. “Of course there are.”
“Obviously. I’m not running an emotional free-for-all.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, watching you like he already knew this would be entertaining. “Go on, then.”
You started counting on your fingers. “No dates.” “Agreed.”
“No jealousy.” A pause. Small. Noticeable. Then: “Agreed.”
You narrowed your eyes but kept going. “No emotional attachment.” “That sounds healthy.” “It sounds necessary.” He nodded once. “Fine.”
“No sleepovers.” His expression shifted slightly. You ignored it. “No public affection. I’m not becoming beach gossip.”
“Sunoo will be devastated.” “He survives on disappointment.”
A ghost of a smile. You continued. “No calling unless it’s late.”
“That sounds suspiciously specific.”
“It sounds like boundaries.”
“And?”
You took a breath. The final one. The one that mattered. “This ends with summer.” That one stayed in the room longer. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about tonight or last night or whatever this was becoming. It was a deadline. An expiration date. A promise to keep it temporary. Necessary. Smart. A lie, probably. But necessary. Heeseung looked at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ends with summer.”
You hated how that felt. Still, you extended your hand like a business deal, because if you were going to ruin your life, professionalism mattered. “Deal?” He looked down at your hand. Then back at you. Slowly, he took it. Warm. Steady. His fingers closed around yours and something about it felt far less casual than either of you intended. “Deal.”
Too intimate. Too dangerous. You pulled your hand back first. Because someone had to be responsible here, and apparently it was going to be you. You grabbed your bag from the chair and moved toward the door before common sense could return and save either of you. At the threshold, you paused. Didn’t turn around. “Just so we’re clear,” you said, hand on the door, “if this ruins my life, I’m blaming you.”
Behind you, his voice came low and familiar again. “If this ruins your life, it’ll be because you let it.” You smiled despite yourself. Didn’t let him see it. Then opened the door. And walked out into the sunlight like a woman with a plan. Very mature. Very stupid. Exactly the kind of thing summer was made for. It started quietly, almost politely. As if whatever existed between you and Heeseung had agreed to disguise itself as something manageable.
A bad decision with boundaries. A summer arrangement. A temporary indulgence. Nothing more. That was the lie you told yourself the first time he texted you after midnight and you slipped out of your house barefoot, cardigan thrown over bare shoulders, the path between your homes lit only by moonlight and terrible judgment.
That was the lie you told yourself when he opened the back door before you even knocked, like he had been waiting there, like he knew the exact second your resolve would break. That was the lie you told yourself when his hands found your waist before either of you said hello. This is fine. It was not fine. At first, it felt almost easy.
There was a thrill to it, sharp and bright and addictive in the way summer secrets always were. The private satisfaction of sitting through family dinners knowing exactly how his mouth had looked against your skin the night before. The way his knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you reacted, though both of you remembered. It lived in stolen things. In late-night visits when the whole neighborhood had gone quiet, and the only sound was the ocean somewhere beyond the trees and your own heartbeat betraying you on the walk next door.
In the pool house one humid Thursday afternoon, when everyone else had gone sailing and the house sat warm and empty under the sun. Chlorine in the air, sunlight breaking over the water in fractured gold, your bikini still damp against your skin while Heeseung stood too close and said your name like it meant trouble. His hand sliding underneath the strap to touch you then quietly adjusting it back into place as if he hadn’t branded your entire neck in marks.
In parties where you crossed crowded rooms without touching, where his hand at the small of your back lasted only a second but ruined the rest of your night. Where you’d disappear separately and meet somewhere quieter, on balconies, behind the marina, near the dunes where the music couldn’t quite reach and the summer air felt heavier.
Every moment carried that same dangerous illusion: that because no one knew, it somehow meant nothing. You learned each other in fragments. The sound of his laugh when it was real, not performed for a room full of people. The way he got quieter when he was tired. How he always reached for your wrist first, like stopping you there somehow felt more honest than pretending he wasn’t pulling you closer.
How you started recognizing the sound of his car before it even turned into the driveway. You hated that one. Because it meant anticipation. And anticipation implied care. Care was not part of the agreement. So you became very good at pretending. You rolled your eyes when Sunoo accused you of being suspiciously unavailable lately. You blamed “family obligations” when Eunchae asked why you kept vanishing halfway through parties.
You told your mother you were staying in because the heat was unbearable, and then spent the entire afternoon in Heeseung’s room with the windows open, listening to the sea and trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of daylight. That was the dangerous part. Not the sneaking around. Not the kissing. Not even the wanting. Daylight. Because night made everything easier to dismiss. Midnight had always been built for mistakes. But sunlight was honest. It stripped things down. Left no shadows to hide inside.
And lately, you were both finding reasons to stay. A cancelled beach day because it was “too hot.” Skipping a yacht party because neither of you were “in the mood.” Sunday brunch abandoned halfway through because one look across the table had made patience impossible. Your parents thought you were finally becoming mature. Choosing rest. Prioritizing peace. If only they knew. On Tuesday, your mother found you in the kitchen at noon, wearing one of Heeseung’s old shirts thrown hastily over your swimsuit because you had forgotten your own cover-up and panic had terrible fashion sense.
She looked at you. Looked at the shirt. Looked back at you. And simply said, “Interesting.” You nearly died on the spot. “Laundry accident,” you replied immediately.
She sipped her iced tea. “Of course.” You fled before she could smile. It was becoming ridiculous. The kind of ridiculous that should have frightened you more than it did. Because somewhere between the late-night texts and the locked doors and the way he said your name when no one else was around, the rules had started feeling less like boundaries and more like decorations.
No sleepovers, and yet you had woken up in his bed twice this week. No emotional attachment, and yet you knew when he was in a bad mood before he said a word. No jealousy, and yet when a girl from the marina laughed too long at something he said, your entire evening soured without permission. This is fine. It was not fine. And the worst part was how natural it all felt. Like maybe this had been waiting for years. Like every summer before this had only been rehearsal.
One evening, stretched beside him on the pool house couch while golden light slipped slowly across the floorboards, you listened to the distant sounds of your families having dinner on separate patios, laughter drifting across the hedges, glasses clinking, the whole world carrying on politely while the two of you existed here in the quiet center of your own disaster. His hand rested lazily over your waist. Your head against his shoulder. Too comfortable.
Far too comfortable. You should have left an hour ago. Instead, you stayed. Because leaving meant acknowledging it. Because staying meant pretending this was still simple. You traced absent patterns against his arm and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. Summer had always felt like this, beautiful enough to make bad ideas look romantic. Temporary enough to make them feel safe. You told yourself that was all this was.
A season. A secret. Something that would end when the weather changed. But even then, with the evening light soft around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, some quieter part of you already knew the truth. This was never going to end cleanly. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came when you felt his hand sliding between your legs. Later, neither of you said much.
The room was quiet in that intimate, ruined way it only became after too much honesty, sheets tangled at your legs, the windows cracked open to let in the salt-heavy night air, the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead like time had slowed just for this. Outside, summer kept moving. Waves somewhere beyond the trees. A car passing faintly down the road. Someone laughing in the distance, far enough away to belong to another world entirely.
Here, everything felt still. You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, your body heavy with exhaustion, skin still warm, his sheets twisted around your legs like evidence. Your hair was a mess. Your thoughts were worse. This had become dangerous. Not because of the sex. That part had been inevitable the second either of you admitted wanting it. No, the dangerous part was afterward. This. The silence that didn’t feel awkward. The way neither of you rushed to leave. The softness that slipped in when no one was paying attention.
You hated softness. Softness made people stupid. Beside you, Heeseung was quieter than usual, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, his breathing finally even after the storm of the last hour. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Less polished. Less like the version of him the rest of the world got.
Just him. That was somehow worse. You turned your head slightly, watching him. His eyes were closed. For once, he wasn’t performing anything. No teasing, no arrogance, no carefully placed smirk like armor. Just tired. Real. You wondered if he knew how dangerous that was too. As if sensing it, he spoke without opening his eyes. “If you’re staring because you’ve finally admitted I’m right about everything, I’d like it formally documented.”
Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I was actually wondering how someone can be this annoying while unconscious.” He opened one eye. “Talent.”
“Curse.”
“Chemistry.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the ceiling, but the smile betrayed you anyway. Silence returned. Softer this time. The kind that settled around people who had stopped trying so hard to fill it. You should leave. That thought came and went three separate times. You should absolutely get up, find your dress, reclaim your dignity, and walk back to your own house like a woman with standards and emotional boundaries.
Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Because moving felt like too much effort. Because his room was warm and the ocean breeze through the window made everything drowsy. Because your body had given up on principles sometime around midnight. Because leaving would make this feel real. And staying let you pretend it was still just summer.
Your eyes grew heavier. The last thing you really registered was the lamp on his bedside table casting soft amber light across the room, and the faint smell of salt and clean linen and him. Then sleep came quietly. No dramatic realization. No final declaration. Just exhaustion winning where common sense had failed. Sometime later, minutes, maybe an hour, you felt movement.
Half-asleep, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, you registered the mattress shifting, the lamp clicking off, the room falling deeper into darkness. Then warmth. A blanket pulled over you. Careful. Quiet. His hand brushing lightly against your shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.
You should have opened your eyes. Should have made a joke. Broken the moment before it could become one. You didn’t. You stayed still, breathing slow, pretending sleep because somehow that felt safer than acknowledging tenderness. In the dark, his voice came low and almost amused. “Rule number four,” he murmured.
No sleepovers. You felt him settle beside you. The mattress dipped. The silence deepened. And then, after a beat, “Terrible at following instructions.” You smiled into the pillow where he couldn’t see it. Outside, the ocean moved patiently against the shore, summer stretching endlessly into the night. And there, in Lee Heeseung’s bed, beneath his sheets and your own very bad decisions, you fell asleep. Oops.
Something shifted after the sleepover. Not dramatically. No confessions, no declarations, no grand cinematic moment where either of you admitted the obvious and ruined everything properly. Worse. It changed quietly. In the spaces between things. And somehow, that made it far more dangerous. Because sex was easy to dismiss. Sex could be blamed on summer, on heat, on proximity, on years of unresolved tension finally finding somewhere to go. Sex was physical. Temporary. Conveniently stupid.
But softness, softness was treason. It started with coffee. You were standing in his kitchen one morning, barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies because your own clothes were somewhere upstairs and dignity had long since packed its bags. The house was still half-asleep, sunlight slipping pale and warm through the windows, the kind of slow summer morning that made everything feel deceptively gentle.
You were reaching for the coffee tin when he slid a mug across the counter toward you without looking. Iced. Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly right. You stared at it. Then at him. He was leaning against the opposite counter, scrolling through something on his phone with the dangerous calm of a man who had no idea he’d just committed emotional violence. “You remembered.”
He looked up. At the mug. At you. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You complain about bad coffee like it’s a moral issue.” You narrowed your eyes. “It is a moral issue.” He smiled into his own cup. That was the problem. Not remembering. How natural it felt. As if of course he knew. As if of course you noticed. As if this was normal. It wasn’t. Nothing about this was normal. And yet the days kept folding around it anyway.
He started bringing you food without asking. Not in some dramatic, romantic gesture way. Nothing obvious enough to name. Just showing up at the beach with the exact sandwich you liked because he “happened to be near the deli.” Leaving fries on the passenger seat when he picked you up because you’d skipped lunch and he could always tell when you did. A bottle of water handed to you silently after too much sun and too much pretending at some yacht party, his hand brushing yours for only a second before he walked away.
Little things. The kind people noticed. The kind people definitely noticed. By the second week of July, your friends had reached collective suspicion. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon at the beach club, where everyone had collapsed under umbrellas with overpriced drinks and varying levels of sunburn. Sunoo was the first to say it, because of course he was. He lowered his sunglasses dramatically and pointed between you and Heeseung like a detective solving a murder. “You two are weird.”
You didn’t even look up from your book. “That is the least shocking thing anyone has ever said.”
“No,” Yunjin cut in, leaning forward, “like weird weird. You’re not fighting.”
That got your attention. You looked up. Across from you, Heeseung was stretched lazily in a chair, sunglasses on, looking entirely too comfortable for someone under investigation.
Yoonchae nodded. “It’s unsettling. I miss the hostility. It was romantic.” Jay, who treated gossip like a legal proceeding, added, “The last thing you said to him that even resembled an insult was, and I quote—” He lifted a hand, reciting with criminal accuracy: ‘Don’t stay in the ocean too long, your wig might fall off.’ Silence. You blinked.
Sunghoon, traitor, added quietly, “That wasn’t even an insult. That was concern wrapped in a taunt.” You hated all of them.
“It was a warning,” you said.
“Because you care,” Sunoo sang.
“Because baldness is a public issue.” Across the table, Heeseung laughed. Actually laughed. Low and easy and far too pleased with himself. And you, idiot that you were, smiled back before you could stop it. The entire group gasped like Victorian women witnessing an exposed ankle. Eunchae clutched her chest. “Oh my god. They’re smiling at each other. We’ve lost them.”
You buried your face in your drink. This was unbearable. But the truth sat heavier than embarrassment. Because they were right. You weren’t fighting anymore. Not really. The sharpness had softened at the edges, and in its place had come something quieter. More dangerous.
You knew when he was lying. It was always in his shoulders first, too relaxed, too deliberate. Like if he made himself look calm enough, no one would notice. And he knew when you were upset before you said a word. Sometimes before you did. Like the night you came back from dinner with your parents, frustrated and restless and not wanting to explain why, only to find him sitting on the hood of his car outside your house.
He took one look at you and said, simply, “What happened?” No performance. No jokes. Just knowing. You sat beside him without answering, and he handed you fries in silence. That was worse than comfort. That was intimacy. And intimacy was not part of the agreement. Neither was the fact that you kept ending up in his clothes.
His hoodie mostly. Dark gray, too big, sleeves falling over your hands, smelling faintly like him and expensive detergent and whatever impossible thing made you feel too warm when you wore it home at sunrise. The first time, you’d told yourself it was practical. The second time, convenient. By the fifth, even you had stopped pretending. One evening, walking back from his house with that hoodie wrapped around you and the sun barely rising over the water, you caught your reflection in a neighbor’s window and had the deeply humiliating realization that you looked happy.
Not smug. Not victorious. Happy. You nearly turned around and walked directly into the sea. And then there was jealousy. The rule neither of you talked about because talking about it would make it real. No jealousy. Very simple. A lie, obviously. It surfaced one night at another party on Jay’s yacht. Some guy, tall, forgettable, rich in the boring way, spent too long talking to you by the bar. Leaning in too close. Laughing too easily.
You were polite. Mostly. But from across the room, you felt it before you saw it. Heeseung, watching. Still. Cold. Not dramatic, that would’ve been easier, just quiet. His expression shuttered in that way he did when he was trying very hard not to let something show, and suddenly the rest of the night tasted wrong. Later, when you found him outside near the dock, the air heavy with salt and dark water below, you said it before you could stop yourself.
“You’re being weird.” He leaned against the railing, gaze on the ocean. “I’m always weird.”
“Not like this.”
A long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, “Nothing’s wrong.” You laughed softly. There it was, the lie. You stepped closer, “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”
Finally, he looked at you. Moonlight catching the edges of him. That familiar unreadable expression. “No,” he said. “You just like thinking you can.” You folded your arms. “And you like pretending I’m wrong.”
His jaw shifted. A tell. You noticed. Of course you noticed. For a second, it almost cracked. Whatever this was. Whatever sat under all the rules and pretending and carefully chosen silence. But then he straightened. Looked away. And the wall went back up. “It means nothing,” he said. The words landed heavier than they should have. Because both of you knew he wasn’t talking about the guy. He was talking about all of it. This. You. Him.
The arrangement. The softness. The way neither of you were following your own rules anymore. Nothing. You stared at him for a long moment, the ocean loud in the silence between you. Then you nodded once. “Right.” A lie, both his and yours, both of you standing there in the warm dark of summer, pretending not to bleed where it hurt.
It means nothing, and somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said everything, the silence between you lingered for a second too long. Warm night air moved around you, carrying the salt of the ocean and the distant hum of music from the party still going on behind the marina. The dock swayed faintly beneath your feet, water dark and endless below, moonlight breaking silver across the surface.
You stood there with his words still sitting heavy in your chest. It means nothing. Such a simple sentence. Such a stupid, transparent lie, but you hated that it hurt. More than that, you hated that he knew it hurt. That somewhere beneath all the arrogance and all the careful pretending, he knew exactly where to place the knife. And still, somehow, neither of you left. Because leaving would mean ending the conversation. Because staying meant there was still something unfinished here.
You folded your arms tighter, more for protection than attitude. “Right,” you said again, quieter this time. Heeseung looked at you like he wanted to say something else, something better, or worse. You could see it in the hesitation. In the way his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. In the tension sitting sharp in his shoulders, like even he was tired of performing indifference.
But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. Instead, after a long moment, he stepped closer. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to be familiar. And maybe that was the problem. The familiarity of it. The way your body recognized him before your mind had time to argue. His hand brushed your arm lightly. A thoughtless gesture. Comforting. Soft. Dangerous. You should have stepped back. Instead, you stayed still.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his body had made the decision before his brain could stop it, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Careless. Tender. The kind of kiss that belonged to something entirely different than whatever this was supposed to be. And the second it happened, you both froze. Completely, the world stopped, the ocean, the music, your heartbeat, everything. Because that, that was not in the rules. Not even close. No public affection. No emotional attachment. No softness.
And forehead kisses? Forehead kisses were practically emotional terrorism. You stared at him. He stared at you. His hand was still lightly on your arm. Your lips parted, but no sound came out because honestly, what exactly was the appropriate response to being emotionally assassinated on a dock? Apparently, the answer was, a dramatic choking noise.
You both turned. Too late. Because standing ten feet away, carrying drinks and what looked like the absolute time of their lives, were your friends. All of them. Sunoo. Sunghoon. Jay. Eunchae. Yunjin. Yoonchae. Witnesses. To your death. For one beat, nobody moved. Then Yunjin made a sound like a Victorian woman seeing a man’s ankle and clutched her chest.
“No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No. No, I refuse.”
And with all the theatrical commitment of a woman born for performance, she dramatically dropped backward onto Eunchae. “I’ve fainted,” she announced to the night. “I’m dead. Tell my family I died right.” Eunchae, instead of helping, was already doubled over laughing. Actually laughing. Tears in her eyes. Full-body betrayal. Jay turned away entirely, hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to remain dignified. Sunghoon stood there in complete silence, which for him was basically screaming.
Sunoo looked like he had ascended to another spiritual plane. And Yoonchae, traitor, elegant, terrifying, just slowly raised one eyebrow and said, “Well.” You wanted the dock to collapse. Immediately. Preferably with you on it. Beside you, Heeseung cleared his throat with the deeply haunted expression of a man realizing public humiliation was hereditary.
“It was nothing.” Silence. Then six people spoke at once. “Nothing?” Sunoo repeated, scandalized. “You kissed her forehead!” Eunchae shouted.
“That’s husband behavior,” Yunjin yelled from her fake death position. Jay pointed accusingly. “That is not casual. Casual men do not forehead kiss.”
Sunghoon, finally contributing, said simply, “That was intimate.” Which, somehow, was worse. You covered your face with both hands. This was how legends ended. Not with dignity. Not with grace. But with your friends conducting a public trial over a forehead kiss. Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, visibly regretting every life choice that had led him here. “It was automatic.”
“A Freudian slip,” Sunoo said immediately.
“A cry for help,” Yunjin added.
“A confession,” Eunchae gasped.
“A legal declaration,” Jay said.
“A marriage proposal,” Yoonchae finished.
You made a strangled noise. “Please stop talking.”
“No,” everyone replied. Across the chaos, you finally looked at Heeseung. Really looked. And annoyingly, he looked just as wrecked as you felt. His composure cracked at the edges. His usual confidence gone. His ears, very slightly, red. Interesting. Very interesting. For one brief second, despite the humiliation, despite the six idiots currently planning your wedding in real time, you almost smiled. Because he was embarrassed. Actually embarrassed. And somehow, that made the whole thing worse. Or better. Definitely worse.
He looked back at you. Something unspoken passing there. Something quiet and dangerous. Then, because the universe refused to let either of you have peace, Sunoo threw an arm dramatically into the air and declared to the ocean, “THEY’RE IN LOVE AND THEY’RE MAKING IT EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.” You and Heeseung, at the exact same time: “Shut up, Sunoo.” Which only made everyone laugh harder.
—
The yacht looked like something built for people who had never been told no. White and gleaming and impossibly large, anchored just far enough from shore to feel exclusive, close enough for everyone to pretend it was casual. Music spilled across the water in low, expensive waves. Champagne sweated in silver buckets. Someone was laughing too loudly near the upper deck, and somewhere below, the ocean moved dark and patient against the hull, like it had seen this all before. Summer in Jeju Island had always been performative, but yacht parties were theater. Everyone arrived looking like they had something to prove. Girls in silk and gold, boys in linen and old money and inherited arrogance. Sunglasses even after sunset. Bare shoulders catching the last of the light. Beautiful people pretending they weren’t waiting for someone specific to notice them.
You hated how much you fit into it. Tonight, the dress was white. Soft and dangerous. The kind of dress that looked innocent until someone stood too close. Thin straps, bare back, fabric skimming your skin like seawater. Your hair loose from the salt air, gold at your throat, your mouth glossed and unhelpful. You looked like a mistake dressed as a good idea. Maybe that was the point. By the time you stepped onto the deck, the sun was already beginning to sink, everything dipped in amber, the ocean turning molten and gold around you. The air smelled like sunscreen, champagne, and money.
Sunoo spotted you first, of course. He stood near the bar, already three drinks deep into being everyone’s problem, and his eyes widened slowly as you approached. “Oh,” he said softly, like someone witnessing divine intervention. “Someone is about to ruin a life.” You took the champagne he handed you. “Only one? I’m aiming higher.”
He smiled, but it faded quickly when his gaze shifted past your shoulder. There. At the far end of the deck. Heeseung. Talking to Jay, drink in hand, sleeves rolled, dark shirt open at the throat in that infuriating way he never seemed aware of. The wind moved through his hair. The sunset caught against the sharp line of his profile. And then he looked up. Found you. Paused. There was always that moment. That small, suspended second where everything else fell away and it was just this, the recognition, the tension, the memory of every version of yourselves that had led here. His gaze moved slowly.
Not rushed. Not subtle. Like being touched without contact. And even from across the deck, you felt it. Something in your chest pulling too tight. It would have been easier if he looked away first. He didn’t. Neither did you. Until Yunjin bumped your shoulder lightly and saved you from your own poor decisions. “Don’t do that,” she murmured. You blinked. “Do what?” She took a sip of her drink, watching the sunset like she wasn’t dismantling your life. “Look at him like that. It makes the rest of us feel like unwilling participants.”
You laughed, but it sounded thinner than you meant it to. Because tonight, something already felt wrong. Not wrong. Fragile. Like standing barefoot on glass and pretending it was only sand. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of it. The weeks of pretending. The rules bent past recognition. The softness neither of you spoke about. The forehead kiss that still sat in your chest like a bruise. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe you were tired. Tired of pretending this was casual. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of him saying it meant nothing when it had started to feel like everything.
So tonight, you decided to be reckless. Not because you wanted someone else. Because you wanted him to react. Which, in hindsight, was the kind of decision people wrote warnings about. Minjae found you first. Again. Pretty enough. Easy enough. Familiar enough to be useful. He leaned against the rail beside you while the yacht drifted slow under the dying sun, talking about some party in Seoul, some mutual friend, something forgettable. His hand brushed your arm when he laughed.
You let it. You smiled. You leaned closer. You let the dress do half the work and the silence do the rest. And all the while, you could feel it. Heeseung. Across the deck. Watching. It wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t storming across the yacht like some jealous cliché. Worse. He was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that meant all the dangerous things were happening underneath. You knew him well enough now to recognize it.
The way his shoulders went too rigid. The way his mouth flattened when he was holding something back. The way he stopped pretending to enjoy the party. You kept flirting. Because cruelty, apparently, was a love language. By the time the sky had gone violet and the city lights glittered faintly across the water, the tension had become its own living thing. Heavy.
Everyone noticed. Sunoo kept looking between you and Heeseung like he was watching a live sports event. Eunchae physically winced every time Minjae touched your arm. Jay had the expression of a man reviewing poor investment choices. And Heeseung, he stopped speaking entirely. You should have stopped. You didn’t. Because part of you wanted him angry. Wanted proof. Wanted something undeniable.
You found it when you excused yourself to the lower deck for air. The music faded there, softer beneath the sound of the water. The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet. Moonlight stretched silver over the sea, and the world felt quieter, suspended between one decision and the next. You barely had time to breathe before he was there.
“Seriously?” His voice behind you was low. Controlled. Too controlled. You turned slowly. He stood in the narrow corridor of moonlight and shadow, jaw tight, eyes dark enough to make the night feel thinner around you. There it was. Finally. You leaned back against the railing, crossing your arms like your pulse wasn’t trying to leave your body. “Are we opening with accusations? Very romantic.” His laugh was short. Humorless. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re late. I thought jealousy would get you here faster.” That landed. You saw it. The flicker in his expression. The anger sharpened by something much worse. He stepped closer. “You think this is funny?”
“No,” you said quietly. “I think you don’t get to care.” The ocean moved below you. Dark and endless. He stopped. For one second, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. “And why not?” The question came softer than you expected. Not angry, not sharp, honest, and that was worse, because there was an answer. A real one. Because caring meant naming this. Because naming this meant breaking it. Because if he said it first, if either of you said it first, there would be no way back to pretending.
You looked at him and saw all of it at once, the boy you had spent every summer fighting, the man standing in front of you now, the terrible inevitability of wanting someone you were never supposed to want this much. Your throat felt tight. “Because,” you said, and even your own voice sounded unfamiliar, “you were the one who said it meant nothing.” Something in him shifted. Like regret. Like anger turned inward. He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t step back. There was nowhere to go.
Moonlight on the water. Champagne still bitter on your tongue. His hand braced against the railing beside you, trapping you there without touching. His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “And you believed me?” Your heart stuttered. Because no. No, you hadn’t. That had been the problem. You had heard the lie and let him keep it because the truth was too dangerous.
You looked up at him, and the space between you felt like standing in the ocean during a storm, like drowning and floating and drowning and floating, never knowing which one would win. “Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered.
He stared at you like he was trying to decide whether honesty would ruin him. Maybe it would. Maybe it already had. His hand lifted, slow enough to stop, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt far too intimate for a yacht full of people and all the lies between you. His mouth was only inches from yours. And when he spoke, it was barely sound at all. “I think,” he said, “I stopped being careful with you a long time ago.”
Not quite a confession. Worse. Because it was true. And truth, between the two of you, had always been the most dangerous thing of all. He stood there for one suspended second after saying it, like even he was startled by the sound of his own honesty. The yacht rocked gently beneath you, the ocean below black and endless, moonlight breaking itself into silver shards across the water. Somewhere above, the music still played, muffled now, distant, belonging to another life entirely. Laughter drifted from the upper deck like something from far away, from people who had not just stepped to the edge of something irreversible.
You could still feel the words between you. I stopped being careful with you a long time ago. It settled into your chest like saltwater, slow, stinging, impossible to separate from your own blood. For weeks, maybe years, the two of you had been circling this. Pretending desire was just annoyance sharpened into habit. Pretending every almost was accidental. Pretending the way he looked at you meant less than it did. And now here it was. Not clean. Not graceful. Just true. You should have said something. Something intelligent. Something devastating. Something that would let you keep whatever remained of your pride. Instead, your body betrayed you first.
Your hand found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like instinct, like gravity. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until he looked down at your hand and something dark and quiet moved across his face. His restraint snapped so softly you almost missed it. Then he took your wrist. And before you could think, before either of you could retreat back into irony and self-preservation, he pulled you with him. Up the narrow staircase. Past the low spill of music and careless laughter. Through the blur of warm bodies and champagne and summer pretending to be harmless.
You barely registered the startled glance Sunoo gave you as Heeseung walked past him without a word, your hand still in his like a confession neither of you were ready to speak aloud. The hallway inside the yacht was cooler, quieter. White walls. Dim lights. The hum of the engine beneath your feet. Somewhere, a door shut. Somewhere else, the sea kept breathing against the hull.
He kept walking. You followed because there was no version of this where you didn’t. Because at some point, resisting him had become another kind of surrender. At the end of the corridor, he stopped. A private deck. Smaller. Hidden from the party. Open to the night. Only the ocean. Only the moon. Only the two of you and everything you were pretending not to destroy.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. Silence. He turned. For a moment, neither of you moved. The wind came off the water cool against your overheated skin, lifting your hair, carrying salt into the space between you. You could hear your own breathing. His too. He looked at you like a man standing too close to fire and knowing he was about to step in anyway.
And suddenly, it felt like standing at the edge of land. Like the last piece of solid ground beneath your feet. Like one more step would mean surrendering to something larger than either of you, something tidal and reckless and impossible to survive unchanged. You crossed that distance first. Or maybe he did. Later, you wouldn’t know. Only that one second there was space, and the next there was none. His mouth found yours like gravity.
Not gentle. Not hesitant. Like being pulled under. The kiss hit you like cold water and summer lightning, sharp, immediate, consuming. Every part of you lit at once, every defense dissolving so quickly it felt humiliating. His hands were at your waist, your neck, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, only that he needed to. You kissed him back like drowning. Like if you let go, you’d wash out to sea. His mouth tasted like champagne and salt and every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make. It was anger and relief and hunger all tangled together, all the years between you collapsing into something hot and breathless and overdue.
The world tilted. Or maybe it was just the boat. Or maybe it was him. You had the absurd thought that this was what slipping away from land felt like, that moment your feet stopped touching the ocean floor and suddenly there was nothing holding you up but instinct and want. Floating. Falling. The same thing, sometimes. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, and the sound that left him against your mouth was low, wrecked, like even he was surprised by the force of this.
You understood. Because kissing Heeseung felt like melting. Like sun-warmed skin slipping beneath water. Like losing the shape of yourself. Like becoming something softer, stranger, more dangerous. He kissed you like he was angry at how much he wanted to. You kissed him like you were tired of pretending you didn’t. And somewhere in the middle of it, all your carefully built walls, your rules, your boundaries, your clever little exits, went under like they had never been there at all.
His forehead rested against yours for one brief second, both of you breathing like you’d been running, like maybe you had. His thumb brushed your cheek. A tenderness so small it almost hurt more than the kiss. When he spoke, his voice was rough enough to sound like truth. “You make this impossible.” You smiled, breathless, your lips still close enough to steal.
“So do you.” Then his mouth was on yours again, and whatever was left of reason disappeared with the tide.
—
The rain started sometime after midnight. By morning, Jeju Island had turned silver. The sky hung low and heavy over the coastline, clouds blurring the horizon until the ocean and the storm became one endless sheet of grey-blue. Rain slid steadily down the windows in soft crooked lines, tapping against rooftops and palm leaves and the quiet little streets of the neighborhood with the kind of patience only summer storms possessed.
Everything felt slower in the rain. Softer. The beach emptied. Yacht plans were cancelled. The marina sat abandoned except for boats rocking gently against their docks like sleeping animals. For the first time all summer, the town stopped performing. And somehow, that felt dangerous too. You woke late to the sound of thunder somewhere far away, curled beneath your sheets with damp air drifting through the cracked window. Your phone rested beside your pillow, screen lighting softly against the grey room.
A text.
power’s out at our house.
Then, a second later:
mom says yours still has electricity
And finally:
tragic. devastating. i’ll survive somehow.
You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then sighed. Because despite everything, despite all your promises to yourself about boundaries and self-preservation and not becoming the kind of girl who let boys ruin her summer, you were already smiling. An hour later, Heeseung arrived at your front door soaked from the rain.
Not drenched dramatically. Just enough that dark strands of hair clung messily to his forehead, rainwater catching along the line of his jaw and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. The storm had turned the whole world softer around the edges, and standing there beneath the muted grey sky, he looked less like the polished golden boy everyone knew and more like something real. Your mother let him in with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Oh good,” she said brightly, already walking back toward the kitchen. “Now you can both stop pretending you don’t miss each other.”
“Mom,” you warned. Heeseung coughed into his sleeve to hide a smile. Rain followed him inside in traces, the smell of wet pavement and ocean wind clinging faintly to him as he stepped into the warmth of the house. For a moment, neither of you moved. No parties. No music. No late-night tension sharp enough to cut through.
Just quiet. The kind that made you suddenly aware of ordinary things. The soft ticking of rain against the windows. The oversized sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders. The fact that he looked at home here. That realization unsettled you more than it should have. The day unfolded slowly after that. Not exciting. Not dramatic. And maybe that was why it mattered.
You spent most of the afternoon in the living room while the storm darkened outside, half-watching terrible movies neither of you cared about. Your legs stretched across the couch beneath a blanket, his shoulder brushing yours every so often in that absent, thoughtless way intimacy sometimes arrived. At some point, your mother disappeared upstairs with a suspicious smile and the kind of timing that deserved investigation.
The rain deepened. Hours passed unnoticed. You learned strange things about each other in the quiet. Not the big things. Not the carefully curated versions people offered at parties. Small things. Real things. Heeseung hated peaches because he got sick eating too many as a kid one summer. You used to fake injuries during tennis lessons because you hated losing more than you liked sports.
He still remembered the time you punched a boy at thirteen for making Eunchae cry near the marina. “You broke his nose,” he recalled from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.
“He deserved worse.” “You were terrifying.” “I still am.” A smile touched his mouth then. Soft. Unthinking. Rainlight filled the room pale and blue around him, and suddenly the years between childhood and now felt strangely thin. Like maybe you had always been circling each other. Like maybe every version of yourselves had led here eventually. Later, thunder rolled low across the coastline while you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, flipping through an old photo album your mother had abandoned on the shelf years ago.
Bad idea. There were photographs everywhere. Sunburnt summers. Beach days. Bonfires. All of you impossibly young. You paused on one picture, eight years old, missing front teeth, shoving Heeseung into the sand while he laughed hard enough to blur in the frame. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “We look awful.”
“We look happy,” he corrected quietly. The room fell still after that. Outside, rainwater slid endlessly down the glass. Inside, something shifted. Not loudly, just enough to feel it. He sat down beside you on the floor, close enough that warmth gathered between you naturally. The photo album rested forgotten between your knees. And for the first time since this began, it didn’t feel like war. No tension sharpened into cruelty. No sarcasm waiting like a weapon.
Just this strange, aching softness neither of you knew how to hold. You turned another page slowly. Another photograph. Older this time. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A summer party. You standing near the water laughing at something outside the frame while Heeseung looked at you instead. Not the camera. You. Your breath caught slightly. “You kept this?” He glanced down at the picture. Then away. Your pulse stumbled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His jaw shifted faintly. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Turn it into a joke. Deflect the way he always did whenever things came too close to honesty. Instead, his voice came quieter than you expected. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve spent a long time trying not to.”
The rain outside seemed to hush around the words. You looked at him carefully. Something vulnerable flickered there beneath all the practiced ease. Something raw enough to make your own chest ache in response. And suddenly you understood something terrifying, this was no longer just desire. Desire was simpler.
This, whatever this was becoming, had roots. Deep ones. You looked back down at the photograph because meeting his eyes felt too dangerous. “I used to hate summers here,” you admitted softly. The confession surprised even you. He looked at you then. “Why?” You traced your thumb along the edge of the page.
“Because everything always ended.” The words settled heavily between you, summer romances, bonfires, fireworks, warm nights, every beautiful thing in Jeju Island came with an expiration date stitched into it from the beginning, and suddenly, without meaning to, you had said something true. Something too true. You felt him shift closer beside you. Not touching. Almost worse.
For one suspended moment, it felt like standing at the edge of another confession, like both of you could ruin yourselves completely if you kept talking, so neither of you did. Cowards.
By evening, the storm had softened into a quiet drizzle. The whole house glowed warm against the rain-dark world outside, lamps casting amber light across the living room while distant thunder faded somewhere beyond the ocean. You’d lost track of time entirely. Dinner had happened somewhere in between conversation and silence and accidental touches that lasted too long. And now he stood near the front door pulling his sweatshirt back on while you lingered barefoot by the hallway, neither of you acknowledging how reluctant this felt. The rain tapped softly against the windows.
He looked tired. You probably did too. For one dangerous second, you almost asked him to stay. You could feel the question there, hovering at the back of your throat. Stay, not because of sex, not because of loneliness. Just, stay, and somehow that made it infinitely more frightening, across from you, he hesitated too, his hand resting on the doorknob, eyes on yours. Like he almost wanted to ask, but neither of you moved.
Because asking would mean admitting this had already crossed into something neither of you knew how to survive. So instead, he opened the door. Cool rain air slipped inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. Not later. Tomorrow. Something about that felt dangerously permanent. You nodded once.
“Yeah.” He left. And somehow the house felt emptier after. You stood there for a long moment listening to the rain before your mother appeared behind you carrying two mugs of tea. She looked toward the door knowingly, then back at you. “You know,” she said lightly, “summer’s ending soon.”
The words hit like cold water. Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too warm. Your heartbeat stumbled somewhere beneath your ribs. Because for the first time all summer, the ending no longer felt theoretical. It felt real. And terrifyingly close.
Summer began leaving in pieces. Not all at once. That would have been kinder. Instead, Jeju Island unraveled slowly, quietly, like a tide pulling back from shore before anyone realized the water was disappearing. The marina grew emptier first. Boats vanished from their slips one by one, carried back toward cities and obligations and real lives waiting elsewhere. Beach houses that had glowed warm every night for months slowly darkened at the windows. Suitcases appeared in entryways. Goodbyes drifted through the neighborhood in soft, temporary promises.
See you next summer.
As if next summer was guaranteed. As if people stayed the same long enough for promises like that to survive. The air changed too, still warm, but thinner somehow, the evenings arriving earlier, sunsets softer, touched already by the melancholy of something ending, even the ocean looked different, darker blue, quieter, less forgiving. You hated noticing it, because noticing meant acknowledging the clock, and the clock meant him, everything suddenly seemed measured in remaining time, three more Friday nights, two more yacht parties, a handful of mornings left before the entire town dissolved back into memory.
Your arrangement had always come with an expiration date stitched into it. Ends with summer. At the beginning, the rule had felt safe, now it felt like standing beneath a blade waiting to fall. You started sleeping badly after that, not because of him, because of the way he had started looking at you. More carefully, more openly, like somewhere along the way, he had grown tired of pretending.
It happened in small moments at first, his hand lingering too long at your waist before letting go, the way his gaze searched for you automatically in crowded rooms now, no hesitation, no embarrassment about it, how he no longer acted surprised by tenderness, as though caring had become instinctive, dangerous, dangerous things. And worst of all, he had stopped treating this like it was temporary.
You noticed it one evening at the beach. The sky had gone pale gold with approaching sunset, the shoreline nearly empty except for scattered locals and gulls drifting low over the water. You sat wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled loosely to your chest while the tide crept closer across the sand. Heeseung sat beside you quietly, one arm draped over his bent knee, watching the horizon.
Comfortable silence stretched between you. The kind that should have felt peaceful. Instead, it terrified you, because this wasn’t supposed to become comfortable. Comfort implied permanence. Permanence implied loss. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured eventually.
You glanced at him. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you get this look on your face when you’re spiraling.” You looked away too quickly. The ocean breathed in and out before you answered. “I’m not spiraling.”
“You started reorganizing the snacks in my kitchen alphabetically yesterday.”
“That was stress cleaning.”
“That was psychotic.” A faint smile touched your mouth despite yourself. His gaze softened when he saw it. There it was again, that look, something gentler, something infinitely more frightening. Your chest tightened.
You stood abruptly before the feeling could settle properly. “I should go.” The shift was immediate. You saw him notice it in real time, the distance, the retreat, his expression changed carefully, like someone stepping onto unstable ground. “You just got here.”
“I know.” Rain clouds gathered faintly over the horizon, turning the water darker beneath the evening light. You avoided his eyes while brushing sand from your legs, because lately every time you looked at him too long, something inside you started giving way, and you couldn’t afford that, not now, not with endings everywhere. The drive home was quiet. not tense, worse, careful, as though both of you could feel something fraying between your hands and neither knew how to stop pulling. After that, it became impossible not to notice. How often he reached for you now. How naturally your lives had begun folding together. How every goodbye felt heavier than the last.
And the more real he became, the more frightened you grew. So you started pulling away, subtly at first, taking longer to answer texts, leaving earlier, skipping late-night visits with excuses thin enough that even you didn’t believe them, too tired, family dinner, headache, lies, all of them, because the truth sounded too ugly to admit aloud: You were beginning to love him, and loving someone with an end date felt like volunteering for heartbreak in advance. He noticed immediately, of course he did, he had always known you too well.
One night at Sunoo’s house, while music drifted softly through crowded rooms and everyone else played cards half-drunk around the kitchen island, you felt his eyes on you from across the room almost constantly, not possessive, not angry, trying to understand, which somehow hurt worse. You laughed too brightly at things that weren’t funny. Let conversations distract you. Pretended not to see the way his jaw tightened every time you slipped further away from him. By midnight, the tension between you had become unbearable.
You found him eventually outside on the balcony overlooking the ocean, moonlight silvering the sharp edges of his profile. The wind moved softly through the dark. Neither of you spoke immediately. There was too much sitting between you now. Finally, he turned. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Not accusatory. Just tired. You crossed your arms tightly against yourself. “I’ve been busy.”
A pause. Then quietly, “That’s not true.” Something sharp moved through your chest. Because no matter how carefully you built distance, Heeseung always walked straight through it. You looked out toward the water instead, far easier than looking at him. The ocean below looked endless tonight, cold, restless. “I just think maybe we forgot what this was supposed to be.” The silence after that felt dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice had gone lower. “And what exactly was it supposed to be?” You swallowed, temporary, easy, nothing, but none of those words fit anymore. Not after rainy afternoons and forehead kisses and sleeping beside each other until sunrise, not after the way he looked at you now.
You could feel him watching you carefully, waiting, and suddenly the pressure of it became unbearable, the ending hanging over everything, the fear curling tighter around your ribs every day this became more real, because if you admitted what this was becoming, then losing it would destroy you. So instead, you stepped backward emotionally the way frightened people always do. “You said it yourself,” you murmured. “This ends with summer.”
His expression shifted, hurt, this time, barely hidden, “And that’s all you want?” You opened your mouth, nothing came out, because the answer existed, because it terrified you. The wind moved cold against your skin, below you, waves crashed endlessly against the shore, over and over, like something trying desperately to return to land. He stared at you for a long moment. Then finally asked, softly enough to hurt, “What are we doing?”
The question hung there between you, not angry, not dramatic, honest, and honesty had become the most dangerous thing between the two of you. You looked at him, really looked, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he was trying not to show, the terrifying possibility of being loved back. Your throat tightened painfully. But fear arrived faster, fear always did.
So instead of answering, you stayed silent, and in that silence, something began to break.
—
The storm rolled in after midnight, it didn't rain at first, just pressure, heavy clouds swallowing the sky whole, the air turning electric and difficult to breathe. Wind moved through Jeju Island in restless waves, rattling windows and palm trees and the fragile remains of your composure. You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.
His question kept replaying in your head like something unfinished. What are we doing? You had no answer that didn’t terrify you. So instead, you spent hours pacing your room while lightning flickered faintly beyond the ocean horizon, illuminating the walls in brief silver flashes. Coward.
The word followed you everywhere now, by one in the morning, your thoughts had become unbearable, by one-thirty, you were walking toward his house through the storm, barefoot, sweatshirt pulled tight around yourself, heart beating too hard.
The neighborhood lay silent beneath the dark sky, every house asleep except his. Light still glowed beneath his bedroom door upstairs. Something inside your chest twisted painfully at that. Like some foolish part of you had hoped he’d be sleeping peacefully. Unaffected. But of course he wasn’t.
You knocked once before opening the door. He looked up immediately from the couch. And the moment your eyes met, you understood this was going to hurt. The room was dim except for one lamp near the window. Thunder murmured low outside, rain finally beginning against the glass in soft scattered drops. Heeseung stood slowly. Neither of you spoke at first.
The distance between you felt enormous. You hated it. You hated that you were the one who created it. “You came,” he said eventually. His voice sounded exhausted. You wrapped your arms around yourself tighter. “I couldn’t sleep.” Something unreadable moved across his face. For one dangerous second, it almost softened. Then he remembered. “What do you want me to say?”
There it was. No avoiding it now. Your pulse stumbled painfully. “I don’t know.” “That’s the problem.” The words landed harder than they should have. Thunder rolled somewhere closer now. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the calm he’d been holding together for days. “I feel like I’m standing outside a locked door with you lately.”
You looked away immediately. Because if you looked at him too long, you would fold. “You’re making this more serious than it is.” Even saying it felt wrong. You could hear the lie rotting underneath the sentence. So could he, his laugh this time sounded hollow.
“Seriously?” You swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be simple.” “Simple?” His voice sharpened suddenly. “You think any of this has felt simple?” Rain hit harder against the windows. The room felt smaller now. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you knew how to survive. You took a step backward instinctively, he noticed, of course he noticed, and something inside him finally snapped.
“I’m tired,” he said quietly, “of pretending I don’t care.” Silence, the words settled into the room like lightning striking water, there it was, the thing both of you had spent all summer running from, not hidden anymore, not softened into implication, real. You stared at him, your heart hurt so badly it almost felt physical, because part of you had wanted this, wanted him to say it, and another part, the larger, more frightened part, wanted to run until your lungs gave out.
Loving someone meant they could leave. Summer always left. You knew that better than anyone. So fear reached for cruelty the way drowning people reached for air. You laughed softly. Wrong move. His expression changed immediately. You felt your own panic rising now, wild and sharp and impossible to control. “This was never supposed to mean anything.”
The second the words left your mouth, you wanted them back. Too late. Silence. Not dramatic. Worse. Stillness. You watched the hurt move across his face slowly, like something extinguishing. His eyes lost warmth first, then softness, then hope, and suddenly the room felt freezing. He nodded once, a small movement.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Got it.” You opened your mouth instantly. Nothing came out. Because the truth was trapped somewhere beneath all your fear, clawing at your ribs too late. He grabbed his keys from the counter. Didn’t look at you again. Thunder cracked outside just as he reached the door. “Heeseung—”
He stopped. For one second, hope flared painfully inside you again. Then he spoke without turning around. “I think,” he said softly, “I deserved better than that.” And left. The door shut behind him with terrifying finality. You stood there frozen while rain hammered against the windows and the storm swallowed the coastline whole. For the first time all summer, he didn’t come back, and afterward came silence.
No texts. No late-night knocks at your window. No headlights outside your house. Nothing. Just absence. Cold and endless as the sea. After Heeseung left, summer collapsed in on itself. Not dramatically. No thunder. No shattered glasses. No cinematic unraveling loud enough for the world to notice. Just absence. Quiet and creeping and everywhere.
It settled over Jeju Island like fog rolling in from the ocean, slipping beneath doors and into lungs and through the spaces between ordinary things until everything familiar felt wrong. The beach became unbearable first. You still went sometimes out of habit, carrying books you never opened, towels that stayed folded beside you untouched. The shoreline stretched wide and glittering beneath the August sun, beautiful in the same indifferent way it had always been, but now it felt hollow somehow.
Like a photograph of somewhere you used to belong. Everywhere you looked, there were ghosts of him. Near the dunes where he had first kissed you like he was starving. At the marina docks where moonlight had turned his honesty into something dangerous. On the stretch of sand where he’d once laughed at you for trying to fight the tide after too much tequila and too little dignity. You kept expecting to see him.
Leaning against the lifeguard tower. Walking toward you through the surf. Looking at you the way he always did lately, like he had already memorized every version of your face. But the spaces stayed empty, and somehow emptiness had weight.
The parties weren’t any better. Without him, they felt exposed somehow. Too loud. Too artificial. Music thumping against hollow spaces where your heartbeat used to live. Champagne too sweet. Laughter arriving half a second too late to feel real. You drifted through them like someone haunting her own life.
People noticed, of course they did. Sunoo stopped cornering you with gossip and instead watched you carefully whenever you thought nobody was looking. Eunchae started hugging you too tightly before leaving parties. Even Yunjin, who usually treated emotional devastation like a spectator sport, went strangely quiet around you. One evening near the bonfire, while everyone else sat tangled in conversation and salt air and late-summer exhaustion, Sunghoon settled beside you silently with two drinks. You accepted one without looking at him.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly before him. The ocean breathed dark beyond the shoreline. Then finally, “You look miserable.” No judgment. Just fact. You let out a quiet laugh that sounded closer to breaking. “I’m fine.”
“Right.” The word carried enough disbelief to hurt. You stared down at the bottle in your hands. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re the first thing he’s ever taken seriously.” Your chest tightened immediately. You looked at him then. Sunghoon kept his gaze fixed on the fire. “He acts like nothing matters most of the time,” he continued quietly. “But you did.”
Past tense. The word sliced through you before you could stop it. You swallowed hard. The fire blurred faintly. “He won’t even come out with us anymore,” Sunghoon admitted. “Jay says he’s been packing.” Packing. Something cold moved through your ribs.
You looked away quickly toward the ocean because suddenly breathing felt difficult. Summer had always ended. You knew that. You had built your entire heart around that truth years ago. Nothing beautiful stayed. Not beach towns. Not warm nights. Not people. Especially not people.
But somehow, somewhere between the rainstorm and the yacht and the way he remembered your coffee order, you had forgotten. Or maybe you had simply hoped he would become the exception. That realization arrived slowly over the following days. Not all at once. In fragments. You missed him in stupid ways first. Reaching automatically for your phone after something funny happened.
Turning toward the empty seat beside you at dinner before remembering. Still wearing one of his hoodies to sleep because taking it off felt too much like admitting he was gone. You found traces of him everywhere. In your routines. In your silences. In yourself.
And the worst part was understanding that this grief did not feel temporary. It rooted itself deeper every day. One afternoon, rain threatened faintly over the coastline while you wandered through town half-distracted, passing storefronts already packing away summer displays. Towels disappearing from racks, souvenir stands closing early, seasonal flowers wilting slowly in the heat. August ending in real time. You paused outside the small café near the marina where you and Heeseung had once hidden from the heat for nearly two hours, sharing iced coffees and childhood stories neither of you had meant to tell.
You remembered the way he’d looked at you across the table that day, soft, unarmed. Like loving you had happened quietly when he wasn’t paying attention. The realization hit then, simple, terrible. Oh. This is love. Not infatuation, not summer lust, not convenience sharpened into attachment. Love.
Real enough to hollow you out. Real enough to ruin everything else afterward. You leaned against the storefront window, eyes burning suddenly. Horrible, absolutely horrible, because now you understood why everything felt wrong without him. He had become stitched into the shape of your summer so completely that removing him tore pieces out alongside it.
And worse, you had done this. Fear had done this. You replayed the fight endlessly afterward, every cruel sentence tasting more poisonous each time you remembered it. This was never supposed to mean anything. You had watched those words break him in real time, and still you’d said them. Coward.
By the final week of August, panic settled fully into your bloodstream. You started looking for him without meaning to. Driving past the Lee house too slowly. Watching the beach at sunset. Checking your phone at two in the morning like your body still expected him to return eventually. He never did. The silence between you became its own kind of violence. Finally, the worst part.
It happened accidentally. Your mother stood in the kitchen arranging flowers while late afternoon sunlight spilled gold across the countertops. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the heat, summer sounding exhausted now. You barely listened until she said, “I saw Mrs. Lee earlier.” Something inside you immediately sharpened.
“Oh?” “She said Heeseung’s leaving tomorrow morning.” The world stopped. Your hand froze halfway around your coffee mug. “What?” Your mother glanced up, surprised by the sudden rawness in your voice. “He’s heading back early. Something about work starting sooner in Seoul this year.” Tomorrow. The word crashed through you like cold seawater. Tomorrow meant this was real. Tomorrow meant endings.
Tomorrow meant there was suddenly almost no time left to fix the thing you had destroyed with your own hands. Your pulse turned violent beneath your skin. Outside the window, the ocean stretched blue and endless beyond the cliffs, glittering beneath the fading August light. Beautiful. Temporary. Already slipping away.
—
The next morning arrived too bright. Cruel sunlight flooded Jeju Island in sheets of gold, the ocean glittering innocently beneath the sky like yesterday had not split your heart open. Everything looked painfully beautiful in the way endings often did.
You barely slept. Every hour had passed tangled in panic and memory and the unbearable realization that if you let him leave now, this would become one of those tragedies people carried forever. The kind stitched permanently beneath your ribs. By nine in the morning, your hands were shaking. By nine-fifteen, you were in your car.
You drove too fast down the coastline road, sunlight flashing violently through the trees, your heartbeat louder than the music still playing faintly through the speakers. Wind rushed through the open windows carrying salt and heat and the last dying breath of summer. Your mind replayed him endlessly. The rainstorm. The yacht. The forehead kiss. The way he had looked at you like you were something worth staying soft for.
The moment his face went cold after your cruelty. You gripped the steering wheel harder. Not this. Please not this. The marina came into view suddenly beyond the cliffs, boats swaying gently beneath the sunlight. People moved lazily along the docks carrying luggage and coffees and ordinary lives. Heeseung. Standing near the end of the dock beside one of the ferries heading toward the mainland.
White T-shirt. Dark sunglasses. One duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Leaving. The sight hit you so hard you nearly forgot to breathe. For one terrible second, fear almost won again. Turn around. Protect yourself. Pretend this never mattered. Then he glanced up. Saw you. And everything stopped. You barely remembered getting out of the car. Only the sound of your footsteps against the dock, the ocean below, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown the gulls overhead.
He straightened slowly as you approached, no smile, no anger either, just exhaustion, like he had finally become tired of hoping, that hurt most. You stopped a few feet away from him, sunlight breaking across the water between you both. Neither of you spoke at first.
Words suddenly felt impossibly small compared to everything sitting between your ribs. Finally, he exhaled quietly, “You came.” The simplicity of it nearly broke you, no accusation, no bitterness, just surprise, your throat tightened painfully. “I had to.” The wind moved softly around you, carrying warmth off the ocean.
He looked at you carefully then, like he was trying not to expect too much, and suddenly you realized something devastating, if you stayed silent now, you would lose him forever, no more pride, no more running, just truth, your eyes burned. “I was scared,” you admitted first. The words came rough, fragile around the edges. Heeseung stayed perfectly still. So you kept going before courage disappeared again.
“I think…” You swallowed hard. “I think I knew what this was becoming before you did. And it terrified me because everything here ends eventually and I didn’t know how to love someone without already grieving them.” His expression shifted slightly. You stepped closer. “I said those things because I thought if I ruined this first, it would hurt less when summer ended.”
Your voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. The ocean blurred faintly behind him. “But it already hurts,” you whispered. “It hurts all the time.” Silence. Not empty. Listening. You looked at him fully then, no defenses left anywhere inside you. “I was stupid.” A breath. “And cruel.” Another. “And completely in love with you.”
Just love. Messy and terrifying and real enough to destroy you if he rejected it. Your chest ached violently waiting for him to say something. Anything. Heeseung stared at you for a long moment that felt endless beneath the August sun. Then finally, he laughed softly, not mockingly, disbelieving, like he had spent the entire summer waiting for a miracle and couldn’t quite believe it had arrived, you frowned immediately through the tears threatening your eyes. “That’s your reaction?”
He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the relief slowly undoing it. “I’ve been waiting all summer for you to admit that,” he said quietly. Idiot. You made a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him, hard, desperate enough to make up for every moment you wasted being afraid. His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you against him with something almost painful in its urgency, and suddenly the entire world dissolved into sunlight and saltwater and relief.
The kiss felt different now, not drowning, not war, like finally reaching shore after spending months lost at sea, his forehead rested against yours when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly beneath the burning light. “You are unbelievably difficult,” he murmured.
You laughed wetly. “You stayed anyway.” “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I did.” Around you, the marina continued moving, boats departing, gulls crying overhead, summer ending one irreversible second at a time. But for the first time since this began, nothing about this felt temporary anymore.
—
The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Heeseung’s bedroom, casting a golden haze over tangled sheets and bare skin. Months had passed since that messy night, since the angry kisses and the “this was a mistake” lies. What started as stolen moments and stubborn denial had slowly, stubbornly, become something real.
Now, you were exactly where you belonged, underneath him, legs locked around his waist as he moved inside you with deep, unhurried strokes. Every thrust pulled a fresh sound from your throat. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, back arching as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “Heeseung— mmph!” Your cry was muffled as he leaned down and kissed you, slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips kept that devastating rhythm. Heeseung chuckled warmly against your mouth, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He kissed you once more, softer this time, then pressed his lips gently to your forehead, lingering there as he stayed buried deep inside you.
Still teasing. Still chaos. Still both completely insufferable. But now it was real. He pulled back just enough to look at you, sweat-damp hair falling over his eyes, that signature smirk playing on his lips even while he was still pulsing inside you. “Thought I told you not to fall in love with me,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection.
You smiled up at him, glowing and utterly wrecked, your hand coming up to brush his hair back.
“Thought I told you not to call.” Heeseung let out a genuine laugh, the kind that made your chest feel too full. He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, drawing a soft gasp from you before stilling again. “Yeah, well… I never was good at listening,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “That night after the party, when I texted you to come over… I told myself it was just one more mistake. One more time and we’d get it out of our systems.”
You raised an eyebrow, tracing your fingers down his spine. “And how’s that working out for you?” “Terribly,” he admitted, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Because every time you walked away, I kept thinking about you. Every summer. Every fight. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”
He shifted slightly, still deep inside you, and rested his forehead against yours. “I kept telling myself not to fall. And then you showed up at my door the next morning anyway. Stubborn as hell. Beautiful as ever.” You laughed softly, tightening your legs around him. “You’re the one who kept calling. Kept texting. Kept pulling me back in.”
Heeseung’s eyes softened, that rare vulnerable look breaking through the cocky exterior. “Because I couldn’t stop. Even when I tried.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “Guess I’m the idiot who fell first.” The room felt smaller, warmer, wrapped in golden light and years of history finally settling into place. All the almosts, the what-ifs, the angry almost-kisses on balconies and beaches, they had led here. To this. You pulled him down into another kiss, slow and sweet this time, savoring the way he melted against you.
When you broke apart, Heeseung froze for half a second, then broke into the brightest, most boyish grin you’d ever seen on him.“That’s what this whole thing has been, hasn’t it? One long, messy ‘maybe’ that turned into forever.” You nodded, eyes shining. “No more mistakes. No more running. Just us.”
“Just us,” he echoed. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and started moving inside you once more, slow and intentional, like he was sealing the words into your skin. The laughter faded into soft moans and whispered names, the two of you losing yourselves in each other one more time.
Later, as the sun dipped lower and you lay tangled together under the sheets, Heeseung’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, he pressed one last kiss to your shoulder.
“So… Call Me Maybe?” he asked, smirking.
You grinned. “Only if you promise to always pick up.”
summary. drunk your ass off, you confessed to your long-time crush since freshmen year in the graduation party where everyone gathered to have their final fun before finishing college. spoiler alert: he rejected you, and now years later you meet him again in a reunion party, with the same feelings, yet years apart.
pairings. excrush!heeseung x fem!reader
content / warning. mild angst + fluff, profanities here and there, mentions of alcohol, drunk/tipsy sex, making out, rough sex, riding, oral (fem!rec), unprotected sex, titplay, fingering, slight overstimulation & aftercare!
w.c. 10k
“No way. I’m not going,” you said, sipping onto your peach milk tea like that settled the matter.
Yunjin didn’t even blink. She just stared at you over the rim of her iced americano, unimpressed. “You haven’t even heard the details.”
“I don’t need to,” you replied smoothly, setting your drink down. “I already have plans that day.”
“Oh really?” she leaned back, crossing her arms. “What plans?”
“…Important plans.”
She raised a brow. “Name one.” You hesitated for half a second too long. “Laundry.”
Yunjin snorted. “You’re skipping a once-in-four-years reunion… to wash clothes.”
“It piles up,” you defended weakly. “Hygiene is important.”
“Right. Because you’ve totally never let laundry sit for a week before.”
You ignored that. “Also, I might be tired. Work has been very, extremely exhausting.”
“You literally just told me yesterday you’ve been bored out of your mind.”
“…I can be tired and bored.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You grabbed your cup again, taking another long sip just to avoid her stare. “Plus, I don’t really like crowds.”
Yunjin blinked. “You went to a concert last month.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“…There was music.”
“There will be music at the reunion.”
You paused. “…I don’t like that kind of crowd.”
She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm, eyes narrowing playfully. “You’re running out of excuses.”
“I’m not making excuses,” you said quickly. “I just don’t feel like going. It’s not that deep.”
“It’s very deep,” she shot back. “You said no before I even finished the sentence.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
Okay, maybe that part was true.
Yunjin tilted her head, studying you like she was trying to crack a code. “What is it, then?”
“Nothing,” you said immediately.
“Liar.”
You let out a small groan, dropping back into your chair. “Why do you care so much if I go or not?”
“Because,” she said simply, “you used to love this kind of thing. Reunions, gatherings, all that nostalgic stuff. And now suddenly you’re acting like it’s a life-threatening event.”
You fiddled with the straw in your drink, pushing the ice around. “People change.”
“Not that much.”
Silence settled between you for a moment, filled only by the low hum of the café and the occasional clink of cups.
Yunjin softened, just slightly. “Look, I’m not saying you have to stay all night. Just… show up. Say hi. Exist for a bit.”
You stared at your drink again, watching the condensation slide down the plastic cup.
“…What if it’s awkward?” you muttered.
“It will be,” she said without hesitation.
You looked up at her.
She grinned. “For, like, five minutes. Then you grab a drink, talk to a few people, and suddenly it’s not a big deal anymore.”
You exhaled slowly, unconvinced. “Or it stays awkward.”
“Then we leave,” she shrugged. “Simple.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not going to ditch me there, right?”
“Wow. I’m offended.”
“That’s not a no.”
She placed a hand dramatically over her chest. “I would never. I’ll be glued to your side the whole time.”
“…That sounds worse.”
Yunjin laughed. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here I am, being forced into social events against my will.”
“You’re not being forced,” she corrected. “You’re being strongly encouraged.”
You huffed, tapping your fingers against the table. “I just don’t see the point. It’s been years. Everyone’s doing their own thing now.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Which is why it’s interesting. You get to see how everyone turned out.”
You raised a brow. “And what if I don’t want to know?”
“Too bad,” she shot back lightly. “Curiosity is part of being human.” You shook your head, but a small smile threatened to break through.
She caught it instantly. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“That face,” she pointed. “The ‘I’m about to give in but I don’t want to admit it’ face.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” You held her gaze for a second… then looked away first.
“…I’ll think about it,” you mumbled.
Yunjin lit up like she’d just won something. “That means yes.”
“It means maybe.”
“It means yes.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re so annoying.”
“And you love me,” she shot back effortlessly.
You sighed, reaching for your drink again.
“…We’ll see,” you said, trying to sound firm—but it came out a little too uncertain to be convincing.
Yunjin only smiled, completely unfooled.
And a week later, you arrive at the specially booked restaurant, arms locking with Yunjin, who has the brightest smile on her face people would mistake it for her birthday party.
You look around, already noticing familiar faces. Classmates who you shared one class with, those who you met on frat parties, and even those who you have worked with in the college’s management before.
“Holy fuck. Everyone’s here.” You sigh at Yunjin, who just chuckles. “That’s the point, darling. A reunion—Oh! There’s Minjeong! Hi!” She smiles.
Kim Minjeong, another mutual friend of yours who you’re quite close to, has been overseas a lot lately, so it’s been hard to keep in touch. She isn’t technically outgoing, but when hanging out with her, it’s plenty of fun.
“Hey, girls! It’s been ages!” She goes in for a hug, which the both of you reciprocate.
“You’re the one traveling around the world. I still meet this girl every week.” Yunjin blurts out, while Minjeong passes two glasses of champange.
You politely decline. “I’m driving.” You smile, but Yunjin wriggle her eyebrows. “Or you don’t wanna make some stupid drunk mistake again?” In which you pinch her side, making her yelp.
Fuck.
Minjeong claps her hands, as if remembering a completely significant detail in her life. “Right! I heard it from Yunjin, I was so wasted I missed it.” She laughs.
You can feel yourself heating up from embarrassment. “You both remember yet you still ask me to come?” You grit your teeth.
“Relax…it’s bee…what, 4 years? I kid you not no one in this room remembers.”
Just as she say that, a group of four men enters the room. Your eyes wander to one of them, and you already feel like throwing up.
“I can’t do this.” You are about to turn away from them, removing Yunjin’s arm.
“Girls!” Jay, the ever-so-loud and familiar goes up to your group. The other three followed him without hesitation.
“Wow…you guys barely change..” Yunjin says, analyzing their faces as if so much could change in a matter for four years.
“Can’t say the same to you guys, you guys look more mature now.” Jake teases while the three of you try your best not to give him the stinkiest stare known to mankind.
While they kept on conversing, your eyes landed on the last guy in the group.
Features as sharp as you remembered, only more defined now—time had carved a quiet confidence into him. His hair was a little longer, styled like he didn’t try too hard but still got it right, and the way he carried himself… steadier, grounded.
Older.
Familiar.
Dangerously so.
Lee Heeseung.
His eyes capture yours, and years of attempt to bury the past seems to fail you right there and then.
4 YEARS AGO
Your head is hazy.
The music is too loud—bass pounding through your chest, lights blurring every time you blink. Everything feels warm, unsteady, like the floor might tilt if you stand still for too long.
You shouldn’t have had that last drink.
Or the one before that.
Or… any of them, really.
But it’s too late now.
Because across the room—
You see him.
And suddenly, the noise fades just enough for your thoughts to latch onto one thing.
There he is.
Your heart lurches, something bubbling up in your chest—something that’s been sitting there for far too long.
It feels big.
Too big.
Too loud to keep in anymore.
Before you can think better of it, you’re already moving—pushing through people, brushing past shoulders, ignoring the way someone calls your name from behind.
By the time you stop, you’re right in front of him.
He looks surprised.
“Hey—are you okay?” he asks, eyes scanning your face.
You stare at him.
God, why does he look so… normal?
Like he hasn’t completely rearranged your brain chemistry just by existing.
“I need to tell you something,” you say, words slightly slurred but determined.
His brows pull together. “Maybe not right now, you look—”
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “No, I have to say it now.”
A few people nearby glance over.
You don’t notice.
Or maybe you just don’t care.
Because your heart is racing too fast, your thoughts tripping over each other as they try to come out all at once.
“I like you, Heeseung.” you blurt.
There it is.
Out. Done. No taking it back.
Silence.
His expression freezes—caught completely off guard.
“…You do?” he says after a beat, like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right.
You nod, a little too hard. “Yeah. Like—like a lot. For a long time.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Too long.
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly scrambling for something to say. “I—I didn’t know that.”
“Well, yeah,” you let out a shaky laugh. “That’s why I’m telling you now.”
“Right,” he nods slowly, still processing. “I just—uh…”
He hesitates.
And that’s all it takes.
That tiny pause.
That flicker of uncertainty.
Your chest tightens instantly.
Because in your head, it already sounds like a no.
“I mean,” he starts carefully, “you’re really—”
“Oh my god,” you cut in, the words hitting you all at once. “You don’t like me.”
He blinks. “Wait—no, I didn’t say—”
“It’s fine,” you laugh, but it comes out sharp. Too sharp. “You don’t have to do the whole ‘you’re really nice’ thing, I get it.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, stepping back slightly. “No, it’s cool. Totally cool.”
Your heart is pounding now—but not in the same way.
Hot. Embarrassed. Defensive.
“Wow,” you let out another laugh, louder this time. “I really picked the worst time to say that, huh?”
He looks genuinely concerned now. “Hey, maybe we should talk when you’re a bit—”
“What? Sober?” you shoot back. “So I can be rejected properly?”
“I’m not rejecting you,” he says quickly.
But you’re already shaking your head.
“No, no, you are,” you insist, like you’ve already decided it. “It’s fine. You don’t like me. Great. Awesome. Love that for me.”
“Can you just—listen for a second?”
You scoff, folding your arms. “Oh, now you want me to listen.”
“I’ve been trying to—”
“Save it,” you cut him off, your voice rising without you meaning to. “You hesitated. That’s all I needed.”
A few more people are definitely watching now.
Still—you don’t stop.
“Honestly, it’s whatever,” you ramble, words spilling out faster now. “You’re not even—like, all that.”
His brows lift slightly. “…What?”
“Yeah,” you nod, doubling down. “You’re just—there. Like, I don’t even know why I—”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
A hand suddenly grabs your arm.
You turn to see Yunjin, eyes wide and mildly horrified.
“Abort,” she mutters under her breath.
“Wait, no—” you try to pull back, pointing at him. “He needs to hear this—”
“He really doesn’t,” she says, already dragging you away.
Another friend appears on your other side, helping her pull you back through the crowd.
“You’re making a scene,” Yunjin hisses.
“I’m not—!” you protest, twisting to look over your shoulder. “I just think it’s funny how he—”
Your words fade as the distance grows, the noise swallowing everything again.
The last thing you see is him standing there—
Still.
Confused.
Like he didn’t even get the chance to finish what he was going to say.
By the time graduation rolled around, you had a plan.
A very simple one: Get your certificate. Take pictures. Leave.
No lingering. No wandering around. And most importantly—no running into him.
“Okay, one more!” Yunjin called, already dragging you back into place with the rest of the girls.
You forced a smile, adjusting your gown as the camera flashed again.
Click.
Another one.
Click.
“Wait, wait—this lighting is good, don’t move!” someone said, pulling you slightly to the side.
You laughed, letting them reposition you, arms slinging around familiar shoulders as you leaned in.
For a moment, it felt normal.
Easy.
Like nothing embarrassing had ever happened.
“Family next!” your mom called from behind the crowd, waving you over.
“Coming!” you replied quickly—maybe a little too quickly.
You slipped out of the group before anyone could stop you, weaving through people until you reached your family. Your mom immediately fussed over your hair, your gown, your everything.
“Stand properly—smile nicely,” she said, fixing your collar.
“I am smiling,” you insisted.
“Not like that. A proper smile.”
You forced one, holding it as the camera flashed.
Click.
Another angle.
Click.
“Okay, now one more—”
“How many is one more?” you muttered under your breath, but stayed in place anyway.
More flashes. More poses.
You nodded along, played your part, laughed when you were supposed to.
But your eyes—
Your eyes kept moving. Scanning. Just in case.
Just to make sure.
“Alright, done!” your dad finally said, lowering the camera.
“Great!” you replied instantly, already stepping back. “Okay, I’m just gonna—uh—go find the girls again—”
“Wait, one more with your aunt—”
“I’ll come back!” you said quickly, already inching away.
You didn’t wait for a response.
You turned.
And walked.
Fast.
Not running. Definitely not running. Just… walking with urgency.
In the opposite direction.
Away from the crowd.
Away from—
“Hey.”
You froze. Oh no.
Slowly, you turned. And there he was.
Standing just a few steps away.
Of course.
Of course this would happen.
Your brain short-circuited for half a second before you forced out the most normal response you could manage.
“Oh—hey,” you said, like your heart hadn’t just dropped to your stomach.
There was a brief pause.
He looked like he wanted to say something.
Anything.
You didn’t give him the chance.
“Congrats, by the way,” you added quickly, words coming out a little too fast. “On, you know—graduating. Obviously.”
Wow.
Incredible.
He blinked, a little caught off guard. “…Thanks. You too.”
“I’ll see you around!” you cut in, already turning away.
And then—
You bolted.
Actually bolted this time.
Straight back into the crowd, not daring to look over your shoulder.
You didn’t stop until you found Yunjin again, grabbing onto her arm like a lifeline.
“Hey—what—” she started.
“We’re leaving,” you said immediately.
“Now?”
“Now.”
She blinked. “But we haven’t took pictures with—”
“I said now.”
She stared at you for a second… then glanced past you, as if piecing things together.
“…Did you see him?”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to.
Yunjin sighed, already gathering her things. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Please,” you muttered.
She shook her head, but didn’t argue further.
And just like that—
You made your exit.
Quick.
Clean.
And determined to never, ever relive that moment again.
PRESENT TIME
You find yourself spacing out the whole time the group talk to each other, reminiscing old memories, fun times at parties, late night study sessions that ends up in a movie marathon.
However you can’t seem to focus.
Not when he’s literally sitting beside you, while the others talk like everything’s fine.
To be fair, everything is fine. You’re the one that’s having issues right now, while the others clearly moved on from that incident.
“Not drinking?” You hear his voice beside you.
You turn to him, and his eyes are already on you.
You shake your head. “I’m on the wheel back home, and I don’t trust Yunjin driving me back.”
He lets out a small laugh. Eyes wrinkling and his smile soft, like always.
“Don’t make that your limitation. The cabs are always there.” He says, motioning you the untouched glass of champagne.
You wonder did he see you eyeing everyone’s lips as they took sips of their own drinks, feeling envious—or he’s trying to force you to drink.
You immediately dismiss the latter. No way. He’s not the type. Definitely not.
So, carefully, slowly, you lift your drink to your lips, forcing your hand not to shake. You tip it just enough to take a sip, letting the liquid slide down like a quiet, private concession.
And when you set the glass down, your eyes flicker to him again.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t comment. Just… watches.
Something about the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t name yet.
He leans slightly closer as if to be heard over the music, tilting his head with that familiar, careful expression. “So… how’ve you been?”
You blink, caught off guard. It’s casual, normal—easy—but somehow it makes your stomach twist. “I… I’ve been good,” you say, keeping your voice steady. “Busy. You know how it is.”
He nods, the corners of his mouth tilting up just slightly. “Yeah, I do. Still working in journalism?”
You grin faintly, a little proud despite the nerves. “Yeah. Mostly features and interviews now. I cover some big events, travel occasionally… keeps me on my toes.”
He whistles softly. “That’s… impressive. I didn’t realize you’d gotten that far.” His tone is easy, conversational, but you catch the hint of genuine interest in his eyes.
“And you?” you ask, leaning slightly forward. “Still with media? Behind the camera side of things?”
He chuckles, a low, easy sound that makes you almost forget the pounding of your heart. “Yeah, same scene. Producing mostly, sometimes directing. We haven’t… crossed paths though, have we?”
“Nope,” you say, shaking your head. “Funny how that works, right? Same world, just… never colliding.”
He laughs quietly, almost ruefully. “Guess some things just take their own time.”
You glance at him, noticing the subtle change in his expression—something softer, more open than you remember. The air between you feels… lighter, and yet, heavier, in a way that keeps your fingers gripping your drink a little too tightly.
“So,” he says, leaning back slightly, “what’s the craziest story you’ve covered recently?”
You raise an eyebrow, smiling despite yourself. “Crazy is subjective, but I might have a few that would make you spit out your drink.”
He grins, and for a moment, it feels like no years have passed at all.
—
The conversation between the both of you are going smoothly.
Infact, too smooth.
Like the fact that you crashed out in front of him and possibly humiliate yourself and him a little did not happen.
That you went all out in front of him years ago. That night. The one that was supposed to be your big, humiliating, heart-on-your-sleeve confession.
You almost expect him to bring it up. Maybe a teasing remark, a half-laugh, an eyebrow raise, something subtle. But he doesn’t. Not even a flicker of recognition.
Your chest tightens just a little, a mix of disbelief and nervous amusement. Did he even remember? Or is he just… choosing not to?
You take a slow sip of your drink, letting the liquid steady your racing thoughts.
“Feels like we’re actually having a normal conversation,” you say, trying to mask the strange flutter in your stomach.
A few drinks in and you finally feel it—the subtle, creeping warmth spreading through your chest and limbs, the light buzz at the edges of your thoughts.
A small smile tugs at your lips as you realize just how… relaxed you feel. Not fully drunk, not sloshed, but that gentle, teasing tipsiness that makes your laugh come a little easier and your words just slide out without overthinking them.
You take a slow sip of your drink, letting it wash over you, and notice your fingers brushing the glass a little too often, your hand trembling ever so slightly.
You blink a few times, trying to steady your gaze, and that’s when you notice him watching you. Not in a pointed or intrusive way—just… observant, like he’s quietly taking stock.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low, careful.
You let out a soft laugh, brushing a hand over your forehead. “Yeah… just… maybe a little tipsy.”
His eyes flicker with something—concern, perhaps, or maybe just mild amusement. “You’re starting to look it. Head’s a little heavy?”
You tilt your head, the movement slow, a little clumsy. “Yeah… maybe. Just feeling… tired, I guess.”
He leans in slightly, not too close, but close enough that you notice. “Want me to get you some water? Or maybe sit down for a bit?”
You shake your head, smiling faintly, a little embarrassed. “No… I’m fine. Just… didn’t realize how much the day caught up with me.”
He nods, accepting your answer, though his gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary, making your chest flutter. “Alright… just… don’t push yourself too hard, okay?”
You glance at him, catching the way his eyes soften when he speaks. “Yeah… I’ll try.”
And just like that, the buzz in your head feels a little warmer, a little more bearable—not just from the drink, but from the quiet care in his tone.
“Why are we acting like it never happened?” you ask, searching for his eyes through your hazy ones.
Literally what is wrong with you?
He blinks, caught off guard by the directness, and for a moment, his carefully composed expression falters. “…We… what?”
“That night,” you insist, tipping your drink slightly, letting the amber liquid catch the light. “Graduation party. Me, completely falling apart, confessing… probably embarrassing both of us. That night. Why are we pretending it didn’t happen?”
He exhales slowly, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at his lips. “I… I don’t know. I guess I just… didn’t think it mattered. Didn’t want to make it more awkward than it already was.”
You squint at him, teasing but still slightly accusatory. “Not awkward? You mean the part where I’m yelling at you, convinced you were rejecting me, and my friends had to pull me away?”
He winces slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay… yeah, fine. That was awkward.”
You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Awkward? That’s one word for it. Humiliating would be more accurate.”
He chuckles softly, like he can’t help himself. “I didn’t want you to feel like I was judging you. Honestly, I was… surprised. And kind of… baffled.”
“Baffled?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Baffled is the nicest word I’ve ever heard used to describe that disaster.”
He shrugs, grin teasing but gentle. “Hey, you made it memorable.”
You groan, pressing a hand to your face. “Memorable. That’s exactly what I wanted—my nightmare plastered in my memory forever.”
He laughs quietly, and you feel a little of the tension in your chest ease, even as your cheeks burn.
“See?” He mutters, “This is why I can’t act like it didn’t happen.”
He leans back slightly, looking at you with something softer in his gaze. “Alright. It happened. And… honestly? I’m kind of glad you brought it up.”
You blink, caught off guard. “…Glad?”
He nods, grin small but real. “Yeah. Makes this… easier. Us talking now, I mean. We’re past it.”
You let out a shaky laugh, the tipsy warmth in your chest suddenly feeling a little lighter. “Past it… sure. I’ll try to believe that.”
And for the first time in years, the memory doesn’t sting quite as much—mostly because it’s not just a memory anymore. You’re here, talking. Laughing. And he’s still looking at you.
You fan your face instinctively, heat creeping up your cheeks. Just talking to him—him—makes your chest flutter and your stomach twist, like it used to back in college.
Or maybe it’s the booze. Probably the booze.
You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but the warmth lingers anyway. Fingers tapping nervously against the rim of your glass, you force a laugh, brushing at your hair like that will hide how flustered you feel.
He notices, of course. His gaze softens, just a little, and it makes your chest clench in a way you’re not ready to admit out loud.
“Too much?” he asks lightly, a teasing edge that makes your ears burn even more.
“N-no,” you stammer, fanning yourself again, probably looking ridiculous. “Just… warm. Hot in here, I mean.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, raising a brow, clearly unconvinced but letting it slide.
You sip your drink quickly, hoping the liquid will do more than cool your throat—that it’ll calm the frantic beat of your heart. But even as you set the glass down, you know the truth: whether it’s college nerves or the booze, just being here with him has you all twisted up again.
And god, it’s thrilling. Terrifying. And completely unavoidable.
Before you can fully protest, you feel his hand brush against yours—and then grasp it firmly.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice low, steady. “Come with me for a sec. Get some air.”
Your heart does a little stutter. “Uh… outside?” you ask, trying to sound casual while your fingers tingle where his hold lingers.
He nods, tugging gently but firmly. “Yeah. Just… a quick breather. Trust me.”
You hesitate for only a fraction of a second before letting him lead you out. The restaurant door swings open, and suddenly the noise—the music, the chatter, the clinking glasses—falls away.
The night air hits you like a wave, cool and sharp against your flushed cheeks. You inhale deeply, letting it settle in your lungs, fingers still lightly entwined with his.
“You… didn’t have to,” you murmur, glancing up at him.
“I know,” he replies quietly, his thumb brushing your hand in a small, unconscious gesture. “But you needed it. I could tell.”
You swallow, feeling your chest tighten. The world feels quieter here, simpler, like the space between you shrinks in a way it never did back in college.
“Thanks…Hee,” you whisper, almost embarrassed by how sincerely you mean it.
He gives a small, easy smile at the nickname, one that somehow makes the tipsy nervousness in your chest melt just a little. “Anytime.”
You realize, as you stand there under the dim glow of the streetlights, that maybe—just maybe—it’s easier to breathe when he’s around.
You start staring at him, and suddenly it all clicks—the reason your crush had lingered all those years.
He’s… stunning. Not just good-looking, but the kind of presence that lingers in your chest like a low hum. His voice drifts to you, soft and deliberate, saying your name like it’s fragile, like you might vanish if he’s too loud.
And his eyes… they’re honest. Sincere. Like when you meet his gaze, he’s not just looking—he’s pulling, gently, hypnotically, drawing you into the orbit of him without any effort at all.
But the part that steals your breath? His aura. Quiet, commanding, just a little dangerous. Back in college, everyone wanted Heeseung. He was the silent one in the friend group, keeping mostly to himself, but that quietness only made him magnetic. Girls would orbit him, laugh at his half-smiles, and before anyone even realized, he’d slip away with them upstairs, private and mysterious.
And now, standing here, just talking, just existing… all of it is clear. The looks, the quiet confidence, the way he moves without needing to draw attention—he’s still the same Heeseung, and somehow, somehow, it’s even more intoxicating than you remembered.
Your chest tightens, your pulse picks up, and you realize… yeah, this crush? It never really faded. Not then, not now.
—
You shake your head, trying to push the thoughts away before they spiral any further. With a shaky breath, you let him guide you back inside, reminding yourself to focus on something else—anything else.
But the moment the door swings open, reality hits.
Your friends are already there, dragging both of you toward the dance floor. The crowd presses in like sardines, bodies bumping, brushing, too close for comfort. The bass rattles through your chest, and you can barely see through the mass of people, let alone move without stepping on someone’s toes.
You glance at him, half-expecting him to protest, but he just lets out a small laugh, brushing an invisible piece of stray hair from your face. You force a smile, gripping his hand lightly—half for balance, half because the warmth there is grounding.
Somehow, you’re swept along, the tipsy buzz in your chest mingling with the chaos around you. Every movement, every laugh, every brush of someone else’s arm against yours makes your heart race just a little faster.
And you can’t help but wonder… if he notices how much closer you’re holding on, or if he’s lost in the crowd as well.
As the crowd shuffles and sways, Yunjin suddenly bumps into you from the side, jostling you back. Before you can steady yourself, your back hits him—Heeseung—and instinctively, your body freezes.
Instead of stepping back or letting you go, a warm hand settles on your waist, steadying you. His touch is firm, deliberate, grounding against the chaos of the dance floor.
You feel the press of his front against your back, the faint brush of his chest along yours, and your breath catches in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
He sways slightly with the movement of the crowd, and you realize his hand isn’t just keeping you upright—it’s guiding, moving with you in a rhythm that matches the music, subtle but intimate.
Your pulse hammers, and for a moment, the noise of the dance floor, the heat, the crowd—all of it—blurs away. There’s just the warmth of him behind you, the gentle sway, and the sharp awareness of every accidental contact.
You inhale sharply, fingertips brushing against his hand at your waist, and you know the tipsy heat in your chest just got a lot more dangerous.
The press of his body against yours is subtle at first—just a nudge here, a sway there—but with each accidental brush, the tension coils tighter in your chest.
His hand on your waist doesn’t move, doesn’t falter, just… stays, guiding your body slightly with the rhythm of the music. Every small shift makes you hyper-aware: the warmth of him behind you, the faint scent of his cologne, the way the beat makes your bodies move closer without any real thought.
Your stomach twists, heat pooling lower, and you realize just how intimate this accidental closeness has become. The tipsy warmth in your head mingles dangerously with the awareness of him—his strength, his scent, the way he’s so steady—and suddenly every sway, every brush, feels loaded.
You glance over your shoulder, heart hammering, catching his eyes in the briefest of moments. There’s a faint smirk on his lips, and the look in his gaze is… unreadable, teasing, but undeniably deliberate.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, and you know you’re far too aware of him, far too conscious of the way your bodies are pressing, rubbing, moving together despite the chaos of the crowd.
And just like that, what should have been an innocent brush in a dance floor sardine-fest has started to feel… suggestive. Too suggestive. Too thrilling. And definitely, definitely impossible to ignore.
“Screw all this.” He mutters and brings you out outside again.
He steps closer, and before you can even process what’s happening, his hand gently presses against the wall beside you, trapping you in the small space between him and the brick.
Your breath catches in your throat as you glance up at him, heart hammering painfully in your chest. His eyes search yours for a fraction of a second, soft and steady, before his lips meet yours.
The kiss is slow, deliberate, and warm, melting the last of your tipsy haze into something sharper, more urgent. Your fingers curl at his shoulders, holding on as if letting go would make the world collapse, and every nerve in your body lights up with awareness—his warmth, the press of his chest, the taste of him.
He deepens the kiss just slightly, careful but insistent, and you realize there’s no part of this that’s accidental. Every movement, every touch, every brush of his lips is intentional—and it leaves you dizzy, breathless, and entirely captivated.
For a moment, nothing exists outside of the two of you: the night, the faint hum of distant music, the cool air on your flushed cheeks. There’s only him, only this kiss, only the overwhelming pull you’ve felt for years finally becoming real.
“Heeseung…” you whisper, still catching your breath, pulling back just enough to look at him.
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze lingers on you, intense, dark, and impossibly magnetic. Then, finally, he reaches for his phone, thumbs moving quickly. “Cab’s coming,” he says, voice low, a rough edge to it that makes your chest tighten. “I can’t drive like this… but I want to get us somewhere… private.”
The words hit you, sharp and urgent, and your stomach flips. You feel his hand brush yours, almost brushing your fingers against the hem of his palm, grounding you even as your pulse races.
He drapes his jacket over your shoulders without a word, his hand lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. You shiver—not from the cold, but from the heat of him, the closeness, the way he looks at you like he’s been waiting years for this moment.
The cab arrives, and he gestures for you to step inside first, letting his hand hover near yours in a silent promise of care and anticipation. You slide into the seat, the leather cool against your skin, and he follows, closing the door with a soft click.
The hum of the engine and the blur of city lights outside do nothing to quiet the electricity between you.
You steal a glance at him, heart hammering. His eyes catch yours immediately, dark and serious, and for a second the world shrinks down to just the two of you. Every inch of closeness, every brush of warmth, makes it impossible to think clearly.
And as the cab moves through the night, the air between you thick with unspoken desire, you realize… this is far from over.
Your hands rest on your lap, fingers twitching nervously, when you feel him gently brush against yours. Just a graze at first, teasing, testing—but then he takes your hand in his.
He doesn’t squeeze or hold too tightly, just… plays with your fingers, tracing subtle patterns, sliding your fingers between his, rolling them lightly, letting you feel his warmth without saying a word.
You catch your breath, tipsy warmth twisting into something sharper, something electric. Every touch makes your heart hammer, every movement of his fingers against yours feels deliberate, intimate, like he’s silently marking you as his.
You glance up at him through the dim glow of the cab lights. His eyes meet yours, soft but teasing, watching your reaction like he’s savoring it. And somehow, just the act of his hands on yours, the closeness, the quiet intimacy, makes everything else—the embarrassment, the crowded dance floor, even the alcohol—fade away.
You can’t stop the small shiver running through you. He’s just playing with your hands, and yet it feels like so much more.
—
The moment the front door clicks shut, everything snaps back into focus—too close, too fast, too much.
Before you can even turn properly, his hand finds your wrist, then your waist, and suddenly your back meets the door with a soft thud.
Your breath catches.
And then he’s kissing you again.
Not like before—this time it’s urgent, like he’s been holding himself back the entire ride and finally gave up. His lips crash into yours, warm and insistent, and your fingers instinctively clutch at his shirt, grounding yourself as the world tilts.
The faint scent of him surrounds you, familiar and intoxicating, and the quiet of his place makes everything louder—the sound of your breathing, the soft shift of fabric, the way your heart pounds like it might give you away.
He pulls you closer, one hand still firm at your waist, the other bracing against the door beside your head. There’s no space left between you now, no room to think, only feel.
You melt into it despite yourself, responding, your hands tightening slightly against him as the kiss deepens just enough to make your head spin.
For a split second, he pauses—just enough to catch your breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, his voice low and uneven.
“…We can stop,” he murmurs, even though his grip doesn’t loosen. “If you want.”
But the way he looks at you—like he’s been waiting, like he’s barely holding on—makes your answer feel inevitable.
You shake your head, pulling him even closer. “Please, I want it.”
Heeseung responded eagerly to your confession, his hands roaming over your body, pulling you closer to him. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a heated, passionate dance.
His eyes darkened with a possessive gleam at your words. He picked you up easily, his hands gripping your thighs as he carried you to the bedroom like a prize.
Laying you down on the bed, his body covering yours. He captured your lips in a fierce kiss again, his hands roaming over your body, his touch burning hot. "Are you sure about this, Y/N?" He asked between ragged breaths.
You nodded, looking directly into his eyes before saying: “I trust you.”
Heeseung's expression softened at your words, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and something deeper—something protective. He exhaled sharply before pressing his forehead against yours.
"Then I'll make sure you don't regret it." His voice was rough but tender as he slid a hand under the hem of your shirt, fingertips tracing slow circles on your skin.
As his mouth moved from your lips to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses down your throat, His hand traced over your waist, his touch leaving a trail of fire on your skin.
"You're so beautiful." He murmured, his voice low and ragged. "Obsessed with you. Always been." He murmurs into your skin.
He took his time exploring your body with gentle, teasing touches, his fingers tracing over the curve of your hips, his lips teasing at sensitive spots that made you shiver.
You let out a small whine when the heat gets to you and you want nothing but your clothes off right now, and he understands just that.
Heeseung's hands moved with slow, deliberate care as he peeled off your clothes. His eyes darkened as more skin was revealed to him—his gaze hungry but worshipful.
"God..." he breathed out, his fingertips ghosting over newly exposed areas like he was memorizing you. "You’re so fucking pretty. I might cum from just looking at you like this."
His lips followed the path of his hands, kissing down your collarbone, lingering on the swell of your breast before looking up at you through hooded lashes for permission.
“Please,” is all you say.
He groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and wanting. His hands cupped your breasts with reverence before he lowered his mouth to one peaked nipple.
"Fuck—so good," he muttered against your skin, tongue swirling teasingly before sucking hard enough to make you gasp. His free hand pinched and rolled the other nipple between his fingers while he watched for every reaction on your face.
He switched sides with a dark chuckle, "Tell me if I'm too much."
You clench your thighs when he said that making his grin widen, stroking the skin between them.
“I’ve got you, sweet girl.” He says, “Just tell me if I need to slow down, okay?”
His mouth trails lower and lower and his delicate hands pulls your underwear down.
Heeseung's breath hitched as he pulled off your underwear, his eyes roaming over the newly exposed area with a possessive hunger that made your breath catch.
He took his time, his touch trailing up from your thigh, his fingertips leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake.
"So beautiful. So perfect." he murmured, "I want to taste you—can I?"
As you nod, he lets out a small noise. “Words, baby.” He nips your inner thigh making you yelp, “Yes! Please, taste me!”
Heeseung groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as he lowered himself between your legs. His tongue traced a slow, teasing line up the center of you—just enough to make you shudder.
"Fuck," he muttered against your skin, "You taste even better than I imagined."
Then he dove in fully—sucking and licking with an intensity that had stars bursting behind your eyelids.
Each stroke of Heeseung's tongue was a spark of fire, lighting up every nerve. He took his time, learning your body like a favorite song, every sweet spot, every little sound, just another part of this perfect dance.
The alcohol is really messing up your mind, you whine, feeling needy and impatient.
Heeseung chuckled against your skin, feeling your impatience. He lifted his head, his lips glistening with arousal.
"Someone's needy, huh?" He teased, before sitting up and grabbing your thighs. "Turn over. Hands and knees."
Heeseung's hands guided you, helping you turn over, until you were on all fours in front of him.
"Good girl," he said, his voice rough with desire. "Just like that."
He ran his hand down the arch of your back, admiring the view before him. "So pretty."
The tip of his finger trailed further down your spine, just barely grazing the sensitive skin of your rear.
"Can you take me like this, baby?" He asked, his voice a low purr.
You let out a another soft moan, nodding.
Heeseung groaned, unable to hold back a smirk at the sound. The way you responded to him, it lit a fire within him. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your skin.
"That's my girl." He praised, his hand roaming across your skin possessively before he shifted on the bed, positioning himself right behind you.
His fingers slid into you with slow, deliberate pressure—curling just right to drag a choked gasp from your lips.
"Fuck, so tight," he gritted out between clenched teeth. His thumb pressed firm circles against that sweet spot as he scissored his fingers inside you. "Gonna make sure I get every damn sound out of you."
He leaned over further, his chest pressing against your back. He wanted to feel you closer, so close that he could hear every beat of your heart. His lips brushed the shell of your ear.
"You ready for me, pretty girl?"
Your moans became louder, but he isn’t satisfied.
Heeseung chuckled, the sound dark and rough as he nipped at your earlobe.
"That's not an answer." His fingers curled deeper inside you—punishingly slow—just to feel how wet and desperate you were for him. "Say it. Tell me what you want."
"I want you. All of you." I said, my voice thick with wanting.
Heeseung shuddered, the words sinking into him like a drug, the alcohol’s influence isn’t helping either. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Such a good girl." He murmured, his words punctuated by a sharp bite to your shoulder. Then his hands left your body—leaving you empty—and for a moment, all you could hear was the sound of him fumbling with his clothes.
"I'm gonna give you all of me."
When you turn your head to look at him, he was already bare, the sight of him make your stomach flip. He looked like a goddamn marble sculpture come to life—all hard muscle and smooth skin, every line of him taut with tension. But it was his size that made you gasp.
"See something you like?" He teased, his eyes dark and hungry as they traveled over you, taking in the flush on your skin.
“Please go slow, I’m gonna tear.” You said, still baffled at his ridiculously large size. He’s huge, way huge than the other guys you’ve experienced sex with.
Heeseung's smirk softened into something tender at your plea. He cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.
"It’s alright, I got you." His voice was rough but gentle as he pressed a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I'll go as slow as you need me to."
He positioned himself at your entrance, one hand bracing against the bed while the other guided his length in with agonizing patience—letting you feel every inch stretch around him until tears pricked at the corners of his eyes from holding back so hard.
He paused then, letting you adjust to his size. He pressed warm, open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, your back, your neck. He was everywhere, surrounding you with his presence.
He whispered in your ear: "You okay?"
He let out a ragged groan, his entire body tensing as he tried to keep control. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers pressing into soft flesh as he fought the urge to just take.
"Fuck, you feel too good." His voice was wrecked already, strained with restraint. He pressed his forehead at your back and exhaled hard. "Tell me when I can move."
You nodded, taking a moment to adjust to the overwhelming fullness before giving him a shaky nod a few seconds later. "You can move."
Heeseung groaned at your words, relief and desire warring within him. He eased back at a slow, steady pace, his hands steadying you. After a few more thrusts, he turn you around so that you’re facing each other.
"Wrap your legs around me." The command was growled out, barely recognizable as his own voice. "I want you closer."
His breath hitched as he watched you obey, his body trembling with restraint. The second your legs locked around him, he snapped—burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust.
"Shit—!" His voice broke on a groan, fingers digging bruises into your hips as he held you there for a torturous moment. "You take me so damn well baby,"
His control was teetering, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold back. He leaned forward, pressing you down into the bed with the weight of his body.
"You know just how crazy you make me?" He murmured, his lips brushing your ear with every word. "That night, and then graduation, you left without me having any say,"
He ran a hand down your side, his touch possessive, almost greedy as he mapped every curve, every dip and arch. “Not letting me tell you how much I wanted you too..”
You clench harder at his confession.
Heeseung's entire body shuddered as he felt you clench around him—tight, wet, perfect.
His grip on your hips turned bruising as a ragged groan tore from his throat.
"Thought about you every—shit, baby relax—" he choked out between gritted teeth. The sensation was almost too much to bear; the way you pulsed around him had his vision whiting out for a second.
"You trying to kill me?" he rasped, hips jerking instinctively into yours despite himself.
You laugh at him, finding him silly before another sharp thrust making you fall apart.
Heeseung's breath caught in his throat at the sound. The way you laughed and then immediately fell to pieces, moaning for him? It was like music to his ears.
Heeseung smiled against your neck, his grip tightening on you as he pulled back just enough to watch the way your body responded to him. “Oh fuck, Heeseung! Like that—“
"Like this?" he teased, dragging his hips forward in a slow, filthy roll—letting you feel every inch of him stretch and fill you all over again. "Or do I need to go harder?"
You moaned, “H-harder!”
His eyes darkened with a primal hunger at your plea. A rough sound tore from his throat as he reared back—then slammed into you, hard.
"Fuck—fuck—!" His hands clamped down on your hips, fingers pressing bruises into soft flesh as he pistoned in and out of you with brutal precision. "You take it so damn good."
A bead of sweat trailed down his temple; the room filled with the lewd slap of skin-on-skin and ragged breathing.
Without warning, he flipped onto his back and hauled you atop him—your thighs straddling his waist as he smirked up at ya from beneath hooded lashes. "Ride me.”
The second you took control, his hands flew to your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as he watched—transfixed—while you bounced on top of him.
"Fuck—yes, just like that," he growled, his voice wrecked. The sight alone was enough to make his vision blur; sweat dripped down his temple as he struggled not to lose it too soon.
"You feel so goddamn good."
His hands were everywhere—roving across your skin in scorching paths that left your nerves singing. His touch was feverish, desperate, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you. He leaned up and captured your mouth in a hard kiss.
"Look at me," he muttered against your lips. His hand came up, fingers grasping your chin and tilting your head back so he could see your face—eyes dark with a primal hunger. "I want to see you fall apart for me, can you do that baby?"
You could only obey, lost in a haze of pleasure. His eyes—God, his eyes—seemed to see straight through you, right into your soul.
The intensity of his gaze was almost too much to bear and yet, at the same time, it was what you wanted most, needed in this moment.
You felt exposed, vulnerable, but paradoxically, you also felt safe—known. Loved.
You lean down, Heeseung groaned and met you halfway, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, holding you in place. He kissed you like a man starving, all teeth and tongue—almost desperate in its urgency. His other hand roamed over your body, pulling you impossibly closer until you were pressed flush against him.
"You're so goddamn perfect," he muttered, his breath hot against your mouth. "And mine."
He groaned low in his throat, his body going taut beneath you when he feels you clench around him again.
"You like that, sweetheart?" he chuckled, his hand moving from the nape of your neck down your spine so his fingers could curl over your hip, gripping you tightly.
"That I'm calling you mine? That you belong to me?"
You nod, and he smiles. “Then let’s move on with that, baby. You’re mine. All mine. And I’m yours—Fuck, so tight baby,”
You can feel the tight coil in your stomach about to burst, your moans grow even louder.
"Come for me, sweetheart," he muttered, his voice rough with a note of command that sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes locked with yours, dark and intent, his expression a heady mix of tender and feral. "Let me see you."
He set a brutal pace, every thrust deep and rough, his hand snaking up to cup your cheek. His thumb traced a line across your lip, the touch almost tender as he watched you—eyes blazing with a mixture of possession and adoration.
And when you fall apart? He’s there to catch you.
Heeseung's eyes shut tight, a guttural cry torn from his lips. The feeling of you surrounding him completely was overwhelming, the intensity sending shudders down his spine.
His hips stuttering beneath you as he chased the high with reckless abandon. His hands clamped down on your waist—fingers bruising—as he drove up into you one final time.
"Fuck!" he snarled, back arching off the bed as pleasure ripped through him in white-hot waves. He spilled inside you in hot pulses, his breath ragged and uneven while sweat dripped from his brow onto your chest.
"...Lord," he muttered dazedly, "You're gonna be the death of me."
You whine in response, too overstimulated and sensitive to reply verbally.
Heeseung let out a shaky laugh, his fingers tracing soft circles over your skin as he tried to catch his breath. He gently maneuvered you off of him, laying you delicately on the bed beside him.
"Sensitive, baby?" he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead as his hand came up to brush the sweat-soaked hair away from your face. He could see the effect he'd had on you, the flush on your cheeks, the faint tremble in your limbs.
“You’re with me? You okay?”
“Y-yeah,” You murmur, dazed with the aftershock and alcohol.
Heeseung's expression softened as he scooped you up effortlessly, his arms strong and steady around you. He carried you to the bathroom with surprising gentleness—no teasing now, just quiet focus on making sure you were taken care of.
"Let me," he murmured when he set your feet down by the toilet. His hands hovered near your waist in case you wobbled before turning to wet a cloth under warm water.
"You did so good for me."
The words sounded almost reverential as he wiped you clean with the cloth. He was careful, tender even, his touch feather-light on your sensitive skin as he took his time making sure every remnant of what they'd done was erased.
"You're so damn beautiful," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder.
“Let’s get back to bed.”
—
The next morning, a sharp ringing in your head drags you out of sleep—loud, relentless, unforgiving.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the pillow, hoping it’ll stop. It doesn’t.
Your head pounds. Your throat is dry. Your entire body feels heavy, like it’s been weighed down by something you can’t quite name yet.
The alcohol.
Right.
That explains the headache. The dizziness. The way your limbs don’t feel entirely like yours.
But then—
Your eyes snap open.
Memory doesn’t come back all at once. It trickles in. Slow. Dangerous.
The reunion.
The drinks.
The laughter.
Him.
Your stomach drops.
No.
No, no, no—
You push yourself up slightly, wincing as the room spins just a little too much, your heart starting to race for an entirely different reason now.
The dance floor.
His hand on your waist.
Your breath catches.
The cab.
His fingers playing with yours.
His place—
“Oh my god,” you whisper, voice hoarse.
And then it hits you.
The kiss.
The way he thrust up into you.
The way you didn’t stop him.
The way you didn’t want to.
You freeze, every nerve suddenly awake despite the pounding in your head.
Slowly—very, very slowly—you turn your head.
And that’s when it sinks in.
You’re not in your room.
Not your bed.
Not your sheets.
Your grip tightens on the blanket as your eyes scan the unfamiliar space, heart thudding louder with every second.
This is his place.
Which means—
You swallow. Hard.
A soft, hoarse voice from right beside you.
“…You’re awake.”
You freeze.
There he is.
Hair messy, eyes barely open, voice still thick with sleep as he shifts slightly on the bed, one arm tucked under his head. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less composed than last night, but somehow even more real.
Your heart does something dangerous in your chest.
“You’re staring,” he mumbles, a faint, sleepy smile tugging at his lips without even opening his eyes fully.
You immediately look away. “I—no, I wasn’t.”
“…You were,” he murmurs, voice still rough, but there’s amusement in it.
Your face heats up instantly, memories flashing back in fragments that make your stomach flip all over again.
Silence lingers for a moment.
Then—
“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time, a little more awake now.
You hesitate. “…Define okay.”
That gets a soft huff of laughter out of him. He shifts again, turning slightly toward you, propping himself up just enough to look at you properly now.
“Head hurts?”
“…A lot.”
“Yeah,” he nods, like he expected that. “You drank more than you think.”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Please don’t remind me. I’m already regretting my entire existence.”
He watches you for a second—really watches you this time.
And then, softer—
“…Do you regret last night too?”
The question lands heavier than anything else so far.
You go still.
Because suddenly, it’s not just about the headache anymore.
You swallow, forcing yourself to meet his eyes despite the way your chest tightens.
“We have a lot to talk about.”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer.
He just looks at you—really looks at you, like he’s been expecting this, like he knew the second you woke up this would be where things go.
“…Yeah,” he says quietly, voice still rough from sleep. “We do.”
The air shifts.
No more teasing. No more distractions. Just the two of you, the morning light creeping in through the curtains, and everything unsaid sitting heavy between you.
You sit up a little, pulling the blanket closer around you, suddenly too aware of everything—your surroundings, him, last night.
“I don’t… fully remember everything,” you admit, glancing away for a second. “I mean—I remember enough. Just… not in order.”
He lets out a small breath, nodding. “Same. Bits and pieces.”
That somehow makes it worse. Or maybe better. You can’t tell.
Your fingers tighten slightly in the blanket. “But I do remember… the important parts.”
His gaze doesn’t leave you. “Yeah?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches for a second, thick but not uncomfortable—just… honest.
Then you exhale. “Look, I just—” you stop, gathering your thoughts, then try again. “Last night wasn’t just… random for me.”
Something flickers in his expression.
“It wasn’t just the alcohol,” you add quickly, like you need him to understand that part most.
He shifts closer, not touching you yet, but close enough that you feel it. “It wasn’t impulse either.”
Your heart stumbles.
You look at him again, searching his face for any hint of doubt, hesitation—anything that would make this easier to brush off.
Bu there’s none.
Just that same steady look.
“…Then why,” you ask softly, “did it feel like we were pretending nothing ever happened? All those years?”
He exhales, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Because I didn’t know what to do with it.”
You frown slightly. “With… me?”
“With you. With what you said. With how you looked at me that night,” he admits, quieter now. “I wasn’t rejecting you. I just—wasn’t ready. And you were drunk, and everything was happening so fast…”
Your chest tightens. “So I just… misunderstood everything.”
He shakes his head immediately. “No. I didn’t explain anything either. I just stood there like an idiot while you spiraled.”
You huff out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Wow. Love that for us.”
That earns a faint smile from him.
“But I didn’t forget,” he adds, more serious now. “I just thought… you’d moved on. And I didn’t want to come back and make things messy again.”
You stare at him.
“…Too late for that,” you mumble.
He lets out a quiet laugh, eyes softening. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
Another pause.
This one feels different.
Lighter.
You glance down at your hands, then back at him. “…So what now?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he reaches out—slow, careful—giving you enough time to pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
His fingers wrap gently around yours, warm and steady, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache a little.
He then sat up, while you follow suit.
“Y/N,” He started.
“Heeseung.” You reply, a small smile on your face.
“I like you. I have been in love with you, since freshmen year. In fact, since orientation.” He started.
“Wait what?”
“You heard me. For me, it’s always has been you. During that party, I went home and got even more wasted, because I felt stupid for letting you go on and on and I just—stand there…like an ass.”
“Lowkey, you were.”
“And I’m regretful.” He took your hands to his lips, pressing a grounding kiss on it.
“It’s been four years though?”
“May I remind you that a certain someone had been avoiding birthday parties, small hangouts? I even thought you won’t be there last night.”
You look at him sheepishly. “I just—that party really ruined it for me, you know?”
“You regret going last night?”
“Never.”
He smiles, before picking you up, and walk to the shower, peppering soft kisses on your face.
“Then I’m keeping you forever and we’re going to spend today and tomorrow onwards making up for the past four years.”
